Felix Francis - Dick Francis's Gamble

“How can you be sure?” she asked.

“Because he’s dead. The last time I saw him he was lying on the floor of my mother’s living room with his neck broken.”

She stared at me. “You are being serious, aren’t you?”

I nodded. “Very.”

“Have you called the police?”

“Yes,” I said. “But I need to call them again.” I looked at my watch. It had been at least two hours since I’d spoken to Chief Inspector Tomlinson. But they could wait a little longer.

“So why come here?” she asked. “Why not go straight to the police?”

“I need somewhere to hide where no one can find me.”

Not even the police, I thought.

“But, if the man’s dead, why do you still need to hide?” she asked.

“Because he was a hired killer, and I am worried that whoever hired him will simply hire another.”

I could tell from the look on Jan’s face that her credulity had reached its limit.

“It’s true, I assure you,” I said. “I’m not making it up, and I think it’s all to do with stealing a hundred million euros from the European Union. Now, that really is big money. And what’s the going rate for having someone killed these days? Twenty thousand? A hundred grand maybe? Or even half a million? That’s still only a half of one percent of the take. Cheap at twice the price.”

“But what have you got to do with stealing a hundred million euros?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “But I may have asked the wrong questions to those that have. And I suspect that somebody believes I need to be permanently removed before I ask some more questions and bring the whole scheme tumbling down round their ears.”

“So what are you going to do?” she said.

“Ask the questions quickly,” I said, grinning at her. “And then keep my head down.”

Someone answered after just one ring when I called my mother’s cottage. I was sitting in Jan’s office and using her mobile phone, and I had carefully withheld the number from caller ID. I hoped it was enough to keep it secret.

“Hello,” I said.

“Is that Nicholas Foxton?” came a man’s voice in reply.

“It is,” I said. “To whom am I talking?”

“Detective Chief Inspector Flight,” he said, “Gloucestershire Police.”

Not another detective chief inspector, I thought. What’s the collective noun for detective chief inspectors? It was a posse of police, so maybe it’s an evidence of detective chief inspectors.

“Where are you, Mr. Foxton?” asked this particular chief inspector.

“Somewhere safe,” I said.

“And where is that?” he asked again.

I ignored him. “Who was the man who tried to kill me?” I asked.

“Mr. Foxton,” he said, “I need you to come to a police station to be interviewed. Tonight.”

He was persistent, I’d give him that.

“Have you spoken to DCI Tomlinson from Merseyside Police?” I asked. “Or Superintendent Yering from the Metropolitan Police Armed Response Team?”

“No,” he said, “not personally.”

“Then I suggest you do,” I said.

“Mr. Foxton,” he said, “you are in danger of obstructing the police in the course of their duties. Now, please tell me where you are.”

“No,” I said. “Did you watch the television news on Tuesday? The dead man in my mother’s cottage is the same man as in the video. And I think he was foreign. He said some words I didn’t understand. Something like ‘Ibe se!’ ”

“Mr. Foxton.” Detective Chief Inspector Flight was getting quite worked up. “I must insist you tell me where you are.”

“And I must insist you speak to DCI Tomlinson or Superintendent Yering.”

I hung up.

That didn’t go too well, I thought. Too bad. But I was definitely not going to any police station to be interviewed tonight, or any other night if I could help it. People could get shot at police stations. Ask Lee Harvey Oswald.

Iheard Jan leave the house at a quarter to seven in the morning to supervise the exercising of her horses on the gallops. She had asked if I wanted to accompany her up onto the Downs to watch, but I had declined, not because I didn’t want to but because I didn’t want anyone to recognize me and hence know where I was staying.

It may have been eight years since I was a regular in Lambourn, but there were plenty who had been here longer than that, even amongst Jan’s staff, and most would have known me by sight.

I realized it was highly unlikely that news of my whereabouts would then get back to hostile ears, but I didn’t want to take any unnecessary risks if I didn’t have to.

I got up as quietly as I could but Claudia was already awake.

“Don’t go,” she said.

I snuggled down again next to her under the covers.

“When will this all end?” she asked.

“Soon,” I said. But I really had no idea when.

“I was so frightened last night,” she said with tears in her eyes. “I really thought he was going to kill you.”

I’d thought it too.

“But he didn’t,” I said. “So everything’s all right.” I was trying to sound encouraging even if I was not so sure inside.

“So why have we come here?” she asked. “Why can’t we go home now?”

“There’s just a few things I have to do before we can go home,” I said, sitting up on the side of the bed. “And I don’t want to take any chances if we don’t need to.”

“I think we should go to the police,” she said.

“I spoke to them last night after you went to bed. They agreed that it was better for us to stay here for a couple of days while they carry out their investigations.”

At least the first bit was true.

“So what is it that you have to do?” she asked.

“Well, first, I have to go to Oxford,” I said. “And I’m going to do that right now.” I stood up and started to dress.

“I’ll come with you,” Claudia said, throwing the duvet to one side and sitting up.

“No,” I said firmly. “You stay here with Jan and my mother. You need to recover fully from your operation. And I won’t be long. You’ll be quite safe here.”

I think she was secretly relieved as she lay down again and pulled the duvet back over her.

“Why are you going?” she asked.

“To see a young man at the university,” I said. “I want to ask him some questions about a factory, or, rather, about the lack of a factory.”

Istopped on the outskirts of Oxford and turned on my mobile phone to call Detective Chief Inspector Tomlinson.

“DCI Flight of Gloucestershire Police is not happy with you,” he said. “Not happy at all.”

“Too bad,” I said.

“He’s applied for a warrant for your arrest on suspicion of manslaughter.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” I said.

“Maybe it is,” he agreed, “but he’s really pissed off. I do think it might be better if you go and see him.”

“Not if he’s going to arrest me.” I didn’t relish spending another day in a police cell. “Anyway,” I said, “I have things to do first.”

“Not investigating again, are you?” said the professional detective. “I’ve told you to leave that to the police.”

“But what are you going to investigate?” I said. “It is me, not you, that believes Colonel Jolyon Roberts was murdered, but there is no evidence for that belief. In fact, quite the reverse. The evidence indicates that he died of natural causes helped by a dose of stupidity. The police see no crime, so there is no investigation.”

“So what do you want me to do?” he asked.

“Speak to Flight,” I said. “Get him off my back. Tell him there’s no way I’ll see him if he’s going to arrest me.”