Felix Francis - Dick Francis's Gamble

And then there were the fraudsters, those who tried to load the odds in their favor through insider trading or market manipulation.

Once upon a time, insider trading had been seen as a perk of the job for stockbrokers and company directors, cashing in on prior knowledge of profits and mergers by buying or selling stock before the facts were known to others. Nowadays, the courts send them to jail for doing what everyone used to do, and quite rightly too.

But there are always those who think they can beat the system, and many of them do, because betting on a certainty was like having a license to print money.

Herb Kovak had said to Mrs. McDowd that he liked to bet on certainties.

She’d told me.

Chief Inspector Tomlinson called back at five o’clock.

“He’d definitely been drinking,” he said. “I’ve seen the full autopsy report. There’s no mistake. They tested both his blood and the aqueous humor in his eye. And the stomach contained whisky residue.”

“How easy is it to force someone to drink whisky?” I asked.

“My, my,” he said. “Now who has the suspicious mind?”

“It’s just too convenient,” I said.

“But how could you give someone a heart attack?” he asked, his slightly sarcastic tone clearly indicating that he didn’t believe me.

“Hold his drunken head under the surface of his own swimming pool,” I said. “Either he drowns straightaway or, as he has a history of heart problems, he panics, has a heart attack and then drowns.”

“But why the alcohol?” he asked.

“To add confusion,” I said. “When you knew he’d been drinking, you instinctively believed he had been a stupid fool and you probably thought he half deserved to die for it.”

“True,” he said, “I did. But you are only speculating. There’s no evidence of foul play.”

“No,” I agreed. “And what there was has conveniently been buried in Golders Green.”

He laughed. “Story of my life.”

“What about Billy Searle?” I asked. “What did you find out?”

“He’s wide awake and talking,” he said. “But he’s not saying anything.”

“Nothing?”

“Pretty much. He refuses to say if he knew the person who knocked him off his bike. Says it was an accident. And he denies owing anyone any money.”

I wasn’t surprised. If it was a bookmaker and Billy was involved in some betting scandal, he was hardly likely to admit it. It would be tantamount to handing in his jockey’s license for good.

“Well, thanks for finding out for me,” I said. “Any news on the gunman?”

“Nothing as yet.”

“Didn’t you get any response from the video?”

“Masses,” he said. “Too much, really. The Met and us are sifting through it all, and cross-referencing with the criminal records bureau.”

That was what worried me the most. If he were a professional hit man, he was unlikely to have a criminal record, so he would never turn up from their cross-referencing.

“So how about that bodyguard you promised me?” I asked. “I can’t stay down here for long as it’s too far from London, but I don’t fancy going home with our friend still out there.”

“I’ll talk to my Super,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said. “And please make it soon.”

We disconnected, and I looked at my watch. It was quarter past five. Time to finish for the day.

I leaned back in the chair and pushed the GET MAIL button for a final check on my e-mails. One had arrived from Gregory Black.

I sat forward quickly and opened it.

“Nicholas,” he had written, “Patrick has asked me to write to you to apologize for my outburst of last week. So I am sorry. I can also assure you there will be no repetition of my actions when you return to this office after your stay with your mother. Yours, Gregory Black.”

Wow, I thought. My threat of court action had really put the cat amongst the pigeons. I could imagine Gregory absolutely hating having to write that e-mail with Patrick standing over him on one side and almost certainly with Andrew Mellor, the company’s lawyer, on the other, advising them both on employment law.

I may have received a grudging apology from Gregory, but he would resent it forever. And it wouldn’t make my future at the firm any easier.

I also didn’t like the fact that Gregory knew that I was staying with my mother.

Mrs. McDowd not only wanted to know everything about everyone, she also liked them to know she knew it by spreading the information. The whole office would now be aware that I was in Gloucestershire, and probably half of Lombard Street too.

At about seven-thirty my mother insisted I open a bottle of champagne to properly celebrate Claudia’s and my engagement.

“I put one in my old fridge last night,” she said, “so it should be nice and cold.”

And it was.

I retrieved the bottle and poured three glasses of the golden bubbly liquid, then we each in turn made a toast.

“To a long and happy marriage to my Claudia,” I said, and we drank.

“To long life and good health,” Claudia said, looking at me. We drank again.

“To masses of grandchildren,” my mother said, and we all drank once more.

Claudia and I held hands. We knew without saying what we were each thinking. Oh yes, please, to all three of the above. But with cancer, it was all so unpredictable and scary.

“Have you told your father yet?” my mother asked.

“No,” I said. “You’re the only person that knows.” Not even Mrs. McDowd, I thought, knew this little secret.

“Aren’t you going to tell him?” Mum asked.

“Eventually,” I said. “But I haven’t spoken much to him recently.”

“Stupid man,” she said.

I knew she blamed him for the breakup of their marriage, but, in truth, it had been as much her fault as his. But I didn’t want to get into all that again.

“I’ll call him tomorrow,” I said. “Let’s enjoy our own company here tonight.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Claudia, raising her glass. So we did.

I thought about my father.

Seven years ago, when my parents had finally divorced and the big house had been sold, he’d taken his share of the money and used it to buy a boring bungalow in Weymouth, overlooking the sea. I’d only been there a couple of times since, although I’d seen him a few times in London for various functions.

We hadn’t been very close to start with and we were drifting further apart day by day. But I don’t think it was something that bothered either of us particularly. He hadn’t even called me when I’d been arrested and my face had been splashed all over the papers and on the TV. Perhaps my impending marriage and the possibility of grandchildren might help to revitalize our relationship, but I doubted it.

Claudia laid the dining table as my mother busied herself with saucepans of potatoes and carrots and the lamb roasted away gently in the oven. I, meanwhile, poured us all more champagne and let them get on with it, leaning up against the worktop and enjoying the last of the evening sunshine as it shone brightly through the west-facing kitchen window.

“Bugger,” my mother said.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“The cooker’s gone off,” she said.

“Is it a power cut?”

She tried a light switch, clicking it up and down. Nothing happened.

“Bloody electricity company,” she said. “I’ll call them straightaway.”

She rummaged in a drawer for a card and then picked up the phone.

“That’s funny,” she said, “the phone’s dead too.”

“Doesn’t it need power?” Claudia asked from over by the table. “Our cordless one does.”

“I’m not using the cordless,” my mother said. “This is the wired-in landline.”