Dick Francis's Damage (27 page)

“Just one last thing,” I said, turning back. “Do you happen to know any hyperactive kids, other than these two?”

“Yes,” Unwin said. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

I
spent most of Sunday evening and much of the night doing some one-handed research on my computer, logging in remotely to the BHA files and following up on what Matthew Unwin had told me at Long Lartin.

By Monday morning I had obtained just a few snippets of information, most of it conjecture, and nothing much of any real interest.

At nine-thirty, I called my journalist friend at the
London Telegraph
.

“Tim,” I said. “I need some medical records.”

“No way,” he said.

“But you've always boasted you could get them.”

“It's become far too dangerous. These days, there are too many high-profile prosecutions for misconduct in a public office. People now go to jail just for passing on a bit of innocent info. Bloody data protection. I could be in deep doo-doo just for asking. Who do you want the records for anyway?”

I told him.

“I thought you meant for some A-list celebrity, an actress or something. You know, like Joss Carder and her bulimia.”

There had been a huge outcry the previous year over the release of that particular secret. Even Oscar-nominated stars were entitled to their privacy.

“Was that you?” I asked.

“I couldn't possibly say. But I'm not doing it again.”

“So how do I get them?”

“Do you know the doctor?”

“No.”

“Then I can't help you, mate. Sorry.”

Frustration.

“Perhaps you could help me with something else.”

“Is it legal?” he asked.

“Perfectly,” I said. “Ask your racing correspondent if he believes there's been any orchestration in the campaign to get rid of the BHA.”

“And has there?” he asked.

“I don't know. That's why I'm asking. But it does tend to feel like it.”

“I'll get him to give you a call.”

“Thanks.”

He called me ten minutes later.

“Hi, Jeff, Gordon Tuttle here. How can I help?”

“I know this might sound crazy, but are you aware of any organized campaign to oust the BHA as the racing regulator?”

He was quiet for a few moments.

“In what way?” he asked.

“Maybe I'm wrong,” I said, “but it seemed too much of a coincidence that every one of the national dailies ran the story last
Thursday and each expressed exactly the same opinions about the BHA when the rumor broke that Electrode had failed a dope test.”

“It was more than just a rumor,” Gordon said. “The official BHA press release of Friday afternoon made it clear that what we printed was true. The BHA only issued its press release as a direct result of our story.”

“As may be,” I said. “You know it's true now, but, at the time, you didn't. But what I'm more interested in is the opinion pieces. They were all extreme and all identical. Don't you think that's rather surprising? You guys hardly ever agree on anything.”

“What are you looking for, exactly?” he asked.

“The original factual report about Electrode came from the Press Association. I know that. But are you aware if there was any concerted effort to mold the
Telegraph
's editorial comment?”

There was another quiet pause at his end.

“Did you write the piece?” I asked.

Another pause.

“Come on, Gordon,” I said, “tell me. Off the record, if you like.”

“The paper received a document. It had ‘Press Briefing' printed across the top.”

“Who from?”

“I don't know. It was handed in at the paper's reception desk last Wednesday afternoon. Initially, I thought it was an official release from the BHA, but it obviously wasn't. It had some of the facts, but it was very critical of racing's governance. And it was very convincing.”

“Do you still have it?” I asked. “Can I come and have a look?”

“Sure,” he said, “anytime. And there was more than one. We received a second release late on Thursday afternoon, telling us that not only Electrode but all the Cheltenham winners had
been doped. We were confident enough in the story to run it as an exclusive in Friday's paper.”

“I read it,” I said. “Do you know where these documents came from?”

“I don't know for sure but I'd guess they're from a whistle-blower within the BHA.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, for a start, the facts have turned out to be very accurate. But also they named names—references to Roger Vincent as the chairman and Howard Lever as chief executive. People don't do that unless they are insiders.”

“What sort of references?”

“Nothing specific. Just questions mostly, like ‘When are Vincent and Lever going to own up to their failings?' Stuff like that. Lots of leading questions that invited negative answers.” He paused. “Whoever sent it knew exactly what he was doing and I reckon he got the answers he wanted.”

“BHA bashing has certainly become the sport of choice among the media. There was a very damning segment shown on television on Saturday afternoon.”

“I saw it,” Gordon said. “It was repeated on the
Inside Racing Show
on Sunday morning.”

“Do people really want a return to governance of racing by the Jockey Club?”

“Maybe it's more a feeling that the BHA experiment has failed.”

“It's not an experiment,” I said angrily. “And it hasn't failed. You have all been hoodwinked by someone who is controlling the agenda. Wake up, will you? Before racing is damaged beyond repair.”

“Can I quote you?” Gordon said, always the journalist.

“Yes,” I said. “Loudly and often.”

—

CRISPIN CALLED
my cell at eleven o'clock.

“Ian Tulloch has raised the money,” he said. “I think he saw it as a test of his chairmanship.” He laughed. “If Roger Vincent could raise a hundred grand in a morning, then so would Ian Tulloch. But quicker. Although I suspect he had to give some personal guarantees to the banks.”

“Yes—but will he agree to paying it?”

“Ah, dear boy, that's the hundred-thousand-pound question. We'll just have to wait and see what our friend Leonardo has to say. There was nothing in today's mail.”

“The announcement didn't make it into the paper on Saturday. It's in today's so let's hope it does the trick.”

“We've had the results back from the labs about Fontwell,” Crispin said. “Apparently, someone grated up the skin of something called cassava and mixed it in with one of the salads. That was what made the stewards ill.”

“Cassava,” I repeated. “It's a type of sweet potato, a major source of carbohydrate in much of the tropical world. But it also contains dangerous toxins unless it's cooked properly.”

“You seem to know a lot about it,” Crispin said.

