Felix Francis - Dick Francis's Front Runner

Consequently, Morris was presently detained on remand in Belmarsh Prison charged with conspiracy to murder Dave Swinton, and also with breaking the terms of his bail.

Mr Andrew Morris, Leslie’s son, was still on the run and believed to be somewhere in Spain. Detective Chief Inspector Owens of Thames Valley Police had called and told me that he was convinced Morris Senior had been on his way to join his son when he’d been stopped. A European arrest warrant had since been issued for Andrew Morris and, according to the chief inspector, it would be only a matter of time before he was caught.

‘Mind you,’ the policeman had said, ‘Morris obviously thinks we won’t ever find his son because he’s now blaming him for everything in a misguided attempt to save his own skin. Singing like a canary, he is. Claims that it was his son who shut you in the sauna and also set fire to Dave Swinton. He maintains that he was there only as a driver. Does he think we are idiots or something?’ He laughed. ‘But he is one, for sure. He’s clearly never heard of guilt by joint enterprise. Don’t worry, we have him bang to rights for murder.’

The BHA formal disciplinary panel proceedings were short, the details having been discussed and agreed to ahead of time.

Bill McKenzie and Willy Mitchell both pleaded guilty to charges of intentionally riding so that their mounts could not obtain the best possible placing, in contravention of rules (B)59.2 and (D)45.1 of the Rules of Racing.

Both were banned from riding for twenty-eight days, and warned regarding their future conduct.

Subject to the outcome of legal proceedings, Leslie Morris was suspended from the ‘fit and proper person’ list and thus could no longer be a registered owner. Furthermore, he was excluded from all BHA-registered premises.

The whole thing took less than an hour.

Bill and Willy were all smiles afterwards when I met them in the lobby.

I had been working behind the scenes on their behalf ever since I’d returned from the Cayman Islands and I had convinced the chairman of the Disciplinary Committee that they should be charged only with the most minor of possible offences, and that the penalty should be the most lenient available.

If they had been found guilty of the most serious offence, they would have faced a ban from riding for ten years or more, which would have surely ended their careers.

‘I’ll take a holiday with my missus,’ Bill said. ‘And I’ll be back before you know it.’

‘Is everything now sorted with Mrs McKenzie?’ I asked.

‘All fine and dandy,’ he said with a laugh and without elaborating. ‘The baby’s due in April. We can’t wait.’

I didn’t ask him if he’d told her about his encounter with the French floozy. Somehow I doubted it.

Willy Mitchell’s wife had come with him to the hearing and both of them came up to me.

‘Thank you,’ Amy said. Then she touched Willy’s arm as if to prompt him.

‘Yes, thank you,’ Willy said. ‘I suppose that went as well as we could have expected. At least I’ll be able to ride at the Cheltenham Festival. Maybe my gaffer will even let me ride Electrostatic in the big novice chase.’

‘I think he will,’ I said.

I’d been down to Gloucestershire to speak with the trainer in question. Initially, he’d been angry that Willy had claimed the saddle had slipped when it hadn’t. But I had explained the specific circumstances and, in the end, he had been supportive, and I think I’d convinced him to give Willy another chance.

I wandered reluctantly back to my desk and opened the next file on the pile, an investigation into the possible blood-doping of a novice hurdler at Perth races in November.

I sighed.

Did I really want to do this for the rest of my life?

Not for the first time, I thought seriously of emigrating to Australia, starting afresh in a new city, on a new continent.

There was plenty of racing in Australia. Surely I could find a job.

I checked my phone. No messages. No texts.

I had sent several to Henri, and I’d tried to call her, but all to no avail.

I sighed again and dragged myself back to the topic in hand, reading through the blood report from the equine laboratory.

But my heart wasn’t in it.

Maybe I’d feel better in the morning.

‘I’m going home,’ I said to Paul Maldini, putting my head round the door of his office. ‘I don’t feel well. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

I took the Tube to Willesden Junction and walked along the gloomy trackside path as the feeble mid-January daylight faded into night.

No one attacked me. Did I care?

As I turned into my road, I could make out a shadowy figure half-hidden by the bushes outside my front door.

It was Henrietta Shawcross.

We stood looking at each other in silence, each of us trying to gauge the mood of the other.

‘Martin has told me everything,’ she said finally.

I remained silent, unmoving.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

She started to cry and I reached out a hand towards her. She rushed into my arms and hugged me as if never wanting to let go. I leaned down and kissed her and she responded in passionate fashion.

‘At least it isn’t all bad,’ Henri said into my shoulder. ‘You did finally rid me of the creepy Bentley.’