Felix Francis - Dick Francis's Gamble

William Peter Searle, the chief inspector had said when I was arrested.

That had to be Billy Searle.

So Billy had been right about one thing.

Thursday had been too late.

I suppose I couldn’t really blame the police for arresting me. Hundreds of witnesses had heard Billy shouting the previous afternoon at Cheltenham. “Why are you trying to murder me?” had been his exact words, even if the Racing Post had distorted them somewhat.

I hadn’t been trying to murder him, but I hadn’t taken him seriously either.

But to whom could Billy have owed so much money? Clearly, someone who was prepared to try to kill him for nonpayment by the Wednesday-night deadline.

I sat on one end of the cell’s fixed concrete bed and went on waiting. But I wasn’t particularly worried. I knew I had nothing to do with Billy’s or anyone else’s attempted murder and surely it would be only a matter of time before the police discovered that.

First Herb Kovak and now Billy Searle. Could the two be connected?

Thursday afternoon dragged on into early evening, and I was left alone in the cell, still waiting.

For the umpteenth time I looked at my wrist to check the time and, for the umpteenth time, saw no watch.

It had been removed when I was “checked in” to the custody suite by the custody sergeant, along with my tie, my belt, my shoelaces and the contents of my pockets, including Herb’s MoneyHome payment slips and the transaction report from the box outside Gregory’s office.

The cell door opened, and a white-shirted policeman brought in a tray that held a covered plate and a plastic bottle of water.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Seven o’clock,” he said without looking at his watch.

“How much longer am I going to be kept here?” I asked.

“The DCI will see you when he’s ready,” replied the policeman, who then placed the tray down next to me on the concrete bed and went out. The door clanged shut behind him.

I looked under the cover. Fish and chips. And quite good too.

I ate the lot and drank the water. It took about five minutes.

And then I waited some more, counting the bricks in the walls in an attempt to alleviate the boredom. It failed.

The detective chief inspector finally opened the cell door long after the barred and frosted-glass window had turned from daylight to night black.

“Mr. Foxton,” he said, coming into the cell. “You are free to go.”

“What?” I said, not quite taking it all in.

“You are free to go,” the detective said again, standing to one side of the door. “We will not be charging you with any offense.” He paused as if not being quite able to say the next bit. “And I’m sorry for any inconvenience that may have been caused.”

“Sorry!” I said. “Sorry! I should bloody well think you are sorry. I’ve been treated like a common criminal.”

“Mr. Foxton,” the chief inspector replied, somewhat affronted. “You have been treated exactly in accordance with the laid-down regulations.”

“So why was I arrested?” I demanded.

“We had reason to believe you were responsible for the attempted murder of the jockey, William Searle.”

“So what’s happened that now makes you so sure I’m not responsible for it?” I was purposefully making myself appear angry. It might be the only chance I would have of asking the detective for some answers, and I wanted to take advantage of his defensive position.

“I am persuaded that you could not have been present when Mr. Searle was attacked. You have an alibi.”

“How do you know?” I said. “You haven’t asked me any questions.”

“Nevertheless,” he replied, “I am satisfied that it was not possible for you to have committed the attack. So you are free to go.”

I didn’t move.

“How are you satisfied that I couldn’t have done it?” I asked with persistence.

“Because it is physically impossible for you to have been in two places at the same time. That’s what having an alibi means. ‘Alibi’ is a Latin word meaning ‘somewhere else,’ and you were somewhere else when the attempt was made on Mr. Searle’s life.”

“So where was this attack?” I asked. “And when?”

The chief inspector looked uncomfortable, as if he didn’t particularly like answering questions. No doubt he was more relaxed asking them.

“Mr. Searle was deliberately knocked off his bicycle on the road outside his home in the village of Baydon in Wiltshire, at exactly five minutes past seven this morning. He is currently in a critical condition at the Great Western Hospital in Swindon.”

“And how are you so sure I was somewhere else at exactly five minutes past seven this morning?” I asked.

“Because you were at 45 Seymour Way in Hendon exactly fifty-five minutes later,” he said. “You were interviewed at that address at precisely eight o’clock by Detective Chief Inspector Tomlinson of the Merseyside Police. There is no way you could have traveled the seventy-two miles from Baydon to Hendon in fifty-five minutes, and especially not at that time of the morning during the rush hour.”

“And why didn’t you work this out before I was arrested?” I was beginning to sound rather self-righteous even to my ears.

“We were simply acting on a request from the Wiltshire force,” he replied, neatly passing the blame elsewhere.

“Well, then they should have checked,” I said, trying to maintain a look of rightful indignation. “Maybe I’ll sue you for wrongful arrest.”

“I think, sir,” he said very formally, “that you will find that attempted murder is an arrestable offense, and that we had reasonable grounds for an arrest. Just because it turned out that you couldn’t have been the perpetrator doesn’t give you grounds for claiming false arrest.”

“Hmm,” I said. “So I am now free to go, just like that?”

“Yes,” he said.

“No questions? No police bail?”

“No, sir,” he replied. “Alibi is a complete defense. It doesn’t mitigate a crime, it proves innocence. So there would be no point in charging or bailing you. However, I am sure that the Wiltshire force will want to ask some questions about your argument with Mr. Searle at Cheltenham Races yesterday. No doubt they will be making an appointment in due course. You are free to go home now,” he said. He waved a hand towards the doorway as if trying to encourage me on my way.

I’d had enough of this cell and I didn’t need his encouragement to leave it.

The custody sergeant sneered at me as he returned my watch and mobile phone, my tie, belt and shoelaces, and the previous contents of my pockets. He clearly enjoyed booking prisoners in far more than letting them go.

“Sign here,” said the sergeant without any warmth, pointing at a form on the desk.

I signed.

“Thanks for the supper,” I said cheerily.

The sergeant didn’t reply.

“Which way out?” I asked, looking around at various doors, none of them with a convenient EXIT sign above it. Perhaps it was designed that way to confuse any escapees.

“That way,” said the sergeant, pointing at one of the doors. He pushed a button on his desk, and the lock on the heavy steel door buzzed. I pulled it open and walked out into the police station reception area as the door closed automatically behind me with a loud clunk.

Claudia was waiting there, sitting on an upright tubular steel chair that was bolted to the floor. She jumped up when she saw me and rushed over, throwing her arms around my neck and hugging me tight. She was crying.

“Oh, Nick,” she sobbed into my neck, “I’ve been so frightened.”

“Come on,” I said, hugging her back. “Let’s go home.”