Dick Francis's Front Runner

20

After speaking with DI Galvin, I called Faye and asked her if she could fetch my mobile phone from my flat. She came to the hospital at noon to collect the key.

‘The phone should be on the floor in the hallway,’ I said. ‘And the charger as well, if you can find it. That’ll be on the worktop in the kitchen next to the microwave.’

‘Nothing else? How about some clothes?’

‘No. I’m fine. I have clothes.’

I did think about asking her to get my laptop but I could do most things via the internet with just my iPhone. Furthermore, my laptop was somewhere in my bedroom and I wasn’t at all sure I wanted Faye exploring more of my home than was absolutely necessary. To be honest, I would have been much happier if the police had agreed to retrieve my phone. I knew that asking my sister to go there was a mistake.

Faye was a naturally tidy person. She had been since childhood, and she had unsuccessfully tried to instil into her younger brother the same culture of neatness and order. Hence, since Lydia’s departure and the move to my new flat, I had resisted all Faye’s attempts to come over to check up on me.

And now here I was sending her there unaccompanied. I must be crazy. But I really needed that phone. And surely, whatever the state of the place, sending Faye was better than asking Henri to go.

Only after she had gone did I worry about her security.

What if Darryl Gareth Lawrence and his sidekick were waiting in the bushes outside my front door?

But why would they do anything to Faye? Lawrence had specifically asked the nurse, Where’s Hinkley? It was me they wanted, not my sister.

Nevertheless, I was greatly relieved when Faye returned about an hour and a half later with my phone plus charger.

‘How are things?’ I asked.

‘It’s not very tidy,’ she said in an accusing manner.

‘That must have been due to my attackers. Or possibly the police forensic team.’

She looked at me. ‘I don’t suppose either of those would be responsible for the stack of dirty mugs and plates in the sink, or for the washing hung on the back of your sofa, or even for the clothes lying on the floor of your bedroom.’

I looked rather sheepishly at her.

‘And they surely wouldn’t have packed up those removal boxes to leave in the hallway. How long have you been there now? Nearly a year? Isn’t it time you unpacked?’

‘I will,’ I said.

And I would. I’d tidy the place too, especially if I was going to entertain a certain Miss Henrietta Shawcross there anytime soon, as I dearly hoped I would be.

‘So, are you coming out tomorrow?’ Faye asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘I had to have some of my stitches redone this morning.’

‘Why?’

‘A few of those on my abdomen split open.’

‘You haven’t been doing those press-ups again, I hope,’ Faye said with a laugh, but she must have seen something in my face because she stopped laughing. ‘What happened?’

‘I had some unexpected and unwanted visitors in the night.’

‘Not the same men?’

I nodded.

‘But that’s dreadful. How did they know you were here? And how the hell did they get in?’

‘That’s what the police are trying to find out,’ I said. ‘But at least we now know who one of them is. I recognized him from a police photo.’

‘Who is it?’

‘Someone called Darryl Lawrence.’

She stared at me with a blank expression.

‘I’ve never heard of him either,’ I said, ‘but he’s had lots of previous convictions for violence and has spent time in prison.’

‘Why is he coming after you?’

‘I don’t know. I can only imagine that someone is paying him to kill me. The police are searching for him, so we might find out more when they find him.’

Faye was distressed.

She had been under the erroneous impression that the attack at my home had been as a result of a random burglary which had somehow gone terribly wrong. To discover that her little brother was being specifically targeted by a hired killer came as an unwelcome shock.

‘But who would want to kill you?’ she asked desperately, like a mother wondering how anyone could harm her beloved child.

‘That is exactly what I’ve been trying to figure out.’

‘It’s that bloody job of yours,’ she said angrily. ‘Why can’t you do something safer? Q has connections and you’re smart. I am sure you could get a nice safe banking job in the City.’

‘I don’t want a banking job in the City,’ I said. ‘I’d be bored to death. I like what I do.’

‘It’s so dangerous.’

Maybe that’s why I liked it, but I wasn’t going to say so.

Not today.

Faye stayed for most of the afternoon, sitting quietly reading a book, while I wrote out two formal statements, one for DI Galvin concerning the previous night’s events, and the other for DS Jagger about my conversations with Dave Swinton and my twin excursions into his sauna.

