Dick Francis's Gamble - Felix Francis [103]
“We don’t know yet. His image and fingerprints haven’t turned up on anything. Still waiting for the DNA analysis. But I can tell you one thing.”
“Yes?” I said eagerly.
“The forensic boys have been working overtime, and they tell me the gun matches.”
“Matches what?” I asked.
“The gun found in the bush outside your mother’s cottage was definitely the same gun that killed Herb Kovak, and they’re pretty sure the same gun was also used to shoot at you in Finchley. They can’t be a hundred percent certain without the bullets.”
The image of the line of policemen crawling up Lichfield Grove on their hands and knees came into my mind. They obviously hadn’t found anything.
“Does that mean that Chief Inspector Flight is now off my back?”
“I wouldn’t exactly say that,” he said. “He’s still hopping mad.”
“Yes,” I said. “I know. He’s left messages on my phone.”
“Speak to him,” Tomlinson said. “That’s probably all he wants. He may think you’re playing with him.”
“Does he still want to arrest me?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Ask him.”
We disconnected.
I looked at the number on the notepad and thought about calling DCI Flight. Ignoring him would only make him madder and then he might use more of his energies trying to find me than discovering the identity of his corpse. But I wasn’t going to call him from here. Dialing 141 might be enough to prevent the number appearing on caller ID but I was sure the police could still obtain it from the telephone company if they really wanted to.
But I’d called Chief Inspector Tomlinson using Jan’s phone. What was the difference?
It was a matter of trust, I thought. I trusted Chief Inspector Tomlinson not to go to the trouble of finding where I was from the call. But I didn’t trust DCI Flight.
So, at about five o’clock, I drove into the outskirts of Swindon and stopped in a pub parking lot before switching on my mobile and calling the Gloucestershire detective.
“DCI Flight,” he said crisply, answering at the first ring.
“This is Nicholas Foxton,” I said.
“Ah,” he said. “And about time too.”
“Have you spoken to DCI Tomlinson and Superintendent Yering?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “I have.”
“Good,” I said. “So who was the man at my mother’s cottage?”
“Mr. Foxton,” he replied curtly. “It is me who needs to ask you some questions, not the other way round.”
“Ask away,” I said.
“What happened at your mother’s cottage last Thursday evening?”
“A man with a gun broke in, we had a fight, and he fell down the stairs and broke his neck.”
“Is that all?” he asked.
“Isn’t that enough?” I asked sarcastically. “Oh yes, and he was trying to stab me at the time he fell down the stairs.”
“We found a knife under the body,” he said. “But why did he need one? What happened to his gun?”
“It was under the fridge,” I said.
He paused.
“How, exactly, did it get under the fridge?”
“I hit it with an umbrella.”
This time there was a lengthy pause from the other end.
“Are you being serious, Mr. Foxton?” he asked.
“Very,” I said. “The man cut the power and the telephone. He then broke a pane of glass in the kitchen to get in, and as he was climbing through the window I hit him with a golf umbrella. He dropped the gun, which slid under the fridge. He then took a knife from its block and tried to stab me. I managed to get upstairs, but the man followed. As he was attacking me, we struggled, and both of us fell down the stairs. He came off worse. End of story.”
There was another pause, another lengthy pause, almost as if the chief inspector had not been listening to me.
“Hold on,” I said suddenly. “I’ll call you back.”
I hung up, switched my phone off and quickly drove the car out of the pub parking lot and down the road towards the city center. After about half a mile, a police car with blue flashing lights drove past me, going fast in the opposite direction. Now, was that just a coincidence?
I went right around a roundabout and drove back to the pub, but I didn’t go in. I drove straight past without even slowing down. The police car, still with