Front Runner (13 page)

“Why the bloody hell didn't you tell me all this before?”

“When it was reported on the news that Dave had killed himself, it suddenly didn't seem important. Why would I want to tarnish the glittering reputation of our hero with nasty rumors about race fixing and tax evasion when I had no real evidence that either was true?”

“But he himself had admitted it,” Paul said angrily. “We should have suspended him from riding immediately and convened a disciplinary panel.”

“There you go,” I said. “If I'd told you straightaway, it would have been headlines in the Sunday papers.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” I said, interrupting him. “Just be thankful that it didn't happen, otherwise the BHA would have been blamed for pushing Dave Swinton to kill himself.”

That shut him up.

“And also,” I said, “instead of reflecting on his stellar racing career, as they rightly did, the obituaries would have been all about his possible connection to fraud and deception. Is that what you would have wanted?”

From the look on his face, perhaps it was.

Paul always considered that anyone who broke the Rules of Racing was personally insulting him in some way. And he didn't take kindly to insults. But maybe it was because Paul individually had invested so much in Dave Swinton as the poster boy of the
Racing Needs You!
campaign and he felt betrayed.

“So why are you telling me all this
now
?” he said in a tone that reminded me of a hurt schoolboy.

“Because Dave Swinton didn't kill himself. He was murdered.”

P
aul stared at me. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “It's impossible to drive a car at the same time as you are tied up in the trunk.”

Paul went on staring.

“The police found plastic cable ties in the trunk of the Mercedes with Dave's blood on them.” I went on to tell him everything that D.S. Jagger had told me. “And if Dave himself was already trussed up in his car like a chicken, the person who shoved me into the sauna to die is most likely the same person who killed
him
. And it may be the same person who tried again this Sunday with a carving knife.”

“But why would anyone want you dead?” Paul asked.

It was the question I had been asking myself over and over.

“Maybe I know something that someone doesn't want me to tell anyone else about.”

“What?” Paul said.

“If I knew that, then I'd shout it loudly to everybody so that there'd be no need to kill me to prevent it.”

“I don't suppose it has anything to do with McKenzie falling
off Wisden Wonder at Sandown,” Paul said. “With you indisposed in here, I've asked Nigel to have a look into that. And I've arranged for a letter to be sent to McKenzie summoning him to a disciplinary panel in January to explain his riding of the horse.”

I would have much preferred it if Paul had left that for me to deal with later.

I was an advocate of doing the investigating first, preferably furtively and in secret, and then calling the miscreants to account based on my findings.

Paul, meanwhile, tended to believe that the early summons to a disciplinary panel would put the fear of God into the accused and could produce dividends in the form of a confession. He seemed not to appreciate the fact that accomplices, or even the brains behind the scam, might go to ground and never be implicated.

In this particular case, Bill McKenzie was already well aware that I was suspicious of his riding of Wisden Wonder and so I reckoned that no further damage would have been done by Paul's intervention.

We discussed a few of the other outstanding cases that were sitting on my desk, some of which were waiting for me to produce a report, but we kept coming back to Dave Swinton.

“Do you know which race he purposely didn't win?” Paul asked.

“I think so,” I said, and I told him about Garrick Party's run at Haydock. “The horse is a well-known front runner with no great finishing speed, but, on this occasion, Dave held him up for a late run that the horse, predictably, was unable to produce. He finished third out of eight.”

“At what price?”

“He started as favorite at thirteen-to-eight.”

“Did the stewards on that day have him in?”

“Yes. They questioned both Dave and the trainer, Jason Butcher, but they accepted the excuse that the horse had been held up due to the heavy going. But I don't buy it. The horse had previously won twice in the mud, both times from the front.”

“Difficult to prove,” Paul said.

“Impossible.”

—

M
Y
LAST
VISITOR
of the day arrived at six o'clock as I was lying in bed having a snooze. Paul's visit, in particular, had tired me out, probably because it had been me who had done most of the talking.

I woke to find myself staring at the beautiful face of Henrietta Shawcross.

My first thought was that I must be dreaming, but I wasn't.

