Dick Francis's Refusal (26 page)

“Who's Darren Paisley?” Chico asked.

“Someone McCusker murdered in Belfast in the nineties. Nailed him to a floor and left him to die of thirst.”

“How delightful,” Chico said. “Remind me always to carry a pair of pliers.”

One of the messages was from Peter Medicos, left on Sunday afternoon, again demanding that I tell him who I'd spoken to about Sir Richard Stewart's suspicions. “Are they jockeys?” Peter said in a rather pompous tone that implied he didn't think much of mere jockeys. “You must tell me for the good of racing so we can seek out the guilty parties and punish them.”

I suppose I couldn't blame him for trying; after all, it was his job. I just didn't care much for his tone.

For the good of racing.

That's what Sir Richard had said to me at least twice, and now Peter Medicos was saying the same. It seemed to be a mantra at the BHA.

What actually would be for the good of racing?

Would the revelation that a dozen or more top jockeys had conspired to fix races be the best thing? Or would it be better if the whole saga remained secret and life went on as before with the betting public in happy ignorance of any corruption?

Only if it didn't happen again.

Only if there were no more races where the result was determined not by equine performance but by threats and fears, menaces and coercion, terror and intimidation.

Only if Billy McCusker was stopped once and for all.

One of the other two messages was also from him, left late the previous evening, and clearly after I had managed to evade his goons in the alley behind the Fortune Cookie restaurant.

“Now, you listen to me, Mr. Halley,” he said furiously. “If you think that coming after me is wise, I suggest you think again. If I see or hear of you snooping round me ever again, your little girl will end up raped, murdered and fed to the pigs. Do you understand?” He was almost shouting with rage.

“Maybe he was leaving that message when I was watching him in the study,” Chico said. “He was bloody angry then, I tell you.”

Maybe he had been.

Would I have still followed the Toyota down the M6 if I'd known the content of the message beforehand? Would I have told D.C.I. Watkinson that McCusker's men had set the fire at the Molsons' house? Was anything worth putting Saskia in such danger? Pigs eating her! It didn't bear thinking about.

I thought about getting the police superintendent to listen to the message. Maybe he'd then believe me about Billy McCusker being behind everything.

But, there again, maybe he wouldn't.

The caller hadn't given his name, and he'd withheld his number. Sure, the message was a clear threat against Saskia, but how could I actually prove that McCusker had made it? He would deny it. And even if it could be proved with voice-recognition software, a minor conviction for threatening behavior would hardly get rid of him for long.

And the superintendent was probably still obsessed with that damn photograph of the girls in the bath.

Perhaps it was best not to stir that particular pot again.

But was doing nothing really a viable alternative? Never mind the good of racing, how about the good of my family? Could it survive intact if we lived continually in the shadow of an Irish terrorist? Was it not better to rid ourselves of this monster now? And permanently?

Maybe so, but not at any price.

I was not in the market for a Pyrrhic victory.

The final message on my voice mail was short and to the point and had been left only at ten o'clock that morning.

“Sid, it's Angus,” said a male voice out of the speaker. “It's on again. This Friday at Aintree, in the two-mile handicap hurdle, after the Topham Trophy. Don't tell anyone I told you.”

“Who's Angus?” Chico asked.

“Angus Drummond,” I said, “one of the jockeys who's been intimidated into fixing races. McCusker burned down part of his parents' farm and threatened to burn the rest if he didn't play ball.”

“And what's on again?”

“I presume it's another race in the series where McCusker has fixed the whole race, deciding the winner before the start, one on which he will bet heavily on the Tote. It would follow the pattern of the others. All of them have been late in the afternoon on a big-race day. The system needs a big betting crowd to make it worthwhile, and there are few bigger betting days than at Aintree on the day before the Grand National. The Liverpool locals put on their best clothes and flock to the course in their thousands, utilizing every available gaudy stretched limo in the northwest of England. They love to drink and gamble, in that order. It's a sight to see.”

