Dick Francis's Gamble

4

I sat in my car in the members’ parking lot and thought through my recent conversation with Billy Searle. I wondered what I should do about it, if anything.

As he had said, it was his money and he could do what he liked with it. Except that he clearly didn’t like what he was doing with it.

He’d also told me that he owed some guy about a hundred thousand and had implied that his life would be in danger if he didn’t repay it by the following evening. I would have normally dismissed such a threat as melodramatic nonsense but now, after the events at Aintree the previous Saturday, I wasn’t so sure.

Should I tell someone about our conversation? But who? The police would probably want some evidence, and I had none. I also didn’t want to get Billy into trouble. Jockeys who owe money would always be suspected of involvement with bookmakers. Perhaps Billy’s need for urgent cash was completely legitimate. Maybe he was buying a house. I knew that estate agents could be pretty determined in their selling methods, but surely they didn’t threaten murder to close a deal.

I decided to do nothing until I’d had a chance to discuss it with Patrick. Besides, I would need to inform him before I could start the process of liquidating Billy’s assets.

I looked at my watch. It was already past six o’clock, and the office would be closed. I’d have to speak to Patrick about it in the morning. Nothing could be done now anyway, the markets in London were also long closed for the day.

Instead, I went to stay with my mother.

Hello, darling,” she said, opening her front door. “You’re far too thin.”

It was her usual greeting, and one that was due to her long-standing pathological fear that I was anorexic. It had all started when I’d been a fifteen-year-old who had been desperate to be a jockey. I’d never been very short so I had begun starving myself to keep my weight down. But it hadn’t been due to anorexia, just willpower. I had always loved my food, but it seemed that my body, and my mind, had now finally trained themselves to stay thin.

As a rule, I never really thought about food and, if left to my own devices, there was little doubt that I would have become undernourished through neglect. But my mother saw to it that I didn’t. She would literally send food parcels to Claudia with strict instructions to feed me more protein, or more carbohydrate, or just more.

“Hello, Mum,” I said, ignoring her comment and giving her a kiss. “How are things?”

“So-so,” she replied, as always.

She still lived near Cheltenham but not in the big house in which I had grown up. Sadly, that had had to be sold during my parents’ acrimonious divorce proceedings in order to divide the capital between them. My mother’s current home was a small whitewashed cottage, hidden down a rutted lane on the edge of a small village just north of the racetrack with two double bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs, and a single open-plan kitchen/ dining room/living room downstairs, the levels connected by a narrow, twisting, boxed-in staircase in the corner, with a leverlatched door at the bottom.

The cottage was an ideal size for her enforced solitary lifestyle, but I knew she longed still to be the charming hostess in the grand house, a role in which she had excelled throughout my childhood.

“How’s your father?” she asked.

Her inquiry was a social nicety rather than a true request for information. She probably thought that I’d appreciate her asking.

“He’s fine,” I replied, completing the duty. At least I assumed he was fine. I hadn’t spoken to him for more than a fortnight. We really didn’t have much to say to each other.

“Good,” she said, but I doubt that she really meant it. I thought she would almost certainly have also replied “Good” if I’d told her he was on his deathbed. But at least she had asked, which was more than he ever did about her.

“I’ve bought you some fillet steak for dinner,” she said, turning the conversation back to my feeding habits. “And I’ve made some profiteroles for pudding.”

“Lovely,” I said. And I meant it. As usual, when coming to stay with my mother, I hadn’t eaten anything all day in preparation for a high-calorie encounter with her cooking and, by now, I was really hungry.

I went up to the guest bedroom and changed out of my suit and into jeans and sweatshirt. I tossed my mobile onto the bed. As always, the closeness to Cleeve Hill, and the phone-signal shadow it produced, rendered the thing useless. But at least I’d have a rest from its constant ringing.

When I came down, my mother was standing by the stove starting supper with saucepans already steaming on the hob.

“Help yourself to a glass of wine,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ve already got one.”

I went over to the antique sideboard that had once sat in the dining room of the big house and helped myself to a glass of Merlot from the open bottle.

“How is Claudia?” my mother asked.

“Fine, thank you,” I said. “She sends her love.”

“She should have come with you.”

