Dick Francis's Gamble

“Good,” I said.

It had been the right decision to leave the gun behind. I could still claim the moral high ground.

I hung up and switched off my phone. I would call the police on my terms, and I also didn’t want anyone being able to track my movements from the phone signal.

“Do you really think we’re still in danger?” Claudia asked next to me.

“I don’t know,” I said, “but I’m not taking any chances.”

“Who knew we were there?” she asked.

“Everyone at the office, I expect,” I said. “Mrs. McDowd definitely knew and she’d have told everyone else.”

And Detective Chief Inspector Tomlinson had known as well.

I’d told him myself.

It was my mother who finally asked the big question.

“Why was that man trying to kill you?” she said calmly from the backseat.

We were on the road between Cirencester and Swindon.

I’d made one more stop in Cheltenham at one of the few remaining public phone boxes. I hadn’t wanted to use my mobile for fear that someone could trace who I was calling. We were going where no one would find us.

“I’m not totally sure but it may be because I am a witness to him killing a man at Aintree races,” I said. “And it wasn’t the first time he’d tried.”

Neither my mother nor Claudia said anything. They were waiting for me to go on.

“He was waiting outside our house in Lichfield Grove when I got back there on Tuesday afternoon,” I said. “Luckily, I could run faster than him.”

“Is that why we came to Woodmancote,” Claudia asked, “instead of going home?”

“It sure is,” I said. “But I didn’t realize that Woodmancote wasn’t safe either. Not until it was too late. I won’t make that mistake again.”

“But what about the police?” my mother asked. “Surely we must go to the police. They will look after us.”

But how much did I trust the police? I didn’t know that either. They hadn’t given me any protection when I’d asked for it and that omission had almost cost us our lives. No, I thought, I’d trust my own instincts. The police seemed more interested in solving murders than preventing them.

“I have been to the police,” I said, driving on through the darkness. “But it will be me who will look after you.”

And I would also find out who was trying to have me killed, and the real reason why.

Well, lover boy,” Jan Setter said, “when I asked you to come and stay, I didn’t exactly mean you to bring your girlfriend and your mother with you!”

We laughed.

We were sitting at her kitchen table in Lambourn, drinking coffee, the said girlfriend and mother having been safely tucked up in two of Jan’s many spare bedrooms.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” I said to her.

I had briefly thought about going to my father’s bungalow in Weymouth, but he had only two double bedrooms and, amusing as the thought had been, I could hardly expect my parents to share a bed together, not after seven years of divorce, and I certainly wasn’t sleeping with the old bugger.

“So what’s all this about?” Jan asked finally.

All I had said to her on the phone from Cheltenham had been that I was desperate and could she help by putting us up for a night or two.

“How desperate?” she had asked calmly.

“Life or death,” I’d said. “Complete secrecy.”

She had asked nothing further but had simply said, “Come,” and she’d asked no questions when we’d arrived, not until after my traumatized mother and fiancee had been safely ushered up to bed. As it had with me, the shock and fear had manifested itself in them after the event.

In all the years I had known Jan, both as her former jockey and more recently as her financial adviser, I had never known her to be flustered or panicked by anything. She was the steady head I needed in this crisis.

But how much did I tell her?

Would she even believe me?

“I know this is going to sound rather overly dramatic,” I said. “But someone is trying to kill me.”

“What’s her name?” Jan asked with a laugh.

“I’m being serious, Jan,” I said. “Tonight a man came to my mother’s cottage to murder me. He had a gun. I promise you, we are extremely fortunate to be alive. The same man has now tried to kill me twice.”

“Let’s hope it isn’t third time lucky.”

“He won’t get a third time.”

“How can you be sure?” she asked.

“Because he’s dead. The last time I saw him he was lying on the floor of my mother’s living room with his neck broken.”

She stared at me. “You are being serious, aren’t you?”

I nodded. “Very.”

“Have you called the police?”

“Yes,” I said. “But I need to call them again.” I looked at my watch. It had been at least two hours since I’d spoken to Chief Inspector Tomlinson. But they could wait a little longer.

“So why come here?” she asked. “Why not go straight to the police?”

“I need somewhere to hide where no one can find me.”

Not even the police, I thought.

“But, if the man’s dead, why do you still need to hide?” she asked.

“Because he was a hired killer, and I am worried that whoever hired him will simply hire another.”

I could tell from the look on Jan’s face that her credulity had reached its limit.

“It’s true, I assure you,” I said. “I’m not making it up, and I think it’s all to do with stealing a hundred million euros from the European Union. Now, that really is big money. And what’s the going rate for having someone killed these days? Twenty thousand? A hundred grand maybe? Or even half a million? That’s still only a half of one percent of the take. Cheap at twice the price.”

“But what have you got to do with stealing a hundred million euros?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “But I may have asked the wrong questions to those that have. And I suspect that somebody believes I need to be permanently removed before I ask some more questions and bring the whole scheme tumbling down round their ears.”

“So what are you going to do?” she said.

“Ask the questions quickly,” I said, grinning at her. “And then keep my head down.”

Someone answered after just one ring when I called my mother’s cottage. I was sitting in Jan’s office and using her mobile phone, and I had carefully withheld the number from caller ID. I hoped it was enough to keep it secret.

“Hello,” I said.

“Is that Nicholas Foxton?” came a man’s voice in reply.

“It is,” I said. “To whom am I talking?”

“Detective Chief Inspector Flight,” he said, “Gloucestershire Police.”

Not another detective chief inspector, I thought. What’s the collective noun for detective chief inspectors? It was a posse of police, so maybe it’s an evidence of detective chief inspectors.

“Where are you, Mr. Foxton?” asked this particular chief inspector.

“Somewhere safe,” I said.

“And where is that?” he asked again.

I ignored him. “Who was the man who tried to kill me?” I asked.

“Mr. Foxton,” he said, “I need you to come to a police station to be interviewed. Tonight.”