Dick Francis's Gamble - Felix Francis [33]
“Sherri Kovak,” she said. “And where’s my damn brother?”
There was no easy way to tell Sherri that her brother was dead, but it was the nature of his death she found most distressing.
She sat in the big armchair and wept profusely while I made her a cup of hot sweet tea.
In between her bouts of near hysteria, I discovered that she had arrived early that morning on an overnight flight from Chicago. She had been surprised, and rather annoyed, that Herb had not been at the airport to meet her as he had promised, but she had eventually made her own way to Hendon by train and taxi.
“But how did you have a key to get in?” I asked her.
“Herb gave me one when I was here last year.”
Herb hadn’t mentioned to me last year that his sister was visiting or even that he had a sister in the first place. But why would he have? We had been work colleagues rather than close friends. He also hadn’t mentioned to me that he was a compulsive online gambler.
I wondered if I ought to inform DCI Tomlinson that Herb Kovak’s next of kin had turned up. Probably, but then he’d be back around here with a list of awkward questions when it was clear to me that, after a night of sitting upright on an airplane, what she needed most was a good sleep. I’d call the chief inspector later.
I found some fresh bed linen in an airing cupboard and made up the bed in the smaller of the two bedrooms. I then guided the overtired and still-crying Miss Kovak from the living room to the bed and made her take off her shoes and lie down.
“You sleep for a bit,” I said, covering her with a blanket. “I’ll still be here when you wake.”
“But who are you, exactly?” she asked between sobs.
“A friend of your brother’s,” I said. “We worked together.” I decided not to mention to her just yet that her brother had left his entire estate to me and not to her. And I wondered why that was.
Sherri Kovak was almost asleep before her head reached the pillow. I left her there and went back to Herb’s desk and the credit card statements.
It was gone nine o’clock, and I called the office number on my mobile. Mrs. McDowd answered.
“It’s the man with the ingrown toenail calling in sick,” I said.
“Shirker,” she announced with a laugh.
“No, really,” I said. “I won’t be in the office until later. Please tell Mr. Patrick that I’m sorry but something has come up.”
“Trouble?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “No trouble, but something that I need to deal with.”
I could almost feel her wanting to ask what it was. Mrs. McDowd liked to know everything about the goings-on of her staff, as she called us. She was always asking after Claudia, and she seemed to know more about my mother than I did.
“Tell me, Mrs. McDowd,” I said in a friendly tone, “did you know that Herb Kovak had a sister?”
“Yes, of course,” she said. “Sherri. She lives in Chicago. She and Mr. Herb were twins. She visited him last summer.”
“Did you proffer this information to the policeman when he interviewed us all on Monday?”
“No,” she said firmly, “I did not.”
“Why not?” I asked her.
“He didn’t ask me.”
Mrs. McDowd clearly didn’t like the police very much.
“Please tell Mr. Patrick that I’ll see him later today,” I said.
“Right, I will,” she said. “It’s a good job you’re not here now anyway. Mr. Gregory is angry, fit to burst.”
“What about?” I asked.
“You,” she said. “He’s absolutely livid. Claims you’ve brought the whole firm into disrepute. He wants your head on a stick.”
“But why?” I asked, rather worried. “What have I done?”
“Don’t you know?”
“No,” I said.
“Read the front page of the Racing Post.”
I went along the hall to check on Sherri Kovak. Her long blond hair was obscuring her face so I waited in the doorway for a few seconds listening to her breathing. She was sound asleep. Best thing for her, I thought. Sadly, the horrors of real life would still be waiting for her when she woke.
As quietly as I could, I slipped out the front door and walked down towards Hendon Central in search of a newsagent’s.
I could see the problem even before I picked up the paper. The inch-high bold headline read: