Dick Francis's Damage

by Felix Francis

  “So what have you discovered?” asked Ian Tulloch, his tone of voice indicating that he didn’t expect it to be very much.

  “The methylphenidate was given to the horses via the water supply in the racetrack stables. Analysis has shown that all of the water samples I collected from the Cheltenham stables had a concentration high enough to provide the positive dope tests in horses that had drunk only a small quantity. None of the three horses that tested negative at Cheltenham had been given any of the stable water to drink.”

  Crispin had given me the results outside in the hall just seconds before we came in. He’d also confirmed that initial tests had shown that Graham Perry’s horses had distinct traces of methylphenidate in their hair samples.

  Was that another coincidence or were we dealing with the same man?

  “How easy is it to obtain this methyl stuff?” Howard Lever asked.

  “Pretty easy,” I said. “It is controlled, which means you should require a doctor’s prescription to get it, but it is widely available on the Internet without one. And it is readily soluble in water. I believe it was added to the water storage tank above the stable manager’s office at Cheltenham. I assume a similar situation occurred at Newbury, but I haven’t yet checked.”

  “On Wednesday,” Howard Lever added, “I instructed that until further notice, all horses in all the British racetrack stables are to be given water to drink only from special trucks that are filled at secret locations well away from the racetracks.”

  There were nods of agreement around the table.

  “Does that mean we’ve defeated this man?” asked Charles Payne. “And we don’t need to pay him anything?”

  “It may not be as easy as that,” Crispin said. “We are aware—that is, Jeff and I are aware—that methylphenidate has also been administered to other horses at their home stables, and we are of the opinion that it’s likely to have been done by the same man.”

  “Whose stables?” Stephen Kohli demanded, leaning forward to look down the table at Crispin and me.

  Crispin was about to speak again when I cut him off.

  “We would prefer not to say at present.”

  “But you must,” spluttered Stephen in disbelief. “I insist. I should have been informed so that the appropriate action could be initiated.”

  By “appropriate action,” I assumed, he meant the setting up of a disciplinary panel and the subsequent disqualification of the trainer. Stephen was apt to assume that all participants in the sport were trying to break the rules at all times. Certainly the current BHA Rules of Racing handbook, produced under his stewardship, seemed to me to be largely a list of penalties that would be handed out for even the slightest misdemeanor, intentional or otherwise.

  “I obtained the test results only this morning,” Crispin said. “And the trainer in question is unaware that samples have been taken from his horses.”

  I thought Roger Vincent was about to ask how the samples were taken, but, at the last moment, he obviously opted out, perhaps deciding that he didn’t really want to know.

  “What makes you think it was done by the same man?” Ian Tulloch asked.

  Crispin continued in his usual protracted manner. “An anonymous telephone caller left a voice mail on the whistle-blowing RaceStraight reporting line, claiming that the trainer in question was administering amphetamine to his horses. I instructed Jeff here to take a quick peek at the trainer’s setup to establish the veracity of the claim.” Crispin paused.

  “Yes,” Ian Tulloch said impatiently, “but why did you come to the conclusion that this was done by the same man who doped the water at Cheltenham?”

  “And why,” Stephen Kohli asked, jumping in with two feet, “didn’t you immediately send in a BHA testing team rather than relying on a rogue investigator?”

  “I am not a rogue investigator,” I said sharply. “Please don’t confuse being clandestine with being illegal. I work completely within the law.”

  At least I tried to, although I didn’t always tell the truth—except in court under oath.

  “Mr. Larson, please answer my question,” Ian Tulloch said rather forcefully. “Why do you believe it is the same man?”

  Everyone’s eyes turned back to Crispin.

  “It is a complicated situation, and maybe, dare I say, there is a touch of guesswork involved. In all, three different trainers have claimed they were approached by an individual who demanded money or he would dope their horses and they would lose their livelihood. In the light of that intelligence, I was of the opinion that the call to RaceStraight could be a malicious attempt to bring disgrace to an individual who had refused to pay. Hence, the unorthodox approach.”

  Stephen Kohli looked apoplectic.

  “Who are these trainers?” he demanded. “Why wasn’t I informed of this before?”

  Crispin tried valiantly to explain that things were often said to him in strictest confidence and that without the trust of those in the sport, he would have been unable to gather the intelligence he was famed for. Any loss of anonymity would instantly cause his network of covert human intelligence sources to evaporate in the wind.

  But Stephen Kohli didn’t seem to understand that. To him, things were always black or white, never gray. And he was seething.

  “Gentlemen,” said Roger Vincent, trying to restore some sort of order by banging his palm on the table, “what is important here is the matter at hand and what we do about it.”

  “Have you had any reply to the notice in The Times?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Howard Lever said, “we have. Our offer was rejected out of hand. I said that twenty thousand wouldn’t be enough.”

  “What was the response, exactly?” I asked.

  Roger Vincent handed over a piece of paper. “This is a copy,” he said.

  I looked down and read the single paragraph.

