Dick Francis's Damage

by Dick Francis

  Duncan Johnson’s fancied runner finished second to a horse owned and trained by a very happy-looking farmer from the Scottish Highlands who could hardly talk due to his excitement.

  And at a price of fifty-to-one!

  I smiled at the farmer’s ruddy-faced image shown on the television, his huge grin stretching almost from one side of the screen to the other.

  It was such moments that were essential elements to the success and popularity of jump racing. The fact that a part-time Scottish farmer could do it gave others hope that they too might one day own the winner of a great race. The anticipation of such a victory kept many racehorse owners paying out hefty training fees for years in its pursuit.

  After the trophy presentation to the still-grinning farmer, there followed a part of the program addressing the future of British racing.

  One of horseracing’s most respected reporters pulled no punches in his criticism of the current system, citing the recent disruptions to racing as evidence of “the rife ineptitude and incompetence of those individuals at the top.” He went on to imply that a return to stability could only be achieved by the sweeping away altogether of the BHA and the reestablishment of the Jockey Club in its rightful place.

  I felt that the whole world must have gone mad.

  Only ten years previously, the same reporter had used identical rhetoric in his argument for the demise of the Jockey Club as the sport’s regulator and for the creation of a new, independent authority.

  But he was only echoing what had already been written elsewhere in the press, in what seemed to me to be coordinated manipulation of the media.

  Where was this story coming from? And why?

  The very name Jockey Club was a misnomer, as not a single current or former professional jockey had ever been admitted to its ranks as a member. Professional jockeys were simply not considered to be from the right class. Sir Gordon Richards, the greatest British flat jockey of all time, was eventually made an honorary, but nonvoting, member, and then only after he’d been champion jockey twenty-three times and had been knighted by the Queen.

  Did racing really want to go back to a system that had garnered so much criticism for being elitist and self-serving?

  I simply couldn’t believe it.

  —

  IT WAS difficult to imagine that over six hundred of the most evil and dangerous criminals in the country were housed behind the high walls of Long Lartin Prison, set as it was in the glorious open countryside of the Vale of Evesham, an area of outstanding natural beauty where much of the country’s fruit and vegetables were grown in the fertile soils of the River Avon floodplain.

  However, the natural beauty ended at the prison walls. Even for the visitors.

  There were about thirty of us waiting in the visitors’ center. Most of the others were women, some of them with small children in tow. I’d seen some of them on the train from London but hadn’t realized they were going to the same place.

  I had my driver’s license closely checked against the name on the visitation order and was then required to leave my phone, most of my money, my watch and even my belt in a locker before passing through a metal detector, being patted down in a body search and then sniffed at by a drug dog.

  Only when all the visitors were finally declared clear of contraband were we taken through to the visiting area, a bleak, gray-painted room with three rows of gray metal tables and chairs that were all bolted to a sky blue vinyl floor. Even though there were two small heavily barred windows at one end, the room was mainly lit by banks of overhead fluorescent tubes that gave everything a rather stark and cold appearance.

  There was a small table on one side that provided tea and coffee in plastic cups and there were two vending machines for sodas and snacks in the far corner.

  I allowed the other visitors to choose first in case I took one of their “usual” places and then selected an empty table close to the tea and coffee.

  A door opened at the far end and the prisoners came streaming through, some in gray T-shirts and gray tracksuit-style pants, one or two in green-and-yellow coveralls and the rest, including Matthew Unwin, in jeans with various colored tops. Two burly prison officers accompanied them into the room, one standing at either end, as the men made their way to the tables to greet their friends and relatives.

  Matthew Unwin had the look of a broken man. His eyes seemed deep set in their sockets and there were dark bags under them as if he hadn’t slept for a week.

  He spotted me and ambled over, his body language shouting his lack of enthusiasm.

  “Hi,” he said.

  I stood up and offered my hand. “I thought you might not know me.” I had been in disguise at Cheltenham on the day of his arrest.

  “I know you,” he said without taking my hand. “You were at my inquiry.”

  He sat down on the metal chair opposite. I sat back down as well.

  “How are things?” I asked, leaning forward and speaking quietly, conscious of the others around us.

  “How would you expect them to be? I survive.”

  “Tea?” I asked. “Or coffee?”

  “Tea,” he said.

  I went over to the table and collected a plastic cupful of hot brown liquid in exchange for fifty pence.

  Unwin lifted the cup and sipped at its contents, never taking his eyes off me.

  “What do you want?” he said.

  “To know why you attacked Jordan Furness.”

  “Have the police sent you?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Then why are you here?”

  “You said at the inquiry that someone else gave your horses drugs because you wouldn’t pay them.” He nodded. “I now believe you.”

  He stared at me without saying anything.

  “Was it Jordan Furness?” I asked.

  “What difference would it make if it was?”

