Dick Francis - Under Orders

‘All your bloody fault,’ he’d said.

‘How come?’

‘You remember that last time when the paper went after you?’ he’d said. ‘You know, all that stuff a few years ago.’

I’d nodded. How could I forget.

‘Well, nothing gets in now unless it’s passed by the libel lawyers and they’re pretty tight after you took us to the cleaners.’

I hadn’t. They had got off lightly.

Now I made six further copies on to VHS tapes between performing my nursing and domestic duties around the flat. I steamed some salmon fillets in the microwave for dinner and Marina and I ate them in front of the television with trays on our laps.

Marina’s salmon remained only half eaten as she watched the tape with growing fascination.

‘I really don’t think I want to meet this Peter,’ she said.

‘You already have,’ I said. ‘He was wearing motorcycle leathers.’

‘Oh, yes. So he was.’ She rubbed her knee.

My phone rang. It was Chris Beecher.

‘It’s all in,’ he said. ‘Front page! They allowed me to do the lot.’ He was very excited.

‘Good,’ I said, ‘you’ve done well.’ It was under seven hours since we had left Lambourn.

‘Where’s Juliet?’ I asked him.

‘Bricking herself in the Donnington Valley Hotel,’ he said. ‘She has tried to call me on my mobile at least fifteen times but I won’t answer. She leaves messages saying she doesn’t want to be named. Bit late now!’ He laughed. ‘If she wanted it off the record, she should have said so at the beginning, not after the event.’

‘Will she stay there?’ I asked.

‘What would you do?’ he said. ‘I don’t reckon she’ll go back to her place. I think we can safely say that young Mr Peter is not going to be best pleased with her in the morning. If I were in her shoes I’d stay put in the hotel and keep my head down.’

In her Jimmy Choo shoes, I thought. Young Mr George is not going to be too pleased with her, either.

‘Right then,’ I said. ‘Now that I know that the story will definitely be in the paper tomorrow, I’ll get these other tapes off to their new homes.’

‘Yes,’ Chris said, ‘and… thanks, Sid. Guess I owe you one.’

‘More than one, you bugger.’

He laughed and hung up. He wasn’t a bad soul, but I still wouldn’t be sharing any of my secrets with him in the future. Not unless I wanted to read them in the paper.

I spent some time packing the six videotapes into large white padded envelopes and then went round to Victoria Station to await the papers. I made sure that the door was properly locked and told Marina not to open it under any circumstances, even if someone shouted that the building was burning down.

At ten minutes past eleven, I watched a bale of Pump s being thrown out of a delivery van. It was tied up with string but the paper’s headline was clearly visible.

‘MURDERER’ it read across the whole width, above a large smiling photograph of Peter Enstone. The picture editor obviously had a sense of humour. He had chosen to show an old shot of Peter in bow-tie and dinner jacket receiving the prize for Best Young Amateur Rider at an annual racing awards dinner.

I waited impatiently while the news-stand staff cut the strings and stacked the papers on a shelf. I suddenly felt very vulnerable as I picked up seven copies and stood there, in the open, paying for them. I could clearly feel the hairs rising on the back of my neck.

I turned round and looked behind me but, of course, there was no one there. Just some late-night revellers making their unsteady way to their trains home.

With the papers safely tucked under my arm, I went swiftly back to the flat to find that all was well, and not a fire to be seen. I let myself in and locked the door behind me. Marina and I sat at either end of the sofa and each read a copy of The Pump .

Chris Beecher had done a great job. Everything was there. Juliet’s story was largely quoted word for word and there were pictures of Huw Walker and Bill Burton, and one each of Jonny Enstone and George Lochs. I was pleased to note that my usual Pump mug shot was not included. Indeed, there was hardly a mention of me by name at all, except as the partner of the girl who had been shot in London.

It was a true hatchet job with the comment section of the paper getting in on the act to criticise Enstone senior for having produced such a monster.

I was still packing the relevant pages of The Pump into the padded envelopes at a quarter to midnight when the buzzer of the internal phone sounded outside the kitchen door. The porter/security downstairs informed me that my pre-ordered late-night courier service had arrived.

I took five of the envelopes downstairs with me in the lift. I was slightly taken aback to find a motorcyclist in reception dressed in black leathers and wearing a full-face helmet, but he turned out to be the real thing, a courier and not a gunman. He took the packages and assured me they would be delivered during the night.

‘The first three can arrive any time you like,’ I said. ‘The fourth must arrive after five o’clock when you’ll probably find him feeding his cattle. And the fifth should be delivered last, on your way back.’

‘Right.’ His voice was muffled by the helmet that he seemed determined not to remove. He stuffed the packages in a bag and swung it onto his back.

‘Don’t go to sleep and fall off your bike,’ I said.

‘I won’t,’ he mumbled, and left.

What would be his route, I wondered. New Scotland Yard first, I expected, for Detective Superintendent Aldridge, then on to Thames Valley Police headquarters in Oxfordshire to drop the one for Inspector Johnson. Then down to Cheltenham to deliver the one for my friend Chief Inspector Carlisle. Next to South Wales, to Brecon, to find Evan Walker’s farm for package four.

Finally, on his way back, the motorcyclist’s last stop was to be at the House of Lords. Package five was for his lordship. The videotape was in case he didn’t believe what he read in the newspapers.

The bodyguard I had arranged for Marina arrived promptly at eight and turned out to be a six-foot-two ex-Marine with biceps bigger than my thighs. The biceps, along with an impressive pair of pecs and assorted other bulging muscles that I didn’t even know existed, were squeezed into a bottle-green T-shirt that looked to be at least two sizes too small.

He dismissed my suggestion that he should sit in reception and wait for Marina to come down when she went out to lunch. No good, he said. He wanted to have ‘the target’ in sight at all times.

I said I would rather he did not refer to Marina as ‘the target’ and he couldn’t have her in sight at all times as she was still in her dressing gown and was about to have a shower. He covered his disappointment well.

In the end, he settled for a chair outside the flat door, opposite the lift.

‘But how about the windows?’ he asked. ‘Someone could come through one.’

‘We’ll take our chances,’ I said. After all, as I pointed out to him, we were on the fourth floor. But he still wasn’t happy.

However, it was a great relief to see him there when I left for Archie Kirk’s office at nine to deliver the last of the videotape packages. And, in the interests of my own security, I telephoned for a taxi that was waiting for me at the front entrance of the building with its engine running for a quick getaway.

‘Well, you have caused a bit of a stir,’ Archie said as I arrived.

I needn’t have bothered to bring the pages of The Pump as he already had a copy open on his desk.

‘Is it all true?’ he said.

‘Perfectly,’ I said. ‘And the full interview with the girl is on this tape.’