Dick Francis's Gamble Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  EPILOGUE

  BY DICK FRANCIS AND FELIX FRANCIS

  BY DICK FRANCIS AND FELIX FRANCIS

  Crossfire

  Even Money

  Silks

  Dead Heat

  BY DICK FRANCIS

  Under Orders

  Shattered

  Second Wind

  Field of Thirteen

  10 Lb. Penalty

  To the Hilt

  Come to Grief

  Wild Horses

  Decider

  Driving Force

  Comeback

  Longshot

  Straight

  The Edge

  Hot Money

  Bolt

  A Jockey’s Life

  Break In

  Proof

  The Danger

  Banker

  Twice Shy

  Reflex

  Whip Hand

  Trial Run

  Risk

  In the Frame

  High Stakes

  Knockdown

  Slay Ride

  Smokescreen

  Bonecrack

  Rat Race

  Enquiry

  Forfeit

  Blood Sport

  Flying Finish

  Odds Against

  For Kicks

  Nerve

  Dead Cert

  The Sport of Queens

  (Autobiography)

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  Publishers Since 1838

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York

  10014, USA • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

  Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books

  Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green,

  Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Group (Australia),

  250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson

  Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre,

  Panchsheel Park, New Delhi–110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive,

  Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand

  Ltd) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue,

  Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Copyright © 2011 by Dick Francis Corporation

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in

  any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or

  encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase

  only authorized editions.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Francis, Felix.

  Dick Francis’s gamble / Felix Francis.

  p. cm.

  ISBN : 978-1-101-52925-6

  1. Jockeys—Fiction. 2. Investment advisors—Fiction. 3. Horse racing—

  Betting—Fiction. 4. Murder—Investigation—Fiction.

  I. Francis, Dick. II. Title.

  PR6056.R273D

  823’.914—dc22

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or thirdparty websites or their content.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For my granddaughter

  Sienna Rose

  With thanks to my cousin

  Ned Francis,

  financial adviser

  And the offices of

  Calkin Pattinson and Company Ltd

  And to Debbie,

  as always

  1

  I was standing right next to Herb Kovak when he was murdered. Executed would have been a better word. Shot three times from close range, twice in the heart and once in the face, he was almost certainly dead before he hit the ground, and definitely before the gunman had turned away and disappeared into the Grand National race-day crowd.

  The shooting had happened so fast that neither Herb nor I, nor anyone else for that matter, would have had a chance to prevent it. In fact, I hadn’t realized what was actually going on until it was over, and Herb was already dead at my feet. I wondered if Herb himself had had the time to comprehend that his life was in danger before the bullets tore into his body to end it.

  Probably not, and I found that strangely comforting.

  I had liked Herb.

  But someone else clearly hadn’t.

  The murder of Herb Kovak changed everyone’s day, not just his.

  The police took over the situation with their usual insensitive efficiency, canceling one of the world’s major sporting events with just half an hour’s notice and requiring the more than sixty thousand frustrated spectators to wait patiently in line for several hours to give their names and addresses.

  “But you must have seen his face!”

  I was sitting at a table opposite an exasperated police detective inspector in one of the restaurants that had been cleared of its usual clientele and set up as an emergency-incident room.

  “I’ve already told you,” I said. “I wasn’t looking at the man’s face.”

  I thought back once again to those few fatal seconds and all I could remember clearly was the gun.

  “So it was a man?” the inspector asked.

  “I think so,” I said.

  “Was he black or white?”

  “The gun was black,” I said. “With a silencer.”

  It didn’t sound very helpful. Even I could tell that.

  “Mr. . . . er.” The detective consulted the notebook on the table. “Foxton. Is there nothing else you can tell us about the murderer?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “It all happened so quickly.”

  He changed his line of questioning. “So how well did you know Mr. Kovak?”

  “Well enough,” I said. “We work together. Have done for the past five years or so. I’d say we are work friends.” I paused. “At least we were.”

  It was difficult to believe that he was dead.

  “What line of work?”

  “Financial services,” I said. “We’re independent financial advisers.”

  I could almost see the detective’s eyes glaze over with boredom.

  “It may not be as exciting as riding in the Grand National,” I sai
d, “but it’s not that bad.”

