Dick Francis's Refusal

BY FELIX FRANCIS

Gamble

Bloodline

BY DICK FRANCIS AND FELIX FRANCIS

Dead Heat

Silks

Even Money

Crossfire

BY DICK FRANCIS

The Sport of Queens

(Autobiography)

Dead Cert

Nerve

For Kicks

Odds Against

Flying Finish

Blood Sport

Forfeit

Enquiry

Rat Race

Bonecrack

Smokescreen

Slay-Ride

Knockdown

High Stakes

In the Frame

Risk

Trial Run

Whip Hand

Reflex

Twice Shy

Banker

The Danger

Proof

Break In

A Jockey's Life: The Biography of Lester Piggott

Bolt

Hot Money

The Edge

Straight

Longshot

Comeback

Driving Force

Decider

Wild Horses

Come to Grief

To the Hilt

10 Lb. Penalty

Field of Thirteen

Second Wind

Shattered

Under Orders

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Copyright © 2013 by Felix Francis

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Francis, Felix.

Dick Francis's refusal / Felix Francis.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-101-63652-7

1. Private investigators—Fiction. 2. Horse racing—England—Fiction. 3. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title II. Title: Refusal.

PR6056.R273D56 2013 2013019291

823'.914—dc23

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For my grandson

Samuel Richard Francis

 

And with my special thanks, as always, to

Debbie

N
o,” I said. “Not a chance.”

“But, Sid, you must.”

“Why must I?”

“For the good of racing.”

It was a familiar tactic.

“I'm retired,” I said. “I told you. I don't do that sort of thing anymore.”

Sir Richard Stewart, currently chairman of the British Horseracing Authority, hadn't worked his way up from Saturday-morning shelf stacker to become chief executive of the country's largest supermarket chain by taking no for an answer.

“Come on, Sid,” he said with a knowing smile. “Everyone knows that Sid Halley is still the best of the best.” Sir Richard playfully punched my arm. “And you know you want to, really.”

Did I?

It had been nearly six years since I'd opted out of the private investigator business. Six years in which I had established myself as a moderately successful independent investor, dealing primarily in blue-chip stocks on the major markets but also, with increasing frequency, bankrolling individual inventors who had good ideas but little or no cash.

Six years of mostly stress-free living with no one trying to beat me up, or worse.

“No,” I said again with finality. “I don't want to, really, not now, not ever.”

I could tell that Sir Richard wasn't happy, not happy at all.

“Sid,” he said, drawling the word out for a couple of seconds, “can I tell you something in confidence?”

“Of course.”

He leaned forward towards me as if he didn't want to be overheard, which was rather strange considering we were alone in the living room of my Oxfordshire home.

“I am seriously concerned that the whole future of our sport is at risk.” He pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows and nodded at me as if emphasizing what he'd just said. “Racing only survives due to its integrity. Oh yeah, sure, everyone has stories of races being fixed or horses getting nobbled, but, overall, racing is very clean. If it wasn't, the public wouldn't have the confidence to bet, and then where would we be?”

I said nothing.

“That's why we at the BHA invest so much time and money in our dope-testing facilities and then punish any wrongdoers so harshly. We don't exactly enjoy taking away people's livelihoods, but we do want to deter others from trying.”

I nodded at him. I knew all this.

“So why all the panic?” I asked.

“I am convinced that someone is beating the system—manipulating the results of races. That's why we need you.”

“How about the BHA's own security service?” I asked. “Why can't they deal with it?”

“I have urged them to,” he said with a sigh. “But they tell me that there's nothing amiss and that I'm mistaken. But I know I'm not.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“I just do,” he replied adamantly.

It wasn't exactly convincing, but Sir Richard was a man who had often staked his reputation on his beliefs and he'd rarely been wrong.

“I'm sorry,” I said, standing up, “but I still can't help you.”

Sir Richard looked up at me. “Can't or won't?”

“Both,” I said. “And I probably wouldn't be of any use to you even if I tried. I've lost the investigating knack.”

“What nonsense!” said Sir Richard, also standing up. “Have you lost the knack of breathing as well? The Sid Halley I used to know could find out more with his eyes closed than the whole of the Met Police with theirs open.”

I looked at him from a distance of about nine inches.