‘Can I read them?’ Faye asked when I’d finished.

‘I don’t think you should,’ I said, but I knew I had little or no chance of preventing it. Throughout my life since I was eight, Faye had always been the one in charge and, while I might not always do as she wanted — especially in the employment department — she usually got her way. If she was determined to read my statements, she would.

I meekly handed over the handwritten sheets and lay awkwardly on the bed while she sat on the chair next to it, reading them through from start to finish.

‘Jeff,’ she said eventually, ‘I just can’t believe all of this. Is it really true?’

‘Every word,’ I said.

I was prevented from having a further ear bashing by the arrival of the detective constable from Thames Valley Police.

‘I’ve already written my statement,’ I said, and I took it from Faye to give to him.

He stood reading it through, then asked me to sign it in his presence. ‘I’ll need to get this typed up properly on a Section 9 form. You’ll have to sign again, but this will do for now.’

The policeman departed with the folded sheets of paper in his pocket.

‘Please will you come and stay with Q and me when you get out of here,’ Faye implored, almost in tears. ‘I don’t want you going back to your flat. It’s not safe.’

‘OK,’ I said, giving in gracefully. ‘I will. But only until the police catch Darryl Lawrence.’

That seemed to satisfy her.

‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘how are you feeling? It should be me looking after you, not the other way round.’

‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘I’m just tired all the time. It’s the bloody drugs.’

‘You don’t have to stay,’ I said, knowing full well that she believed she was acting as my bodyguard. ‘There should be a uniformed policeman outside in the reception area to keep me alive and well.’

She stood up and went to have a look.

‘He’s chatting up the nurses,’ Faye said in a tone that expressed disapproval.

‘Sensible man,’ I said. ‘At least he’s here.’

I hadn’t altogether believed that he would be.

‘I’ll go, then,’ Faye said. ‘I need to get home and make up the bed in the spare room.’

‘I don’t want to be any trouble,’ I said.

‘It’s no trouble.’ She smiled and gave me a peck on the cheek. ‘Now, you be careful.’

It was a serious instruction.

Henri came to see me soon after six o’clock, wafting in wearing a full-length camel-coloured coat with a hood. She looked gorgeous.

‘Sorry I’m so late,’ she said. ‘I had to finish something at work.’

I just beamed. I was so pleased to see her.

Henri removed her coat to reveal a stunning black-and-red tartan dress with a wide black leather belt, and knee-high black suede boots with stiletto heels.

My heart went all a-flutter. Where was Doctor Shwan when you needed him?

‘Wow!’ I said.

‘Do you like it?’ She smiled and did a twirl. ‘It’s all new.’

‘It’s lovely,’ I said. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Nowhere. I wore it for you.’

Wow! again.

‘But I had expected you to be a bit smarter,’ she said. ‘What happened to the jim-jams I bought you?’

I was again wearing a faded blue hospital gown.

‘They’re in the wash,’ I said.

‘Had a little accident, did we?’

‘Something like that, but not what you’re thinking. A few of my stitches burst open and I bled onto them.’

She looked concerned.

‘Surely that shouldn’t happen.’

‘No,’ I said without elaboration.

‘I should have bought you two pairs. Shall I go and get you some more?’ She reached for her coat.

‘No,’ I said again, this time more decisively. ‘Please stay. Unless, of course, you can’t speak to anyone wearing a hospital gown.’

‘I’ll make an exception,’ she said, smiling. ‘Just this once.’

She stayed for two hours, at one point delving into her copious handbag to find a half bottle of Chablis and some glasses, together with some freshly packed sushi.

‘Red Cross parcel,’ she said, giggling.

‘The food here’s not too bad, except everything is overcooked. And it’s pretty bland, as they use little or no salt.’

Henri turned up her pretty nose. ‘I like my salt,’ she said. ‘And I can’t live without freshly ground black pepper.’ She produced a small silver cylindrical object from her handbag and proceeded to grind black peppercorns from it onto her food. ‘I’m fed up with going to those big lunch and dinner events at swanky London hotels and not being able to get hold of a pepper mill. They all think you’re mad asking for one. So I bought myself this to carry with me.’

‘Handy,’ I said.

She popped another piece of raw fish into her mouth and washed it down with some wine.

