Dick Francis's Gamble (30 page)

And I would also find out who was trying to have me killed, and the real reason why.

 

 

W
ell, lover boy,” Jan Setter said, “when I asked you to come and stay, I didn't exactly mean you to bring your girlfriend and your mother with you!”

We laughed.

We were sitting at her kitchen table in Lambourn, drinking coffee, the said girlfriend and mother having been safely tucked up in two of Jan's many spare bedrooms.

“I didn't know where else to go,” I said to her.

I had briefly thought about going to my father's bungalow in Weymouth, but he had only two double bedrooms and, amusing as the thought had been, I could hardly expect my parents to share a bed together, not after seven years of divorce, and I certainly wasn't sleeping with the old bugger.

“So what's all this about?” Jan asked finally.

All I had said to her on the phone from Cheltenham had been that I was desperate and could she help by putting us up for a night or two.

“How desperate?” she had asked calmly.

“Life or death,” I'd said. “Complete secrecy.”

She had asked nothing further but had simply said, “Come,” and she'd asked no questions when we'd arrived, not until after my traumatized mother and fiancée had been safely ushered up to bed. As it had with me, the shock and fear had manifested itself in them after the event.

In all the years I had known Jan, both as her former jockey and more recently as her financial adviser, I had never known her to be flustered or panicked by anything. She was the steady head I needed in this crisis.

But how much did I tell her?

Would she even believe me?

“I know this is going to sound rather overly dramatic,” I said. “But someone is trying to kill me.”

“What's her name?” Jan asked with a laugh.

“I'm being serious, Jan,” I said. “Tonight a man came to my mother's cottage to murder me. He had a gun. I promise you, we are extremely fortunate to be alive. The same man has now tried to kill me twice.”

“Let's hope it isn't third time lucky.”

“He won't get a third time.”

“How can you be sure?” she asked.

“Because he's dead. The last time I saw him he was lying on the floor of my mother's living room with his neck broken.”

She stared at me. “You are being serious, aren't you?”

I nodded. “Very.”

“Have you called the police?”

“Yes,” I said. “But I need to call them again.” I looked at my watch. It had been at least two hours since I'd spoken to Chief Inspector Tomlinson. But they could wait a little longer.

“So why come here?” she asked. “Why not go straight to the police?”

“I need somewhere to hide where no one can find me.”

Not even the police, I thought.

“But, if the man's dead, why do you still need to hide?” she asked.

“Because he was a hired killer, and I am worried that whoever hired him will simply hire another.”

I could tell from the look on Jan's face that her credulity had reached its limit.

“It's true, I assure you,” I said. “I'm not making it up, and I think it's all to do with stealing a hundred million euros from the European Union. Now, that really is big money. And what's the going rate for having someone killed these days? Twenty thousand? A hundred grand maybe? Or even half a million? That's still only a half of one percent of the take. Cheap at twice the price.”

“But what have
you
got to do with stealing a hundred million euros?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “But I may have asked the wrong questions to those that have. And I suspect that somebody believes I need to be permanently removed before I ask some more questions and bring the whole scheme tumbling down round their ears.”

“So what are you going to do?” she said.

“Ask the questions quickly,” I said, grinning at her. “And then keep my head down.”

 

 

S
omeone answered after just one ring when I called my mother's cottage. I was sitting in Jan's office and using her mobile phone, and I had carefully withheld the number from caller ID. I hoped it was enough to keep it secret.

“Hello,” I said.

“Is that Nicholas Foxton?” came a man's voice in reply.

“It is,” I said. “To whom am I talking?”

“Detective Chief Inspector Flight,” he said, “Gloucestershire Police.”

Not another detective chief inspector, I thought. What's the collective noun for detective chief inspectors? It was a posse of police, so maybe it's an evidence of detective chief inspectors.

“Where are you, Mr. Foxton?” asked this particular chief inspector.

“Somewhere safe,” I said.

“And where is that?” he asked again.

I ignored him. “Who was the man who tried to kill me?” I asked.

“Mr. Foxton,” he said, “I need you to come to a police station to be interviewed. Tonight.”

He was persistent, I'd give him that.

“Have you spoken to DCI Tomlinson from Merseyside Police?” I asked. “Or Superintendent Yering from the Metropolitan Police Armed Response Team?”

“No,” he said, “not personally.”

“Then I suggest you do,” I said.

“Mr. Foxton,” he said, “you are in danger of obstructing the police in the course of their duties. Now, please tell me where you are.”

“No,” I said. “Did you watch the television news on Tuesday? The dead man in my mother's cottage is the same man as in the video. And I think he was foreign. He said some words I didn't understand. Something like
‘Ibe se!'
”

“Mr. Foxton.” Detective Chief Inspector Flight was getting quite worked up. “I must insist you tell me where you are.”

“And I must insist you speak to DCI Tomlinson or Superintendent Yering.”

I hung up.

That didn't go too well, I thought. Too bad. But I was definitely not going to any police station to be interviewed tonight, or any other night if I could help it. People could get shot at police stations. Ask Lee Harvey Oswald.

 

 

I
heard Jan leave the house at a quarter to seven in the morning to supervise the exercising of her horses on the gallops. She had asked if I wanted to accompany her up onto the Downs to watch, but I had declined, not because I didn't want to but because I didn't want anyone to recognize me and hence know where I was staying.

