Dick Francis's Gamble (26 page)

“And did you?” he asked.

“I did a little bit of digging, but I told him on Saturday that I couldn't go searching behind the backs of others at the firm and he should speak to his investment manager about it.”

“Who is?” he asked.

“Gregory Black,” I said. “Colonel Roberts spoke to him on Monday, only the day before he died.”

“But it's quite a jump to think that he was murdered because of it. And are you telling me you suspect Gregory Black of killing him?”

“No, of course not,” I said. “Gregory Black may have an explosive temper, but he's hardly a murderer.”

Or was he? Could I really tell what went on in his head? Or in anyone else's head, for that matter? But Gregory a murderer? Surely not.

“But that's not all,” I said. “I sent an e-mail to someone in Bulgaria last Friday, and a would-be assassin turned up at my door on Tuesday afternoon.”

“OK,” he said, now firmly interested. “I'll try and find out if there was an autopsy carried out on this Colonel Roberts. Where did you say he lived?”

“Hampstead,” I said. “He only died yesterday, and he's being buried in Golders Green cemetery even as we speak.”

“That's very quick,” he said.

“Apparently, it's a Jewish tradition to bury the dead as quickly as possible.”

“At least it's not a cremation,” he said. “No chance of a second look at the body if it's cremated. And I speak from experience.” He laughed.

What a strange occupation, I thought, daily dealings with violent death and its fallout.

“You will let me know the results?” I asked.

“If I can,” he said. “I'll call you if I get anything.”

“I'm not at home. And my mobile doesn't work where I am.”

“And where is that?”

I was a little reluctant to tell him. The fewer the people who knew, the safer I'd feel. But he was the police, and he had provided me with an unshakable alibi when I was arrested for attempted murder.

“I'm in a village called Woodmancote,” I said. “It's near Cheltenham racetrack. It's where my mother lives.” I gave him my mother's telephone number.

“Cheltenham is a long way from your office,” he said in a tone that seemed to ask a question.

“I know. I know,” I said. “I ran away. Superintendent Yering was unable to provide me with any protection, and I felt very vulnerable, so I didn't go home.”

“I can't say I really blame you,” he said.

“So how about you giving me a bodyguard?” I asked. “Preferably one bristling with guns, and with evil intent towards assassins.”

“I'll see what I can do,” he said. “Especially if it does turn out that Colonel Roberts was murdered.”

“And another thing,” I said, deciding to get my requests in quickly as the chief inspector seemed to be in a generous mood. “Can you find out whether Billy Searle has started talking to the Wiltshire Police? And what he's told them.”

“Do you think he has something to do with all this as well?”

“No, I don't,” I said. “I happen to know where Billy's money was invested because I did it and it was nowhere near Bulgaria. I'm just interested to know what he's told the police. After all, I was arrested on suspicion of trying to kill him.”

“I'll try,” he said. “But some of these rural detectives can be reluctant to discuss their cases with officers from other forces.”

“Just remind them it was me who gave them the information that Billy Searle owed someone a hundred thousand, and it was you that stopped them from looking bloody foolish by charging me with attempted murder when I had a cast-iron alibi.”

“OK. OK. I said I'd try.”

 

 

W
hen I went downstairs, my mother and Claudia were in full flow with wedding plans.

“It was about time he asked you to marry him,” she said to Claudia while looking at me.

“But he didn't,” Claudia replied. “I asked him.”

My mother was quite taken aback and even rendered speechless for a few seconds. She had always been a stickler for tradition.

“How very unusual,” she said finally. “But Nicholas always was a funny boy.”

Jan Setter had called me strange.

Was I really funny, or strange?

I didn't think so.

To me, I was “normal,” but I suppose everyone thinks they are normal. And yet we are all so different. There was actually no such thing as normal.

“Now, darlings,” my mother said, changing the subject, “would you like some late lunch? I've a shepherd's pie in the oven.”

“Mum,” I said, “it's gone three o'clock.”

“So?” she replied. “I thought you might be hungry when you arrived.”

Surprisingly, I was, and I could tell from Claudia's eager look that she was too. I had been so busy trying to make the journey smooth and jerk-free, to keep Claudia as comfortable as possible, that I hadn't even thought of stopping for food.

Consequently, the three of us sat down to a very late lunch of shepherd's pie and broccoli, with my mother insisting that I have a second helping.

 

 

I
called Patrick on his mobile at twenty to six, late enough for the funeral to be over but early enough to still be the workday.

Claudia was upstairs having a rest, and my mother was busying herself by the stove, preparing yet another high-protein, high-fat chicken casserole for our dinner. I sat on the chintz-covered couch, facing her but at the farthest point of the room.

“Ah yes. Nicholas,” Patrick said, seemingly slightly flustered. “Mrs. McDowd told me you'd called. Sorry I wasn't able to speak to you earlier.”

“And I am sorry to hear about Colonel Roberts,” I said.

“Yes, what a dreadful thing. He was only sixty-two as well. Enjoy life while you've got it, that's what I say. You never know when the Grim Reaper will catch you up.”

Yes, I thought. But I'd outrun him once down Lichfield Grove.

“Have you spoken to Gregory?” I asked, getting to the point of the call.

“Yes, I have,” he said. “He is still very angry with you.”

“But why?” I asked.

“Why do you think?” he said crossly. “For getting arrested and being splashed all over the papers and the television. He believes you brought the firm into disrepute.”

“But, Patrick, his anger is completely misplaced, and he is wrong. It wasn't my fault that I was arrested. The police jumped to a conclusion and it was an incorrect one.”

“Yes,” he said. “But you did give them reason to draw it.”

