Dick Francis's Gamble - Felix Francis [113]
“Dad,” said Ben during a lull in the men’s conversation, “this is Mr. Foxton and Claudia, his fiancée. My father, Viscount Shenington.”
“Delighted to meet you,” I said, offering my hand.
He looked down at me and slowly put forward his hand to shake. It was hardly the most friendly of welcomes, but I hadn’t really expected anything else. I knew that even though he was prepared to speak to me, he didn’t truly want to.
“Good evening, Mr. Foxton,” he said. “Good of you to come.” He turned slightly towards Claudia. “And you too, my dear.”
That wouldn’t go down too well, I thought. My father always called Claudia “my dear,” and she hated it, claiming that he was an arrogant old git who shouldn’t be so patronizing.
“Have a drink,” Shenington said. “And some food.” He waved a hand towards the impressive buffet table. “We’ll speak later.”
He went back to his former conversations.
“Good,” said Ben with considerably more warmth. “What would you both like to drink? Champagne?”
“Lovely,” Claudia said.
“Fruit juice for me, please,” I said. “I’m driving.”
“Yeah, me too,” said Ben, holding up a glass of orange liquid. “But I’ll get a proper skinful later at the Boat Club dinner.”
“Rowing?” I asked.
“Absolutely. Tonight’s our home celebration for beating the hated enemy.”
“The hated enemy?” said Claudia.
“Cambridge,” Ben said, smiling broadly. “In the Boat Race. Beat them by half a length. Dead easy!”
“Were you in the crew?” I asked.
“Certainly was,” he said, pulling himself up to his full six feet plus plus. “Number 4—in the engine room.”
“Well done,” I said, meaning it. “Are you trying for the Olympics next?”
“No. Not for me. I was good, but not that good. It’s time to retire gracefully and get my life back. These last few weeks I’ve really enjoyed not having to be on the river every morning at dawn and in all weather. Now I’m just working hard for my finals.”
“And then what?” I asked. “Politics?”
“That’s the plan,” he said. “A special adviser and political researcher for the party, at least for a while. Then Parliament.”
Then the world, I thought.
“Commons or Lords?” I asked.
“Commons,” he said with a laugh. “The power house. There’s no place left in the Lords for the likes of us, not anymore. And I wouldn’t want it even if there was.”
Ben himself was a walking power house, and his enthusiasm was infectious. I was sure he’d go far.
“Good luck,” I said to him. “I personally can’t think of anything worse than being a politician. Everyone I know seems to hate them.”
“No, they don’t,” he said sharply. “All they hate is that it’s other people who are the politicians when they want the power for themselves.”
I wasn’t going to argue with him and not least because I had a feeling I would lose and lose badly. If Ben told me the grass was blue and the sky was green, I’d probably believe him. Except that, this particular evening, the sky wasn’t green or blue, it was dark gray.
Claudia and I took our drinks out onto the private balcony, and I briefly turned on my phone to check my voice mail. There was a new message from Chief Inspector Tomlinson.
“The meeting is fixed for tomorrow morning, Thursday,” his voice said. “Eleven a.m., at the Paddington Green Police Station.”
Not back in their holding cells, I hoped. I’d had my fill of those.
From our vantage point on the box balcony, Claudia and I looked down at the few brave souls rushing around in the rain beneath us.
“It’s such a shame,” Claudia said. “The weather makes or breaks an event like this. Everyone gets so wet.”
“It’s worse for the jockeys,” I said. “They’ll not just get wet, they’ll get completely covered in mud kicked up from the horses ahead of them. On days like this, being a front-runner is the only sensible option. At least you can then see where you’re going and where the fences are. However, the downside is that if your horse falls, the rest trample over you as you lie on the ground.”
“At least they’re