Dick Francis's Refusal

by Felix Francis

  He had, effectively, died of thirst.

  Just as Darren Paisley had in Belfast, nailed to the floor.

  “And the second thing?” I asked.

  “More copies of those indecent photos were found by Greater Manchester Police when they searched McCusker’s house. Even Superintendent Ingram is now convinced you were the victim of a malicious frame-up, and he’s even gone so far as to issue a press release to that effect.”

  That was a relief, I thought, provided people would believe it. In my experience, folk always wanted to imagine the worst of their fellow man, whatever the actual facts might indicate.

  “So who was it that complained to you in the first place?” I asked.

  “No complaint was made directly to the police,” he said. “But I understand three were made to social services.”

  “Who from?” I asked again.

  “It wasn’t so much the complaints that got you into trouble, it was the pictures found in the shed, and that one on your cell phone.”

  “But those pictures would never have been found without the complaints having been made first. That’s why I’d like to know who made them.”

  “Does it really matter?” he said.

  Did it? I supposed not. Whoever had complained would have been forced to do so by McCusker. Did it really matter who they were?

  “Do you know?” I asked.

  “No way,” he said with a laugh. “I’d need a court order to find out, and, even then, they probably wouldn’t tell me. Social services are more secretive than MI6. Nothing gets said unless it’s in the best interest of the children.”

  The best interest of the children.

  Saskia was still nervous going to bed, and she liked to go to sleep with the light on in her bedroom. But, overall, she had come through the experience pretty unscathed and was now making grand plans for the imminent arrival of her very own red setter puppy.

  Marina and I had made our peace with Tim and Paula Gaucin, even though I suspected that Annabel wouldn’t be coming for another sleepover anytime soon, if ever.

  “Oh yes, one more thing,” said the chief inspector. “I see from my newspaper this morning that Peter Medicos has resigned as head of racing security.”

  “Yes,” I said, “so I’ve heard.”

  “One of my ex-colleagues who now works for Greater Manchester Police told me that they found some compromising pictures of him in a safe in McCusker’s house. Naked in bed with another man, it seems. Could that have had anything to do with his resignation?”

  “I have no idea,” I lied. “Didn’t he say to the press that he wanted to spend more time with his wife?”

  He laughed. “Oh yeah! That’s what they always say when someone leaves under a cloud. Especially in those circumstances. Nudge nudge. Wink wink. Say no more!”

  But I had little doubt that he had been the victim of a setup, and that the pictures had been created solely for the purpose of blackmail and control. I rather hoped they would remain out of the papers.

  In spite of everything, I believed that Peter Medicos was fundamentally a good man. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have made that phone call, and I would have been still waiting in the dog kennel at Nutwell while McCusker took out his fearful revenge on my family two miles away at Aynsford.

  “Perhaps you should apply for his job,” I said. “The BHA seem to like appointing ex-policemen as head of their Security Service.”

  “Not me,” he said. “I don’t know enough about horses or racing. But how about you? I would have thought that you’d have been the perfect candidate.”

  Now, there was a thought.

  The phone buzzed in my hand.

  “Sorry, I’ve got another call coming in,” I said.

  “OK. Take it. We’ll speak again soon.”

  The chief inspector hung up, and I answered the second call.

  It was from Harold Bryant at Queen Mary’s Hospital.

  “Sid,” he said excitedly. “We’ve got you a hand.”

  • • •

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