by Dick Francis
‘Sure. Do you have the sample?’
‘I’ve already done the electrophoresis.’ Marina gave her the square of gel.
‘Right,’ said Rosie, turning to the bench behind her and fitting the gel matrix into a machine. ‘Ready in a few minutes.’
While she waited, she chased an escaped fruit fly around the lab. The fly was very small and difficult to see but she eventually trapped it in a clap between her hands.
‘How do you do experiments on things so small?’ I asked.
‘We use microscopes to look at them. There,’ she said pointing at a microscope on the bench, ‘have a look down that.’
I leant over and looked down the double eyepieces. Fruit flies in all their glory, big, easy to see, and very dead.
‘You see? They’re not really that small, not compared to cells,’ she said. ‘Cells are so small, we need to use an electron microscope to see them.’
I decided not to ask how an electron microscope worked. I was feeling inadequate enough already as I couldn’t have caught the fly between my two hands. I couldn’t even clap, with or without a fly.
The machine behind her emitted a small beep and Rosie removed what looked like an early Polaroid photograph from a small door in its side.
‘This isn’t from a fruit fly,’ she said. ‘Looks human to me. Anyone I know?’
‘I hope not,’ said Marina.
‘So it wasn’t a road accident?’ said Rosie.
Rosie was a smart cookie, I thought.
‘I’m going to have to go,’ I said, ‘or I’ll get a parking ticket on the car.’
‘Or it’ll be towed away,’ said Marina. ‘They’re dreadful round here.’
‘Be careful, my love.’ I gave her a kiss.
‘I’ll look after her,’ said Rosie.
‘Do that,’ I said.
I went down and retrieved my car from under the gaze of a traffic warden with just one minute remaining of my time. He didn’t look happy.
I drove round the corner and stopped to ring Frank Snow at Harrow.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’ll be in the office on Thursday and you are welcome to come and see me. What is it about?’
‘A former pupil,’ I replied.
‘We don’t discuss former pupils with the media,’ he told me.
‘I’m not media,’ I said.
‘Who are you then?’
‘I’ll tell you on Thursday. See you about nine?’
‘Make it ten.’ He sounded unsure. ‘Come for coffee, if you must.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Coffee at ten on Thursday. Thanks. Bye.’
Instead of going back to the flat, I went to the races. I needed a street corner to ring my bell and shout from.
Towcester Racecourse is set in the beautiful surroundings of the Easton Neston Estate to the west of Northampton. My spirits were high, as was the sun, as I turned through the impressive arched and pillared entrance into the car park. I chose my parking space carefully, not only to avoid another confrontation with Andrew Woodward, but also to make a physical ambush between car and racecourse entrance more difficult. I had been caught out like that once before.
I went in search of my prey. As always, he was in the bar nearest to the weighing room in the ground floor of the Empress grandstand.
‘Hello, Paddy,’ I said.
‘Hello, Sid, what brings you all the way to Northamptonshire?’
‘Nothing much. How come you’re here?’
‘Oh, I lives just down the road. This is me local course.’
I knew, that’s why I had come. I was pretty sure he’d be here, and I was pretty sure he’d be in this bar before the first race.
‘Now what can I do for ya, Sid?’ he asked.
‘Nothing, Paddy.’
I looked around the bar which was filling up with those looking for a drink and a sandwich before the entertainment began.
‘Are ya going to buy me a drink?’ said Paddy.
‘Now why would I want to do that?’ I replied. ‘It’s high time you bought me one.’
‘Don’t ya want to ask me anything?’
‘No. What about?’
We stood for some time in silence and I could tell that I would die of thirst before Paddy put his hand in his pocket so I ordered myself the ubiquitous diet Coke and stood there drinking it.
‘Well, why are ya here then?’ said Paddy.
‘I’m meeting someone,’ I replied.
‘Who?’ he asked.
‘Never you mind.’
‘What about?’
‘It’s none of your business.’
Paddy’s antennae were almost quivering and he could hardly contain himself. He absolutely hated not being ‘in the know’ about everything. He finally bought a Guinness to calm his nerves.
Charles came through the door at the far end. I had called him on the drive north, had very briefly explained to him my little game and he had eagerly agreed to help. He had brought with him a distinguished-looking white-haired gentleman in a tweed suit and a dark blue bow-tie.
‘Ah,’ I said and walked over to greet them, leaving Paddy at the bar.
‘Hello, Charles,’ I said. ‘Thanks so much for coming.’
‘Sid,’ he said, ‘meet Rodney Humphries.’
We sat down on some chairs at a table. I checked to see that we were still in Paddy’s view and caught a glimpse of him staring at us. We spoke with our heads bowed close together and, from Paddy’s position, it must have appeared quite conspiratorial.
‘Rodney lives down the road from me,’ said Charles. ‘He was keen as mustard to come.’
‘Any excuse not to do the gardening,’ said Rodney with a smile.
‘Well, Rodney, if anyone asks you, which they probably won’t, you can give a fictitious name and say that you’re a retired professor of ballistics.’
‘Professor of ballistics, eh? I like that. Retired from anywhere special?’ he asked.