  It was like trying to get blood from a stone. Every one of my questions was answered with another question.

  “I’m trying to help you,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “I’m trying to find out who doped your horses.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I believe that the same man is behind all the disruption currently going on in racing. You must have heard about it even in here.”

  He nodded. I hadn’t intended telling him that so openly, but I was getting nowhere otherwise.

  “When did you last see Graham Perry?” I asked.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Wasn’t he once your assistant trainer?”

  “He was. Then he took off and left me in the lurch.” There was no affection whatsoever in his voice. “I never see him now away from the races.”

  Two young children began running around and around the room between the tables, shouting and screaming. They had obviously quickly become bored with visiting their father, who was one of those wearing green-and-yellow coveralls. No one made any move to stop or quiet the children until their father suddenly bellowed loudly at them to shut up and sit down, raising his hand as he did. They immediately sat down on the floor, gripping their knees tightly to their chests and with their heads down. I thought it was an action born out of fear, but it didn’t keep them sitting still for very long. They soon returned to their game of chase, albeit without the shouting and screaming.

  Meanwhile, everyone else went back to talking, but more quietly.

  “Was it Furness who doped your horses?” I asked.

  Matthew Unwin stared at me again.

  “Why should I help you?” he said. “What has the BHA ever done for me other than taking away my life?”

  “Why did you agree to see me, then?” I asked.

  “Anything to alleviate the boredom,” he said miserably.

  I began to think I’d wasted my time c
oming here. I felt a bit like these wretched children—running around in circles and getting nowhere.

  “It wasn’t the BHA that murdered Jordon Furness, you know,” I said, “it was you.”

  “Little shit had it coming to him.” He said it with real venom in his voice.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because he was greedy,” Unwin said.

  “Did you owe him money?”

  He shook his head. “It was him that owed me money. Refused to pay his training fees, didn’t he?”

  “I hadn’t realized that Jordan Furness was one of your owners.”

  “Not officially,” he said. “Wouldn’t have passed your lot’s fit-and-proper-person test, now would he? Not that one. Far too many skeletons to find in his closet.”

  “So who was the registered owner?”

  “I was. But the horse ran on Furness’s orders.”

  “Winning or losing?”

  “Losing, I reckon—but I knew nothing about it. All I know is, the horse never won a race when I thought it could have.”

  “What was the horse’s name?” I asked.

  He laughed. “Criminal Intent. I’m not kidding. It was called that when we bought it. Furness thought it was a huge joke.”

  “How often did it run?”

  “Loads of times. Mostly up north.”

  “And you’re sure Furness arranged that it didn’t win?”

  “I reckon,” he said again. “He must have fixed it with the jock. Or got his bloody son to dope it.”

  “Lee Furness is his son?”

  “Yeah. He worked for me—at least he was meant to. Idle toad. I only took him on because his father insisted and then he didn’t pay up. Old Man Furness deserved what he got, if you ask me.”

  I wasn’t sure that I would ask him. Murder seemed rather an extreme measure to settle a training debt. Any sympathy I might have had for Matthew Unwin’s situation was rapidly fading away.

  “So Furness had nothing to do with the drugs found in your horses?”

  He laughed again. “Is that what you think? I suppose he might have done it. I wouldn’t put anything past the rat.”

  I clearly had been barking up the wrong tree. The killing of Jordan Furness had been unrelated to the reason Matthew Unwin had lost his trainer’s license.

  One of the two noisy children, a girl, age about five, ran over to our table and stopped, staring at me from about two feet away. I stared back at her and she pulled a face. I smiled at her, but there was no smile in return, just a scowl. How sad, I thought. She turned and ran off.

  “Have you ever trained horses for Ian Tulloch?” I asked Unwin.

  “You must be joking. Tulloch would have never come to me. He’s far too much of a snob.”

  Another dead end.

  My left shoulder had started to ache again and the painkillers I needed were shut away in the locker outside with my other things.

  I glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was ten minutes to three and my taxi wasn’t booked until half past.

  I’d obviously wasted my Sunday afternoon coming here and I was suddenly eager to get out of the oppressive atmosphere in the prison, with its heady bouquet of stale sweat and cheap disinfectant.

  I decided to wait for the taxi out in the fresh air.

  “I think that will be enough,” I said. “I’ll be on my way.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  I stood up and turned for the door, but I was almost knocked down by the little girl, who was weaving in and out of the tables at high speed in pursuit of her brother.

  “Just one last thing,” I said, turning back. “Do you happen to know any hyperactive kids, other than these two?”

  “Yes,” Unwin said. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  32

  I spent most of Sunday evening and much of the night doing some one-handed research on my computer, logging in remotely to the BHA files and following up on what Matthew Unwin had told me at Long Lartin.

  By Monday morning I had obtained just a few snippets of information, most of it conjecture, and nothing much of any real interest.

