Flying Finish

by Dick Francis

  Mike, the engineer, was already writing names on disposable cups with a red felt pen.

  ‘All O.K.?’ he asked, the eyebrow going up and down like a yo-yo.

  ‘All fine,’ I said.

  He wrote ‘Patrick’ and ‘Bob’ and Henry’ and asked me the names of the others. ‘Mr Y’, ‘Billy’, ‘Alf’ and ‘John’ joined the roll. He filled the crew’s cups and mine, and I took Patrick’s and Bob’s forward while he went back to ask the others if they were thirsty. The rising sun blazed into the cockpit, dazzling after the comparative gloom of the cabin. Both pilots were wearing dark glasses, and Patrick already had his jacket off, and had started on the first of his attendant bunch of bananas. The chart lay handy, the usual unlikely mass of half-inch circles denoting radio stations connected by broad pale blue areas of authorised airlines, with the normal shape of the land beneath only faintly drawn in and difficult to distinguish. Bob pulled a tuft of cotton wool off a shaving cut, made it bleed again, and swore, his exact words inaudible against the racket of the engines. Both of them were wearing head-sets, earphones combined with a microphone mounted on a metal band which curved round in front of the mouth. They spoke to each other by means of a transmitting switch set into the wheel on the control column, since normal speech in that noise was impossible. Giving me a grin and a thumbs up sign for the coffee, they went on with their endless attention to the job in hand. I watched for a bit, then strolled back through the galley, picking up ‘Henry’ en route, and relaxed on a hay bale to drink, looking down out of the oval window and seeing the coast of France tilt underneath as we passed the Dieppe beacon and set course for Paris.

  A day like any other day, a flight like any other flight. And Gabriella waiting at the other end of it. Every half hour or so I checked round the mares, but they were a docile lot and travelled like veterans. Mostly horses didn’t eat much in the air, but one or two were picking at their haynets, and a chestnut in the rearmost box was fairly guzzling. I began to untie her depleted net to fill it again for her from one of the bales when a voice said in my ear, ‘I’ll do that.’

  I looked round sharply and found Billy’s face two feet from my own.

  ‘You?’ The surprise and sarcasm got drowned by the engine noise.

  He nodded, elbowed me out of the way, and finished untying the haynet. I watched with astonishment as he carried it away into the narrow starboard gangway and began to stuff it full again. He came back pulling the drawstring tight round the neck, slung it over to hang inside the box, and re-tied its rope on to the cleat. Wordlessly he treated me to a wide sneering glare from the searchlight eyes, pushed past, and flung himself with what suddenly looked like pent-up fury into one of the seats at the back.

  In the pair of seats immediately behind him Yardman and John sat side by side. Yardman was frowning crossly at Billy, though to my mind he should have been giving him a pat on the head and a medal for self control.

  Yardman turned his head from Billy to me and gave me his graveyard smile. ‘What time do we arrive?’ he shouted.

  ‘About half an hour.’

  He nodded and looked away through the window. I glanced at John and saw that he was dozing, with his grubby cap pushed back on his head and his hands lying limp on his lap. He opened his eyes while I was looking at him, and his relaxed facial muscles sharply contracted so that suddenly he seemed familiar to me, though I was certain I hadn’t met him before. It puzzled me for only a second because Billy, getting up again, managed to kick my ankle just out of Yardman’s sight. I turned away from him, lashed backwards with my heel, and felt a satisfactory clunking jar as it landed full on his shin. One day, I thought, smiling to myself as I squeezed forward along the plane, one day he’ll get tired of it.

  We joined the circuit at Malpensa four hours from Gatwick; a smooth, easy trip. Holding the mares’ heads I saw the familiar red and white chequered huts near the edge of the airfield grow bigger and bigger as we descended, then they were suddenly behind us at eye level as Patrick levelled out twenty feet from the ground at about a hundred and ten miles an hour. The bump from the tricycle undercarriage as we touched down with full flaps at a fraction above stalling speed wasn’t enough to rock the mares on their feet. Top of the class, I thought.

