“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
