Even Money

by Dick Francis

  “That was the plan,” he said. “But Larry has the kit with him, and he didn’t make it.”

  We both knew why he hadn’t.

  “Was it this race?” I asked.

  “Yeah, of course,” he said. “Red-hot favorite and all that.”

  “But why?” I said. “Where’s the gain? Are you betting on it elsewhere?”

  “No,” he replied. “That’s the beauty of it. There’s no trail for them to chase. No one does well out of it that has anything to do with us. It just produces a chance windfall for everyone who happens to back the favorite in a betting shop at the starting price. And there will be masses of those. It’s a ruse to make the big outfits lose a bit and also to give them a fit that someone else is playing them at their own game.”

  “But it cost you money for the bets in the ring at Ascot to change the odds,” I said. “I saw the cash in my hand.” And I remembered clearly the man at Ascot who had bet a thousand pounds, two monkeys on a loser. The man in the open-neck white shirt and the fawn chinos.

  “Not really,” he said. “A friend of Larry’s started the betting with a grand of readies. Then the same money went round and round, with Larry and me backing with Norman and him doing the same with us. The odds changed all over the ring, but not much cash actually changed hands with anyone else, and that which did was covered by a little wager on the favorite at home by Larry’s wife.”

  Very organized, I thought.

  “Was that also what you were up to at Stratford?” I said.

  “Yeah, sort of,” he said. “But, I grant you, that was a bit silly. It was too obvious. We hadn’t really planned to do anything there, so we didn’t have the kit with us, but there were so few bookies and the weather was so bloody awful we decided there and then to have some fun just by changing the odds on the boards.”

  “Well, don’t ever do it again,” I said. “If you are seriously interested in a partnership in the business, there’s no place for messing about with the prices. Not only would you quickly destroy our reputation, you could put our livelihoods in jeopardy. Do you understand?”

  He looked like a scolded schoolboy. The truth was that he had not been malicious, just bored. He had thought of it all as a game, but I had the bruises to prove it wasn’t.

  “I mean it,” I said. “Never again.”

  “Oh all right,” he said, clearly fed up but accepting the inevitable.

  East Imperial, the favorite, won the race easily and was returned at a starting price of eleven-to-ten on, which was about right.

  Overall, Betsy apart, it had been a good night for us, and Luca and I packed up our stuff in good spirits. Normally the betting on the last race can be a little sparse, and the crowd usually disappears rapidly when it is over. However, on this occasion, the crowd built during the evening, and more so after the last as everyone jostled for a good spot to watch and listen to the band. Consequently, we had an audience as we packed up the trolley, and we had to force our way through the masses around the grandstand and out to the parking lot behind.

  “Tell me about the equipment you use,” I said to Luca as we pulled the trolley down towards my car.

  “What equipment?” he said innocently.

  “You know what I mean. The kit you use to take down the Internet and the telephones.”

  “The Internet’s easy,” he said, almost bragging. “It’s the phones that are more testing.”

  “Tell me,” I said.

  “You don’t actually make the Internet go down,” he said, “you just make the access to it work very slowly. So slowly, in fact, that it takes forever to do anything.”

  “And how do you do that?” I asked him.

  “I make the racetrack server extremely busy doing something else,” he said, smiling. “I use our computer Wi-Fi connection to give it a virus that causes it to chase round and round making useless calculations of prime numbers. That uses up all its RAM, its random-access memory, so leaves it no space to do what it should be doing. Then, when I want, I turn the virus program off and, hey, presto, the calculations stop, and the Internet access is back to its rightful speed.”

  It sounded all too easy.

  “And the phones?” I said.

  “Simple, in principle,” he said. “Emit a mass of white noise—that’s a random radio signal—at the right frequency. It simply overwhelms the weaker signals from the telephone transmitters. Smothers them completely. Not very subtle, but effective over a smallish area like the betting ring. It’s basically the same system the army employs in Afghanistan to block mobile telephone transmissions being used to remotely set off bombs.”

  “How on earth did you come up with that?” I said.

  “I didn’t.” He smiled. “It was one of the delinquents at the electronics club. He was trying to make a device to block police radios so they wouldn’t be able to catch him. I just borrowed it and tweaked the frequency a little.”

  “But how big is it?” I asked him.

  “Small enough to fit in Larry’s boxes,” he said. “And it’s powered by a car battery, same as the odds boards.”

  “How often have you used it?” I asked.

  “Only the three times at Ascot,” he said. “It was finished only last week. The first time, on Tuesday, was just a test to see if it worked. Thursday was the target, as you’ve worked out. Saturday was just for fun, to see what happened.”

  “But on the Tuesday, surely we nearly came unstuck,” I said. “You told me that we would have been off another grand if the favorite had won the last because you couldn’t use the Internet to lay it.”

  “Yeah, well, we took a lot of late bets, and Larry had the switch.”

  “Luca, retire the kit now, before it gets you into real trouble and before it costs us in profits.”

  “Yes, boss,” he said mockingly.

  “I mean it.”

