Dick Francis - Under Orders

I handed the sixth package to him.

‘Thank you.’ He took it. ‘Good job that truth is now a defence against libel.’

‘Hasn’t it always been?’ I asked.

‘Good God, no,’ he said. ‘In the past, one could be guilty of criminal libel even if you were telling the truth. Just to ruin someone’s reputation was enough despite the fact that they may have deserved to have it ruined. The European Convention on Human Rights has stopped all that. No one can now be convicted for telling the truth.’

Tell that, I thought, to the mothers of the cot death babies sent to prison for murder due to the erroneous evidence of a so-called medical expert.

‘I will leave it to you to decide who gets the information on the internet gambling and gaming,’ I said. ‘I realise it was not really what you wanted but it’s a start and I will do a bit more digging before you get my final report.’

‘What do you think will happen?’ he asked.

‘About the murders,’ I said, ‘or the gambling?’

‘Both.’

‘I hope the police pick up Peter Enstone pretty quickly. I don’t think Marina, that’s my girlfriend, is very safe with him on the loose. Then, with luck, there will be enough evidence to remand him in custody, and then to convict. I think there should be.’

‘And make-a-wager.com?’ said Archie.

‘I think it will be far more difficult to prove anything against George Lochs. He’s a very sharp cookie indeed and he will have covered his tracks very carefully. However, punters like to have confidence when they gamble and all this is going to severely shake their trust in his website.’

‘And I’m sure you could help to further undermine that trust,’ he said, spreading his hands wide.

‘Indeed, I could,’ I said with a smile. ‘And I think I just might. Especially the trust required for on-line gaming. If I can show that he has been involved with some dodgy dealings with race fixing, it is only a small step for people to believe that he has also been fixing the games on his website. I think the earnings and value of Make A Wager Ltd are about to take a major dip in the market.’

‘George made a wager, and lost,’ he said.

I left Archie still chuckling at his little joke and took another taxi back to Ebury Street. My Charles Atlas look-alike was still on guard outside the door. I wondered if he ever went to the lavatory.

Jenny arrived on the dot of twelve thirty as promised. In spite of being announced from downstairs and being met by me at the lift, she was still keenly scrutinised by the bodyguard who insisted on looking in her handbag before he would allow her into the flat.

‘But I know this person,’ I said. All too well.

‘Sir,’ he said, sounding a little patronising, ‘most people are murdered by someone they know.’

I decided against mentioning that Indira Gandhi, the former Indian prime minister, had been murdered by her bodyguards.

After an inspection of the bag had revealed nothing more lethal than half a packet of menthol cigarettes, Jenny was allowed to proceed. At least he hadn’t performed a full body search.

‘What’s that all about?’ she said.

‘The man who shot Marina is still on the loose,’ I said. ‘And I don’t want him having another go.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Was going out to lunch such a good idea after all?’

‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘We can’t hide away for ever. And I’ve arranged for Muscles out there to go with you.’ She opened her mouth. ‘It’s all right. He won’t sit at the same table. You can tie his lead to a lamppost.’

Marina was ready and itching to get out of our cramped home if only for a couple of hours.

‘Take care,’ I said as they squeezed into the lift with the muscles. They were both giggling as the doors closed. Would I ever have thought that Jenny, my ex-wife, and Marina, my future one, would be giggling together? Not in a thousand years.

I went out on to the balcony to watch them leave. The muscleman was too big to fold himself into the back seat of Jenny’s little town runabout so he rode up front while Marina sat behind. The girls were still laughing but I was happy that Muscles, at least, was taking their security seriously as he scanned every nook and cranny for potential danger. None transpired, and they drove off safely.

I was just sitting down at my computer to answer a couple of e-mails when my phone rang. It was Chief Inspector Carlisle.

‘Did you get the tape?’ I asked him.

‘Yes, thank you,’ he said. ‘Very interesting. But you should leave that sort of questioning to the police. You may have damaged the case by locking her in the room like that.’

‘But the police weren’t interested,’ I said. ‘You were too busy elsewhere and Johnson from Thames Valley believed Bill’s death was suicide. If I hadn’t questioned her, no one would have.’

‘Breaking into her house was not very wise either.’

‘I didn’t break in. She had previously shown me where she left the key, so I simply used it.’

‘A technicality,’ he said.

‘Cases hinge on technicalities,’ I said. ‘Anyway, have you caught him yet?’

‘Who?’ he said.

‘Peter Enstone, of course.’

‘Not yet, but we are now officially looking for him. An APB has been put out jointly by the Met Police, Thames Valley and us.’

It sounded a bit like ‘Hawaii Five-O’.

‘What does APB actually stand for?’ I asked.

‘All Points Bulletin,’ he said. ‘It means that various agencies like the police, immigration service, customs and so on get a list of names of people to be apprehended. It should prevent him leaving the country.’

‘If he hasn’t already done so,’ I said. ‘When did this APB get put out?’

‘Only about an hour ago, I’m afraid. The Met went to his home at nine this morning but he wasn’t there. His neighbour apparently told the officers that Enstone had just popped out for a newspaper and would soon be back. So the officers waited for him. They waited for an hour but he didn’t come back.’

God help me, I thought. Of course he didn’t come back. He would have arrived at the newsagents to find his smiling face on the front of The Pump and he would have done a runner.

‘Where else are you looking for Enstone?’ I asked.

‘Where do you suggest?’

‘How about Juliet Burns’s house,’ I said.

‘Ah, Juliet Burns,’ he repeated slowly. ‘And where is she exactly?’

‘Last I heard she was at the Donnington Valley Hotel in Newbury,’ I said, ‘but that was last night. I expect she may be in need of your protection.’

‘I’m sure we can find a secure cell for her somewhere.’

‘Don’t be too hard on her,’ I said. ‘She did help me in the end.’

‘She had better help us, too,’ he said, ‘or I will personally throw away the key to her cell.’

The buzzer sounded on the internal telephone so I went into the hallway to answer it, still holding my mobile.

‘Just a moment,’ I said to Carlisle.

‘Yes,’ I said into the internal system.

‘Charles Rowland down here for you, Mr Halley,’ said one of the porters.

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Send him up.’ He was early, no doubt eager to have another go at my whisky.

I replaced the internal phone receiver and spoke again to Carlisle. ‘I must go, my father-in-law has arrived. You will call me if you catch Peter Enstone, won’t you?’

‘Certainly will,’ he said, and we hung up.

I went out to the lift to meet Charles, but it wasn’t Charles in the lift.

It was the smiling man from the front page of The Pump .

Only he wasn’t smiling now.

He held a black revolver very steadily in his right hand and he was pointing it right between my eyes.