Дик Фрэнсис - Break In

The Golden Lion via directory enquiries said there was no problem, they would hold my room for another day, they had my credit card number, too bad I’d been unexpectedly detained, my belongings would be perfectly safe.

The AA said not to worry, they would rescue my car from Towcester racecourse within the hour. If I phoned in the morning, they would tell me where they’d taken it for repairs.

My answering system in the cottage had been hard-worked with please-ring-back messages from the police, my neighbour, my bank manager, Rose Quince, three trainers and Sam Leggatt.

My neighbour, an elderly widow, sounded uncommonly agitated, so I called her back first.

‘Kit, dear, I hope I did right,’ she said. ‘I saw a strange man moving about in your cottage and I told the police.’

‘You did right,’ I agreed.

‘It was lunchtime and I knew you’d be at Towcester, I always follow your doings. Four winners! It was on the radio just now. Well done.’

‘Thanks... What happened at the cottage?’

‘Nothing, really. I went over when the police came to let them in with my key. They couldn’t have been more than five minutes getting there, but there wasn’t anyone in the cottage. I felt so foolish, but then one of the policemen said a window was broken, and when they looked around a bit more they said someone had been in there searching. I couldn’t see anything missing. Your racing trophies weren’t touched. Just the window broken in the cloakroom.’

I sighed. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You are a dear.’

‘I got Pedro from down the road to mend the window. I didn’t like to leave it. I mean, anyone could get in.’

‘I’ll take you for a drink in the pub when I get back.’

She chuckled. ‘Thank you, dear. That’ll be nice.’

The police themselves had nothing to add. I should return, they said, to check my losses.

I got through to my bank manager at his home and listened to him chewing while he spoke. ‘Sorry. Piece of toast,’ he said. ‘A man came into the bank at lunchtime to pay three thousand pounds into your account.’

‘What man?’

‘I didn’t see him, unfortunately. I was out. It was a banker’s draft, not a personal cheque.’

‘Damn,’ I said feelingly.

‘Don’t worry, it won’t appear on your account. I’ve put a stop on anything being paid into it, as we agreed. The banker’s draft is locked in the safe in my office. What do you want me to do with it?’

‘Tear it up in front of witnesses,’ I said.

‘I can’t do that,’ he protested. ‘Someone paid three thousand pounds for it.’

‘Where was it issued?’

‘At a bank in the City.’

‘Can you ask them if they remember who bought it?’

‘Yes, I’ll try tomorrow. And be a good chap, let me have the no-paying-in instruction in writing pronto.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘And well done with the winners. It was on the radio.’

I thanked him and disconnected, and after some thought left the hotel, walked down the street to an Underground station and from a public phone rang Sam Leggatt at the Flag .

There was no delay this time. His voice came immediately on the line, brisk and uncompromising.

‘Our lawyers say that what you said here yesterday was tantamount to blackmail.’

‘What your reporters did at my brother-in-law’s house was tantamount to a jail sentence.’

‘Our lawyers say if your brother-in-law thinks he has a case for settlement out of court, his lawyers should contact our lawyers.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘And how long would that take?’

‘Our lawyers are of the opinion that no compensation should be paid. The information used in the column was essentially true.’

‘Are you printing the apology?’

‘Not yet. We haven’t gone to press yet.’

‘Will you print it?’

He paused too long.

‘Did you know,’ I said, ‘that today someone searched my cottage, someone smashed their way into my car, two men attacked me with knives, and someone tried to bribe me with three thousand pounds, paid directly into my bank account?’

More silence.

‘I’ll be telling everyone I can think of about the wiretapping,’ I said. ‘Starting now.’

‘Where are you?’ he said.

‘At the other end of the telephone line.’

‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Ring me back will you?’

‘How long?’

‘Fifteen minutes.’

‘All right.’

I put the receiver down and stood looking at it, drumming my fingers and wondering if the Flag really did have equipment which could trace where I’d called from, or whether I was being fanciful.

I couldn’t afford, I thought, any more punch-ups. I left the Underground station, walked along the street for ten minutes, went into a pub, rang the Flag . My call was again expected: the switchboard put me straight through.

When Sam Leggatt said ‘Yes’ there were voices raised loudly in the backgound.

‘Fielding,’ I said.

‘You’re early.’ The backgound voices abruptly stopped.

‘Your decision,’ I said.

‘We want to talk to you.’

‘You’re talking.’

‘No. Here, in my office.’

I didn’t answer immediately, and he said sharply, ‘Are you still there?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘What time do you go to press?’

‘First edition, six-thirty, to catch the West Country trains. We can hold until seven. That’s the limit.’

I looked at my watch. Fourteen minutes after six. Too late, to my mind, for talking.

‘Look,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you just print and distribute the apology? It’s surely no big deal. It’ll cost you nothing but the petrol to Newmarket. I’ll come to your office when you assure me that you’re doing that.’

‘You’d trust my word?’

‘Do you trust mine?’

He said grudgingly, ‘Yes, I suppose I do expect you to return what you said.’

‘I’ll do it. I’ll act in good faith. But so must you. You seriously did damage Bobby Allardeck, and you must at least try to put it right.’

‘Our lawyers say an apology would be an acknowledgment of liability. They say we can’t do it.’

‘That’s it, then,’ I said. ‘Goodbye.’

‘No, Fielding, wait.’

‘Your lawyers are fools,’ I said, and put down the receiver.

I went out into the street and rubbed a hand over my head, over my hair, feeling depressed and a loser.

Four winners, I thought. It happened so seldom. I should be knee-deep in champagne, not banging myself against a brick wall that kicked back so viciously.

The cuts on my ribs hurt. I could no longer ignore them. I walked dispiritedly along to yet another telephone and rang up a long-time surgical ally.

‘Oh, hello,’ he said cheerfully. ‘What is it this time? A little clandestine bone-setting?’

‘Sewing,’ I said.

‘Ah. And when are you racing?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Toddle round, then.’

‘Thanks.’

I went in a taxi and got stitched.

‘That’s not a horseshoe slash,’ he observed, dabbing anaesthetic into my right side. ‘That’s a knife.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Did you know the bone is showing?’

‘I can’t see it.’

‘Don’t tear it open again tomorrow.’

‘Then fix it up tight.’

He worked for a while before patting my shoulder. ‘It’s got absorbable stitches, also clips and gripping tape, but whether it would stand another four winners is anyone’s guess.’

I turned my head. I’d said nothing about the winners.

‘I heard it on the news,’ he said.

He worked less lengthily on the other cut and said lightly, I didn’t think getting knifed was your sort of thing.’

‘Nor did I.’