Front Runner

by Felix Francis

  “Now, how can I help you?” he said when we had both sat down in one of the interview rooms. We were accompanied by a detective constable with a pen and notebook.

  “I think it’s more about how I can help you,” I replied.

  “I’m all ears,” he said.

  “A lot of it was in the statement I gave to your colleague. But I now have more to tell you.”

  I told him everything about my investigation into the race fixing, from my meeting with Dave Swinton in his sauna on the morning of the Hennessy Gold Cup right up to my conversation with Willy Mitchell on the previous day. I told him of the dubious bets made by Leslie Morris and of my visit to Morris’s house in Raynes Park. I left out the actual identities of McKenzie and Mitchell, referring to them only as Jockey A and Jockey B. I also skipped over the true reasons why they were being blackmailed.

  “You know who these jockeys are, of course?” he asked.

  “Of course,” I confirmed. “But I’d like to keep them out of it.”

  There was a brief moment of silence, bar the scratching of the constable’s pen in his notebook.

  “Are you sure that Mr. Swinton told you that he was aware who had been blackmailing him?”

  I thought back to the conversation. Dave had been reluctant to say anything of substance on the phone. But I was sure.

  “Yes,” I said. “He told me on the morning that he died. He said that he knew who it was. I presume he had found out at Newbury races the day before, or maybe on the Saturday evening. Either way, he wouldn’t tell me the person’s name over the phone. He said he didn’t trust them after being a victim of hacking a few years ago. That’s why I went back to his house that Sunday morning.”

  “He hadn’t known who it was when you spoke to him on Saturday?”

  “No,” I said. “He told me that he’d kill him if he knew.”

  The detective raised his eyebrows. “Do you think Mr. Swinton might have set a trap for the blackmailer on Sunday morning? One that went badly wrong?”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” I said. “I tend to think that saying he’d kill him was only a turn of phrase rather than an actual threat. Dave was ruthless in his riding, even aggressive, but he was a gentle soul underneath. That is why I was so surprised when I thought he had left me in his sauna to die.”

  “Do you believe that the same person is blackmailing the other jockeys?”

  “Yes,” I said, “I do. Otherwise, it would be too much of a coincidence.”

  “The world is full of coincidences,” the detective said. “Trust me, that’s something you learn very quickly in my business.”

  “So are you now going to arrest Leslie Morris?”

  “You say Mr. Morris is a retired accountant?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Well into his sixties?”

  “He’s sixty-six.”

  “Do you think a sixty-six-year-old would have the strength to overcome a young, fit jockey like Mr. Swinton? And would he also have the strength to lift him into and then out of the trunk of a car?”

  These were good points.

  “But whoever it was had to have had an accomplice with him anyway,” I said. “To drive another car. Otherwise, how did he get away from the burning Mercedes? You can hardly hitch a ride in the middle of Otmoor. And how did he get to Lambourn in the first place?”

  “But who was that accomplice?”

  “One of the jockeys told me that Morris has a son and that he’s a nasty piece of work. And there’s also Darryl Lawrence and Gary Banks to consider.”

  “Are those the men who attacked you at your apartment?”

  “Yes,” I said. “It seems they met a man at Esher Station who pointed me out to them as their target. Maybe that was Leslie Morris, although I’m not sure how it could have been. But if it was, then together they would easily be strong enough to lift Dave Swinton into the trunk. Lawrence is now dead and Banks is in custody for killing him. You had better speak to Detective Inspector Galvin.”

  “I will,” he said. “Thank you, Mr. Hinkley, for your assistance.”

  He stood up.

  “Is that it?” I said.

  “Is there anything else you have to add?” he asked.

  “No. But . . . you don’t seem to be very interested.”

  “I will have discussions with my colleagues,” he said. “I will also speak with D.I. Galvin and other officers from the Met. We will act on your information, be assured of that, but we can’t just go in and arrest someone, with all our guns blazing, until we have considered the matter further. We have to be pretty sure before we detain anyone under these circumstances, not least because we would have only twenty-four hours to question him and complete our investigation before we would be required to either charge him or release him. We like to line up all the ducks before we start shooting at them.”

  “And in the meantime,” I said, “I have to go on watching my back?”

  “That would seem to be a wise course of action. My constable will type up what you have just told us into a formal statement. Can you wait here while he does that so you can sign it?”

  “Yes,” I said. “No problem.”

  “Good.” He started to leave but then turned back to face me. “Oh, yes, one more thing, Mr. Hinkley. I will need the names of those other two jockeys. They’ll both have to be interviewed. And you don’t want to be the one arrested today, now do you, for obstructing the police?”

  There was no humor in his voice whatsoever.

  —

  “WHAT THE bloody hell have you been telling the cops?”

  Willy Mitchell wasn’t happy with me. He called me early the following morning as I was packing my suitcase for the Cayman Islands.

  “You promised me you’d keep what I told you confidential.”

  Actually, I hadn’t, but I decided now was not the time to say so.

  “All I told the police was that you were being blackmailed. I absolutely did not tell them why.”

