Dick Francis's Refusal (30 page)

“If you're ever in court, sunshine, it will be in the dock,” Chico said. But was he right?

“You can't prove anything,” Peter said again. “It is simply my word against yours, and who's going to believe someone arrested for child abuse over a chief superintendent?”

“But we have the telephone,” I said, “and the records show that McCusker called you every time there was a fixed race.”

“I'll deny ever seeing that cell phone before. I'll say it was yours.” He was getting more confident by the second.

“Do you know that DNA is present in saliva?” I asked. I only knew myself because of a previous case where a DNA profile had been created from the saliva used to stick down an envelope.

“So what?” Peter said.

“When we talk little flecks of saliva are projected from our mouths. Your DNA will be on the microphone of that cell.”

“I'll say you made me answer a call on it.” He was sure of himself now. “You have no proof whatsoever that I have any involvement in race fixing. I'm leaving.”

He stood up once more and picked up his hat from the floor.

What should I do? I couldn't afford to let him tell McCusker that I knew about tomorrow's fix. It was a shame that Chico had revealed what he'd found out about the phone, and then I had compounded the error by divulging that I knew about the fix. But what was done was done. Now I had to deal with the situation as it was, not as I would have liked it to be.

“Did you kill Sir Richard Stewart?” I asked.

“No, of course not,” he said dismissively.

“But it was murder, wasn't it?”

“I have no idea, but I think you'll find that the inquest will eventually return a verdict of suicide.”

As may be, but I didn't believe it and nor did he.

Peter started to move around the table, and I was at a loss to know what to do to stop him.

“Why are you more frightened of McCusker than you are of me going to the police or the BHA? You might say it's my word against yours, but there are two of us saying the same thing. Are you sure no one will believe us? Can you take the risk?”

He stopped and turned to face me.

“Nothing you can say or do will make me admit to any wrongdoing.”

“I'm not asking you to admit to anything,” I said. “In fact, I don't really care if you are found out or not. But I do care passionately about my life and my family, and I'm fed up with being used and abused by that man.”

“You and me both,” he said.

“So what hold does he have over you?”

He almost laughed. “I'm not going to tell you that, then you'd have the same hold.” The laughter died in his throat.

So there was something. He wasn't McCusker's man by choice.

At least that was some good news.

“The phone, please,” he said, holding out his right hand towards me.

I was not keen to give it back. But if McCusker called him on it and Peter didn't answer, McCusker was sure to realize that something was amiss.

I handed the phone over to him.

“Do nothing,” I said. “If I find out from our Irish friend that he is aware, ahead of time, that I know about tomorrow's fix, then I will tell him that it was you who told me. And, trust me, he would believe it.”

“I have absolutely no intention of telling that Irishman anything.”

Could I believe him?

Did I have any choice?

I
n contrast to Thursday's bright skies and balmy temperatures, Friday was wet and miserable, with an Atlantic weather front moving in from the west, and the mercury was on the slide.

The conditions seemed to mirror my own mood, but it did nothing to dampen the enthusiasm of the huge number of the local girls who had turned out in all their finery, ignoring the rain and the cold, and wearing skimpy chiffon dresses that left very little to the imagination.

Aintree on the day before the Grand National must be the only place in the world where thousands of “ladies” would turn up in open-toed, extremely high-heeled sandals to splash their way through the puddles from Champagne Bar to grandstand and then back to Champagne Bar.

“Cor blimey,” Chico said, utterly transfixed, “have you seen that one.” He pointed at one particular young woman who was teetering along on stiletto heels that must have been at least six inches high. “She'll fall and break her ankle.”

But she didn't, helped along to the racetrack entrance by a young man in a shiny gray suit, polished shoes and a skinny tie.

Chico and I followed them in, expecting her to tumble at any moment, but she made it to the nearest bar and leaned against the counter. We, meanwhile, dragged our eyes away from her amply displayed cleavage and made our way once again to the Weighing Room steps.

“Do you think standin' here is sensible?” Chico asked. “Those goons from last week must be here to put the money on Geophysicist. Maybe even McCusker himself. You're very much out in the open.”

“You go and check out the betting ring,” I said to him. “Look out for Barry Montagu and Mr. Wilson, and that girl you chatted up at the betting shop. I need to stay here until I get final confirmation from Jimmy Guernsey. I'll see you on the County Stand roof for the first.”

Chico slipped away while I scanned the faces in front of me for anyone familiar, especially anyone familiar from an alleyway behind a Chinese restaurant.

I spotted Jimmy walking in from the direction of the jockeys' parking lot, carrying a small holdall slung over his right shoulder. He spotted me at the same instant and made a slight detour in his route to the Weighing Room in order to walk right past me. He didn't say anything; he just put up the thumb on his left hand as he went by.