  He looked up at my face. “And have you ridden in the Grand National?” His voice was full of sarcasm, and he was smiling.

  “As a matter of fact, I have,” I said. “Twice.”

  The smile faded. “Oh,” he said.

  Oh, indeed, I thought. “And I won it the second time.”

  It was unlike me to talk much about what I now felt was a previous life, and bragging about it was even more uncharacteristic. I silently rebuked myself for my indulgence, but I was getting a little irritated by the policeman’s attitude not only towards me but also towards my dead colleague.

  He looked down again at his notes.

  “Foxton,” he said reading. He looked up. “Not Foxy Foxton?”

  “Yes,” I said, although I had long been trying to give up the Foxy nickname, preferring my real name of Nicholas, which I felt was more suited to a serious life in the City.

  “Well, well,” said the policeman. “I won a few quid on you.”

  I smiled. He’d probably lost a few quid too, but I wasn’t going to say so.

  “Not riding today, then?”

  “No,” I said. “Not for a long time.”

  Had it really been eight years, I thought, since I had last ridden in a race? In some ways it felt like only yesterday, but in others it was a lifetime away.

  The policeman wrote another line in his notebook.

  “So now you’re a financial adviser?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bit of a comedown, wouldn’t you say?”

  I thought about replying that I believed it was better than being a policeman but decided, in the end, that silence was probably the best policy. Anyway, I tended to agree with him. My whole life had been a bit of a comedown since those heady days of hurling myself over Aintree fences with half a ton of horseflesh between my legs.

  “Who do you advise?” he asked.

  “Anyone who will pay me,” I said, rather flippantly.

  “And Mr. Kovak?”

  “Him too,” I said. “We both work for a firm of independent financial advisers in the City.”

  “Here in Liverpool?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “The City of London.”

  “Which firm?”

  “Lyall and Black,” I said. “Our offices are in Lombard Street.”

  He wrote it down.

  “Can you think of any reason why anyone would want Mr. Kovak dead?”

  It was the question I had been asking myself over and over again for the past two hours.

  “No,” I said. “Absolutely not. Everyone liked Herb. He was always smiling and happy. He was the life and soul of any party.”

  “How long did you say you have known him?” asked the detective.

  “Five years. We joined the firm at the same time.”

  “I understand he was an American citizen.”

  “Yes,” I said. “He came from Louisville, in Kentucky. He used to go back to the States a couple of times a year.”

  Everything was written down in the inspector’s notebook.

  “Was he married?”

  “No.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “None that I knew of,” I said.

  “Were you and he in a gay relationship?” the policeman asked in a deadpan tone of voice, his eyes still on his notes.

  “No,” I said, equally deadpan.

  “I’ll find out, you know,” he said, looking up.

  “There’s nothing to find out,” I said. “I may have worked with Mr. Kovak, but I live with my girlfriend.”

  “Where?”

  “Finchley,” I said. “North London.”

  I gave him my full address, and he wrote it down.

  “Was Mr. Kovak involved in a gay relationship with anyone else?”

  “What makes you think he was gay?” I asked.

  “No wife. No girlfriend. What else should I think?”

  “I have no reason to believe Herb was gay. In fact, I know he wasn’t.”

  “How do you know?” The policeman leaned towards me purposefully.

  I thought back to those rare occasions when Herb and I had spent any time together, sometimes in hotels where we would be staying overnight at financial conferences. He had never made any sort of pass at me, and he had occasionally chatted up the local girls and then boasted about his conquests over breakfast. It was true that I’d never actually seen him in a sexual situation with a woman, but I hadn’t seen him with a man either.

  “I just know,” I said weakly.

  “Hmm,” said the inspector, clearly not believing me and making another note in his book.

  But did I really know? And did it matter?

  “What difference would it make anyway?” I asked.

  “Lots of murders have a sexual motive,” said the detective. “Until we know differently, we have to explore every avenue.”

  I t was nearly dark before I was finally allowed to leave the racetrack, and it had also started raining. The courtesy shuttle service to the distant park-and-ride parking lot had long since ceased running, and I was cold, wet and thoroughly fed up by the time I reached my Mercedes. But I sat for some while in the car before setting off, once more going over and over in my mind the events of the day.

