Dick Francis's Refusal (15 page)

“What do
you
think?” I said in a resigned tone.

“Mmm.” Charles hummed in agreement. “I see your problem. But
I
could always fire off a few warning shots myself, you know, tell a few people what's going on. I could mention it to John Chesterfield for a start, next time I see him at the club. Thanks to you, I know quite a lot of influential people in racing. I could quietly spread the word.”

“I don't know,” I said, pondering. “It may not be such a good idea. I don't want word getting back to him that my ex-father-in-law is asking the questions he's banned me from asking.”

“Do you want this man stopped or not?” Charles asked.

“I do, but not at any cost. You don't know what he's like.”

“Oh, I think I do,” Charles said. “I've known my share of bullies and dictators. Mao Tse-tung, for a start.”

“I didn't realize you'd met him personally,” I said.

“I didn't, but I met a few of his buddies, and they were enough to show me the sort of man he was.” He screwed his face up in disgust. “You can't appease them, you know. You have to stand up and fight. Winston Churchill was right.”

“Charles, we're not talking about World War Two here.”

“Aren't we?” he replied. “If someone had stood up to Hitler sooner, there might not have been a war at all.”

Marina and Saskia rejoined us, and the topic was dropped.

“Mommy, Mommy,” said Sassy, “can we play sardines now?”

Sardines was Saskia's current favorite game. It was like hide-and-seek, but each finder had to then hide with the original hider, until only one person was left looking.

“No, darling, not now,” Marina said. “We must be getting back home. These lovely March and April days are fine while the sun's out, but they get cold very quickly when it starts to go down. Charles, thank you for a lovely lunch.”

“Anytime, my dear,” Charles said, giving her a kiss.

“Bye-bye, Grandpa,” Sassy said.

“Bye-bye, my darling,” Charles replied, leaning down to give her a kiss as well. “Come and see me again soon.”

“I will,” Sassy piped up, waving madly at him as we left.

The three of us, plus Rosie, walked back over the hill towards home. Rosie chased some butterflies back and forth amongst the clover and the early buttercups, and Saskia walked between Marina and me, holding our hands to be continually swung backwards and forwards.

It was as happy a time as I could remember.

Such a shame that it didn't last.

J
udy Hammond called me on Good Friday morning as Marina and I were finishing breakfast.

“I'm at my wits' end,” she said. “Bob has been a different person since you came here. He's so scared, he'll hardly set foot out of the house. He's meant to be at Dad's open day today, but he won't go. What have you done to him?” She was angry with me. “And who the hell is this man Billy McCusker? Bob won't tell me.”

I thought she was crying.

“Judy,” I said. “I can't help you, not unless Robert is prepared to talk to me.”

What was I saying!
Was I mad? Did I not value my kneecaps?

I thought I'd decided against having anything further to do with Robert Price. If, as I suspected, he was McCusker's man, everything I spoke to him about would surely be reported back to his boss.

Perhaps what Charles had said was true:
Once a detective, always a detective
.

Maybe I couldn't give it up.

Maybe, inside, I didn't want to.

“He won't talk to you,” Judy said with certainty. “He won't even talk to me.”

“Ask him anyway,” I said. “Tell him it'll be in strict confidence. And also tell him that if he doesn't, it won't be long before the police will be knocking at his door.”

“The police!” she shouted with a tremble of fear in her voice. “Oh my God!”

“Yes, the police,” I repeated. I wasn't entirely sure it was true, but it was clearly having the required effect. “And tell Robert not to talk to anyone else, and especially not to Billy McCusker.”

“What the hell is going on?” she asked.

“Ask Robert.”

What the hell was going on?
It was a good question.

•   •   •

“
I
'VE HAD
the results of the tests,” I said to Marina as she was sitting at the kitchen table, tapping away at her computer. “The letter came when you were away.”

“What tests?” she asked, still concentrating on her screen.

“The transplant tests.”

She stopped her typing and turned to look at me. “And?”

“I passed,” I said, smiling. “They seem to think that I'm an excellent candidate.”

She was silent for a few moments as she absorbed the enormity of what I'd said.

“Are you absolutely sure it's what you want?”

“No,” I said, “I'm not absolutely sure. But I know I hate what I've got.” I held up my left forearm and its plastic attachment. “Anything would be better than this thing.”

“There's a risk with any surgery,” Marina said.

“I know there is, but I'm pretty healthy, and I'm not decrepit just yet. I wouldn't think twice about it if I needed surgery for anything else.”

