Felix Francis - Dick Francis's Front Runner

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Ever since this bloody cancer took control of my life, I’ve wondered if each Christmas will be my last. I’d hate to go out after a damp squib.’

I smiled at her and rubbed her shoulders. I hadn’t realized she thought that way. Perhaps I shouldn’t be going away.

No one but the actual sufferer fully understands what a diagnosis of cancer really means. It isn’t just the body that’s affected, it is the mind as well. Even when it appears to be beaten, as in Faye’s case, it still has an all-encompassing and persistent presence, forcing one to make difficult choices and confiscating one’s free will. It is the enemy within, the fifth column, forever ready to rise up and strike unless forcibly restrained at every turn.

‘Come on,’ Faye said, snapping us out of the moment. ‘Let’s open a bottle of bubbly.’

Quentin arrived home as we were on our second glass.

‘What a dreadful day,’ he said as he came into the kitchen, where Faye was cooking the dinner and I was sitting on a barstool watching her.

I gave him a flute of champagne, which he drank down in one long slurp.

‘God! I needed that,’ he said.

I refilled his glass.

‘What was dreadful about it?’ Faye asked.

‘Oh, nothing important,’ he said, taking another sip of champagne. ‘It just never ceases to amaze me how juries can come up with some of their verdicts. I’ve spent ten whole weeks explaining to them in the minutest detail how the defendant was as guilty as sin of fraud and tax evasion, and they take a mere forty-five minutes to acquit him. I think jury trials are a joke in fraud cases. The average man off the street doesn’t understand the complexities and hence won’t convict, irrespective of how persuasive the facts are. They’ve been talking about changing it for years but nothing happens.’

‘What had he done?’ I asked.

‘He claimed he was not subject to UK capital gains tax on the proceeds of the sale of his printing company. He maintained that he was tax resident in the Channel Islands at the time of the sale, but it was blatantly not true. How the jury couldn’t see he was lying is beyond me.’

‘OK, you two, that’s enough legal talk,’ Faye said firmly. ‘This is family time.’

She produced some delicious canapés and Quentin opened another bottle.

‘I can’t have too much to drink,’ I said in mock protest, as he refilled my glass. ‘I have to be up early to get to the airport.’

‘Off to a hot Christmas,’ Quentin said. ‘Sounds a bit odd to me.’

‘They must have them all the time in Australia,’ I said. ‘I suppose you get accustomed to what you’re used to.’

‘Will you still have roast turkey for Christmas lunch?’ Faye asked.

‘I have no idea. In fact, I have no idea of anything about this trip except that I have to be at Luton Airport at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.’

‘Luton?’ Faye said. ‘I’d have thought it would’ve been Heathrow.’

‘So did I,’ I said, ‘but, apparently, our flight departs from Luton. I just hope there’s decent legroom. It’s a long way.’

‘When are you back?’ Faye asked.

‘January the third,’ I said. ‘We leave on the second and fly back overnight.’

‘I do hope you have a lovely time,’ Faye said warmly.

‘I feel rather guilty at leaving you,’ I said.

‘Don’t be silly. Q and I will be fine. Kenneth is coming here for lunch on Christmas Day itself, so that will be great fun.’

Quentin didn’t look like he thought it would be any fun at all, but I couldn’t worry about that. I was so excited at the prospect of spending the next eleven days with Henri that I could hardly sit still during dinner.

I was outside Luton Airport Parkway railway station in good time at ten minutes to eight on Wednesday morning when my phone rang.

I thought it was going to be Henri but it was Detective Sergeant Jagger.

‘Having spoken to the jockey Bill McKenzie, and having checked his phone records, we have now arrested Leslie Morris, on suspicion of blackmail.’

‘Great,’ I said. ‘Thank you for letting me know.’

‘My superior officer, DCI Owens, now heads the inquiry into the death of Mr David Swinton. He wants to interview you himself concerning the events in Lambourn on the morning that Mr Swinton died.’

‘When?’ I asked with some trepidation.

‘As soon as possible. Can you come to Reading today?’

‘I’m afraid that’s out of the question. I’m currently at the airport and am flying to the Cayman Islands for Christmas.’

‘Hmm.’ He didn’t sound very happy at that news. ‘When are you back?’

‘Not until the third of January,’ I said. That didn’t seem to please him much either. ‘But I have nothing more to add than I have already given you in my statements. Are you charging Morris with Dave Swinton’s murder?’

‘At present he is being interviewed only concerning the blackmail of Mr William McKenzie.’

‘Well, if I were you, I’d also ask him about the blackmail of Dave Swinton and Willy Mitchell.’

‘All in due course, Mr Hinkley. All in due course. One doesn’t need to rush these things.’

I wondered if it gave them more time to hold Morris in custody if they arrested him for each offence in turn.

‘Have you searched Morris’s house?’ I asked.

‘Not yet, but it will be done later today.’

‘See if you can find a small red notebook,’ I said. ‘It contains the records of all his bets on the dubious race at Sandown, and that should be enough to prove Morris knew beforehand that McKenzie wouldn’t win.’

A large black Range Rover drew up in front of the station with Henri waving at me through the back window. I waved back.

‘Look,’ I said to DS Jagger. ‘I’ve got to go now. I’ll call you from the Cayman Islands tomorrow. I can speak to Chief Inspector Owens then, if he wants.’

A smartly dressed chauffeur climbed out of the driver’s seat and loaded my suitcase into the Range Rover’s boot. I meanwhile climbed in the back next to Henri.

There were two other people already in the vehicle.

Sir Richard Reynard was sitting in the front seat and there was another woman in the back with Henri.

‘This is my aunt Mary,’ Henri said.

‘I’m so pleased to meet you,’ I said, shaking her hand.

‘Me too. I’ve heard much about you from my husband.’

The driver climbed back in and drove off, but we didn’t go to the regular passenger terminal. Instead, we went to the other side of the airport to the private aviation centre where a Reynard Shipping liveried twin-engined jet aircraft awaited us. We even drove out in the Range Rover, across the concrete apron, to the base of the aircraft steps.

It suddenly dawned on me that we were going to the Cayman Islands, not on a knees-to-your-chest charter flight, but on a private jet.

No wonder I hadn’t had to book my own ticket.

Henri grinned like a Cheshire cat. ‘I didn’t think you knew.’

‘But why only one suitcase?’ I asked.

‘Uncle Richard and Aunt Mary always have at least two each but lesser mortals like us can have only one. There’s not that much room in the hold and, if the aircraft’s too heavy, we have to make two fuel stops instead of one.’

‘Where?’ I asked.

‘Last time it was Bermuda but I think it depends on the winds.’

‘Who else is coming?’

‘Martin and Theresa were meant to be with us but Martin had to go on ahead, over a week ago. I don’t know if Theresa will be coming.’

We found out soon enough as another vehicle drew up beside the Range Rover and Theresa Reynard got out of one side while Bentley Robertson, the creepy, lecherous lawyer, got out of the other.