  “I know,” he said more seriously.

  “But keep it safe,” I said. “Just in case.”

  He looked at me questioningly, but I didn’t answer. Instead, I started to lift the equipment into the back of my car. However, my stomach muscles had had enough for one day and they cramped up, doubling me over in pain.

  “Are you all right?” said Luca, rather alarmed.

  “I will be,” I croaked, trying to ease the cramp.

  “Do you need a doctor?” he said, genuinely concerned.

  “No,” I said, straightening up and stretching. “I’ll be fine in a minute.”

  “Oh God, Ned,” Luca said. “I didn’t plan for this to happen.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” I said, stretching again. “But, I told you, I’ll be fine.”

  The cramp finally eased, and I smiled at him. His worried expression improved slightly, and he lifted the rest of our stuff into the car.

  “Now, tell me,” I said, changing the subject, “what do you know about Irish telephones?”

  “Not much,” he said. “Why?”

  “I wondered if you knew if they have area codes so you could tell where a number was in the country.”

  “All I know is that Irish mobiles start with 86 or 87 after the 353.”

  So Paddy Murphy’s number hadn’t been a mobile.

  “How about 42?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Ask the Internet. Google it. If it’s an area code, it’ll be on the Internet.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I will.” Now, why didn’t I think of that?

  “When are we going to have our little chat?” he asked.

  “About what?” I said, knowing the answer but wanting him to be the one to raise the subject again.

  “A partnership,” he said.

  We were standing together behind my car at quarter to ten at night with fading light after a busy evening’s work.

  “Not now,” I said. “I’m too tired, and too sore.”

  “When, then?” he persisted.

  “Tomorrow afternoon, we’re at Uttoxeter,” I said. “Do you want to
come to me first, and I’ll take you up?”

  “Fine,” he said.

  “We’ll talk in the car on the way,” I said. “Unless Betsy’s with us.”

  “I somehow doubt that,” he said.

  “What about your flat?” I said.

  “No prob. That’s one hundred percent mine. She can go home to her mother.” His tone implied that the relationship was indeed well and truly over.

  “Right, then,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Be at my place by eleven.”

  “Are you sure you’re OK?” he said.

  “Positive,” I replied. “Now, get on home before you miss the train.”

  “OK,” he said. “See you tomorrow. ’Bye.”

  He strode off towards the railway station, and I watched him go.

  Was my life going to be with or without Luca? Would it be the same or different? Worse or better? Safer or more dangerous?

  Time, and tomorrow, would tell.

  15

  Imade it to the hospital in time for the last fifteen minutes of the news.

  Sophie seemed so pleased to see me and jumped up and threw her arms around my neck when I arrived.

  “Oh, I’m so glad,” she cooed. “I thought you must be not coming, as it’s so late.”

  “There was a pop concert after racing,” I said. “Masses of people, so it took a long while to pack up and get out.” But it had helped make the traffic lighter, I thought.

  I sat down next to her, and she held my hand as we watched the last few items and then the weather. Neither of us wanted to say anything about the results of the assessment. We were both afraid of pre-guessing the result only to then be disappointed. But, from my perspective, Sophie was now as well as I had ever known her over the last ten years.

  I realized that for the first time in a long while, I was completely relaxed around her.

  Even when she had been home in the past, I had been ultracareful not to do or say anything that might upset her. I had become the true expert at walking on eggshells.

  But things seemed different this time. She seemed stronger emotionally. It was almost as if she had been helping me through the ordeal of the previous day’s assessment rather than the other way around. Perhaps it was time to discuss the possible outcome. Time to grasp the nettles of life, and never mind the stings.

  “Still no news, then?” I said.

  “No,” she replied. “It’s very frustrating. All the staff here can’t understand it. They all think it’s a foregone conclusion that I should go home.”

  “So do I,” I said. “Darling, you seem so much better now than for a very long time.”

  She smiled at me with genuine happiness, and my heart went flip-flop once more.

  “I know,” she said. “I feel absolutely wonderful, and these new drugs are great. Far fewer side effects than before. And I don’t feel so bloated by them.”

  Could I really hope that life’s previous bumpy up-and-down roller coaster was now going to run smooth and flat? It was far too soon to believe that, but at least the starting signs were good.

  “Have a nice day at Uttoxeter tomorrow,” she said as I stood up to leave.

  “I will,” I replied, giving her a kiss.

  I debated in my mind whether to worry her about Luca. I really wanted her opinion, and I suppose she had a right to know if I was about to become a fifty percent partner rather than a sole proprietor of the business.

  “Luca Mandini wants a full partnership,” I said.

  “Does he indeed?” she said. “He’s still very young.”

  “He’s twenty-seven,” I said. “That’s not so young. And he’s good. Very good.”

  “Do you think you’ll lose him if he doesn’t get it?” she asked.

  “Probably. He’ll either start up on his own or go to someone who’ll give him what he wants.”

  “But can you afford it?” she asked.