  The customs man with his two helpers came on board, and Yardman produced the mares’ papers from his briefcase. The checking went on without a hitch, brisk but thorough. The customs man handed the papers back to Yardman with a small bow and signed that the unloading could begin.

  Yardman ducked out of any danger of giving a hand with that by saying that he’d better see if the opposite numbers were waiting for him inside the airport. As it was barely half past eleven, it seemed doubtful, but all the same he marched purposefully down the ramp and away across the tarmac, a gaunt black figure with sunshine flashing on his glasses.

  The crew got off at the sharp end and followed him, a navy blue trio in peaked caps. A large yellow Shell tanker pulled up in front of the aircraft, and three men in white overalls began the job of refuelling.

  We unloaded into the waiting horseboxes in record time, Billy seemingly being as anxious as me to get it done quickly, and within half an hour of landing I had changed my jersey for my jacket and was pushing open the glass doors of the airport. I stood just inside, watching Gabriella. She was selling a native doll, fluffing up the rich dark skirt to show the petticoats underneath, her face solemn and absorbed. The heavy dark club-cut hair swung forward as she leaned across the counter, and her eyes were cool and quiet as she shook her head gently at her customer, the engineer Mike. My chest constricted at the sight of her, and I wondered how I was possibly going to bear leaving again in three hours time. She looked up suddenly as if she felt my gaze, and she saw me and smiled, her soft mouth curving sweet and wide.

  Mike looked quite startled at the transformation and turned to see the reason.

  ‘Henry,’ said Gabriella, with welcome and gaiety shimmering in her voice. ‘Hullo, darling.’

  ‘Darling?’ exclaimed Mike, the eyebrow doing its stuff.

  Gabriella said in French, ‘I’ve doubled my English vocabulary, as you see. I know two words now.’

  ‘Essential ones, I’m glad to say.’

  ‘Hey,’ said Mike. ‘If you can talk to her, Henry, ask her about this doll. It’s my elder girl’s birthday tomorrow, and she’s started collecting these things, but I’m damned if I know whether she’ll like this one.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Twelve.’

  I explained the situation to Gabriella, who promptly produced a different doll, much prettier and more colourful, which she wrapped up for him while he sorted out some lire. Like Patrick’s his wallet was stuffed with several different currencies, and he scattered a day’s pay in deutschmarks over the merchandise before finding what he wanted. Collecting his cash in an untidy handful he thanked her cheerfully in basic French, picked up his parcel and walked off upstairs into the restaurant. There were always lunches provided for us on the planes, tourist class lunches packed in boxes, but both Mike and Bob preferred eating on the ground, copiously and in comfort.

  I turned back to Gabriella and tried to satisfy my own sort of hunger by looking at her and touching her hand. And I could see in her face that to her too this was like a bowl of rice to the famine of India.

  ‘When do you go?’ she said.

  ‘The horses arrive at two thirty. I have to go then to load them. I might get back for a few minutes afterwards, if my boss dallies over his coffee.’

  She sighed, looking at the clock. It was ten past noon. ‘I have an hour off in twenty minutes. I’ll make it two hours …’ She turned away into swift chatter with the girl along on the duty free shop, and came back smiling. ‘I’m doing her last hour today, and she’ll do the gift shop in her lunch hour.’

  I bowed my thanks to the girl and she laughed back with a flash of teeth, very white against the gloom of her bottle shop.

  ‘Do you want to ha
ve lunch up there?’ I suggested to Gabriella pointing where Mike and Bob had gone.

  She shook her head. ‘Too public. Everyone knows me so well. We’ve time to go in to Milan, if you can do that?’

  ‘If the horses get here early, they can wait.’

  ‘Serve them right.’ She nodded approvingly, her lips twitching.

  A crowd of outgoing passengers erupted into the hall and swarmed round the gift counter. I retired to the snack bar at the far end to wait out the twenty minutes, and found Yardman sitting alone at one of the small tables. He waved me to join him, which I would just as soon not have done, and told me to order myself a double gin and tonic, like his.