So the fix was unfixed.

Now all we had to do was wait for the fallout, provided of course that Peter Medicos or one of the jockeys hadn't bleated everything to McCusker.

I would find that out soon enough.

•   •   •

“
W
E'RE ON,”
I said to Chico, joining him on the County Stand roof to watch the first race in a fine drizzle.

“Good,” he said. “I spotted that bird from the bookie's. But I thought it was better if she didn't see me, so I kept away from her pitch.”

“You will have to go and look just before the two-mile hurdle, but it will be too late by then for them to change anything.”

“Is it worth havin' a bet in that race?”

“You can, if you like, but I wouldn't put your money on Geophysicist.”

“Are you sure it won't win?”

“Not if Jimmy Guernsey has managed to do what we agreed,” I said.

“And what is that, exactly?”

“McCusker believes that Geophysicist will win because all the other jockeys have been told to lose. If things have gone according to plan, Jimmy has told each one of the jockeys, individually and in confidence, that things have changed, and they are now riding the horse selected to win. All except David Potter, who rides Geophysicist. He's been told he has to lose.”

“Won't they work it out?”

“They're all so frightened of getting caught that they won't even talk to each other about it. They just do what McCusker or Jimmy Guernsey tells them without question, out of fear. So they will all be trying like crazy to win—all of them, that is, except the very one that McCusker will be expecting to win.”

He laughed. “Now, that's what I call a fix. But are you sure it's wise to antagonize him like this?”

“Are you having second thoughts?” I asked.

“Slightly,” he said. “There's no one at home protectin' your wife and kid.”

I'd been thinking of that too.

“They're perfectly safe at the moment,” I said, “because McCusker and his merry men will all be here. But I agree we need to make a beeline for Oxfordshire as soon as the race is over.”

“But why are you so keen to stick a spanner in his works?”

“I suppose I want him to realize that he can't go on dictating how races will be run. Maybe it's just a battle of wills between us. He's an irresistible force pushing against my immovable object. One of us will have to concede, and I'm determined it will be him.”

“It's a dangerous game,” Chico said.

Yes, I thought, bloody dangerous.

•   •   •

T
HE AFTERNOON
seemed to drag by, but, eventually, it was nearing the time for the two-mile handicap hurdle.

I stood on the ground floor of the grandstand and watched as the predicted returns for each horse changed on the screen above the Tote counter.

Maine Visit was the favorite, showing a return of three pounds and ten pence for a one-pound stake.

Geophysicist was fourth favorite on the Tote, with a predicted return of six pounds, equivalent to a starting price of five-to-one.

I went out to where the lines of bookmakers' pitches were busily taking money from the swarm of eager punters.

I scanned the nearest of the boards. Geophysicist was mostly quoted at six-to-one or thirteen-to-two, with a few even offering seven-to-one.

I smiled. McCusker's scam was running as he would expect, with his chosen winner showing a lower predicted return on the Tote than the bookmakers' prices would suggest was normal. That meant that McCusker and his cronies must be betting heavily on Geophysicist on the Tote, using cash, with no resulting inconvenient record of their unusual betting activity.

Peter Medicos had been as good as his word. No warning had been given.

I made my way up to the roof to watch the race, the excitement of the moment making my heart beat a little faster than usual.

Chico was there ahead of me.

“Barry Montagu's pitch was doin' extremely brisk business,” he said. “They were offerin' better-than-average odds on all the nags except, you've guessed it, Geophysicist, whose price was marginally worse.”

I smiled.

“And Honest Joe Bullen's pitch was just the same,” he said. “Absolutely heavin' with eager punters.”

McCusker was trying to have his cake and eat it. Gambling heavily on the “sure” winner on the Tote while, at the same time, raking in the money on the other runners by offering slightly higher odds than the other bookmakers, confident in the knowledge that he wouldn't have to pay out.

I just hoped that Jimmy Guernsey really had done the business with the other jocks and that McCusker was about to receive a financial bloody nose, as well as a shock to his system.

I looked down towards the two-mile start, where the twelve runners were walking in a circle, having their girths tightened by the assistant starter and getting ready for the race. I wondered if there would be any banter between the jockeys or whether they were all too nervous about fulfilling their predetermined roles.

I assumed that in addition to David Potter on Geophysicist, Jimmy Guernsey wouldn't actually be trying too hard either. But I thought it was going to be quite entertaining with the other ten all believing that they were riding the horse that was meant to win.

And so it transpired.

The race was initially run at a slow pace, and the field was still tightly bunched as the horses passed the grandstands for the first time. But the pace began to pick up as they straightened up for the three hurdles in the back stretch.

By the time the runners swung left-handed around the last bend, the race was on in earnest, with most of the twelve still in contention.

