Dick Francis's Refusal (3 page)

They were soon wrapped in large, fluffy white towels, and then dressed in multicolored pajamas, before jumping into the twin beds in Sassy's bedroom.

“Give us a story, Daddy,” squealed Sassy excitedly, sitting bolt upright in bed. “Tell us about riding in races.”

Saskia had been born long after I had retired from riding, but she always wanted to hear about my time as a jockey.

I sat down on the end of her bed.

“Once upon a time,” I said, “I rode in the Grand National.”

“Did you win? Did you win?” shouted Annabel.

“You'll have to wait and see,” I said. “Now, where was I? Oh yes, I was riding in the Grand National. The horse was called Noss Boy, and he was a big bold gray who jumped like he was on springs.”

I described how we had raced around the Aintree course on the first circuit, with me bouncing up and down on the corner of the bed as if I was riding.

“Come on, Sid,” said Marina, coming in from the bathroom. “It's time these two were asleep.”

“Mommy, don't be such a spoilsport,” Saskia said crossly. “The race isn't finished yet.”

“Well, hurry up, then.” Marina collected some clothes from the floor and went out.

I bounced faster, jumping Becher's Brook and the Canal Turn in a single bound.

“It's such a long way from the last fence to the finish,” I said, panting. “Come on, boy, you can do it. Only a few yards to go. Come on, boy, come on.”

I waved my right hand back and forth as if riding a close finish.

“We win!” I shouted, and the girls leaped up and down on the beds in excitement. “Time for sleep, now,” I said, calming everything down, “or you'll be too tired for school in the morning.”

I tucked them in and gave them both a kiss on their heads. “Night-night.” I switched off the main bedroom light but left the door ajar so the room wouldn't be completely dark.

Marina had already gone downstairs, and I followed her down and into the kitchen.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You're being very grumpy.”

“No, I'm not,” she replied sharply.

“You are,” I said, going over and taking her in my arms. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” She pushed me away.

“I'm not going to investigate anything,” I said. “I promised I wouldn't, and I won't.”

“So why did you go and see Charles?”

“I wanted to ask his advice about something.”

“About what?”

“I asked him what I should do about what that man said to me this afternoon, about his suspicions that someone is manipulating race results.” I paused. “I'm not going to investigate them, but I could hardly do nothing, could I?”

She didn't say anything, but I suspected that
nothing
was exactly what she wanted me to do.

“Charles suggested that I speak to the head of racing security and then leave everything to him. I'm going to call him in the morning. And that's all.”

She relaxed a little, but there remained a degree of tension between us for the rest of the evening. However I might have tried to reassure her otherwise, Marina was clearly terrified by the prospect of me getting back into investigating. It had become an ogre in her mind, far more fearful in her imagination than it would be in reality.

At least that's what I thought at the time.

•   •   •

I
CALLED
Peter Medicos on his cell phone just after I'd dropped the girls at school the following morning.

“Hello, Sid,” he said in his broad Lancastrian accent.

“Do you have a moment?” I asked.

“You'll have to be quick. I'm really pushed, but fire away.”

“It's about Sir Richard Stewart.”

“Yes, I know,” he said. “Terrible, isn't it?”

“What's terrible?” I asked.

“About Sir Richard,” he repeated. “Terrible.”

I wondered if I was stuck in a parallel universe.

“Peter,” I said slowly. “What is it that is terrible about Sir Richard?”

“About him being found dead,” he replied, equally slowly. “Isn't that what you're phoning about?”

“Dead!” I said. “But when?”

“This morning,” he said. “A couple of hours ago. Found in one of his old cars. Seems he might have killed himself.”

B
y midmorning, Sir Richard's apparent suicide had become the number one news item on the radio, but the reports gave only a little more information than Peter Medicos had already told me.

It seemed he had been found by his gardener, sitting in his classic Mark IV Jaguar in a closed garage with the engine running. According to a statement from his distraught son, Sir Richard had been alone at their Hampshire home while Lady Stewart had been visiting her sister in London. He could think of no reason why his father would have taken his own life.

Nor could I.

Sir Richard had sounded a million miles away from committing suicide when he'd hung up on me the previous afternoon.

Well, I'm telling you,
I
intend to find out what's happening. And I'll not bloody rest until I do, with or without your help.

It did not strike me as the words of someone who would kill himself only a few hours later.

So if it wasn't suicide, what was it?

I knew of several cases where people had died accidentally by starting their cars in enclosed spaces, totally unaware of the rapid and fatal consequences of carbon monoxide buildup. A concentration of less than half of one percent of carbon monoxide in air is enough to kill a full-grown adult, and it will do so without warning.

But almost everyone knows the risks, and surely, as a classic-car collector, Sir Richard would have.

So if it wasn't suicide or an accident, was it murder?

Perhaps it was due to my previous line of work, but I always tended to consider there were suspicious circumstances surrounding any unexplained death unless, and until, it was proved otherwise.

