Dick Francis's Refusal (29 page)

T
HURSDAY MORNING
dawned bright and sunny, the perfect start to the Grand National meeting, when all eyes in the steeplechasing world would be turned towards Aintree. These three days, together with the four of the Cheltenham Festival in March, were the pinnacle of jump racing in Britain, culminating with the Grand National itself on Saturday afternoon.

Thursday may have been the first day of the meeting, with smaller crowds expected than on Friday and Saturday, but there was still quite a buzz of excitement at breakfast in the Park Hotel dining room, with eager punters, heads down, busily studying the form in their copies of the
Racing Post
, each of them trying to spot a winner for later in the day.

Chico and I, meanwhile, were much more interested in the ten o'clock deadline for the declarations for the two-mile handicap hurdle on the following afternoon, and I had my cell at hand, hoping for a text from Jimmy Guernsey.

It arrived at twenty past ten, and it was just one word long.

Geophysicist.

T
welve of the twenty-eight entrants had declared to run, with Geophysicist halfway down the weights at a hundred and fifty-seven pounds, six fewer than Maine Visit, the mount of Robert Price.

Staplegun had also been declared to run with, as expected, Jimmy Guernsey engaged to ride him. In fact, all five of the jockeys I had spoken to were in the declarations, with David Potter down to pilot Geophysicist.

So David had indeed been chosen to ride the one selected to win, and he always did as he was told. He'd said so, for his old mum's sake.

“Do you think Jimmy can fix it?” Chico asked.

“I don't know,” I said. “We'll have to wait and see.”

•   •   •

C
HICO AND
I
walked down the road to the racetrack, paying our way in at the Aintree turnstiles like the thousands of others around us.

To me, there was something truly magical about the Grand National meeting. Historically, it had been held at the end of March, but it was now a firm fixture in April, sometimes varying back and forth a week to accommodate the vagaries of the Christian calendar's calculation of Easter.

In the last twenty years or so, the prize money throughout the meeting has increased considerably due to sponsorship, and the supporting races, those in the lead-up to the Grand National, now attracted the cream of British steeplechasers. And the crowds certainly came to watch them.

Chico and I made our way separately through the throng to the viewing steps outside the Weighing Room.

“Hello, Sid,” said a Northern Irish voice behind me.

Chico, standing a few yards away, looked concerned.

“Hi, Paddy,” I said, all smiles. Chico relaxed.

“I'm surprised to see you here, Sid,” Paddy said seriously, “what with all your troubles.”

“And what troubles are those?” I asked.

“You know, that kiddie stuff.”

“It's all a pack of lies. I assure you, I wouldn't be here if there was any truth in it. It's all a setup orchestrated by our West Belfast friend.”

“He's no bloody friend of mine,” Paddy said, looking swiftly around him to check that McCusker wasn't standing there, listening to our conversation. “Tell me you haven't been upsetting him.”

“Not much,” I said.

Not as much as I hoped to upset him the following afternoon.

“Steer clear of him,” Paddy warned me once again. “He's dangerous.”

But steering clear of danger wasn't something that came easily to me. Here I was, aiming straight for it, not so much poking the proverbial hornets' nest, more like sticking my hand inside and ripping out the guts. I just had to ensure it was my non-stingable hand that I used.

Which reminded me, I should give Queen Mary's Hospital my new cell phone number.

“So what's going to win the National?” I asked Paddy, changing the subject.

“Summer Nights has a good chance, I reckon,” he said, “as long as that idiot Bob Price doesn't stand him off like he did at Ascot. I ask you. Jocks these days aren't like we were—no bloody idea how to set a horse for a fence. Don't you wish you were still riding? We could show them a thing or two, eh?”

“We sure could, Paddy,” I agreed with a smile.

I'd ridden in the Grand National a total of seven times, winning it once but falling on all six other occasions, twice at the first fence. But the victory was the only one I liked to remember. And how! It had been one of the best days of my life, ranking right up there alongside the birth of Saskia.

“I'm off to find myself a Guinness,” Paddy said. “D'you fancy one?”

“No thanks,” I said. “It's a bit early, even for you.”

He laughed and moved off towards the bar beneath the grandstand in search of a pint of the black stuff.

