Dick Francis's Gamble (9 page)

“Ah, Mr. Foxton,” he said. “Good of you to call. How are you feeling?”

“I'm fine,” I replied, wondering why he would ask.

“Is your toe OK?” he asked.

“Sorry?”

“Your toe,” he repeated. “Your receptionist told me about your operation.”

“Oh, that,” I said, trying to suppress a laugh. “My toe is fine thank you. How can I help?”

“Was Mr. Kovak in personal financial difficulties?” he asked.

“In what way?” I said.

“Was he in debt?”

“Not that I am aware of,” I said. “No more than any of us. Why do you ask?”

“Mr. Foxton, are you well enough to come to Mr. Kovak's home? There are quite a few things I would like to discuss with you, and I also need you, as his executor, to agree to the removal of certain items from his flat to assist with our inquiries. I can send a car, if that helps.”

I thought about my planned day at Cheltenham Races.

“Tomorrow would be better.”

“Of course,” he said. “How about eight a.m.?”

“Eight tomorrow is fine,” I said. “I'll be there.”

“Do you need me to send a car?”

Why not, I thought. “Yes, that would be great.”

I'd have to develop a limp.

 

 

B
illy Searle was in no mood to explain to me why he suddenly needed his money.

“Just put the bloody cash in my bank account,” he shouted.

We were standing on the terrace in front of the Weighing Room before the first race and heads were turning our way.

“Billy, for goodness' sake calm down,” I said quietly but determinedly.

It didn't work.

“And what the hell are you doing here anyway?” he shouted back. “You should be at your desk getting my bloody cash together.”

More heads turned.

So much for Patrick's instruction to keep things discreet.

“Billy, I'm only trying to help.”

“I don't need your fucking help!” He curled his lip and spat out the words, spraying me with fine drops of spittle.

The racing journalists were moving ever closer.

I dropped my voice, leaned forward and spoke directly into his ear. “Now, listen to me, you little creep. You clearly need someone's help, and I'm on your side.” I paused. “Call me when you've calmed down. The money will be in your bank by Friday.”

“I told you I need a hundred grand by tonight,” he was shouting and almost crying. “I need my money today.”

We were now the center of attention for half the Cheltenham crowd.

“Sorry,” I said quietly, trying to maintain some level of dignity. “That's impossible. It will be there by Friday, maybe by Thursday if you're very lucky.

“Thursday will be too late,” he screamed at me. “I'll be fucking dead by Thursday.”

There was no point in us standing there arguing, with all the racing world listening to every word, so I simply walked away, ever-conscious of the hacks gathering around us like vultures, their pencils now scribbling ferociously in their notebooks. At least there was no sign of Martin Gifford, the five-star gossip, but he'd no doubt know every detail by the end of the day.

“Why are you trying to murder me?” Billy shouted after me at full volume.

I ignored him and continued over towards the relative privacy of the pre-parade ring where I called the office to check how the liquidation of Billy's assets was progressing.

Mrs. McDowd answered. Patrick and Gregory didn't like automated telephone answering and faceless voice mail. “Our clients need to know they are dealing with real people,” they said. Hence we employed Mrs. McDowd, and also a Mrs. Johnson, to answer the telephones.

“What on earth did you say to that policeman?” I asked her. “He's being uncommonly nice to me.”

“I told him you were having an ingrown toenail removed.”

“Why?”

“Because he was bloody rude to me,” she said with indignation. “Spoke to me as if I was the office cleaner, so I told him you couldn't be reached. The trouble was, he wanted to know why you couldn't be reached, so I told him you were unconscious and having an operation. Seemed like a good idea at the time, but the damn man was persistent, I'll give him that. Demanded to know what you were having done so I told him it was an ingrown toenail. I could hardly make it something more serious, now could I? Not with you up and about, like.”

“Mrs. McDowd, if I ever need someone to make up an alibi, I promise I'll call you,” I said, never thinking for a second that I would need an alibi much sooner than I realized. “Can I speak to Miss Diana, please?”

She put me through.

The sale of Billy Searle's assets was progressing smoothly, albeit with a sizable loss on some of my recent bond purchases. But did I care? No, probably not. Billy deserved it. I chided myself a little for such non-IFA thoughts, but I was only human. I thanked Diana and disconnected.

“Hello, lover boy,” said a voice close behind me. “On the phone with my competition?”

“Please stop,” I said with mock indignation, “people will talk.”

Jan Setter cuddled herself up to my back.

“Let them talk,” she said while giving me a tight hug, pressing her whole body against mine. “I want you.” She said it in my ear with passion.

This was the second time in two days she had made a pass at me in public, and there was nothing casual and lighthearted about this one. Perhaps she really was serious, and that could be a problem. I had always rather enjoyed my flirtatious friendship with Jan, but that was because I had believed we were both just having a bit of verbal fun with no prospect of any actual physical contact. Now, it seemed, the stakes had been raised quite a few notches.

I pulled her arms away from my waist and turned around.

“Jan,” I said firmly. “Behave yourself.”

“Why should I?” she asked.

“Because you must.” She turned down the corners of her mouth like a scolded child. “For a start,” I said, “I'm too young for you.”

“Oh thanks a lot,” she said crossly, stepping back. “You really do know how to make a woman feel wanted.”

There was no mock indignation here, she was angry and hurt.

“Look,” I said, “I'm sorry. But I never intended this to get out of hand.”

“Nothing has got out of hand,” she said. “Things are just as they have been before. Nothing has changed.”

But we both knew things had changed, and there would be no going back to what we had been before.

“Great,” I said.

She smiled at me ruefully. “But you will let me know if you change your mind.”

