Дик Фрэнсис - High Stakes

‘I don’t know,’ I said.

‘You must do.’

‘I agree it feels a bit like it, but if they did, I was unconscious.’

‘With something big and blunt,’ he added. ‘They’re large bruises.’ He pointed to several extensive reddening patches on my thighs, arms and trunk.

‘A boot?’ I said.

He looked at me soberly. ‘You’ve considered the possibility?’

‘Forced on me.’

He smiled. ‘Your friend, the one who let me in, told me you say you got drunk also while unconscious.’

‘Yes. Tube down the throat?’ I suggested.

‘Tell me the time factors.’

I did, as nearly as I could. He shook his head dubiously. ‘I wouldn’t have thought pouring neat alcohol straight into the stomach would produce that amount of intoxication so quickly. It takes quite a while for a large quantity of alcohol to be absorbed into the bloodstream through the stomach wall.’ He pondered, thinking aloud. ‘Two hundred and ninety milligrammes... and you were maybe unconscious from the bang on the head for two hours or a little more. Hm.’

He leaned forward, picked up my left forearm and peered at it closely, front and back. Then he did the same thing with the right, and found what he was looking for.

‘There,’ he exclaimed. ‘See that? The mark of a needle. Straight into the vein. They’ve tried to disguise it by a blow on top to bruise all the surrounding tissue. In a few more hours the needle mark will be invisible.’

‘Anaesthetic?’ I said dubiously.

‘My dear fellow. No. Probably gin.’

‘ Gin! ’

‘Why not? Straight into the bloodstream. Much more efficient than a tube to the stomach. Much quicker results. Deadly, really. And less effort, on the whole.’

‘But... how? You can’t harness a gin bottle to a hypodermic.’

He grinned. ‘No, no. You’d set up a drip. Sterile glucose saline drip. Standard stuff. You can buy it in plastic bags from any chemist. Pour three quarters of a pint of gin into one bag of solution, and drip it straight into the vein.’

‘But, how long would that take?’

‘Oh, about an hour. Frightful shock to the system.’

I thought about it. If it had been done that way I had been transported to London with gin dripping into my blood for most of the journey. There hadn’t been time to do it first and set off after.

‘Suppose I’d started to come round?’ I asked.

‘Lucky you didn’t, I dare say. Nothing to stop someone bashing you back to sleep, as far as I can see.’

‘You take it very calmly,’ I said.

‘So do you. And it’s interesting, don’t you think?’

‘Oh very,’ I said dryly.

Charlie and Allie stayed for lunch, which meant that they cooked omelettes for themselves and found some reasonable cheese to follow. Out in the kitchen Charlie seemed to have been filling in gaps because when they carried their trays into the sitting-room it was clear that Allie knew all that Charlie did.

‘Do you feel like eating?’ Charlie asked.

‘I do not.’

‘Drink?’

‘Shut up.’

‘Sorry.’

The body rids itself of alcohol very slowly, the doctor had said. Only at a rate of ten milligrammes per hour. There was no way of hastening the process and nothing much to be done about hangovers except endure them. People who normally drank little suffered worst, he said, because their bodies had no tolerance. Too bad, he’d said, smiling about it.

Two hundred and ninety milligrammes came into the paralytic bracket. Twenty-nine hours to be rid of it. I’d lived through about ten so far. No wonder I felt so awful.

Round a mouthful of omelette Charlie said, ‘What are you going to do about all this?’ He waved his fork from my heels to my head, still prostrate on the sofa.

‘Would you suggest going to the police?’ I asked neutrally.

‘Er...’

‘Exactly. The very same police who gave me hospitality last night and know for a certainty that I was so drunk that anything I might complain of could be explained away as an alcoholic delusion.’

‘Do you think that’s why Jody and Ganser Mays did it?’

‘Why else? And I suppose I should be grateful that all they did was discredit me, not bump me right off altogether.’

Allie looked horrified, which was nice. Charlie was more prosaic.

‘Bodies are notoriously difficult to get rid of,’ he said. ‘I would say that Jody and Ganser Mays made a rapid assessment and reckoned that dumping you drunk in London was a lot less dangerous than murder.’

‘There was another man as well,’ I said, and described my friend with sun glasses and muscles.

‘Ever seen him before?’ Charlie asked.

‘No, never.’

‘The brawn of the organisation?’

‘Maybe he has brain, too. Can’t tell.’

‘One thing is sure,’ Charlie said, ‘If the plan was to discredit you, your little escapade will be known all round the racecourse by tomorrow afternoon.’

How gloomy, I thought. I was sure he was right. It would make going to the races more uninviting than ever.

Allie said, ‘I guess you won’t like it, but if I were trying to drag your name through the mud I’d have made sure there was a gossip columnist in court this morning.’

‘Oh hell.’ Worse and worse.

‘Are you just going to lie there,’ Charlie said, ‘and let them crow?’

‘He’s got a problem,’ Allie said with a smile. ‘How come he was wandering around Jody’s stable at that time anyway?’

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Now that’s the nub of the matter, I agree. And if I tell you, you must both promise me on your souls that you will not repeat it.’

‘Are you serious?’ Allie said in surprise.

‘You don’t sound it,’ Charlie commented.

‘I am, though. Deadly serious. Will you promise?’

‘You play with too many toys. It’s childish.’

‘Many civil servants swear an oath of secrecy.’

‘Oh all right,’ Charlie said in exasperation. ‘On my soul.’

‘And on mine,’ Allie said lightheartedly. ‘Now do get on with it.’

‘I own a horse called Energise,’ I said. They both nodded. They knew. ‘I spent half an hour alone with him in a crashed horsebox at Sandown.’ They both nodded again. ‘Then I sent him to Rupert Ramsey and last Sunday morning I spent half an hour alone with him again.

‘So what?’ Charlie said.

‘So the horse at Rupert Ramsey’s is not Energise.’

Charlie sat bolt upright so quickly that his omelette plate fell on the carpet. He bent down, feeling around for bits of egg with his astounded face turned up to mine.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Definitely. He’s very like him, and if I hadn’t spent all that time in the crashed horsebox I would never have known the difference. Owners often don’t know which their horse is. It’s a standing joke. But I learnt Energise that day at Sandown. So when I visited Rupert Ramsey’s I knew he had a different horse.’

‘So,’ said Charlie slowly, ‘you went to Jody’s stable last night to see if Energise was still there.’

‘Yes.’

‘And is he?’

‘Yes.’

‘Absolutely certain?’

‘Positive. He has a slightly Arab nose, a nick near the tip of his left ear, a bald spot about the size of a twopenny piece on his shoulder. He was in box number thirteen.’

‘Is that where they found you?’

‘No. You remember, Allie, that we went to Newmarket?’

‘How could I forget?’

‘Do you remember Hermes?’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘Was that the chestnut?’

‘That’s right. Well, I went to Trevor Kennet’s stable that day with you because I wanted to see if I could tell whether the Hermes he had was the Hermes Jody had had... if you see what I mean.’