Dick Francis - Dead Heat

My wandering thoughts were brought back to the television, as the Chief Constable of Suffolk police was introduced at the televised press conference. He sat, in uniform, in front of a blue board bearing the large star and crown crest of Suffolk Constabulary.

“Our investigations,” he began, “are continuing into the explosion at Newmarket races on Saturday. I can confirm that, as of now, eighteen people are known to have lost their lives. Whereas next of kin have been informed where possible, there are still some victims whose families have as yet been impossible to contact. I cannot therefore give a full list of victims. However, I have the names of fourteen of those known to have died.”

He read them out slowly, pausing dramatically after each name.

Some I didn’t recognize, but others I knew all too well.

MaryLou Fordham, as expected, was on the list. So was Elizabeth Jennings, the tease. There was no mention of Rolf Schumann. And just when I was beginning to hope that Louisa had survived, the Chief Constable said, “And, finally, Louisa Whitworth.”

I sat there, stunned. I suppose I should not have been greatly surprised. I had seen the devastation in that room for myself, and the surprise was that so many had lived, not that Louisa had died. But with Robert being alive, I had hoped against reason that Louisa was alive too.

The press conference continued, but I wasn’t really listening. I could picture Louisa as I had last seen her, in a white blouse and black skirt, hurrying around the tables, doing her job. She had been a smart girl with, at nineteen years old, a great future. Having achieved better-than-expected results on her examinations, she had been toying with the idea of going to college. In the meantime, she had worked for me since September, and had been saving to go away to South America with her boyfriend. How bloody unfair, I thought. Cut down, with her whole life ahead of her. How could anyone have done such a thing?

Another policeman on the television was holding up a diagram, a map of the boxes in the Newmarket Head On Grandstand.

“The bomb was placed here,” he said, pointing, “inside the air conditioner in box 1, just above the main window at the front of the room. Consequently, the bomb was between those people inside the room and those on the viewing balcony outside. We estimate that some five pounds of high explosive was used, and this was sufficient to cause considerable structural problems within the building. The majority of those killed or injured were subject to blast damage, although one person lost her life as a result of being hit by flying masonry.”

In the wrong place at the wrong time, but so were we all.

The Chief Constable took over again.

“There has been some speculation in the media that the bomb was planted in an attempt to assassinate a foreign national.” He paused. “Whereas it is too early for us to comment, I can confirm that the occupants of box number 1 were switched with box 6 down the corridor. This switch had been made at the request of the new occupants of box 1 since they would then be able to accommodate a larger party in boxes 1 and 2 with the dividing wall folded away between them instead of having two separate rooms as originally allocated. The switch was made early last week. It would appear that the explosive device was detonated by a timing mechanism. We have yet been unable to establish for how long the device had been in situ and therefore we have to consider the possibility that it was intended for a different target than that actually hit.” He paused again before adding, “As part of the security check for the foreign national, the air conditioner in box 6 was opened and inspected early on Saturday morning and found to be clear.”

Oh great, I thought.

The press conference went on for a while longer, but it was clear that the police had no idea who was responsible and seemingly no leads to act on.

My phone rang.

“Hello,” I answered.

“Chef?” said a voice. “Gary here. Are you coming to work?”

Gary was my sous-chef, my underchef. My apprentice.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“At the Net,” he said. He always referred to the restaurant as “the Net.” “But I can’t get into the kitchen.”

“I know,” I said. I looked at my watch: ten-fifteen. Our normal start time was ten. “Who else is there?”

“Ray, Julie and Jean are here, and the kitchen porters are somewhere around,” he said. “Oh, and Martin’s here too,” he added.

Martin, my barman, must have recovered, I thought. It was he who had gone to the hospital on Friday night.

“How about Richard and Carl?” I asked.

“No sign of them,” he said. “Nor of Robert and Louisa.”

He obviously hadn’t heard about Louisa.

“Tell everyone to go into the dining room and wait for me,” I said. “Tell Martin to make some coffee using the bar machine.” He could do that without going into the kitchen.

“How about milk?” he asked. It was in the cold-room.

“Drink it black. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

IT ACTUALLY TOOK me twenty minutes to reach the restaurant, not least because my car was still at the racetrack and I had to phone for a taxi. By the time I arrived, Richard had made it there as well, and he had brought with him the bad news about Louisa. Julie and Jean were in tears and consoling each other, and Ray, Martin and Gary just sat in silence with their heads bowed. Louisa had been a very popular member of the team and was loved by us all. Martin asked me about Robert, and I was able to assure them that he was all right. But it did little to lighten the mood. Richard was expressing his anger at the “bastards” who had done this. He kept banging his fist on the table, and, in the end, I suggested it might be best if he went outside to cool off. I could see him through the window kicking a tree near the parking lot. He was in his mid-forties, and was my maître d’, meeting and greeting the customers and taking their dinner orders as they enjoyed a drink in the bar. Louisa had been his own teenage daughter’s best friend at school, and I knew that he thought of her as an extension of his family. It had been because of Richard that Louisa had come to work at Hay Net, and he now probably felt in some way responsible. His anger was directed not just at the bastards who did this but at the whole situation that had led to her death.

Carl arrived to join this happy throng.

“Hi,” he said to me. “How’s the knee?”

“I’ll survive.”

“Pity.” He forced a smile. I knew he slightly resented having a boss who was ten years his junior, especially one who took all the credit when Carl thought he had done the lion’s share of the work. But I paid him well, so he stayed.

I convened a meeting in the dining room. Richard came in from the parking lot with red and tearful eyes, Julie and Jean still clung to each other, with Martin fussing over them both, and Ray and Gary sat close together facing me. I suddenly wondered if they were, in fact, a couple. Our two kitchen porters had wandered off somewhere, but I wasn’t so concerned about them.

“It is absolutely dreadful news about Louisa, and I know that we are all angry and disturbed by her death.” Richard nodded furiously. “This has been an appalling weekend for everyone in Newmarket, and especially for us who were involved with the event on Saturday.”

“I feel so guilty,” said Richard, interrupting.

“Why guilty?” I asked.

“Because I was meant to be there on Saturday,” he said, “but I didn’t go because I was so unwell on Friday night. Maybe I could have saved her if I’d been there.” He started crying again.

“Richard,” I said, “you mustn’t blame yourself. If you were there, you might have been killed too.”