Dick Francis's Gamble

“Are you sure you were in the right place?” I asked.

He glanced at me with a look that could only be described as one of contempt.

“Of course I’m sure,” he said. “I took all the details with me so that I would be able find it. My family are so proud of what the Trust does to help those less fortunate than ourselves. That’s why I was so keen for the skiing club to go to Bulgaria in the first place, and especially to Borovets. It was close enough so I could spend a day going to see the factory if I wanted.”

“Did anyone know you were going to the factory?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I wasn’t absolutely sure that I would. It depended on the snow and the weather. To be honest, I’d much rather ski than visit factories, but on one day the cloud was right down on the slopes so I went, but the factory wasn’t there.”

“Where was it meant to be?” I asked.

“Close to a village called Gorni, south of Sofia. But when I saw the site, it was nothing more than a toxic waste dump left over from the mass industrialization of the country during the Soviet era.”

“So what have you done about it?” I asked. “Your family has invested a lot of money in the project.”

“Yeah, and lost it all too.” He sounded resigned to the loss.

“Aren’t you even going to try to get it back?”

“I don’t expect so,” Ben said. “My father is worried that the family name will be discredited. What he means is that we will be shown up to have been bloody fools-and fools that were easily separated from their money. He is furious about it, but mostly because he was talked into it by Uncle Jolyon and some financial adviser chap.”

“Gregory Black?” I asked.

“He’s the one,” he said.

“So your father says to forget it? Forget five million pounds just like that?”

“It’s only money,” he said almost flippantly. “And money is fairly easy to replace. It’s not like one’s family reputation. It can take many generations to repair damage to one’s family’s standing, and sometimes it can never be restored.”

It sounded to me that he was quoting his father.

“But it’s not possible to replace your uncle Jolyon,” I said.

“That’s surely all the more reason to forget about the whole thing. If the stress of this factory business gave Uncle J his heart attack, then we should unquestionably let sleeping dogs lie. Otherwise, our foolishness will be shown to have cost the family far more than mere money.”

“But I believe your uncle was murdered,” I said. “Don’t you want justice?”

“Would that bring him back?” he said angrily. “No, of course it wouldn’t. And, anyway, I believe that you are wrong. In fact, I believe you are just here to cause my family trouble.” He stood up quickly, bunching his fists. “What is it you’re really after? Do you want money? Is that it? Money or you’ll go to the papers?”

This could get very nasty, and very quickly, I thought.

I didn’t move but just sat still on the bench, not even looking up at him.

“I don’t want your money,” I said calmly.

But what did I want?

Did I really care if some clever eurocrat in Brussels and a Bulgarian property entrepreneur were conspiring to steal a hundred million euros from the European Union with or without the help of Gregory Black? Or did I care that the Roberts Family Trust had been duped out of five million pounds?

No, I decided. I didn’t care about either of those things.

And was I really bothered whether Jolyon Roberts had died of natural causes or if he’d been murdered?

No, I suppose I didn’t even care about that. He had been a nice enough man, and I was sorry he was dead, but it didn’t make any real difference to me how he’d died.

But I did care that someone had killed Herb Kovak, and I cared very much more that they were trying to kill me too.

“So what, exactly, do you want?” Ben Roberts asked belligerently from somewhere above my eye line.

“I want what is right,” I said. Whatever that meant.

And, I thought, I want to live a long and happy life with my future wife.

I looked up at his face. “What is it that you want?” I asked back. He didn’t answer, and I went on looking at him. “Your uncle told me you wanted to change the world.”

He laughed. “Uncle J was always saying that.”

“And is it true?” I asked.

He thought for a moment.

“It’s true that I want to be a politician,” he said. “And all politicians hope to be in power. To be in a position to make the changes they believe in, otherwise there’d be no point.” He paused. “So, yes, I suppose I do want to change the world. And for the better.”

“For the better, as you see it,” I said.

“Obviously.”

“So,” I said, “is it for the better that you value your family’s reputation ahead of doing what is right by your late uncle?”

He sat down again and stared at me.

“What’s your real name?” he asked.

“Foxton,” I said. “Nicholas Foxton. I am a financial adviser with Lyall and Black, the same firm where Gregory Black works.”

“Well, Mr. Nicholas Foxton, financial adviser, what is it that you really want?” he asked. “And why have you come here?”

“I need to find out more about your family’s investment in the Bulgarian project,” I said. “I simply don’t have enough information to take my concerns to the authorities. They’d probably laugh at me. All I have are some copies of the original transaction report, some e-mails between someone in Brussels and a man in Bulgaria, and a sackful of suspicion. And now that your uncle is dead, I can’t ask him.”

“So why don’t you go and ask Gregory Black?” he said.

“Because I’m not altogether sure that I trust him.” In fact, I was sure I didn’t.

“OK. I’ll speak to my father about it,” Ben said. “But I can tell you now, he won’t like it, and he probably won’t talk to you.”

“Ask him anyway,” I said.

“How do I contact you?” he asked.

“Leave a message on my mobile.” I gave him the number, which he stored on his own phone.

“Please speak to him soon.”

“I’m going home tonight for the weekend,” Ben said. “I’ll try to find the right moment to speak to him on Sunday afternoon. He’s always at his most relaxed after a good Sunday lunch.”

I hoped it would be soon enough.

When I returned to Jan’s place in Lambourn at four-thirty, I found her, Claudia and my mother sitting around the kitchen table, and they were already hard at the vino.

“Bit early, isn’t it?” I said, looking at my watch and declining the offered glass of Chardonnay.

“Early?” Claudia said with a giggle. “We started at lunchtime.”

The others giggled with her.

“Are you sure it’s wise to drink so soon after surgery?” I asked. “Especially on top of your painkillers.”

“Don’t be such a killjoy,” Jan said amid more sniggering.

What a fine state of affairs, I thought. I was trying to keep us alive, and my mother and fiancee were drunk.

“So what have you done today other than drink?” I asked.

“Nothing,” Jan said. “We’ve been talking, that’s all.”

“I thought you’d be at the races,” I said to her.

“No runners today,” she said. “But I’ve got to go now to evening stables.” She stood up with a slight wobble and giggled again. “Oops, I think I’ve had a bit too much.”

A lot too much, I thought. But, what the hell, it was Friday afternoon, and it had been quite a week.