“How about the drugs? You'll have to take them for the rest of your life to prevent rejection. What are the side effects?”

I'd almost forgotten that I was married to someone with a doctorate in molecular biology.

“Dr. Bryant told me that the drugs are getting better all the time and any side effects are generally slight. Some people don't have any at all.”

“How slight?” she asked. “And how many people do have substantial side effects? And what are they?”

“I don't know,” I said, feeling like a miscreant schoolboy who hadn't done his homework.

“Well, I think you should ask.”

“Let's do it now.”

I called Harry the Hands, using the direct number printed at the top of his letter, and was quite surprised to find him in his office.

“I didn't really think you'd be there on Good Friday.”

“I'm on call, and accidents don't stop happening just because it's a bank holiday. I've been in the operating room much of the night, trying to save the hand of a young farmer who foolishly got it stuck in an electric chain hoist.”

“And did you save it?” I asked.

“Of course. Well, I think so. Time will tell.” I could hear him yawning. “Now, Sid, how can I help?”

“My wife has some questions for you.”

“Fire away.”

I let Marina talk with him, using the speakerphone so I could hear both sides of the conversation. Every time Marina raised some argument against, Harry was able to counter with a convincing response.

As I listened, I realized how desperately I wanted Harry to win each point. I suppose it was an indicator of how much I yearned for the transplant.

“OK, then,” said Marina eventually, “it's Sid's call.”

“Are you sure you're happy?” I said to her.

“Yes, if you are.”

“OK,” I said. “Harry, let's get going.”

“Not quite so fast,” he replied through the speaker. “We have to do some paperwork first, and you will also need another assessment with an independent psychiatrist, but I think that will be a formality. Perhaps you could come to see me at the hospital sometime next week?”

“Sure,” I said. “How about Monday?”

Did I sound too eager?

“That's Easter Monday, and I won't be on call,” he said. “How about two o'clock on Wednesday? I'll need to get a psychiatrist, and mornings never seem to be a good time for shrinks.”

“Wednesday at two is fine by me,” I said. “How quickly after that is it all likely to happen?”

“Well,” he said, “that depends on how long it takes to find the donor. It could be a week or it might be a year or even more. Nobody knows. We will need a telephone number at which you can always be contacted, day or night, the moment a suitable hand does become available.”

And in the meantime, I thought, hope for rain and careless motorcyclists.

•   •   •

J
UDY
H
AMMOND
called again at six o'clock.

“Bob still won't tell me what is going on, but he has agreed to talk to you,” she said. “But not on the telephone. He doesn't trust it. Can you come over to our place?”

Did I trust Robert Price any more than he trusted the telephone?

“No,” I said. “I can't, not tonight. Tell him to go and use a pay phone if he thinks his is bugged.”

“How about yours?” she said.

The police had long stopped listening in to my telephone calls. Did I think anyone else had taken over?

“I'll take the chance if he will.”

“I'll talk to him,” she said. “But I've had to threaten to leave him to get him this far.”

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said wistfully, “so am I. And I'm not sure things can ever be the same again.”

She was blaming me. I could hear it in her voice. But she needed to look closer to home to find the real culprit.

“And, Judy,” I said firmly, “I don't want to speak to him if he's been in contact with Billy McCusker.”

“He hasn't,” Judy replied confidently.

“How do you know?”

“Because he's even more afraid of Billy McCusker than he is of you, or of the police.”

And so he should be, I thought. “Then get him to call me.”

“I'll try,” Judy said.

•   •   •

R
OBERT
P
RICE
called me an hour later from a public-phone box in Wantage.

“I don't trust the phones,” he said, “not with all that hacking stuff. You go to a phone box and call me back at this number.” He gave me the number of the box he was in.

“Robert,” I said, “you're being overdramatic.”

“If you want me to answer any questions, you'll have to go and phone me from somewhere else other than your home.”

“OK,” I said. “Wait there. I'll call you in ten minutes.”

Much to Marina's irritation, I drove the Range Rover over to Aynsford to use Charles's phone.

“What do you want?” Robert asked aggressively, answering at the first ring. “Why don't you just leave me alone?”

“Happily,” I said, “but not if you're fixing races.”

“Who says I am?”

“Come on, Robert,” I said. “We both know you are, so stop playing around. Was it McCusker's idea?”

“Oh God,” he said. “What a mess.”

“So help me sort it out. Tell me about Maine Visit in the handicap hurdle at Newbury on Hennessy day.” It was the first of the three horses that he'd ridden in Sir Richard's suspect races.

