Dick Francis's Refusal Read online

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.

  What did I want?

  I had become accustomed to using one hand for almost everything, but some actions were entirely beyond me. I had long given up shoelaces and exclusively wore slip-ons, but putting on socks, knotting ties and buttoning up trousers remained the bane of my life. Did I want to go through all the agony of surgery just so I could dress myself more easily?

  And what about the antirejection drugs I would need to take for the rest of my life? Was I ready for that?

  Maybe I was.

  I hated my prosthesis, the steel-and-plastic “wonder” that occupied the space below my left forearm. It was top-of-the-range, the best artificial hand money could buy, but artificial it remained, cold to the touch and unfeeling in every respect. I couldn’t use it to pick up coins or hold a fork.

  So engrossed was I with my research into transplants that I lost all sense of time.

  “Are you going to collect Sassy or am I?” Marina said, standing in my office doorway, looking purposefully at her watch.

  “Oh God. Sorry,” I said. “I’m on my way.”

  I rushed out to the Range Rover, spun the wheels on the gravel drive and made it to the school as the children began spilling out of the buildings.

  “Hello, Mr. Halley,” said Mrs. Squire, the head teacher, as I rushed from the car to the gate. “What are you doing here?”

  I looked at her quizzically. “I’m collecting Saskia.”

  “But Saskia’s already gone.” Mrs. Squire looked worried.

  “Gone?” I said, a sense of foreboding rising in my chest. “Gone where?”

  “She left half an hour ago with your sister and brother-in-law.”

  Now my pulse rate shot up and adrenaline flooded through my body.

  I didn’t have a sister, or a brother-in-law.

  4

  I am so sorry.” Mrs. Squire was in tears. “They had a letter from you asking me to let Saskia out of school early today for a family party. It was to be a surprise for Mrs. Halley, so I mustn’t ring.”

  We were in her office in the main school building.

  “Do you have the letter?” I asked. My mouth was dry.

  “No. They took it with them.”

  “I’m calling the police,” I said, taking my phone out of my pocket, but it rang in my hand before I had a chance to dial.

  “Mr. Halley,” said the voice with the Northern Irish accent. “Now will you do as I say?”

  “Where’s my daughter?” I screamed at him.

  “Why, she’s at home,” he said with a laugh. “Where all little girls should be at this time of day.”

  “At home?” I said, confused.

  “Yes,” he said. “Home with her mother.”

  I put my hand over the microphone. “Mrs. Squire. Ring my house.” I gave her the number, and she used her office phone to make the call.

  “Mrs. Halley,” she said, “it’
s Mrs. Squire from the school. I have your husband here.”

  She handed me the receiver across her desk.

  “Sid,” said Marina in a highly agitated tone, “what is going on? Saskia’s just walked in on her own. Where are you?”

  “Stay inside and lock all the doors,” I said.

  “But . . .”

  “Do it now!” I said. “And don’t answer the door. I’m on my way back.”

  I handed the phone back to Mrs. Squire. “Saskia’s at home,” I said to her.

  I could see the relief flood right through her as she slumped down into her chair.

  “Thank God,” she said.

  God had nothing to do with it, I thought.

  I lifted my cell back to my ear but the line was dead.

  “What about the police?” Mrs. Squire asked.

  “I’ll call them from home,” I said. “I need to get back there. How long will you be staying here?”

  “Another hour at least,” she said.

  “I’ll call you.”

  I ran out to the car and burned rubber all the way down the lane to our house, sending gravel up in a spray as I braked in the driveway.

  “What the hell is going on?” Marina asked as I walked in, her eyes wide in fright.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Someone else collected Saskia from school and brought her home.”

  “Who?” she demanded.

  “I don’t know,” I said again.

  “And how come the bloody school let her go?”

  “Whoever collected her said they were my sister and brother-in-law. They claimed they had a letter from me. They showed it to Mrs. Squire.”

  “My God!” Marina almost sagged at the knees.

  “Where is Sassy now?” I asked.

  “In her room,” Marina said. “She’s in tears. I was so cross with her. I thought she’d walked home on her own.”

  I ran up the stairs to Saskia’s room and Marina followed.

  Our little girl was curled up on her bed, hugging her pillow. I went and sat on the end of the bed and stroked her back.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy,” she said without lifting her head.

  “It’s all right, darling,” I said. “Tell us what happened.”

  “Mrs. Squire told me I had to go with those people.”

  “Did you know who they were?” I asked gently.

  “No,” she said quietly.

  “What have we told you?” Marina shouted angrily. “Never go anywhere with strangers.”

  Saskia burst into tears again. “But they said you’d asked them to collect me.”

  “It’s all right, darling,” I said, giving her a hug. “Mommy’s not really cross.” I stared daggers at Marina over Saskia’s head.

  “Mrs. Squire told me,” Saskia said between sobs.

  “Did Mrs. Squire ask if you knew the people?”

  “No,” Saskia said. “She came into our classroom and told me I was leaving early today, so I went with her to the people.”

  “Now, darling,” I said, “this is important. Can you remember what the people said to you? And how many people were there?”

  “There was a man and a lady. The lady said how lovely it was to see me again. I thought it was a silly thing to say as I didn’t know who she was, but, you know, all sorts of people say that to me because they have seen me before, but when I was small, and I don’t remember.”

  “Did she sound funny?” I asked.

  “What sort of funny?”

  “Did she have an accent?”

