Dick Francis - Crossfire

Instead, I pulled into the parking lot of The Hare and waited, watching the road to see if the white BMW came back. Maybe he had forgotten something and would return to get it.

He didn't.

I waited a full thirty minutes before I was sure enough that Ewen and his BMW were away for the afternoon. He wouldn't now have had enough time to return home and then make it to Ascot for the first race.

I drove the Corsa out of the pub's parking lot, down the hill to Lambourn village, and pulled up on the gravel driveway next to the Yorkes' front door.

Julie seemed surprised to see me, but maybe not so surprised as if she had believed me dead.

"What are you doing here?" she asked from behind the door through a six-inch gap.

"I thought you said at Newbury races to come and see you sometime," I said. "So here I am."

She blushed slightly across her neck.

"What's in the bag?" she asked, looking at the plastic bag I was holding.

"Champagne," I said.

She blushed again, and this time, it reached her cheeks.

"You had better come in, then," she said, opening the door wide for me to pass. She looked out beyond me, as if concerned that someone had seen my arrival. It was not just her who hoped they hadn't.

"How lovely," I said, admiring the white curved staircase in the hallway. "Which way's the bedroom?"

"My," she said with a giggle. "You are an eager boy."

"No time like the present," I said. "Is your husband in?"

"No," she said, giggling again. "He's gone to the races."

"I know," I said. "I watched him go."

"You are such a naughty boy," she said, wagging a finger at me.

"So what are you going to do about it, then?" I asked her.

She breathed deeply with excitement, her breasts rising and falling under her flimsy sweater.

"Get some glasses," I said, starting to climb the stairs. "Go on," I said, seeing her still standing in the hallway.

She skipped away while I continued up.

"In the guest room," she shouted. "On the left."

I went into the guest room on the left, and pulled back the duvet on the king-size bed.

A couple of life's little questions crossed my mind.

Was I really going to have sex with this woman?

I suppose it depended if she wanted it, and so far, the signs had been pretty positive. But did I want it too?

And there was one other pressing question.

Did I leave my leg on, or did I take it off?

On this occasion I decided that leaving it on was definitely better, especially as a quick getaway would be a likely necessity.

I went into the en suite bathroom. I thought briefly about having a shower, but it would mean taking off my leg and then putting it on again. The foot may have been waterproof, but the join between the real me and the false was not.

I stripped off, left my clothes on the bathroom floor and climbed into the bed, pulling the duvet up to my waist.

I had never paid for sex, although I'd bought quite a few expensive dinners in my time, which was tantamount to the same thing. On this occasion, however, my mother had been paying two thousand pounds a week for the past seven months. I hoped it was going to be worth it.

Julie appeared in the doorway carrying two champagne flutes in her left hand and wearing a flimsy housecoat that she allowed to fall open, revealing her nakedness beneath.

"Now, just how naughty have you been?" she asked, swinging a leather riding whip into view.

"Very," I said, opening the champagne with a loud pop.

"Oh, goodie," she replied.

It wasn't quite what I had in mind, but I went along with her little game for a while as she became more and more excited.

"Just a minute," I said, getting off the bed.

"What?" she gasped. "Get back here now!"

"Just a minute," I repeated. "I need the bathroom."

She was lying on her back, half sitting up, resting on her elbows with the whip in her right hand, her knees drawn up, and her legs spread wide apart. She threw her head back. "I just don't believe it," she cried. "You get back here right now or you'll really be in trouble."

I ignored her, went into the bathroom and put on my boxer shorts. I then took my new camera from the cupboard under the sink where I had placed it when I arrived, and checked that it was switched on. The champagne hadn't been the only thing in the plastic bag.

"Hurry up, you naughty boy," she shouted.

"Coming," I shouted back.

I came out of the bathroom taking shot after shot of her naked body as she lay on the bed, still in the same compromising position. She'd had her eyes closed, and it was a few seconds before she realized what I was doing.

"What the fuck's going on?" she screamed, throwing the whip at me and grabbing the duvet to cover herself.

"Just taking some photos," I said calmly.

"What the fuck for?" she shouted angrily.

"Blackmail," I replied.

"Blackmail!" she shrieked.

"Yes," I said. "Do you want to see?"

I held the camera towards her so she could see the screen on the back of it. But the photograph I showed her wasn't one of those I'd just taken; it was the one with her face in profile from yesterday, the one with her hand reaching into mailbox number 116 to collect the package of money.

She cried a lot.

We were still in her guest bedroom. I had thrown her the housecoat when I'd gone into the bathroom to put on my shirt and trousers, and when I'd reemerged, she had been sitting up in bed, wearing the coat, with the duvet pulled right up. Somehow she didn't look like someone up to their neck in a criminal conspiracy. She had even straightened her hair.

"It was only a game," she said.

"Murder is never a game," I said, standing at the end of the bed.

"Murder?" She went very pale. "What murder?"

My murder, I thought. Hanging on a wall in Greystone Stables.

"Who was murdered?" she demanded.

"Someone called Roderick Ward," I said, even though I had no evidence that it was true.

"No," she wailed. "Roderick wasn't murdered; he died in a car crash."

So she knew of Roderick Ward.

"That's what it was meant to look like," I said. "Who killed him?"

"I didn't kill anybody," she shouted.

"Someone did," I said. "Was it Ewen?"

"Ewen?" She almost laughed. "The only thing Ewen is interested in is bloody horses. That and whisky. Horses all day and whisky all night."

Perhaps that explained her sexually flirtatious nature-she couldn't get any satisfaction in the marital bed, so she had looked elsewhere.

"So who killed Roderick Ward?" I asked her again.

"No one," she said. "I told you. He died in a car crash."

"Who says so?" I asked. She didn't respond. I looked down at her. "Do you know what the sentence is for being an accessory to murder?" There was still no response. "Life in prison," I said. "That's a very long time for someone as young as you."

"I told you, I didn't murder anyone." She was now crying again.

"But do you think a jury will believe you once they've convicted you for blackmail?" She went on crying, the tears smudging her mascara and dripping black marks onto the white bed linens. "So tell me, who did kill Roderick Ward?" I asked.

She didn't say anything; she just buried her face in a pillow and sobbed.

"You will tell me," I said. "Eventually. Are you aware that the maximum sentence for blackmail is fourteen years?"

That brought her head back up. "No." It was almost a plea.

"Oh yes," I said. "And the same for conspiracy to blackmail."

I knew. I'd looked it up on the Internet.

"Where's the money?" I asked, changing direction.

"What money?" she said.

"The money you collected yesterday from Newbury."

"In my handbag," she whimpered.

"And how about the rest of it?"

"The rest?" she said.