‘I see you got your phone back,’ she said, nodding at it on my bedside locker. ‘I can call you again now.’

‘Yes, please do. My sister fetched it for me.’ I picked it up and used it to take a photograph of Henri sitting on the edge of my bed, looking fabulous in her red tartan dress.

‘Let’s see,’ she said. I showed her. ‘Not bad for an old one.’

‘Old one?’ I said. ‘You’re not old.’

‘Thirty,’ she said. ‘Can you believe I’m going to be thirty in February? I remember thinking that people aged thirty must be so old they were nearly dead, and now I’m almost there myself.’

She studied the picture. ‘At least I can’t see any wrinkles yet.’

She started flicking through the other pictures on my phone.

‘Hey,’ I said in mock complaint, ‘that’s private.’

‘Good God, that’s Martin and Bentley,’ she said, looking closely at the screen. ‘How come you have a photo of my cousin on your phone?’

She didn’t ask it in an accusatory manner, she was just interested. I leaned forward and peered at the image. It was the photo of the two men who’d been arguing at Newbury, taken through the window of the Hennessy hospitality area with the racecourse in the background.

‘I was snapping the view,’ I said. ‘They just happened to be in the shot. It’s at Newbury races.’

‘What a coincidence.’

‘Who’s Bentley?’ I asked.

‘Bentley Robertson. He’s a creepy little lawyer,’ she said, screwing up her nose again. ‘He’s all work and no play. A bore. Worse, he’s a bore who thinks I’m in love with him. I keep telling him that I’m not but he just winks at me and refuses to believe it. He’s a letch. At least, he is towards me. I once quite liked him but now he makes my skin creep.’ She shivered. ‘But enough about him. Tell me more about you.’

We sat in happy harmony talking about everything and nothing — where we grew up, schools, jobs, likes, dislikes, even our families and our dead parents.

‘It was such a dreadful time,’ Henri said. ‘I was sixteen. Mum and Dad were on their way to pick me up from the sports field at Malvern College, where I was a boarder. We were going to a family wedding in Lincoln. I can remember being so excited about going in a helicopter.’ She paused and there were tears in her eyes. ‘They never arrived. I waited and waited for hours, but they never came. Eventually, the headmaster came out to where I was standing to tell me.’

A tear ran down her cheek. I reached over and held her hand.

‘They clipped a tree in the garden during take-off. The official report said it was the pilot’s fault. He was also killed in the crash, so I suppose it’s easy to blame him.’

She was silent for a while.

‘Sorry,’ she said, wiping her eyes with a tissue. ‘I don’t do that very often any more.’

‘There’s no reason to be sorry,’ I said. ‘I still cry sometimes over my mother and she’s been dead now for twenty-four years. Sometimes I have difficulty recalling her face, and I haven’t been able to hear her voice in my head for longer than I wish to remember.’

‘What about your dad?’ she asked.

‘I don’t usually talk about him much. He went off the rails after my mother died. He couldn’t cope without her. Everything in the house, cooking, washing, cleaning and so on, he left for my sister to do. He started drinking too much and lost his well-paid job with the council because of it. He ended up as an assistant gardener in a local park but he was usually legless. He was only kept on due to the kindness of his old council chums who felt sorry for him.

‘I actually remember him really well. He was drunk a lot of the time, but he was always kind and loving towards me, even if he wasn’t ever particularly happy. He drank himself to death in the end, although the official cause was pneumonia.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Fourteen,’ I said. ‘I can remember his funeral as if it was yesterday.’

‘Who then looked after you?’

‘Faye. My sister. She’s twelve years older than me. She became my official guardian. Then I joined the army at eighteen.’

‘Which regiment?’

‘The Intelligence Corps,’ I said, making a mock salute. ‘Two-five-one-nine-eight-two-four-one, Captain Jefferson Roosevelt Hinkley, at your service.’

‘Jefferson Roosevelt?’ she said incredulously. ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’

‘I am not,’ I said in my most superior tone of voice. ‘My parents clearly admired dead American presidents.’

Henri laughed.

‘Don’t you start,’ I said. ‘I was endlessly bullied at school because of it.’

But at least it had taught me to fight, and that had always been an asset, not least during the previous night.