  At nine-thirty, I called my journalist friend at the London Telegraph.

  “Tim,” I said. “I need some medical records.”

  “No way,” he said.

  “But you’ve always boasted you could get them.”

  “It’s become far too dangerous. These days, there are too many high-profile prosecutions for misconduct in a public office. People now go to jail just for passing on a bit of innocent info. Bloody data protection. I could be in deep doo-doo just for asking. Who do you want the records for anyway?”

  I told him.

  “I thought you meant for some A-list celebrity, an actress or something. You know, like Joss Carder and her bulimia.”

  There had been a huge outcry the previous year over the release of that particular secret. Even Oscar-nominated stars were entitled to their privacy.

  “Was that you?” I asked.

  “I couldn’t possibly say. But I’m not doing it again.”

  “So how do I get them?”

  “Do you know the doctor?”

  “No.”

  “Then I can’t help you, mate. Sorry.”

  Frustration.

  “Perhaps you could help me with something else.”

  “Is it legal?” he asked.

  “Perfectly,” I said. “Ask your racing correspondent if he believes there’s been any orchestration in the campaign to get rid of the BHA.”

  “And has there?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking. But it does tend to feel like it.”

  “I’ll get him to give you a call.”

  “Thanks.”

  He called me ten minutes later.

  “Hi, Jeff, Gordon Tuttle here. How can I help?”

  “I know this might sound crazy, but are you aware of any organized campaign to oust the BHA as the racing regulator?”

  He was quiet for a few moments.

  “In what way?” he asked.

  “Maybe I’m wrong,” I said, “but it seemed too much of a coincidence that every one of the national dailies ran the story last Thursday and each expressed exactly the same opinions about the BHA when the rumor broke that Electrode had failed a dope test.”

  “It was more than just a rumor,” Gordon said. “The official BHA press release of Friday afternoon made it clear that what we printed was true. The BHA only issued its press release as a direct result of our story.”

  “As may be,” I said. “You know it’s true now, but, at the time, you didn’t. But what I’m more interested in is the opinion pieces. They were all extreme and all identical. Don’t you think that’s rather surprising? You guys hardly ever agree on anything.”

  “What are you looking for, exactly?” he asked.

  “The original factual report about Electrode came from the Press Association. I know that. But are you aware if there was any concerted effort to mold the Telegraph’s editorial comment?”

  There was another quiet pause at his end.

  “Did you write the piece?” I asked.

  Another pause.

  “Come on, Gordon,” I said, “tell me. Off the record, if you like.”

  “The paper received a document. It had ‘Press Briefing’ printed across the top.”

  “Who from?”

  “I don’t know. It was handed in at the paper’s reception desk last Wednesday afternoon. Initially, I thought it was an official release from the BHA, but it obviously wasn’t. It had some of the facts, but it was very critical of racing’s governance. And it was very convincing.”

  “Do you still have it?” I asked. “Can I come and have a look?”

  “Sure,” he said, “anytime. And
there was more than one. We received a second release late on Thursday afternoon, telling us that not only Electrode but all the Cheltenham winners had been doped. We were confident enough in the story to run it as an exclusive in Friday’s paper.”

  “I read it,” I said. “Do you know where these documents came from?”

  “I don’t know for sure but I’d guess they’re from a whistle-blower within the BHA.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, for a start, the facts have turned out to be very accurate. But also they named names—references to Roger Vincent as the chairman and Howard Lever as chief executive. People don’t do that unless they are insiders.”

  “What sort of references?”

  “Nothing specific. Just questions mostly, like ‘When are Vincent and Lever going to own up to their failings?’ Stuff like that. Lots of leading questions that invited negative answers.” He paused. “Whoever sent it knew exactly what he was doing and I reckon he got the answers he wanted.”

  “BHA bashing has certainly become the sport of choice among the media. There was a very damning segment shown on television on Saturday afternoon.”

  “I saw it,” Gordon said. “It was repeated on the Inside Racing Show on Sunday morning.”

  “Do people really want a return to governance of racing by the Jockey Club?”

  “Maybe it’s more a feeling that the BHA experiment has failed.”

  “It’s not an experiment,” I said angrily. “And it hasn’t failed. You have all been hoodwinked by someone who is controlling the agenda. Wake up, will you? Before racing is damaged beyond repair.”

  “Can I quote you?” Gordon said, always the journalist.

  “Yes,” I said. “Loudly and often.”

  —

  CRISPIN CALLED my cell at eleven o’clock.

  “Ian Tulloch has raised the money,” he said. “I think he saw it as a test of his chairmanship.” He laughed. “If Roger Vincent could raise a hundred grand in a morning, then so would Ian Tulloch. But quicker. Although I suspect he had to give some personal guarantees to the banks.”

  “Yes—but will he agree to paying it?”