Dick Francis's Refusal (8 page)

I think we all felt like crying. Rosie and Mandy were almost as much a part of our family as Saskia, and I had little doubt as to who was responsible for their disappearance.

Billy McCusker was right. This was no game. It was war.

•   •   •

“
D
OG THEFT
is all too common, I'm afraid. Did you have a padlock on your kennel?”

“It's not theft,” I said. “It's kidnapping.”

“Dognapping, you mean. Have you received a ransom note?” D.S. Lynch wasn't being very helpful. “And how do you know for sure that their disappearance is due to Billy McCusker?”

“I just do,” I said.

I could remember Sir Richard Stewart saying the exact same words in the exact same frustrated tone during his visit to my house the previous week when I had questioned his conviction that race results were being manipulated.

I didn't question it anymore.

“So what are you going to do about our dogs?” I asked.

“There's nothing I can do,” said D.S. Lynch.

“How about sending a detective round to fingerprint the kennel or organizing a search party?”

“Mr. Halley, even if I knew for sure that the dogs had been taken rather than wandering off on their own, I couldn't allocate any manpower to finding them. Dogs are considered property. In the eyes of the law, the theft of a domestic animal is no more serious an offense than the taking of, say, a bicycle or a garden table, and I'd hardly send a posse out in search of those, now would I?”

“I thought they once hanged horse thieves in the American West.”

“Maybe they did, and stealing sheep used to be a capital offense here too, but we've thankfully moved on in the past two hundred years.”

“But the dogs are part of our family.”

“They may be,” he said, “but they
are
just dogs.”

Just dogs!

Not to us, they weren't. To us, they were like children.

“So what should I do?” I asked.

“Contact your local dog warden. Any dogs that are found should be handed in to him. Were they wearing tags?”

“Yes,” I said. “On their collars. They're also microchipped.”

“Then you should contact the microchip service provider and tell them the dogs are missing and check that their records are up to date. Other than that, all you can do is wait.”

Wait for Billy McCusker to call, I thought. And then what? A ransom demand? Sign more papers? Absolve him of his sins? Curl up and die?

I was desperate to fight back, but how could I if I couldn't see my enemy?

It was definitely time to look for him.

M
arina took Saskia out in the Range Rover to try to find the dogs while I sat in the house waiting for the inevitable call from Billy McCusker.

I collected the mail from the basket under the letterbox in the front door. The so-called report was amongst the bills and the junk mail, a slim brown envelope with no markings other than my name and address printed on a white stick-on label.

I was careful not to touch the surfaces of the envelope, holding it only by the edges. I didn't for a moment think there would be any fingerprints on the paper—none, that was, other than the mailman's—but one could only hope that McCusker had been careless.

I slit open the envelope using a carving knife and poured out the contents onto the kitchen table.

There was only one sheet of ubiquitous white copy paper, with one brief computer-printed paragraph under the heading
A Report into Sir Richard Stewart's Allegations by Sid Halley
.

I was approached by Sir Richard Stewart concerning his belief that the results of certain races were suspicious and that irregular betting patterns existed on those races. I have studied the races in detail, and I have interviewed some of the jockeys that rode in the races concerned. I am satisfied that the betting patterns for the races were not exceptional or unusual, and I am content that no evidence exists which supports the beliefs held by Sir Richard.

There was a space beneath the paragraph for my signature and the date.

It was laughable. The man was more of a fool than I had thought.

For a start, a genuine Sid Halley report would have been prepared on proper headed, printed notepaper and would have included detailed notes of all the interviews conducted, with records of
with
whom
,
where
and
when
, not to mention a detailed breakdown of each of the original allegations, race by race, with a thorough and reasoned conclusion drawn from expressed evidence.

There was no way I was putting my name to this garbage, true or false. I had standards to live up to.

•   •   •

M
ARINA AND
S
ASKIA
returned about eight o'clock without the dogs. Not that I'd imagined for a moment that they'd find them. In fact, I feared that our girls might never be found.

McCusker was a killer. He'd been convicted of one gruesome murder and he'd clearly been responsible for many others. Dispatching a couple of dogs would not have severely pricked his conscience. He'd have probably enjoyed it.