There are three hurdles in the final straight, and the field began to string out slightly coming to the first of them, the less able horses being incapable of keeping up with the breakneck pace.

I could only imagine with amusement how some of the jockeys must feel if they had been expecting the other runners to fall back, leaving them alone to win. Panic came to mind.

Seven of them jumped the final flight abreast, and the crowd cheered appreciatively as the favorite, Maine Visit, ridden by Robert Price, won by a head in a blanket finish of six horses, with all the jockeys in serious danger of receiving riding bans for excessive use of their whips.

Geophysicist finished just three lengths behind the winner but in ninth place. Jimmy Guernsey's mount was tenth, a further two lengths in the rear.

“Bloody marvelous,” said Chico. “Now what?”

“Home, James,” I said. “There's nothing more to be gained from staying here.”

We skipped down the stairs from the County Stand roof towards the exits and ran straight into Billy McCusker and his three Shankill Road Volunteers.

•   •   •

I
AM NOT SURE
who was the more surprised, but it was clear who was the more angry, and I was very grateful for the presence, about ten yards away, of a pair of large uniformed Merseyside policemen on the lookout for pickpockets amongst the bustling crowd.

“Halley,” McCusker said, having dropped his supercilious use of the
Mr.
“Is this your doing?”

“Is what my doing?” I asked, trying to keep a smile off my face.

“I promise you,” he said with real menace, his dark eyes appearing even more sunken under his protruding brow than in the photographs, “if I find out that you are responsible, I'll make sure you fry.”

His words sent fresh shivers down my spine, and I edged a little closer to the policemen.

McCusker then turned and walked away, followed by his three burly bodyguards. Chico and I stood and watched them go until they disappeared amongst the crowd.

“If Jimmy Guernsey has any sense,” I said, laughing, “he'll hide in the Weighing Room all night.”

“Come on,” Chico said, pulling at my coat sleeve, “let's get goin' before that friendly foursome decides to come back.”

We hurried back to the hotel to collect the Range Rover and then set off south back to Oxfordshire.

“Do you think he'll come after us immediately?” Chico asked when we were safely on the freeway.

“Judging by how quickly he sent his boys to put a ring of fire round Tony Molson's place, I wouldn't be at all surprised if he wasn't already on the road behind us.”

I pressed my right foot slightly harder on the gas pedal and broke the speed limit all the way down the M6 to Birmingham.

“What are we goin' to do?” Chico asked.

“Be vigilant,” I said. “All hands on deck, and prepare to repel boarders.”

I had called D.C.I. Watkinson as we had left the Park Hotel, leaving a message that asked him to call back urgently, and he did so as we neared Aynsford.

“What's the problem?” he asked.

“I may have poked that hornets' nest,” I said, “and I might need some help with the fallout.”

“Would that be a Mr. McCusker–type hornets' nest?” he asked.

“Precisely so,” I said.

“And what sort of help are you wanting?”

“A police guard on my home.”

“Mmm,” he said. “When for?”

“Tonight,” I said. “And maybe tomorrow as well.”

“We don't have that sort of manpower.”

“You had enough to place a policeman outside after I got arrested.”

“He would have been there to prevent you removing any potential evidence from the property before our searches were complete.”

And, all this time, I'd thought it had been for the protection of my home from overzealous members of the press.

“Well, I need a policeman stationed there tonight because I firmly believe that McCusker or his cronies will attempt to gain entry or, worse, burn down the property. They as much as said so to me this afternoon.”

“Do you have witnesses to that conversation?”

“Yes,” I said. “Chico Barnes was with me.”

There was a silence from the other end of the line, and I was worried that the chief inspector might think it would be better to get a conviction for arson after the event than for conspiracy to commit arson before it.

“I also have a witness to
this
conversation. And if you let my house burn down in order to try to get him for arson, I will sue the police for negligence.”

“Mr. Halley, how is it that you have an uncanny knack of knowing what I'm thinking?”

“Well, you can stop thinking it and give me a police guard. Especially as I can't legally be there. Have you had any luck on that front?”

“No, sorry,” he said. “It will have to wait for you to surrender to your bail at Oxford next week.”

“By next week I may not have a house.”

“OK, OK,” he said, “I get the message. I'll see what I can do.”

“Then do it fast,” I said. “They may already be on their way.”

“I'll ask uniform to route a patrol car round that way regularly throughout the evening and night, although it's Friday, and they'll be pretty busy in Banbury town center with the nightclub revelers.”

It wasn't much, but I suppose it was better than nothing.

•   •   •

M
ARINA,
S
ASKIA AND
R
OSIE
were overjoyed to see us back at Aynsford in one piece, and Charles was pretty relieved too. He looked desperately tired, as if he hadn't slept for two nights.