Dick Francis's Refusal

by Felix Francis

Reckless jockeys might occasionally win races that no one else would have, but they also spent long periods laid up with injuries that saner riders might avoid.

  Now, in my battle with McCusker, I had to make an assessment of the risks and behave accordingly. If I was not prepared to get hurt, then I should have stayed in bed. I had to do just enough to provoke him into showing himself without driving him to completely irrational behavior that I’d be unable to predict.

  I had no intention of being nailed to a floor to die of thirst.

  • • •

  CHICO AND I checked into our rooms at the Park Hotel and then went in search of Barry Montagu, bookmaker of Liverpool, he who had been offering higher than prudent prices on Black Peppercorn at Uttoxeter the previous Sunday.

  According to the Internet, Barry Montagu, as well as manning his pitch at various northern racetracks, also had a single betting shop in the Liverpool district of Bootle, close by the Liverpool docks.

  As we drove along Stanley Road, past the Strand Shopping Centre, it seemed impossible to believe that this urban landscape was once a holiday bathing resort for the wealthy Liverpool merchants of the early nineteenth century, eager to immerse themselves into the healing waters of the River Mersey. That was before the coming of the trains, the building of the docks and the industrialization of the whole region.

  Bootle had flourished until the opening of a new container terminal just to the north in Seaforth had rendered most of the Bootle docks redundant, pushing up local unemployment and forcing the neighborhood into decline.

  However, Barry Montagu’s wasn’t the only betting shop on Stanley Road. There was a whole range, including independents and all the national chains. To my eye, there appeared to be more betting shops than any other type. Clearly, a worsening of the area’s economic fortunes hadn’t deterred Bootle residents from their gambling.

  We found a parking space around the corner from the shop.

  “We’d better not be too long,” Chico said, “or we’ll find it up on bricks when we get back.” He laughed at his little joke, a joke that once had had more than a ring of truth about it. “What are we lookin’ for, exactly?”

  “I’d like to know if Barry Montagu is a front for McCusker or is part of the Honest Joe Bullen chain. The man you bet with at Uttoxeter clearly had insider knowledge that Black Peppercorn was due to lose the race, but, for all we know, that might have come from a different source.”

  Gone were the days when, like pubs, the holder of the gambling license had to be written above the main door, but it still remained a requirement of the law that the license be displayed in a prominent position within the premises.

  Business was surprisingly brisk for three o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon, with seven hopeful punters standing around either watching the live video feeds from the horse and dog tracks or playing on the fixed-odds electronic casino machines in the corner.

  Chico went unerringly to the counter and started to chat up the girl standing behind it while I drifted around the periphery looking at the racing pages of the newspapers that were pinned to the walls. Much was being made of the upcoming Aintree meeting just a couple of miles down the road, with posters offering a free ten-pound bet on the Grand National itself—provided, of course, you opened an account and made an initial bet of fifty pounds.

  It was certainly a hard sell.

  Perversely, there was one small, dog-eared poster from Gamblers Anonymous tucked away behind the entrance that gave advice and a telephone number to anyone who felt they were becoming addicted and needed help. It seemed to me to be like putting up a Vegetarian Society leaflet in an abattoir.

  I was edging my way towards the framed license summary on the wall beneath the bank of television screens when Chico suddenly turned towards me and started for the door, nodding furiously for me to follow. I needed no second invitation.

  Outside, we ran down the road and around the corner to the Range Rover that was, thankfully, still in possession of its full set of wheels and tires.

  “What was all that about?” I asked as I drove away.

  “I am chattin’ to the bird, all happy-like—you know, tellin’ her how nice her hair is and so on. Then I asks if she’s lookin’ forward to the Grand National meetin’. Yes, she says, very excited because she’s goin’ up to the track on Friday to help with the pitch as they’re expectin’ a bumper day.

  “So I asks her why are they expectin’ a bumper day, and she says she doesn’t know, but that was what Mr. Wilson told her. So I asks her who is Mr. Wilson, and she says he’s the boss, and she points towards the back office. I looks behind her at the mirror, but it’s one of those mirrors with slots in it that you can only really see through one way. But the guy in the office must have been lookin’ out ’cos he opens the door and tells her to stop talkin’, and if I wants to make a bet, to make it and move away from the counter.”

  He stopped to draw breath.

  “But why did we have to leave so suddenly?”

  “Because there’s another man in the office, wearin’ a black suit. I sees him when the door was open, and I’m sure he’s one of the men I clocked in McCusker’s study last Sunday night, one of the three who’d tried to beat you up behind the Chinese restaurant.”

  “Did he recognize you?” I asked.

  “No, I don’t think so, he wasn’t really lookin’. But he sure as hell would have recognized you, that’s why I wanted you out of there, and pronto.”

  “Good thinking,” I said. “We don’t want to show our hand until Friday. But at least it’s confirmed our suspicions that the name Barry Montagu is just another front for Billy McCusker and his cronies.”

  We went back to the hotel, and while Chico chatted up the girl behind the bar, I spent a frustrating hour calling more of the numbers on McCusker’s phone record. For most, either there was no ringing tone with the number not recognized or nobody answered. Of the handful of live people at the other end, not one was prepared to tell me who he was, being very wary right from the start.

