Felix Francis - Dick Francis's Gamble

Perhaps the only thing I had done incorrectly was to not go straight to Patrick, or to Jessica Winter the Compliance Officer, as soon as Colonel Roberts had expressed his concerns over Gregory and the Bulgarian factory project. I should never have tried to investigate things behind their backs.

And I would rectify that mistake today.

I caught the Circle Line Tube from Paddington to Moorgate and then walked from there towards Lombard Street.

As I walked down Princes Street, alongside the high, imposing walls of the Bank of England, I suddenly started to feel uneasy, the hairs again standing up on the back of my neck.

For the past four days, I had been so careful not to let anyone know where I was staying, yet here I was walking to a prearranged appointment at the offices of Lyall & Black. Furthermore, the appointment was for a meeting with one of those I believed was responsible for trying to kill me.

I really didn’t fancy finding another gunman waiting for me in the street outside my office building.

I slowed to a halt on the sidewalk, with people hurrying past me in each direction late for work. I was less than a hundred yards away from Lombard Street.

It was as near as I got.

I turned around and retraced my path back up Princes Street to London Wall, where I went into a coffee shop and ordered a cappuccino.

Perhaps Claudia was right and I was becoming paranoid.

I looked at my watch. It was ten to nine. Patrick and Gregory would be expecting me in ten minutes.

What should I do?

My instinct at my mother’s cottage had been absolutely right when I had prevented Claudia from opening the front door to the gunman. But I desperately needed to talk to someone about my suspicions, to set in motion a proper investigation into the Bulgarian affair. Surely I would then be safe, as killing me would be too late. If Ben Roberts’s father wouldn’t talk to me, who else should I speak to? It had to be Patrick, if not to save my job, at least to save my life.

I turned on my mobile phone and rang the office number.

“Lyall and Black,” answered Mrs. McDowd. “Can I help you?”

“Hello, Mrs. McDowd,” I said. “It’s Mr. Nicholas here. Can I speak to Mr. Patrick, please?”

“He’s in the meeting room with Mr. Gregory and Andrew Mellor,” she said. “I’ll put you through.”

Patrick came on the line. “Hello,” he said.

“Patrick,” I said. “Please don’t say anything. It’s Nicholas. I need to talk to you alone,” I said. “And without Gregory knowing.”

“Hold on a minute,” he said. “I’ll go to my office.”

There were some clicks on the line and then Patrick came back on.

“What’s this all about?” he asked quite crossly. “You are due to be here now for a disciplinary meeting.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I won’t be coming to the meeting.”

“Nicholas,” he said formally, “I must insist that you come into the office right now. Where are you?”

Where should I say?

“I’m at home,” I said. “Claudia still isn’t well.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, not sounding it. “But this meeting is very important.”

So was Claudia, I thought.

“Where can I speak to you in private?” I asked.

“Here,” he said firmly and loudly. “I will speak to you here, in the office, at the disciplinary meeting.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I will not be coming to the office today.”

“Listen to me,” he said. “If you don’t come into the office today, there seems little point in you coming back at all.” He paused. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Yes,” he said with ill-disguised anger. “You do that.”

He hung up.

I could imagine him going straight back into the meeting room and telling Gregory and Andrew that I wasn’t coming. I was just glad I hadn’t told him the truth about where I was.

Icaught the Tube from Moorgate Station but not back to Paddington. Instead I took the Northern Line to Hendon Central, walked down Seymour Way to number 45, and let myself into Herb Kovak’s flat.

Sherri had gone home to America the previous Friday, and there were already a few letters lying on the mat. I picked them up and added them to the pile that she had left on the desk.

I sat down on Herb’s desk chair and opened his mail.

Amongst other things there were some utility bills and a letter from a building society complaining that the direct debit had been canceled and they hadn’t received the preceding month’s interest on Herb’s mortgage. It reminded me of the gym that also hadn’t been paid due to the bank canceling the direct debit. I wondered how many others there would be.

There was so much to deal with, and the worst of it was not the domestic bills, troublesome as they were, it was the never-ending stream of demands from the twenty-two credit card companies. About half of them had sent their next statements, and not only were the previous months’ balances still outstanding, overdue and generating interest but there were more charges on the accounts.

The American gamblers were still gambling, and still losing. But how could I stop them if I didn’t know who they were?

There must come a time, I thought, when the credit card accounts reached their limit. That should bring it all to a stop, but at what cost?

I used Herb’s landline telephone to call the building society and let them know why the direct debit had been stopped. They were so sorry to hear of Mr. Kovak’s death, but of course that did not mean they would stop accruing the interest on the loan. Did they not know the real meaning of mortgage ? The mort referred to death, as in mortuary and mortality. A mortgage was originally a pledge to repay the loan outstanding on one’s death, not on the never-never thereafter.

Next I called the utility companies and tried to arrange for the gas, electricity and phone to be cut off. I made the mistake of telling them that I wasn’t Herb Kovak, that he was dead and I was his executor. They all needed documentary proof that I was acting on Mr. Kovak’s behalf, and, anyway, they needed the bills paid first. I pointed out that if I didn’t pay the bills, they would cut the services off anyway. It didn’t help.

I collected the credit card statements and the other things together and put them in a large white envelope that I found in Herb’s desk. What I really needed was a solicitor to get things moving on the job of obtaining probate. At least I would then be able to cancel the credit cards, but probably not before they were paid off as well. This apartment would also have to be sold, and if the scale of the outstanding interest payment in the building society’s letter was anything to go by, there may not be enough capital remaining after paying off the mortgage to cover the other bills. Perhaps I might need to make Herb’s estate bankrupt.

All in all, it was not such a fine legacy.

Iknew Patrick lived in Weybridge. I knew it because Claudia and I had been to his house for dinner a few times, and also the firm’s annual summer party the previous year had been held in his expansive garden.

I also knew that his journey from home to work involved being dropped at Weybridge Station by his wife, catching a train to Waterloo and then squeezing onto the Waterloo and City Tube line to Bank. Everyone in the office knew because Patrick was not averse to complaining loudly about public transport, or, for that matter, his wife’s driving, especially if it had made him late for work.

I assumed his return journey would be the same but in the opposite direction, and I planned to join him for some of it.

He usually left the office between six o’clock and half past, but I was at Waterloo waiting by five in case he was early. Even so, I still very nearly missed him.