“OK.” I smiled back at her. “What do you have running?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Most of mine have finished now for the summer.” She paused. “I only came today because I hoped you would be here.”

I stood silently for a moment and looked at her.

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“Yeah,” she replied with a sigh. “So am I.”

 

 

C
olonel The Honourable Jolyon Westrop Roberts, MC, OBE, younger son of the Earl of Balscott, was waiting for me in the same place on the grandstands where I had met him the previous day.

“Ah, Nicholas,” he said as I made my way up to watch the first race. “I was hoping you might be here again today.”

“Hello, sir,” I said. In spite of calling himself plain Mr. Roberts, I knew he liked his formality. “How can I help?”

“Well,” he said with a slight laugh. “I hope you can help. But there may be nothing to help about. If you know what I mean?”

“No, sir,” I said, “I don't know what you mean. You haven't told me anything.”

He laughed again, nervously.

“As I explained to you yesterday,” he said, “there may be nothing to worry about. In fact, I expect there isn't. I'm probably only wasting your time. And I wouldn't want to get anyone into trouble now would I?”

“Sir,” I said with some determination. “How would I know if you won't tell me? What is it, exactly, that is worrying you?”

He stood for a few seconds in silence, looking out over my head towards the track as if deciding whether he should go on.

“Gregory,” he said finally. “I'm worried about Gregory.”

“What about Gregory?” I asked. At times we had all been worried about Gregory. He ate far too much and didn't do any exercise that we were aware of other than to walk to the end of Lombard Street for a substantial lunch five days a week.

“It's probably nothing,” Jolyon Roberts said again. He stamped his feet and looked uncomfortable. “Best forget I ever said anything.”

“Are you worried about Gregory's health?” I asked.

“His health?” Mr. Roberts repeated with surprise. “Why would I worry about Gregory's health?”

“Then what is it about Gregory that you are worried about?”

Jolyon Roberts drew himself up to his full six-feet-three, the ex-Guards colonel who had won a Military Cross for gallantry as a young subaltern in the Falklands War.

“I'm worried about his judgment.”

 

 

M
y planned early departure from Cheltenham was put on hold as I steered Mr. Roberts into a quiet corner of the seafood bar for a discussion away from the ears of others. When a client, especially one with such a large investment portfolio as the younger son of the Earl of Balscott, questions the judgment of one of the senior partners, it is no time to hurry away home.

“Now, sir,” I said when we were each settled with a plate of prawns in Marie Rose sauce with smoked salmon. “In what way do you question Gregory Black's judgment? And why are you telling
me
?”

“It's probably nothing,” he said again. “He has been so good to me over the years, very good. In fact, I'm sure it's nothing.”

“Why don't you let me be the judge of that?”

“Yes,” he said slowly. “I think you might be a good judge. You always were on a horse. It was me who recommended you to Lyall and Black in the first place, don't you know?”

No, I didn't know. And I was flattered. No wonder there had been such a welcoming open door when I'd applied for a job.

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “I didn't know.”

“Oh yes,” said Mr. Roberts. “I've had my eye on you since you were eighteen years old and won on my cousin's horse at Chepstow. Remarkable piece of riding. Told my cousin then that you would be champion jockey one day. Bloody shame you got injured.”

Yes, I thought once more, it was a bloody shame.

“But tell me about Gregory Black,” I said, trying to get back to the matter in hand.

“It's probably nothing,” he said once more.

“Sir,” I said. “Colonel Roberts, you must see that you have to tell me now that you have questioned his judgment. I promise you that I will treat what you say in the strictest confidence.”

At least, I
hoped
I could treat what he told me with confidence. Independent financial advisers were governed by the Financial Regulator. We were expected to act in a manner that always reflected the highest principles of behavior. I would not be able to suppress information of wrongdoing solely because it would embarrass another IFA, even if he were my boss.

He was still reluctant to start.

“Is it about one of your investments?” I asked.

Still nothing.

“Do you disapprove of something Gregory has asked you to do?”

He absentmindedly ate some of his prawns, the cogs in his mind turning over slowly.

“He may be mistaken,” he said finally.

“Who might be mistaken? Gregory Black?”

Mr. Roberts looked up at me. “No,” he said. “My nephew, Benjamin.”

I was becoming more confused.

“How might your nephew be mistaken?” I asked.

“He visited the site, and he tells me there are no houses, no factory and no building work being done on it. In fact, he said it was just waste ground with a large amount of heavy-metal pollutants sitting there in stagnant pools. A local government official apparently told him that the cost of removal of the toxic waste would be far greater than the actual value of the land.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “But what has this to do with Gregory Black?”

“He advised me to invest in the project.”

“What project?” I asked.

“A Bulgarian property development project,” he said. “Houses, shops and a new factory making low-energy lightbulbs.”

I vaguely remembered the project being discussed several years ago at one of Patrick's weekly meetings, but, as far as I could recall, it had been rejected as too risky an investment for us to recommend to our clients. But that didn't mean that Gregory hadn't thought it a sound investment. Patrick and Gregory may have had both their names on the company notepaper, but they valued their independence, even from each other.

“Are you sure it's on the same site that your nephew visited?”

“He says so. He says there is no mistake. The site where there should be a factory and hundreds of new homes and shops is nothing but an industrial wasteland. There is even talk of it having being used as a dump for nuclear waste during the Soviet era.”

“How much have you invested in the scheme?” I asked him.

“Not that much,” he said. “The family trust has invested about five million into the project as a whole. The factory is named the Balscott Lighting Factory after my father. I've seen pictures of the development. The project is designed to be a great social experiment for one of the most deprived areas of the European Union. A lot of EU money has gone into it.”