I, meanwhile, needed a clear head.

“How are you gettin' on with them telephone numbers?” Chico was standing behind me on the steps as we watched the runners for the first race circle in the parade ring.

“It's hopeless,” I said, turning slightly. “McCusker gave Robert Price an old-fashioned, non-smart cell that only he knows the number of. If everyone else on that list is the same, then none of them will speak to us.”

“I could always have a go meself to be sure,” Chico said in a broad Northern Irish accent.

I smiled. “You're welcome to try.” I handed him the list of numbers that I'd made the previous evening, about half of which I had so far called without response.

•   •   •

I
WATCHED
the first race from the top of the County Stand, finding a place alongside the railed-off area reserved for the VIPs from the Sefton Suite below. Chico stood in front and slightly to my left.

I'd been in the VIP suite once, a couple of years previously, for a lunch courtesy of the meeting's sponsor, but I clearly wasn't considered a VIP today. In fact, I received a number of disapproving glances, not least from Peter Medicos.

After the race was over and most of the VIPs had gone back down, he leaned over the metal railing towards where I was still standing.

“Halley,” he shouted. “I want a word with you.”

I bit my tongue. I'd not been referred to as simply “Halley” by anyone since before I'd first become champion jockey, although it had once been commonplace for stewards and other race officials to refer to jockeys in that manner. Thankfully, the world had moved on. At least I thought it had.

“Here?” I asked, moving towards him.

“No,” he said. “There's a private room near the entrance to the Media Centre with
Officials Only
on the door. Meet me there after the next race.” He turned abruptly and went down the stairs to the suite, no doubt for his dessert and coffee.

“Charmin',” said Chico. “He could at least have said please.”

“Peter Medicos was in the police force for twenty-five years, so he's not in the habit of asking politely. He tells, not asks.” I sighed. I still believed I needed Peter Medicos as an ally, not an enemy. “Are you coming down?”

“Nah, I'll stay here and get a tan.” He turned his face towards the sun. “I'm not really interested in the horses, if I'm honest. I'll just sit here and try some more of those numbers.”

“OK,” I said. “See you here for the third.”

“Right you are.”

I left Chico, balancing the list on his knees and entering numbers into his cell phone, and went back down to the Weighing Room.

I knew Jimmy Guernsey had a ride in the second race, and I positioned myself so that he would walk right past me on his way to the parade ring. I didn't need to give him any message, or receive one, but I wanted to let him know that I was there and to deter any jitters he may be having.

He saw me as soon as he exited the Weighing Room door, but, this time, he didn't break stride, simply jogging down the steps towards me.

“Get the text?” he said quietly as he went past.

“Yup,” I said equally quietly.

There was almost a spring in his step, as if a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders. It wasn't over yet, I thought, but we were on the way.

I remained nearby the parade ring, watching the fifteen runners battle out a two-and-a-half-mile juvenile hurdle on the big television screen.

Jimmy finished a close third, which seemed to greatly please the broadly smiling lady owner who greeted her horse in the unsaddling enclosure as if he'd won by ten lengths.

Her smile was infectious and I found myself grinning back before I remembered my upcoming appointment with Peter Medicos. That was enough to take the smile off anyone's face, I thought, as I went in search of the
Officials Only
door.

•   •   •

P
ETER WAS
there ahead of me.

I knocked and went in, feeling just like a miscreant schoolboy who has been sent to see the headmaster, having been caught cheating.

The room was quite small, about twelve feet by ten, with a table in the middle surrounded by six ubiquitous, stackable gray plastic chairs. It reminded me of the interview room at Oxford police station.

Peter's battered trilby sat on the table.

“Ah, there you are, Halley,” he said, not offering me one of the chairs to sit down.

“Mr. Halley, please,” I said pointedly, “or Sid.” I smiled at him. “Now, Peter, what's all this about?”

“I thought you would already know that,” he said with astonishment. “You're the one who was arrested for child abuse. Uttoxeter may be one thing, but I don't consider it proper that you are here at one of racing's great festivals. You're bringing our sport into disrepute.”

“I am completely innocent,” I said. “And I haven't even been charged. I have as much right to be here as you do. I paid good money to get in.”