  “Yes, I think so,” I said. “I would save on his salary, and it wouldn’t be a whole lot different moneywise. I already give him a sizable share of the profits. But it would mean I’d lose some of my independence. We’ve been doing very well lately with him running the computer. I don’t really know enough of that side of things. If Luca left, I suppose I could always employ another assistant who does, but . . .”

  “But not as good?” she said.

  “Probably not,” I said.

  “Seems a no-brainer to me, then. Give him what he wants.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Can you afford not to? Luca won’t be able to simply walk away if he’s a partner, will he? But make sure you tie him down with a contract so it costs him to leave.”

  Tie him down with a contract so he can neither leave the business nor destroy it with dodgy dealings, I thought. I had decided against telling Sophie about Internet outages, mobile phones that wouldn’t work and fixing the starting prices. I also failed to mention fists and steel toe caps in the Kempton parking lot. There were still limits to what was prudent.

  But I was glad I’d asked her about Luca. Crystal clear business thinking had always been her forte—when she was well, that is—and her current advice seemed as sound as her present mental state.

  “Thank you,” I said to her. “I’ll do just that.”

  We kissed good night, a joyous, loving kiss.

  On this occasion, she was not even fed up at me for leaving her behind. I think we both knew she would be coming home with me on Monday, and a couple more days or so wouldn’t matter.

  Dundalk, the Internet told me. Paddy Murphy’s telephone was in Dundalk. I further discovered that Dundalk was some fifty miles north of Dublin on the northeast coast of the Irish Republic, close to the mouth of the Castletown River and not far from the border with Northern Ireland.

  My computer also told me that Dundalk was the biggest town in Ireland that was not actually a city, with a population of about thirty thousand. Within the surrounding area, the 42 area code, there were nearly half a million people. I could hardly turn up in Dundalk asking for someone called Paddy Murphy, now could I? If I did, it would probably be me they would be throwing in the loony bin.

  I was sitting in my office after another undisturbed night in Station Road.

  I remained highly concerned about Shifty-eyes. I was under no illusions that he would have given up in his search for the money. Consequently, I had once again slept with the chair from Sophie’s dressing table wedged under the bedroom door handle. I had also left the cash in the cupboard beneath the stairs just in case he turned up with his twelve-centimeter knife. Perhaps he could then have been cajoled into taking the money without also using my body for target practice.

  I looked again at my father’s telephone. I had tried Paddy Murphy’s number a few more times late the previous evening after I had returned from the hospital. I pushed the button once more and heard the familiar ringing tone.

  “If you were the Garda, you’d be here by now,” Paddy said, answering. “So I’ll assume you’re not.”

  “No,” I said, “I’m not.”

  “So who are you?” His Irish accent was stronger than ever.

  “I told you,” I said. “I’m Alan Grady’s son.”

  “He doesn’t have a son,” he replied.

  “Oh yes he does,” I said.

  “You don’t sound Australian.”

  “I’m not,” I said. “I was born before he went to Australia.”

  There was a long pause at the other end.

  “Are you still there?” I asked.

  “Maybe,” he said. “What do you want with me?”

  “How well did you know my father?”

  “What do you mean ‘did’?” he asked.

  “My father was murdered at Ascot races. In the parking lot. He was stabbed.”

  There was nothing but silence from the other end.

  “When?” he asked finally.

  “A week ago last Tuesday.”

  There was anot
her long pause.

  “Have they caught who did it?” he asked.

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “Any suspects?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think so.”

  “Don’t they have any leads at all?” he asked persistently. I thought he might be a little scared. Perhaps he had good reason.

  “The murderer was a man in his mid to late thirties. Thin build, with shifty-looking eyes,” I said.

  “How do you mean ‘shifty’?” he said slowly.

  “Slightly too close together for his face,” I said.“Do you recognize the description?”

  He hesitated too long. “Could be anyone,” he said.

  “But you know who,” I said. It was a statement, not a question.

  “No,” he said. But I didn’t believe him.

  “Is this man likely to come after you?” I asked.

  “Why should he?” he said with a slightly nervous rattle to his voice.

  “I don’t know. But you do.”

  “No,” he said again rapidly.

  “Denying it won’t stop it happening,” I said. “Who is it?”

  “Do you think I’m bloody mad or something?” he said. “Even if I knew, I wouldn’t be telling you, now would I?”

  “Why not?” I asked him.

  “Do you think I’m bloody mad or something?” he said once again. “Because he’d kill me too.”

  “He might do that anyway,” I said.

  It added to his discomfort.

  “Blessed Mary, Mother of Christ,” he said.

  “Praying won’t help you,” I said. “But telling me or the police might. And why would this man want you dead anyway?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Have you stolen money from him?” I asked.

  Still nothing.

  “Or is it something to do with the microcoder?” I said.

  “The what?” he said.

  “The microcoder,” I repeated. “A black box with buttons on it.”

  “Oh, you mean the chip writer,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said. “Who does it belong to?”

  “That depends,” he said. “I thought it was Alan’s.”

  “Wasn’t it?” I said.

  “I think now that he may have stolen it,” he said.