  ‘I’d really rather have coffee.’

  He waved a limp hand permissively. ‘Have whatever you like, my dear boy.’

  I looked casually round the big airy place, at the glass, the polished wood, the terrazza. Along one side, next to a stall of sweets and chocolates, stretched the serving counter with coffee and beer rubbing shoulders with milk and gin. And down at the far end, close-grouped round another little table and clutching pint glasses, sat Alf and Billy, and with his back to us, John. Two and a half hours of that, I thought wryly, and we’d have a riotous trip home.

  ‘Haven’t your people turned up?’ I asked Yardman.

  ‘Delayed,’ he said resignedly. ‘They’ll be here about one, though.’

  ‘Good,’ I said, but not for his sake. ‘You won’t forget to ask them about Simon?’

  ‘Simon?’

  ‘Searle.’

  ‘Searle … oh yes. Yes, all right, I’ll remember.’

  Patrick walked through the hall from the office department, exchanged a greeting with Gabriella over the heads of her customers and came on to join us.

  ‘Drink?’ suggested Yardman, indicating his glass. He only meant to be hospitable, but Patrick was shocked.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Well … I thought you’d know. One isn’t allowed to fly within eight hours of drinking alcohol.’

  ‘Eight hours,’ repeated Yardman in astonishment.

  ‘That’s right. Twenty-four hours after a heavy party, and better not for forty-eight if you get paralytic.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ said Yardman weakly.

  ‘Air Ministry regulations,’ Patrick explained. ‘I’d like some coffee, though.’

  A waitress brought him some, and he unwrapped four sugars and stirred them in. ‘I enjoyed yesterday,’ he said, smiling at me with his yellow eyes. ‘I’ll go again. When do you race next?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s out for a start. When else?’

  I glanced at Yardman. ‘It depends on the schedules.’

  Patrick turned to him in his usual friendly way. ‘I went to Cheltenham yesterday and saw our Henry here come fourth in the Gold Cup. Very interesting.’

  ‘You know each other well, then?’ Yardman asked. His deep set eyes were invisible behind the glasses, and the slanting sunlight showed up every blemish in his sallow skin. I still had no feeling for him either way, not liking, not disliking. He was easy to work for. He was friendly enough. He was still an enigma.

  ‘We know each other,’ Patrick agreed. ‘We’ve been on trips together before.’

  ‘I see.’

  Gabriella came down towards us, wearing a supple brown suede coat over her black working dress. She had flat black round-toed patent leather shoes and swung a handbag with the same shine. A neat, composed, self-reliant, nearly beautiful girl who took work for granted and a lover for fun.

  I stood up as she came near, trying to stifle a ridiculous feeling of pride, and introduced her to Yardman. He smiled politely and spoke to her in slow Italian, which surprised me a little, and Patrick translated for me into one ear.

  ‘He’s telling her he was in Italy during the war. Rather tactless of him, considering her grandfather was killed fighting off the invasion of Sicily.’

  ‘Before she was born,’ I protested.

  ‘True.’ He grinned. ‘She’s pro-British enough now, anyway.’

  ‘Miss Barzini tells me you are taking her to lunch in Milan,’ Yardman said.

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘If that’s all right with you? I’ll be back by two-thirty when the return mares come.’

  ‘I can’t see any objection,’ he said mildly. ‘Where do you have in mind?’

  ‘Trattoria Romana,’ I said promptly. It was where Gabriella, Patrick and I had eaten on our first evening together.

  Gabriella put her hand in mine. ‘Good. I’m very hungry.’ She shook hands with Yardman and waggled her fingers at Patrick. ‘Arrivederci.’

  We walked away up the hall, the voltage tingling gently through our joined palms. I looked back once, briefly, and saw Yardman and Patrick watching us go. They were both smiling.

  Chapter Eleven

  Neither of us had much appetite, when it came to the point. We ate half our lasagne and drank coffee, and needed nothing else but proximity. We didn’t talk a great deal, but at one point, clairvoyantly reading my disreputable thoughts, she said out of the blue that we couldn’t go to her sister’s flat as her sister would be in, complete with two or three kids.

