Felix Francis - Dick Francis's Front Runner

‘But are you having a good day?’ I asked.

‘Moderate,’ she said. ‘Q is out playing golf, so at least I have the house to myself.’

Q was Quentin, my brother-in-law, Faye’s husband.

‘I thought Quentin hated golf,’ I said.

‘He does. But he’s trying to ingratiate himself with some judge or other that he’s playing with.’

Quentin always did something for a reason and never just because he wanted to. I sometimes wondered if he married Faye only because he believed that a Queen’s Counsel with a wife was somehow more suitable for elevation to the bench.

‘Do you fancy a visitor?’ I asked.

‘Now?’

‘In a couple of hours or so. I’m on a train to Paddington at the moment and I need to go to my flat first.’

‘Q will be back by then.’

I laughed. ‘It’s OK, you know. I can be civil to him if I try hard enough.’

Faye knew that Quentin and I tended to bring out the worst in each other. He thought of me as a dangerously liberal loose cannon, while I considered him to be a dinosaur with outdated views and opinions.

‘Come to tea,’ she said. ‘It will be lovely to see you.’

She hung up and I looked out of the train window as the rural fields began to give way to the urban sprawl of west London.

The events of this morning at Dave Swinton’s house seemed somehow surreal and distant. Had I really been so close to death then and yet so far from it now? I felt I should be doing something about it, not simply watching the world go by.

Calling the police had never been my first instinct.

I am an investigator, so I investigate. And I’m not fond of bringing in others to do it for me.

True, attempted murder was outside my normal remit.

I was a senior investigator for the BHA, the British Horseracing Authority, and much of my work over the years had been covert, moving in a world of shadows and secrets, mysterious and furtive, to protect British racing from those who would seek to gain an unfair advantage by dubious means.

Doping, race fixing and unusual betting practices were more my concern, not assault with a deadly sauna, aided and abetted by a garden fork.

But it still seemed strange to be sitting here on a train rather than actually doing something. Perhaps I should be out actively looking for Dave, but what good would it do? If the police couldn’t find him with all their resources, what chance would I have?

I took a Bakerloo Line train from Paddington to Willesden Junction.

I’d had to move out of the home that I shared with Lydia when it was sold, but I’d rented another place just around the corner, in yet another quiet suburban north-west London street.

I suppose it was laziness on my part.

I’d seen a GROUND FLOOR FLAT TO LET sign outside a house as I’d walked round to the local shops for some milk and I’d gone straight into the estate agent and arranged to see it there and then.

I’d moved in the following week, cajoling my step-nephew and some of his friends to carry all my stuff the hundred yards from one abode to the next.

Eight months later, some of the boxes remained unopened in the hallway. I kept telling myself that I ought to sort everything out but I simply didn’t have the heart.

I opened my front door, stepped carefully past the boxes and went into my bedroom to change.

My phone rang.

‘Hello,’ I said.

‘Mr Hinkley,’ said a voice. ‘DS Jagger here. Have you seen the news?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve only just got back home.’

‘It would appear that Mr Swinton has been found. Or, at least, his car has been.’

‘Where?’

‘Otmoor.’

‘And where is that?’ I asked.

‘Between Oxford and Bicester. It’s mostly a nature reserve. Mr Swinton’s Mercedes was discovered in a remote part of the moor used by the military for live firing. It has been burnt out. It was the fire that attracted attention to the vehicle. Smoke was visible from a nearby farm and the fire brigade was called by the farmer.’

‘You’re sure it’s Dave Swinton’s car?’

‘Yes, quite sure. In spite of the intensity of the fire, Mr Swinton’s personalized number plate was clearly visible to the senior fire officer when he arrived at the scene.’

‘And Dave Swinton himself?’ I asked.

‘A body was discovered in the car. At this time there has been no identification of the remains, but...’ He tailed off.

‘You assume it is Mr Swinton?’

‘That would seem to be the obvious conclusion. Based on what you told us in Lambourn. It will be up to the Oxford Coroner to officially determine the identity of the victim and the cause of death. I thought you would like to hear the news from us rather than from the media.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, numbly.

‘Bloody journalists,’ the policeman said. ‘A local news channel was monitoring the fire-service radio and they despatched a cameraman to the scene. He arrived even before the first fire engine. It would seem that the personalized number plate, together with Mr Swinton’s unexpected failure to appear at Towcester races this afternoon, has turned a local story into national news.’

I sat down on the end of my bed in a state of shock.

‘Was it the fire that killed him?’ I asked.

‘It’s too early to say for sure. That will be determined at the post-mortem. The flames were very intense and an accelerant appears to have been used.’

‘Accelerant?’ I said.

‘Petrol. Or some other highly inflammable substance.’

How horrible.

‘You will almost certainly be required to give evidence at the inquest,’ the policeman said, ‘as you were probably the last person to see him alive.’

‘Other than whoever killed him,’ I said.

‘We believe it may have been suicide.’

‘Setting oneself alight with petrol seems to be a particularly unpleasant way of doing it,’ I said.

‘People who kill themselves often do unpredictable things. Self-immolation, as it’s known, is surprisingly common in some parts of the world.’

But not in rural Oxfordshire, I thought.

I found it difficult to believe that Dave Swinton could have taken his own life in any manner, let alone that way. He’d had such spirit, such joie de vivre.

‘What makes you think he may have killed himself?’ I asked.

‘I’m not saying he did. It is just one of the options. But it has all the hallmarks of a suicide — there’s no evidence pointing at anyone else being present; you told us he had problems with his job; he must have known he’d be in serious trouble for shutting you in that sauna, maybe even facing a murder charge; in his own car; at a deserted spot far from prying eyes — suicides generally prefer to do it alone.’

It sounded to me like the perfect place for a murder, but maybe that was just the way my mind worked. There may have been other things DS Jagger knew but wasn’t telling me. I could tell from the tone of his voice that he believed it was suicide.

‘I am sure someone will be in touch with you soon about the inquest,’ said the detective as a way of signing off.

He disconnected.

I turned on the television.

The news coverage of the fire was the lead story with video images from the scene shown in all their horror.

The rear end of the Mercedes was largely untouched by the flames and the 121 DSS of the number plate was clearly visible in the footage but the interior of the car was ablaze with flames roaring out of the open windows on both sides. In the centre of the raging inferno, almost burned beyond recognition as a human being, sat a figure in the driver’s seat.

It was sickening.

The commentary that accompanied the ghastly pictures gave little room for doubt. ‘A Mercedes car with the registration 121 DSS is registered to top steeplechase jockey, Dave Swinton, winner of last year’s Sports Personality of the Year Award. Mr Swinton did not attend Towcester racecourse this afternoon, where he had been expected to ride in several races. Police are treating the death as unexplained but are not actively looking for anyone else in connection with it at this time.’