Yes, I thought, she should have. There had been a time when we couldn’t bear to be apart from each other even for a single night, but now that longing had seemingly evaporated. Perhaps that is what happens after six years.

“High time you made an honest woman out of her,” my mother said. “Time you were married and raising children.”

Was it?

In spite of what had happened to my parents, I’d always believed that someday I would marry and have a family. A few years ago, I’d even discussed the prospect with Claudia but she had dismissed the notion, saying that marriage was for boring people and that children were troublesome and not for artists like her who were busy pushing the boundaries of existence and imagination. I wondered if she still felt the same way. There had certainly been no recent hints about rings on the finger or brooding over other people’s babies, but, if there were, would I still have welcomed them?

“But you and Dad are hardly a great advertisement for marriage,” I said, possibly unwisely.

“Nonsense,” she said, turning around to face me. “We were married for thirty years and brought you into the world. I would call that a success.”

“But you got divorced,” I said in disbelief. “And you fought all the time.”

“Well, maybe we did,” she said, turning back to her pans. “But it was still a success. And I don’t regret it.” I was amazed. She must be getting soft in her old age. “No,” she went on, “I don’t regret it for a second because otherwise you wouldn’t exist.”

What could I say? Nothing. So I didn’t.

She turned back to face me once more. “And now I want some grandchildren.”

Ah, I thought. There had to be a reason somewhere.

And I was an only child.

“You should have had more children yourself, then,” I said with a laugh. “Not good to put all your eggs in one basket.”

She stood very still, and I thought she was going to cry.

I placed my glass down on the kitchen table, stepped forward and put my arm around her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s all right,” she said, reaching for a tissue and dabbing her eyes. “You never knew.”

“Knew what?” I asked.

“Nothing. Forget it.”

It clearly wasn’t nothing if it reduced her to tears all these years later.

“Come on, Mum,” I said. “Something’s obviously troubling you. Tell me.”

She sighed. “We wanted more children. We wanted lots. You were the first, although you were quite a long time coming as we’d been married for nearly eight years by then. I was so happy you were a boy.” She smiled at me and stroked my cheek. “But something had gone wrong with my insides, and we couldn’t have any more.”

It was me who was almost crying now. I had always so wanted brothers and sisters.

“We tried, of course,” she said. “And once I did become pregnant, but the baby miscarried at three months. It nearly killed me.”

Again, I didn’t know what to say, so once more I said nothing. I just hugged her instead.

“It was the real reason behind so much unhappiness in our marriage,” she said. “Your father gradually became so bitter that I couldn’t have any more babies, stupid man. I suppose it was my body’s fault, but I couldn’t do anything about it, could I? I tried so hard to make up for it, but…” She tailed off.

“Oh, Mum,” I said, hugging her tight again. “How awful.”

“It’s all right,” she said, pulling away from me and turning back towards the stove. “It’s a long time ago, and I’ll overcook these potatoes if I don’t get to them now.”

We sat at the kitchen table for dinner, and I ate myself to a complete standstill.

I felt bloated, and still my mother was trying to force me to eat more.

“Another profiterole?” she asked, dangling a heaped spoonful over my plate.

“Mum,” I said, “I’m stuffed. I couldn’t eat another thing.”

She looked disappointed, but, in fact, I had eaten far more than I would have normally, even in this house. I had tried to please her, but enough was enough. Another mouthful and my stomach might have burst. She, meanwhile, had eaten almost nothing.

Whereas I had plowed my way through half a cow, along with a mountain of potatoes and vegetables, my mother had picked like a bird at a small circle of steak, much of which she had fed to an overweight gray cat that purred against her leg for most of the meal.

“I didn’t know you’d acquired a cat,” I said.

“I didn’t,” she said. “It acquired me. One day he just arrived and he has hardly left since.”

I wasn’t surprised if she regularly fed it fillet steak.

“He sometimes goes off for a few days, even a week, but he usually comes back eventually.”

“What’s his name?” I asked.

“I’ve no idea,” she said. “He isn’t wearing a collar. He’s a visitor, not a resident.”

Like me, I thought. Just here for a good meal.

“Are you going to the races tomorrow?” she asked.

The April meeting at Cheltenham ran for two days.