“I'll look forward to it,” Chico said. “But what do we do before then?”

“Try and apply pressure,” I said.

“To whom?”

“The jockeys.”

I
knew from experience that trying to speak with jockeys when they were at the races was not ideal. For a start, they were there working, and, often with multiple rides in the day, they didn't have the time to stand around and chat. Also, there was nowhere particularly private on a racetrack to talk about race fixing without others seeing or even hearing the conversation.

And I didn't fancy discussing such matters on the telephone.

Consequently, Chico and I decided to visit them at their homes in the evening, starting with Robert Price at seven p.m. on Monday.

“I think you'd better stay in the car,” I said to Chico. “I'll call you in if I need you, but he might talk more freely if I'm on my own.”

“Right you are, squire,” Chico said. “I'll catch up on some winks.” He reclined the seat and closed his eyes.

As before, Judy Hammond opened the door of their farm cottage, just outside the village of Lambourn, but she wasn't as welcoming as on my last visit.

“Oh God,” she said. “What do you want?”

“Is Robert here?” I asked.

“He's in the bath. He had a fall at Huntingdon this afternoon, and the horse kicked him.”

I remembered such moments all too well. Fallen horses often kicked outwards as they tried to shift their bulk on the ground in order to regain their feet. If the jockey were unlucky enough to be within range, he'd get hit. It wasn't as if the horses were kicking him on purpose, but that didn't diminish the damage and the bruising.

“I need to speak with him,” I said. “It's urgent.”

“Everything's always bloody urgent. You'd better come in.”

I stepped inside and waited in the tiny hallway while Judy went up the narrow wooden stairs to consult.

“He'll be down in a minute,” Judy said. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

“No thanks,” I said. It didn't seem right to accept their hospitality when I was about to apply the thumbscrews.

Robert came down the stairs in a thin blue paisley dressing gown, wincing every time he put his left foot down.

“Bad?” I asked.

“Bloody nag kicked me. I've got a nice horseshoe-shaped bruise on the inside of my left thigh. But it could have been worse. At least it missed my bollocks.”

“Nothing broken?”

“No, luckily not. It would have buggered my knee.”

Yes, I thought, and kneecaps were notoriously difficult things to fix. Billy McCusker had told me so.

“Will you be stood down?” I asked.

“I hope not,” he said. “I'll have to pass the doctor tomorrow at Exeter, but I should be all right in the morning. Nothing a few codeine and a good night's sleep won't fix. Come on, let's go outside.”

We stepped out through the front door and stood on the path. It wasn't exactly a cold night, but it was a bit sharp for dressing gown and slippers. I reckoned he didn't want to be overheard by Judy.

“So what do you want?” he asked. “I don't suppose this is a social call.”

“No,” I said. “Are you at Aintree this week?”

“I certainly am. I'm riding Summer Nights in the National, for a start.”

“And are you riding Maine Visit in the two-mile handicap hurdle on Friday?”

He didn't say anything.

“He'll start favorite, I reckon.”

He still said nothing.

“Have you been told to lose?” I asked.

Again he said nothing.

“Come on, Robert,” I said, “yes or no?”

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“When were you told?”

“This morning, before I went to Huntingdon. I got a phone call.”

“And are you going to lose?” I asked pointedly.

“What do you think?” he said. “While McCusker's got that video of me accepting that cash, I've not got a leg to stand on. Of course I'm going to bloody lose.”

“How about if I threatened to tell the BHA Security Service that you had stopped the horse.”

“You wouldn't.”

“Try me.”

“Then I'd fall off on Thursday and break something so I that I couldn't ride on Friday.”

“Then you'd also miss the ride on Summer Nights, and rides on Grand National favorites don't come along too often. I assume you're not planning to fix that race as well.”

“You bastard,” he said with feeling.