“I am no longer the Sid Halley you used to know.”

He stared straight into my eyes for a few seconds, until I turned away.

“That's a real shame,” he said with a sigh.

I felt wretched, but there was nothing more I could say.

“I think I'd better go,” Sir Richard said, leaning down to pick up his briefcase from the sofa. “I'm clearly wasting my time here.”

Now he wasn't only unhappy, he was angry with it.

“I'll show myself out,” he mumbled, barely able to maintain the usual pleasantries. He turned to go.

“Sir Richard,” I said, putting a hand on his arm to stop him. “I'm very sorry but I no longer do that sort of thing.”

“That's what dear Admiral Roland told me last week, but I didn't fully believe him.” He paused and looked again into my eyes. “Sid, I am firmly of the opinion that racing, as we know and love it, is under threat.”

He was scared, I thought. Really scared.

“What evidence do you have?” I heard myself ask.

Dammit. No. No. I must not get involved.

Sir Richard opened his briefcase and pulled out a clear plastic folder containing some sheets of paper. “I have made a list of those races where I believe the result has been manipulated in some way.”

“But what actual evidence do you have?” I asked.

“Don't you believe me?” Sir Richard snorted, pulling himself up to his full height, which was a good six or seven inches above my head.

“It's not important if I believe you or not,” I said, ignoring his indignation. “But I would still need some hard evidence to look at.”

“So are you saying you will help after all?” He was suddenly more hopeful.

“No,” I said. “I'm not saying that. But I'll have a quick scan of your list, if you like.”

He handed me the folder. “Keep it,” he said. “I have other copies.”

“Who else have you spoken to about this?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Who else, other than the BHA Security Service, have you spoken to about this? Who else has seen your list?”

He seemed surprised by my questions. “A few, I suppose.”

“Who?” I asked, pressing him.

“Some of my fellow BHA directors have seen it. And my secretary, of course. She typed it for me.” He smiled.

“Anyone else?”

“A few others at my club. The Admiral, for instance. I was trying to get him to approach you on my behalf.”

I inwardly sighed but stayed silent.

“Is that a problem?” he asked.

“Perhaps it might be more prudent to keep your concerns to yourself. At least until they've been proven.”

“But it seems that no one
is
going to prove them,” he said irritably. “Everyone thinks I'm making it all up. Including you.”

“I still think it might be better not to broadcast your suspicions. The wrong ears may hear them. If there is indeed something going on, you don't want the perpetrator finding out that you're investigating.”

“I'm not bloody investigating, am I?” he retorted angrily. “And talking to a few members of my club is hardly broadcasting.”

I decided not to say anything further, but if a decade of being a private investigator had taught me anything, it was that secrecy and surprise were usually the best policy.

And being a member of Sir Richard's club was no guarantee that an individual was an upstanding member of society. For hundreds of years there has been a steady flow of fraudsters, swindlers, thieves and murderers passing through the gates of British prisons, many of whom had been members of London's most prestigious gentlemen's clubs.

“Sid, will you help me?” Sir Richard asked. “For the good of racing.”

“I'll look at your list.”

“Good.”

“But I will not investigate anything,” I said quickly. “Like I told you, I've given that up.”

“But you will tell me what you think?”

“Yes,” I said. “I'll look at the list and I'll tell you what I think.”

He nodded as if satisfied. “I'd better be going or I'll miss my train.”

“Are you going back to London?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No, to my house near Winchester. There's a direct train from Banbury every hour.”

“Do you need a lift to the station?”

“No, thank you.” He smiled. “I have a taxi waiting for me.”

We went outside into the March sunshine, and I saw him into the taxi. Then I stood and waved at him as he was driven away. Was he imagining things or was there indeed something wrong in British racing? And did I care enough to get involved?

I was still out on the road with my right arm raised when Marina swept down the hill in our Range Rover and turned in through the gates.

“Who was that?” she called, climbing out of the vehicle with a bright green shopping bag.

“Sir Richard Stewart,” I said.

“And who's he when he's at home?”

“Chairman of the British Horseracing Authority.”

“What did he want?”

“He wants me to investigate some corrupt goings-on in racing.”

She stood, facing me stiffly, on the gravel.

“And what did you say?”