“Yes, I’ll go for the first few,” I said. “But I have some work to do here in the morning. I have my computer with me. Can I use your phone and your broadband connection?”

“Of course you can,” she said. “But what time do you plan to leave? I don’t want to rush you away but I have the village historical society outing tomorrow afternoon.”

“The first race is at two o’clock,” I said. “I’ll go around twelve.”

“Then I’ll get you some lunch before you go.”

The thought of yet more food was almost unbearable. And I knew she would have bought the makings of a full English breakfast as well.

“No thanks, Mum,” I said. “I’m meeting a client there for lunch.”

She looked sideways at me as if to say she knew I’d just lied to her.

She was right.

I don’t like it, but we have to do as he asks,” said Patrick when I called him at eight in the morning using my mother’s phone in the kitchen. “I’ll get Diana on it right away.” Diana was another of his assistants, the one who had just qualified as an IFA. “Are you at Cheltenham again today?”

“Yes,” I said. “But I’ll probably just stay for the first three.”

“Try and have another word with Billy Searle. Get him to see sense.”

“I’ll try,” I said. “But he seemed pretty determined. Scared, even.”

“All sounds a bit fishy to me,” Patrick said. “But we are required by the Regulator to do as our clients instruct and we can’t go off to the authorities every time they instruct us to do something we don’t think is sensible.”

“But we have a duty to report anything we believe to be illegal.”

“And do you have any evidence that he wants to do something illegal with the funds?”

“No.” I paused. “But I wonder if breaking the rules of racing is illegal?”

“Depends on what he’s doing,” said Patrick. “Defrauding the betting public is illegal. Remember that case at the Old Bailey a few years back.”

I did indeed.

“Billy told me he owed a guy some money,” I said. “Seems he needs a hundred grand. That’s a very big debt. I wonder if he’s got mixed up with a bookmaker.”

“Betting is not illegal,” Patrick said.

“Maybe not,” I agreed, “but it is strictly against the rules of racing for a professional jockey to bet.”

“That’s not our problem,” he said. “And if you do ask Billy any questions, for God’s sake try and be discreet. We also have a duty to keep his affairs confidential.”

“OK, I will. I’ll see you in the office tomorrow.”

“Right,” said Patrick. “Oh yes. Another thing. That policeman called yesterday asking for you.”

“He didn’t call my mobile. It was on all day, although the damn thing doesn’t work here. My mother lives in a mobile-phone signal hole.”

“No, well, that wouldn’t have mattered anyway because it seems he was rather rude to Mrs. McDowd so she refused to give him your number. She told him you were unavailable and not to be contacted.”

I laughed. Good old Mrs. McDowd, one of our fearless office receptionists.

“What did he want?” I asked.

“Seems they want you to attend at Herb’s flat. Something about being his executor.” He gave me the policeman’s number, and I stored it in my phone. “Call him, will you? I don’t want Mrs. McDowd arrested for obstructing the police.”

“OK,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”

I disconnected from Patrick and called Detective Chief Inspector Tomlinson.

“Ah, Mr. Foxton,” he said. “Good of you to call. How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” I replied, wondering why he would ask.

“Is your toe OK?” he asked.

“Sorry?”

“Your toe,” he repeated. “Your receptionist told me about your operation.”

“Oh, that,” I said, trying to suppress a laugh. “My toe is fine thank you. How can I help?”

“Was Mr. Kovak in personal financial difficulties?” he asked.

“In what way?” I said.

“Was he in debt?”

“Not that I am aware of,” I said. “No more than any of us. Why do you ask?”

“Mr. Foxton, are you well enough to come to Mr. Kovak’s home? There are quite a few things I would like to discuss with you, and I also need you, as his executor, to agree to the removal of certain items from his flat to assist with our inquiries. I can send a car, if that helps.”

I thought about my planned day at Cheltenham Races.

“Tomorrow would be better.”

“Of course,” he said. “How about eight a.m.?”

“Eight tomorrow is fine,” I said. “I’ll be there.”

“Do you need me to send a car?”

Why not, I thought. “Yes, that would be great.”

I’d have to develop a limp.

Billy Searle was in no mood to explain to me why he suddenly needed his money.

“Just put the bloody cash in my bank account,” he shouted.

We were standing on the terrace in front of the Weighing Room before the first race and heads were turning our way.

