Dick Francis's Damage

by Dick Francis

  “I think he could be persuaded,” I said.

  “But can we be certain that the jury won’t believe the prior statement over his verbal evidence. Juries can do such funny things. I’d be so much happier if this case never gets to a jury.”

  “I afraid I can’t help you in that department. You only asked me to find the friend and prove that he was lying. I’ve done that. The rest is up to you and Kenneth.”

  “Yes,” said Quentin, “you’ve been marvelous.”

  He even smiled.

  “How is Faye?” I asked.

  “Bearing up, poor dear. This chemo stuff is a real bugger. Makes her so tired. But I suppose it’s worth it if it works.”

  “I’m sure it will,” I said reassuringly.

  “Yeah, I hope so. I’d really hate to lose the old girl.”

  I was surprised. It was the first time I could ever recall Quentin having said anything that could be remotely described as loving about his wife, in spite of the fact that the “old girl” in question was some ten years younger than him.

  “I plan to go round to see her,” I said.

  “Yes, I thought you might. I’ll pay the check here and be home shortly. Not good form for us to turn up together. Far too conspiratorial.”

  I was still smiling at his eccentric ways when I rang the doorbell of his house.

  Faye, as always, was delighted to see me and ushered me into the kitchen.

  “Coffee or wine?” she asked.

  “Wine,” I replied, smiling, “as long as that’s all right.”

  “Of course it’s all right.”

  She didn’t need to ask if it should be red or white, she knew me too well. She poured me a generous glass of deep-red Rioja.

  “Are you not having one?” I asked as she replaced the top.

  “No,” she said. “It’s not because I can’t, but the drugs I take make some things taste nasty and alcohol is one of them. I haven’t had any for ages and it’s doing wonders for my weight.”

  She did a twirl.

  “I can tell.”

  I hadn’t said anything before because I was afraid it was due to the cancer.

  “So how are you?” Faye asked. “And how’s Lydia?”

  What she was really asking was How’s your relationship?

  “Everything is fine,” I said, smiling at her. “We are very well, thank you, although we’ve hardly seen each other this past week, we’ve both been so busy.”

  “You should make time,” she said. “Wasn’t it Arnold Bennett who said that time is our most precious of possessions? I’ve certainly found that out during these last few weeks.”

  Something about her tone of voice worried me.

  “You are going to be OK, aren’t you?”

  “It depends on how you define OK.” She took a deep breath. “Am I going to die this week? No. This year? Maybe not. Next year? Possibly. Within the next five years? Probably. Cancer hardly ever goes away completely, not when you’ve got to my age, especially when it’s somewhere deep down inside you. I know it will come back sometime and then it will be too late to do the things I still want to do. All they ever talk about at the Marsden is giving people more time, not about curing them completely.”

  “Everyone dies eventually,” I said. “All we should really expect is enough time to watch our children grow up and maybe our grandchildren too, if we’re lucky.”

  “Well, in that case, hurry up and have your children, that’s what I say. You never know how long you’ve got left. Now I understand why all my friends who’ve survived cancer suddenly start becoming manic about seeing their families all the time and going off to visit far-flung places. They never know exactly when the ax will fall.”

  Why did everyone keep talking about executions?

  At that point, Quentin arrived and I thankfully changed the subject.

  “Tell me, Quentin,” I said, “you know the law, how serious a crime is extortion?”

  “What sort of extortion?” he asked, looking worried.

  “Demanding money from an organization in return for not doing something that might embarrass it.”

  He relaxed a little and I realized he had been worrying that I was talking about Daniel Jubowski possibly extorting money from him.

  “It depends on the threats,” he said. “Violence or threatened violence is serious. The law takes a dim view of that.”

  “How about violence towards an animal?”

  “Hmm, not as serious. Prosecutions in animal cases are almost always at the request of the RSPCA. The police tend to steer clear of them if they possibly can.”

  As I now knew all too well.

  “So if I say to someone, ‘Give me a grand in cash or I’ll kill your horse,’ the police wouldn’t really be interested?”

  “They might be, the violence might be considered as being directed against the person by an implied threat. But, in the eyes of the law, horses are just possessions, like a car or a bicycle. If the horse is maliciously killed, then it’s possible that a charge of criminal damage could be brought, but there is no such offense as horseslaughter like there is manslaughter. And the RSPCA would get involved only if the killing was done with cruelty. A quick shot to the head—no problem.”

  “Even if the horse was very valuable?”

  “The value in such a case would make little or no difference in the criminal law. You get the same sentence for stealing a Mini as a Rolls-Royce. However, the horse owner would be able to sue for damages based on the value.”

  “So spiking a supermarket’s dog food with pieces of glass would not get you as long in jail as putting the same glass into their baby food?”

  “Absolutely not, although the police would definitely investigate both, but there would likely be more manpower assigned to the baby food.”