  Don’t mess with me. Your offer is not enough. Five million in cash by next week or I will bring down your beloved racing for good. Agree in the Times on Saturday—or else.

  “How was this delivered?” I asked.

  “Addressed to me personally in the regular mail,” said Roger Vincent. “Same as last time.”

  The paper was passed around the table amid considerable murmurings.

  “We couldn’t possibly acquire five million pounds in cash even if we wanted to,” said Neil Wallinger. “Money-laundering restrictions would prevent it for a start.”

  “Why don’t we ignore him?” I said. All the eyes swung around to face me. “He’s being totally unreasonable, so call his bluff. Use the trucks for drinking water, especially at Ascot this Saturday and Sunday, and make sure they’re clean. Keep them guarded to prevent contamination. What then can he do?”

  There were some nods around the table.

  “What if he goes to the newspapers?” asked Piers Pottinger, always acutely aware of the public relations angle.

  “Let him,” I said. “What can he say that won’t incriminate him?”

  “He could anonymously say that he had doped all the horses that ran at Cheltenham.”

  “So what?” I said. “Would any of the newspapers believe him if he refused to give his name?” Now there were shakes of various heads. “And why would he go to the newspapers, not when there’s still a chance of getting money out of us. He would surely only do that if and when all negotiations are over. And, even if he did, we could still argue that it doesn’t invalidate the race results, not if all the horses were equally doped.” I conveniently ignored the fact that at least three of the horses at Cheltenham had not ingested any methylphenidate. “We are not going to pay this man five million pounds, that’s for sure, so we should pay him absolutely nothing. Let’s ignore him. Or, better still, let’s call in the police.”

  Crispin and I were told to wait outside while the others discussed matters and made their dec
ision.

  “That didn’t go very well,” I said to Crispin. “Stephen seems rather angry.”

  “Stephen is always angry,” Crispin replied. “I’ve always found the best policy is to pay no attention to him.”

  “But he’s your boss.”

  “So? Paul Maldini is your boss, but I hear you and Nigel Green take little or no notice of him most of the time.”

  “Who told you that?” I asked, but he just smiled at me. Clearly, he believed that I didn’t need to know, so he didn’t tell me.

  There wasn’t much Crispin didn’t know about racing and obviously that included everything going on within the BHA itself.

  “What are they going to do, then?” I asked, jerking my thumb towards the conference room behind me.

  “Your guess is as good as mine. This lot are totally unpredictable.”

  The meeting broke up with a decision to do nothing, other than to continue with the water trucks. We were to wait and see what happened over the weekend. No notice would be placed in The Times on Saturday, but, equally, no report was to be made to the police either.

  “They bottled it,” Crispin said to me as we were leaving Scrutton’s Club. “They hope by doing nothing it will all go away, but I’m not sure your plan to ignore him is actually the best policy. With our heads stuck in the sand, we may not see the juggernaut coming that will run us all over.”

  “You really think it’s that bad?”

  “Don’t you?”

  13

  I caught the District Line from St. James’s Park to Richmond and went to see Faye.

  “How lovely,” she said, opening the front door to their Georgian mansion and giving me a kiss. “Come on in.”

  “You should be resting in bed,” I said with mock admonishment.

  “Nonsense,” she replied with a laugh. “Coffee, tea or wine?”

  “I’d love a coffee.” Actually, I would have loved a glass of wine, but I didn’t think Faye would be able to join me so I opted for the coffee instead.

  I sat on a stool at the breakfast bar while she set to work at her fancy coffee machine.

  “What brings you to Richmond on a Friday afternoon?”

  “I came to see you.”

  She beamed with pleasure. “I’d have thought you’d be at your office.”

  “I’m working away from the office for a while. I tell you, I could get used to not having a supervisor looking over my shoulder all the time.”

  She went on smiling and passed over a steaming cup of cappuccino.

  “How are you anyway?” I asked. “You look amazing.”

  “Oh, I’m OK,” she said. “But I don’t like this chemo much. I had to go to the Royal Marsden most of the day on Tuesday. God, it makes me feel sick.”

  “I’m surprised they started chemo so soon after the surgery. I’d have expected you to have more recovery time.”

  “The operation was the easy part,” Faye said. “The surgeon used some fancy new robot system that only required a few small incisions. It’s really clever. The robot’s arms and hands did the operation inside me as if they were the surgeon’s own, but, of course, they’re much thinner. The cuts were a bit sore for a few days, but I’m fine now. At least I would be if I didn’t feel so sick all the time.”

  “How long do you have to have the chemo for?”

  “Three or four cycles, according to my oncologist. Each cycle is three weeks long. That’s bloody months of feeling like this.”

  “Poor you,” I said, trying to be supportive. “But I’m sure it will be worth it.”

  “I do hope so,” she said. “And, thankfully, they tell me that with Gem/Cis I shouldn’t lose my hair.”

  “Gem/Cis?”