“Billy, for goodness’ sake calm down,” I said quietly but determinedly.

It didn’t work.

“And what the hell are you doing here anyway?” he shouted back. “You should be at your desk getting my bloody cash together.”

More heads turned.

So much for Patrick’s instruction to keep things discreet.

“Billy, I’m only trying to help.”

“I don’t need your fucking help!” He curled his lip and spat out the words, spraying me with fine drops of spittle.

The racing journalists were moving ever closer.

I dropped my voice, leaned forward and spoke directly into his ear. “Now, listen to me, you little creep. You clearly need someone’s help, and I’m on your side.” I paused. “Call me when you’ve calmed down. The money will be in your bank by Friday.”

“I told you I need a hundred grand by tonight,” he was shouting and almost crying. “I need my money today.”

We were now the center of attention for half the Cheltenham crowd.

“Sorry,” I said quietly, trying to maintain some level of dignity. “That’s impossible. It will be there by Friday, maybe by Thursday if you’re very lucky.

“Thursday will be too late,” he screamed at me. “I’ll be fucking dead by Thursday.”

There was no point in us standing there arguing, with all the racing world listening to every word, so I simply walked away, ever-conscious of the hacks gathering around us like vultures, their pencils now scribbling ferociously in their notebooks. At least there was no sign of Martin Gifford, the five-star gossip, but he’d no doubt know every detail by the end of the day.

“Why are you trying to murder me?” Billy shouted after me at full volume.

I ignored him and continued over towards the relative privacy of the pre-parade ring where I called the office to check how the liquidation of Billy’s assets was progressing.

Mrs. McDowd answered. Patrick and Gregory didn’t like automated telephone answering and faceless voice mail. “Our clients need to know they are dealing with real people,” they said. Hence we employed Mrs. McDowd, and also a Mrs. Johnson, to answer the telephones.

“What on earth did you say to that policeman?” I asked her. “He’s being uncommonly nice to me.”

“I told him you were having an ingrown toenail removed.”

“Why?”

“Because he was bloody rude to me,” she said with indignation. “Spoke to me as if I was the office cleaner, so I told him you couldn’t be reached. The trouble was, he wanted to know why you couldn’t be reached, so I told him you were unconscious and having an operation. Seemed like a good idea at the time, but the damn man was persistent, I’ll give him that. Demanded to know what you were having done so I told him it was an ingrown toenail. I could hardly make it something more serious, now could I? Not with you up and about, like.”

“Mrs. McDowd, if I ever need someone to make up an alibi, I promise I’ll call you,” I said, never thinking for a second that I would need an alibi much sooner than I realized. “Can I speak to Miss Diana, please?”

She put me through.

The sale of Billy Searle’s assets was progressing smoothly, albeit with a sizable loss on some of my recent bond purchases. But did I care? No, probably not. Billy deserved it. I chided myself a little for such non-IFA thoughts, but I was only human. I thanked Diana and disconnected.

“Hello, lover boy,” said a voice close behind me. “On the phone with my competition?”

“Please stop,” I said with mock indignation, “people will talk.”

Jan Setter cuddled herself up to my back.

“Let them talk,” she said while giving me a tight hug, pressing her whole body against mine. “I want you.” She said it in my ear with passion.

This was the second time in two days she had made a pass at me in public, and there was nothing casual and lighthearted about this one. Perhaps she really was serious, and that could be a problem. I had always rather enjoyed my flirtatious friendship with Jan, but that was because I had believed we were both just having a bit of verbal fun with no prospect of any actual physical contact. Now, it seemed, the stakes had been raised quite a few notches.

I pulled her arms away from my waist and turned around.

“Jan,” I said firmly. “Behave yourself.”

“Why should I?” she asked.

“Because you must.” She turned down the corners of her mouth like a scolded child. “For a start,” I said, “I’m too young for you.”

“Oh thanks a lot,” she said crossly, stepping back. “You really do know how to make a woman feel wanted.”

There was no mock indignation here, she was angry and hurt.

“Look,” I said, “I’m sorry. But I never intended this to get out of hand.”

“Nothing has got out of hand,” she said. “Things are just as they have been before. Nothing has changed.”

