Felix Francis - Dick Francis's Front Runner

I arrived at the racecourse early, having again taken a train from Willesden Junction to Esher, via Clapham Junction. It was highly unusual for me to have such an exciting invitation and I didn’t want to be late.

Having arrived early, I used the time to wander around the enclosures, soaking up the atmosphere while also keeping my eyes open for any wrongdoing. Fortunately, there was none I could spot that would keep me from my lunch, so I presented myself as requested at the box at half past eleven.

‘My dear boy, come in, come in,’ welcomed Mr Smith at the door, extending his hand once again and shaking mine vigorously. ‘So glad you could make it. Here, have some champagne.’

He passed me a glass full of the sparkling golden liquid from a tray being held by one of the waiters.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘It is lovely to be here. You are very kind.’

‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘It is I who should be grateful to you.’ He put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Come and meet my wife.’

He guided me out to the balcony where there were already more than a dozen people holding drinks and chatting amongst themselves.

‘Gaysie, darling,’ Derrick said loudly, causing all the conversations to stop. ‘Can I introduce Jeff Hinkley. He’s the young man who prevented Secret Ways from being stolen at Ascot in June.’

All the heads turned towards me.

I wished he hadn’t broadcast the fact so openly. It had been an undercover operation and even those arrested still had no idea that it had been me who had caused their downfall. Without my knowledge or agreement, the BHA chairman had taken it upon himself to inform the horse’s owner of all the details, albeit supposedly in strict confidence.

‘It’s all meant to be hush-hush,’ I said quietly to Derrick.

‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘Give credit where credit’s due. Secret Ways went on to win the Coventry Stakes and he’s favourite for next year’s Guineas. Without you, young Jeff, he’d have ended up as dog meat.’ He slapped me on the back, smiling broadly.

A slight, very attractive, blonde-haired woman came over from one of the groups.

‘Mr Hinkley,’ she said. ‘I’m Gay Smith, Derrick’s wife.’

‘I’m delighted to meet you,’ I said, shaking the offered hand. ‘It is very kind of you to invite me.’

‘Derrick was very taken with the idea,’ she said, smiling at her husband. ‘He’s been singing your praises to anyone who’ll listen.’

I was beginning to think that accepting his invitation to lunch had been a mistake. I had only done so out of self-indulgence and vanity.

‘It was just part of my job,’ I said.

‘And a job well done,’ Derrick said. ‘Come on and meet the others.’

He introduced me to another of his guests before disappearing off to greet some new arrivals.

‘I hear you’re Derrick’s personal James Bond,’ said a laughing Alfie Hart, one of the country’s top trainers, whom I knew by reputation but had never actually met before. ‘All that cloak-and-dagger stuff must be exciting.’

‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘I’d hardly describe lying in wet ditches or picking through someone’s smelly rubbish as particularly exciting. Certainly not as exciting as training a Breeders’ Cup winner.’

He smiled at me and I smiled back. Alfie Hart had trained the winner of the previous October’s Breeders’ Cup Mile and I could tell he was pleased that I knew.

‘I’m surprised to see you at a jumps meeting,’ I said to him. ‘I thought you trained exclusively on the flat.’

‘I do,’ he said. He looked about him and lowered his voice. ‘But one never says no to Derrick.’

‘No,’ I agreed. And not, I thought, when Derrick has more than a dozen seriously good horses in one’s stable.

Alfie went back inside the box to get himself a refill of champagne but I was not alone for long. Derrick returned with the tall grey-haired man I’d seen with him the previous week.

‘This is Sir Richard Reynard,’ Derrick said.

‘We met at Newbury.’

‘Yes, of course you did. Sir Richard is fairly new to racing and I’m trying to convince him to buy a horse.’

‘Derrick’s just been telling me about your exploits at Ascot,’ Sir Richard said. ‘I’m very impressed.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I was only doing my job.’

‘And what job is that?’ he asked.

‘I’m an investigator for the British Horseracing Authority,’ I said.

‘Is there much in horseracing to investigate?’

‘Some,’ I said. ‘Maybe not as much as some people would have you believe, but enough to keep me occupied.’

He smiled. ‘So is it safe enough for me to invest in a horse?’

‘It depends on what you mean by safe,’ I said. ‘Very few racehorse owners make a positive return on their investment. Most do it for the love of the sport and the thrill of winning races — even if the prize money doesn’t usually cover the training fees, let alone the capital outlay.’

I could tell he didn’t think much of that.

‘But Derrick says there are fortunes to be made from breeding.’

‘Only if you are lucky enough, like him, to have owned a Derby winner,’ I said. ‘Almost all male horses in the jumping game are geldings.’

‘I wasn’t considering the jumping game,’ he said, staring into space.

From the look on his face I imagined he was visualizing himself leading the winner into the famous Derby unsaddling circles at Epsom or Churchill Downs. It was a fantasy that most owners entertained at some point in their lives yet only a handful of them ever fulfilled it in reality.

‘Jeff,’ said Gay Smith, taking my arm. ‘Come and meet some friends of ours from the Cayman Islands.’

She guided me to the other end of the balcony where a smartly dressed and suntanned couple were standing together holding half-full glasses of champagne. I would have put them both in their early to mid-forties.

‘Theresa and Martin,’ Gay called to them, ‘meet Jeff Hinkley.’

We shook hands.

‘Gay says you live in the Cayman Islands,’ I said.

‘That’s right,’ said Theresa. ‘We have a house on Seven Mile Beach not that far from Gay and Derrick’s place.’

‘Have you been there long?’ I asked.

‘Ten years now,’ Theresa replied. ‘We love it there, don’t we, Martin?’

Martin didn’t say anything, but I was used to him not replying.

Martin was the man who had turned away from me on the balcony of the hospitality room at Newbury on Hennessy Gold Cup day. The man who was then being told that he was a total fucking idiot.

We sat down to lunch just before noon, by which time some other guests had arrived, making twenty of us in all in the box.

‘I’m sorry we have to eat so early,’ said Derrick, ushering everyone in from the balcony. ‘It’s high time they installed some floodlights at Sandown so that racing could be later in the day during the winter.’

We were seated at two round tables for ten and I found myself placed between Gay Smith and an attractive young woman in a smart tweed suit whom I had been spying from afar ever since she’d arrived.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘My name’s Henri, Henrietta Shawcross.’

‘Jeff Hinkley,’ I replied, shaking her hand.

‘Oh, I know who you are,’ Henri said. ‘I think everyone here does. You’re Derrick’s superhero.’

‘He exaggerates.’

‘How did you do it?’ she asked.

‘What?’

‘Save his horse.’

‘I merely uncovered a conspiracy to steal the horse and set a trap to catch the villains in the act. It was nothing very special.’

She looked disappointed. ‘It must have been a tiny bit exciting.’