Dick Francis's Damage (14 page)

The second race ran without incident, and the third also. Only four races to go.

“Any problems?” I asked Crispin as we met again at the spot overlooking the parade ring.

“None,” he said. “Everything seems to be going like clockwork.”

No sooner had he said it than the racetrack klaxon sounded through the public address system. The klaxon was normally only used to announce a stewards' inquiry. Everyone went quiet to listen.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the announcer. “It is with regret that the stewards have abandoned the remaining races today due to a severe outbreak of food poisoning in the jockeys' changing room.”

Our extra security had concentrated only on the horses.

We'd all been looking the wrong way.

I
t was the ginger cake.”

We were in another specially convened BHA Board meeting held at Scrutton's Club on Monday afternoon, and I was taking considerable flak for having suggested we ignore the previous demand.

“What bloody ginger cake?” Ian Tulloch asked.

“The ginger cake that many of the jockeys ate in the changing room at lunchtime on Saturday,” I said. “It was placed in the changing room sometime in the morning before anyone arrived. The caterers are adamant that they didn't provide it. They told me they only put out the usual sandwiches and the cake must have already been there.”

“Have we had this cake analyzed?” asked Roger Vincent.

“It was all eaten,” I said. “It was apparently very popular.”

“I thought jockeys didn't eat cake,” said Piers Pottinger. “Too fattening.”

“Apparently, they do,” I said. “Nearly all of the jockeys had
some except a few who were doing really light weights. That's how we know it's the cake that was the cause. Those who didn't eat it didn't get ill.”

“Have we any idea what was in it?” asked Bill Ripley.

“No,” I said. “But it was something that made people very ill very quickly. Some sort of poison. A few of the jockeys were vomiting within half an hour. Others took longer. But everyone who ate the cake was ill eventually. The stewards had no alternative but to cancel racing as the weighing-room plumbing couldn't keep up with the need.”

Roger Vincent pulled a face.

And well he might. Such was the state of the jockeys' area that racing at Ascot had also been abandoned on Sunday due to health concerns.

“How can we be sure that the same man is responsible for both the horse doping and this?” asked Howard Lever. “The food poisoning could have been an accident.”

I looked around the table.

It was obvious that no one else believed the food poisoning was an accident. Howard Lever was clutching at straws. And thin straws at that.

“So what the bloody hell do we do now?” Ian Tulloch asked angrily. He'd been in a foul temper ever since he'd arrived five minutes late for the meeting. Indeed, I suspected he'd been in a continuous foul temper ever since Paperclip had failed to win the first race at Ascot on Saturday. “How much do we have to pay this bloody man to leave us alone?”

“Can't we just increase security for both the horses and the jockeys?” said Stephen Kohli. “Surely it's better to stop it happening again rather than giving in to this monster and paying him money.”

“It might end up costing us less to pay him than to shell out for the extra security,” said Bill Ripley. “He's now shown that when we protect the horses, he attacks the jockeys. If we protect them too, he'll attack somewhere else. Next it may be the racegoing public who become ill or the fabric of our racetracks that's damaged or destroyed. Can we afford that? Can we also afford to turn our racetracks into fortresses? And do we really want to have airport-style security checks everywhere?”

Heads shook around the table and discussion followed for some while, with recriminations flying to and fro. The united front was beginning to crumble.

“I think it's high time we called in the police,” said Neil Wallinger.

Howard Lever didn't agree. “We will lose all authority over racing if the public finds out and calling in the police is tantamount to shouting it from the rooftops. If the police themselves don't tell the newspapers, the man behind all of this will.”

“So what
do
we do?” Neil asked with irritation. “We are losing our authority over racing anyway because it's this man, not us, who is dictating what happens. We should inform the police before they discover it for themselves because then we will be the ones under investigation simply for staying silent.”

“It surely must be illegal to poison people,” said Bill Ripley. “I'm surprised the police aren't investigating the matter.”

“I doubt it,” I said. “No long-term harm was done. The jockeys recovered overnight. And no one else had been there, asking questions about the cake, when I went to see the racetrack caterers this morning. They said they knew nothing about it. I only heard about it from the jockeys. I spoke to some of them yesterday.”

“Which jockeys?” Stephen Kohli asked me directly.

“I spoke to half a dozen of them, but Brian Rice was the most
helpful.” Brian Rice was one of the country's most successful jump jockeys, a naturally thin man who had no trouble with his weight. “He told me he'd never thrown up so badly in his life. He thought he was dying, he felt so ill.”