  “Well, they bloody know,” he shouted over the line. “I had some cop on my doorstep here at seven o’clock this morning and all he talked about was the effing sex offenders registry.”

  D.S. Jagger had assured me that he would act on my information, but I hadn’t expected his approach to be quite so insensitive.

  I had discovered for myself the previous morning that Detective Sergeant Jagger was neither the most tactful nor the most considerate of men. He was only interested in making an arrest. He didn’t care what collateral damage was done to people’s lives in the process and he made no allowance to mitigate it.

  He had obviously looked up Mitchell’s conviction on the police computer and favored the bull in the china shop approach, just like Paul Maldini. I didn’t think it was likely to encourage Willy to cooperate.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I had no choice. I was threatened with arrest for obstructing justice unless I gave him your name.”

  “I wish I’d never told you anything.”

  “But you did,” I said. “And surely that makes you safer. Now if the blackmailer gets some girl to go to the police and complain about you having sex with her, they will know it’s a lie.”

  “Will they?” He didn’t sound like he believed it. “Why, then, has this bloody cop been going on about how I’m a danger to society? He says I should have been chucked in jail and the key thrown away. He kept calling me a pedophile. Poor Amy is still in floods of tears over it.”

  It was, as they would say in American football, “unnecessary roughness.”

  “He was just trying to frighten you into revealing something that you didn’t want him to know.”

  He grunted.

  “So what did you tell him?” I asked.

  “Same as I told you,” he said, “but I don’t think he took much notice. He treated me all
the while like something that he’d picked up on his shoe. But I’m not the bloody villain here. I’m the victim.”

  The BHA might disagree.

  After all, he had failed to win a race on purpose.

  —

  I THOUGHT it was prudent to call Bill McKenzie and warn him that he too might be getting an unwelcome visit from D.S. Jagger. It had the potential to be far more damaging for his marriage than it would have been for Willy’s.

  I was too late.

  Jagger had already been there. He had obviously gone straight from Mitchell’s place.

  “Oh, thank you very much,” Bill said ironically. “You may well have destroyed my marriage.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  But it had been him who had been with another woman, not me.

  “Has your wife found out about the photos?” I asked.

  “No, thank God, but she insists on knowing why that policeman was here. She claims she has a right to know if I’ve been accused of something. I told her that I hadn’t—I was just helping them with their inquiries. But now she wants to know what those inquiries were about.”

  “What did you tell her?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” Bill said. “Hence, we’re not talking to each other at all at the moment. It’s dreadful.”

  “Tell me, Bill,” I said. “Did you speak to Leslie Morris after riding Wisden Wonder at Sandown?”

  “No,” he said. “Of course not.”

  “Did you speak to him at all during the Tingle Creek meeting?”

  “I’ve only ever spoken to him in France. Not before and not since. And I never want to speak to him again.”

  —

  I HAD BEEN invited to spend Tuesday evening with Faye and Quentin, to join them for a sort of Christmas dinner, before I went away.

  I spent some of the afternoon wrapping presents for them—Jo Malone perfume for her and a silk bow tie and matching handkerchief for him. It made me think about some other presents I should be taking with me to the Cayman Islands.

  I wondered how many of us there would be. Uncle Richard and Aunt Mary for sure, plus Martin Reynard and his wife Theresa. How many others?

  I left early for Richmond and occupied a constructive hour in a department store in the center buying a selection of ties for the men and silk scarves for the ladies—three of each so I’d have some spares. They would be easy to pack, and nice and light for the luggage weight limit.

  In addition, I looked for something for Henri and that was far more difficult.

  What did you buy for someone on the Sunday Times “Rich List”?

  Any sort of jewelry would definitely be out. There was nothing I could afford that would even come close to what she had probably inherited from her mother.

  I searched around in vain for quite a while, finally deciding in desperation on some Chanel No5 Parfum. Lydia used to wear it all the time. And I liked it.

  —

  I ARRIVED AT Faye and Quentin’s house at seven o’clock sharp, as instructed.

  The place looked wonderful, with a tall twinkling Christmas tree in the hallway. Faye had gone to town with the decorations, and the living room and dining room were adorned with scented candles, festive swags and row upon row of Christmas cards hung on strings between the ceiling beams.

  “It’s lovely,” I said to her, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Ever since this bloody cancer took control of my life, I’ve wondered if each Christmas will be my last. I’d hate to go out on a fizzle.”

  I smiled at her and rubbed her shoulders. I hadn’t realized she thought that way. Perhaps I shouldn’t be going away.

  No one but the actual sufferer fully understands what a diagnosis of cancer really means. It isn’t just the body that’s affected, it’s the mind as well. Even when it appears to be beaten, as in Faye’s case, it still has an all-encompassing and persistent presence, forcing one to make difficult choices and confiscating one’s free will. It is the enemy within, the fifth column, forever ready to rise up and strike unless forcibly restrained at every turn.

  “Come on,” Faye said, snapping us out of the moment. “Let’s open a bottle of bubbly.”

  —

  QUENTIN ARRIVED HOME as we were on our second glass.

  “What a dreadful day,” he said as he came into the kitchen, where Faye was cooking the dinner and I was sitting on a barstool watching her.

