Felix Francis - Dick Francis's Gamble

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said. “Well, it’s over, anyway.” She sighed audibly down the phone. “I’m going home. Tomorrow morning. I’m on a flight at ten forty-five to Chicago. I just called to say good-bye.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m glad you did.”

“A few letters have arrived here for Herb, and I had a phone call from his gym, something about Herb not paying them and they want his locker back. Hold on, I’ve got their number somewhere.” I could hear her rummaging in the background. “Here it is. Someplace called the Slim Fit Gym.” She read out the telephone number, and I jotted it down on the back of the rental car agreement.

“Don’t you worry,” I said. “Leave the letters on the desk, I’ll deal with them. And I’ll call the gym. You look after yourself. I hope you have a safe trip home. I’ll let you know about the funeral and such when I know.”

“The police said it could be weeks away. That’s why I’m going back. I’ll lose my job if I stay here much longer.”

Life could be a bugger.

I called the Slim Fit Gym.

“Mr. Kovak’s direct debit has been canceled,” someone said. “So we want his locker back.”

“He died,” I said. “So take it back.”

“But there’s a padlock on it,” the person said.

“Don’t you have a spare key?” I asked. “Or can’t you cut it off?”

“No,” they said. “We need Mr. Kovak’s key.”

I remembered the key pinned to the bulletin board above Herb’s desk.

“OK,” I said. “I’ll bring the key in next week.”

They didn’t like it but it was too bad. However, they did insist on having my contact details. I hated giving out my mobile number so I gave them the office one instead.

I disconnected and leaned back in the chair, stretching.

“Fancy going out?” Claudia said, coming over and rubbing my shoulders. “It’s a lovely day out there.”

My studying would have to wait.

“That would be nice,” I said, turning around on the chair. “But are you sure you’re feeling up to it?”

“Absolutely,” she said. “I’m feeling much better today. But let’s take the car. I’m not yet ready to trek round the countryside. Why don’t we go to a pub for lunch?” She winked at me.

“Great idea,” I agreed. I stood up and went into the kitchen area, where my mother was fussing with the dishwasher. “Mum,” I said to her, “Claudia and I thought we might drive to a pub for lunch. Do you want to come?”

“Oh,” she said. “I have some nice pork chops from Mr. Ayers for lunch.”

“Won’t they do for this evening?” I said.

“I’ve got a roast leg of lamb for us tonight.”

Mr. Ayers, the butcher, had obviously been busy.

“Leave the chops in the fridge,” I said. “Give yourself a rest. Let’s all go out for lunch.”

And we did, with me looking over the hedge for my would-be assassin as the three of us climbed into the nondescript blue sedan. But of course he wasn’t there and we made it safely to a local country pub with a big GOOD FOOD sign outside. Claudia and my mother both ordered a glass of white wine and a poached salmon salad while I just had a Diet Coke and a bag of roasted peanuts.

“But, darling,” my mother complained bitterly, “you must have a proper lunch or you’ll fade away.”

“Mother dear,” I said. “I’ve done nothing but eat since we arrived. I think fading away is the least of my worries.” But she didn’t like it, and I could already feel an extra large portion of lamb coming on for dinner.

The phone was ringing when we arrived back at the cottage and my mother rushed in to answer it.

“It’s for you,” she said, handing over the receiver to me.

“Hello,” I said.

“It was definitely a heart attack,” said Chief Inspector Tomlinson down the line. “While he was swimming in his own pool. Then he drowned as a result. A full postmortem was carried out at the Royal Free Hospital in Hampstead on Tuesday afternoon. Seems Colonel Roberts had a history of heart problems.”

“Oh,” I said. “Such are the perils of early-morning swimming.”

“It was late-night swimming, apparently, and on his own. And he’d been drinking. Stupid fool. His blood alcohol level was more than twice that for drunk driving.”

“But he wasn’t driving,” I said.

“No,” said the detective, “but he was swimming, and in my experience alcohol and water don’t mix.” He chuckled at his own joke, and I found it slightly irritating. But it reminded me of Jolyon Roberts doing just the same thing during our meeting in the Chasers Bar at Sandown Races.

“Hold on a minute,” I said, suddenly remembering something else from that meeting. “Colonel Roberts told me categorically that he didn’t drink alcohol. And that he never had.”

I’ll get back to you,” said Chief Inspector Tomlinson suddenly.

“I need to call in a few favors.”

He hung up, and I was cross I hadn’t asked him about Billy Searle. But it would wait.

The phone rang again in my hand.

“Hello,” I said, answering it. “Did you forget something?”

“Sorry?” said a female voice. “Is that you, Mr. Nicholas?”

“Mrs. McDowd,” I said. “How lovely to hear from you.”

There was a slight pause at the other end as Mrs. McDowd worked out that I was being sarcastic.

“I have a message from Mr. Patrick,” she said.

“How did you get this number?” I asked.

“He wants you to…” she started, but I interrupted her.

“Mrs. McDowd,” I said again loudly. “How did you get this number?”

“It was on the caller ID when you called in this morning,” she said.

That was careless, I thought, for someone meant to be in hiding.

“Anyway,” she said, “I know that number. You’re staying with your mother. How is she?”

Bloody Mrs. McDowd, I thought. How does she know so much about me?

“She’s fine, thank you,” I said, biting my tongue. “Now, what does Mr. Patrick want?”

“He wants you to call him in the morning before you come into the office. Something about arranging a meeting between you and Mr. Gregory.”

“Did he say what the meeting was about?” I asked.

“No,” she said, but I bet she knew. Mrs. McDowd knew everything.

“Please tell Mr. Patrick that I won’t be in the office very early tomorrow.”

“I’ve already told him that,” she said. “Not with you being down in Gloucestershire.”

Who else had she told?

In particular, had she told Mr. Gregory?

Ispent much of the afternoon catching up on the changing price of derivatives and futures, and on how a recent fall in the Dow Jones Index in the United States had affected markets in the Far East more than those in Europe, and on fluctuations in the value of gold in pounds as a result of changes in the cost of a barrel of oil in dollars.

It was like a balancing act.

Some economies grew and others contracted; stock markets moved at different paces or in opposite ways; some currencies went up and others went down. The trick to winning in the great global financial game was to invest in the things about to go up in real value while selling those about to go down. Then there were hedge funds and short selling, both designed to make you money when the values went in the wrong direction.

But it was all a bit like gambling with a bookmaker. For you to win, he had to lose. So it was in the markets-there were winners and losers. The winners had big houses and the losers went bust, losing their big houses to the banks, which then sold them to the winners.

The money went round and round, but it did not always end up with the same people.