“How much of the cake did he eat?” asked Bill Ripley.

“Quite a lot, it seems, certainly more than the others, because he said it tasted so nice. Very gingery. It was a great big square cake that had been cut up into bite-sized pieces, no doubt to encourage all of the jockeys to have at least one. Brian Rice told me that he'd had the last two bits and then he'd thrown away the foil the cake had been wrapped in. No doubt the ginger was used to mask the taste of the poison.”

“It's all well and good talking about the bloody cake,” said Ian Tulloch angrily, “but what are we going to do about this man?”

“We'll just have to wait to see what he wants,” said Roger Vincent. “He's bound to send us another demand. We must all stand firm and stick together over this. Gentlemen, do I have your support?”

He looked around the table and received nods from everyone, even those who didn't really approve of the do-nothing policy. The uneasy alliance had survived for at least one more meeting.

And that was how it was left.

Other than continuing with the water trucks at all racetracks and ensuring that no food was allowed into any jockeys' changing rooms without its source being known and checked, we would do nothing else but wait for the demand.

Crispin called it another first-class example of collective head-in-the-sand behavior.

Could anyone see the juggernaut coming?

—

WE DIDN'T
have to wait long for the next demand to arrive.

Crispin Larson called me at home at eleven o'clock on Tuesday morning. “We've received another missive from our friend Leonardo in this morning's mail. And Howard wants you, dear boy, to do the negotiating under my supervision.”

“And what did Leonardo demand?”

“The usual. Five million quid. Acceptance in tomorrow's
Times
—or else. And this time no one is saying we shouldn't reply.”

“Who knows about it?”

“Howard's been phoning the other Board members since soon after eight. Roger Vincent arrived at the office at nine and the two of them called in Stephen Kohli and me. They are pretty worried, I can tell you. Five million is a lot of dough and they have no idea where to get it from.”

“I'm sure it won't be as much as five million,” I said. “Not in the end.”

“That's what they are hoping too. That's why they suggested that you should do the negotiating.”

“Oh, thanks,” I said sarcastically. “What are they putting in
The Times
?”

“That's for us to decide. We have until noon today to get something into tomorrow's paper.”

I looked at the clock in my study. Noon was in less than an hour.

“So what's the brief?” I asked.

“Get him down to as low a figure as we can without causing him to do any more disruption to racing.”

“Really easy, then,” I said with a laugh. “Do we have an upper limit?”

“Roger Vincent remembers that you said at the first meeting that our friend wants about half a million.”

“I said that he might expect half a million. He would want more.”

“Well, half a million's the absolute limit, though how we're going to find that from the BHA's budget is anyone's guess.”

“How about if we start by offering him fifty thousand?”

“Is that enough?” Crispin was concerned. “Might he not do something else to hurt us? Remember what happened last time when we offered him only twenty.”

“It's a risk we have to take. If we offer him the half million straightaway, he won't accept it. He'll reckon he could get at least two and the BHA will end up paying much more. Fifty thousand shows that we are interested in real-money negotiations, but also that we're not prepared to go anywhere near his five million figure.”

“I still think we should go a bit higher. How about seventy-five thousand?” he said. “You are aware that you really will get sacked if this goes wrong, and probably me too?”

“You and I will be the fall guys,” I agreed. “That's why Howard is keen for us to do the negotiating. He can then stand back and say it was nothing to do with him if it all goes wrong. He's watching his own back.”

“I reckon we'll be more than just a pair of fall guys, dear boy, if this goes wrong,” Crispin said with a hollow laugh. “We'll be put up against a wall and shot and the BHA Board will be acting as the firing squad.”

I wished he wouldn't keep using metaphors that involved such finality.

We discussed the matter for another half hour or so before agreeing on a figure of seventy-five thousand pounds as our next offer.

He hung up and I dialed the number for
The Times
newspaper.

“Van Gogh accepts Leonardo's proposal of marriage and now offers seventy-five thousand as dowry.” I repeated it twice over the telephone for the young woman in classified ads.

“Are you sure that's right?” she asked. “It seems a very strange item to me. Shouldn't it be in the forthcoming marriages section?”

“No,” I said. “Please place it in the personal announcements column.”

“OK,” she said. “You're paying.”

We certainly were.

—

I HAD
only just put the phone down from speaking to
The Times
when it rang again.