  ‘I was afraid of that,’ I said wryly.

  ‘It will have to be next time.’

  ‘Yes.’ We both sighed deeply in unison, and laughed.

  A little later, sipping her hot coffee, she said, ‘How many pills were there in the bottle you sent with Simon Searle?’

  ‘I don’t know. Dozens. I didn’t count them. The bottle was over three-quarters full.’

  ‘I thought so.’ She sighed. ‘The baker’s wife rang up last night to ask me whether I could let her have some more. She said the bottom of the bottle was all filled up with paper, but if you ask me she’s given half of them away to a friend, or something, and now regrets it.’

  ‘There wasn’t any paper in the bottle. Only cotton wool on top.’

  ‘I thought so.’ She frowned, wrinkling her nose in sorrow. ‘I wish she’d told me the truth.’

  I stood up abruptly. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Leave the coffee.’

  ‘Why?’ She began to put on her coat.

  ‘I want to see that bottle.’

  She was puzzled. ‘She’ll have thrown it away.’

  ‘I hope to God she hasn’t,’ I said urgently, paying the bill. ‘If there’s paper in the bottle, Simon put it there.’

  ‘You mean … it could matter?’

  ‘He thought I was giving the pills to you. He didn’t know they’d go to someone else. And I forgot to tell him you didn’t speak English. Perhaps he thought when you’d finished the pills you’d read the paper and tell me what it said. Heaven knows. Anyway, we must find it. It’s the first and only trace of him we’ve had.’

  We hurried out of the restaurant, caught a taxi, and sped to the bakery. The baker’s wife was fat and motherly and looked fifty, though she was probably only thirty-five. Her warm smile for Gabriella slowly turned anxious as she listened, and she shook her head and spread her hands wide.

  ‘It’s in the dustbin,’ Gabriella said ‘She threw it away this morning.’

  ‘We’ll have to look. Ask her if I can look for it.’

  The two women consulted.

  ‘She says you’ll dirty your fine suit.’

  ‘Gabriella …’

  ‘She says the English are mad, but you can look.’

  There were three dustbins in the backyard, two luckily empty and one full. We turned this one out and I raked through the stinking contents with a broom handle. The little brown bottle was there, camouflaged by wet coffee grounds and half a dozen noodles. Gabriella took it and wiped it clean on a piece of newspaper while I shovelled the muck back into the dustbin and swept the yard.

  ‘The paper won’t come out,’ she said. She had the cap off and was poking down the neck of the bottle with her finger. ‘It’s quite right. There is some in there.’ She held it out to me.
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  I looked and nodded, wrapped the bottle in newspaper, put it on the ground, and smashed it with the shovel. She squatted beside me as I unfolded the paper and watched me pick out from the winking fragments of brown glass the things which had been inside.

  I stood up slowly, holding them. A strip torn off the top of a piece of Yardman’s stationery. A bank note of a currency I did not recognise, and some pieces of hay. The scrap of writing paper and the money were pinned together, and the hay had been folded up inside them.

  ‘They are nonsense,’ said Gabriella slowly.

  ‘Do you have any idea where this comes from?’ I touched the note. She flicked it over to see both sides.

  ‘Yugoslavia. One hundred dinars.’

  ‘Is that a lot?’

  ‘About five thousand one hundred lire.’

  Three pounds. Wisps of hay. A strip of paper. In a bottle.

  Gabriella took the money and paper out of my hands and removed the pin which joined them.

  ‘What do they mean?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  A message in a bottle.

  ‘There are some holes in the paper.’

  ‘Where he put the pin.’

  ‘No. More holes than that. Look.’ She held it up to the sky. ‘You can see the light through.’

  The printed heading said in thick red letters ‘Yardman Transport Ltd., Carriers.’ The strip of paper was about six inches across and two inches deep from the top smooth edge to the jagged one where it had been torn off the page. I held it up to the light.