  I had picked Herb up from his flat at Seymour Way in Hendon soon after eight in the morning and we had set off to Liverpool in great good humor. It was to be Herb’s first trip to the Grand National, and he was uncharacteristically excited by the prospect.

  He had grown up in the shadow of the iconic twin spires of Churchill Downs racetrack, the venue of the Kentucky Derby and spiritual home of all American Thoroughbred racing, but he had always claimed that gambling on the horses had ruined his childhood.

  I had asked him to come to the races with me quite a few times before but he had always declined, claiming that the memories were still too painful. However, there had been no sign of that today as we had motored north on the motorway chatting amicably about our work, our lives, and our hopes and fears for the future.

  Little did we know then how short Herb’s future was going to be.

  He and I had always got on fairly well over the past five years but mostly on a strictly colleague-to-colleague level. Today had been the first day of a promising deeper friendship. It had also been the last.

  I sat alone in my car and grieved for my newfound, but so quickly lost, friend. But still I had no idea why anyone would want him dead.

  My journey back to Finchley seemed to be never-ending. There was an accident on the M6 north of Birmingham with a five-mile backup. It said so on the radio, sandwiched between endless news bulletins about the murder of Herb and the cancellation of the Grand National. Not that they mentioned Herb by name, of course. He was just referred to as “a man.” I assumed the police would withhold his identity until his next of kin had been informed. But who, I wondered, were his next of kin? And how would the authorities find them? Thankfully, I thought, that wasn’t my problem.

  I came upon the back of the traffic congestion just south of Stoke, the mass of red brake lights ahead of me shining brightly in the darkness.

  I have to admit that I am usually an impatient driver. I suppose it is a case of “once a racer, always a racer.” It makes little difference to me if my steed has four legs or four wheels, if I see a gap I’d tend to take it. It’s the way I’d ridden during my all-too-short four years as a jockey and it had served me well.

  But, that evening, I didn’t have the energy to get irritated by the queues of near-stationary cars. Instead I sat quietly in the outside lane as we crawled past an upturned motor home that had spread its load of human and domestic clutter across half the carriageway. One shouldn’t look at others’ misfortune, but, of course, we all did, and thanked our lucky stars it wasn’t us lying there on the cold tarmac receiving medical assistance.

  I stopped at one of the motorway service areas and called home.

  Claudia, my girlfriend, answered
at the second ring.

  “Hello, it’s me,” I said. “I’m on my way home, but I’ll be a couple of hours more at least.”

  “Good day?” she asked.

  “Have you seen the news?”

  “No. Why?”

  I knew she wouldn’t have. Claudia was an artist and she had planned to spend the day painting in what she called her studio but what was actually the guest bedroom of the house we shared. Once she closed the door, turned up the music on her iPod headphones and set to work on a canvas, it would take an earthquake or a nuclear strike to penetrate her bubble. I had been quite surprised that she had answered the phone.

  “The National was canceled,” I said.

  “Canceled?”

  “Well, there’s talk of them holding the race on Monday, but it was canceled for today.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Someone was murdered.”

  “How inconvenient of them.” There was laughter in her voice.

  “It was Herb,” I said.

  “What was Herb?” she asked. The laughter had gone.

  “It was Herb who was murdered.”

  “Oh my God!” she screamed. “How?”

  “Watch the news.”

  “But Nick,” she said, concerned. “I mean—are you OK?”

  “I’m fine. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

  Next I tried to call my boss—Herb’s boss—to warn him of the coming disruption to business, as I was sure there would be, but there was no answer. I decided against leaving a message. Somehow voice mail didn’t seem the right medium for bad news.

  I set off southwards again and spent the remainder of the journey as I had the first part, thinking about Herb and wondering why anyone should want to kill him. But there were so many questions and so few answers.

  How did the murderer know Herb would be at Aintree today?

  Had we been followed from London and stalked around the racetrack?

  Had Herb really been the target or had it been a case of mistaken identity?

  And why would anyone commit murder with sixty thousand potential witnesses in close attendance when surely it would be safer to lure their victim alone into some dark, quiet alley?