“I once did a peacekeeping tour with the UN in Rwanda. Cassava was the staple for most of the population. They grew tons of the stuff, and often it was all
we
had to eat as well. We had to learn how to cook it properly or we'd have starved or died of the poison.”

“Well, that's what made the stewards ill at Fontwell and I
expect it was the same stuff used in the ginger cake at Ascot. Apparently, the ginger would have covered the slightly bitter taste of the cassava skin, as the vinaigrette dressing did in the salad. How easy is it to get hold of this cassava stuff in the UK?”

“I suspect most supermarkets sell it,” I said, “especially where there's a sizable African community. And there will be plenty of specialist food shops in London that will stock it. It's what comes of having such a multicultural city.”

“So not much chance of finding out where it came from.”

“No,” I agreed. “But I might have another lead worth following.”

“Oh yes?”

“Can we meet later? It's something I'd rather talk to you about face-to-face.”

“Sure,” he said. “I'll be in the office all day.”

“I'd rather not meet you in the office, if you don't mind. How about at El Vino at one o'clock.”

“Fine,” he said. “I'll be there.”

He hung up. But before I had a chance to put the phone down, it rang again. However, it wasn't Crispin ringing back, it was Quentin Calderfield.

“I've just heard from the CPS,” he said. “They are going to offer no evidence in Kenneth's case.”

“So he'll be acquitted?”

“Absolutely.” I could clearly hear the relief in his voice.

“Good,” I said. “Thank you for letting me know.”

“Kenneth's a very lucky boy,” Quentin said.

“Perhaps he can now get his life back on track.”

There was a lengthy pause on the other end of the line. “Yes. Maybe he can.”

I reckoned that Faye must have found the right moment over
the weekend to tell Quentin that Kenneth didn't want to be a lawyer.

“So will he be going back into chambers?” I asked. It was a leading question, but I had to know for sure.

“No,” Quentin said firmly. “We've decided he should take a break from the law for a while. Until people have forgotten about this little episode. Kenneth is going traveling round the world. Taking a gap year, I think they call it.”

“Good idea,” I said.

There was another pause from his end.

“Right,” I said. “Anything else?”

“No,” he said. “Well, yes, actually, there is. Did you know about Kenneth?”

“What about him?” I asked. It was not that I was particularly trying to be vague. I just didn't want to give away any secrets if Quentin didn't know them already.

“That he's queer.”

“Quentin,” I said forcefully, “that is not a word you should ever use. I find it offensive and so would many others. You'd never dare use it in court, now would you?”

“No,” he said, “I suppose you're right. But did you know?”

“Yes,” I said, “I knew that Ken was gay.”

“When did you find out?”

“Does it matter?” I asked.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“Ken's sexuality is his own affair. It was not my place to tell you. But I did say to him that he should stop living a lie and tell you himself.”

I could tell from the lengthy pause that QC,QC wasn't very pleased with his brother-in-law. He clearly thought that I should have been more loyal to him than I had been to his son.

He obviously didn't know me very well.

Was our uneasy companionship of the last few weeks about to revert to the frostier relationship of the previous ten years?

Probably.

—

CRISPIN WAS
at the El Vino wine bar ahead of me.

“What's with the sling?” Crispin said as I walked over to him.

“Dislocated shoulder,” I said. “A car hit me.”

“That was careless.” He smiled.

“Very,” I agreed. “But I don't think it was an accident.”

“Explain.”

“Someone tried to kill me.”

Crispin looked suitably shocked. “Are you serious?”

“Perfectly. Someone tried to run me down in the road outside my house on Friday evening and they very nearly succeeded.”

“Have you been to the police?”

“They didn't believe me. I'd had quite a few drinks and they clearly thought I was drunk and making up a story to cover the fact that I hadn't seen the car coming and had simply wandered out in front of it. But, I'm telling you, it was a deliberate act.”

“I assume that the car didn't stop.”

“You assume correctly.”

“That's dreadful.”

“Indeed it is. And, ever since, I've been very careful to keep my eyes open and watch my back in case of another attempt.”

“Why would anyone want to kill you?”

“I think it was to stop me talking to Matthew Unwin.”

Crispin sat in silence, staring at me, waiting for me to go on.

“I went to see him yesterday in Long Lartin Prison. I was
initially looking for some sort of link between him, Graham Perry, Richard Young and Duncan Johnson.”

“Other than they had horses doped or had been threatened with it?”

“Exactly,” I said. “Graham Perry was once Matthew Unwin's assistant trainer, but the two haven't remained friends. It seems it was an acrimonious parting. As for the other two, there seems to be no common factor with either of them.”

“So why would someone want to stop you speaking to Unwin?”

“I now know it wasn't any link between the trainers that was important, it was something else entirely.”

“What?”

“Hyperactive children.”

“What about them?”

“Matthew Unwin's fifteen-year-old son is hyperactive. The poor boy had meningitis as a baby and he subsequently developed ADHD.”

“So?”

“Unwin's wife is a leading light in an ADHD support group. She knows the parents of almost every severely hyperactive child in southeast England.”

“And?”

“One of those parents is a member of the BHA Board.”

I told Crispin everything Matthew Unwin had told me and also the limited amount I'd since been able to discover on the Internet.

“Do you think we should go to the police?” he asked.

“How can we?” I said. “We have absolutely no proof. It's all circumstantial and guesswork. Lots of people have hyperactive
kids. We'll need far more than that or the police will just laugh at us again and send us on our way.”

“Then maybe we should confront him.”

“What good will that do? He'll only deny it. And we can't prove anything. No, what we really need to do is catch him in the act of collecting his loot.”

“That could be risky, dear boy,” Crispin said, “especially as he's tried to kill you once before.”

“All the more reason why we should nail the bastard before he tries again and succeeds.”