Dick Francis's Damage (31 page)

T
he three of us climbed out of the Fiesta without slamming any of the doors.

“Stay under the bridge until the very last moment and then just go far enough forward to see the train as it passes along the embankment,” I said. “The target should be well down the track from the bridge, but don't take any chances. When you've seen the drop, go straight back to the car and wait for me there.”

They both nodded.

I still didn't like it. I would have much preferred them to stay in the vehicle the whole time.

“And, Crispin, don't forget, in all the excitement, to send the text to Nigel.”

“Already set, dear boy,” he said. “All I have to do is push the button.”

It was another risk. The text from the target to the Nokia phone would take three to four seconds. That from Crispin to
Nigel would take the same. Adding the response times could result in a full ten-second delay between the first text being sent and the bag being thrown out the window. The train would move some fifteen hundred feet in ten seconds. Twice as far as the target was expecting. That would probably put the drop point close to the far end of the grassy embankment.

“You will almost have to anticipate the text arriving,” I whispered to Crispin. “As soon as you hear the train be ready, and keep the Nokia close to your ear. The trains are loud.”

“OK,” he whispered back. “Will do.”

We moved forward along the road until we were under the brick arch of the bridge. I had the night vision monocular fixed over my right eye with the harness and I held my long-lens camera at the ready.

A train suddenly rattled noisily over our heads and, for a moment, I panicked that we were not yet in position. It took me a few seconds to realize that the train was going the other way.

I took some deep breaths and allowed my heart rate to return to normal.

Stupid, I thought. Keep calm. It would be at least another ten minutes before the correct train arrived. But keeping calm was easier said than done. My blood adrenaline concentration was again up to stratospheric levels.

“You two stay here,” I whispered to Crispin and Lydia. Even though it was still quite light in the open air, it was almost completely dark under the bridge. However, I could see their faces clearly using night vision. Lydia's eyes were wide open in excitement.

I left the two of them there and walked forward alone, silently, scanning the ground in front of me to ensure I didn't inadvertently trip or snap a twig.

I moved out from under the bridge and kept to the road for ten or fifteen yards before moving to my right. There were a few bushes in the field to the side of the grassy bank and I worked my way forward to them, crawling across the wet ground on my stomach at one point so as not to be seen.

I took up position lying in a narrow gap between two of the bushes. From here I could observe the full length of the embankment but hoped that I was invisible to anyone looking the other way.

I lay very still and searched with my eyes for any movement. Movement was always easy to spot and could be detected even by one's peripheral vision. Movement was a dead giveaway.

And there it was.

My adrenaline level rose another notch.

A shadowy figure was changing his position away to my left, close to the base of the embankment.

I carefully lifted the camera. By now it was getting quite dark, but there was still plenty of light remaining for the camera's sensitive digital-imaging system.

I took a couple of shots, but even at maximum zoom there was nothing much to see. The figure appeared merely as a dark splodge against a slightly lighter ground.

I could hear a train approaching in the distance. This must be it.

I changed the camera to video mode, widened the view slightly and switched it on record.

—

THE ORANGE
canvas bag of cash was clearly visible through the camera viewfinder as it was thrown out the train window, and I
captured the whole thing as it arced forward and landed at a point about halfway up the grassy bank towards the far end.

I continued to film and zoomed in as the shadowy figure climbed rapidly up to the spot to retrieve the bag.

It was all over in less than a minute and seemed so quick and easy.

I stayed exactly where I was between the bushes.

The target would have to come back close to my hiding point in order to get back to his car. I was confident that he wouldn't spot me in the shadows and I would use the chance to get some close-up shots as he passed by.

I watched as he hurried along the base of the embankment back towards the bridge.

He came within ten yards of where I lay in the field, almost running, but not moving so fast that I didn't have plenty of time to take a couple of photos of him holding the distinctive orange bag in his gloved left hand.

But I couldn't see his face. It was covered.

He too was wearing a balaclava, with just his two eyes and mouth visible.

I recognized the eyes, but I had hoped to get some full-facial shots to provide positive, undeniable identification. I snapped a third picture as he hurried past.

I smiled to myself.

Gotcha!

The photos may not be ideal, but they were enough. Especially if I could get a shot of him getting into his car with its distinctive personalized number plate.

I waited a few moments and then stood up and started quickly back towards the road.

—

THE FIRST
indication that things had not gone entirely to plan was a woman's scream emanating from under the bridge. In fact, it was not so much a scream as a primeval screech of sheer terror.

I felt a distinct chill run down my spine.

I recognized that scream. It was Lydia.

Oh my God!

I sprinted back to the road and turned left towards the bridge, shouting out at the top of my voice. “Leave her alone! Leave her alone!”

There was a body lying facedown in the road at the far end of the bridge, I could see clearly with night vision.

Oh my God, no! Please, no!