But we both knew things had changed, and there would be no going back to what we had been before.

“Great,” I said.

She smiled at me ruefully. “But you will let me know if you change your mind.”

“OK.” I smiled back at her. “What do you have running?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Most of mine have finished now for the summer.” She paused. “I only came today because I hoped you would be here.”

I stood silently for a moment and looked at her.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Yeah,” she replied with a sigh. “So am I.”

Colonel The Honourable Jolyon Westrop Roberts, MC, OBE, younger son of the Earl of Balscott, was waiting for me in the same place on the grandstands where I had met him the previous day.

“Ah, Nicholas,” he said as I made my way up to watch the first race. “I was hoping you might be here again today.”

“Hello, sir,” I said. In spite of calling himself plain Mr. Roberts, I knew he liked his formality. “How can I help?”

“Well,” he said with a slight laugh. “I hope you can help. But there may be nothing to help about. If you know what I mean?”

“No, sir,” I said, “I don’t know what you mean. You haven’t told me anything.”

He laughed again, nervously.

“As I explained to you yesterday,” he said, “there may be nothing to worry about. In fact, I expect there isn’t. I’m probably only wasting your time. And I wouldn’t want to get anyone into trouble now would I?”

“Sir,” I said with some determination. “How would I know if you won’t tell me? What is it, exactly, that is worrying you?”

He stood for a few seconds in silence, looking out over my head towards the track as if deciding whether he should go on.

“Gregory,” he said finally. “I’m worried about Gregory.”

“What about Gregory?” I asked. At times we had all been worried about Gregory. He ate far too much and didn’t do any exercise that we were aware of other than to walk to the end of Lombard Street for a substantial lunch five days a week.

“It’s probably nothing,” Jolyon Roberts said again. He stamped his feet and looked uncomfortable. “Best forget I ever said anything.”

“Are you worried about Gregory’s health?” I asked.

“His health?” Mr. Roberts repeated with surprise. “Why would I worry about Gregory’s health?”

“Then what is it about Gregory that you are worried about?”

Jolyon Roberts drew himself up to his full six-feet-three, the ex-Guards colonel who had won a Military Cross for gallantry as a young subaltern in the Falklands War.

“I’m worried about his judgment.”

My planned early departure from Cheltenham was put on hold as I steered Mr. Roberts into a quiet corner of the seafood bar for a discussion away from the ears of others. When a client, especially one with such a large investment portfolio as the younger son of the Earl of Balscott, questions the judgment of one of the senior partners, it is no time to hurry away home.

“Now, sir,” I said when we were each settled with a plate of prawns in Marie Rose sauce with smoked salmon. “In what way do you question Gregory Black’s judgment? And why are you telling me?”

“It’s probably nothing,” he said again. “He has been so good to me over the years, very good. In fact, I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

“Yes,” he said slowly. “I think you might be a good judge. You always were on a horse. It was me who recommended you to Lyall and Black in the first place, don’t you know?”

No, I didn’t know. And I was flattered. No wonder there had been such a welcoming open door when I’d applied for a job.

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “I didn’t know.”

“Oh yes,” said Mr. Roberts. “I’ve had my eye on you since you were eighteen years old and won on my cousin’s horse at Chepstow. Remarkable piece of riding. Told my cousin then that you would be champion jockey one day. Bloody shame you got injured.”

Yes, I thought once more, it was a bloody shame.

“But tell me about Gregory Black,” I said, trying to get back to the matter in hand.

“It’s probably nothing,” he said once more.

“Sir,” I said. “Colonel Roberts, you must see that you have to tell me now that you have questioned his judgment. I promise you that I will treat what you say in the strictest confidence.”

At least, I hoped I could treat what he told me with confidence. Independent financial advisers were governed by the Financial Regulator. We were expected to act in a manner that always reflected the highest principles of behavior. I would not be able to suppress information of wrongdoing solely because it would embarrass another IFA, even if he were my boss.

He was still reluctant to start.

“Is it about one of your investments?” I asked.

Still nothing.

“Do you disapprove of something Gregory has asked you to do?”

He absentmindedly ate some of his prawns, the cogs in his mind turning over slowly.

“He may be mistaken,” he said finally.

“Who might be mistaken? Gregory Black?”