Sir Richard Stewart announces that he believes someone is manipulating the results of horse races and that he intends finding out who, and the next morning he's found dead of an apparent suicide.

Was I the only person who thought it rather too convenient?

I called Peter Medicos again.

“Yes, Sid?” he said, sounding slightly annoyed at being interrupted. “What can I do for you now?”

“Peter, I'm sorry to disturb you again on what I know must be a difficult day, but I never got round to telling you why I rang you earlier.”

“About Sir Richard?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “He came to see me yesterday afternoon saying he was concerned that someone was fixing races.”

“Oh, that,” he said, irritation clear in his tone. “He'd been banging on about it since Cheltenham.”

“Is it true?”

“Not that I'm aware of.”

“Did you investigate any of his claims?”

“I had a quiet word with a couple of the senior jockeys, and they reckoned it was all a load of rubbish.”

Well, they would say that, I thought, especially if they were involved.

“Do you think his death might have anything to do with it?” I asked.

There was a pause from his end. “In what way?” he said. “Are you suggesting he killed himself because I didn't take his accusations seriously?” He was clearly not pleased.

“Are you positive that he did actually kill himself?” I asked. “Did he leave a note?”

“Sid, I suggest you leave any inquiries to the professionals like the police or the BHA Security Service. Neither of us would appreciate an amateur getting involved.”

I resisted the urge to tell him that I was no amateur in the investigating business, and there had been a time when the BHA Security Service had regularly come knocking on my door for help.

“I assure you I have no intention of getting involved,” I said. “But I think the questions need to be put. Sir Richard was adamant that something was amiss, and now, with him suddenly dead in unexplained circumstances, someone should look into his suspicions.”

“They will,” Peter said. “I'll make sure it happens.”

“You'll inform the police, then?” I persisted.

“Yes,” he said curtly.

Why did I not really believe him?

•   •   •

I
SPENT
most of Thursday morning sitting at my desk, trying to concentrate on stock price trends and bond yields but always coming back to Sir Richard and his Mark IV Jaguar.

My phone rang. It was Charles.

“It all sounds very fishy to me,” he said straightaway. “I'd never have put Richard Stewart in the suicide stakes. He was far too courageous.”

“Doesn't it take courage to kill yourself?”

“Of course not,” Charles replied sharply. “In dire circumstances, it takes courage to stay alive.”

And Charles knew a thing or two about courage in dire circumstances. He'd been a nineteen-year-old midshipman on HMS
Amethyst
during the ship's run down the Yangtze under fire from the Chinese communists when thirty-one of his shipmates had been killed.

“So what do you think?” I asked him.

“Murder,” he said unequivocally. “Has to be.”

“You've been watching too much television,” I said with a laugh, but something in me did tend to agree with him.

“Look at the facts,” Charles said. “I don't believe it could have been suicide, and someone with Richard's knowledge of cars wouldn't die accidentally of inhaling exhaust fumes. So it has to be murder.”

“We don't yet know all the facts,” I said. “And we're only assuming carbon monoxide poisoning was the cause of death. It might have been due to natural causes.”

“He seemed as fit as a fiddle when I saw him last week.”

As he had been the previous afternoon, but heart attacks can strike down even the healthiest-looking of individuals.

“Do you know if he had any coronary trouble?”

“Sid,” Charles said in a condescending tone, “we both know it was murder, so why don't you get on and investigate it.”

He made it sound so simple.

“I'm sure the police will do that,” I said.

I could hear him sigh down the line in frustration. “Once upon a time, a long time ago, just after you'd stopped race riding, you needed a great kick up the backside to get you moving again. I fear it's time someone gave you another one.”

“Charles!” I replied in an anguished tone.

“I'm sorry,” he said, not sounding it, “but it's true.”

“It is not,” I said defensively. “I have chosen quite deliberately to stop investigating, and I am very happy doing what I do now.”

“And what is that, exactly?” he asked.

“You know perfectly well what I do.”

“Moving money round and round,” he snorted. “That's not a proper job.”

I didn't want to argue with him, not that it would have done any good. The Admiral's views and opinions could be as difficult to redirect as the aircraft carriers he had once commanded.

“I'll pass on our thoughts to the police,” I said calmly. “And Peter Medicos told me that he'd look into Sir Richard's suspicions.”

“Isn't that the man who thought he was delusional?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Then I won't hold my breath.”

No, I thought, nor would I.

•   •   •

I
WENT BACK
to my financial dealings and wondered if Charles was right.

Was this a proper job?

It certainly was gainful employment. Over the past six years, I had made far more money sitting at a desk than I had scrambling about in wet ditches or snooping through other people's dustbins. But I hadn't actually
done
anything or
made
anything. I had simply correctly predicted when certain stocks or bonds would go up or down and had bought or sold them accordingly.

Rather like backing horses at the races and then waiting for others to do the work needed for them to win.

My thoughts were once again interrupted by the telephone.

“Hello,” I said.

