Felix Francis - Dick Francis's Gamble

“What about?” I asked.

“You,” she said. “He’s absolutely livid. Claims you’ve brought the whole firm into disrepute. He wants your head on a stick.”

“But why?” I asked, rather worried. “What have I done?”

“Don’t you know?”

“No,” I said.

“Read the front page of the Racing Post .”

Iwent along the hall to check on Sherri Kovak. Her long blond hair was obscuring her face so I waited in the doorway for a few seconds listening to her breathing. She was sound asleep. Best thing for her, I thought. Sadly, the horrors of real life would still be waiting for her when she woke.

As quietly as I could, I slipped out the front door and walked down towards Hendon Central in search of a newsagent’s.

I could see the problem even before I picked up the paper. The inch-high bold headline read:

FOXY FOXTON AND BILLY SEARLE IN £100,000 GAMBLE?

I bought the paper with shaking hands and stood reading it in the shop.

In addition to the headline there were photographs of Billy and me, mine taken during my racing days, wearing racing colors and cap.

The article beneath was as equally damning as the headline:

Leading National Hunt jockey Billy Searle was observed in a heated argument at Cheltenham Races yesterday with former fellow jockey Nick (Foxy) Foxton. The topic of their acrimonious exchange? Money.

According to the Racing Post correspondent at the track, the amount under discussion was in excess of a hundred thousand pounds, with Searle demanding instant payment of this amount, which he claimed he was owed by Foxton. At one point Searle was heard to ask why he, Foxton, wanted to murder Searle. Could this all be connected with Foxy’s new job at City financial firm Lyall & Black, where he gambles daily with other people’s money on the stock markets?

Well-known trainer, Martin Gifford, stated that Foxton had informed him on Tuesday that Herbert Kovak, the man whose murder last Saturday led to the postponement of the Grand National, was Foxton’s best friend and a fellow stock market speculator who had also worked for Lyall & Black. Gifford implied that Foxton may have known more about the killing than he was telling.

Not surprisingly, people yesterday were asking if Foxton’s argument with Searle could have had some sinister connection to the Aintree murder. The Rules of Racing clearly ban gambling by professional jockeys, but no such restriction applies to former jockeys. The Racing Post will endeavor to keep its readers up to date with this story.

The article cleverly didn’t actually accuse Billy Searle or me of any wrongdoing, it merely asked leading questions. But there was little doubt that the tone of the piece was designed to imply there was a criminal conspiracy between us, which also had something to do with the death of Herb Kovak.

No wonder Gregory Black was steaming around the office fit to burst.

I was surprised my phone wasn’t ringing off the hook.

Bugger, I thought. What should I do now?

I called Patrick on his mobile. I didn’t fancy using the office number just in case Gregory himself answered, as we all sometimes did if the receptionists were busy on other calls.

“Hello, Nicholas,” said Patrick. “I thought I told you to be discreet. I hear that Gregory’s after your blood. I’d keep your head down if I were you.”

“I will,” I said. “But it’s all a pack of lies.”

“You know that, and I know that. But, unfortunately, John Doe on the street will believe what he reads in the paper.”

“But they have completely distorted the truth. It’s so unfair.”

“Tell that to the politicians.” He laughed. “I have already told Gregory not to believe what he reads, but he says, quite rightly, that you shouldn’t have been having a public argument with a client in the first place. He’s pretty mad.”

“It wasn’t an argument,” I claimed in my defense. “Billy Searle just started shouting and swearing at me for no reason.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Patrick said. “It’ll all blow over in a couple of days.”

I wish he’d been right.

Iwalked back to Herb’s flat hardly feeling my feet on the pavement.

What a bloody mess.

I could imagine that Billy Searle wasn’t too happy about it either. I thought the last thing he’d want would be the racing authorities asking him questions about why he needed a hundred thousand pounds so urgently.

I let myself in through Herb’s front door and went to check again on Sherri. She hadn’t moved and was still sound asleep. I left her alone and went back to the living room, where I sat at Herb’s desk wishing I’d brought my laptop with me. It was lying on the kitchen table in Finchley and I was tempted to go home to fetch it. Instead I called Claudia.

“Hi, it’s me,” I said when she answered.

“Hi, you,” she replied.

“Could you bring my computer over to Herb’s flat?” I said. “His sister has turned up, and she didn’t know he was dead. She’s sleeping now, but I don’t feel I can leave her for long. I’ll stay and work here, but I do need my laptop.” I decided against mentioning as yet the unwelcome coverage in the Racing Post .

There was a slight pause.

“OK,” Claudia said in a slightly irritated tone.

“It’s not very far,” I said encouragingly. “Use the car. You won’t need to park or anything, just drop it off.”

“OK,” she said again, lacking enthusiasm. “But I was just going out.”

Bloody hell, I thought. It wasn’t very much to ask.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Oh, nowhere,” she said. “Just to have coffee with a friend.”

“Who?”

“No one you know,” she said evasively.

Probably one of her artist friends. I didn’t know them and I didn’t really want to. Some of them were as weird as her paintings.

“Please, Claudia,” I said firmly, “I need it here so I can do my job.” And to bring in the money so you can live rent free, I thought, but didn’t say.

“OK,” she said once more, resigned. “Where is the flat?”

I gave her the address, and she promised she would bring the computer right over.

While I waited I went through the piles of papers on Herb’s desk, those remaining after the chief inspector had taken his box away.

There were the usual clutter of utility bills and debit card receipts interleaved with financial services’ magazines, insurance documents and some personal letters. I glanced through them all but nothing gave any clue to who would want Herb dead or how he came to gamble away a hundred thousand pounds a month on the Internet.

I didn’t expect them to. I assumed that the police would have removed anything of interest.

Next I went through the desk drawers. There were three on each side, and the ones on the left contained such exciting items as a stapler with spare staples, various-sized brown envelopes, paper and ink cartridges for the printer, a pack of permanent markers in bright colors, a plastic tub of large paper clips and a calculator.

Those on the right were only partially more interesting, with a large pile of paid bills, various income tax papers, a copy of Herb’s U.S. tax return, a rubber-band-bound stack of received Christmas cards and a plastic folder containing monthly pay slips from Lyall & Black.

I was curious to see that Herb had been paid somewhat more than I was, no doubt due to his three years’ prior experience at J.P. Morgan Asset Management in New York before moving to London. Now that I was Patrick’s most senior assistant, I would have to have a discussion with him about a raise.