Dick Francis's Gamble (38 page)

“I know of him, of course,” she said. “But not well enough to speak to.”

“We're guests in his box,” Claudia said.

“Are you indeed?” Jan said. “He does seems to have quite a lot of clout in racing, and his father is a long-standing member of the Jockey Club.”

“He's a client of the firm's,” I said. “But not one of mine.” She smiled at me. She was
my
client, she was saying but without using the words, and don't forget it.

“Do you know if he's got any financial troubles?” I asked her.

“How would I know anything about his finances?” she said. “You're the specialist in that department.”

True, I thought, but he wasn't my client, and I could hardly ask Gregory.

We watched the fourth race on a television in the bar, the winner again coming in exhausted and smothered in thick mud.

“They ought to do something when the going's as heavy as this,” Jan said.

“Do what?” Claudia asked.

“Make the races shorter or reduce the weights.”

“You can't realistically reduce the weights,” I said. “Half of them are carrying overweight already.” Most amateur jockeys were taller and heavier than the professionals.

“The races should be made shorter, then. Most of these poor horses are finishing half dead. Three and a half miles is too far in this mud.”

She was right, of course, but how could the clerk of the course predict the course conditions when planning the races several months in advance?

“Right,” said Jan decisively, finishing her drink, “I've had enough of this misery. I'm going home.”

“Can't we go too?” Claudia asked, shivering.

“Not yet,” I said. “I've still got to talk to Viscount Shenington.”

Claudia looked far from happy.

“I'm sure Jan would take you back to Mum's place, if you'd like,” I said. “It's only a mile or so down the road from here.”

“No problem,” said Jan.

“Here,” I said, taking my mother's house key from my pocket. “I'll be back by ten, and I'll collect Mum from Joan's on the way.”

Claudia took the key but slowly, as if nervous.

“Jan will see you into the cottage,” I said, trying to be reassuring. “Then lock yourself in, and open the door only for me.”

Suddenly, she wasn't so sure about going back to the cottage on her own, but I could see that she was very cold, and she was also not yet fully recovered from her operation. Truth be told, I would be much happier if she went with Jan as I could then concentrate on what I had to ask Shenington, and be quick about it.

“OK,” she said. “But please don't be long.”

“I won't,” I said. “I promise.”

 

 

S
henington's box was much emptier when I went back up there before the fifth race, and there was no sign of Ben.

“He's had to go back to Oxford,” explained his father as I removed my Barbour and hung it on a hook by the door, the rainwater running down the waxed material and dripping off the sleeves onto the carpet. “He said to say good-bye.”

“Thank you,” I said. “He's a very nice young man. You should be proud of him.”

“Yes, thank you,” he replied. “But he can also be a bit idealistic at times.”

“Isn't that a good thing in the young?” I said.

“Not always,” he replied, staring at the wall above my head. “We all have to live in the real world. To Ben, everything is either right or wrong, black or white. There's no middle ground, no compromise, and little or no tolerance of other people's failings.”

It was quite a statement, I thought, and one clearly born out of a certain degree of conflict between father and son. Perhaps Ben didn't easily tolerate his father's addiction to gambling.

Shenington seemed to almost snap out of a trance.

“Where's your lady?” he asked, looking around.

“She was cold,” I said. “A friend has given her a lift to my mother's house. I'll pick her up later. I'm sorry.”

“I don't blame her,” he said. “It's a cold night, and many of my guests have already gone. The rest will probably go before the last race.”

I ventured out onto the balcony and peered through the gloom as yet another long-distance hunter chase became a test of stamina for the tired and dirty participants. At least this one promised to give the crowd an exciting finish, that was until one of the two leaders slipped while landing over the last fence and deposited its hapless rider onto the grass with a sickening thump. I watched as the miserable jockey sat up holding his arm in the classic brokencollarbone pose, the bane of every rider's life.

I realized that it was at a point not very far from where the jockey was sitting that my own life had changed forever some eight years previously. How different things might have been if I'd landed on my outstretched arm that day, as he had just done, and not on my head, if I'd only broken my collarbone instead of my neck.

As Shenington had predicted, almost all his remaining guests departed after the race, saying their good-byes and preparing for the dash to their cars in the rain.

Finally, there was just Viscount Shenington, myself, and two men in rather drab suits remaining. Even the catering staff seemed to have disappeared.

Suddenly, I felt uneasy.

But my concern was far too late.

One of the two men stood by the door to ensure no one could come in while the other advanced towards me. And he had a gun in his gloved hand, together with the ubiquitous silencer.

“Mr. Foxton, you are an extraordinarily difficult man to kill,” Shenington said, smiling slightly. “You usually don't turn up when you're expected and yet you came here so sweetly, like a lamb to the slaughter.”

He almost laughed.

I didn't.

I'd been bloody careless.

W
hat do you want?” I asked, trying to keep the fear out of my voice.

“I want you dead,” Viscount Shenington said.

“So you can stop spreading your silly rumor that my brother was murdered.”

“But he was, wasn't he?” I said.

“That is something you are not going to have to worry about anymore,” Shenington said.

“How could you have killed your own brother?” I asked. “And for what? Money?”

“My brother had no idea what it was like to be desperate for money. He was always so bloody self-righteous.”

“Honest, you mean.”

“Don't give me all that claptrap,” he said. “Everyone's on the make. I just want my share.”

“And is your share a hundred million euros?” I asked.

“Shut up,” he said loudly.

Why should I? Maybe I should shout as loudly as I could, to attract attention.

