Dick Francis's Gamble - Felix Francis [25]
“Oh, that,” I said, trying to suppress a laugh. “My toe is fine thank you. How can I help?”
“Was Mr. Kovak in personal financial difficulties?” he asked.
“In what way?” I said.
“Was he in debt?”
“Not that I am aware of,” I said. “No more than any of us. Why do you ask?”
“Mr. Foxton, are you well enough to come to Mr. Kovak’s home? There are quite a few things I would like to discuss with you, and I also need you, as his executor, to agree to the removal of certain items from his flat to assist with our inquiries. I can send a car, if that helps.”
I thought about my planned day at Cheltenham Races.
“Tomorrow would be better.”
“Of course,” he said. “How about eight a.m.?”
“Eight tomorrow is fine,” I said. “I’ll be there.”
“Do you need me to send a car?”
Why not, I thought. “Yes, that would be great.”
I’d have to develop a limp.
Billy Searle was in no mood to explain to me why he suddenly needed his money.
“Just put the bloody cash in my bank account,” he shouted.
We were standing on the terrace in front of the Weighing Room before the first race and heads were turning our way.
“Billy, for goodness’ sake calm down,” I said quietly but determinedly.
It didn’t work.
“And what the hell are you doing here anyway?” he shouted back. “You should be at your desk getting my bloody cash together.”
More heads turned.
So much for Patrick’s instruction to keep things discreet.
“Billy, I’m only trying to help.”
“I don’t need your fucking help!” He curled his lip and spat out the words, spraying me with fine drops of spittle.
The racing journalists were moving ever closer.
I dropped my voice, leaned forward and spoke directly into his ear. “Now, listen to me, you little creep. You clearly need someone’s help, and I’m on your side.” I paused. “Call me when you’ve calmed down. The money will be in your bank by Friday.”
“I told you I need a hundred grand by tonight,” he was shouting and almost crying. “I need my money today.”
We were now the center of attention for half the Cheltenham crowd.
“Sorry,” I said quietly, trying to maintain some level of dignity. “That’s impossible. It will be there by Friday, maybe by Thursday if you’re very lucky.
“Thursday will be too late,” he screamed at me. “I’ll be fucking dead by Thursday.”
There was no point in us standing there arguing, with all the racing world listening to every word, so I simply walked away, ever-conscious of the hacks gathering around us like vultures, their pencils now scribbling ferociously in their notebooks. At least there was no sign of Martin Gifford, the five-star gossip, but he’d no doubt know every detail by the end of the day.
“Why are you trying to murder me?” Billy shouted after me at full volume.
I ignored him and continued over towards the relative privacy of the pre-parade ring where I called the office to check how the liquidation of Billy’s assets was progressing.
Mrs. McDowd answered. Patrick and Gregory didn’t like automated telephone answering and faceless voice mail. “Our clients need to know they are dealing with real people,” they said. Hence we employed Mrs. McDowd, and also a Mrs. Johnson, to answer the telephones.
“What on earth did you say to that policeman?” I asked her. “He’s being uncommonly nice to me.”
“I told him you were having an ingrown toenail removed.”
“Why?”
“Because he was bloody rude to me,” she said with indignation. “Spoke to me as if I was the office cleaner, so I told him you couldn’t be reached. The trouble was, he wanted to know why you couldn’t be reached, so I told him you were unconscious and having an operation. Seemed like a good idea at the time, but the damn man was persistent, I’ll give him that. Demanded to know what you were having done so I told him it was an ingrown toenail. I could hardly make it something more serious, now could I? Not with you up and about, like.”
“Mrs. McDowd, if I ever need someone to make up an alibi, I promise I’ll call you,” I said, never thinking for a second that I would need an alibi much sooner