Dead Heat

by Dick Francis

  “How about the guest list where the bomb went off?” she asked.

  “I haven’t managed to get that,” I said. “I think the only person who probably knew the full guest list was the marketing executive of the sponsor company and she was killed in the explosion. It’s pretty easy to find out who was actually there, because they either are on the list of the dead or on the list of the injured. But I am more interested in the names of the seven people who should have been there but weren’t.”

  “Surely someone must have the names of those who were invited,” she said.

  “I have tried,” I said, “but no luck.” I had spent much of Monday morning trying to acquire the list. Suzanne Miller, at the racetrack catering company, only had “guests of Delafield Industries” in her paperwork, and William Preston, the track manager, had been even less helpful, with simply “sponsor and guests” on his.

  “How about the sponsor company?” she asked. “Have you tried them?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t think that they would be very likely to know who was invited, other than their own staff flown over from America. I think that MaryLou Fordham-that’s the marketing woman who was killed-I think she added the UK guests to the list after she was here, and after she knew who would be suitable. I remember that she was very cross beforehand when a couple of trainers from the town pulled out at the last minute. And I think I know who those two were anyway.”

  “Can’t you ask them?” she said.

  “I did ask one of them yesterday,” I said. I had called George Kealy. “But, as he said, it is difficult to know who else was invited to a party that you didn’t go to.”

  “That’s true, I suppose,” she said. “How about the injured people from the sponsor company? One of them might know who was meant to be there.”

  “I’ve thought of that too,” I said. “According to yesterday’s local newspaper, two of them are still in intensive care, and the others have already been flown home to America.”

  I asked a passing waiter for the bill and winced only a little when it arrived. The same amount would have fed a good-sized family at the Hay Net, and a small army at a burger joint, but neither would have given as much pleasure as that dinner with Caroline had given me.

  When I suggested that I should see her home to Fulham, she insisted that she would be fine if I simply put her in a taxi. Reluctantly, I hailed a cab and she climbed in alone.

  “Can I see you again?” I asked through the open door.

  “Sure,” she replied. “You’ll see me in court.”

  “That’s not exactly what I meant,” I said.

  “Well, what do you mean, then?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Another dinner? A trip to the races?” I felt like asking her to make a trip to my bed.

  “What are you doing two weeks from Thursday?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” I replied. Nothing, that is, except cooking sixty lunches and a hundred dinners at the Hay Net.

  “I’m due to play a viola concerto with the orchestra at Cadogan Hall. Come and listen.”

  “I’d love to,” I said. “Dinner after?”

  “Lovely,” she said. She gave me a full-toothed smile with her broad mouth as the door closed and the taxi moved away. Suddenly, she was gone, and I was left on the pavement, feeling somewhat wretched and alone. Was I that desperate, I asked myself, that I would jump at the first girl that came along? Caroline was suing me for ten thousand pounds in damages, and maybe I should have been more careful not to have told her so much. Perhaps she would use what I told her against me. But there had been a certain rapport between us, of that I was certain. Even on Friday evening, on the telephone, I was pretty sure that we would get along, and I think we had. I wasn’t being desperate, I told myself. I was being sensible. But why, then, did I feel such an ache from not still being with her?

  I hailed another taxi and reluctantly told the driver to take me to King’s Cross station, rather than to Tamworth Street in Fulham.

  I CAUGHT THE last train to Cambridge with less than a minute to spare. I sat and pondered what I had discussed with Caroline, as the train pulled out of the station on the hour-and-ten-minute journey northeastwards.

  Somehow, putting my thoughts into words had made them sound rather more plausible. However, I still felt that the authorities would dismiss my theories as highly fanciful. But were they any more fanciful, I wondered, than thinking that a Middle East terror group had attempted an assassination of a foreign royal prince on Newmarket Heath?

  I didn’t really believe it. But if I was right in thinking that the dinner had been poisoned to prevent someone being blown up, then I could safely assume that the bomb had in fact hit its intended target. So what made Delafield Industries so special that someone wanted to blow them up on their big day out in England? Who would want to kill Elizabeth Jennings or Brian and June Walters, and why? Or was it the likes of Rolf Schumann and MaryLou Fordham who were the real targets?

  I knew Delafield Industries made tractors and combine harvesters, but what else did they do? I resolved to look them up on the Internet in the morning, along with Mr. Schumann.

  I lay back against the headrest and thought about more pleasant things like the evening two weeks from now, on Thursday, at the Cadogan Hall. In truth, I wasn’t a great lover of classical music. But I would listen to anything with huge pleasure if I was able to have dinner with Caroline afterwards. Even the thought of it made me smile, although it was more than fifteen whole days away and that seemed a very long time to have to wait to see her again. Maybe I could entice her to Newmarket somewhat sooner than that, like tomorrow.

  The train pulled into Cambridge station at twenty-five minutes past one in the morning. As always on the late-night stopping service, I had to force myself to stay awake in order that I didn’t end up with the train at King’s Lynn, or wherever.

