Dick Francis's Gamble - Felix Francis [17]
“Some of the prereviews are not great,” I said.
“I can’t think why,” Jan replied with surprise. “That girl that plays Florence is gorgeous, and what a voice! I think she’ll make me a fortune. I am sure the proper reviews after the first night will be fabulous.” She laughed. “But I’ll blame my financial adviser if they aren’t and I lose it all.”
“I hear he has broad shoulders,” I said, laughing back.
But it wasn’t necessarily a laughing matter. Investing in the theater had always been a high-risk strategy and fortunes had been lost far more often than they’d been won. Not that investing in anything was certain. It was always a gamble. I had known some seemingly cast-iron and gold-plated investments go belly-up almost without warning. Shares in big established companies were usually safe, with expected steady growth, but that was not always the case. Enron shares had fallen from a healthy ninety dollars each to just a few cents within ten weeks, while Health South Inc., once one of America’s largest health care providers, had lost ninety-eight percent of its value on the New York Stock Exchange in a single day. Both those collapses had been due to fraud or dodgy accounting practices, inflating their revenues and profits, but business catastrophes can have the same effect. BP shares fell in value by more than fifty percent in a month when an oil platform exploded in the Gulf of Mexico even though the costs associated with the explosion, and the subsequent oil clearup, represented far less than half the company’s assets.
Could such a calamitous loss have resulted in Herb’s murder?
I couldn’t believe it was possible.
Patrick Lyall held regular meetings, usually on a Monday, when investment plans for our clients were discussed. All his assistants were present, and that included Herb and myself. We were expected to research the markets and put forward investment suggestions—for example, the new musical that I had recommended to Jan Setter—but the firm’s rule was clear and simple: none of our client money could be invested in any product without the prior approval of either Patrick or Gregory.
Our exposure to BP losses had been mostly through personal pension schemes, and, bad as it was, the risks had been well spread, with no individuals actually losing their shirts, or even as much as a tie. Certainly not enough, I thought, to murder their adviser.
“You should come and ride out for me,” said Jan, bringing my daydreaming back to the present. “First lot goes out at seven-thirty on Saturdays. Come down on a Friday and stay the night. You’d enjoy it.”
Now, was that an invitation to a dirty weekend or not?
And yes, I would enjoy it. The riding, that is. At least I think I would have. But I hadn’t sat on a horse in eight years.
I could remember so clearly the devastation I had felt when told I couldn’t be a jockey anymore. I had been sitting at an oak table in the offices of the British Horse Racing Authority in High Holborn, London. Opposite me were the three members of the medical board.
I could recall almost word for word the brief announcement made by the board chairman. “Sorry, Foxton,” he had said, almost before we were all comfortable in our chairs, “we have concluded that you are, and will permanently remain, unfit to ride in any form of racing. Consequently, your jockey’s license has been withdrawn indefinitely.” He had then started to rise, to leave the room.
I had sat there completely stunned. My skin had gone suddenly cold and the walls had seemed to press inwards towards me. I had expected the meeting with the board to be a formality, just another necessary inconvenience on the long road to recovery.
“Hold on a minute,” I’d said, turning in my chair towards the departing chairman. “I was told to come here to answer some questions. What questions?”
The chairman had stopped in the doorway. “We don’t need to ask you any questions. Your scan results