Dick Francis's Damage

by Dick Francis

  “So what do we know?” asked Roger Vincent.

  “Not much,” I said. “But I believe it must be someone involved in racing who knows their way round a racetrack. And it’s possibly someone with a hyperactive child.”

  Did I sense a slight quiver somewhere in the room?

  “Why do you say that?” asked Howard Lever.

  “Two different stimulant drugs have been used to dope horses, both of which are usually prescribed for hyperactivity. I know it’s a long shot, but maybe we’re looking for someone who has experience of the condition either directly or through a family member.”

  “How many people suffer from hyperactivity?” asked Ian Tulloch.

  “It’s difficult to say,” I replied. “It can be diagnosed in different ways, but even the smallest estimate is between one and two percent of the population, mostly children. However, up to half of those affected carry the condition into adulthood. That’s about a million people.”

  There was a collective drooping of shoulders around the table.

  “What did the police say about the fireworks?” I asked. “I saw you four with them after the event down at the water jump.” I looked, in turn, at Roger Vincent, Howard Lever, Piers Pottinger and Stephen Kohli.

  “They are investigating the matter,” Roger Vincent replied. “Initial indications are that the fireworks were activated by a remote signal, possibly from a cell phone or by a special transmitter. The Merseyside Police’s forensic labs have yet to report.”

  “It must have been done by someone actually watching the race,” I said. “It was not by chance that the fireworks went off at the very moment that would cause the maximum disruption.”

  “So anyone watching at home on television could have done it,” said Howard.

  “That’s most unlikely,” I said. “I doubt he would take the chance on getting a cell phone signal at Aintree at precisely the right time with all those people there. Far too risky. I had trouble getting a signal to make a call on Friday and there were only half as many people present as on Saturday. So it had to be done by a special transmitter and that means the perpetrator was close by. He had to have been at Aintree watching the race.”

  “Are these special transmitters easy to obtain?” asked Roger Vincent.

  “Have you an electric gate or an automatic garage door?” I asked. “That’s all you need. Push a button on a remote to connect an electric circuit with a battery and, presto, you have a firework display. I’m sure that is what the police will find. Maybe they will be able to trace who has bought such a device, but I wouldn’t hold your breath. Anyone can go into a hardware store and buy one over the counter for a few pounds, and there’d be no record of the purchaser’s identity if it was paid for with cash.”

  The shoulders drooped again.

  “What did the police say about the extortion?” I asked.

  “They don’t know about that,” Roger Vincent replied. “We didn’t tell them.”

  “What! You can’t be serious.”

  “That is what the Board have been discussing this morning.”

  “Then you surely must tell them. It will be hugely relevant to their inquiries into the fireworks.”

  I looked around the table and there were some definite nods of agreement, but also some shaking of heads. Both Roger Vincent and Howard Lever were in the second category, and I suspected Ian Tulloch was as well.

  “I am of the same opinion,” said Neil Wallinger. “It is well past time the police were involved. I insist we call them in straightaway.”

  “But what guarantee do we have that the situation will remain confidential?” said Bill Ripley.

  Neil Wallinger was ready with his reply. “Setting off fireworks in the middle of the Grand National in front of seventy thousand spectators, and with millions more watching on television, is hardly keeping things confidential.”

  “Most of the media,” I said, “seem to be claiming that the disruption on Saturday was most likely caused by protesters opposed to the Grand National on animal-welfare grounds, although goodness knows why since one of the horses had to be destroyed and the others were so obviously distressed.”

  “That is the assumption the police have made,” said Howard Lever.

  “Then they are not going to be very happy when they find out you didn’t tell them the true reason,” said Neil Wallinger cuttingly. “That’s what we’re really discussing here, isn’t it? It’s not whether we should now call in the police over the extortion, it’s whether this Board can survive the embarrassment and shame of not having done so previously.” He paused and looked around the table at the faces. “I am the member of this Board charged with the responsibility of maintaining the integrity of British racing. I see no integrity at all in refusing to call in the proper authorities. Failure to do so today will result in my resignation from the Board.”

  There was silence in the room while everyone took in the implications. Neil Wallinger was one of the most respected sports administrators in the country. His departure from the BHA Board would be a major blow to racing and would certainly not go unnoticed by the media. In addition, he would then be set free from any collective obligation to remain silent. Either way, it seemed, the police would get to know about the extortion.

  But Roger Vincent was not giving up so easily.

  “Neil,” he said in his most charming manner, “I am sure we don’t need to talk about resignations. We all have the best interests of racing at heart, and some of us believe that keeping this matter confidential and attempting to resolve the problem from within is the best way for racing in the long term.”

  “I cannot agree,” Neil replied. “The best interest in racing is served by the capture and imprisonment of whoever is responsible. To that end, we should be inviting the police to intervene, especially as we have not made any significant progress without them.” He looked directly at me.

