Dick Francis: Even Money

If both the Internet and the telephones were not working for the five minutes before the race, then the betting shop companies would have had no way of getting the message to their staff to make the bets and change the starting prices.

“Any word on anyone being caught out?” I asked Luca.

“No, nothing,” he said. “Quiet as a whisper.”

A customer thrust a twenty-pound note at me, and I gratefully relieved him of it in exchange for a slip from the printer.

“Either someone doesn’t want to admit it,” I said, “or it was just a simple, accidental glitch in the systems.”

Word usually went around pretty quickly if a big company believed they had been “done.” They typically moaned about it ad nauseam and refused to pay out. Gambling wins, as well as losses, were notoriously difficult to pursue through the courts. The big boys believed that it was their God-given right to control the starting prices, and if someone managed to get one over on them, it was unfair. Most others believed that what was really unfair was how the major bookmaking chains could change the on-course prices so easily, often with only a very few of the many thousands of pounds that were bet across the counters in their High Street shops.

I shrugged my shoulders and took a bet off another customer. Luca pushed the keys on his computer, and out popped the ticket from the printer.

“At least our computer and printer didn’t go off as well,” I said to him over my shoulder.

“Well, they wouldn’t,” he said confidently. “Unless the battery went flat.”

Our system, like every other bookmaker’s, was powered by a twelve-volt car battery hidden away under the platforms we stood on. The batteries were provided freshly charged each day by the racetrack’s technology company, which also provided the Internet access-for a fee, of course. The same battery also powered the red-light-emitting diodes that showed the horses’ names and prices on our board. If the battery went flat, we would soon know about it. Our lights would go out first.

The lights stayed on, and we recouped most of our losses from the previous day as favorites were beaten in each of the first five races. I was beginning even to enjoy the day when Detective Chief Inspector Llewellyn pitched up in front of me with DC Walton in tow.

“Making a bet, Chief Inspector?” I asked with a smile, looking down at him from my lofty position.

He didn’t appear amused. “We need to talk,” he said. “Now.”

“Can’t it wait?” I said. “I’m busy.”

“No,” he said crossly. “I need to ask you some more questions, now.” He emphasized the final word so sharply that Betsy looked questioningly at me.

I smiled at her. “Can you hold the fort for five minutes?”

“Sure, no problem,” she said.

I stepped down and moved away with the policemen to a quieter spot on the grass.

“Now, what’s so bloody urgent?” I said, deciding not to go on the defensive. “I’ve got a business to manage.”

“And I’ve got a murder investigation to run,” he replied unapologetically. “May I remind you, Mr. Talbot, that you remain under caution and that anything you say will be recorded.”

“Where’s your machine, then?” I asked.

“DC Walton will write down what is said.”

DC Walton was already writing.

“If you prefer,” he said, knowing I wouldn’t,“you can accompany us to the police station and be formally interviewed there.”

“Here is fine,” I said.

“I thought so,” he said almost smugly. “Now, Mr. Talbot, have you anything to add to your account of the incident in the parking lot last evening that resulted in the death of a man?”

“No,” I said, “I don’t.”

“And you still believe that the man killed was your father?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, “I do.”

“It seems you may be right,” he said slowly. “The DNA analysis appears to suggest that you and the deceased were closely related. It’s by no means a hundred percent certain, but it would be more than enough to settle a paternity case.”

So at least my father had been truthful about that.

“However,” he said,“the DNA results have thrown up something else.” He paused for effect. “Your father was still wanted for murder, from thirty-six years ago.”

“What?” I said, unable to properly take it in. “Are you sure?”

“Completely sure,” he said. “The DNA match is one hundred percent.”

“But who did he murder?” I asked, almost as if in a trance.

“Patricia Jane Talbot. His wife.”

My mother.

Sophie was still cross when I went to see her, but at least she was speaking to me, albeit with thinly disguised anger.

It was after eight by the time I made it to the hospital near Hemel Hempstead.

“I thought you weren’t coming again,” she said with a degree of accusation.

“I said I would come,” I said, smiling at her and trying to lighten the atmosphere. “And here I am, my darling.”

“What have you done to your eye?” she demanded.

“Silly, really,” I said. “I caught it on the corner of the kitchen cupboard, you know, the one by the fridge.” We had both done it before, often, though neither of us had actually cut ourselves in the process.

“Were you drunk?” she asked.

“No,” I said, “I was not. I was making tea. To be precise, I was getting the milk out.”

I leaned down to give her a kiss, and she made a point of smelling my breath. Finding no trace of the demon drink, she relaxed somewhat and even smiled at me.

“You should be more careful,” she said.

“I’ll try,” I replied, smiling back at her.

“Have you had a good day?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Particularly good. All six favorites lost, and we recouped the entire amount of yesterday’s losses and then some.” I decided against mentioning anything about my visit from a detective chief inspector of police or the discovery that my father had murdered my mother.

“Good,” she said, sounding genuinely pleased.

We sat together in armchairs in front of the television in what might have been a normal domestic situation if not for the multiadjustable hospital bed in the corner of the room and the white-smock-uniformed male nurse who brought us in a tray of coffee, together with Sophie’s medication.

“Good evening, Mr. Talbot,” the nurse said to me. “Glad you could make it tonight.” He smiled. “Your wife was so disappointed yesterday, as were we all.”

He gave the impression that I was being officially told off, which I probably was. Sophie’s treatment relied heavily on having a steady routine with no surprises.

“Good evening, Jason,” I said to the nurse, smiling back and resisting the temptation to make excuses. Now was neither the time nor the place.

“My, what have you done to yourself?” he said, looking at my face.

“Head-butted our kitchen cabinet,” I said.

Jason raised his eyebrows in a questioning Oh yes, pull the other one fashion.

“We do it all the time,” said Sophie, coming to my aid. “We ought to get that cupboard moved.”

Jason relaxed and seemed satisfied that my black eye was accidental.

“The guest suite is available if you want to stay,” he said with a smile, his admonishment for yesterday’s absence clearly over.

“Thank you,” I said, “but I can’t. I need to go home and change.” I also decided against explaining that I had worn exactly the same clothes for two days running and why. “But I can stay for a while longer.”

Sophie and I watched the television news together before I departed into the night and the road to Kenilworth, and home.