“Mr. Jefferson Hinkley?” said a male voice when I answered.

“Yes.”

“This is Detective Sergeant Galley from the Gloucestershire Police. You may recall I interviewed you following a fatal attack at Cheltenham races three weeks ago.”

“Yes,” I said, “I remember. How can I help you?”

“We would like to interview you again concerning the killing of Jordan Furness.”

I thought he was being very formal.

“What about it, exactly?” I asked.

“Some information has come to our attention that we wish to speak to you about.”

“What information?”

“We will tell you that at the interview.”

Now, I thought, he's also being evasive.

“Can't we do the interview over the telephone? It's a long way from Willesden to Cheltenham and I'm very busy.”

“That's all right, sir,” said the detective sergeant, “we will come to you. Could you please report to West End Central Police Station in Savile Row at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning?”

There was something in his voice that made me believe that I wasn't really being given any choice.

“Am I being arrested or something?” I asked with some concern.

“No, of course not, sir,” D.S. Galley replied with a slight laugh that did very little to set my mind at ease.

“Then why can't the interview be done at my home?”

“We would prefer it to be done at a police station in order to use the recording equipment available. I'll see you at West End Central tomorrow morning at eleven. Go to the main entrance and ask for me.”

“OK,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”

At least I'd been invited to attend for an interview rather than having a posse of police in riot gear appearing before dawn to break down my front door. But, even so, I hadn't been completely reassured that I wasn't in some sort of trouble.

There had been something about his tone of voice that I hadn't liked.

O
n Wednesday morning I took the bus along Harrow Road from Willesden Junction and presented myself at the front desk of West End Central Police Station in Savile Row at precisely eleven o'clock.

D.S. Galley came out to meet me.

“Mr. Hinkley?” he said looking at me closely. “You look very different than when I last spoke to you.”

I'd forgotten that I'd been wearing my brown-wig-and-goatee disguise for our previous interview at Cheltenham.

“Same man inside,” I said, smiling. “Is this going to take long?”

There was something about being in police stations that made me nervous.

I could recall being in a police station at Nad-e Ali in Helmand Province when a rogue Afghan policeman had turned his gun on my section, killing two of my comrades and only narrowly missing my right ear. Even now, thinking about it many years
later, my palms began to sweat slightly and my heart beat a little faster in my chest.

Calm down, I told myself, taking some deep breaths. Don't be so silly. But I couldn't help it.

“It shouldn't take too long,” said D.S. Galley, leading me down a corridor and into an interview room.

It was much the same as the room I had used to interview Taliban detainees except that here the table and chairs were not screwed to the floor and there were no bars on the frosted window. But it had the same grayness about the decoration and the same smell, a combination of sweet pine disinfectant and fear.

I sat down on one side of the table while D.S. Galley and a second man sat on the other.

“This is Detective Constable Rendle, also from Gloucestershire,” said D.S. Galley as he fiddled with the recording machine, sliding tapes into the slots. He pushed a button and a long beep emitted from the machine. “Interview with Jefferson Roosevelt Hinkley at West End Central,” he said. He gave the date and time. “Present are Mr. Hinkley, D.C. Rendle and D.S. Galley. This interview is also being recorded on video.” We all automatically looked up at the camera mounted on the side wall above the window.

“Now, Mr. Hinkley,” said the sergeant formally, “can you give us your full recollection of the events leading up to the fatal stabbing of Jordon Furness and also those that led to the arrest of Matthew Unwin at Cheltenham racetrack.”

“Aren't you meant to say to me first that anything I say will be taken down and used in evidence?”

“Mr. Hinkley, I told you, you are not under arrest. You're not even being interviewed under caution. We just want to check on your story.”

“It's not a story,” I said, “it's the truth. And I told you
everything when I saw you immediately after the event. Why do I need to tell you it all again?”

“We want to ensure that what you said before was correct and to find out if you have anything else to add that you may have missed the first time.”

“I would have thought this was an open-and-shut case,” I said. “Hundreds of witnesses must have seen Matthew Unwin cut that bookmaker's throat. Don't tell me that he's now denying it.”

“Mr. Unwin is claiming that he killed Mr. Furness while the balance of his mind was disturbed. As such, he maintains he is innocent of murder and will plead guilty only to a charge of manslaughter.”

“So?” I said. “Surely that's enough, isn't it? I thought the maximum penalty for manslaughter was life imprisonment? Same as murder. I can't see the problem.”