  “I have to agree with Neil,” I said. “I simply do not have the resources to investigate this matter alone. We need police help, but we must be careful not to let them take over everything. This Board still runs British racing and that needs to be made clear to the police. All too often they can ride roughshod over the whole shebang in their size-twelve boots and to hell with the consequences.”

  “Do any of us have a direct contact with any senior policemen?” asked Roger Vincent.

  “I have friends still serving in the Met,” said Stephen Kohli. “I used to be an officer there myself. The best man at my wedding is now in charge of the Homicide and Serious Crime Command.”

  “Ideal,” said Roger Vincent. “May I suggest that we instruct Stephen to contact his friend in a semiformal approach, requesting a meeting between him and this Board at the earliest opportunity.” He smiled and looked around the room but particularly at Neil. Had he done enough to defuse the unexploded bomb?

  “Today?” said Neil.

  “I said at the earliest opportunity,” Roger Vincent replied with a smile. “If that can be today, then so be it. However, I think we need to be realistic. Today is Sunday. Tomorrow or Tuesday would seem to be more reasonable.”

  Neil had little option but to agree, and Stephen Kohli was officially asked to set up the meeting between the police commander and the Board “at the earliest opportunity.”

  The meeting broke up.

  I hadn’t been executed. I hadn’t even been sacked. In fact, I’d been instructed to carry on as best I could until the meeting with Stephen’s police friend.

  “Jeff,” said Howard Lever, putting his arm over my shoulder and steering me into a quiet corner, “I had a Cheltenham policeman on the phone last week.”

  “I asked him to call you to verify my employment status.”

  “Yes. It gave me rather a fright, I can tell you.”

  “Didn’t Crispin warn you?”

  “Not until after t
he call.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I am concerned, however, about these claims of harassment from Matthew Unwin. Not good for our public image. Is there any truth in them?”

  “None at all. At least not as far as I’m concerned. I can’t speak for the rest of the BHA, not unless Unwin considers that his disciplinary hearing and subsequent disqualification were harassment.”

  “Hmm,” he said. “You may be right.” He didn’t sound overly convinced, but he said nothing more to me.

  As the other Board members packed up their papers and put on their coats, I looked around at them. Had I felt a slight frisson earlier in the meeting? From whom had it emanated? And what had been said to cause it? I tried to remember but nothing surfaced.

  It must have been my imagination.

  21

  It was not just another note that arrived from Leonardo at the BHA office early on Monday morning in the mail, there was a cell phone in the packet as well.

  Crispin Larson called me at home just before eight o’clock and suggested we meet at El Vino for breakfast at eight-thirty.

  “Make it nine,” I said. “I’m not dressed yet.”

  “Idle tyke,” he said. “You need to get up in the morning. All this working-from-home nonsense is making you lazy.”

  Maybe he was right, but, on this occasion, laziness had nothing to do with it. Lydia and I had been out for a late night and we’d been up until well past two in the morning.

  I had been rather down when I’d returned home to Willesden from the Board meeting. Even though I’d not been sacked, I did feel that I’d achieved little or nothing and that hurt my pride. I’d been so sure I would be able to find the person, or at least get some way towards it but I had learned absolutely nothing about him. Nothing more than a few guesses.

  Lydia had done her best all afternoon to cheer me up without any great success, but she had finally convinced me that we should go into central London to see a new high-tech spy movie that had opened in Leicester Square. She was desperate to see it before her friends at the realtors.

  “It will cheer you up,” she said, “and you can tell me all the things that are wrong in it.”

  We laughed. I was always saying to her that no real secret agent would ever dress like James Bond or drive an Aston Martin. He would stand out too much. And as for the drinking—well, 007 wouldn’t have been able to see straight, let alone shoot accurately, and all that lovemaking to gorgeous birds just made us real secret agents laugh with incredulity, and perhaps a bit of jealousy.

  The film had all the usual mistakes and many new ones as well, with science-fiction killer-ray guns and the ability to scream and be heard across the vacuum of space. It was, however, very entertaining, And, of course, the hero saved the world by defeating the bad guys, cheating death in the final scene by floating down from orbital speed at the edge of space with nothing more than a Union Jack parachute and a pair of fancy plastic goggles. It conveniently ignored the fact that, in reality, he would have been burned to a crisp by the heat generated or asphyxiated by the lack of oxygen at such a height. Probably both.

  We came out of the cinema laughing and joking.

  “So ridiculous,” I said.

  “But wonderful fun,” Lydia said. “And no more ridiculous than Hugh Grant playing the Prime Minister.”

  “That’s true.” We laughed again. “I’m hungry. Fancy a meal?”

  We went to Balans restaurant in Old Compton Street and quite simply stayed until one o’clock in the morning, eating and drinking, but mostly just talking, and then we caught the night bus home for more wine and sex before sleep.

  Things between us had been really good since our night out at Les Misérables, and we seemed to have rediscovered the art of communication. It was just like old times, and, thankfully, not a word from either of us about marriage.

