Felix Francis - Dick Francis's Front Runner

‘What time?’

‘As early as you can. We’ve got twelve people coming.’

‘Who are they?’ I asked. I didn’t altogether trust Faye not to set me up to meet a dozen prospective girlfriends.

‘For some reason Q has decided that it is his turn to host the annual Christmas lunch for the QCs in his chambers, together with their wives. Someone does it every year. It would have been nice if he’d given me a bit more warning. It seems he asked them all ages ago but only sprung it on me last Tuesday.’

Suddenly being alone in my flat with my TV and a microwaved ready meal seemed quite attractive compared with spending the day with Quentin’s legal cronies. But I didn’t want to upset Faye.

‘That would be lovely,’ I lied. ‘Do you want me to bring anything?’

‘Just yourself. We’re having a buffet and I’ve got everything I need. I could just do with some help setting it all out and with the drinks when everyone arrives. Q is so hopeless when it comes to anything practical.’

I wondered if I was only being asked because Faye understood how lonely I had become, especially at weekends, and rather than actually needing any real help, she was simply trying to include me in something that involved other people, even if they were Quentin’s work colleagues.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Is eleven o’clock early enough?’

‘Eleven would be great. Thanks so much. I’ll see you in the morning.’

She hung up.

Was the highlight of my day to be acting as a servant to my brother-in-law and a bunch of his barrister friends? I suppose it might make a pleasant change from having someone try to kill me, as had happened the previous Sunday.

I wish.

Twice more my home phone rang and no one spoke from the other end. And twice more I dialled 1471 to get the number. Each time it was different. My gas-bill envelope now had all three numbers written on it and each of them, when called back, produced the no incoming calls message.

The second call was made as I was getting into bed on Saturday evening and the third woke me at seven o’clock on Sunday morning. Each time I was convinced someone was there listening because the line didn’t sound completely dead and, at one point, I was sure I could hear some traffic in the background.

The calls made me feel a little uneasy, as if someone was stalking me.

And it wouldn’t be the first time. Over the years I had investigated a number of less than agreeable characters, some of whom had taken against me personally for exposing their own wrongdoing. I had been threatened, beaten up and, on one occasion, knocked down by a speeding car.

Most had been attempts to prevent me from carrying out an investigation, but a couple had been out of revenge for getting someone banned from racing.

I couldn’t think of anyone in particular that I had recently upset by getting them disqualified or excluded from the sport. There might be, however, somebody who’d ended up in prison as a result of their fraud, and was now released and bent on settling an old score.

I would have to just get on with my life as usual, and watch my back, as I always did, avoiding dark alleyways and dimly lit multi-storey car parks.

My phone rang once again just after ten o’clock as I was putting on my overcoat to leave for Richmond and my waiting duties at Faye and Quentin’s house.

‘Hello?’ I said.

No reply.

‘Who are you?’ I asked.

No reply.

‘What do you want?’

No reply.

The line went dead. I again dialled 1471 and, this time, the number was the same as for the previous call. Again, I tried to call it back but, as before, there was nothing but the disembodied message: this number does not receive incoming calls .

Annoying, I thought.

If I’d had more time, and it hadn’t been a Sunday, I might have contacted the phone company to have my number changed. But it was so irritating to have to go through the whole rigmarole of informing everyone of the change in number. Although, come to think of it, not many people knew my number in the first place.

I’d had the number transferred from the flat I’d shared with Lydia but, nowadays, the only person who called me on that line was Faye. I tended to use my mobile for all work calls, incoming and outgoing, and the only friends who had used the landline phone had departed from my life at the same time Lydia had.

Could it be Lydia? Pining after the sound of my voice?

I thought it most unlikely. The last I’d heard, she and her new man were blissfully happy together. But that had been from a friend of hers who had seemingly wanted to rub my nose in the fact that she had left me, so it might not have been very accurate.

I had a careful check outside as I locked my front door. There was no one hiding in the bushes waiting to attack me.

I was intending to take the train from Willesden Junction to Richmond but I set off in a direction directly away from the railway station, doubling back along two side streets and retracing my path twice, just to check that there was nobody intent on following me.

There wasn’t.

I smiled at myself. I must be getting paranoid.

The buffet lunch went off without a hitch and I even found I enjoyed it.

It was a revelation to me to discover that not all the Queen’s Counsel in Quentin Calderfield’s chambers were as stuffy, bigoted and boring as he. In fact, some of them turned out to be fun, and they were far more proficient at taking the mickey out of their host than I had ever dared to be.

‘Come on, Quentin, give us a song, show us your yang side,’ one of them said, laughing loudly. ‘All we ever see is your yin.’

From the look on his face, I’m not sure that Quentin had ever heard of yin and yang, which was somewhat of a surprise considering he always saw things distinctly as right or wrong, white or black, dark or light, just like Paul Maldini.

Needless to say, Quentin didn’t break into song.

‘Do you think it’s going all right?’ Faye asked when I went to the kitchen to fetch yet another bottle of red wine.

‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘I never realized lawyers could drink so much and still speak so eloquently.’

‘Practice,’ she said. ‘All those liquid lunches they have, then back into court to argue for a man’s freedom, or his life. Most lawyers’ livers were given a welcome rest when the old Wig and Pen Club closed down. Q used to have lunch there almost every day. He was distraught when it shut.’

It was totally dark by the time the last of their lunch guests departed.

Faye collapsed into a deep armchair in the sitting room. ‘I’m pooped,’ she said.

‘What a great lunch,’ said Quentin, slumping down onto the sofa and putting his feet up.

‘Thank God it’s not our turn every year,’ Faye said with her eyes closed.

‘Right then,’ I said, ‘I’ll leave you two and get back home.’

‘You’re very welcome to stay,’ said Faye. ‘We’re only going to veg out in front of the telly with some cheese and biscuits. That’s if you’d like the company.’

‘Thanks for the offer but I should be getting back. I have things I must do before tomorrow morning.’

Did I have things to do? Not really. It was just my silly subconscious telling me that, for some reason, I would be better off on my own — like a leper.

‘Suit yourself,’ Faye said, and she started to get up.

‘Don’t move,’ I said. ‘I can find my own way out. Thank you for a great lunch.’

‘Thank you for your help.’

I leaned down and gave her a kiss. ‘Look after yourself, Sis. Getting this tired is not good for you.’

‘Tell me about it.’

I waved at Quentin who was already half asleep. He briefly lifted a hand in response.