Dick Francis's Damage (24 page)

“This Board has my total confidence, and we must strive to regain the trust of those in our industry who rely on us every day of their lives. It is not the time to shirk our duty or to quit. That would plunge racing into disrepute and greater chaos. Now is the time to stand up and be counted, the time to demonstrate that the BHA is up to the challenge and ready to perform its task with integrity and sureness.”

He finished with a flourish and looked up and down the table as if seeking approval or even some applause.

“Bravo,” said Neil Wallinger. “Well said.”

There were also murmurings of approval from the others.

“But what about the press?” Bill Ripley said, pointing down the table at the chairman with the arm of his tortoiseshell glasses. “They seem to be out for our blood.”

“We must remain firm,” Ian Tulloch responded.

“And we absolutely must give some explanation of the events at the Cheltenham Festival and what we propose to do about the results,” Piers Pottinger said. “To continue to say nothing is greatly harming our image.”

“But what
are
we going to say about the results?” Neil Wallinger asked. “We can hardly make the whole meeting void. The betting public would be in meltdown, to say nothing of the owners, trainers and jockeys.”

Crispin was ready with an answer. “We can simply announce that the levels of methylphenidate found in the tested samples were too small to have made any difference how the horses ran and, consequently, all the results stand.”

“And was it too small?” Neil asked.

“Yes,” said Crispin confidently. “It was only slightly above the no-effect threshold. Hardly enough to make any significant difference.”

“How close were the races?” I asked. “If a horse that tested positive won by a nose, are we then open to a legal challenge from the one that finished second.”

“But it would also have had methylphenidate in its system.”

“Can we be sure of that? Most of the horses that finished second weren't tested. And we know that at least three were clear of the drug.”

Stephen Kohli was dispatched to get a record of all the Cheltenham results.

“Now,” said the chairman, “while we wait for Stephen, can we have a report on yesterday's events at Fontwell Park?”

“Ten people total were made ill,” Howard said. “Two of those were the stipendiary stewards appointed for the day and both were taken to the hospital with severe dehydration.”

Nobody liked to ask for the finer details of why they had become dehydrated.

“What was the source?” Ian Tulloch asked.

“We don't have the results back yet, but it would appear that it was something in one of the salads that was served for lunch in the stewards' dining room. Remains of the lunch are currently being tested by the Food Standards Agency.”

“Was it the same stuff as in the cake at Ascot?” asked Neil Wallinger.

“There wasn't any of the cake left to analyze, but I wouldn't be surprised. The symptoms were the same.”

“You think it was the same man?” asked George Searle.

“We can't be sure,” Howard replied, “but I think it would be too much of a coincidence if it wasn't.”

There were more nods of agreement from all around the table.

“How easy is it to get poison?” Neil Wallinger asked. “Don't you have to sign a register or something?”

“Maybe you do for arsenic, or something like that, but lots of other things are poisonous,” I said. “Everyone knows that eating just a couple of deadly nightshade berries can be fatal, but there are many more readily available poisons. Red kidney beans are highly toxic if eaten raw, and elderberries can kill you as well, to say nothing of toadstools and other fungi, most of which are lethal. The army instructs soldiers in survival techniques and part of the training is given over to foraging for food, in particular what you can eat safely and what you can't.”

“Are you suggesting that this man has been a soldier?” asked Bill Ripley.

“No, not necessarily,” I said. “Anyone can find out about poisons easily enough on the Internet. All I really suspect is he's a racing insider and that maybe there is hyperactivity in his family.”

I was ready for any reaction, but there was none. Not even a flicker. Was I wrong? Or had the person been ready for it and been able to control his emotions? Perhaps it was only on the first occasion, when the individual was unprepared, that it had produced such an effect.

“And I reckon it is the same man who has been doping horses in their home stables as well,” I said. “You may recall that the trainer Matthew Unwin was disqualified for eight years in January after some of the horses in his care tested positive for a banned stimulant. Crispin Larson and I are now of the opinion that his claim that someone else drugged the horses was probably true. Of course you also know that Unwin killed Jordan Furness at Cheltenham on Champion Hurdle Day. He is currently in
Long Lartin Prison awaiting trial for murder and I'm trying to arrange to visit him.”

“For what purpose?” asked Neil Wallinger.

“I want to ask him why he thinks Jordan Furness had something to do with the doping. That's what he's apparently told the police. I know it's a long shot but we seem to be up against a brick wall at the moment.”

“Yes,” said Ian Tulloch. “And what are we going to do about it? We simply can't afford for this man to go on disrupting race meetings.”

“We should pay him,” I said.

All the eyes in the room swiveled around in my direction.

“You've changed your tune,” Piers Pottinger remarked. “Why the sudden conversion?”

“This has been going on now for a month,” I said, “and we're no nearer finding out who's responsible. He's always been one step ahead of us. He poisons the drinking water so we introduce the trucks, so instead he poisons the jockeys. We put systems in place to stop that, but he then sabotages the track. And now he's got at the stewards. He's been leading us in a right merry dance and, as a result, the BHA is imploding round us. Perhaps it is time for a different approach before it's too late.”

“But can we afford to pay?” Howard said. “And there's no guarantee that doing so will make him stop. That policeman made it quite clear that he thought we were fools for paying anything.”

“Exactly,” said Ian Tulloch. “And raising that amount of cash is not that easy. Could we even do it again?”

“You originally said that the upper limit was half a million,” Crispin said. “So far, we have paid only a fifth of that.”

“I agree that we should try something,” said Bill Ripley. “Maybe paying him is the right thing to do.”

“What I can't understand,” said Charles Payne, “is how this man could make use of such a large amount of cash anyway. Money-laundering regulations are so tight these days that it's almost impossible to pay for anything with readies.” He sounded as if he had tried.

