Felix Francis - Dick Francis's Front Runner

She arrived at half past six, again wearing the full-length camel coat with hood, this time over a white lace-fronted blouse and black trousers.

I opened the front door before she had a chance to push the bell, eager to have the chance to spend a few moments together with her before I took her in to contend with Faye’s inquisitive gaze.

‘You look great,’ I said, taking her coat and hanging it on the stand in the hall.

‘Hardly,’ she said. ‘These are my work clothes. I’ve spent most of the day as a waitress.’

‘You’ve been waitressing?’ I asked incredulously.

‘What’s wrong with that?’ she said. ‘The waitress I’d booked was hit by a cyclist who jumped a red light, so I stood in for her.’

‘Where?’

‘Some offices in Covent Garden. It was a boardroom Christmas lunch for the directors of an Australian travel company. I also provided the chef.’

I wondered if any of the travel company directors appreciated that they had been served their turkey and mince pies by someone on the Sunday Times Rich List.

‘Well, you still look good to me,’ I said, but I’d probably think she would look great in sackcloth.

‘Nice shirt,’ she said, stroking my back.

I smiled at her. She had bought it.

We went through to the kitchen.

‘Faye,’ I said, ‘this is Henrietta Shawcross.’

I think Faye was impressed. The two certainly hit it off well, helped along by a couple of glasses of Sauvignon Blanc.

Quentin arrived at seven o’clock and he too took an instant shine to Henri. He kept saying that he had some reading to do but he never went off to do it. Instead he sat and chatted in the most genial manner I have ever seen from him, while never taking his eyes off Henri.

‘What are you doing for Christmas?’ she asked me.

Christmas was something I had been trying to ignore for months. Faye had asked me almost every week since August if I’d like to spend it with her and Quentin and, every time, I’d been vague in my response, unwilling to set anything in stone and not at all sure that Christmas at the Calderfields was my idea of a fun time.

Three years ago, Lydia and I had stayed with them for four nights over the holiday, and Quentin had become more and more grumpy with every meal. Never again, we had agreed.

Up until last week, I had seriously considered taking to my bed, and staying there from Christmas Eve right through until New Year’s Day, missing all that dreadful bonhomie, mulled wine and repeat TV showings of The Railway Children and The Sound of Music .

Maybe I’d have risen briefly to attend Kempton races on Boxing Day but, otherwise... no thanks.

However, my near-death experience, combined with my joyous meeting with Henrietta Shawcross, had slightly softened my view of the festivities.

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘How about you?’

‘I’m going away,’ she said, ‘with my uncle and aunt.’

Disaster, I thought.

‘Can you come too?’ she asked excitedly.

‘Where are you going?’ I asked with a certain degree of trepidation, ever wary of my bank balance.

‘The Caribbean.’

‘I ought to be at Kempton on Boxing Day.’

She looked disappointed. ‘Surely you’re allowed time off to recuperate?’

‘Of course he is,’ Faye said, ‘but he won’t take it. He never takes his holiday entitlement. I’ll bet he’s not taken one day off all year. He even works on Saturdays and Sundays.’

‘I didn’t work last week,’ I said in mild defence.

‘But you were in hospital!’ Faye said in astonishment. ‘You can hardly call that a holiday. And I know for a fact that you had meetings with people from your office.’

‘Only one meeting,’ I said sheepishly.

Faye rolled her eyes. ‘Do you see what I have to put up with?’ she said to Henri, who laughed. Even Quentin laughed.

‘What’s this?’ I said. ‘Be Nasty to Jeff Week?’

‘She’s only trying to get you to come away with me for Christmas,’ Henri said.

I looked at Faye. ‘Are you?’ I knew she had been working on the assumption that I would, in the end, agree to stay with her and Quentin.

‘Absolutely. I think it’s a great idea.’

So did I.

‘But what will your uncle Richard say?’

‘I mentioned to him last night that I might ask you. He remembers you from Sandown. He liked you. In fact, he seemed very keen on the idea of you coming with us.’

‘OK,’ I said with a grin. ‘I’d love to.’

‘The Caribbean?’ Paul Maldini sounded more surprised than annoyed when I called him first thing on Tuesday morning.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘For Christmas and the New Year.’

‘Are you well enough for such a journey?’ Paul asked.

‘I reckon so,’ I said. ‘At least, I will be by then.’

‘What about your investigations?’

‘They will all wait,’ I said. ‘I’ve been told that I need to have a good rest in order to fully recover.’

I wasn’t going to tell him that it had been my sister who’d told me.

‘But how about all this Wisden Wonder business?’ he asked. ‘Who will investigate that, ready for the disciplinary panel?’

‘There’s plenty of time to get things done when I get back. Don’t worry. I’ll take some of my holiday entitlement. I’ve got loads of days left. It won’t cost the BHA anything.’

That seemed to placate him somewhat.

‘What if I need to contact you?’ he said.

‘My mobile will be on and I will try to pick up my e-mails.’

‘Well, I suppose it’s all right,’ he said reluctantly. ‘When do you go?’

‘Sometime next week.’

Detective Inspector Galvin called my mobile phone at lunchtime.

‘We’ve found Darryl Lawrence,’ he said.

‘Good,’ I said. ‘That’s a huge relief. Where was he?’

‘At Victoria tube station, just after eight thirty this morning.’

‘What does he say?’

‘Nothing. He’s dead.’

‘Dead!’

‘He fell in front of a train.’

‘Suicide?’

‘Possible,’ he said. ‘But I’d say it was unlikely. The northbound Victoria Line platform was extremely busy, totally packed full of commuters, with more coming down the escalators from the rail station every second. In my experience, suicides prefer to do it when it’s quieter, even deserted. I’d say it was more likely to be an accident. Or murder.’

‘Which?’

‘Can’t tell at present. Those nearby are in shock. I understand that no one the transport police have spoken to so far saw anything suspicious, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. The travelling public are generally useless as witnesses. It’s as if people go into a trance when they travel on a train.’

I knew exactly what he meant. Following someone on the Tube was dead easy. Most people never looked beyond the end of their noses, largely out of fear of attracting the attention of a potential mugger or rapist.

‘So where does that leave us?’ I said.

‘There’s still his accomplice to find. Any further thoughts on what he looks like?’ He sounded bored.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Any luck with the CCTV at the hospital?’

‘Nothing useful. His face was covered, so it’s difficult to get a positive ID. And there’s not much more we can do.’

It was pretty clear that he was signing off on the investigation. I suppose I couldn’t blame him. On average, there were more than a hundred murders each year in London to be solved. I was just thankful that I hadn’t been one of them.

‘Are you still in contact with DS Jagger at Thames Valley?’ I asked.

‘Not lately. Is there anything new?’

‘Not that I’m aware of,’ I said. ‘But it wasn’t by chance that Lawrence and his chum tried to kill me. They knew me by name and I feel it may be tied to the previous attempt to kill me at Dave Swinton’s place.’