“You could always explain away the video by saying that you'd sold something on the Internet and you were simply receiving the cash for it.”

“Don't be bloody stupid,” Robert said. “Don't you think I've thought of that? McCusker would simply produce some fall guy who'd happily get warned off by saying it was him in the video giving me money for information or for stopping one. There's no need for
beyond reasonable doubt
at the BHA, you know, they convict on the balance of probability.”

He was right, and we both knew it.

“So will you tell them?” he asked. There was a degree of pleading in his voice.

“That depends,” I said. “Would you try to win if all the others were trying to win as well?”

“You're living in cloud-cuckoo-land if you think you can get the other jocks to agree to that. If they're anything like me, they'll be absolutely bloody terrified of winning because of the consequences.”

“But the consequences of losing are hardly slight either. The BHA would take away your licenses, and then you'd all lose your livelihoods.”

“Maybe,” he said, “but McCusker can take more than your license and your livelihood. He can take your life as well.”

Didn't I know it?

•   •   •

“
A
NY LUCK?”
Chico asked as I got back into the Range Rover.

“Not really,” I said. “Everyone is so frightened.”

“Perhaps we should be too,” he said with a wan smile. “Where to now?”

“David Potter's place in Upper Lambourn.”

•   •   •

“
H
ELLO,
S
ID,”
said David with resignation. “I sort of knew I hadn't seen the last of you.”

“David, this is Chico,” I said. “He works for me. Can we come in?”

“It's not very tidy.”

“I'm sure you can find us a couple of clean cups for some coffee.”

He gave me a look that had a touch of panic about it. “I'll try.”

Not very tidy
was a major understatement. It was only two and a half weeks since I'd last been in David's kitchen, but the transformation was dramatic. Whereas, then, the place had been spotless, it was now a mess—a true humdinger of a mess. Every inch of flat surface was stacked high with unwashed crockery, half-eaten takeaways and empty cans of beer.

“Joyce left me,” David said by way of explanation, “just after you were here last time.”

I remembered his wife fussing around us cleaning everything in sight. I looked at the piles of dirty dishes and decomposing food. I reckoned that David hadn't felt the urge to clean anything since her departure.

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“Yeah,” he mused, “so am I, really. We argued about money. It is always about money. I spend too much—always have—and more than I'm earning these days. Joyce reckons I'd be better off on welfare than spending my days at the tracks, hoping to pick up spare rides. She's probably right, but I can't give it up, can I? It's like a drug. I only feel alive when I'm riding in races.”

I knew how he felt. For me, it had been exactly the same, but retirement had been forced onto
me
.

“How old are you now, David?”

“Thirty-seven.”

“You'll have to give it up soon. And all this junk food can't be doing much for your riding weight. To say nothing of the beer.”

He stood looking at the chaos. “Perhaps you're right.”

“Are you going to Aintree this week?” Chico asked, clearly bored with David's domestic arrangements.

“I sure am,” David replied with enthusiasm. “I never miss the National meeting. And I've got seven rides already booked—that's if they all run. It's bonanza time.” He smiled broadly and rubbed his hands together.

“Is one of those rides in the two-mile handicap hurdle on Friday, after the Topham Chase?” I asked.

David's smile instantly disappeared. He said nothing.

“Is it, David?” I pressed.

“Maybe.”

“Which horse?”

He shook his head and said nothing.

“And have you been told by the Irishman to lose.”

Again nothing.

“Would you like me to ask my friend Chico here to twist your arm a little?” I smiled. “Just enough so your shoulder dislocates?” I tried to put as much menace into my voice as I could muster.

“I'm not afraid of you, Sid Halley,” David said brazenly. “I've known you for too long, and I know what you're like. You won't hurt me. But the Irishman would.” He paused and took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself. “I now wish I'd never told you anything.”

“How is your mother?” I asked.

“She's fine,” he said. “And I intend that she should stay that way.”

“So you will lose the race on purpose?”

