Felix Francis - Dick Francis's Front Runner

‘Do you know which race he purposely didn’t win?’ Paul asked.

‘I think so,’ I said, and I told him about Garrick Party’s run at Haydock. ‘The horse is a well-known front runner with no great finishing speed but, on this occasion, Dave held him up for a late run that the horse, predictably, was unable to produce. He finished third out of eight.’

‘At what price?’

‘He started as favourite at thirteen-to-eight.’

‘Did the stewards on the day have him in?’

‘Yes. They questioned both Dave and the trainer, Jason Butcher, but they accepted the excuse that the horse had been held up due to the heavy going. But I don’t buy it. The horse had previously won twice in the mud, both times from the front.’

‘Difficult to prove,’ Paul said.

‘Impossible.’

My last visitor of the day arrived at six o’clock, as I was lying on the bed having a snooze. Paul’s visit, in particular, had tired me out, probably because it had been me who had done most of the talking.

I woke to find myself staring at the beautiful face of Henrietta Shawcross.

My first thought was that I must be dreaming, but I wasn’t.

‘You are a very difficult man to find, Mr Hinkley,’ she said. ‘And I should know — I’ve been looking for you ever since you disappeared without trace on Saturday afternoon.’

‘Sorry,’ I said.

‘I should think so too.’ She pulled a cross face that did nothing to diminish her beauty. ‘Fancy leaving me without even saying goodbye.’

‘Sorry,’ I said again.

‘And so you should be. I’m not used to men suddenly vanishing without at least asking for my number.’

‘And do you give it to them?’ I asked.

‘No. Not as a general rule. But I might have given it to you. If you had bothered to ask.’

‘Sorry,’ I said once more.

She removed her coat, placing it over the back of one of the chairs, then she sat down on the other one and looked around her. ‘What are you doing in here, anyway? What’s wrong with you?’

What should I say?

‘I was attacked,’ I said.

‘By whom?’

‘I wish I knew. A couple of heavies with a carving knife.’

She suddenly looked concerned. ‘Were you stabbed?’

‘Thirteen times,’ I replied, rather indulgently.

She was shocked and it put her off her stride, but only for a moment.

‘Then why aren’t you dead?’ she asked.

‘Luck,’ I said. ‘That and a thick coat. Fortunately I managed to throw them off me and run for help.’

‘See, you are a superhero after all.’ She smiled.

‘How did you find me?’ I asked, but what I really wanted to ask was Why did you find me?

‘The usual method,’ she said jokily. ‘I tried the internet, you know, on Google, but that failed. Then I tried those people-finding websites but none of them came up trumps. So I resorted to plan C.’

‘Which was?’

‘I called one of Uncle Richard’s racing contacts to find out who, exactly, you worked for. And then I slept with the chairman of the BHA before blackmailing him into telling me your whereabouts.’

‘That seems a tad excessive,’ I said.

‘It worked, though.’ She grinned.

‘Do you ever tell the truth?’ I asked.

‘Not if I can help it.’

‘So why did you bother?’

‘What?’

‘To find me,’ I said.

She cocked her head sideways. ‘Maybe I just wanted to.’

‘Does Uncle Richard know?’ I asked.

‘Uncle Richard doesn’t own me,’ she said icily. ‘I do what I want.’

I wondered just how true that was. According to what I’d discovered on my computer, Sir Richard Reynard was the sole administrator of her trust fund and the holder of the purse strings — at least until her thirtieth birthday the following February.

‘I’m flattered,’ I said.

‘Don’t be,’ she said, standing up and walking over to the window. ‘I just wondered what you looked like in a hospital gown.’ She smiled at me. ‘Disappointing, to tell you the truth. Dirty pale blue is obviously not your colour.’

She, meanwhile, was wearing black trousers, calf-length boots and a white roll-neck sweater that touched her in all the right places.

‘If I’d known you were coming I’d have worn a clean one,’ I said. And, I thought, something that did up properly at the back and didn’t leave my arse hanging out.

‘Don’t you have any pyjamas, or a dressing gown?’

‘Nope,’ I said. ‘I have absolutely nothing. It seems that everything I arrived wearing was cut off and bagged as potential evidence. I even had to get my sister to go to the hospital gift shop to buy me a toothbrush.’

‘Isn’t there someone who could go and get you something from your home?’

‘Are you offering?’ I asked.

‘Yes, OK,’ Henri said with enthusiasm. ‘Give me a list.’

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘There’s a problem. The police have the key.’

And that was just as well, I thought.

I wasn’t at all sure that I wanted Miss Henrietta Shawcross, heiress to a multimillion-pound shipping fortune, letting herself into my tip of a flat to rifle through my Ikea drawers looking for a long-neglected pair of pyjamas.

‘Tell you what,’ she said, ‘I’ll go and buy you something. What do you need?’

‘You can’t go now,’ I said. ‘It’s too late. Everything will be closed.’

‘You’re joking. It’s Thursday. Late-night shopping, and only two weeks before Christmas. Everywhere will be open until at least nine. What do you want?’

She was clearly excited by the prospect.

‘A pair of pyjamas, then,’ I said. ‘Thanks. And something to go home in would be nice. And maybe a pair of cheap trainers.’

‘Shoe size?’

‘Nine.’

‘How about the rest of you?’ She raised her eyebrows in questioning amusement.

‘Waist thirty-four, chest forty-two, neck sixteen.’

‘Right,’ she said. ‘Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back.’

She disappeared.

I lay my head down on the pillow and I was laughing.

Never mind Prozac, a dose of Henrietta Shawcross was the perfect antidote for depression.

Henri returned just after eight, and she was heavily laden with smart black-and-gold shopping bags.

She laid out her purchases on the end of the bed: a pair of striped pyjamas, a silk dressing gown, some slippers, two shirts, a pair of beige chinos, a double-breasted blue blazer, crewneck sweater, socks, pants, a pair of fine-grain black leather shoes, and a full-length navy cashmere overcoat.

Even a tie.

‘Where did you get all this from?’ I asked.

‘New and Lingwood in Jermyn Street,’ she said. ‘It’s where my father went for all his clothes.’

‘But I only needed some jeans and a T-shirt from Primark,’ I said forlornly, fearful of what this lot would do to my bank balance.

‘Nonsense,’ she replied with a grin. ‘We can’t have you wandering around in just a T-shirt in mid-December. You’ll catch your death.’

‘Fewer references to death, please, if you don’t mind. Now, how much do I owe you?’

‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘It’s a gift. My pleasure. And I got you these as well.’ She handed to me yet another smart carrier bag that contained a leather wash kit, complete with a hairbrush and razor.

‘I could do with a shave,’ I said, rubbing my chin. ‘It’s been four days.’

‘I actually like your sexy designer stubble,’ Henri said. ‘Very George Michael.’

I looked right at her and she looked straight back at me. All the right vibes were seemingly in motion.

‘Are you playing with me?’ I said. ‘Because I won’t take kindly to you waltzing in here, buying me all these things and then swanning off, never to be seen again.’