  “Who was on the phone?” Lydia asked as I went along to the kitchen.

  “Crispin Larson,” I said. “I have to go and meet him. I’ll have breakfast there.”

  “Trouble?”

  “No more than yesterday.”

  “Good luck,” she called as I went out the front door.

  —

  CRISPIN WAS at El Vino ahead of me, with coffee and buttered toast in front of him.

  “What does he say?” I asked, sitting opposite him and helping myself to a piece of his toast.

  “He wants the down payment.”

  “Does he indeed? How much?”

  “He wants two hundred thousand down on two million.”

  “He’s beginning to think he’ll get nothing. He’s trying to cover his costs and make a bit of profit straight off.”

  “You think so?” asked Crispin.

  “Otherwise, why would he ask? He must know the most dangerous time for him is the drop. Why have two drops when one would do? He’s getting twitchy. What do Howard and Roger Vincent say?”

  “They’re keen to pay. And so, apparently, are most of the Board. Anything to prevent another incident like Saturday’s.”

  “So what are the instructions for the drop?”

  “Our friend’s letter said to get the money ready in a secure brightly colored canvas bag and await instructions. He’ll text them to this phone.” Crispin handed me a basic black Nokia cell. “It came with the letter.”

  I had a good look at the phone. It looked innocuous enough. I removed the back. Someone had scratched off the serial numbers from both the phone itself and from the plain yellow SIM card it contained.

  “Does it have a phone number?” I asked.

  “It must have, but how do you find it? The settings are password-protected. You can’t make a call out—it simply says it’s Out of time—and you can’t add time without the number.”

  The pay-as-you-go phone. The bane of policemen and security services worldwide. Bought for cash with a false name, there was no means of identifying the owner. It is the communication device of choice among villains and terrorists alike.

  “Did the letter say when we are to pay?” I asked.

  “This afternoon.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said. “How can we get two hundred grand in cash by this afternoon?”

  “And all in used fifty-pound notes. Roger Vincent is working on it. Apparently, he has a very accommodating bank manager.”

  “We could always use flash money,” I said.

  “‘Flash money’?” Crispin asked.

  “Police slang for dummy money—you know, newspaper cut into bundles made to look like cash with a genuine banknote at either end.”

  “Would that be wise?”

  “Probably not.”

  “You are to make the drop,” Crispin said, “with me in close proximity.”

  No doubt to make sure it wasn’t him or me who ran off with the money.

  “We need to mark the cash in some way,” I said, “so that it can be traced. And also we ought to have a tracker device with it.”

  “The letter says that the cash should be placed in the bag with nothing else.”

  “Well, it would, wouldn’t it? But it doesn’t mean we are going to comply with his wishes. I think I’ll go and see an old friend of mine from the army. He now runs one of those spy gadget shops in Kensington High Street. I’ll deal with that, you just get the cash.” I looked at my watch. It was twenty to ten. “Meet you back here at two with the money?”

  “I’ll try.”

  —

  “THIS ONE should do well,” said my ex–army mate. He produced a small black box about two inches by one inch and half an inch deep. “Best tracking device on the market. Range of about four miles.”

  “Don’t you have anything smaller?” I asked. That black box was going to be far too visible in a bag of used fifty-pound notes. “Something small enough that you wouldn’t not
ice?”

  “Hide it,” he said. “Best in a car. It’s got a magnet on one side so that it will stick in a wheel well.”

  “I need something flat that no one would see.”

  “Sorry, mate, no can do. The electronics are pretty small, but you need a decent battery for the range. Those little watch-sized batteries aren’t up to it. This little beauty will go on working for thirty-six hours before the battery needs replacing. What do you want it for anyway?”

  He held up the receiver, a silver box the size of a TV remote, with a loop aerial attached at one end and a lead to an earpiece at the other. It made a reassuringly continuous electronic beeping sound in the earpiece when the loop faced towards the little box. It was, however, not as sophisticated as a James Bond tracker, which would almost certainly have had a moving-map display as the receiver and would have worked from outer space for a whole month using a self-charging battery hidden inside a playing card.

  “Checking up on the little lady, are we?” He grinned.

  “Something like that.” I could hardly tell him that it was to hide with a stash of ransom money. The ransom for racing.

  “Then put it inside something that won’t raise her suspicions, like in an empty cigarette pack or a chocolate candy wrapper.”

  Lydia didn’t smoke, and chocolate was definitely not on her current diet’s allowable food list. Both items would have been instantly suspicious if I really had been “checking up on the little lady.”

  “Or just hide it in her handbag. Women’s handbags are so full of stuff, she’ll never notice it at the bottom.”

  “I’ll take it,” I said. “And the receiver.”

  He switched them both off and put them back in their boxes.

  “Do you have any pens that write with ink that only shows up under ultraviolet light?”

  “Security pens,” he said. “For marking your property with a zip code. Loads of them. Thin ones or thick ones?”

  “Thick,” I said. “I’ll take a couple.”