  “It’s the combination of drugs I’m getting, Gem-something and Cisplatin. Can’t quite remember. I had to lie there on a bed for hours with my arm sticking out sideways while they poured the stuff into me through a cannula tube.” She laughed. “It reminds me of one of those executions by lethal injection. Any last requests?”

  I smiled at her, but I found it all too serious for actual laughter.

  “Tell me about you,” she said, changing the subject. “What have you been up to?”

  “Not much,” I said. “Just the usual stuff of chasing cheats and fraudsters.”

  “Have you caught any?”

  “Not yet, but I’m working on it.”

  Faye knew better than to probe too deeply into what I did for a living. It was a situation that had first occurred when I’d been in the army. Then she hadn’t really wanted to know what I’d been up to because she knew she wouldn’t like it. Not much had changed since I’d joined the BHA.

  “How’s Lydia?” she asked.

  “She’s fine.”

  Faye knew me too well and must have detected something in the tone of my voice.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, full of concern.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I said.

  “Now, don’t lie to your big sister.”

  It was what she’d said to me almost every day throughout my childhood, from age eight onwards, whenever I’d been caught doing something naughty and I’d tried to wriggle out of the punishment.

  “I’m not,” I said.

  “There you are doing it again,” she said with mock anger. “I can always tell when you’re lying and you know it. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I don’t want to trouble you, sis, especially when you’re not well.”

  “I will be far more troubled if you don’t tell me.”

  I sighed. This hadn’t exactly been on my agenda for this visit. I’d come here intending to support Faye, not the other way around.

  “Are you and Lydia having problems? Is that it?”

  “Faye, my darling, don’t worry yourself. Lydia and I are fine. I just feel a little trapped in our relationship, that’s all. I’m sure it will work out.”

  “Is that why you haven’t asked her to marry you?”

  “Yes,” I said, finally admitting that fact to someone else.

  “Oh, Jeff, I’m so sorry,” Faye said. “And what I whispered to you last time you were here wouldn’t have helped.”

  “No,” I agreed, “not great.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I love Lydia, but I feel life is somehow passing us by. The excitement is less than it was.”

  “Jeff, it’s bound to diminish a bit with time. How long have you two been together?”

  “Just over four years.”

  “Mmm. Not really long enough for the seven-year itch. How does Lydia feel?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t talked to her about it.”

  “Then you must.”

  “How can I? She wants to get married and have children.”

  “So you do know how she feels,” Faye said. “Does she love you?”

  “Yes, I suppose. She says she does.” I stood up and walked around the kitchen, taking deep breaths to hold back tears. “Faye, I don’t know what to do.” More deep breaths. “Maybe it’s just a phase I’m going through. Something about turning thirty. Or perhaps I’m expecting too much from a relationship. We almost never argue or anything, and the sex between us is good. But the thought of marriage frightens me. It’s too permanent.”

  I sat down again on the stool. I could feel my eyes beginning to well up.

  “How about children?” Faye asked.

  “What about them?”

  “Don’t you want any?”

  “Yes, of course I do.”

  “Why ‘of course’? Not everyone wants children.”

  “Well, I do.” I sighed. “That’s part of the problem. I feel I can’t be responsible for bringing a child into the world if I’m not completely certain that Lydi
a and I will last together. It wouldn’t be fair on any of us. And I’m not one of those idiots who think that having a baby will save their relationship. It never does.”

  “No,” Faye agreed. “Having a baby puts more strain on a marriage, not less.”

  “So what do I do?” I asked. “I don’t want to hurt Lydia, but I’m not the happiest of bunnies at the moment.”

  I was very close to crying, and Faye came around the breakfast bar and put a comforting arm across my shoulders.

  “I can’t tell you what to do, little bro, that has to be for you to decide. All I will say is don’t do anything until you’re certain it’s the right thing. Lydia is a lovely girl, and they don’t come along like that very often. Make absolutely sure she’s not what you want before you cast her adrift.”

  14

  I caught the train from Waterloo to Ascot at eleven-forty on Saturday morning.

  I had meant to be much earlier, but both Lydia and I had overslept and that was because we’d had a really good time on Friday evening. The best in ages.

  I had arrived home from Richmond the previous afternoon with Faye’s wise words playing over and over again in my head: Lydia is a lovely girl, and they don’t come along like that very often. Make absolutely sure she’s not what you want before you cast her adrift.

  It was time to make some real effort on my side.

  “Let’s go out tonight,” I’d said to Lydia when she came home from work. “I’m fed up with staying at home and watching television and minding what we eat and drink.”

  “Where do you want to go?” She hadn’t sounded very enthusiastic, but I was not to be deterred.

  “To the West End. How about a show? Then dinner afterwards.”

  “Will we get any tickets this late on a Friday?”

  “Maybe we will or maybe we won’t,” I’d said. “But we could at least give it a go. Come on, let’s try our luck.”

  And so we had, acquiring the very last two seats in the peanut gallery for Les Misérables. We’d both seen the show before, but not together, and we adored the music.