Dick Francis's Gamble (40 page)

I skirted around the edge of the village towards the lane where my mother lived.

The lane was actually the fourth arm of a crossroads junction, and I was just approaching it from straight ahead when a car came along the other road and turned right into it. The car had to be going to my mother's cottage, as it was the only one down there.

I kicked the horse forward and followed, keeping to the grass to deaden the noise of the hooves.

Halfway down the lane I slid off the horse's back and tied him to a tree, moving forward silently but quickly on foot. I stayed close to the hedge as I came around the last turn.

I could now see the cottage, and Shenington was standing to one side of it by the front door, his face brightly lit by the outside light. I crept closer, across the grass, towards the gravel drive.

“Viscount Shenington,” he was saying loudly. “We met earlier at the races.”

“What do you want?” I could hear Claudia shouting back from inside.

“I'm returning Mr. Foxton's coat,” Shenington said. “He must have left it in my box by mistake.” He was holding my coat out in front of him.

Don't open the door, I willed Claudia. PLEASE—DON'T OPEN THE DOOR.

She did of course. I could hear her turning the lock.

Once Shenington was inside, I would have no chance. He could simply put a knife to Claudia's neck, or a gun to her temple, and I would do exactly as he wanted. A lamb to the slaughter it would certainly be.

My only chance was to act decisively and to act now.

As the front door swung open I ran for him, crunching across the gravel. He turned slightly towards the noise, but I was on him before he had a chance to react.

At school, despite my moderate size, I'd been a regular member of the first XV rugby team and primarily for my tackling.

I caught Shenington just above the knees in a full-blown flying rugby tackle that literally lifted him off his feet.

The two of us crashed to the ground together, the whiplash causing his upper body and head to take most of the impact.

Shenington was in his mid- to late sixties and I was less than half his age, and I had the strength brought on by desperation and anger.

He really had no chance.

I jumped up quickly and sat on him, twisting my fingers in his hair and forcing his head down into a rain-filled puddle on the drive. How did he like it, I wondered, having his face held underwater?

Claudia stood, shocked and staring, in the doorway.

“Nick,” she wailed. “Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. You'll drown him.”

“This is the man who has been trying to kill me,” I said, not releasing my grip.

“That doesn't mean you can kill
him
,” she said.

I reluctantly let go of his hair and rolled him over onto his back. His lips were blue, and I couldn't tell if he was breathing or not. I didn't care. One thing was for sure. There was absolutely no way I was going to put my mouth over his to breathe air into his lungs. Even the thought of it made me feel sick.

“He's got a gun,” Claudia said suddenly, the fear clearly apparent again in her voice.

He'd been lying on it.

I leaned down and picked it up by the barrel.

I left Shenington where he lay and went inside to call the Cheltenham Police Station.

“Can I please speak to DCI Flight?” I said to the officer who answered. “I want to give myself up.”

“What have you done?” he said.

“Ask DCI Flight,” I replied. “He's the one who wants me.”

“He's not here at the moment,” the officer said. “Some bloody lunatic has stolen a horse up at the racetrack and every spare man is out looking for him.”

“Ah, I might just be able to help you there,” I said. “The horse in question is tied up outside my mother's house in Woodmancote.”

“What!” he said.

“The horse is right outside where I'm standing now,” I repeated.

“How the hell did it get there?”

“I rode him,” I said. “I think I'm the bloody lunatic that everyone is looking for.”

D
etective Chief Inspector Flight was far from amused. He personally had spent more than an hour trudging across the dark, muddy track, looking for the horse, while wearing his best leather shoes, and, if that wasn't bad enough, he was also soaked to the skin. As he explained to me at length and rather loudly, his coat was meant to have been waterproof but, on that count, it seemed to have failed rather badly.

“I'm tempted to put you in a cell and throw away the key,” he said.

We were in one of the interview rooms at the Cheltenham Police Station.

“How is Viscount Shenington?” I asked, ignoring his remark.

“Still alive,” he said. “But only just. They're working on him at the hospital. The ambulance paramedics got him breathing again, but it seems his heart is now the problem.”

Just like his brother.

“And the doctor is also saying that even if he does survive, his brain is likely to have been permanently damaged due to being starved of oxygen for so long.”

Shame, I thought. Not!

“You say that you simply rugby-tackled him and you didn't see that his nose and mouth were lying in the water?”

“That's right,” I said. “I just thought he was winded by the fall. Only after I'd checked that Claudia was all right did I discover he was facedown in a puddle. Then, of course, I rolled him over onto his back.”

“Did you not then think of applying artificial respiration?” he asked.

I just looked at him.

“No,” he said. “I can see the problem.”

“Exactly,” I said. “The man had come there to kill me. Why would I try and save him? So that he could have another go?”

“Some people might argue that you were negligent.”

“Let them,” I said. “Whatever happened to Shenington was his own fault. You saw the gun. He wasn't there making a social call.”

He looked up at the clock on the wall. It showed that it was well after midnight.

“We'll have to continue this in the morning,” he said, yawning.

“I have to be at the Paddington Green Police Station by eleven,” I said.

“So do I,” Flight replied. “We can talk on the way.”

 

 

T
he meeting at Paddington Green lasted for more than two hours. In addition to me, there were four senior police officers present: Detective Chief Inspectors Tomlinson and Flight; a detective inspector from the City of London Police Economic Crime Department—the Fraud Squad; and Superintendent Yering, who chaired the meeting by virtue of his superior rank.

At his request, I started slowly from the beginning, outlining the events in chronological order, from the day Herb Kovak had been gunned down at Aintree right through to the previous evening at Cheltenham racetrack and at my mother's cottage in Woodmancote. However, I decided not to include the finer details of how I had forced Shenington's head down into the puddle on the gravel driveway.