“Mr. Unwin also claims that he was being harassed by the British Horseracing Authority in general, and by you in particular, and that such harassment was instrumental in his mental state at the time of the attack.”

“That's completely ridiculous,” I said, leaning back in the chair. “He didn't even know I was following him until after the event, so how could it have had an effect on him? The man is simply making excuses.”

“Maybe, but we have to investigate everything so that we don't get any surprises in court. Please, can you describe to us the sequence of events on that day as you remember them?”

I spent the next forty minutes going over everything again in chronological order. As far as I could tell, it was exactly what I'd said to the detective the last time. Witnessing a murder at such close quarters tended to fix events rather firmly in one's memory.

“And are you certain that Mr. Unwin didn't know you were
following him after his arrival at the racetrack?” D.S. Galley asked.

“Absolutely,” I said. I remembered back to when he had suddenly stopped and looked around. “If he had known me, he would have reacted when I walked past him and he didn't. It was only five minutes between him coming through the north turnstiles and the killing of Mr. Furness. Ten minutes at most. In my opinion, he definitely arrived at the racetrack with his mind made up that he had come to kill. Why else would he bring a knife?”

“He claims that you had been harassing him for several months.”

“That's nonsense,” I said. “Unless you call a disciplinary hearing harassment. He was found guilty in January of administering an illegal substance to his horses and was disqualified from racing for eight years for doping.”

“What was the substance?”

“I believe it was Dexedrine. It's a stimulant.”

“Mr. Unwin claims that he knew nothing about any doping, and he further believes that someone else must therefore be responsible. In fact, he claims that it was you, Mr. Hinkley, who gave the horses the drugs and that's why you knew when to send in a drug testing team to find a positive result. That's what he meant by the harassment.”

“The man's a fantasist,” I said. “Why, then, did he kill Jordan Furness and not me?”

“He says that you were working with Mr. Furness to destroy his reputation and career.”

“Then he's a nutcase,” I said. “I've never met Jordan Furness in my life. The first time I even took note of his existence was when blood was pouring from his neck.”

“Mr. Unwin claims that you covertly visited his racing stable and planted evidence. Is that true?”

Once again there was something in his tone of voice that I didn't like.

“Are you accusing me of something?” I asked. “Because, if so, I believe I should have been asked if I wanted a lawyer.”

“Mr. Hinkley,” D.S. Galley said in a condescending tone, “I am sure there is no need for that.”

I didn't altogether believe him.

“I'd like to go home now,” I said, standing up.

I could tell that D.S. Galley wasn't at all keen on that idea. “But I haven't finished asking my questions yet.”

“Maybe not, but I've finished answering them. I have work to do.”

“And what work would that be?” he asked.

“My work for the British Horseracing Authority.”

D.S. Galley sat quite still, looking up at me.

“My information is,” he said, “that you no longer work for the BHA.”

“Well, your information is wrong, like pretty much everything else you've said this morning.”

He opened his notebook and flipped though the pages. He found the place he was looking for. “Mr. Paul Maldini, head of integrity operations, told me only yesterday that you were no longer employed by the British Horseracing Authority. He further informed me that you were dismissed for gross misconduct.”

Paul Maldini always was an idiot. That was why I'd insisted he should not be aware of my true position. In hindsight, that had obviously been a big mistake.

“What was that gross misconduct, Mr. Hinkley?” he asked.
“And did it have anything to do with Matthew Unwin and the doping of his horses?”

This could be awkward, I thought. How was I going to explain my change in status from regular to undercover employee without informing the police of the demands being made on the BHA? Maybe it would be better if I did, but I had been specifically instructed by the Board to keep everything confidential, and especially from the police.

“I would like to go home now,” I repeated, still standing.

The detective sergeant didn't move. He simply looked up at me.

“Mr. Hinkley, have you something to hide?”

“Absolutely not,” I said, “but I've had enough of these stupid questions. You keep implying something that is ridiculous and I've told you I had nothing to do with the doping of Matthew Unwin's horses and I have not been harassing him as you say he's claimed. It's not my fault that you don't believe me. I don't think either of us have anything to gain by you repeatedly asking the same questions to which I give the same answers.”

“Why were you dismissed from the racing authority?” he asked again.

