Felix Francis - Dick Francis's Gamble

“Lovely,” said Claudia, also betraying a nervousness in her voice.

I couldn’t blame them. Being once again in that cottage suddenly brought the memory of the terrifying evening back into vivid focus, and none of us had quite realized the effect it would have.

“What time are you leaving for the races?” Claudia asked.

I looked at my watch. It was just past three o’clock, and the first of the six races was at half past five.

“In about an hour and a half or so,” I said.

“And what time is your WI meeting?” she asked my mother.

“Seven-thirty,” she said. “But I usually go round to Joan’s beforehand. We go to the meetings together.”

“So what time do you leave here?” Claudia asked patiently.

“About six,” she said. “Joan and I usually have a sherry or two before we leave. Gives us a bit of courage for the meeting.” She giggled like a schoolgirl.

“And what time does it end?” Claudia asked.

“I’m usually home by ten, ten-thirty at the very latest.”

“I really don’t fancy being here on my own all evening,” Claudia said. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m coming to the races.”

In the end, Claudia and I dropped my mother off at Joan’s house at a quarter to five on our way to Cheltenham Races. It seemed she didn’t particularly want to be on her own in the cottage either, which didn’t bode well for the morning, when Claudia and I planned to return to London.

“Who is it we are going to see?” Claudia asked as we turned in to the racetrack parking lot.

“A man called Shenington,” I said. “Viscount Shenington. And he’s hired a private box.”

“Very posh,” she replied, making a face.

We might be glad of the box, I thought as we climbed out of the car. The brief sunny interlude of yesterday morning was a distant memory, and another weather front had moved in from the west, bringing a return to the thick clouds and rain that had characterized the weather for the majority of the last week. Evening meetings like this one at Cheltenham, with no floodlighting, relied on long, bright summer evenings. I reckoned the last race on this particular dank, miserable evening might be run in near-total darkness.

“And who is this Viscount, exactly?” Claudia asked as we walked to the entrance huddled together under her minute umbrella.

“He’s a racehorse owner and the senior trustee of the Roberts Family Trust. They’re clients of Lyall and Black.”

“Oh,” she said, seemingly losing interest. Was my job really that boring? “So why do you need to talk to this man before you see the police?”

I had purposely not told Claudia anything about my suspicions concerning the Bulgarian factory and housing project. She had far too many of her own problems to contend with without having mine added on top.

“The Trust,” I said, “has made an investment in something which I think is a front for fraud. I need to learn more about it before I speak to the police. I just have some questions to ask him, that’s all.”

“Will it take long?” she asked.

“He wants to speak to me after the racing.”

“Oh,” she said again, this time sounding disappointed. “So we’re here till the bitter end.”

“I’m afraid so,” I said. “But he has invited us to his box for the whole time, and there’ll be food and drink available.”

That cheered her a bit, and she perked up a lot more when she discovered that the box in question was a magnificent glassfronted affair at the top of the grandstand with a wonderful view over the racetrack.

It was also dry and warm.

Even though we were hardly late at ten past five, the box was already full of guests, none of whom I recognized.

I was just beginning to think we must be in the wrong place when Ben Roberts came through the door, instinctively ducking his head as he did so.

“Ah, Mr. Foxton,” he said, marching over to me with outstretched hand.

“Ben,” I replied. “How nice to see you again. Can I introduce my fiancée, Claudia?”

“Great,” said Ben, shaking her hand and smiling. “I’m Ben Roberts.”

Claudia smiled back.

“Come and meet my father.”

He led the way across the room to a group of men standing in the far corner. It was pretty obvious which one of them was Ben’s father. He towered above the others by a good five or six inches. The “tall” gene was clearly alive and well in all the Roberts family.

“Dad,” said Ben during a lull in the men’s conversation, “this is Mr. Foxton and Claudia, his fiancée. My father, Viscount Shenington.”

“Delighted to meet you,” I said, offering my hand.

He looked down at me and slowly put forward his hand to shake. It was hardly the most friendly of welcomes, but I hadn’t really expected anything else. I knew that even though he was prepared to speak to me, he didn’t truly want to.

“Good evening, Mr. Foxton,” he said. “Good of you to come.” He turned slightly towards Claudia. “And you too, my dear.”

That wouldn’t go down too well, I thought. My father always called Claudia “my dear,” and she hated it, claiming that he was an arrogant old git who shouldn’t be so patronizing.

“Have a drink,” Shenington said. “And some food.” He waved a hand towards the impressive buffet table. “We’ll speak later.”

He went back to his former conversations.

“Good,” said Ben with considerably more warmth. “What would you both like to drink? Champagne?”

“Lovely,” Claudia said.

“Fruit juice for me, please,” I said. “I’m driving.”

“Yeah, me too,” said Ben, holding up a glass of orange liquid. “But I’ll get a proper skinful later at the Boat Club dinner.”

“Rowing?” I asked.

“Absolutely. Tonight’s our home celebration for beating the hated enemy.”

“The hated enemy?” said Claudia.

“Cambridge,” Ben said, smiling broadly. “In the Boat Race. Beat them by half a length. Dead easy!”

“Were you in the crew?” I asked.

“Certainly was,” he said, pulling himself up to his full six feet plus plus. “Number 4-in the engine room.”

“Well done,” I said, meaning it. “Are you trying for the Olympics next?”

“No. Not for me. I was good, but not that good. It’s time to retire gracefully and get my life back. These last few weeks I’ve really enjoyed not having to be on the river every morning at dawn and in all weather. Now I’m just working hard for my finals.”

“And then what?” I asked. “Politics?”

“That’s the plan,” he said. “A special adviser and political researcher for the party, at least for a while. Then Parliament.”

Then the world, I thought.

“Commons or Lords?” I asked.

“Commons,” he said with a laugh. “The power house. There’s no place left in the Lords for the likes of us, not anymore. And I wouldn’t want it even if there was.”

Ben himself was a walking power house, and his enthusiasm was infectious. I was sure he’d go far.

“Good luck,” I said to him. “I personally can’t think of anything worse than being a politician. Everyone I know seems to hate them.”

“No, they don’t,” he said sharply. “All they hate is that it’s other people who are the politicians when they want the power for themselves.”

I wasn’t going to argue with him and not least because I had a feeling I would lose and lose badly. If Ben told me the grass was blue and the sky was green, I’d probably believe him. Except that, this particular evening, the sky wasn’t green or blue, it was dark gray.

Claudia and I took our drinks out onto the private balcony, and I briefly turned on my phone to check my voice mail. There was a new message from Chief Inspector Tomlinson.