  Saskia looked at me and leaned her head to one side as if thinking.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “How about the man?” I asked. “Did he say anything?”

  “He told me to get out of the car.”

  “Where was the car?” I asked.

  “On the road.”

  “Outside this house?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Just down the hill a bit.”

  Slowly, Saskia told us everything that had happened between the time Mrs. Squire came to fetch her and her arriving home. The man and woman hadn’t said anything else to her, but he had driven around for half an hour or so before dropping Saskia outside. We asked her if she could describe the couple, but all she could really say was that they were white and quite old, almost as old as Mommy and Daddy, and the lady was wearing blue jeans with red-and-white sneakers.

  “I’m sorry, Mommy,” she said.

  “That’s all right, darling,” said Marina, giving her a hug and a kiss. “But don’t do it again.”

  We left Saskia, lying curled up on her bed, and went downstairs.

  “What the hell’s going on, Sid?” Marina snapped at me again. “Why did you ask if the woman had an accent?”

  “I just thought she might have.”

  “Why?”

  I’d have to tell her, I thought, but she wouldn’t like it. And she didn’t.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this at lunchtime?” she demanded.

  “I didn’t think it was that important,” I said. “I’ve had all sorts of nutters call me over the years. I thought he was another one of those.”

  “But they took Sassy,” she said in exasperation. “We must call the police.”

  I looked at my watch. It was nearly half an hour since I had left Mrs. Squire at the school.

  “What if they take another little girl,” Marina said with determination, “and then they don’t take her home.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “I’ll call them, and also Mrs. Squire.”

  In fact, I tried Mrs. Squire first, to check that she hadn’t already called the boys in blue, but she hadn’t.

  “Saskia is fine,” I said to her. “But we are going to have to call the police.”

  “I understand,” Mrs. Squire said wearily. “I’ll wait here until I hear from them.”

  • • •

  THE POLICE ARRIVED in the shape of Detective Chief Inspector Watkinson of the Thames Valley Constabulary, along with a detective sergeant, who was immediately dispatched by his boss to go and interview Mrs. Squire at the school.

  “Abduction of a child is a very serious offense,” said the D.C.I., “punishable by anything up to life imprisonment.”

  There was, however, not a great sense of urgency in his demeanor because, as he pointed out, the victim of the abduction, Miss Saskia Halley, had been returned unharmed and unmolested to her home within half an hour.

  “Are you sure it wasn’t the parents of one of her friends?” the chief inspector asked as we all sat around the kitchen table. “Perhaps they thought they were doing you a favor.”

  “I’m certain,” I said. I told the policeman about my calls from the Irishman, and his bushy eyebrows rose a notch or two.

  “Do you have any idea who it was?” he asked.

  “None,” I replied. “But surely you can find out from telephone records.”

  “I doubt it,” he said. “Most villains these days use untraceable, pay-as-you-go cell phones that they buy with cash. They regularly throw away the SIM card and replace it with another one they buy at any phone shop for a couple of pounds. We might be able to find out roughly where the calls were made from but not who made them.”

  That might be a start, I thought.

  “Could I ask your daughter a few questions?” asked D.C.I. Watkinson. “I had hoped to bring a female constable with me, but there wasn’t one available. But I will send for one if you want me to.”

  “It will be fine,” said Marina, “as long as I’m with her.”

  “Of course.”

  Saskia sat on Marina’s lap and repeated everything she had told us while the chief inspector made notes in his black notebook.

  “What color was the car?” he asked quietly.
/>
  “Blue,” she said without a hesitation.

  “Light blue or dark blue?”

  “Dark blue.”

  “And did it have back doors?”

  “Yes,” Saskia said. “And it smelled of dogs, like Daddy’s car.”

  “Was it a Range Rover like your daddy’s?”

  “No,” she said, smiling. “It was small like our old car.”

  The chief inspector looked at me.

  “We had a Volkswagen Golf before the Range Rover.”

  “Was the car the same as Daddy’s old one?” he asked, turning back to Saskia.

  She lifted her shoulders and held her hands out sideways.

  “That means she doesn’t know,” said Marina.

  The chief inspector smiled. “I have two kids of my own, boy and a girl, older now, but they used to do that all the time, especially when I asked which of them had broken something. It didn’t always mean they didn’t know, just that they weren’t telling.”

  “I think Saskia would say if she knew,” Marina said, defending her little girl. “She not really into cars.”

  “Was the door handle to get out the same?” he asked.

  Saskia again leaned her head to one side and screwed up her mouth as she tried to remember. “I think so,” she said eventually. “And the car had a big dent in the side.”

  He wrote something down in his notebook. “Call me if she remembers anything else.” He handed me his business card with the direct number to his office. “We’ll run a search for dark blue VW Golfs. There can’t be that many with dents.”

  The sergeant returned at that point, and the chief inspector went outside to talk to him. Presently, they both came back in.

  “Mrs. Squire, the head teacher, has managed to give us a basic description of the couple,” said the sergeant. “They were in their thirties or forties, white, and the man was on the short side with a slim build. He had short dark hair, and the woman had mid-length light brown. Unfortunately, Mrs. Squire was more concerned about how the school looked—it seems one of the children had recently thrown up in one of the corridors. She thinks she might know them again. We’ll get her to do an e-fit later at the station.” His tone indicated that he didn’t hold out much hope of it being any use.

  “Did they speak with an Irish accent?” I asked.