I took a deep breath, and the cry for help began in my throat. But that was as far as it got. The man with the gun punched me very hard in my lower abdomen, driving the air from my lungs and leaving me lying in a heap on the floor, gasping for breath. And then, just for good measure, the same man kicked me in the face, splitting my lip and sending my blood in a fine spray onto the carpet.

“Not in here, you fool,” Shenington said to him sharply.

That was slightly encouraging, I thought, through the haze in my brain. At least they weren't going to kill me here. It might have been rather incriminating to leave a dead body in the corner of the box amongst the empty champagne bottles.

“It won't do you any good,” I said through my bleeding mouth, my own voice sounding strange even to me. “The police know I'm here.”

“I somehow doubt that,” Shenington replied. “My information is that you've also been avoiding them over the past week.”

“My fiancée knows I'm here,” I said.

“Yes, so she does. When I've dealt with you, I'll deal with her too.”

I thought about saying that Jan Setter also knew I was here, but that might have placed her in mortal danger as well.

I kept quiet. I'd opened my big mouth enough already.

I could hear the public-address system outside. The last race had started.

“Now,” said Shenington to the men. “Take him down now, while the race is running.”

The two men came over and hauled me to my feet.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked.

“To your death,” Shenington said with aplomb. “But not here, obviously. Somewhere dark and quiet.”

“Can't we . . .”

It was as far as I got. The man on my right, the one without the gun who had been standing by the door, suddenly punched me again in my stomach. This time I didn't fall to the floor, but only because the two men were holding me up by my arms. My guts felt like they were on fire, and I was worried that some major damage may have been done to my insides.

“No more speak,” said the man who had punched me. English was clearly not his strong point.

“No more speak” seemed a good plan, at least for the time being, so I kept quiet as the two men walked me past my coat, through the door, across the corridor and into one of the deserted catering stations. The three of us descended in one of the caterer's lifts. There was no sign of Shenington. I wasn't sure whether that was good or bad. I suppose two against one was marginally better than three to one, but, on the downside, I'd have little or no chance of reasoning with these two heavies. Although I doubt if I'd have had any chance anyway, had Shenington been there with us.

The lift stopped, and I was marched out of it and then across the wet tarmac towards the north exit and the racetrack parking lots beyond. The facilities at Cheltenham were really designed for the Steeplechasing Festival in March, when more than sixty thousand would flock to the track every day. The parking lots were therefore huge, but on a night like this, with only a fraction of the crowd, most of them were deserted and, at this time of night, dark and quiet.

“Somewhere dark and quiet,” Shenington had said.

I came to the conclusion that my last brief journey would likely come to an abrupt end in a far corner of one of the track's parking lots. I tried my best to slow down, but I was being frog-marched forward. I also tried to sit down, but they were having none of that. They gripped my arms even tighter and forced me on.

I'd have to shout for help, I thought, and chance another punch, but the commentator's voice was booming out through the public-address, so would anyone hear me? There were only a very few people about, hurrying to go home with their heads bowed down and their collars turned up against the rain. Most of the remaining crowd were sensibly under cover, watching the race. Only a fool would stand about down here in the wet.

“Horse!” a voice called loudly off to my right in warning. “Loose horse!”

There is no doubt that horses have a homing instinct. Ask any trainer who has had a horse get loose and lost on the gallops. More often than not, the horse is found happily back at the stable, standing in its own box, home before the search party.

Horses that are reluctant to race or that get loose due to falling, often head back to where they first came out onto the track, as if they were trying to get home or at least back to the racetrack stables.

This particular loose horse came galloping down the horse walk and attempted to negotiate the ninety-degree turn to get back into the parade ring. A combination of too sharp a bend and too much momentum, coupled with the wet surface, meant that the horse's legs slipped out from beneath it and it fell, crashing through the white plastic railings and sliding across the ground towards the three of us, its legs thrashing about wildly as it tried to regain its footing.

The men on either side of me instinctively took a step backwards away from the sharp flailing horseshoes, slightly relaxing their hold on my arms as they did so. But I stepped forward boldly, out of their clutches, and caught the horse by the reins. In one movement, as the animal managed to stand up, I swung myself onto its back and into the saddle.

I needed no second invitation. I kicked the astonished horse in the belly, and we galloped back the way it had come, down the horse walk towards the track.

“Hey, stop!” shouted an official who was standing in my way, waving his arms about. I glanced behind me. The two men were in pursuit, and one was reaching into his pocket. I had no doubt he was going for his gun.

The official realized at the very last second that I wasn't going to stop, and he flung himself aside. I kicked the horse again, and crouched as low as I could to provide the smallest target for the gunman.

I looked ahead. Even though the last race of the day was still in progress, out on the racetrack was definitely the safest place for me to be. Another official saw the horse galloping back towards him and he tugged frantically at the movable rail, closing it across the end of the horse walk.

But I wasn't stopping. Stopping meant dying, and I'd promised myself I wouldn't do that.

A rider communicates with his mount in a variety of ways. Pulling on the reins, either together or separately, is an obvious one, and cajoling with the voice or kicking with the feet are others. But the most powerful messages between horse and jockey are transmitted by the shifting of weight. Sit back and the horse will slow and stop, but shift the weight forward over his shoulders and he will run like the wind.

I gathered my feet into the stirrup irons, stood up, shortened the reins and crouched forward over the horse's withers. The animal beneath me fully understood the go message. Riding a horse was like riding a bike—once learned, never forgotten.