  “Did you read about the events at this year’s Grand National?” I asked.

  He nodded. “There was something in yesterday’s paper.”

  “I watched it live on television,” Faye said. “All those poor horses.”

  “What about the jockeys?” I said. “One of them broke two vertebrae in his neck.”

  “But they didn’t shoot him like they did that poor horse, right in front of the stands. They didn’t need to show that.” She shivered at the memory.

  It never ceased to amaze me how much more the British public cared more for the horses than they did for the riders. Sure, I like horses, but they aren’t people.

  “Is that what this is all about?” Quentin asked. “Did someone disrupt the Grand National because the racing authorities wouldn’t pay to prevent it?”

  Quentin wasn’t one of the country’s top legal brains for nothing.

  “Pretty much,” I said. “And we don’t seem to be able to get the police to realize how important it is.”

  “But is it really important, in the long term?” Quentin asked. “Sure, it was an inconvenience at the time and no doubt lots of people were very cross. And it was obviously very serious for the jockey who was injured and for the owner of the horse that was killed. But, in the context of most people’s lives, it was an irrelevant blip.”

  “It didn’t feel like that to me,” I said. “I was there.”

  “I’m sure it didn’t, but that is still what the law would say. The perpetrator might even successfully argue that since he had no intention of causing injury to any horse or rider, he couldn’t be held criminally responsible. He might also argue that, statistically, there was far more likelihood of injury occurring to horses and riders if they had raced for the second time around the Aintree circuit rather than being stopped after the first.”

  I was beginning to realize why Quentin was such a good defense lawyer.

  “Do you remember the University Boat Race one year,” he said, “when an Australian disrupted everythi
ng by swimming across the Thames in front of the crews? The race had to be stopped.”

  “Of course.”

  “The man was sentenced to a few months in prison for causing a public nuisance. The Boat Race organizers would have happily drowned him in the river, but most of the public thought that sending him to jail was far too harsh. There was even a petition signed by hundreds of Oxford and Cambridge students demanding his release. The man became a bit of a hero in the media and he didn’t get deported back to Australia when he was released, as many had expected. It shows that the law generally takes a moderate, even tolerant view of such actions.”

  Far from Ian Tulloch’s desire that the man responsible would be put in jail and the key thrown away, it seemed that even if the police bothered to try to catch our friend Leonardo, he would likely be hailed as a hero by the left-wing press and carried shoulder-high by the “protest brigade.”

  It was clearly up to the BHA to sort out its own problem.

  27

  And about time too,” said Detective Sergeant Galley. “I left a message for you to call me back on Monday afternoon.”

  It was now eight-thirty on Thursday morning and I’d only just called him.

  “Yes, I know,” I said. “I did get it. But I reckoned that if it were something important, you’d call me again.”

  “So why are you calling me now?”

  “I need to talk to Matthew Unwin.”

  “That’s impossible,” he said bluntly. “He’s on remand in Long Lartin Prison.”

  “Can’t I visit him?”

  “That wouldn’t be proper. You are a witness for the prosecution in his case.”

  “Is there a law against it?”

  “Not as such, but you would need permission from the court for an official interview. And I can tell you now you won’t get it.”

  “I thought the police were interested in solving crime.”

  “We are, and this one is already solved. Matthew Unwin murdered Jordan Furness. There is no doubt about that. There were far too many witnesses.”

  “If there are so many witnesses, then why do you need me specifically?”

  “You are a witness both to the crime and to the subsequent capture of Mr. Unwin.”

  “But last week you questioned me as if I was somehow involved. You can’t have it both ways. I’m either a prosecution witness or I’m a suspect.”

  “What do you want to speak to him about anyway?”

  Was that a movement in the right direction?

  “About his claim that he knew nothing about his horses being doped and that he was being harassed by the BHA. I now have reason to believe he might be right about the doping bit, even if I don’t accept the harassment claim. Other racehorse trainers have since come forward to say that they were threatened with the same thing. I’m trying to investigate the matter for the British Horseracing Authority, and I could really do with interviewing him.”

  “It still won’t be possible.”

  “Why not?” I said in a frustrated tone. “Any testimony I would give about what happened at Cheltenham races surely won’t be contentious. Have you given my statement to the defense lawyers yet? They will almost certainly accept it without question, so why do I have to appear as a witness?”

  “Whether or not you appear as a witness, I can tell you now, Mr. Hinkley, you won’t be getting me to arrange it so that you can talk to Matthew Unwin. It’s more than my job’s worth.”

  “Who are his lawyers?” I asked.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Because if you won’t help me speak with him, then I will have to contact his lawyers and ask them if I can visit their client. It might help the defense for them to know that I now believe Unwin’s claim about the doping. Do you want me to say that in court?”

  He was silent for some time and I wondered if he’d hung up, but I could still hear him breathing.

