Dick Francis's Refusal (27 page)

She was clearly not a happy bunny, and her body language towards me was hostile, almost aggressive.

Sadly, therefore, there was no repeat of the previous night's sexual delights. Instead, Marina climbed into bed, turned her back towards me and went straight to sleep.

Why did I think it was unfair for me to shoulder the blame for Charles and his broadband failures?

•   •   •

I
FOUND
C
HICO
asleep in a kitchen armchair when I went downstairs to make tea at seven o'clock on Tuesday morning. He was fully dressed.

“Forget to go to bed?” I asked as he stirred, woken by the sound of me getting mugs out of the cupboard in spite of my best effort to keep quiet.

“Someone has to stand watch when you're upstairs screwin' your missus,” he said with a mischievous laugh. Little did he know.

“Want some tea?” I asked.

“Ta.” He stood up and stretched. “Come on, Rosie, time you and I went outside.” Rosie just opened an eye and looked at him without moving. Her bed in front of the AGA was clearly much too comfortable. “Bloody useless guard dog.”

I gave him his tea and took a steaming mug up to Marina.

“Feeling any better this morning?” I asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Yeah. Sorry about that. Must be the wrong time of the month. I'm always a bit cross just before my period starts.”

I sighed. She wasn't pregnant this time, then. But I hadn't really expected her to be, not with all the stress of the past three weeks and the consequent lack of sexual activity. Ah well, we'd just have go on trying again next month, as we had done each month for the past six years.

I took my tea down to the study and switched on Charles's computer. I had tried to explain to him that it didn't need to be switched off every night, but he knew better.

“It surely needs to rest,” he'd said. “All that thinking must make it tired.”

I'd thought he was joking, but he wasn't.

In his day, technology meant an Aldis lamp flashing Morse code between warships or shortwave radio communication using a Marconi transmitter. And even though he had owned a computer for many years, its finer points had mostly passed him by. He was always asking me what my e-mail
number
was, as if it was a telephone system, which would then change if I moved from one location to another.

Eventually, Charles's computer finished its booting-up procedure, and I was able to look at the card for Friday's two-mile handicap hurdle at Aintree on the
Racing Post
website.

There were twenty-eight horses entered for the race, although over half of those would almost certainly not be declared to run. Most horses were entered for more than one race within a few days, and some for two or more races on the same day at different racetracks. One horse of the twenty-eight, Transfer Fee, was entered in six different races, one on Thursday, three on Friday and two on Saturday, but he would run in only one of them at most.

Between now and the declaration-to-run deadline on Thursday morning, there would be frantic telephone calls between the trainers as each tried to find out which horses were actually going to run and in which races. They were all hoping to give their horses the best chance to win and would avoid a particular race if a highly rated rival was definitely going to be in it.

Of the twenty-eight entrants in the Aintree two-mile handicap hurdle on Friday, twenty-one were entered in other races within a day or two either side of it, leaving only seven that were entered for this race alone. But even that did not guarantee that any of the seven would actually run.

Ten of the twenty-eight had names of jockeys next to them, but everyone knew that at this stage they were speculative. Names would often be added by the jockeys' agents simply to advertise the fact that their jockeys would be at that racetrack on that day.

The actual rider for each horse had to be declared by one o'clock on the day before the race, ready to be printed overnight in the official race program and in the newspapers, but even that was subject to change in the event of illness or injury.

The final confirmation of who would ride each horse was made by the trainer at least forty-five minutes before the race was due to start, but there could still be a late change if the declared jockey was subsequently injured due to falling in an earlier race.

In truth, no one could be certain who would ride a particular horse until the jockey appeared from the Weighing Room wearing the owner's silks, and even then the rules did allow for a substitution to be made if the jockey was prevented from riding before coming under starter's orders.

All of this made it impossible for me to be sure which jockeys, or even how many, would actually be riding in the race at Aintree in three days' time.

The ten allocated jockeys included Robert Price on Maine Visit, but there were no horses yet with David Potter's or Angus Drummond's names next to them.

There was, however, one other jockey of interest listed.

Jimmy Guernsey was down to ride a horse called Staplegun.

S
o who the hell is this Jimmy Guernsey anyway?” Chico asked as I went through the details with him.

“I believe he's McCusker's man in the jockeys' changing room. He's definitely involved somehow. He certainly knows Billy McCusker by name, and he knew in advance which horse was due to win at Sandown in one of the fixed races.”

“So you think he knows which horse will win on Friday?”

“I'm sure he will by the time the race starts,” I said, “even if he doesn't already.”

“Then why don't we pay this Guernsey fellow a little visit and ask him, all gentle-like, for the info?”

“Just what I was thinking, but we need to be careful. I don't want Guernsey bleating to McCusker that we've been to see him asking questions.”