  I had left my car in the Cambridge station parking lot, as was usual when I went to London for the evening. At five in the afternoon, nearly all the spaces had been full with commuters’ cars, but now my little Golf stood alone at the far end of the lot awaiting my return. I had drunk no more than half a bottle of wine throughout the evening, as well as having had a full meal with coffee. It had been nearly three hours since Caroline and I had finished the wine, and I reckoned that I was fine to drive, and well under the drink-drive limit.

  I was slightly surprised to find my car wasn’t locked. The driver’s door was not fully shut, only half latched. I couldn’t actually remember leaving it like that, but, then, it wouldn’t have been the first time, not by a long shot. After so many years of misuse, the door needed a good slam to get it shut properly. The manager of my garage had often tried, at great expense, to sell me a new door seal, but I had always declined his offers on the grounds that the cost of the seal was only a fraction less than what the whole car was worth.

  I had a good look around the car. I checked the tires, but they seemed all right. I got down on my hands and knees and looked underneath. Nothing. I even opened the hood and looked at the engine. I didn’t really know what a bomb would look like, so the chances of me spotting something amiss were slight, but nonetheless there were no suspicious packages I could see attached to the car’s electrical system or anything else. Perhaps I was becoming paranoid. It must be all this talk of conspiracy to poison and to bomb. However, my heart was thumping in my chest a little louder than normal when I turned the ignition key to start the engine.

  It sprang to life, just as it should. I revved it up for a few seconds, but all sounded fine to me, with no clunks or clangs. I wiggled the steering wheel, but nothing untoward occurred. I drove forward a bit in the parking lot and then braked hard. The car stopped with a jolt, as was normal. I drove around in circles, a couple of times in both directions, pulling hard on the wheel. The vehicle behaved in exactly the manner expected. I was indeed paranoid, I told myself, and I drove home, uneventfully, although I checked the brakes often, and with some vigor,
on all the straight bits of road.

  MARYLOU FORDHAM’S LEGS, or rather the lack of her legs, made further unwelcome visits to my subconscious during another disturbed night. Surely, I thought, my brain should be able to control these episodes. Surely, it should realize, as soon as the dream starts was the right moment to wake me and put a stop to the misery. But, every time, the whole episode would play out, and, every time, I would wake with terror in my heart and panic in my head. My dimming memory of MaryLou’s face did nothing to lessen the horror evoked by her legless torso.

  I tried to ignore the interruptions to my rest by simply turning over and trying to go back to sleep, telling myself to dream of happier things, like cuddling up with Caroline, but I would remain annoyingly awake for ages before the adrenaline level in my bloodstream dropped low enough to allow me to drift off, seemingly only for the dream to start again immediately. It was all very exhausting.

  WEDNESDAY, when it finally arrived, was one of those May mornings to savor, especially in the flatlands of East Anglia: cloudless blue skies and unparalleled visibility. From my bedroom window, I could see the white-arched, cantilevered roof of the Millennium Grandstand at the racetrack, and, in the clear air and the sunshine, it appeared much larger and nearer than normal.

  If only my life was as clear, I thought.

  My cell phone rang.

  “Hello,” I said, hoping it might be Caroline, which was stupid, really, since I hadn’t even given her the number.

  “Max. It’s Suzanne Miller. I’m afraid I have some rather bad news. I’ve received a letter this morning from Forest Heath District Council indicating their intent to prosecute under section 7 of the Food Safety Act of 1990.”

  Oh bugger, I thought. If they were prosecuting the racetrack catering company, who had been only the overseer of the event, they were sure to prosecute the chef as well, i.e., me.

  “Do they say exactly who they intend to prosecute?” I asked.

  “Everyone,” she said somewhat forlornly. “There’s letters for me individually and for the company. There’s even a letter for you here at the racetrack addressed to ‘Mr. Max Moreton,’ care of us.”

  Oh double bugger. There was probably another letter at the Hay Net.

  “What does your letter actually say?” I asked her.

  She read it out to me. Not a single bit of good news to be found.

  “My letter is probably identical to yours,” I said. “I’ll come and collect it, if you like.”

  “Yes, please do. Look, Max, all the food was your responsibility, and I will have to say that. All I did was organize the venue. I’m not being convicted of serving food that was hazardous to health, not with my retirement coming up later this year. I’m not losing my pension over this.” She was in tears.

  “Suzanne,” I said as calmingly as I could, “I know that, you know that, Angela Milne from Cambridgeshire County Council knows that. If anyone is taking the fall for this, it will be me, OK?”

  “Yes, thanks,” she sniffed.

  “But, Suzanne, I need more help from you. I need a fuller list of who was at the dinner, and the names of as many of the staff as you can manage. I also need the names of those invited to the Delafield box on Guineas day. If you can get me all that, then I will happily say that you had nothing to do with the food at the dinner.”

  “But I didn’t have anything to do with it,” she wailed.

  “I know that,” I said. “And I will say so. But get me the lists.”

  “I’ll try,” she said.

  “Try hard,” I said, and hung up.

  I called the newsroom of the Cambridge Evening News and asked for Ms. Harding.

  “Hello,” she said. “Are you checking to see if I’ll still be coming to dinner at your restaurant?”