  I sat down with a pen and paper and made a list of those numbers that McCusker had called more than once. After a while, the numbers appeared to blur together, and I was beginning to make mistakes from tiredness. However, by then there was a pattern emerging, with the same numbers appearing regularly together, just a few days ahead of each of the fixed races.

  They must be the jockeys, I thought. But why won’t they answer?

  I searched for Robert Price’s cell number, which I knew, but I couldn’t find it anywhere on the list. So I called him.

  “Hi, Robert, it’s Sid.”

  “Oh.” He sounded far from enthusiastic. “What do you want?”

  “Sorry to call so late, but when you said on Monday that McCusker had called you to tell you to lose on Maine Visit, what phone did he ring you on?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m just interested,” I said.

  There was a pause, and I could tell that he didn’t want to tell me.

  “Come on, Robert,” I said, “which phone?”

  He sighed. “He called me on his special phone. Same as always, these days.”

  “What special phone?” I asked.

  “A cheap, old-fashioned phone that he gave me about a year ago. It’s only for his calls. No one else has the number.”

  “What does he say when he calls you?”

  “He just says the name of a horse that I’ve been engaged to ride.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “No, just the name. That’s how I know I have to stop it. He says the name twice and then hangs up.”

  No wonder I couldn’t get anyone to talk to me.

  “What’s the phone’s number?” I asked.

  “I’ve got no idea.”

  “Doesn’t it tell you on the phone?” I asked.

  “No. I can’t even
access the menu. It’s all password-protected, and I don’t have the password.”

  There had to be some way of getting the number.

  “Are you at home?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Use the phone to call your home number and then dial 1471. That should give you the number.”

  There was a short pause until he came back on the line.

  “No good,” he said. “It tells me I’ve no credit. Incoming calls only.”

  Why had I imagined it would be so easy?

  • • •

  THURSDAY MORNING dawned bright and sunny, the perfect start to the Grand National meeting, when all eyes in the steeplechasing world would be turned towards Aintree. These three days, together with the four of the Cheltenham Festival in March, were the pinnacle of jump racing in Britain, culminating with the Grand National itself on Saturday afternoon.

  Thursday may have been the first day of the meeting, with smaller crowds expected than on Friday and Saturday, but there was still quite a buzz of excitement at breakfast in the Park Hotel dining room, with eager punters, heads down, busily studying the form in their copies of the Racing Post, each of them trying to spot a winner for later in the day.

  Chico and I, meanwhile, were much more interested in the ten o’clock deadline for the declarations for the two-mile handicap hurdle on the following afternoon, and I had my cell at hand, hoping for a text from Jimmy Guernsey.

  It arrived at twenty past ten, and it was just one word long.

  Geophysicist.

  29

  Twelve of the twenty-eight entrants had declared to run, with Geophysicist halfway down the weights at a hundred and fifty-seven pounds, six fewer than Maine Visit, the mount of Robert Price.

  Staplegun had also been declared to run with, as expected, Jimmy Guernsey engaged to ride him. In fact, all five of the jockeys I had spoken to were in the declarations, with David Potter down to pilot Geophysicist.

  So David had indeed been chosen to ride the one selected to win, and he always did as he was told. He’d said so, for his old mum’s sake.

  “Do you think Jimmy can fix it?” Chico asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “We’ll have to wait and see.”

  • • •

  CHICO AND I walked down the road to the racetrack, paying our way in at the Aintree turnstiles like the thousands of others around us.

  To me, there was something truly magical about the Grand National meeting. Historically, it had been held at the end of March, but it was now a firm fixture in April, sometimes varying back and forth a week to accommodate the vagaries of the Christian calendar’s calculation of Easter.

  In the last twenty years or so, the prize money throughout the meeting has increased considerably due to sponsorship, and the supporting races, those in the lead-up to the Grand National, now attracted the cream of British steeplechasers. And the crowds certainly came to watch them.

  Chico and I made our way separately through the throng to the viewing steps outside the Weighing Room.

  “Hello, Sid,” said a Northern Irish voice behind me.

  Chico, standing a few yards away, looked concerned.

  “Hi, Paddy,” I said, all smiles. Chico relaxed.

  “I’m surprised to see you here, Sid,” Paddy said seriously, “what with all your troubles.”

  “And what troubles are those?” I asked.

  “You know, that kiddie stuff.”

  “It’s all a pack of lies. I assure you, I wouldn’t be here if there was any truth in it. It’s all a setup orchestrated by our West Belfast friend.”

  “He’s no bloody friend of mine,” Paddy said, looking swiftly around him to check that McCusker wasn’t standing there, listening to our conversation. “Tell me you haven’t been upsetting him.”

  “Not much,” I said.

  Not as much as I hoped to upset him the following afternoon.

  “Steer clear of him,” Paddy warned me once again. “He’s dangerous.”

  But steering clear of danger wasn’t something that came easily to me. Here I was, aiming straight for it, not so much poking the proverbial hornets’ nest, more like sticking my hand inside and ripping out the guts. I just had to ensure it was my non-stingable hand that I used.