  I gave him a flute of champagne, which he drank down in one long slurp.

  “God! I needed that,” he said.

  I refilled his glass.

  “What was dreadful about it?” Faye asked.

  “Oh, nothing important,” he said, taking another sip of champagne. “It just never ceases to amaze me how juries can come up with some of their verdicts. I’ve spent ten whole weeks explaining to them in the minutest detail how the defendant was as guilty as sin of fraud and tax evasion and they take a mere forty-five minutes to acquit him. I think jury trials are a joke in fraud cases. The average man off the street doesn’t understand the complexities and, hence, won’t convict irrespective of how persuasive the facts are. They’ve been talking about changing it for years but nothing happens.”

  “What had he done?” I asked.

  “He claimed he was not subject to UK capital gains tax on the proceeds of the sale of his printing company. He maintained that he was a tax resident of the Channel Islands at the time of the sale, but it was blatantly not true. How the jury couldn’t see he was lying is beyond me.”

  “OK, you two, that’s enough legal talk,” Faye said firmly. “This is family time.”

  She produced some delicious canapés and Quentin opened another bottle.

  “I can’t have too much to drink,” I said in mock protest as he refilled my glass. “I have to be up early to get to the airport.”

  “Off to a hot Christmas,” Quentin said. “Sounds a bit odd to me.”

  “They must have them all the time in Australia,” I said. “I suppose you get accustomed to what you’re used to.”

  “Will you still have roast turkey for Christmas lunch?” Faye asked.

  “I have no idea. In fact, I have no idea of anything about this trip except that I have to be at Luton Airport at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “Luton?” Faye said. “I’d have thought it would’ve been Heathrow.”

  “So did I,” I said, “but apparently our flight departs from Luton. I just hope there’s decent legroom. It’s a long way.”

  “When are you back?” Faye asked.

  “January the third,” I said. “We leave on the second and fly back overnight.”

  “I do hope you have a lovely time,” Faye said warmly.

  “I feel rather guilty at leaving you,” I said.

  “Don’t be silly. Q and I will be fine. Kenneth is coming here for lunch on Christmas Day itself, so that will be great fun.”

  Quentin didn’t look like he thought it would be any fun at all, but I couldn’t worry about that. I was so excited at the prospect of spending the next eleven days with Henri that I could hardly sit still during dinner.

  27

  I was outside Luton Airport Parkway railway station in good time at ten minutes to eight on Wednesday morning when my cell phone rang.

  I thought it was going to be Henri, but it was Detective Sergeant Jagger.

  “Having spoken to the jockey Bill McKenzie and having checked his phone records, we have now arrested Leslie Morris on suspicion of blackmail.”

  “Great,” I said. “Thank you for letting me know.”

  “My superior officer, D.C.I. Owens, now heads the inquiry into the death of Mr. David Swinton. He wants to interview you himself concerning the events in Lambourn on the morning that Mr. Swinton died.”

  “When?” I a
sked with some trepidation.

  “As soon as possible. Can you come to Reading today?”

  “I’m afraid that’s out of the question. I’m currently at the airport and am flying to the Cayman Islands for Christmas.”

  “Hmm.” He didn’t sound very happy at that news. “When are you back?”

  “Not until the third of January,” I said. That didn’t seem to please him much either. “But I have nothing more to add than I have already given you in my statements. Are you charging Morris with Dave Swinton’s murder?”

  “At present, he is being interviewed only concerning the blackmail of Mr. William McKenzie.”

  “Well, if I were you, I’d also ask him about the blackmail of Dave Swinton and Willy Mitchell.”

  “All in due course, Mr. Hinkley. All in due course. One doesn’t need to rush these things.”

  I wondered if it gave them more time to hold Morris in custody if they arrested him for each offense in turn.

  “Have you searched Morris’s house?” I asked.

  “Not yet, but it will be later today.”

  “See if you can find a small red notebook,” I said. “It contains the records of all his bets on the dubious race at Sandown and that should be enough to prove Morris knew beforehand that McKenzie wouldn’t win.”

  A large black Range Rover drew up in front of the station with Henri waving at me through the back window. I waved back.

  “Look,” I said to D.S. Jagger, “I’ve got to go now. I’ll call you from the Cayman Islands tomorrow. I can speak to Chief Inspector Owens then, if he wants.”

  A smartly dressed chauffeur climbed out of the driver’s seat and loaded my suitcase into the Range Rover’s trunk. I, meanwhile, climbed in the back next to Henri.

  There were two other people already in the vehicle.

  Sir Richard Reynard was sitting in the front seat, and there was another woman in the back with Henri.

  “This is my aunt Mary,” Henri said.

  “I’m so pleased to meet you,” I said, shaking her hand.

  “Me too. I’ve heard much about you from my husband.”

  The driver climbed back in and drove off, but we didn’t go to the regular passenger terminal. Instead, we went to the other side of the airport to the private aviation center, where a Reynard Shipping–liveried twin-engined jet aircraft awaited us. We even drove out in the Range Rover, across the concrete apron to the base of the aircraft steps.