Dick Francis - Dead Heat

I kissed her. Perfect.

“But something is still worrying me,” she said. “Why did Komarov bomb the box at Newmarket? Surely that was stupid and dangerous.”

“I wonder if it was a punishment,” I said.

“For what?”

“Maybe Rolf Schumann was not paying his dues to Komarov.” I thought for a moment. “Perhaps he’d been using the cash from the drug and horse sales to support his ailing tractor business instead of passing it on. Maybe the bombing was a demonstration to warn Komarov’s associates in other countries around the world that he means business, and he won’t stand for anyone robbing him.”

“You mean he killed innocent people just to send a warning?” she said.

“Komarov wouldn’t care about the innocent,” I said. “Drugs kill innocent people every day, one way or another.”

TOBY WAS very moody in the morning. He snapped at the children over breakfast, and even swore at the dog in front of them. It was out of character.

He had been out on the gallops with the first string of horses at six, an unusually warm May driving them out earlier and earlier. Breakfast with the family was between the first and second lots, before the three little ones were packed off to school in the car with Sally. They were at an age when the coming and going in this house washed over their world of school, parties, television and computer games.

“Bye, Uncle Max,” they all shouted to me as they clambered into Sally’s people carrier, and then they were gone. I had left Caroline in bed, catching up on six hours’ time difference, and I had dragged myself from between the sheets only because I felt I had neglected the children the previous evening.

I went back inside and found Toby at the kitchen table trying to read the Racing Post. However, he obviously wasn’t concentrating on the newspaper, as I saw him restart the same article at least three times.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, sitting myself back down with a mug of coffee.

“Nothing,” he said, and set about reading the article for the fourth time.

“Yes there is.” I reached across the table and dragged the paper away from him. “What is it?”

He looked up at me. “Sally and I had a row.”

“I can tell,” I said. It had been obvious the whole time Sally was getting breakfast. “What about?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he stated firmly, standing up.

“It clearly does,” I said. “Is it about me?”

“I told you, it doesn’t matter.”

“So, it was about me,” I said. “Tell me.”

He didn’t answer. He turned to go out of the door, back to the stables.

“Toby,” I almost shouted, “for God’s sake, what is it?”

He stopped, but he didn’t turn around. “Sally wants you to leave here this morning,” he said. He now turned and looked at me. “She’s worried and frightened. You know, for the children.”

“Oh, is that all?” I said with a smile. “We’ll go as soon as we’re ready.”

“You don’t have to,” he said. “I put my foot down. You’re my brother, and if I can’t help you when you’re in trouble, then who will? What good am I as a brother if I throw you out of my home?”

I could hear in his voice that this was an argument well rehearsed during his row with Sally.

“It OK,” I said. “She’s right. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come here in the first place.” But I was glad I had. Toby’s knowledge of horses had been the key to everything.

“But where will you go?” he asked.

“Somewhere else,” I said. Perhaps it would be better if he didn’t know. “We’ll be gone when you get back from second lot. I’ll call you later. And thank Sally for me, for having us.”

Surprisingly, he walked across the kitchen and gave me a huge hug.

“Be careful,” he said into my ear. “Be a shame to lose you now.” He suddenly let me go, looked away as if in embarrassment and went straight outside without saying another word. Maybe he was too emotional to speak. I was.

CAROLINE AND I were packed up and away by nine-thirty. She hadn’t been too happy when I had woken her from a deep sleep, but she hadn’t protested much either.

“Where are we going?” she asked as we drove out of the gate.

“Where do you suggest?” I said.

“Somewhere with a nice soft bed.” She yawned, leaned back in the passenger’s seat and closed her eyes.

I thought about my mother’s cottage down the road. I didn’t have a key, but I knew, as I expect everyone else in East Hendred knew, that she always kept a spare under the third geranium-filled flowerpot to the left of the back door. I decided against it. If, before I went to Chicago, I had believed that it was too risky for my mother to stay there, then surely it was too dangerous for me and Caroline now.

I drove aimlessly for a while along roads I knew so well from my childhood. Maybe my conscious mind thought my driving was aimless, but subconsciously my brain took the Mondeo unerringly the twelve miles from East Hendred to the establishment overlooking the river Thames that had once been owned by my mother’s distant widowed cousin and where my passion for cooking food had been first awakened.

The place had changed during the six years since I had left. It was no longer the elegant sixteenth-century inn with restaurant that I remembered. There was a new, twenty-first-century glass extension reaching down towards the river, over what had been a well-tended lawn when I last saw it. A long brass-fronted bar had been built down one side of the old dining room, and the only food now offered was what my mother’s distant widowed cousin had always referred to with distaste as “bar snacks.”

Caroline, Viola and I sat down at an outside table with benches, set up on what once also had been part of the lawn but was now a concrete patio. Viola could not be left in the car, Caroline explained, as she was too valuable. Quite apart from the fact, Caroline added, she felt lost without her close by, to pat. At least Viola was out of sight, in her case.

It was too early for what my father had always called a proper drink, so Caroline and I had cups of coffee, while Viola just sat there. I didn’t recognize either the barman who took the order or the waitress who delivered it. I suspected that none of the happy team from six years ago would remain. But what hadn’t changed was the restful view of the ancient six-arched stone bridge that spanned the river, the endless sounds of gurgling water and the seeming calmness of a mother duck gliding along in the sunshine followed by a line of six tiny, fluffy chicks.

“What a beautiful place,” said Caroline. “Have you been here before?”

“This is where I learned to cook,” I said.

“Really.” She was surprised. She had looked at the menu while I had ordered the coffee.

“It’s changed a lot,” I said. “Where the bar is now is what used to be the restaurant. I’m rather sad to see that it’s all gone a bit down-market. The place was taken over by a chain that was obviously more interested in selling beer than in fine dining.”

“So why did we come here now?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I suppose I wanted somewhere peaceful to think, and to plan.”

“So what is the plan?” she asked eagerly.

“I don’t know that either,” I replied. “But first, I’m going to make a few calls.”

I turned on my cell phone and used it to call the car-rental company in Newmarket. No problem, they said, keep the Mondeo as long as you like. They took my credit card details and told me that I would be charged weekly. Fine, I said, and hung up.

The phone immediately rang in my hand. It was my voice-message service.

“You have six new messages,” it told me, and then played them. One was from Clare Harding, the news editor, belatedly thanking me for dinner, and the other five were all from Carl. He needed to speak with me, his disembodied voice repeatedly told me. Over the five successive messages, he became more and more agitated that I hadn’t been in touch.