Little Saskia was inconsolable, weeping buckets into Marina's shoulder as she carried her into the kitchen.

“Bedtime,” Marina said to me, and she took Saskia upstairs to her room.

I looked again at the sheet of paper and its printed paragraph.

I have interviewed some of the jockeys that rode in all the races concerned.

Indeed, I had, on Saturday at Newbury. But how did McCusker know that?

Had he been watching my movements or had either Jimmy Guernsey or Angus Drummond reported back?

I went through to my office and looked again at the detailed lists I had made of all the jockeys and trainers of the more than one hundred horses that had run in Sir Richard's suspicious races.

In all, there were thirty-six different jockeys who had taken part in the nine races. A third had ridden in only one of them, eight more had ridden in two, while the other sixteen had gone to post in three or more, including Angus Drummond and Jimmy Guernsey, who'd had mounts in all nine.

I decided to concentrate first on those who had ridden three or more times. Other than Guernsey and Drummond, I knew most of them fairly well, all except a couple of the younger ones who had only recently entered the sport.

I used the
Directory of the Turf
website to look up all their private addresses. Of the sixteen, eleven lived within a six-mile radius of Lambourn, the Berkshire village that was a major center for racehorse training, especially steeplechasing. Maybe I could visit some of those in a single day, but I'd have to choose a day when there were no local jump meetings and hope they were at home.

I looked up the fixtures, but, as I'd feared, there were no days in the coming week without any jump racing at all. However, there was one with only a single meeting at Wetherby and that was in two days' time, on Thursday. Most of the southern jockeys, those who lived around Lambourn, would be unlikely to travel so far north for midweek racing.

Next I turned to my list of the horses' trainers, but that was interrupted by Marina who came downstairs from trying to settle Saskia.

“Sid,” Marina demanded, “what the hell is going on? Where are the dogs?”

“You know what's going on,” I said. “And I have no idea where the dogs are.”

“But you know who took them.”

“I think I know,” I said. “At least I think I know who arranged it. The same man who arranged for Sassy to be collected from school last Thursday. The same man who's been calling us and demanding that I sign a report that's a complete load of rubbish. The man with the Northern Irish accent.”

“Billy McCusker?” she said. “The terrorist?”

“Yes.”

“What does he want from us?” It was a rhetorical question. Marina knew what he wanted. “Can't you just sign his bloody report and be rid of him?”

“Signing his report won't get rid of a man like that,” I said.

“Then, for God's sake, how
do
we get rid of him?” Marina shouted.

“Shhh, you'll disturb Sassy,” I said, but Marina didn't seem to care. She was frightened, and angry, and I was the only one around to lash out at.

“Do what he bloody wants, can't you,” she screamed at me. “I love those dogs.” She started to cry. I stood up and went to put my arm around her, but she pushed me away. “Just do what he wants,” she sobbed.

Did I have any choice?

“OK,” I said. “I'll sign his bloody report, but it won't be the end of it, you'll see.”

As if on cue, the telephone on my desk started ringing.

“Aren't you going to answer it?” Marina asked as we both stood there, looking down at it.

I picked up the handset. “Hello,” I said tentatively.

“Is this the Halley residence?” It was a voice I didn't recognize, and one that was definitely not Northern Irish.

“Yes,” I said with some relief.

“My name is Philip York,” he said. “I'm a veterinarian, and I've been treating a dog of yours. It has your name and telephone number on its collar tag.”

“Yes,” I said excitedly. “We've lost two dogs. They went missing this afternoon.”

“Well, I only have one of them here,” said Philip York, “and I'm afraid the news is not good.”

“Oh?”

“No,” he said. “She was found running loose on the freeway and she has obviously been hit by at least one vehicle.”

“Oh,” I said again, trying to hold back my emotions. “How is she?”

“Not good,” he said. “Not good at all. I'm really only calling to let you know that I'm putting her down.”

“No,” I said instinctively. “There must be something you can do?”

“Mr. Halley, I'm sorry but there's no alternative.” He spoke with authority. “Her back is broken.”

Marina was in tears again alongside me. She may have been only listening to one side of the conversation, but she knew exactly what was being discussed.