It may have been eight years since I was a regular in Lambourn, but there were plenty who had been here longer than that, even amongst Jan's staff, and most would have known me by sight.

I realized it was highly unlikely that news of my whereabouts would then get back to hostile ears, but I didn't want to take any unnecessary risks if I didn't have to.

I got up as quietly as I could but Claudia was already awake.

“Don't go,” she said.

I snuggled down again next to her under the covers.

“When will this all end?” she asked.

“Soon,” I said. But I really had no idea when.

“I was so frightened last night,” she said with tears in her eyes. “I really thought he was going to kill you.”

I'd thought it too.

“But he didn't,” I said. “So everything's all right.” I was trying to sound encouraging even if I was not so sure inside.

“So why have we come here?” she asked. “Why can't we go home now?”

“There's just a few things I have to do before we can go home,” I said, sitting up on the side of the bed. “And I don't want to take any chances if we don't need to.”

“I think we should go to the police,” she said.

“I spoke to them last night after you went to bed. They agreed that it was better for us to stay here for a couple of days while they carry out their investigations.”

At least the first bit was true.

“So what is it that you have to do?” she asked.

“Well, first, I have to go to Oxford,” I said. “And I'm going to do that right now.” I stood up and started to dress.

“I'll come with you,” Claudia said, throwing the duvet to one side and sitting up.

“No,” I said firmly. “You stay here with Jan and my mother. You need to recover fully from your operation. And I won't be long. You'll be quite safe here.”

I think she was secretly relieved as she lay down again and pulled the duvet back over her.

“Why are you going?” she asked.

“To see a young man at the university,” I said. “I want to ask him some questions about a factory, or, rather, about the lack of a factory.”

 

 

I
stopped on the outskirts of Oxford and turned on my mobile phone to call Detective Chief Inspector Tomlinson.

“DCI Flight of Gloucestershire Police is not happy with you,” he said. “Not happy at all.”

“Too bad,” I said.

“He's applied for a warrant for your arrest on suspicion of manslaughter.”

“But that's ridiculous,” I said.

“Maybe it is,” he agreed, “but he's really pissed off. I do think it might be better if you go and see him.”

“Not if he's going to arrest me.” I didn't relish spending another day in a police cell. “Anyway,” I said, “I have things to do first.”

“Not investigating again, are you?” said the professional detective. “I've told you to leave that to the police.”

“But what are you going to investigate?” I said. “It is me, not you, that believes Colonel Jolyon Roberts was murdered, but there is no evidence for that belief. In fact, quite the reverse. The evidence indicates that he died of natural causes helped by a dose of stupidity. The police see no crime, so there is no investigation.”

“So what do you want me to do?” he asked.

“Speak to Flight,” I said. “Get him off my back. Tell him there's no way I'll see him if he's going to arrest me.”

“I'll try,” he said. “But I still think you ought to at least talk to him.”

“Get me his number,” I said. “Then I'll call him.”

“How can I contact you?” he asked.

“Leave a message on this phone. I'll pick it up.”

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Can you find out if the dead man in my mother's cottage was Bulgarian?”

I thought about also asking him to get the fraud squad to initiate an investigation into the Balscott factory project, but, as I knew from previous experience with a former client, fraud investigations involving foreign investments started with months and months of delving into paperwork before there was any prospect of an arrest. Add to that the complexities of the European Union grants system, and it would take years.

And I'd be dead and buried long before that.

I disconnected from DCI Tomlinson, but the phone rang again in my hand almost immediately.

“This is your voice mail,” said an impersonal female voice when I answered. “You have two new messages.”

One of them was from DCI Flight, and, as the other chief inspector had said, he didn't sound very happy. I ignored it.

The other was from Patrick Lyall, who also wasn't pleased with me, in particular because I had left a message on his mobile saying that I wouldn't be coming into the office today.

“Nicholas,” Patrick's voice said, “I am sorry that you have decided not to be in the office once again. I think we need to have a talk about your commitment to the firm. I will be writing to you today formally warning you as to your future conduct. Please, would you call me and tell me where to have the letter delivered.”

It sounded to me as if the company lawyer had been advising him again on employment law—written warnings and all that.

I ignored him too.

Did I, in fact, have any future in the firm? And did I really care?

 

 

K
eble College was on the north side of the city near the Oxford

University Museum of Natural History. I parked in Museum Road and walked back to the college.

“Sorry, sir,” said a man in a smart blue jersey intercepting me in the entrance archway. “The college is closed to the public. Trinity has begun.”

“Trinity?” I asked.

“Trinity term,” he said. “The students are here.”

It hadn't even crossed my mind they wouldn't be.

“Exactly,” I said to him. “I've come to see one of the students.”

“Which one?” he asked politely but firmly. He was obviously used to repelling visitors who had no good cause to be there.

“Benjamin Roberts,” I said.

“And is Mr. Roberts expecting you?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “It's a surprise visit.”

He looked at his watch, and I looked at mine. It was just past ten o'clock.

“It might be a bit early for Mr. Roberts,” he said. “I heard he was partying rather late last evening. But I'll try and call him. What name shall I say?”

“Smith,” I said. “John Smith.”

The college porter looked at me somewhat skeptically.

“I get that reaction all the time,” I said. “Unimaginative parents.”

He nodded, as if making up his mind, and then disappeared into the porters' lodge.

I waited patiently under the arch.

Presently, the porter reappeared. “Mr. Roberts asks if you could come back later, round one o'clock.”