‘Anywhere obscure that no one could check up on.’
He thought for a moment. ‘Professor Reginald Culpepper from the University of Bulawayo, in Rhodesia. In the good old days of UDI, which is when I was out there. That should do. No one will be able to check on that now that it’s Zimbabwe.’
‘Perfect,’ I said, ‘but I hope you won’t need it.’
I watched Paddy out of the corner of my eye. He was a good sort and I felt a little guilty treating him in this way but it was important.
‘Why don’t you just tell… what’s his name?’ said Charles.
‘Paddy, Paddy O’Fitch.’
‘Well, why don’t you just tell Paddy O’Fitch what you want him to know?’
‘Because I want him to tell the right person what he knows and, unless he thinks it’s a secret, he might not do that.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Charles.
‘Secrets burn holes in Paddy’s brain until they reach his mouth. The more secret a thing is, the more likely he is to tell someone. It’s not that he’s malicious, it’s just that he absolutely loves to know something that others don’t and he can’t resist telling them.’
‘So who’s the right person?’ asked Charles.
‘A journalist called Chris Beecher.’
I could see Paddy moving over towards us. He obviously couldn’t resist any longer.
‘So Professor,’ I said loudly, so Paddy would hear, ‘what is your expert opinion?’
Before Rodney/Reginald could say anything I made great play of putting my finger to my lips.
‘Good afternoon, Admiral,’ Paddy said, arriving at our table. He had known who Charles was, but there again, Paddy knew everything. Well, almost everything.
‘Good afternoon,’ replied Charles, getting up.
Neither Charles nor I made any move to introduce Rodney. Charles sat down again and the three of us waited in silence. Paddy eventually seemed to get the message and moved away.
‘See you later then, Sid,’ he said.
‘Right.’
>
He went off towards the door but couldn’t resist a backwards glance as he went through it.
‘I bet you a pound to a penny that he will be hanging around outside to catch me when I leave.’
‘But I still don’t understand,’ said Charles. ‘Why do you need him to tell this journalist? Why don’t you tell the journalist yourself?’
‘If I went and told Chris Beecher something directly then he probably wouldn’t believe me in the first place and, even if he did, he wouldn’t write it in the newspaper because he would think that I only told him because I wanted him to. This way, if Paddy extracts the secret from me, which I will let him do eventually, and moreover if I tell him that under no circumstances to repeat it to anyone, he’s bound to go and blabber it to his neighbour, who just happens to be Chris Beecher, and Beecher will put it in his newspaper solely because he thinks I don’t want it there.’
‘And what is this great secret?’ asked Rodney. ‘Or can’t I know?’
‘Yes,’ said Charles, ‘can I know too?’
‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘of course you can know. In fact, you should know in case you are approached by Paddy or anyone else. It’s not actually a secret at all and I want everyone to know. It just has to appear to be a secret to Paddy, and also to Chris Beecher. It’s simply that I found a second bullet at Bill Burton’s place and also that I know he didn’t kill himself and the police are now looking for his murderer.’
‘And are they?’ asked Charles.
‘Well, not exactly, but Chris Beecher won’t know that.’
‘I’m none the wiser,’ said Rodney.
‘It’s a long story. Charles will fill you in. I want to go now so that Paddy can begin to needle me. If he asks you, say I asked you to look at a second bullet. Enjoy your day at the races.’
‘I will. Do you have any tips?’ Rodney asked.
‘He’ll tell you to keep your money in your pocket,’ said Charles.
I laughed. He knew me too well.
I went out to the parade ring. As expected, Paddy came up to me as I watched the runners for the first.
‘Who’s the professor then?’ he asked.
I looked suitably appalled that he knew he was a professor. ‘None of your business.’
‘Come on, Sid. What’s he doing here?’
‘I just wanted some advice. Nothing important.’
I hoped he didn’t believe me. I moved onto the stands to watch the race and he followed, as I knew he would. He was now on a mission.
‘So what advice could he give ya that I couldn’t?’
‘You don’t know anything about ballistics.’
‘Ballistics? What the bloody hell is dat?’
‘Exactly! You know nothing about it. So I found someone who does.’
‘What is it?’
‘Look, Paddy,’ I said, ‘I told you, it’s none of your business.’
He was about to ask again when thankfully he was cut off by the public address system. ‘They’re under starter’s orders… they’re off.’
I had always enjoyed riding here and I watched enviously as others did what I longed to do. Towcester is a ‘park’ racecourse set amongst rolling green hills. The fences are inviting and fair but the real challenge for a horse is the last mile to the finish, which is all uphill. The horses passed the stands for the first time and turned right-handed and downhill to start their second circuit, all twelve still packed closely together.
I noticed that Paddy had left my side and had made his way to the end of the stand where he was in earnest conversation with someone I didn’t recognise, sadly not Chris Beecher.
On the far side of the course, one jockey kicked his mount hard in the ribs and they started to move away from the others in their bid for victory. Much too soon, I thought. Many a race had been lost here by horse and rider who have run out of puff on the long incline to the last fence and the finish line. It was an impressive break and soon the horse had established a lead of twenty lengths or more. None of the others seemed to have responded to the move, and I would not have done so either. Experienced jockeys know a thing or two, and going too soon at Towcester is one of them. It was not the way to win races.
