Felix Francis - Dick Francis's Front Runner

‘About the same. The knifeman was shorter but he was also crouching. I remember looking down at his face.’

‘Glasses? Beard? Moustache?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘He did have some stubble, as if he hadn’t shaved for a couple of days. He was also wearing a dark woollen hat, like a beanie, that covered his head and the top half of his ears.’

‘Wide face, or narrow?’

‘Neither one,’ I said. ‘Just normal.’

I was stunned that I could now remember so much after all those hours of nothing.

‘How about the other one?’

I thought hard. ‘I didn’t get to see his face properly.’

‘Did he also have a hat?’

I tried to picture in my mind the image of him tripping over the boxes in my hallway as I threw him off me.

‘I don’t know, but he was wearing trainers, you know, those ones with high ankles and lots of laces.’

‘Baseball boots?’

‘Yes. Exactly. With white laces.’

‘What colour were the boots?’

‘There was not enough light. I think they were a fairly dark colour, maybe red, with white soles. I remember seeing them as he was lying over the boxes.’

‘How about coats?’ he asked.

I tried to recall. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘It all happened so fast.’

‘And the knife? Can you describe that? We didn’t find it at the scene.’

‘It was like a carving knife with a long thin blade. I’ll not forget that in a hurry. It was very frightening.’

‘Overhand or underhand?’

‘Eh?’

‘When he was holding the knife, did it point up or down?’

‘Up to start with, but then he shifted it to stab at my chest above my coat.’

‘Can you remember anything else?’

I tried going over everything once again in my head. ‘No. Sorry.’

‘Here,’ he said, pulling an iPad from his bag. ‘There are literally thousands of mugshots stored on this. I’ll leave it with you. Go through them and see if any of them are your friend with the knife. I’ll come back and collect it on Friday but call me sooner if you find him.’ He gave me a business card with his number on it. ‘Otherwise we’ll try and get a videofit sorted.’

He stood up to go.

‘Can I do anything for you?’

‘How are things at my flat?’ I said. ‘It is OK?’

‘As far as I’m aware. We have forensics in there today doing a scene of crime search for dabs and DNA, although I’m not expecting much. These guys obviously came prepared but, you never know, perhaps the one you threw over the boxes spat out some saliva, or maybe a spot of phlegm was coughed up by one of them while they were waiting for you to get home.’

Nice, but at least the police were trying. Perhaps I had been a bit unfair in thinking they wouldn’t bother.

‘What about my flat key?’ I said. ‘I left it in the lock.’

‘We have that. The forensic boys took it this morning to get in and they’ll lock up again afterwards. I’ll bring it with me on Friday.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Yes. I don’t feel particularly safe in here. I’ve asked the nurses to try and vet my visitors but you were able to walk straight in unannounced. How about if my friend with the knife comes back to finish off what he started? If those two thugs were prepared to wait all afternoon in my flat for me to get home before trying to kill me, don’t you think it’s quite likely they might just wander in to this hospital to have another go? Especially at night when it’s quiet. I’d be happier with a twenty-four-hour police guard.’

I’d be even happier still with a whole posse of guards, and a stab-proof vest.

‘I’ll have a word with hospital security.’

‘Hospital security is more concerned about people parking their cars in the ambulance bays than they are about assassins on the loose with carving knives.’

‘It’s the best I can do. I’m afraid I don’t have the manpower.’

Police budgets are set more to solve crimes than to prevent them. They would happily mobilize a hugely expensive team of detectives if I was murdered in my hospital bed, but they couldn’t afford a single man to thwart it happening in the first place. It was madness.

Third time lucky? Not if I could help it, I thought.

‘Have you spoken yet to DS Jagger at Thames Valley?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ DI Galvin said. ‘As a matter of fact, I have.’

There was something about his tone of voice that set alarm bells ringing in my head.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘What is what?’

‘You have something to tell me.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘No.’

‘I think you have. What is it?’

He lowered his voice as if that made it better. ‘Their forensics have thrown up something that may indicate that things are not as straightforward as first thought.’

‘What something ?’ I said.

‘You will have to talk to DS Jagger. It’s his case — at least, it is at present.’

‘At present?’ I echoed. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘It might be allocated to someone more senior, probably a DCI.’

Detective chief inspectors didn’t usually get called in for routine suicide cases, not even those involving high-profile personalities.

‘What did the forensics discover?’ I asked him again.

‘Ask DS Jagger.’

‘I’m asking you ,’ I said. ‘I think I have a right to know. After all, he nearly took me with him.’

The detective inspector hesitated. There was no way I was going to let him go away now without telling me.

‘Tell me,’ I insisted. ‘After all, you and I are in the same business. I am a member of horseracing’s police force. We’re both detectives.’

‘All I know is that the Thames Valley forensic team discovered evidence of bodily fluids in the unburned section of the boot of the Mercedes, including traces of blood from Mr Swinton.’

‘In the boot?’

‘Yes.’

One couldn’t drive a car from the boot.

Someone else had to have been there, and suicide is a solitary affair.

So if it wasn’t suicide, was it murder?

By Thursday morning I was more than ready to be discharged. For a start, I was getting fed up with hospital food, and I was not sleeping very well. Not that it was a bad thing — I had one eye always open for a short stocky man with a carving knife in his hand.

‘Can I please go home?’ I asked Doctor Shwan, who popped in to see me at seven thirty on his way to his day shift in A & E.

‘We need to give things a little longer to heal with you resting here,’ he said.

‘I can rest at home,’ I pointed out.

‘But would you? It’s only been four days since I had your heart actually beating in my hand. I’ll admit you’ve made remarkable progress so far, but you must give your body a chance to recover from having had both your chest and your abdomen opened, otherwise you’ll be back here in worse shape. I’ve said that you might be able to go home on Saturday, but that’s really too soon. The sutures won’t come out until the middle of next week and, while they remain, there’s always a risk of infection.’

‘I’ll take that as a no, then,’ I said.

He smiled and nodded. ‘You do that.’

‘Can you give me something to help me sleep? I’m lying awake for hours every night.’

‘It’s not unusual for open-heart patients to complain about having insomnia after their surgery, but I’m loath to give you sedatives. They can slow the healing process. If it’s pain that’s keeping you awake, we can give you something for that.’

‘It’s not so much pain as the bloody itching of the wounds. It’s driving me crazy, especially in the quiet of the night when it seems to come on the worst.’