Dick Francis's Gamble - Felix Francis [14]
Patrick saw him as well and went over to the door.
“It’s all right, officer, Mr. Mellor is our lawyer.”
“But he’s not on my list,” said the uniformed policeman adamantly.
“It was I who provided that list and I forgot to add Mr. Mellor.”
Reluctantly the policeman stood aside and allowed the visitor to enter.
“Sorry, Andrew,” said Patrick. “It’s all a bit of a nightmare here at present.”
“Yes, so I can see.” Andrew Mellor looked around at the sea of faces. “I’m so sorry to hear about Herb Kovak. Unbelievable business.”
“And bloody inconvenient too,” interjected Gregory, who had been mostly quiet since his altercation with the chief inspector earlier. “But I’m glad you’re here.” I wondered if Gregory had asked Andrew to come around to be present during his interview. “We’ll have to talk outside.” Gregory began to ease himself up from one of the armchairs.
“Actually, Gregory,” said the lawyer, putting up a hand to stop him, “it’s not you I have come to see. I need to talk to Nicholas.” Fifteen pairs of eyes swiveled around in my direction. “Do you mind?” he said to me, holding out his arm towards the door.
I could almost feel the stares on my back as I went outside into the lobby with Andrew. We went past the lifts and around a corner so that the prying eyes in Lyall & Black could no longer see us through the glass door and the policeman on guard couldn’t hear our conversation.
“Sorry about this,” he said, “but I have something to give you.”
He pulled a white envelope out of his jacket inside pocket and held it out to me. I took it.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Herb Kovak’s Last Will and Testament.”
I looked up from the envelope to Andrew’s face.
“But why are you giving it to me?” I asked.
“Because Herb named you in it as his executor.”
“Me?” I said, somewhat taken aback.
“Yes,” Andrew said. “And you are also the sole beneficiary of his estate.”
I was astonished. “Has he no family?”
“Obviously none that he wanted to leave anything to.”
“But why would he leave it to me?” I asked.
“I’ve no idea,” Andrew said. “Perhaps he liked you.”
Little did I realize at the time how Herb Kovak’s legacy would turn out to be a poisoned chalice.
3
On Tuesday I went to the races—Cheltenham Races, to be precise. But this was no pleasure outing, it was work.
Racing can be a funny business, especially amongst the jockeys.
Competition is intense. It always has been. Before the advent in 1960 of the racing patrol films to aid the stewards in catching the wrongdoers, stories abounded of jockeys who would cut off a rival, giving them no room, literally putting a horse and rider through the wings of a fence in order to help their own chances of winning. And riding whips have not always been employed solely to strike the horses but have left their mark on jockeys too. On one famous occasion at Deauville in France, Lester Piggott, having dropped his own whip, took one from one of the other jockeys during the race, to help him ride a tight finish.
But once the race is run, whatever the result, there exists a camaraderie between these men and women who risk their lives five or six times an afternoon for the entertainment of others. And they look after their own.
Such it was with me.
My erstwhile opponents who, during my riding days, would have happily seen me dumped onto the turf if it meant that they could win a race, were the first to express their concern and support when I’d been injured.
When I had been forced to retire at the ripe old age of twentyone, it had been a handful of my fellow jocks who had arranged a testimonial day for me at Sandown Park to raise the funds needed to pay my university tuition fees. And it had been the same individuals who had clamored to become my first clients when I’d qualified as an IFA.
Since then I had acquired a