“Is that Mr. Halley?” said a voice with a strong Northern Irish accent. “Mr. Sid Halley?” He emphasized the
Ha
in Halley.

“Yes,” I said.

“Mr. Halley,” he repeated, “I need you to do something for me.”

“Who is this?” I asked.

“Never you mind,” he said with a degree of menace. “I need you to investigate something, do you hear?”

“I'm sorry. I no longer investigate anything.”

I hung up.

The phone rang almost immediately.

“Mr. Halley,” said the same voice. “I'm not asking, I'm telling you. You will investigate. Do I make myself plain?” There was real threat in his tone.

“Who is this?” I asked again, this time angrily. “How dare you call me like this?”

“How dare I?” he said, almost with a laugh in his voice. “I tell you, Mr. Halley, I dare lots of things. And you
will
do as I say, I promise you.”

“I will not,” I said quickly and hung up again.

I immediately dialed 1471 to get the phone number of whoever had called but was informed that the caller had withheld it. I wasn't surprised.

I sat looking at the phone on my desk, expecting it to ring again, but it didn't.

The calls had quite disturbed me.

It certainly wasn't the only time someone had told me over the telephone that I would do as they said, far from it, but it was the first occasion that they had wanted me to
start
investigating something. In the past it had always been a threat to stop me doing so.

I tried to go back to what I'd been doing, but my mind wasn't on it. Instead, I went to find Marina.

Marina van der Meer, as she had been before we married, was a research biologist who had worked for Cancer Research UK. She had given up her job when we moved out of London only a month before Saskia was born, but now, with our baby at school, Marina worked part-time from home, editing and background-checking scholarly scientific papers prior to publication.

As usual, she was sitting at the kitchen table, tapping away on her computer, surrounded by several heavy volumes of texts on cellular biology.

“Do you know what the central dogma is?” she asked as I walked in.

“Is it to do with religion?”

“No,” she said. “The central dogma of molecular biology.”

“Haven't a clue,” I said.

“Nor, it seems, has the author of this useless paper.” She sighed and stretched her arms upward.

“So what is it?” I asked. “This dogma thing?”

“It's one of the guiding principles of life. It states that genetic information in a nucleic acid can be perpetuated or transferred, but the transfer of information into a protein is irreversible.”

I rather wished I hadn't asked, so I said nothing.

“Who was on the phone?” Marina said, changing the subject but continuing to concentrate on her computer screen.

“Charles was first, then someone I don't know.”

“What did Charles want?”

“You know that man who came here yesterday afternoon?”

“The man from the racing authority?”

“Yes, him,” I said. “Well, he was found dead this morning.”

She spun around in her chair and looked up at me, worry lines etched across her forehead.

“Was it anything to do with what he came to see you about?”

“I don't know,” I said. “But I doubt it. It appears he may have committed suicide.”

“Oh, how awful.”

“He was a friend of Charles. They're members of the same club.”

“Poor Charles,” Marina said.

Poor Sir Richard, I thought.

“What did Charles want you to do?” Marina asked.

“Nothing,” I lied. “He just wanted to talk about it.”

“I suppose the police should be told that he was here yesterday, and also what you talked about.”

“Hmm, perhaps you're right. Maybe I'll call them.”

And should I also tell them, I wondered, about the Northern Irish voice that had threatened me over the telephone?

“What's for lunch?” I asked.

“What would you like?” Marina said. “I've got some Thai chicken curry soup in the fridge.”

“Lovely.”

We sat together at the table and had the soup with some hot French bread.

“Oh, a letter came for you,” Marina said, holding it out to me.

It was from Queen Mary's Hospital in Roehampton, I could tell from the return address on the envelope.

“It will be a reminder for my appointment next Tuesday,” I said. “For my annual checkup and service.” I held up my left hand, the plastic one.

Marina went back to her computer and her editing, so I took the letter with me along to my office and opened it there.

It was indeed a reminder for my appointment but there was something else with it. A letter from a Dr. Harold Bryant.

Dear Mr. Halley,

I am aware that it is some time since you lost your left hand due to a combination of a horse-racing fall, and a further trauma, and I have been apprised of your use over the past fourteen years of a myoelectric prosthesis by Mr. Alan Stephenson, formerly of the Roehampton Rehabilitation Centre.

You may be aware from reports in the press that Queen Mary's Hospital has embarked on a program of total hand and wrist transplantation, and I believe that you may be a suitable candidate for such a procedure.

If you might be interested in finding out any more, then I would be most happy to meet with you on your visit to the hospital next Tuesday.

Yours sincerely,

Harold Bryant, FRCS, Head of the Transplant Team

I sat at my desk, looking at the letter, continually reading and rereading the same words:
total hand and wrist transplantation
.

I looked up hand transplants on the Internet and spent the next two hours watching videos posted on YouTube of people who'd had them. Some of the results were amazing and there was even a film of a man playing a piano with two new hands, albeit using only a finger or two from each one.