Dick Francis - Dead Heat

Jacek, the man I hadn’t trusted, the kitchen porter of whom I had believed there was more to than met the eye, had been one of the good guys all the time, and he had undoubtedly saved my life.

THE POLICE arrived, in the end. And an ambulance. Caroline had indeed called the emergency number but she had apparently been too shocked to make herself understood properly. The operator had finally traced the call and dispatched help.

First Jacek, then Caroline were conveyed to hospital. I was assured by the paramedics that they would be fine but that both definitely would be admitted overnight. Caroline was suffering badly from shock, and, it appeared, would again miss out on her stay at the Bedford Lodge Hotel.

The police who had arrived in the first patrol car had no real idea how to proceed, and, it seemed to me, they spent most of their time winding blue-and-white plastic POLICE-DO NOT CROSS tape around everything while they waited for reinforcements.

I tried to leave in the ambulance with Caroline but was prevented from doing so by a policeman, who took a break from his taping long enough to insist that I stay at the restaurant to make a statement.

So, instead, I went through the office and the bar to the lobby. Richard was still lying facedown on the stone floor. I moved some of the glass fragments and kneeled down next to him. I was sure he was dead, but I felt his left wrist just to make sure. There was no pulse, and his skin was already noticeably cold to the touch. How could such a thing happen to my caring, reliable headwaiter? I knelt there for a while, resting my hand on his back, as if I could give him some comfort in death, until one of the policemen came in and told me to please leave.

The police reinforcements, when they finally arrived, took the form of some senior plainclothes detectives, a firearms squad and the bomb-disposal team from the Army.

Understandably, none of them was too eager to open the cold-room door. There was still the issue of the loaded gun inside. They decided to leave the occupants where they were for a while to cool off, literally. Three degrees centigrade would have been pretty uncomfortable even if they’d been wearing thick coats, gloves and hats. As it was, it had been a warm late-May evening, and Pyotr Komarov and George Kealy had both been in shirtsleeves. Was I bothered?

The senior officer present interviewed me briefly, and I tried to explain to him what had happened. But it was complicated, and he seemed preoccupied with the men still in the cold-room. I would be reinterviewed, he explained, at the police station later. In the morning, I hoped, yawning.

Both the police and I were required by the bomb-disposal team to leave the building while they removed the explosive, so I sat on a white plastic chair on the gravel in front of the restaurant. One of the ambulance staff came over, wrapped a red blanket around my shoulders and asked me if I was OK.

“I’m fine,” I said. It reminded me of being at Newmarket racetrack on the day of the bombing. But, this time, I really was fine. The nightmare was over.

S ix months later, I opened Maximilian’s, a modern and exciting restaurant on the south side of Berkeley Square in Mayfair serving mostly French food but with an English influence.

The opening night was a grand affair, with lots of invited guests. There was even a string quartet playing at one end of the dining room. I looked over at them, four tall, elegant young women in black dresses. I took particular notice of the viola player. She had shoulder-length light-brown hair tied back in a ponytail, bright blue eyes, high cheekbones and a longish, thin nose above a broad mouth and square-shaped jaw. She was playing a new viola-at least, it was new to her. As her left hand glided up and down the fingerboard, I could see a diamond engagement ring glistening in the light. I had given it to her on my bended knee in the kitchen just before the first guests had arrived.

“I’d always thought your name was Maxwell,” said a booming voice in my ear. It was Bernard Sims. “I hear you’ve decided to make an honest woman of the plaintiff,” he said, shaking his head but with a smile.

“Guilty,” I pleaded with a grin.

The prosecution of me under section 7 of the Food Safety Act 1990 had been dropped, and the civil poisoning case had been settled out of court with the plaintiff accepting undisclosed damages from the defendant. Caroline’s agent had tried to claim his fifteen percent of the amount, which was confidential, but Bernard had explained to him that he was entitled to commission only on her earnings and the damages had been offered and accepted not for loss of earnings but in recompense for distress caused. He hadn’t been best pleased, but, then again, it would have been very difficult for Caroline to play only eighty-five percent of an 1869 Stefano Scarampella viola.

D.I. Turner had finally returned my calls, and had come eagerly in person when I’d told him I knew who had committed the racetrack bombing at Newmarket. Since then, he had kept me up-to-date with progress in the case. Komarov had survived both the bullet wound in his leg and the hypothermia brought on by the cold-room, and had been charged with a total of twenty murders, including the cold-blooded killing of Richard, my much-missed headwaiter. Further charges of conspiracy to set off explosions and traffic drugs were expected to follow. George Kealy had also been charged with Richard’s murder, although Turner was pretty sure that he would eventually be convicted only of being an accessory to the murders because George was singing for his freedom, or, at least, for a shorter sentence. A police search of the Kealy residence had discovered boxes of the metal balls in a locked storeroom, and a similar exploration of Gary’s flat had turned up a certain silver key fob, complete with the key to my now-burned cottage front door. Many of the details had been widely reported in the newspapers, and especially by Clare Harding in the Cambridge Evening News.

As I had expected, George Kealy was Komarov’s man in the UK, just as Rolf Schumann had been in the U.S. George had been the official link between Horse Imports Ltd and Tattersalls, the bloodstock auctioneers in Newmarket, and he had even been the chairman of the East Anglia Polo Club.

Like Rolf Schumann, George had apparently been a busy boy in the drugs market, supplying some big players with a steady stream of high-quality cocaine. The coke was then cut before being passed down the chain to the street dealers and the users, with the proceeds passing back up the line. Rolf had been skimming off about half of this drug cash to keep his business afloat. It took precisely three months from the Newmarket bombing until the tractor factory closed for good. The lady in the Delafield embroidered-cushion store wouldn’t be happy.

Unlike Rolf Schumann, George it seemed had remained loyal to Komarov, at least until he had been arrested and charged with murder.

As a result of the information George was giving to the police, several big-time drug barons had received a dawn visit from one of Her Majesty’s constabularies, and they were now languishing in one of Her prisons awaiting trial. A number of other leads he had provided were also being investigated by various police forces around the world. I reckoned that the horse-breeding business in South America was about to suffer a major downturn.

Kurt and Walter, meanwhile, had been cornered by the Delafield sheriff’s department, who had wanted to question them concerning criminal damage and a vicious assault at the home of Mrs. Dorothy Schumann. Walter, the impetuous boy, had apparently tried to brain one of the sheriff’s men with a polo mallet and had been shot dead for his trouble. It was not a great loss.