“What about him?” he asked. “I just made sure he didn't win. He didn't have much chance anyway.”

I realized that that was what they all said, as if, in some way, it diminished their guilt. Even if it wasn't true.

“Was that the first horse you ever stopped for him?”

“No,” he said without elaboration.

“So what was?”

There was a long pause.

“Robert?”

“Summer Nights,” he said.

I could hardly believe it. Summer Nights was the best horse in Brian Hammond's yard, probably his best horse ever. Winner of one Cheltenham Gold Cup as well as two King George VI chases, Summer Nights was a true star in the world of steeplechasing.

“When?” I asked.

He sighed audibly down the line.

“In the Newton Gold Cup at Ascot two years ago.”

“He must surely have started favorite,” I said.

“He did. Odds-on in a field of only four.”

“So what happened?” I asked.

“We plowed through the last open ditch on the way up from Swinley Bottom, and I immediately pulled him up and jumped off as if he was hurt.”

I vaguely remembered seeing it on the television at the time.

“But why did you plow through the fence? Summer Nights is the best jumper there is.”

“I asked him for a big stride, far too big. Poor old Summer didn't know what to do. Confused, he was, but he did as I asked. He tried to clear it, but it was too far even for him, and it was much further than I'd realized. I was shit scared that I'd really hurt him, but he was fine.”

“Didn't anyone suspect?”

“No. Summer and I were close up but still at the back of the field, and we were racing directly towards the TV cameras at that point. All anyone saw was Summer plowing through the fence from head-on. No one saw that I'd stood him so far off. And, anyway, everyone was more concerned that he was hurt.”

“But why?” I asked.

There was another long pause.

“It's complicated,” he said.

“Tell me anyway.”

“I met McCusker about three or four years ago. He approached me, asking for information. At first, I told him to get lost, but . . .” He paused again. “He offered me money. All he wanted was to know if any of the horses in the Hammond yard were slightly off-color or particularly well—you know, that sort of thing.”

“You knew he was a bookmaker?”

“Yes. Of course.”

For a jockey to communicate such insider information to a bookmaker—or to anyone else, for that matter—was strictly against the Rules of Racing, and Robert Price knew that too. The penalty was disqualification from the sport for up to five years.

“How much did he pay you?” I asked.

“A couple of hundred each time—not much. But I desperately needed the money. I'd just bought my cottage, and I had a nasty fall at Wincanton. Broke my leg. Sidelined for four months, all through the winter, and I was having real trouble paying the mortgage.”

As McCusker would have probably worked out.

“Are you still selling information to him?”

“He's a right bastard, let me tell you. He's screwed me good and proper.”

“How?” I asked with encouragement.

“Bloody fixed me, didn't he? After the first few times, when he sent me the cash, he said he didn't like putting banknotes in the mail so he wanted to hand them over in person. He set up a meeting in a multistory parking lot in Oxford. He handed over a brown envelope of cash, and he insisted I count it there and then. I must be bloody naïve or something. Next thing I know, one of those memory-card things arrives at my place with a video on it of me taking the money. All in bloody Technicolor. You could see him handing over an envelope, then me counting the cash—all in tenners, it was—and then I stuff the bulging envelope into my coat pocket, shake his hand and walk off out of the picture. You could see everything, except, of course, McCusker's back is towards the camera all the time so it doesn't show
his
face, only mine—and in glorious close-up.”

“So what happened next?” I asked.

“He told me he wanted me to stop Summer Nights in the Newton the following Saturday or he would send the video to the BHA. I told him it was ridiculous. I couldn't stop old Summer because there was such a small field, and the other runners weren't up to much. But he told me to find a way.
Fall off, if you have to,
he said,
but make sure you don't win
.” He paused. “Bloody desperate, I was, in the race, I can tell you. Summer is so sure-footed, he didn't even stumble or peck or anything, and I couldn't just roll off the side for no reason, now could I? He was traveling so well, and I was getting desperate. That's when I decided to stand him off the open ditch.”

“Have you stopped him any other times?” I asked.

“No. But I live in fear of McCusker asking again.”

“How many horses have you stopped altogether?”

“A few. Too many.” Robert sounded thoroughly miserable. “Sid, I'm going to lose my license, aren't I?”

Probably, I thought.

How often, I wondered, did just a tiny little bit of temptation turn into a runaway train, spiraling out of control towards destruction? Quite a number if Billy McCusker was involved.

“Why did you tell McCusker that I was asking you questions?”

“Because I was scared,” he said.