“How are we going to stop him doing that?” Chico asked.

“By making him more frightened of us than he is of McCusker.”

“And how, pray, are we going to do that?”

“I'm working on it.”

•   •   •

A
CCORDING TO
the
Directory of the Turf
website, Jimmy Guernsey lived in the village of Blewbury in South Oxfordshire, but even with the Range Rover's satnav it took Chico and me nearly half an hour to find his house, which was outside the village on Didcot Road some distance from where the destination was marked on the electronic map.

We drove past a few times, having a good look at the large, white-painted bungalow with its red-tiled roof. It was set back from the road behind a hedge that had just a hint of green from the first new shoots of the year.

There were two cars parked in the driveway, a silver Mercedes and a small red hatchback.

“What do you think?” Chico asked.

“I think there's somebody in.”

“Full-frontal approach or stealth?”

“Full-frontal, I reckon, especially if there's more than one person in the house.”

“Agreed,” said Chico. “Although I might hang round outside while you go in and do business.”

“Oh, thanks,” I said sarcastically. “Why is it always me who has to do the hard bit?”

“Because you're the boss,” he said with a grin.

I drove halfway through the gate and stopped, blocking the two parked cars.

“Nice call,” Chico said. “No one can get in neither.”

We both climbed out, and I went and rang the front-door bell while Chico leaned nonchalantly on the Range Rover's hood.

Jimmy Guernsey opened the door and took in the scene.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded angrily. “And move that bloody vehicle. It's blocking my gate.”

“So it is,” I said calmly, but making no effort towards moving it. “May I come in?”

“No.”

“I think it would be best,” I said.

“Oh, you do, do you? Well, I think it would be best if you get off my property. Right now, before I call the police.”

“The police,” I echoed. “That could be interesting.”

For the first time, he was unsure. “Why would it be interesting?”

“You could explain to them why you fraudulently fix horse races.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he said belligerently. But he was worried, I could hear it in his voice.

“I think you do,” I said. “Now, do you want to let me in and talk about it or shall I go straight to the racing authorities and lay the evidence before them?”

For a moment I thought he was going to bluff it out and tell me to get lost, but he hesitated, and then opened the door wide for me to go in.

“Who's that?” he asked, nodding towards Chico.

“My assistant.” I resisted the temptation to say that he was also my hired muscle.

I followed Jimmy into the house, through an open-plan living room to a study beyond, where he sat down on a chair behind his desk, offering me another to the side.

“Now, what's all this nonsense?” he asked more confidently.

“Are we alone?” I asked.

“Chrissie's outside with the horses.” He waved a hand towards a couple of stables I could see through the study window.

“Staplegun,” I said.

“What about him?” The worried timbre was back in his voice.

“Will he win on Friday at Aintree in the two-mile handicap hurdle?”

He stared at me in a manner that I took to be total disbelief. His breathing had noticeably shallowed, and it had increased in frequency. He was scared.

“Come on, Jimmy,” I said, “don't be shy. Will Staplegun win on Friday?”

He still said nothing.

“You're in trouble, young Mr. Guernsey, and make no mistake. I think they call it being stuck between a rock and a hard place. Billy McCusker on one side and the BHA and the law on the other. Grisly death or disqualification and ruin. Not a happy choice.”

His shoulders drooped a little.

“Nice house,” I said, looking around me. “A few stables and a couple of acres, is it? Or maybe more?”

No answer.

“Got a mortgage, have you? Not easy to keep up the payments without a job, I'm sure. And no jockey's license would mean no job. Maybe a prison sentence too. Do you think you'd ever work in racing again?”

Still nothing.

“How about Chrissie? Does she know about all those races?”

Jimmy put his hands up to his head, one on either side, and squeezed his temples as if he was stopping his head from exploding.

I went on. “Not just Red Rosette at Sandown and Martian Man at Newbury, but Fallacy Boy at Ascot, and the others as well. I know about them all. I have statements from the other jockeys, and they all say the same thing—Jimmy knew, Jimmy is the enforcer, Jimmy is McCusker's man in the changing room.”

It wasn't all true. I didn't have the statements, and no one had mentioned Jimmy. But there was enough truth for him to believe it all.

“And now Staplegun,” I said. “Will he win on Friday?”

Jimmy slowly shook his head. “Probably not.”

“So what will win?” I asked.

“I don't know.”

I looked at him and wondered if he was telling me the truth.

“When will you know?”

“On Thursday, after the declarations close.”

“How do you find out?”

“I receive a call.”

“From McCusker?”

He nodded. “He just says the name of the horse that must win.”

Now I knew for certain that Jimmy Guernsey was
in
on everything.

