Dick Francis - Under Orders

‘But there was only one shot fired from the revolver?’

‘How do you know?’ I asked him.

‘According to Johnson, there was only one spent cartridge in the cylinder.’

‘But the murderer could have replaced one of the empty cartridges with a new one.’

‘Then why wasn’t a second bullet found?’ Carlisle asked.

‘Perhaps Inspector Johnson wasn’t really looking for one.’

I went to Newbury races still turning over and over in my head whether I should, or would, ask around about Huw Walker and Bill Burton again. It was one thing to discuss the matter with Carlisle but somehow to continue to sow seeds of doubt over the guilt-driven suicide theory here at the races might be considered reckless and ill-advised after the previous evening’s little message to Marina.

I waved my plastic hand at the man at the gate who waved back and beckoned me in like a long-lost friend. I parked in the trainers’ and jockeys’ car park, as usual.

A large Jaguar pulled up alongside my car and Andrew Woodward climbed out.

‘Hello, Sid,’ he said. ‘How are things?’

‘Fine, thank you, Mr Woodward.’ I’d never called him Andrew.

‘Good.’ He didn’t really sound as if he meant it. ‘I’m told that I should consult you.’

‘What about?’ I asked.

‘A reference. I’m appointing a second assistant at my yard. I’ve too many horses for just one now.’

I remembered that Jonny Enstone had transferred his allegiance and there were probably others too.

‘What can I do for you?’

‘Everyone tells me that I should get the applicants checked out by Halley.’ His tone implied that he didn’t agree. ‘I reckon I’m a good judge of character and I think I’ve made up my mind but, as you’re here, will you?’

‘Will I what?’

‘Will you give me an opinion of my chosen candidate?’

‘I’ll give you one for free if I know anything about him.’

‘Her, actually. Girl called Juliet Burns. Used to work for Burton.’

‘I know her,’ I said.

Hasn’t taken her long to look for a new job, I thought.

‘Well, what do you think?’

‘I don’t know her very well, but I was a friend of her father and I knew her as a child. I’ve met her at Burton’s place a couple of times recently.’ I didn’t tell him that one of them was immediately after she had found her boss with half his head blown away.

I recalled the evening she did the stable round. ‘She seems to get on with the horses all right. I could do a more detailed check on her references, if you’d like.’

‘I knew it would be a waste of time to ask you. Anyone could have told me that,’ he sneered. ‘I don’t know what people see in you — you’re just an ex-jockey.’

He turned to walk away.

‘I know that two of your lady owners pay you no training fees and that you only use their names to market your yard.’

He turned back slowly. ‘That’s rubbish,’ he said.

‘You own the horses yourself.’

There was nothing illegal in it but it was a minor deceit of the betting public that was not approved of by the Jockey Club. I decided it would be prudent not to mention to him that I also knew he was having an affair with one of the ladies in question.

‘You’re only guessing,’ he said.

‘As you like.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I just know.’ I didn’t tell him that the lady owner he was not having the affair with had supplied me with both bits of information because she was jealous of the other.

‘Who else knows this?’ he demanded.

‘No one,’ I said, ‘not yet.’

‘Keep your bloody mouth shut, do you hear, or you’ll regret it.’ He turned and strode away towards the racecourse entrance.

Damn, I thought. Why did I rise to that little insult? Why did I feel the need to show him that I was not just an ex-jockey? Why had I made an enemy of him when friends are what I needed to do my job? That was stupid, very stupid.

I spent a depressing afternoon avoiding Andrew Woodward and not mentioning Huw Walker or Bill Burton to anyone. Even the weather conspired to deepen my depression by turning from a bright crisp morning into a cold damp dull afternoon and I had no coat. I’d left it in London due to our hasty departure the previous evening.

Andrew Woodward won the big race and stood beaming in the rain as he received the trophy on behalf of one of his non-paying owners who had had the good sense not to be present.

Beaming, that is, until he saw me watching him. I had carelessly allowed myself to be in view and his expression of thunder showed that his antipathy towards me had deepened.

I’d actually been daydreaming about how I might pluck out one of his unsuspecting hairs to check on his DNA. He had very few remaining on the top of his head and kept those firmly out of sight beneath a brown trilby. It wasn’t going to be as easy as Marina had suggested to acquire the necessary follicles, not from him anyway.

I retreated out of his eye-line and found myself standing on the weighing room steps next to Peter Enstone who was dressed in breeches and boots.

‘Hello, Peter,’ I said. ‘What are you riding?’

‘Hi, Sid. I’m on a no-hoper in the last. A waste of space called Roadtrain.’

‘Good luck.’

‘Thanks.’ He turned to go inside, into the warm.

‘Oh, Peter,’ I called after him, ‘do you know how long your father has been a director of Make A Wager Ltd?’

I already knew the answer to my question from the Companies House website but I wanted to see if Peter knew of the connection.

‘Oh, for years,’ he said. ‘Dad helped George set up the company. He’s been a director right from the start. Non-executive.’

‘Did he know George before the company was formed?’

‘Absolutely. We’ve known George for ever. Sorry, Sid, must dash.’

He disappeared into the changing room, the holy of holies that I was no longer able to enter.

So Jonny Enstone and George Lochs/Clarence Lochstein go back a long way. How did they meet? I wondered.

I sought out Paddy O’Fitch. If anyone here knew the answer it would be him.

‘Hi, Paddy.’ I found him in the bar under the Berkshire Stand.

‘Hello, Sid, me old mucker. D’ya fancy a Guinness?’

‘No, Paddy, but I expect you do.’

I ordered a pint of the black stuff for him and a diet Coke for me. It was an unwritten rule that if I were seeking information it would cost me a drink, at least.

He took a long draught, finally appearing for breath with a creamy-white moustache that he wiped away on his left sleeve.

‘Now, Sid,’ he grinned, ‘what is it ya’d be after?’

‘Jonny Enstone.’

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘the good lord. What’s he done to ya?’

‘Nothing. In fact, I recently had lunch with him.’

‘Did ya indeed,’ he said. ‘Did he pay?’

‘Absolutely. We were discussing business.’

‘What business?’

‘His, not yours,’ I said with a smile.

‘Come on, Sid,’ he said, ‘I’m the very model of discretion.’

Indiscretion is more like it, I thought. Paddy knew everything there was to know about racing and racing people but he liked others to know he did, so he was forever telling little secrets to anyone who would listen. He didn’t do it with any malice, he just did it.

‘How about George Lochs?’

‘Ah,’ he said again, ‘young Lochs. Bit of a calculator on legs, he is. Real whiz kid.’

‘What might connect George Lochs and Jonny Enstone?’ I asked.

‘What’s this, a quiz?’

‘Do you know?’

‘Come off it, Sid. Ask me another. Dat one’s far too easy.’

‘What’s the answer then?’