“I told him I don't do investigating anymore.”

She relaxed a fraction, the telltale rigidity in her neck disappearing as her shoulder muscles eased.

“Good.”

“What did you buy?” I asked, changing the subject.

She smiled. “Something for Sassy. I couldn't resist it.” She reached into the bag and withdrew a child's pink dress with lines of blue and yellow embroidery on the bodice. “Isn't it sweet? And it was in the sale.”

“Lovely,” I said.

Sassy was our daughter. Saskia, to be more correct. Sassy by name and sassy by nature. Six years old going on sixteen and growing up far too fast for my liking.

“She can wear it to Annabel's birthday party.”

Annabel was Sassy's best friend at school.

“Lovely,” I said again.

We went into the kitchen, and Rosie, one of our two red setter bitches, came over and nuzzled up to my leg, hoping for a treat.

“What corrupt goings-on?” Marina asked in a deadpan tone.

“Nothing,” I said, waving a hand in dismissal. “Sir Richard has some crazy notion that someone is manipulating results of races. But his own security service says there's nothing wrong, and they're no fools.”

“And you told him you weren't interested?”

“Yes,” I said. “Don't worry. I have no intention of investigating anything. All I said to him was I'd have a look at a list he brought of the races he believes have been affected.”

“And will you?”

“I'll glance through them later.”

She wasn't happy. I could tell.

Marina and I had moved out of London when she'd been seven months pregnant with Saskia. It was to be a new beginning—one of rural tranquility.

Marina hadn't quite made an ultimatum, but she had been pretty resolute nevertheless. She'd told me how much she loved me and how she had tried to be positive about my job, but she found she couldn't go on living a life that involved checking for thugs with knuckle-dusters or silenced pistols around every corner. Continuous fear was totally exhausting her, and things would only get worse when the baby arrived.

I had to effectively choose between her and my job.

The choice had been easy.

Once before, when I'd been a jockey, I'd chosen my job over my then wife, and, in hindsight, it had been a mistake.

I couldn't blame Marina. She had been shot, beaten up and repeatedly threatened, every time in a bid to get me to stop what I'd been doing.

It had become common knowledge in criminal circles that beating up Sid Halley was counterproductive. He would simply come after you with increased vigor and determination.

So the lowlifes, which I tended to encounter all too regularly in my occupation, had taken instead to attacking my girl, attempting to use her as a lever against me.

And, in the end, it had worked.

There is only so much that one is prepared to allow in the pursuit of truth and justice. The world, I decided, would have to get on with its business, legal or otherwise, without the intervention of Sid Halley.

So I had become the loving husband and, subsequently, the doting father.

But my former job remained the elephant in the room—always large, always there, difficult to ignore but rarely spoken of.

Only occasionally, like now, did the elephant raise its head a little and send shivers of dread down Marina's spine.

•   •   •

I
TOOK
the plastic folder with me when I went to collect Sassy from school.

“Don't forget to collect Annabel as well,” Marina shouted to me through the kitchen window. “She's here tonight for a sleepover.”

“Bit unusual for midweek, isn't it?”

“Tim and Paula have gone to London for the night. Some livery dinner or something.”

“OK, I won't forget.”

Collecting my daughter from school was one of the true pleasures of my day. She would bound out to the car, grinning from ear to ear with excitement, and would be so keen to tell me about everything she had been doing that she would almost forget to breathe.

Her school was only a mile away, in the next village, but I was habitually early and often would be sitting, waiting, for ten minutes or more before Sassy appeared. Today I had left home especially early, as I wanted time on my own to look through Sir Richard's lists.

As usual I parked the Range Rover opposite the school gates, and then picked up the plastic folder from the passenger seat.

There were nine races listed on two sheets of paper, but there was precious little reasoning as to why each race was on the list. At first glance, there was nothing remarkable about any of them and nothing that would immediately link them together.

Three of the nine had been hurdle races, and the remaining six were steeplechases. All had been run during the preceding six months, the main months of the jumping season, always on major racing days, but none of them was actually the big race of the day. Only two had been won by the favorite or the second favorite, and all of them had been won at prices of six-to-one or greater.

Nevertheless, I could see nothing particularly noteworthy or unusual about any of them.