  “Partly,” I said. “But also to tell you some news before you hear it from somewhere else.”

  “What news?” she said, her journalistic instincts coming firmly to the fore.

  “I am to be prosecuted by the local authority for serving food likely to be hazardous to health,” I said in as deadpan a manner as I could manage.

  “Are you indeed?” she said. “And do you have a quote for me?”

  “Not one you could print without including a warning for young children,” I replied.

  “Why are you telling me this?” she asked.

  “I assume that you would find out eventually, and I thought it better to come clean,” I said.

  “Like your kitchen,” she said.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll take that as a compliment and put you down as on my side.”

  “I wouldn’t necessarily say that. My business is selling newspapers, and I don’t know whose side I am on until I see the way the wind is blowing.”

  “That’s outrageous,” I said. “Don’t you have any morals?”

  “Personally? Yes,” she said. “In my job? Maybe. But not at the expense of circulation. I can’t afford that luxury.”

  “I’ll do a deal with you,” I said.

  “What deal?” she replied quickly. “I don’t do deals.”

  “I will keep you up-to-date on all the news I have about the prosecution of the poisoning, and you give me the right of reply to anything anyone says or does to me or the restaurant, including you.”

  “That’s not much of a deal for me,” she said.

  “I’ll throw in a guaranteed exclusive interview at the end of the proceedings,” I said. “Take it or leave it.”

  “OK,” she said, “I’ll take it.”

  I told her about the letters that had arrived at the racetrack catering offices. I also told her that I intended to mount a determined defense to the allegation.

  “But people were made ill,” she said. “You can’t deny that.”

  “No,” I said, “I don’t deny that people were ill. I was one of them. But I vehemently deny that I was responsible for making them ill.”

  “Then who was?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But it wasn’t me.” I decided not to mention the kidney bean lectin. Not yet. Was that breaking my deal? No, I thought. It was just bending it a little. “If I do find out who was responsible, I promise you I’ll definitely tell you who it was.” I’d tell everyone.

  “What am I meant to write in the meantime?” she pleaded.

  “I would prefer it if you wrote nothing,” I said. “But if you must, then write what you like. But I get the chance to reply.”

  “OK,” she said, sounding a little unsure. Time, I thought, to change direction.

  “Do you have any further news about the people injured in the bombing?” I asked. “I read in your paper that most of the Americans have gone home, but two of them are still here in intensive care.”

  “Only one now,” she said. “The other one died yesterday. From her burns.”

  “Oh,” I said. “How many is that now?”

  “Nineteen,” she said.

  “You don’t happen to know what became of a Mr. Rolf Schumann, do you? He’s the chairman of Delafield Industries.”

  “Hold on a minute,” she said. I could hear her asking someone else. “Apparently, he was air-ambulanced home to America over the weekend, out of Stansted.” And I hadn’t yet been paid for the Guineas lunch.

  “Do you know what his injuries were?” I asked.

  I could hear her again relaying the question. “Head injuries,” she said. “Seems he’s lost his marbles.”

  “I hope you don’t write that in your paper,” I said.

  “Good God no,” she said. “He’s suffering from mental distress.”

  “How about the others who were injured, the non-Americans?” I asked.

  She relayed the question again. “There’s a couple from the north who are still in the hospital with spinal injuries or something. The others have all been discharged from Addenbrooke’s. But we know of at least one who has been transferred to Roehampton.”

  “Roehampton?” I said.

 
“Rehab center,” she said. “Artificial limbs.”

  “Oh.” The images of missing arms and legs made another unwelcome visit to my consciousness.

  “Look, I must go now,” said Ms. Harding. “I’ve got work to do.”

  She hung up, and I sat on the end of my bed wishing that she hadn’t stirred my memories of the carnage, memories that had started to fade but which all too easily rose to the surface like a cork in a bucket of water.

  I decided to cheer myself up by calling Caroline.

  “Hello,” she said. “You’ve still got my number, then.”

  “You bet,” I said with a smile. “I called to thank you for last night.”

  “It should be me thanking you,” she said. “I had a great time.”

  “So did I. Any chance I could entice you up to Newmarket for dinner tonight or tomorrow?”

  “Why don’t you beat around the bush a little?” she said. “Why don’t you talk about the weather or something?”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “It might make you sound rather less eager,” she said.

  “Do I sound too eager?” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize,” she said, laughing. “In fact, I think I rather like it.”

  “So will you come?” I asked.

  “To dinner?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Where?”

  “At my restaurant.”

  “I’m not eating on my own while you do the cooking.”

  “No, of course not,” I said. “Come and watch me cook, and then we’ll have dinner together afterwards.”

  “Won’t that be rather late?” she said. “How will I get home?”

  I wanted to ask her to stay with me, in my bed, in my arms, but I thought it might not be prudent. “I will get you on the last train to King’s Cross or I will treat you to a night in the Bedford Lodge Hotel.”

  “On my own?” she asked.

  I paused for a long while. “That’s up to you,” I said finally.

  There was an equally long pause at her end. “No promises and no strings?”