He looked me straight in the eyes and then he nodded slightly. “Unless I'm told I'm riding the one that has to win.”

“When are you told that?” I asked.

“The day before,” he said.

“And you always do as you're told?”

“Yup,” he said with a sigh. “For my old mum's sake.”

I could see that there was nothing I could say or do to convince him otherwise. As he had said, he knew what I was like.

“I think we'd better go,” I said.

“Don't you want that coffee?”

I looked again at the mess, and the green-and-yellow mold that was beginning to grow on what looked to me like the remains of an onion bhaji.

“No thanks, David,” I said. “We're fine. And I hope Joyce comes back soon.”

“Yeah,” he replied with a sigh, “so do I.”

•   •   •

“
W
HO NEXT?”
said Chico when we were back in the car.

“I had thought of paying Tony Molson another visit,” I said, “but I doubt that he'll speak to me.”

“Do we need to persuade him?”

“I honestly think we'll be wasting our time. He as good as told me he'd do whatever McCusker wants. No, let's go home. From what Angus Drummond said in that voice mail message, and after our encounters with David Potter and Robert Price, I think it's safe to say that the betting coup is definitely on for Friday. We can look up the entries for the race on the
Racing Post
website, but we'll have to wait for the twenty-four-hour declarations on Thursday to find out the actual runners and their jockeys. Then we'll decide.”

“So what do we do until then?” Chico asked.

“Keep safe.”

“We could always go on another trip up north,” Chico said with excitement. “What d'yer say?”

“What for?”

“What for! To keep watch on McCusker, of course. But, this time, I reckon we should steer clear of the local pubs. But anythin's better than sittin' round, twiddlin' our bleedin' thumbs, all week at the Admiral's house. For a start, we could go and check out that Liverpool bookie—you know, the one from Uttoxeter.”

“Barry Montagu,” I said.

“That's the one. Provided he got out of Uttoxeter alive with all those punters after him.” He laughed at the memory.

“OK. How about we go up on Wednesday, ready for the start of the three-day Aintree meeting on Thursday? And we'll spend some time Wednesday afternoon checking out Barry Montagu.”

“Right you are,” Chico said cheerfully.

“Although God knows where we'll stay,” I said. “I reckon everywhere will be fully booked by now.”

“You'll manage somethin',” Chico said confidently. “You're Sid Halley.”

•   •   •

“
I
CANNOT SPEND
another day here,” Marina said to me when we arrived back just after midnight. She was standing in our bedroom in her dressing gown with her hands on her hips, and she was annoyed. “If it's not Charles, it's Mrs. Cross.”

“What about them?” I asked gently, trying to take the heat out of the situation.

“They're both driving me completely crazy. Charles is a complete nuisance who hovers round the place, watching everything I do, as if he'd never seen a woman work before, and Mrs. Cross won't stop talking to me. I've been trying to edit a paper, but there's no Wi-Fi here, so every time I need to use the Internet I have to borrow the cable in Charles's study, and I'm obviously completely in his way, although he doesn't actually
do
anything. And the Internet is so slow, even worse than at home. It took me half an hour just to download a paper on the post-translational modification statistics of glycoproteins. I ask you!”

It was no good asking me, I thought. It would take me more than half an hour just to spell it.

“Do you want me to have a word with Charles?” I asked.

“No,” she said angrily. “I want to go home.”

“So do I, but what can I do? I've asked the police to vary their bail conditions, but, until they do, I can't go home. You can, if you want, but I can't. It's up to you. Perhaps you could go home to work during the day.”

“Yes,” she said. “I'll do that tomorrow. Even the bloody cell phones don't work here properly.”

I made the mistake of trying to explain. “The signal is very intermittent because we're on the wrong side of the hill. You have to be patient. They generally work, in the end.”

She gave me an angry stare that I took to mean that her patience was completely exhausted and that now was past the time for excuses.