“Viscount Shenington,” I said, “seems to have been desperate for money due to his gambling losses and clearly provided the five million pounds from the Roberts Family Trust in order to trigger the grants from the European Union. It appears that he even gave his brother the impression that he had needed to be convinced to make the investment.”

“Perhaps he did, to start with,” said DCI Flight, “until he discovered the availability of the grants.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But I think it's far more likely that the idea for stealing the EU grants came first and Shenington was simply brought in as the necessary provider of the priming money.”

“So he wasn't the only one involved?” Tomlinson said.

“Not at all,” I said. “I've seen e-mails between a Uri Joram in the office of the European Commission in Brussels and a Dimitar Petrov in Bulgaria—”

“How did you see them?” Tomlinson interrupted.

“On Gregory Black's computer,” I said. “He was copied on their correspondence.”

“And who is Gregory Black?” asked the detective inspector from the Fraud Squad.

“He's one of the senior partners at Lyall and Black, the firm of financial advisers where I work.” Or where I used to work.

“And what do you think he has to do with this?” he asked.

“I'm only guessing, but I believe that Gregory Black probably found Shenington for Joram and Petrov. They would have needed someone with five million pounds to invest to trigger the much larger sum from the EU. Shenington was a client of Gregory's, and who could be better, a man who controlled a wealthy family trust but was himself broke and in dire need of lots of ready money to pay his gambling debts. And Gregory would have known that. Financial advisers are aware of all their clients' most intimate financial secrets.”

“But what has all this to do with the death of Herbert Kovak?” asked DCI Tomlinson. That was
his
major concern.

“Herb Kovak had accessed the file with the e-mails between Joram and Petrov just a few days before he was killed. And Gregory Black would have known he had because Herb's name appeared on the recently accessed list. I saw it there. Perhaps Herb had asked some difficult questions about the project, questions that got him killed.”

I could see that I was losing them.

“Remember,” I said, “we are talking about a huge amount of money here. A hundred million euros. Even split four ways, it's a handsome sum, and worth a bit of protecting.”

I could see them doing the simple math in their heads.

“And,” I went on, “in the last week or so, every time Gregory Black knew where I was, someone tried to kill me there. I now think that Shenington only changed his mind about wanting to talk to me, then asked me to the races, because I hadn't been turning up at my office. He as good as admitted it yesterday. He said I was a difficult man to kill because I usually didn't turn up when I was expected. Well, I was expected at a meeting with Gregory Black on Monday morning and I'm now certain that I would have been killed if I'd gone to it. I probably wouldn't have even reached the office front door. I'd have been shot down in the street. Murdered in a public place, just like Herb Kovak was at Aintree.”

“I think it's time I spoke again to Mr. Gregory Black,” said DCI Tomlinson. “I remember him from my previous encounter.”

Yes, I thought, and I bet he remembers you.

There followed a brief discussion as to who had the proper jurisdiction to arrest and on suspicion of what charges. Finally, it was agreed that the honor would fall to DI Batten, the detective inspector from the Fraud Squad. After all, the City of London was his patch. However, we all wanted to be present, and a total of three police cars made the trip across London to 64 Lombard Street, where we were joined by a fourth from the uniformed branch.

It was quarter past two by the time we arrived at my office. Gregory should be just back from his usual substantial lunch at the restaurant on the corner. I hoped he'd made the most of it. There would be no more
foie gras
and
filet mignon en croûte
where he was going.

“Can I help you?” Mrs. McDowd asked as the policemen entered. Then she saw me with them. “Oh, Mr. Nicholas, are these men with you?”

DI Batten ignored her. “Can you tell me where I might find Mr. Gregory Black?” he said rather grandly.

“I'll call him,” she said nervously, clearly slightly troubled by the mass of people crowding into her reception area.

“No,” said DI Batten, “just tell me where he is.”

At that point Gregory walked down the corridor.

“There he is,” said Mrs. McDowd, pointing.

The detective inspector wasted no time.

“Gregory Black,” he said, taking hold of Gregory by the arm, “I arrest you on suspicion of conspiracy to defraud and also on suspicion of conspiracy to murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

Gregory was stunned. “But that's ridiculous,” he said. “I've done nothing of the sort.”

Then he saw me.

“Is this your doing?” he demanded, thrusting his face belligerently towards mine. “Some kind of sick joke?”

“Murder is never a joke,” said DI Batten. “Take him away.”

Two uniformed officers moved forward and handcuffed Gregory, who was still loudly protesting his innocence. The policemen ignored his pleas and led him out of the glass door and onto the lift.

I knew all too well what that felt like.

“What the hell's going on?” Patrick had appeared in the reception, obviously summoned by the noise. “What are these men doing here?”

“It seems they are here to arrest Mr. Gregory,” said the unflappable Mrs. McDowd.

“Arrest Gregory? But that's ridiculous. What for?”

“Conspiracy to defraud and conspiracy to murder,” DI Batten said.

“Fraud? Murder? Who has he murdered?” Patrick demanded, turning towards the policeman.

“No one,” said DI Batten. “Mr. Black has been arrested on suspicion of
conspiracy
to murder.”

Patrick wasn't to be deterred.

“So who, then, is he suspected of conspiring to murder?”

“Me,” I said, stepping forward.

Patrick said nothing. He just stared at me.

 

 

L
ater in the afternoon, life in the offices of Lyall & Black at 64 Lombard Street returned to some sort of normalcy, if having one of the senior partners arrested for conspiracy to defraud and murder could ever be considered normal.