“I wasn't,” I replied. “I am now working undercover. Undercover even from my colleagues at the BHA. Paul Maldini is unaware of that fact because he doesn't need to know. And the fewer people who know, the more undercover I can remain. You, for one, should understand that. Please call Howard Lever and ask him. He's the BHA chief executive. Or Roger Vincent. He's the chairman. Both of them will vouch for my true position. You can then apologize to me for your insinuations. And after that, maybe we will talk again.”

I moved towards the door.

“Interview terminated at twelve twenty-two.”

—

I DIDN'T
take the bus home. Instead, I took the Tube from Piccadilly Circus to Richmond and went to see my sister. Somehow, I wanted to spend as much time with her as I could, just in case.

She looked worried as she opened the door.

“Is everything all right?”

“Absolutely fine,” I said. “And, before you ask, I haven't come here to move in.” I smiled at her, but her worried brow remained firmly in place. “In fact, things have been much better between Lydia and me since I spoke to you last. We went out on Friday to see a show and had our best night out for ages. It was just like old times.”

“Oh, good, I'm so pleased.”

And it had been better over the weekend as well. In spite of the disaster at Ascot, Lydia had been understanding, comforting and loving, just as she had always been in the past. So was it me that had changed while she had been constant throughout?

I was confused, with my emotions in a twist.

“I think it must be me,” I said to Faye as we went through into the kitchen, “rather than Lydia.”

“It takes two to make a marriage.”

Indeed it did. And if the worst were to happen, how would Quentin ever fare without Faye? She was the only person I knew who could tame him.

“How's Quentin?” I asked.

“Oh, the usual.”

“Did he go with you to the Royal Marsden yesterday?”

“You must be joking,” she said with a laugh. “Quentin hates hospitals more than I do. Daisy, our neighbor's daughter, she drove me. She's in a gap year and could do with the pocket money.”

“How was it?”

“Pretty awful. I can feel the damn stuff going into my arm like red-hot burning wires running through my veins.” She shivered.

“Don't you want to rant and rave at the situation? I certainly do.”

“Not really. What good would it do? I'd be the first to scream and shout if it would make me well again.” She smiled. “I rather think it's better just to take the medication and save my energy. Not that I have much of that anymore, thanks to the wretched drugs. They'd better be bloody working, that's all I can say. They make me feel so sick all the time, especially at night. And it's not particularly conducive to restful sleep, I can tell you.”

I gave her a hug. “If you ever need me, or Lydia, to go with you to the hospital, please just ask. We'll come at once.”

“Thank you, my darling, but I'll be fine with Daisy. Tough times require tough medicine, literally, so I've not got much choice, have I? Other than to lay down and die, of course, and I have no intention of doing that. Not for a while anyway.”

“That's my girl,” I said and gave her another hug.

“So, how's the sleuthing going?” she asked. “Arrested any villains since Friday?”

“I'm not a policeman, you know.”

“Same as,” she said. “You're a horseracing policeman.”

I suppose she was right, but I'd never thought of myself as such.

Maybe D.S. Galley and I had more in common than we both realized.

—

THE REPLY
from Leonardo came in the early mail to the BHA offices on Thursday morning addressed to Roger Vincent. Crispin Larson called me at a quarter to eight, when I was still in bed.

Leonardo thanks Van Gogh for his interest but your sum is way too low. Three million minimum. Perhaps you need persuading. Watch out for the fireworks.

“What do you think it means?” Crispin asked.

“At least he's moved away from five million, which is a big step forward. It shows he's prepared to negotiate. But I don't like the sound of his fireworks nor the fact he thinks we still need persuading. It means he's not going to stop the disruption just because we are offering to pay.”

“Oh God!”

“What?” I asked.

“The National. It's this coming Saturday.”

Oh God indeed! Grand National Day—the one day in the year when horseracing displaces all other sport from the back pages of every newspaper. In Australia they advertise the Melbourne Cup as “The Race That Stops the Nation.” In England the equivalent was the Grand National, when every man, woman and their dog placed a bet and every office in the land ran a sweepstakes.

But the history of the Grand National showed that it was not immune to disruption.

In 1993 the race was voided after most of the field failed to stop after a second false start. Prior to the race, there had been a demonstration on the track by animal rights activists, who had delayed proceedings by some ten minutes. That had caused the
horses to become stressed and agitated, which had largely contributed to the two false starts in the first place. When the second one unfolded, all but nine of the runners failed to respond to the instruction to stop and they went on to jump the first fence. Seven of them completed the whole four-and-a-half-mile race, jumping all thirty fences, while others, realizing something was amiss, pulled up at various points around the track.