“Casinos,” I said. “Or a dodgy Indian diamond dealer.”

“What about them?” he asked.

“Many casinos will take cash and ask no questions. Just buy fifty or a hundred thousand quid's worth of chips, sit at a table and play with only a fraction of that, then cash out at the end for a check or direct payment into his bank account. Easy. And even if you can't do it in this country anymore, you certainly can in Egypt or Lebanon where the high rollers and superrich Arabs go to gamble and where fifty or a hundred thousand is regarded as mere small change.”

“And the diamond dealers?” asked Charles Payne.

“It doesn't have to be diamonds,” I said. “Any commodity will do. And it's the purchase contract that's important, not the actual stones. You pay cash to an Indian broker in Wembley for a contract to buy diamonds and then those contracts are ‘sold' in India. The diamonds never actually exist. It's just a ruse to get money out of India because the Indian government has tight control of the movement of their currency. You pay a hundred thousand in cash to the guy in Wembley and end up with a transfer of ninety thousand into your bank account from India as a legitimate diamond trader and, presto, the dirty money is now clean, minus the broker's commission. They are always desperate for sterling cash to pay out to the Indian community living here
in exchange for rupees received back home. No questions would be asked.”

Nine sets of eyes were staring at me.

“How on earth do you know all this?” Charles Payne asked.

“It's my job,” I said. “Finding the villains and cheats is dead easy if you can find their money. Some of them will even pay tax on the profit from their so-called diamond dealing. But it's all a scheme to launder hot cash, and ending up with fifty or sixty percent of it as clean money is worth it.”

Stephen Kohli came back into the boardroom.

“Of the twenty-seven races at this year's Festival,” he said, “remarkably only one had a photo finish to decide the winner. That was the last race on the Wednesday, the bumper, where the winner won by a head. There were a few other photos to determine minor placings and a dead heat for third in the Kim Muir.”

“Could this methyl stuff have affected the result in the bumper?” Ian asked.

“It's unlikely,” said Crispin, “but we can't be sure.”

“We'll have to take a chance on that,” Ian said. “Howard, issue a press release stating the facts and announcing that no action will be taken concerning the results at Cheltenham, all of which will stand. But there is no need to mention that the contamination of the water supply was deliberate.”

“Why not?” Neil Wallinger said. “Why not give them the whole truth? Why not tell the public what is really going on? If the police won't help us, then maybe the public will.”

That interjection, while sensible, was not particularly helpful for my cunning plan.

“Won't that undermine our authority?” said Bill Ripley.

“I agree,” said Charles Payne. “What we need to do is to catch
this man. Simply telling the press everything will make the clamor for the demise of the BHA and a return to the Jockey Club even louder. I'm all for telling the press as little as possible. Horrible people. Treat them like mushrooms, that's what I always say.”

“‘Mushrooms'?” said Howard.

“Keep them in the dark and feed them shit.”

Nobody laughed, and Charles Payne blushed slightly in embarrassment.

“We all agree that we have to stop this man,” I said. “And, to that end, we must reestablish a two-way dialogue. The alternative is to just sit and wait for him to disrupt things again. Do we really want the Guineas meeting abandoned next month? Then it will be the Derby and Royal Ascot the month after.” I looked around at the glum faces. “Is anyone checking the mail now that Roger Vincent is no longer round to receive it?”

“Yes,” said Crispin, “I am. The last letter to arrive was on Wednesday. He demanded another million pounds to stop his activities.”

“Ridiculous,” said Ian Tulloch dismissively. “The man's a fool.”

“I fear he is far from a fool,” said Howard Lever. “Otherwise, we wouldn't be in this mess.”

“Do I have your authority to place another announcement in
The Times
?” I asked.

“Saying what?” asked Ian Tulloch.

“Maybe offering another payment in return for an assurance to stop his disruption.”

“I can't think that would do any good,” said Neil Wallinger. “Any assurance given by this man wouldn't be worth a tinker's damn.”

“But we have to do
something
,” I said. “What else do you suggest?”

Neil Wallinger looked at me for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders.

“How much?” asked Ian Tulloch.

“Enough to stop the disruption,” I said, “even if it's not all he wants.”

“Can we raise another hundred thousand in cash?” Ian Tulloch asked of no one in particular.

“I'm sure it could be done,” Howard Lever replied, “provided we have a few days' notice.”

“I'm not saying that I'll agree to pay it,” Ian Tulloch said, “but let's make the contact and the necessary preparations just in case.”

And so it was left, with no questions of accountability raised, at least not while I was in the boardroom, although the chairman had individual meetings with Howard Lever and the other Board members for the rest of the afternoon.

“Did you get what you wanted?” Crispin asked when we returned to his office.

“Partially,” I said. “There was no reaction I could see to my comment concerning hyperactivity, but there is the possibility of another drop.”

“I also watched the others when you mentioned it, but I couldn't see or feel any reaction either.”

“Stephen Kohli wasn't there when I said it.”

“You can't think that Stephen is involved,” Crispin said. “I've known him for years.”

“Has he got a hyperactive child?”

“Not that I'm aware of,” said Crispin. “I don't know much about his private life.”

I wasn't surprised. Both Crispin and Stephen were incredibly secretive about anything that was not to do with work, not that they were particularly forthcoming about work matters either.

“Where does he live?” I asked.

“Somewhere in north London. Finchley, I think.”

“Perhaps I should pay him a visit.”

Crispin shook his head. “I'm sure you're wrong there. I may not get on especially well with him, but I can't think he has anything to do with this.”

“Then who on the Board would you say has?”

He thought for a moment. “None of them. You must be wrong. What have they got to gain?”

“The money, for a start,” I said.

“But the press have been pretty unkind about all them. Why would anyone want to damage his own reputation like that?”