  Which reminded me, I should give Queen Mary’s Hospital my new cell phone number.

  “So what’s going to win the National?” I asked Paddy, changing the subject.

  “Summer Nights has a good chance, I reckon,” he said, “as long as that idiot Bob Price doesn’t stand him off like he did at Ascot. I ask you. Jocks these days aren’t like we were—no bloody idea how to set a horse for a fence. Don’t you wish you were still riding? We could show them a thing or two, eh?”

  “We sure could, Paddy,” I agreed with a smile.

  I’d ridden in the Grand National a total of seven times, winning it once but falling on all six other occasions, twice at the first fence. But the victory was the only one I liked to remember. And how! It had been one of the best days of my life, ranking right up there alongside the birth of Saskia.

  “I’m off to find myself a Guinness,” Paddy said. “D’you fancy one?”

  “No thanks,” I said. “It’s a bit early, even for you.”

  He laughed and moved off towards the bar beneath the grandstand in search of a pint of the black stuff.

  I, meanwhile, needed a clear head.

  “How are you gettin’ on with them telephone numbers?” Chico was standing behind me on the steps as we watched the runners for the first race circle in the parade ring.

  “It’s hopeless,” I said, turning slightly. “McCusker gave Robert Price an old-fashioned, non-smart cell that only he knows the number of. If everyone else on that list is the same, then none of them will speak to us.”

  “I could always have a go meself to be sure,” Chico said in a broad Northern Irish accent.

  I smiled. “You’re welcome to try.” I handed him the list of numbers that I’d made the previous evening, about half of which I had so far called without response.

  • • •

  I WATCHED the first race from the top of the County Stand, finding a place alongside the railed-off area reserved for the VIPs from the Sefton Suite below. Chico stood in front and slightly to my left.

  I’d been in the VIP suite once, a couple of years previously, for a lunch courtesy of the meeting’s sponsor, but I clearly wasn’t considered a VIP today. In fact, I received a number of disapproving glances, not least from Peter Medicos.

  After the race was over and most of the VIPs had gone back down, he leaned over the metal railing towards where I was still standing.

  “Halley,” he shouted. “I want a word with you.”

  I bit my tongue. I’d not been referred to as simply “Halley” by anyone since before I’d first become champion jockey, although it had once been commonplace for stewards and other race officials to refer to jockeys in that manner. Thankfully, the world had moved on. At least I thought it had.

  “Here?” I asked, moving towards him.

  “No,” he said. “There’s a private room near the entrance to the Media Centre with Officials Only on the door. Meet me there after the next race.” He turned abruptly and went down the stairs to the suite, no doubt for his dessert and coffee.

  “Charmin’,” said Chico. “He could at least have said please.”

  “Peter Medicos was in the police force for twenty-five years, so he’s not in the habit of asking politely. He tells, not asks.” I sighed. I still believed I needed Peter Medicos as an ally, not an enemy. “Are you coming down?”

  “Nah, I’ll stay here and get a tan.” He turned his face towards the sun. “I’m not really interested in the horses, if I’m honest. I’ll just sit here and try some more of those numbers.”

  “O
K,” I said. “See you here for the third.”

  “Right you are.”

  I left Chico, balancing the list on his knees and entering numbers into his cell phone, and went back down to the Weighing Room.

  I knew Jimmy Guernsey had a ride in the second race, and I positioned myself so that he would walk right past me on his way to the parade ring. I didn’t need to give him any message, or receive one, but I wanted to let him know that I was there and to deter any jitters he may be having.

  He saw me as soon as he exited the Weighing Room door, but, this time, he didn’t break stride, simply jogging down the steps towards me.

  “Get the text?” he said quietly as he went past.

  “Yup,” I said equally quietly.

  There was almost a spring in his step, as if a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders. It wasn’t over yet, I thought, but we were on the way.

  I remained nearby the parade ring, watching the fifteen runners battle out a two-and-a-half-mile juvenile hurdle on the big television screen.

  Jimmy finished a close third, which seemed to greatly please the broadly smiling lady owner who greeted her horse in the unsaddling enclosure as if he’d won by ten lengths.

  Her smile was infectious and I found myself grinning back before I remembered my upcoming appointment with Peter Medicos. That was enough to take the smile off anyone’s face, I thought, as I went in search of the Officials Only door.

  • • •

  PETER WAS there ahead of me.

  I knocked and went in, feeling just like a miscreant schoolboy who has been sent to see the headmaster, having been caught cheating.

  The room was quite small, about twelve feet by ten, with a table in the middle surrounded by six ubiquitous, stackable gray plastic chairs. It reminded me of the interview room at Oxford police station.

  Peter’s battered trilby sat on the table.

  “Ah, there you are, Halley,” he said, not offering me one of the chairs to sit down.

  “Mr. Halley, please,” I said pointedly, “or Sid.” I smiled at him. “Now, Peter, what’s all this about?”

  “I thought you would already know that,” he said with astonishment. “You’re the one who was arrested for child abuse. Uttoxeter may be one thing, but I don’t consider it proper that you are here at one of racing’s great festivals. You’re bringing our sport into disrepute.”