At the second last fence, the leader was still in front but by a much-reduced margin that was diminishing with every tired stride. By the last he had been caught by the others and would not have won even if he had not come to grief in a bone-crunching fall.
Statistically, at every racecourse, more horses fall at the last fence than at any other, due mainly to tiredness. The last at Towcester has been the scene of more than its fair share of disasters, and today was no exception.
A close finish was fought out between two of the country’s leading riders who had bided their time and made their runs late. A job well done. The crowd cheered them home with enthusiasm.
Paddy reappeared at my side.
‘Now, what do ya want to know about bullets for?’ he asked.
‘How do you know I do?’
‘Dat’s what ballistics is all about,’ he said proudly.
‘So?’
‘Your professor,’ he said.
‘It’s none of your business.’
‘So which bullets are ya interested in?’ he persisted. ‘Is it the one dat killed Huw Walker or the one dat killed Bill Burton?’
‘Neither,’ I replied.
‘Well, what other ones are there, then?’
‘Never you mind.’
I watched with relief as both the horse and jockey who had fallen at the last finally rose to their respective feet and walked away from the experience, bruised but not broken.
‘So there are other bullets?’ asked Paddy
‘I’m not saying another word,’ I said.
‘Aw, come on, Sid, me old mate, are there other bullets?’
‘One other bullet.’
‘Great!’ said Paddy. He thought he was getting somewhere. ‘Who was shot with it?’
‘No one.’
He looked disappointed. ‘Well, why is it important, then?’
‘Did I say it was important?’ I asked.
‘Stands to reason,’ he said. ‘Why else would ya get a professor?’
‘Look, I found another bullet and I wanted some advice about it, OK? Nothing important.’
‘Where did ya find it?’
‘Come on, Paddy, what is this — Twenty Questions? Leave it alone, will you?’
‘But where did ya find it?’
‘I said, leave it alone. I don’t want everyone to know.’
‘If ya tell me, I won’t have to go on asking questions now, will I?’
‘You could just stop asking questions anyway,’ I pointed out.
‘Bejesus, dat’s not me nature.’ He grinned at me.
‘I found a bullet in a sand bucket at Bill Burton’s stable yard, OK?’ I said. ‘I wanted it checked by a ballistics expert.’
‘But why?’ asked Paddy. ‘What did ya want him to check about it?’
‘I told you, Paddy, I don’t want everyone to know about it.’
‘But what did ya want him to check?’
I sighed. ‘If it was fired from the same gun as that which killed Bill Burton.’
He looked confused. ‘So, what if it had?’
Eventually, I told him everything. I told him that I was certain that Bill Burton had not killed himself and that he had been murdered. I told him about the gunpowder residue on Bill’s hand and sleeve and why there must have been a second shot fired. I told him about searching for the bullet and finding it. I made up a bit about having the bullet checked by my professor and about it having come from the same gun. I also told him that the police were now investigating Bill’s death as murder and not as suicide. I hoped I was right.
I told Paddy everything twice to ensure he had all the details and then I told him not to tell anyone else.
‘Ya can trust me,’ he said.
I hoped I could do just that.
I went in search o
f Charles and Rodney and found them in the bar drinking champagne.
‘So, have you passed your message?’ asked Charles.
‘Indeed I have. I only hope I didn’t make it so much of a secret that Paddy doesn’t actually tell. Now, what’s with this fizz?’
‘We got the winner of the second race, but this bloody bottle of bubbles cost us more than our winnings,’ said Charles with a grin. ‘Help yourself.’
I did and much enjoyed their company for a while, without Paddy snapping at my heels.
I left the races after the third in order to get back to Lincoln’s Inn Fields to collect Marina at five thirty.
She came bounding out across the pavement and into the car. Rosie was standing in the entrance and I waved to her as we drove away.
‘Rosie is like a chaperone,’ said Marina. ‘She won’t even let me go to the loo without her.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘Have you had a good day?’
‘Much the same as always,’ she said, sighing. ‘In fact, I’ve had enough of this job. We heard today that somebody likes the results so much that the project, which was originally only for three years, is going to be extended for another couple of years at least. They want me to stay for the extension but I’m not sure if I will.’
‘What will you do instead?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Something in London?’
There must have been some concern in my voice.
‘I’m thinking of leaving my job,’ she said, ‘not you.’
She stroked my arm. That was all right then.
CHAPTER 14
There was nothing about any second bullet or the Sid Halley theories on the Chris Beecher page of The Pump on Wednesday morning. I had bought a copy on my way back to the flat after taking Marina to work. Rosie had been waiting for her at the front door and Marina had rolled her eyes at me as she climbed out of the car. I had laughed.
I parked the car in the garage under the building, went upstairs and searched the paper from start to finish. Nothing.
I was beginning to doubt my assessment of Paddy’s character when Charles telephoned me.
‘I’ve just had a call from someone who said that you had said that he could check with me the name of the ballistics professor you had consulted.’