Dick Francis's Gamble - Felix Francis [104]
Was that also a coincidence? No, I decided, it was not.
I obviously hadn’t needed to ask DCI Flight if he still wanted to arrest me. I’d just seen the answer.
I drove north along the A419 divided highway towards Cirencester, in the opposite direction to Lambourn, and pulled over near the village of Cricklade.
I turned my phone on again and pressed REDIAL.
DCI Flight answered immediately.
“Trust,” I said. “That’s what you need.”
“Give yourself up,” he said.
“But I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Then you have nothing to fear.”
I hung up and switched off my phone. Then I started the car and made my way back to Lambourn, being careful not to speed or in any way attract the attention of any passing policeman.
Dammit, I thought. All I didn’t need was an overly interfering detective who was more interested in catching me than in anything else. “Give yourself up” indeed. Who did he think I was, Jimmy Hoffa?
I caught the train from Newbury to Paddington just after seven o’clock on Monday morning, leaving the blue rental car in the station parking lot.
As the train slowed to a stop in Reading, I turned on my phone and called my voice mail.
“You have two new messages,” said the familiar female voice.
The first was from DCI Flight, promising not to arrest me if I came to the Cheltenham Police Station to be interviewed.
Why did I not believe him?
The second was from Ben Roberts.
“Mr. Foxton, I have spoken with my father,” his voice said. “He is not willing to meet with you or to discuss the matter further. I must also ask that you do not contact me again. I’m sorry.”
He didn’t actually sound very sorry, and I wondered if his father had been standing next to him as he had made the call.
My investigating wasn’t exactly going very well. Where did I go from here?
I turned off my phone and sat back in my seat as the train rushed along the metal towards London. I watched absentmindedly through the window as the Berkshire countryside gradually gave way to suburbs and then to the big city itself, and I wondered what the day would bring.
I had to admit that I was nervous about the disciplinary meeting with Patrick and Gregory.
Lyall & Black had been my life for five years, and I had begun to really make my mark. I had brought some high-profile, highworth clients to the firm, and some of my recommendations for investment, especially in film and theater, had become standard advice across the company.
Over the next few years I might have expected to have expanded my own client base while giving up most of the responsibility of acting as one of Patrick’s assistants. I might even have hoped to be offered a full senior partner position when Patrick and Gregory retired, and that would be only five or six years away. That was where the real money was to be made and when my modest nest egg might start expanding rapidly. Providing, of course, that I was good enough to maintain the confidence of the clients.
However, I was now in danger of missing out completely.
But why? What had I done wrong?
It wasn’t me who was defrauding the European Union of a hundred million euros, so why was it me who was attending a disciplinary meeting?
Perhaps the only thing I had done incorrectly was to not go straight to Patrick, or to Jessica Winter the Compliance Officer, as soon as Colonel Roberts had expressed his concerns over Gregory and the Bulgarian factory project. I should never have tried to investigate things behind their backs.
And I would rectify that mistake today.
I caught the Circle Line Tube from Paddington to Moorgate and then walked from there towards Lombard Street.
As I walked down Princes Street, alongside the high, imposing walls of the Bank of England, I suddenly started to feel uneasy, the hairs again standing up on the back of my neck.
For the past four days, I had been so careful not to let anyone know where I was staying, yet here I was walking to a prearranged appointment