“I did not,” I said, getting quite angry myself. “It was that idiot Billy Searle who shouted out about murder. I did absolutely nothing wrong.”

My mother glanced over at me from the kitchen area.

“Gregory says there is no smoke without fire. He still thinks you must have had something to do with it.”

“Well, in that case Gregory is more of an idiot than I thought.” My raised voice caused my mother to stand and look at me from across the room, and with a furrowed brow. I paused to calm myself down. I then spoke much more quietly. “Am I being fired? Because if I am, I'll be taking Lyall and Black to court.”

He did not reply, and I stayed silent. I could hear his breathing.

“You had better come in to the office tomorrow,” he said at last. “I will tell Gregory to hold his tongue.”

“Thank you,” I said. “But I may not make it in tomorrow. Claudia is not very well, and I'll probably work from home using the remote-access system. I hope to see you on Friday.”

“Right,” he said, sounding slightly relieved that he had at least another day to dampen the erupting Gregory volcano. “I'll see you on Friday.”

He hung up and I sat for a while wondering about my future, if I still had one with a gun-toting assassin on the loose.

“What was all that about?” my mother asked with concern.

“Oh, nothing, Mum,” I said. “Just a little problem at work. Nothing to worry about.”

But I did worry about it.

I had really enjoyed working for Lyall & Black over the last five years, but the role of an independent financial adviser was one that necessitated absolute trust, both of the client and of one's colleagues. What sort of future did I have in a firm where one of the senior partners believed me to be involved in an attempted murder, and, at the same time, I wondered if he had been involved in a successful one?

 

 

T
he three of us sat at my mother's dining table for dinner, and I ate and drank too much for my own good.

“What's happened to your cat?” I asked, noticing its absence from under the table.

“It's not my cat,” my mother said. “He's just an irregular visitor, and I haven't seen him for days. He'll probably be back sometime soon.”

No doubt when fillet steak was back on the menu, I thought.

Claudia and I went up to bed early for us, around ten o'clock.

“You are such a clever thing,” Claudia said to me as we snuggled up together under the duvet.

“In what way?” I asked.

“Insisting we came here,” she said. “If we'd gone home, I would have felt pressured to cook or clean, or do something useful. Here, I can relax completely, my phone doesn't even ring, and your mother is such a dear.”

I smiled in the darkness. Now, that was a turn up.

“But we can't stay here very long,” I said seriously.

“Why not?” she asked.

“Because if she goes on feeding me as she's done today, I'll end up with a waistline like Homer Simpson.”

We giggled uncontrollably.

Since we'd left the hospital that morning, neither of us had mentioned anything about the cancer or the upcoming chemo treatments. It was as if we had left all our troubles behind in London.

But they were about to come looking for us.

 

 

I
dreamt that I was riding in a race, but, like all dreams, it was inconsistent and erratic. One second I was on a horse, the next on an ostrich or in a car. However, one part of the dream was unvarying: Whatever we were riding, I was always racing against Gregory. And he was ever smiling and aiming a gun with a silencer at my head.

I woke up with a jerk, breathing fast, ready to run.

I relaxed, and lay there in the dark listening to Claudia's rhythmic breathing beside me.

Did I really think that Gregory Black was involved in fraud and murder?

I didn't know, but I was sure interested to hear the results of the postmortem examination on Jolyon Roberts, if there had been one.

I drifted back to sleep but only fitfully, waking often to listen for sounds that shouldn't have been there. Woodmancote was much quieter without traffic, and much darker without streetlamps, than our home in Lichfield Grove, but nevertheless I slept badly and was wide awake long before the sun lit up the bedroom window soon after six o'clock.

I got up quietly and padded silently downstairs in bare feet with my computer. I had been seriously neglecting my clients over the past two weeks and, if I didn't pull my finger out soon, I'd have no job worthy of the name at Lyall & Black to cry about even if I was fired.

I logged on to the Internet.

I had forty-three unread e-mails, including a fresh one from Jan Setter telling me how fantastic the first night of the Florence Nightingale show had been and how crazy I was to have missed it. It was timed at five-fifty a.m. this morning, and the show in London hadn't finished until ten-thirty last night, not to mention how late the after-show party had gone on. Did she never sleep or had she'd sent it as soon as she arrived home?

I e-mailed back to her and said how pleased I was she had enjoyed it and how I hoped it would make her lots of money.

Then I went onto the daily newspaper websites to read the reviews. All but one were pretty encouraging, so maybe the show might make some money. Backing shows and films was always a risky business. I usually told my clients that it was far more of a gamble than they would have on the stock market, but, as with most risky investments, the potential gains were greater too. But they had to be prepared to lose
all
their money.

One of my clients never expected any financial return from such investments, he just reveled in rubbing shoulders with the stars at the first-night functions and taking all his friends to see “his” show in the best seats. “I know I might lose it all,” he would say, “but, if I do, I'll enjoy every minute while I'm losing it. And, you never know, I might just make a fortune.”

And he had done precisely that the previous year.

At my suggestion, he had backed a small independent film company to make an obscure and irreverent comedy based around the first transportation of convicts from England to Australia in 1787. To everyone's surprise, not least my client's, the film had been a huge international hit. At the box office worldwide it had earned back over two hundred times its production cost, as well as receiving an Oscar nomination for its young star who played the title role in
Bruce: The First Australian
.

But the successes were few and the disasters many.

It took me over two hours just to answer my outstanding e-mails, by which time I could hear movement above and, presently, my mother came downstairs in her dressing gown.

“Hello, dear,” she said. “You're up early.”

“I've been down here over two hours,” I said. “I have work to do.”