I rushed forward and bent down, my heart beating away at twenty to the dozen in my chest.

But it wasn't Lydia, it was Crispin and he was groaning slightly.

“Jeff, is that you?” said a frightened voice away to my right.

I turned my head and saw Lydia cowering near the wall at the side of the bridge.

“Yes,” I said. “What happened?”

“We thought it was you,” she said. “It looked like you.” She was crying.

“What happened?” I asked again.

“We saw someone in a balaclava and Crispin said it was you. We called out and came back.” She sobbed. “But it wasn't you.”

I turned Crispin over so he was lying on his back. He groaned again as I moved him. I looked at his face. His eyes were wide with fear and he was trying to speak, but no sound was coming out, just a trickle of blood ran from the side of his mouth. I opened his coat. The whole of the front of his shirt was wet with blood.

“Call the police,” I shouted at Lydia. “Quickly. And an ambulance. He's been stabbed.”

She was already dialing on her cell.

What an absolute mess.

Why hadn't they gone back to the car and stayed there like I'd asked them to?

“Which way did the man go?” I asked when she'd finished the call.

She pointed at the small metal gate that I'd climbed over last time, when I'd collected the rugby ball. “Over there.”

Towards the path up the slope to the tracks. I reckoned he would be trying to get back to his car by going up and over the railway lines rather than past me through the bridge.

“Look after Crispin,” I said to Lydia, but I was afraid that he might be beyond help. The blood from his mouth had increased from a trickle to a flood and his eyes had started to roll back into his head. I'd seen that look before in Afghanistan. In fact, I'd seen it all too often.

It's not a game, you know, dear boy,
Crispin had said to me only that morning.

No, it wasn't.

Oh, Crispin, my colleague and my friend, why hadn't you remained in the car?

The anger rose in my throat—the anger that I had vowed to remember on the day of the void Grand National.

I leaped over the metal gate and ran up the slope to the tracks.

—

THE TARGET
was standing there at the top of the slope facing me, a bloodied knife in his right hand and the bag of cash in his left, as if somehow waiting for me to appear.

I stood slightly below, facing him.

I reached up and took off my balaclava, then I peeled away the stuck-on facial hair and removed the cotton balls from inside my mouth.

If he was surprised to see me, he didn't look it. But, then, it was difficult to tell as I could only see his eyes and mouth.

“Hello, Bill,” I said.

That focused his attention, but still he said nothing.

“I know it's you,” I said.

He switched the knife into his left hand, together with the bag, and lifted his hand to his head and pulled off his balaclava. Then he took the familiar tortoiseshell spectacles from his pant pocket and put them on his face.

Bill Ripley. Member of the BHA Board. Grandson of a Scottish Earl.

Leonardo. Our friend. One and the same.

“How did you know it was me?” he said.

“I just did,” I replied. “I followed you here from Weybridge.”

“Unwin,” he said, nodding. “Bloody Matthew Unwin. I knew that if you visited him it would be a problem. I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

“You nearly did,” I said, instinctively rubbing my shoulder.

“How's your colleague?” He waved the knife.

“I think he's dead.”

It didn't seem to surprise him or particularly to worry him. He just pursed his lips and nodded once as if accepting that it was all over.

“Just for a couple of hundred thousand quid,” I said. “Was it worth it?”

“It wasn't really about the money,” he said, “although the first lot was useful.”

“To pay off some of the debt with your bookmaker?”

He was clearly shocked that I knew, but he slowly nodded.

“Was it also about the press briefing documents you sent to the newspapers?”

He nodded again.

Just the one man—extortionist and whistle-blower.

“Why?”

“They took away my birthright.” He said it almost casually.

“Who did?”

“The bloody BHA.” He lifted his chin. “Ripleys have been senior stewards of the Jockey Club for over two hundred years.
We
should be in charge of British racing, not some bloody insurance salesman who doesn't know his withers from his fetlocks. It is my right. And it should be my son's right.”

“Your hyperactive son?”

He stared at me with contempt in his eyes.

In the distance I could hear the sirens of approaching authority. Bill Ripley clearly heard them too.

I took a step towards him and he retreated. I took a second step and he backed away some more.

There was a high-pitched ringing sound in my ears.

Bill turned his head slightly to the left.

I couldn't tell if he saw it coming or not.

Either way, he turned his head back to look directly at me and didn't move a muscle.

The evening express from Plymouth to London struck Bill Ripley full on at over a hundred miles per hour.

One moment, he was standing there just a few feet away from me, and, the next, the train was thundering by in his place.

As suddenly as it arrived, the train was gone and so was Bill, with nothing to show that he had ever been standing there other
than a shower of fifty-pound notes fluttering down around me like confetti.

I reached into my pocket, removed my phone and called Gordon Tuttle at the
London Telegraph
.

“Gordon?” I said. “I've got you a
story.”

—

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