Felix Francis - Dick Francis's Front Runner

‘Itching is actually a good thing,’ he said. ‘It means you’re mending. However, try not to scratch as that can cause infection. When they’ve healed a bit more you can use a cream. But not yet. Sorry.’

The doctor departed and I went back to studying the ceiling of my room while trying hard not to rub at the incisions on my chest and abdomen.

I was frustrated.

I had promised Faye that I would get on and live my life to the full. Instead, I was stuck here in a hospital room, marking time.

There were things I wanted to do. Not least, finding out who had tried to kill me.

Thursday turned out to be a day full of visitors.

Next to arrive was DS Jagger from Thames Valley Police, who walked into my room unannounced just after nine o’clock as I was looking through some of the mugshots on the iPad.

‘Recognize any of them?’ he asked. ‘We’ve got plenty more of those at Thames Valley.’

‘None so far,’ I said, putting the iPad down. ‘I hear you have some news for me.’

‘Have I?’ he said, pulling up a chair.

‘Concerning Dave Swinton’s car?’

‘How did you hear that?’ he asked.

‘On the grapevine.’

He wasn’t pleased. ‘I have some questions for you,’ he said.

‘Fire away.’

‘On the morning when you were shut in the sauna, did you actually see who pushed you in there?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I told you that I didn’t. I was pushed in and the door slammed shut before I could turn round.’

‘Do you think it could have been someone other than Mr Swinton?’

‘I suppose it could have been anyone,’ I said. ‘I assumed it was Dave but I didn’t actually see him. Whoever it was didn’t say anything when I called out, even though they had to have heard me. Why do you ask?’

‘We now think it may be possible that Mr Swinton was not responsible.’

I waited for him to go on but he didn’t, so I prompted.

‘What did you find in the boot of his Mercedes.’

‘Plastic cable ties,’ he said.

It was not what I’d been expecting. ‘What about them?’

‘At least one of them had traces of David Swinton’s blood on it. The DNA proved it.’ He paused, as if deciding whether or not to continue. ‘The back end of the car was never fully enveloped by the fire. We found bloodstains on the boot carpet that survived the inferno. These too matched Mr Swinton. There were also traces of urine in the carpet, although we cannot be sure who it came from, as urine doesn’t contain any DNA.’

‘Are you implying that Dave Swinton may have been tied up in the boot of his own car with cable ties?’

‘Yes, I am,’ the sergeant said. ‘That is the possibility we are now investigating. And we are formally treating his death as unexplained.’

‘Not as murder?’ I asked.

‘No, not yet. We still have more tests to make on both the car and the ties, and also on Mr Swinton’s remains before we are sure. Officially, suicide still remains an option.’

‘But you don’t believe it?’ I said.

‘No.’

‘Was he even still alive when the fire started?’ I said.

‘Yes, he was, otherwise we would know for sure it wasn’t suicide. There was evidence of deep internal burns that are consistent with him breathing in superheated air and flames. There were also some petrol residues found in his lungs.’

Too much information.

‘I suppose he may have been unconscious,’ I said, wishing for a more agreeable mental picture in my head. ‘Otherwise, why would he sit meekly in a car while someone else set fire to it?’

‘Maybe he was forced into that position. A couple of cable ties to secure his hands to the steering wheel would do it. The plastic would fully burn away in a fire of such intensity. There’d be no trace. If it hadn’t been for the prompt arrival of the fire brigade, we would never have recovered those left in the boot.’

I shivered once again at the memory of the video images of Dave sitting bolt upright in the burning Mercedes. To think that he might have been tied up, alive and alert, while someone poured petrol into the car and then set it alight, was unimaginably awful.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘you told me at Lambourn that you thought Mr Swinton had tried to kill you because you were aware that he had purposely lost a horse race and he didn’t want you telling anyone.’

‘Yes.’

‘If it wasn’t David Swinton who shut you in the sauna, can you think of anyone else who would want you dead.’

I looked at him and raised my eyebrows. ‘Why do you think I’m in here?’

He smiled. ‘Yes, of course. But can you think of anyone who might have wanted both you and Mr Swinton dead?’

It was time to tell the whole truth, not just the edited version.

‘Dave Swinton was being blackmailed,’ I said.

He stared at me. ‘How do you know?’

‘He told me the day before he died, on the way to Newbury races.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’ He was cross and maybe he had a right to be.

‘I would have told the inquest,’ I said as a lame excuse. ‘I didn’t think it was relevant to your investigation if he had killed himself. But now...’

His look was enough to tell me that he thought it was relevant anyway.

‘Who was blackmailing him?’ he asked me.

‘I don’t know who. But I think Dave had found out. When he rang to ask me to come back to Lambourn on Sunday morning, he said that he now knew who it was. He wouldn’t tell me over the phone because he didn’t trust that someone else wasn’t listening to his calls. That’s why I went to see him.’

‘Was he being blackmailed because he purposely lost races?’

‘No,’ I said emphatically. ‘That’s what he was blackmailed into doing.’

‘So what else was it?’

I hesitated.

‘Come on, Mr Hinkley,’ said the detective impatiently. ‘Tell me now.’

‘I really don’t want to further denigrate the reputation of one of our sport’s greatest ambassadors. It may have nothing to do with his death.’

‘Let me be the judge of that,’ he said sternly.

He was right.

Of course he was right. If Dave Swinton had been murdered to prevent him saying who the blackmailer was, then why he was being blackmailed was more than just relevant to the investigation, it was crucial.

‘Dave told me that it was to do with tax. Something about not declaring income from extra payments he’d received for riding in races.’

‘Did he say how much these extra payments were?’

‘About two hundred thousand pounds,’ I said. ‘It seems that someone was threatening to report him to the authorities.’

‘How much did the blackmailer demand?’

‘That’s what’s strange. He didn’t want money. He just told Dave to lose a race.’

‘Mr Swinton was sure it was a man?’

‘He said a man called him and told him which race he must not win.’

I could see from his expression that DS Jagger thought it a very unlikely scenario. He had made it quite clear previously that he rated the purposeful loss of a horse race as rather trivial, and I suppose it was, compared with his daily diet of murder and rape.

‘Who would know about these extra payments?’

‘Just about every trainer and owner Dave Swinton rode for. It was general knowledge that he would demand an extra payment over and above the regular riding fee.’

‘But did they all know that he hadn’t paid tax on it?’

‘It seems that he always asked for the extra payments in cash. And it doesn’t take much imagination to realize why.’

‘Did Mr Swinton tell you all this?’

‘Not all of it,’ I said. ‘After Dave died, I spoke to a couple of trainers that he’d ridden for. They both told me, independently, about the extra payments. The only thing Dave told me was that he was being blackmailed for not paying tax on some money, not where the money came from.’