He didn't like me answering him back.

“That's as may be, but I still want you off this racetrack now.”

The door of the room suddenly opened and Chico walked in, closing it behind him.

“Excuse me,” said Peter to him over my shoulder, “this is a private area. Would you please leave?”

Chico ignored him, simply standing there. I could hear a telephone ringing in the silence.

“Answer the phone,” Chico said.

“I beg your pardon,” Peter said, clearly annoyed. “Now, get out, before I call the police,” he almost shouted, but Chico didn't budge an inch.

The phone went on ringing.

“Answer it,” Chico said again.

Peter put his hand into his pocket and retrieved a small gray telephone. The ringing was suddenly much louder.

“Answer it,” Chico said once more while removing his own phone from his coat.

Peter looked uncertainly at the number readout on the screen, then he pushed a button and the ringing stopped.

“Hello,” he said into the small gray telephone.

“Hello,” said his voice from the speaker in Chico's phone a fraction of a second later.

We all stood there in silence.

“What's going on?” I asked.

“Mr. Medicos here,” Chico said, “has one of Billy McCusker's special phones. The number is on that list of yours, and the records show he was called each time one of them races was fixed.”

Peter Medicos made a move towards the door, but Chico took a step across, blocking his path.

“He's a black belt at judo,” I said by way of warning. “May I suggest you sit down before he throws you down?”

Peter Medicos stared at me with a degree of loathing, but he didn't move.

“Sit down!” I barked at him, making him jump.

He slowly pulled a chair out from under the table and sat down on it.

“No wonder the bleedin' jockeys never get caught,” Chico said, “the effin' gamekeeper is one of the poachers.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Peter said, regaining his composure.

“So I'm up on the roof, callin' those numbers you gave me rather than watchin' the race. That's funny, I thinks to myself, I'm sure I can hear a phone start to ring just as I makes a call. So I stops the call, and the ringin' also stops. I tries it again, and the same thing happens. Three times I do it, just to be sure. The ring is comin' from that VIP area, so I goes up slightly above it so I can see and I calls the number once again, this time I lets it ring and ring. Hey, presto, I sees Mr. Medicos here take that phone out of his jacket and answer it.”

“I have got to go,” Peter said, standing up and reaching for his trilby. “I have duties to perform.”

“You're not goin' anywhere, sunshine,” Chico said, smacking the trilby off the table, “not unless it's a one-way trip to the slammer. So sit down before I makes you.”

“And take that phone,” I said.

Chico came around behind Peter and forcibly removed the phone before pushing him back down into the chair.

“You can't prove anything,” he said.

“Are you sure about that?” I asked. “And anyway, I don't need to. I simply have to tell McCusker that it was
you
who told me that Geophysicist will win the two-mile handicap hurdle tomorrow afternoon because none of the other runners will be trying.”

He went pale, and his shoulders drooped.

I wasn't sure if it was because he was surprised that I knew so much about the fix or because he could all too clearly envisage what would happen to him if I carried out my threat. Maybe it was a bit of both.

“Now what?” Chico said. “We can hardly keep him here all afternoon. What is this place anyway?” He looked around him at the bare, windowless walls.

“Some sort of interview room,” I said. “Perhaps the police use it occasionally. Or maybe it's used to sort out bookmaker disputes with punters, that sort of thing.”

But I agreed with Chico, we could hardly keep Peter Medicos here all afternoon, and all night, right up until the time of the two-mile hurdle the following afternoon. The penalties for false imprisonment were harsh.

What I found difficult to understand, though, was how the head of the BHA Security Service, a retired chief superintendent of police, had become involved with a man like Billy McCusker. Maybe it was for money. But the BHA didn't pay that badly, and he must receive a police pension as well.

Or was there some other reason?

“What hold has McCusker got over you?” I asked him.

He looked up at me but said nothing.

“Has McCusker threatened you?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he said. “Now, I have things to attend to.” He again stood up, fully recovered from the shock of discovery.

“I thought I told you to sit down,” Chico said, taking Peter's left arm and twisting it up his back before forcing him down in the chair.

“You can't treat me like this!” Peter said with barely controlled anger. “How dare you manhandle me! I'll have you in court for this.”