“You are a very difficult man to find, Mr. Hinkley,” she said. “And I should know—I've been looking for you ever since you disappeared without a trace on Saturday afternoon.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“I should think so too.” She pulled a cross face that did nothing to diminish her beauty. “Fancy leaving me without even saying good-bye.”

“Sorry,” I said again.

“And so you should be. I'm not used to men suddenly vanishing without at least asking for my number.”

“And do you give it to them?” I asked.

“No. Not as a general rule. But I might have given it to you. If you had bothered to ask.”

“Sorry,” I said once more.

She removed her coat, placing it over the back of one of the chairs, then she sat down on the other one and looked around her. “What are you doing in here anyway? What's wrong with you?”

What should I say?

“I was attacked,” I said.

“Who by?”

“I wish I knew. A couple of heavies with a carving knife.”

She suddenly looked concerned. “Were you stabbed?”

“Thirteen times,” I replied rather indulgently.

She was shocked and it put her off her stride, but only for a moment.

“Then why aren't you dead?” she asked.

“Luck,” I said. “That and a thick coat. Fortunately, I managed to throw them off me and run for help.”

“See, you are a superhero after all.” She smiled.

“How did you find me?” I asked, but what I really wanted to ask was
Why did you find me?

“The usual method,” she said jokily. “I tried the Internet, you know, on Google, but that failed. I tried those people-finding websites and none of them came up trumps. So I resorted to plan C.”

“Which was?”

“I called one of Uncle Richard's racing contacts to find out who, exactly, you worked for. And then I slept with the chairman of the Horseracing Authority and blackmailed him into telling me your whereabouts.”

“That seems a tad excessive,” I said.

“It worked, though.” She grinned.

“Do you ever tell the truth?” I asked.

“Not if I can help it.”

“So why did you bother?”

“What?”

“To find me,” I said.

She cocked her head sideways. “Maybe I just wanted to.”

“Does Uncle Richard know?” I asked.

“Uncle Richard doesn't own me,” she said icily. “I do what I want.”

I wondered just how true that was. According to what I'd discovered on my computer, Sir Richard Reynard was the sole administrator of her trust fund and the holder of the purse strings—at least, until her thirtieth birthday the following February.

“I'm flattered,” I said.

“Don't be,” she said, standing up and walking over to the window. “I just wondered what you looked like in a hospital gown.” She smiled at me. “Disappointing, to tell you the truth. Dirty pale blue is obviously not your color.”

She, meanwhile, was wearing black pants, calf-high boots and a white roll-neck sweater that touched her in all the right places.

“If I'd known you were coming, I'd have worn a clean one,” I said. And, I thought, something that did up properly at the back and didn't leave my arse hanging out.

“Don't you have any pajamas or a bathrobe?”

“Nope,” I said. “I have absolutely nothing. It seems that everything I arrived wearing was cut off and bagged as potential evidence. I even had to get my sister to go to the hospital gift shop to buy me a toothbrush.”

“Isn't there someone who could go and get you something from your home?”

“Are you offering?” I asked.

“Yes, OK,” Henri said with enthusiasm. “Give me a list.”

“Ah,” I said. “There's a problem. The police have the key.”

And that was just as well, I thought.

I wasn't at all sure that I wanted Miss Henrietta Shawcross, heiress to a multimillion-pound shipping fortune, letting herself into my tip of a apartment to rifle through my Ikea drawers looking for a long-neglected pair of pajamas.

“Tell you what,” she said. “I'll go and buy you something. What do you need?”

“You can't go now,” I said. “It's too late. Everything will be closed.”

“You're joking. It's Thursday. Late-night shopping, and only two weeks before Christmas. Everywhere will be open until at least nine. What do you want?”

She was clearly excited by the prospect.

“A pair of pajamas, then,” I said. “Thanks. And something to go home in would be nice. And maybe a pair of cheap running shoes.”

“Shoe size?”

“Nine.”

“How about the rest of you?” She raised her eyebrows in questioning amusement.

“Waist thirty-four, chest forty-two, neck sixteen.”

“Right,” she said. “Don't go anywhere. I'll be back.”

She disappeared.

I laid my head down on the pillow and I was laughing.

Never mind Prozac, a dose of Henrietta Shawcross was the perfect antidote for depression.

—

H
ENRI
RETURNED
just after eight and she was heavily laden with smart black-and-gold shopping bags.