  “The law states that the police are not allowed to question a prisoner on remand,” he said formally. “Not unless there is fresh evidence in the case, which there isn’t.”

  “I’m not asking the police to question him, I’m asking if I can.”

  “He may not want to see you.”

  “I think he might.”

  “Then why don’t you ask for a normal prison visit? Prisoners on remand seem to have as many visits as they like.” It didn’t sound as if he approved.

  “So I just apply to the prison to visit him?”

  “I don’t see why not. If he were out on bail, mind, there would be conditions that would almost certainly include not having any contact with the witnesses. But if he’s inside . . . I don’t suppose that applies. But don’t tell anyone I told you so. I don’t want to know anything about it, either before or after. He probably won’t see you, in any case.”

  “Do I need Unwin’s permission?”

  “Yeah, I think so. You have to get a VO.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “A visitation order. The prisoner applies for one from the prison warden’s office and gives your name as someone he would like to see. You can’t visit a prisoner if he doesn’t want to see you.”

  “So how do I get a VO?”

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you write to Unwin and ask him to apply, but don’t mention to anyone that it was my idea.”

  “OK,” I said. “Thanks. I’ll write to him today. Now, what was it that you rang me about on Monday?”

  “Only to tell you I’d been in touch with Mr. Lever, the BHA chief executive, and he had confirmed what you’d said about your position. It really wasn’t important.”

  “I thought you might be calling to apologize for doubting what I’d said.” I knew I was pushing my luck.

  “No, Mr. Hinkley, I was not calling to apologize. The police never apologize for anything. Not unless we are instructed to do so by a court.”

  I actually thought I could hear him laughing down the line.

  —

  NO SOONER had I put my phone down from speaking with D.S. Galley than it rang again.

  “Hello,” I said, picking it up.

  “Jeff, it’s Ken Calderfield. I hear from my father that I need to thank you for getting Daniel to change his statement.”

  “I haven’t heard from the police that he’s done so yet, but, yes, that is what he promised.”

  “That’s great, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said. “Perhaps I will see you again soon under better circumstances.”

  “Yes,” he said as if distracted. “Jeff . . . there is one other thing.”

  Oh no, I thought. Now what?

  “Does it mean that my father won’t now need to find out . . . you know . . . about me being gay? You didn’t tell him, did you?”

  “No, Ken,” I said, “I didn’t tell him. But I still think you should.”

  “You don’t understand what he’s like.”

  Perhaps I didn’t, but it seemed to me to be very sad that a grown son had to conceal his sexuality from his father through fear of what he’d say.

  “I still think it would be better in the long term.”

  “The long term,” he repeated with a sigh. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “Afraid?” I said. “In what way?

  “I don’t want to be a barrister. In fact, I don’t want to be a lawyer at all. If these last few weeks have taught me anything, it’s that the law and I don’t have any rapport. I dread having to go back to it. Half of me was even relieved that if I was convicted of drug dealing, I wouldn’t be able to go back. But that hope is now gone.”

  I could tell that he was near to tears.

  “You told me that you enjoyed the law.”

  “I’ve tried to,” he said. “God, I’ve tried to. But I don’t. I hate it.”

&nb
sp; “Ken, you can’t go on living your life in the way your father wants you to if it makes you so unhappy.”

  “He even calls me KC,KC. Has done so since I was a kid.”

  “He’ll get over it,” I said.

  “But how do I tell him?”

  “You’ll find a way.”

  “Jeff, would you tell him for me? Tell him everything . . . You know, about me being gay and such. And also about not wanting to be a barrister. Everything.”

  “No, Ken, I won’t. That is something you have to do for yourself.”

  “Oh God.”

  He didn’t sound very happy and I wondered if he would ever get around to it.

  “Perhaps you could practice by telling Faye,” I said. “I’m sure she would be understanding.”

  “Faye?” he said.

  “Yes, Faye. Remember her? The wicked stepmother.”

  He laughed.

  “But be careful. She knows nothing about you having been arrested and I think it might be better if it stayed that way.”

  “She’s surely got enough trouble on her plate at the moment.”

  “I’m sure she’d have a little room left for some of your problems as well. But her health situation does tend to put everything else into perspective.”

  “Yes,” he said, “I suppose it does.”

  —

  I SAT at my desk and made a list of the BHA Board members and tried to remember what had made me feel uncomfortable in the last two meetings.

  The Board consisted of seven nonexecutives, including Roger Vincent as chairman, plus Howard Lever, the chief executive.

  Stephen Kohli, director of Integrity, Legal and Risk, had also been present at the meetings, along with Crispin Larson and myself, so I added our three names to my list.

  Eleven of us total.

  Why would Leonardo, our extortionist, tip off the Press Association about Electrode?

  He would surely have had nothing to gain.

  So, if he didn’t, then one of those at the Board meetings must have.

  But why? And was it done accidentally or on purpose?