“Which dog is it?” I asked, this time unsuccessfully keeping the grief out of my voice.

“It says Mandy on the tag.”

“Where was she found?” I asked.

“On the freeway,” he said again.

“Which freeway?”

“The M6,” he said.

“The M6? Whereabouts?”

“Just north of Stafford. My practice is in Creswell, junction 14. The police brought your dog in here about twenty minutes ago.”

The clock on my desk showed it was half past nine.

“But I live in Oxfordshire, near Banbury,” I said.

“Banbury is eighty miles from here,” he said. “My wife's parents live there. When did you say your dogs went missing?”

“This afternoon. My wife checked on them at about two, so sometime between two and three-thirty.”

There was a pause in the conversation as we both absorbed the significance.

“So Mandy didn't just wander off, then,” said the veterinarian.

“No,” I agreed.

“Have you informed the police?”

“Yes, but they're not very helpful. Dogs, it seems, are nothing more than mere property in the eyes of the law. Like a garden table, I was told.” I paused again, almost overcome with sorrow at the loss of such a dear friend. “The law is an ass.”

“I'm sorry,” the veterinarian said. He would know only too well how dogs were much more than just “property” to their owners.

“Do you know if there was any sign of the other one?” I asked.

“The police didn't say anything to me about there being a second dog. Perhaps you should give them a call.”

“Yes,” I said, “I will.”

“What do you want me to do with the body? I can dispose of it fairly easily here unless . . .” He tailed off.

“Can I collect her tomorrow?” I asked.

“Of course.” He gave me his address and I wrote it down. “I'm so sorry.”

“Thank you,” I said. “And thank you for calling me and letting me know.”

“Right,” he said. “I'd better get on. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, then,” I said. “Oh, hold on, don't go. One last thing.”

“Yes?” he said.

I was near to tears. “Please give Mandy a last stroke from us, you know, before . . .”

“Of course,” he said. “She's sleeping—heavily sedated already. She won't feel or know anything.”

I suppose it was a comfort, but not much.

I stood, hugging Marina, as great bouts of grief caused her whole body to shake. Mandy had been a member of our family for the past six years, since she'd been a two-month-old little bundle of red-haired joy we had excitedly collected from the breeder.

“Let's look on the bright side,” I said. “Rosie may be loose as well. All we have to do is to find her.”

“How?”

“Let's start by calling the Staffordshire Police,” I said.

“Staffordshire?”

“Mandy was wandering on the M6 north of Stafford,” I said. The M6, I thought, was the route from our house to Manchester.

The Staffordshire Police, far from being sympathetic over our loss, were angry with us for allowing our dog to wander on the freeway where it could have caused a major traffic accident.

I tried to point out that it wasn't our fault but to no avail. Informing them that there might be a second dog loose did nothing to improve their humor. In fact, quite the reverse.

“What time does it get light tomorrow?” Marina asked when I hung up.

“Around six.”

“Then we'll leave here by five.” It wasn't a question. It was an instruction.

•   •   •

B
ILLY
M
C
C
USKER
called again at a quarter to midnight.

“You bastard,” I said, picking up the phone by the bed.

“Now, now, Mr. Halley, mind your language.”

“You've gone too far this time,” I said.

“You English, you're so sentimental about your animals. Why don't you do as you're asked, and I'll go away.”

Did I believe him?

“Where are my dogs?”

He ignored my question. “Did you get the report?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He sounded pleased and so sure of himself. “You will sign it and send it to the head of the BHA Security Service.”

“And if I don't?”

“Oh, Mr. Halley, I think you will. Your wife has such a beautiful face. It would be a shame to put that in danger, so it would.”

“Bastard,” I said again.

“Do as you're told, Mr. Halley.”

He hung up.

I sat on the edge of the bed, wondering how I had got into this mess and, more to the point, how I was going to get out of it.

Would signing his damn report make any real difference? Maybe not. So why was I so fixated about not doing so? Pride, I suppose. But Chief Inspector Watkinson had referred to pride as coming before a fall. Be pragmatic, he'd told me.

Be pragmatic, I now told myself, and save Marina's beauty.

I went downstairs to my office and signed the paper.