Felix Francis - Dick Francis's Front Runner

‘Does DS Jagger know you think that?’

‘It’s in my statement.’

‘Then I’m sure he will look into it.’

It didn’t sound very positive to me.

Coordination was one of the major problems with having so many different police forces: Thames Valley were investigating the Swinton death, British Transport Police would be responsible for looking into the Lawrence incident at Victoria, and DI Galvin himself was a member of the Metropolitan force.

The only common denominator seemed to be me .

I went home to my flat on Wednesday morning despite the urging of Faye to stay a while longer in Richmond.

‘I need some clean clothes,’ I said.

‘I do have a washing machine, you know. Or I could fetch some for you.’

‘Faye, my darling, the man who was trying to kill me is himself dead. It will be perfectly safe for me to go back home now.’

I wondered if I was trying to convince myself as much as I was her.

‘But you said he was a paid killer,’ she said in desperation. ‘How do you know there won’t be someone else paid to kill you?’

Good point.

‘I’ll be careful,’ I said.

Hence I made Faye drive slowly past my flat twice in order for me to check that there was no one lurking outside my front door.

It did nothing to ease her state of anxiety.

When I was finally satisfied that there were no miscreants hiding in the bushes, she parked outside and helped me carry my stuff, being careful first to check that nobody was waiting for me within.

Faye went into every room. The place was deserted.

Nevertheless, she was reluctant to leave and I had to shoo her away, assisted in the end by a traffic warden who threatened to give her a ticket if she didn’t move her car.

I stood on the pavement and waved at her as she drove off, wondering if I was doing the right thing. But I couldn’t hide away in Richmond for ever. I had to confront my fears and get on with my life because, if I didn’t, I’d have no chance of finding out who was behind it all, and why.

I finally unpacked the boxes, removing things slowly piece by piece from where they lay in the hallway, so as not to carry anything heavy. I also washed up the stack of dirty dishes in the sink and cleaned the place from one end to the other, including removing slimy fingerprint powder from all the surfaces in the kitchen and hall.

After three hours’ work, interspersed with several lengthy rests, the flat looked almost presentable, but I was exhausted. I slumped down into an armchair in my sitting room and put my feet up on the freshly polished coffee table.

I really did need to get my strength back.

My landline phone rang.

I stared at it. Not again.

‘Hello,’ I said gingerly, picking it up.

‘Just checking you’re all right,’ said Faye down the line.

I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘I’ve been clearing up. You wouldn’t recognize the place.’

‘But you’re meant to be taking it easy.’

‘Don’t fuss,’ I said. ‘You hate it when I fuss over you.’

‘That’s different,’ she said. ‘I don’t need to be told to take things easy. You do.’

‘OK,’ I said, admitting defeat. ‘I promise to take things easy.’

One should never make promises one can’t keep.

I was following Faye’s instructions and taking things easy at home, my feet up on the sofa, watching highlights of cricket from Australia, when Detective Inspector Galvin telephoned around lunchtime on Thursday.

‘I think we may have Darryl Lawrence’s accomplice in custody,’ he said. ‘I’m not certain, but his height and shape fit the man in the hospital CCTV images.’

‘That’s great,’ I said. ‘But can you hold him on such flimsy evidence?’

‘Currently, he’s under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Darryl Lawrence. CCTV footage at Victoria shows him entering the Tube station with Lawrence but leaving it again on his own after the incident.’

‘Does it actually show him pushing Lawrence under the train?’

‘Sadly not, but we do have a couple of eyewitnesses. The transport police have now handed the case over to us. We’ve arranged an old-fashioned line-up for this afternoon. Would you come and see if you recognize him from the attack at your flat?’

‘Where?’ I asked.

‘Charing Cross police station. Come to the main entrance on Agar Street at three o’clock.’

‘I’ll be there.’

Charing Cross police station is built in a triangular shape with a fully enclosed courtyard in the middle. Eight men were standing in a line across the centre of the courtyard, each of them holding a card with a number on it, from 1 to 8.

‘Now, take your time, sir,’ said the uniformed police sergeant who’d accompanied me outside. ‘Walk down the full line and have a good look at each man. If you recognize anyone, please go back and touch him on the shoulder or you may come and tell me his number.’

I started walking slowly along the line of men, looking at their faces.

All of them were of roughly the same height and build, and each was dressed in everyday clothes and an anorak. None of them was conveniently wearing red baseball boots.

But I didn’t need that clue. I easily recognized the man who had held me in my hallway as Darryl Lawrence had repeatedly thrust his knife into my torso. Even though I’d been unable to provide DI Galvin with a description at the time, and I’d said that I couldn’t remember what he looked like, I knew him instantly. He was holding card number 3.

I went on down the whole line, looking closely at each of them in turn. I was quite certain that I had never seen the other seven men before.

I went back to number 3 and touched him on the shoulder.

‘Are you sure?’ asked the sergeant.

‘Positive,’ I said. ‘This is the man who held me in my flat while I was being stabbed.’

The man had previously been standing up very straight and looking into the distance well above my head. Now he moved his eyes down to meet mine. They were cold, like ice, with no emotion in them whatsoever. Eyes are sometimes described as the windows to the soul. If so, this man had no soul at all. The windows were black and uncaring.

I wondered what was going on in the brain behind them.

He said nothing as he was led away by two burly constables back into the building.

DI Galvin, who had been watching proceedings from the far side of the courtyard, now walked over to join me.

‘Well done,’ he said. ‘You picked out the right one.’

‘There was absolutely no doubt,’ I said. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Gary Banks. He has previous for violence.’

‘How about the other two witnesses?’ I asked. ‘Did they pick him out?’

‘One did, one didn’t.’

‘Is that enough?’ I asked.

‘Probably not. But identification evidence on its own is never enough.’

‘Does that mean he’ll walk?’ I asked with concern. I didn’t fancy Mr Banks coming after me again. ‘I’d feel a lot safer knowing he’s locked up.’

‘That will be up to the CPS and the magistrates. We do have a little bit more on him — the hospital CCTV images and the fact that he was arrested wearing red baseball boots with white soles and laces might help.’

‘I looked for those,’ I said with a smile.

‘That would have been a bit too obvious. We needed you to pick him out without those to help you.’ He smiled back at me. ‘And we will continue to interview him, of course. So far he’s replied No comment to every question he’s been asked, but we’ll see. We have a few alternatives to try.’

‘Thumbscrews?’ I asked.

‘Only verbal ones, sadly.’