Dick Francis - Enquiry

I telephoned to the orthopod who regularly patched me up after falls.

‘I want this plaster off.’

He went into a long spiel of which the gist was two or three more weeks.

‘Monday,’ I said.

‘I’ll give you up.’

‘Tuesday I start getting it off with a chisel.’

I always slept in shirt-and-shorts pyjamas, which had come in very handy in the present circs. Bedtime that day I struggled into a lime green and white checked lot I had bought in an off moment at Liverpool the year before with my mind more on the imminent Grand National than on what they would do to my yellow complexion at six on a winter’s morning.

Tony had gloomily brought me some casseroled beef and had stayed to celebrate when I told him I wouldn’t have to leave. I was out of whisky again in consequence.

When he’d gone I went to bed and read the pages which had sent me to limbo. And they were, indeed, convincing. Neatly typed, well set out, written in authoritative language. Not at first, second, or even third sight the product of malevolence. Emotionless. Cool. Damaging.

‘Charles Richard West is prepared to testify that during the course of the race, and in particular at a spot six furlongs from the winning post on the second circuit, he heard Hughes say that he (Hughes) was about to ease his horse so that it should be in no subsequent position to win. Hughes’ precise words were, “O.K. Brakes on, chaps”.’

The four other sheets were equally brief, equally to the point. One said that through an intermediary Dexter Cranfield had backed Cherry Pie with Newtonnards. The second pointed out that an investigation of past form would show that on several other occasions Cranfield’s second string had beaten his favourite. The third suggested watching the discrepancies in Hughes’ riding in the Lemonfizz and in the last race at Reading... and there it was in black and white, ‘the last race at Reading.’ Gowery hadn’t questioned it or checked; had simply sent for the last race at Reading. If he had shown it privately to Plimborne and Tring only, and not to me as well, no one might ever have realised it was the wrong race. This deliberate piece of misleading had in fact gone astray, but only just. And the rest hadn’t. Page four stated categorically that Cranfield had bribed Hughes not to win, and photographic evidence to prove it was hereby attached.

There was also a short covering note of explanation.

‘These few facts have come to my notice. They should clearly be laid before the appropriate authorities, and I am therefore sending them to you, sir, as Steward in command of the forthcoming Enquiry.’

The typewriting itself was unremarkable, the paper medium quality quarto. The paper clip holding the sheets together was sold by the hundred million, and the buff envelope in which they’d been sent cost a penny or two in any stationer’s in the country.

There were two copies only of the photograph. On the back, no identifications.

I slid them all back into the envelope, and put it in the drawer of the table beside my bed. Switched out the light. Lay thinking of riding races again with a swelling feeling of relief and excitement. Wondered how poor old Gowery was making out, going fifteen rounds with his conscience. Thought of Archie and his mortgage... Kessel having to admit he’d been wrong... Roberta stepping off her dignity... the blackmailer biting his nails in apprehension... sweet dreams every one... slid into the first easy sleep since the Enquiry.

I woke with a jolt, knowing I’d heard a sound which had no business to be there.

A pen-sized flashlight was flickering round the inside of one of the top drawers of the dressing-chest. A dark shape blocked off half of its beam as an arm went into the drawer to feel around. Cautious. Very quiet, now.

I lay watching through slit-shut eyes, wondering how close I was this time to the pearly gates. Inconveniently my pulse started bashing against my eardrums as fear stirred up the adrenals, and inside the plaster all the hairs on my leg fought to stand on end.

Trying to keep my breathing even and make no rustle with the sheets I very cautiously slid one arm over the side of the bed and reached down to the floor for a crutch. Any weapon handy was better than none.

No crutches.

I felt around, knowing exactly where I’d laid them beside me, feeling nothing but carpet under my fingers.

The flashlight moved out of the drawer and swung in a small arc while the second top drawer was opened, making the same tiny crack as it loosened which had woken me with the other. The scrap of light shone fractionally on my two crutches propped up against the wall by the door.

I drew the arm very slowly back into bed and lay still. If he’d meant just to kill me, he would have done it by now: and whatever he intended I had little chance of avoiding. The plaster felt like a ton, chaining me immobile.

A clammy crawling feeling all over my skin. Jaw tight clenched with tension. Dryness in the mouth. Head feeling as if it were swelling. I lay and tried to beat the physical sensations, tried to will them away.

No noticeable success.

He finished with the drawers. The flashlight swung over the khaki chair and steadied on the polished oak chest behind it, against the wall. He moved over there soundlessly and lifted the lid. I almost cried out to him not to, it would wake me. The lid always creaked loudly. I really didn’t want him to wake me, it was much too dangerous.

The lid creaked sharply. He stopped dead with it six inches up. Lowered it back into place. It creaked even louder.

He stood there, considering. Then there were quick soft steps on the carpet, a hand fastening in my hair and yanking my head back, and the flashlight beam full in my eyes.

‘Right, mate. You’re awake. So you’ll answer some questions.’

I knew the voice. I shut my eyes against the light and spoke in as bored a drawl as I could manage.

‘Mr Oakley, I presume?’

‘Clever Mr Hughes.’

He let go of my hair and stripped the bedclothes off with one flick. The flashlight swung away and fell on top of them. I felt his grip on my neck and the front of my shirt as he wrenched me off the bed and on to the floor. I fell with a crash.

‘That’s for starters,’ he said.

He was fast, to give him his due. Also strong and ruthless and used to this sort of thing.

‘Where is it?’ he said.

‘What?’

‘A chunk of metal with a hole in it.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

He swung his arm and hit me with something hard and knobbly. When it followed through to the tiny light I could see what it was. One of my own crutches. Delightful.

I tried to disentangle my legs and roll over and stand up. He shone the light on me to watch. When I was half up he knocked me down again.

‘Where is it?’

‘I told you...’

‘We both know, chum, that you have this chunk of metal. I want it. I have a customer for it. And you’re going to hand it over like a good little warned off crook.’

‘Go scratch yourself.’

I rolled fast and almost missed the next swipe. It landed on the plaster. Some flakes came off. Less work for Tuesday.

‘You haven’t a hope,’ he said. ‘Face facts.’

The facts were that if I yelled for help only the horses would hear.

Pity.

I considered giving him the chunk of metal with the hole in it. Correction, half a hole. He didn’t know it was only half a hole. I wondered whether I should tell him. Perhaps he’d be only half as savage.

‘Who wants it?’ I said.

‘Be your age.’ He swung the crutch.

Contact.

I cursed.

‘Save yourself, chum. Don’t be stupid.’