Дик Фрэнсис - Slay-Ride

‘Oh, ‘she said. ‘Oh God...’

‘It’s all right You were dreaming. It was only a dream.’

Her mind finished the transition to consciousness, but she was neither reassured nor comforted.

‘I dreamed he was in jail... there were bars... and he was trying to get out... frantically... and I asked him why he wanted to get out, and he said they were going to execute him in the morning... and then I was talking to someone in charge and I said what had he done, why were they going to execute him, and this man said... he’d stolen the racecourse... and the law said that if people stole racecourses they had to be executed...’

She rubbed a hand over her face.

‘It’s so silly,’ she said. ‘But it seemed so real.’

‘Horrid,’ I said.

She said with desolation, ‘But where is he? Why doesn’t he write to me? How can he be so cruel?’

‘Perhaps there’s a letter waiting at home.’

‘No. I telephone... every day.’

I said, ‘Are you... well... are you happy together?’

‘Yes,’ she said firmly, but after five silent seconds the truer version came limping out. ‘Sometimes we have rows. We had one the day he came here. All morning. And it was over such a little thing... just that he’d spent a night away when he didn’t have to... I’d not been feeling well and I told him he was selfish and thoughtless... and he lost his temper and said I was too damn demanding... and I said I wouldn’t go with him to Kempton then, and he went silent and sulky because he was going to ride the favourite in the big race and he always likes to have me there after something like that, it helps him unwind.’ She stared into a past moment she would have given the world to change. ‘So he went on his own. And from there to Heathrow for the six-thirty to Oslo, same as usual. Only usually I went with him, to see him off and take the car home.’

‘And meet him again Sunday night?’

‘Yes. On Sunday night when he didn’t come back at the right time I was worried sick that he’d had a fall in Norway and hurt himself, and I telephoned to Gunnar Holth... but he said Bob hadn’t fallen, he’d ridden a winner and got round in the other two races, and as far as he knew he’d caught the plane as planned. So I rang the airport again... I’d rung them before, and they said the plane had landed on time... and I begged them to check and they said there was no Sherman on the passenger list...’ She stopped and I waited, and she went on in a fresh onslaught of misery, ‘Surely he knew I didn’t really mean it? I love him... Surely he wouldn’t just leave me, without saying a word?’

It appeared, however, that he had.

‘How long have you been married?’

‘Nearly two years.’

‘Children?’

She glanced down at the brown and white checked mound and gestured towards it with a flutter of slender fingers. ‘This is our first.’

‘Finances?’

‘Oh... all right, really.’

‘How really?’

‘He had a good season last year. We saved a bit then. Of course he does like good suits and a nice car... All jockeys do, don’t they?’

I nodded. I knew also more about her husband’s earnings than she seemed to, as I had access to the office which collected and distributed jockeys’ fees; but it wasn’t so much the reasonable income that was significant as the extent to which they lived within it.

‘He does get keen on schemes for making money quickly, but we’ve never lost much. I usually talk him out of it. I’m not a gambler at all, you see.’

I let a pause go by. Then, ‘Politics?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Is he interested in communism?’

She stared. ‘Good heavens, no.’

‘Militant in any way?’

She almost laughed. ‘Bob doesn’t give a damn for politics or politicians. He says they’re all the same, hot air and hypocrisy. Why do you ask such an extraordinary question?’

I shrugged. ‘Norway has a common frontier with Russia.’

Her surprise was genuine on two counts: she didn’t know her geography and she did know her husband. He was not the type to exchange good suits and a nice car and an exciting job for a dim existence in a totalitarian state.

‘Did he mention any friends he had made here?’

‘I’ve seen nearly everyone I can remember him talking about. I’ve asked them over and over... Gunnar Holth, and his lads, and Mr Kristiansen, and the owners. The only one I haven’t met is one of the owner’s sons, a boy called Mikkel. Bob mentioned him once or twice... he’s away at school now, or something.’

‘Was Bob in any trouble before this?’

She looked bewildered. ‘What sort?’

‘Bookmakers?’

She turned her head away and I gave her time to decide on her answer. Jockeys were not allowed to bet, and I worked for the Jockey Club.

‘No,’ she said indistinctly.

‘You might as well tell me,’ I said. ‘I can find out. But you would be quicker.’

She looked back at me, perturbed. ‘He only bets on himself, usually,’ she said defensively. ‘It’s legal in a lot of countries.’

‘I’m only interested in his betting if it’s got anything to do with his disappearance. Was anyone threatening him for payment?’

‘Oh.’ She sounded forlorn, as if the one thing she did not want to be given was a good reason for Bob to steal a comparatively small sum and ruin his life for it.

‘He never said... I’m sure he would have told...’ She gulped. ‘The police asked me if he was being blackmailed. I said no, of course not... but if it was to keep me from knowing something... how can I be sure? Oh, I do wish, I do wish he’d write to me...’

Tears came in a rush and spilled over. She didn’t apologise, didn’t brush them away, and in a few seconds they had stopped. She had wept a good deal, I guessed, during the past three weeks.

‘You’ve done all you can here,’ I said. ‘Better come back with me on Monday afternoon.’

She was surprised and disappointed. ‘You’re going back so soon? But you won’t have found him.’

‘Probably not. But I’ve a meeting in London on Tuesday that I can’t miss. If it looks like being useful I’ll come back here afterwards, but for you, it’s time now to go home.’

She didn’t answer at once, but finally, in a tired, quiet, defeated voice, said ‘All right.’

Arne was having difficulty with his complex, constantly looking over his shoulder to the extent of making forward locomotion hazardous. Why he should find any threat in the cheerful frost-bitten looking crowd which had turned up at 0vrevoll for the Norsk Grand National was something between him and his psychiatrist, but as usual his friends were suffering from his affliction.

He had refused, for instance, to drink a glass of wine in a comfortable available room with a king-sized log fire. Instead we were marching back and forth outside, him, me, and Per Bjørn Sandvik, wearing out shoe leather and turning blue at the ears, for fear of bugging machines. I couldn’t see how overhearing our present conversation could possibly benefit anyone, but then I wasn’t Arne. And at least this time, I thought philosophically, we would not be mown down by a speedboat.

As before, he was ready for the outdoor life: a blue padded hood joined all in one to his anorak. Per Bjørn Sandvik had a trilby. I had my head. Maybe one day I would learn.

Sandvik, one of the Stewards, was telling me again at first hand what I’d already read in the statements: how Bob Sherman had had access to the money.

‘It’s collected into the officials’ room, you see, where it is checked and recorded. And the officials’ room is in the same building as the jockeys’ changing room. Right? And that Sunday, Bob Sherman went to the officials’ room to ask some question or other, and the money was stacked there, just inside the door. Arne saw him there himself. He must have planned at once to take it.’