She laid out her purchases on the end of the bed: a pair of striped pajamas, a silk bathrobe, some slippers, two shirts, a pair of beige chinos, a double-breasted blue blazer, crewneck sweater, socks, pants, a pair of fine-grain black leather shoes and a full-length navy cashmere overcoat.

Even a tie.

“Where did you get all this from?” I asked.

“New and Lingwood in Jermyn Street,” she said. “It's where my father went for all his clothes.”

“But I only needed some jeans and a T-shirt from Walmart,” I said forlornly, fearful of what this lot would do to my bank balance.

“Nonsense,” she replied with a grin. “We can't have you wandering around in just a T-shirt in mid-December. You'll catch your death.”

“Fewer references to death, please, if you don't mind. Now, how much do I owe you?”

“Nothing,” she said. “It's a gift. My pleasure. And I got you these as well.” She handed me yet another smart bag that contained a leather shaving kit, complete with a hairbrush.

“I could do with a shave,” I said, rubbing my chin. “It's been four days.”

“I actually like your sexy designer stubble,” Henri said. “Very George Michael.”

I looked right at her and she looked straight back at me. All the right vibes were seemingly in motion.

“Are you playing with me?” I said. “Because I won't take
kindly to you waltzing in here, buying me all these things and then swanning off, never to be seen again.”

“And why would I do that?” she asked.

I suddenly felt rather foolish. “I don't know. I just wonder what you're doing here.”

“I'm here because I like you,” she said, clearly taken aback. “You made me laugh at the races and I wanted to see you again. Is there something wrong in that?”

“No. Of course not. It's just . . .” I tailed off, not knowing what to say next.

“Don't
you
like
me
?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, “I do. Very much. But . . .”

“But what?” she demanded.

“You must have a string of rich boyfriends.”

I was saying all the wrong things.

“And what do you mean by that?”

“I've seen pictures of you with all those celebrities, famous actors and such. At fancy parties. You and I don't fit into the same social strata.”

“But that's not real life,” she said slowly. “That's just fantasy.”

“Is this real life?” I asked.

“It is for me,” she said with tears welling up in her eyes. “Do you think I'd spend several days looking for you just to swan off and never see you again?” She was hurt. “But I will, if that's what you want.”

“No,” I said quickly. “That's not what I want at all.” I smiled. “I'm sorry.”

“Please stop saying you're sorry,” she said. “Superheroes never have to apologize for anything.” She leaned forward and kissed me lightly on my mouth. “Now, get out of that dreadful gown and put your new pajamas on.”

—

H
ENRI
STAYED
until well after the official end of visiting time at nine o'clock.

She had also picked up some smoked-salmon sandwiches from the Fortnum & Mason food court and we ate those, washed down with hospital tap water from the jug on my bedside table.

“I should have brought some chilled white wine with me,” she said with a laugh. “I'll remember that next time.”

“Tell me,” I said, “how did you really find me?”

“I called Gay Smith and asked her for help. She found your home address on the reply to her husband's invitation.”

I nodded. “I gave it to him so he could send the badge for the Sandown box to my apartment. I didn't want it to get lost in the mailroom at BHA headquarters.”

“Anyway,” she said, “I went to your place on Monday evening, but there was no reply, so I put a note through the door, asking you to call me.”

“I didn't get it.”

“I realize that now. But I wasn't giving up. I tried ringing you at the BHA and someone told me you weren't going to be in this week. I asked them if you were away on holiday. They said no, you were off sick. So I went back to your place yesterday morning and found the place crawling with men in white coveralls, wearing gloves and masks.” She paused. “I was pretty upset. I thought you must have died of Ebola or something. One of the men eventually took pity on me and told me that you weren't dead, you were in the hospital, but he refused to say why or which one, so I spent most of yesterday afternoon and all of this morning playing the role of the distraught fiancée, calling hospitals and asking after my lost lover who must either be dead or
have amnesia.” She laughed. “Do you have any idea how many damn London hospitals there are in the Yellow Pages? You could at least have been in one beginning with
A
. By the time I got down to
U
, I'd almost given up hope.”

I stared at her in disbelief.

“You should come and work for me.”