Mr. Roberts looked up at me. “No,” he said. “My nephew, Benjamin.”

I was becoming more confused.

“How might your nephew be mistaken?” I asked.

“He visited the site, and he tells me there are no houses, no factory and no building work being done on it. In fact, he said it was just waste ground with a large amount of heavy-metal pollutants sitting there in stagnant pools. A local government official apparently told him that the cost of removal of the toxic waste would be far greater than the actual value of the land.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “But what has this to do with Gregory Black?”

“He advised me to invest in the project.”

“What project?” I asked.

“A Bulgarian property development project,” he said. “Houses, shops and a new factory making low-energy lightbulbs.”

I vaguely remembered the project being discussed several years ago at one of Patrick’s weekly meetings, but, as far as I could recall, it had been rejected as too risky an investment for us to recommend to our clients. But that didn’t mean that Gregory hadn’t thought it a sound investment. Patrick and Gregory may have had both their names on the company notepaper, but they valued their independence, even from each other.

“Are you sure it’s on the same site that your nephew visited?”

“He says so. He says there is no mistake. The site where there should be a factory and hundreds of new homes and shops is nothing but an industrial wasteland. There is even talk of it having being used as a dump for nuclear waste during the Soviet era.”

“How much have you invested in the scheme?” I asked him.

“Not that much,” he said. “The family trust has invested about five million into the project as a whole. The factory is named the Balscott Lighting Factory after my father. I’ve seen pictures of the development. The project is designed to be a great social experiment for one of the most deprived areas of the European Union. A lot of EU money has gone into it.”

Five million may not be that much to Jolyon Roberts and his family trust, but it was a fortune to most people.

“Do these pictures show a factory and new homes?”

“Yes, they do, and they show more houses under construction,” he said. “Gregory Black showed them to me. But what am I to believe, the photos or my only nephew?”

“There must be a simple explanation,” I said. “Why don’t you go and ask Gregory about it? I am sure he will have invested your money wisely.”

“I’ve already approached him, and he just told me not to be so silly, of course the factory has been built. But Benjamin is adamant. He says that no Balscott Lighting Factory exists anywhere in Bulgaria.”

“So what do you want me to do?” I asked him.

“Find out the truth.”

“But why me?” I asked. “If you think there is a fraud being perpetrated then you should go to the police, or to the financial services regulators.”

He sat and looked at me for a moment.

“Because I trust you,” he said.

“But you hardly know me.”

“I know you much better than you might realize.” He smiled. “I’ve been watching your career every step of the way since you first rode that winner for my cousin. And I normally pride myself on being able to spot the good’uns from the bad’uns. That is why I am so concerned about this project. After all, it was me who persuaded my brother, Viscount Shenington, that the family trust should invest in something that appeared so worthwhile. I just need to know what is going on.”

“Sir,” I said. “I am under an obligation to report it if I find that there is a fraud or even if there is misrepresentation in advertising an investment.”

“Mmm, I see,” he said, stroking his chin. “My brother and I are most concerned that the good name of the Roberts family should not be dragged through the courts. He is in favor of simply writing off the investment and saying nothing. However…” He stopped.

“You feel responsible?” I asked.

“Exactly,” he said. “But I would prefer it if you could be very discreet. If this is a scam, well, to be honest, I would rather not have everybody know that I’ve been a fool.”

“Especially your brother.”

He looked me in the eye and smiled. “Trustworthy, and wise.”

“But I will have to talk to Gregory about it,” I said.

“Can you not have a little look at things first without telling anybody? I am sure that someone with your keen nose for a good investment will be able to spot a rotten egg pretty quickly if there’s one to find.”

I laughed. “I think you have the wrong person. My nose isn’t that keen.”

“Oh, I think it is,” Jolyon Roberts replied. “I have a friend who’s forever telling me about all the money you’ve made for her in films and theater.”

“I’ve just been lucky,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, smiling. “You and Arnold Palmer.”

I looked at him quizzically.

“You’re too young,” he said, laughing. “Arnold Palmer the golfer.”

“What about him?” I asked.

“When a reporter once asked him why he was so lucky in golf, he famously replied, ‘It’s a funny thing, the harder I practice, the luckier I get.’”

But my luck was about to run out.