“So what do I do?” he said forlornly, holding his head in his hands with his elbows resting on the desk. “I'm finished, one way or the other.”

“Not necessarily,” I said.

His head came up a fraction.

“There might be a way out.”

“How?” He sounded as if he didn't believe it.

“First, you tell me why.”

He sighed—a great big sigh that had all the weight of his troubles behind it.

“Money, I suppose,” he said. “It started about three years ago. I was riding one at Chepstow, and he calls me and offers me a grand in cash to lose. A grand! That was five times what I'd get if I won the damn thing. And no tax too.”

“So did you agree?” I asked.

“No, I didn't. I told him to get lost. I rode in the race and finished second—never had a chance to win it, but I was trying. Next thing I know, a thousand in cash arrives in the mail just like that.”

“No note?”

“No, nothing. Just twenty nice, new, crisp fifties in a padded envelope, wrapped inside cooking foil.”

“So what happens next?” I asked.

“He calls me again and offers me another grand to lose at Newbury.”

“And you agreed?”

“What do you think?” he said, almost with a smile. “Money for old rope, especially when I didn't think I had a chance anyway.”

“And the money arrived?”

“Sure did, just as before. But then it got serious. He rang again and told me to lose on Wine Society in the Champion Hurdle. He was the favorite, and . . .” He tailed off.

“So?” I said encouragingly.

“I don't often get rides as good as that. Winning the Champion Hurdle is what all jockeys dream of.”

I knew. It was one of the few major races I'd never won and I still regretted it.

“So what did you do?” I asked.

“I told him that it was not possible for me to lose on Wine Society. He was the best horse in the race by a streak. But he said he'd recorded our conversation the last time and he'd give the recording to the racing authorities if I won.”

“So you lost?”

“Yes. Blundered through the downhill hurdle simply by not asking old Society to jump, then I took a pull, then we failed to make up the ground on the hill to the finish. Easy, really.”

“And he paid you?”

“Yeah. Two grand that time. But it cost me the ride on the best horse I've ever sat on. I was jocked off for the Aintree Hurdle the following month.”

“So was it worth it?”

“Not really,” he said. “I'd have loved to win the Champion Hurdle, but there's still time.”

I raised my eyebrows at him. There would be no time if I took this to the BHA, and he knew it.

“So how come you became McCusker's man in the changing rooms?”

“Because he went on paying me,” Jimmy said. “I went on stopping a few for him, one a month or so, but then he had the idea to fix the whole race. He laughed about it. Thought it was a great joke. I told him he was bloody crazy and that I didn't want to go on, but he wouldn't take no for an answer. Easy, he said it would be, and everyone has his price, either money or threats. And it was easy—bloody easy—with my help.”

Jimmy smiled at me.

I felt sure that he was actually proud of his achievement.

“So you fix every other horse in the race except the one you want to win?”

“Not quite every horse,” he said. “It's not necessary. The top six or seven in the betting is usually enough.”

“And that's what you're planning to do again on Friday?”

He nodded. “Assuming the right horses run.”

“Right,” I said. “If you want to get out of this mess with your jockey's license intact, then you'll have to do exactly as I tell you.”

“How do I know you won't go to the authorities anyway?”

“You don't, but what choice have you got? And if you let on to McCusker that I've been here or what I want you to do, then all bets are off. And, what's more, I'll tell him it was your idea in the first place. Do you understand? No contact with McCusker whatsoever. No calls, no texts, nothing other than his call to you on Thursday with the selected winner.”

He nodded. “But what if he calls me otherwise?”

“Tell him everything is fine.”

He nodded again.

Then I explained to him exactly what he was going to do.

He didn't like it.

“You're crazy,” he said. “He'll bloody kill you, and me.”

Not if I bloody kill him first, I thought.

“So do we have a deal?” I asked.

“Yeah, I suppose so. As you said, I haven't got much choice. But why are you doing all this?”

“Because I want to be rid of McCusker once and for all, and this is the only way I know of getting him out into the open, of provoking him into trying something stupid.”

“You could get hurt. Or worse.”

“I'm well aware of that.”

“So why don't you just take what you have to the BHA and let them deal with him?”

It was a good question, but I believed that McCusker would then come after me anyway. And perhaps I wanted to be more in control of the timing.

Or maybe it was because I had some mad idea of preventing the exposure of such widespread corruption within the Sport of Kings, something that would potentially damage, beyond repair, its reputation amongst the betting public.

Maybe I was doing it for the good of racing.

•   •   •

“
E
VERYTHING
OK
?”
Chico asked as I climbed back into the Range Rover.

“I hope so,” I said and told him in outline what I'd arranged to happen.

“You are bloody mad,” Chico said with enthusiasm. “But I love it.”