Dick Francis's Gamble - Felix Francis [43]
“Nicholas Foxton,” the man said. “I arrest you on suspicion of the attempted murder of William Peter Searle.”
7
I spent the afternoon waiting in an eight-foot-by-six holding cell at the Paddington Green Police Station not quite knowing what to think.
The man in the office had identified himself as another detective chief inspector, this one from the Metropolitan Police.
I’d missed his name. I hadn’t really been listening.
I did, however, remember him advising me that I didn’t have to say anything, with the proviso that it might harm my defense if I didn’t mention something when questioned that I later relied on in court. I’d been too shocked to say anything anyway. I had just stood there with my mouth open in surprise as a uniformed policeman had applied handcuffs to my wrists and then led me down in the lift to a waiting police car.
William Peter Searle, the chief inspector had said when I was arrested.
That had to be Billy Searle.
So Billy had been right about one thing.
Thursday had been too late.
I suppose I couldn’t really blame the police for arresting me. Hundreds of witnesses had heard Billy shouting the previous afternoon at Cheltenham. “Why are you trying to murder me?” had been his exact words, even if the Racing Post had distorted them somewhat.
I hadn’t been trying to murder him, but I hadn’t taken him seriously either.
But to whom could Billy have owed so much money? Clearly, someone who was prepared to try to kill him for nonpayment by the Wednesday-night deadline.
I sat on one end of the cell’s fixed concrete bed and went on waiting. But I wasn’t particularly worried. I knew I had nothing to do with Billy’s or anyone else’s attempted murder and surely it would be only a matter of time before the police discovered that.
First Herb Kovak and now Billy Searle. Could the two be connected?
Thursday afternoon dragged on into early evening, and I was left alone in the cell, still waiting.
For the umpteenth time I looked at my wrist to check the time and, for the umpteenth time, saw no watch.
It had been removed when I was “checked in” to the custody suite by the custody sergeant, along with my tie, my belt, my shoelaces and the contents of my pockets, including Herb’s MoneyHome payment slips and the transaction report from the box outside Gregory’s office.
The cell door opened, and a white-shirted policeman brought in a tray that held a covered plate and a plastic bottle of water.
“What time is it?” I asked.
“Seven o’clock,” he said without looking at his watch.
“How much longer am I going to be kept here?” I asked.
“The DCI will see you when he’s ready,” replied the policeman, who then placed the tray down next to me on the concrete bed and went out. The door clanged shut behind him.
I looked under the cover. Fish and chips. And quite good too.
I ate the lot and drank the water. It took about five minutes.
And then I waited some more, counting the bricks in the walls in an attempt to alleviate the boredom. It failed.
The detective chief inspector finally opened the cell door long after the barred and frosted-glass window had turned from daylight to night black.
“Mr. Foxton,” he said, coming into the cell. “You are free to go.”
“What?” I said, not quite taking it all in.
“You are free to go,” the detective said again, standing to one side of the door. “We will not be charging you with any offense.” He paused as if not being quite able to say the next bit. “And I’m sorry for any inconvenience that may have been caused.”
“Sorry!” I said. “Sorry! I should bloody well think you are sorry. I’ve been treated like a common criminal.”
“Mr. Foxton,” the chief inspector replied, somewhat affronted. “You have been treated exactly in accordance with the laid-down regulations.”
“So why was I arrested?” I demanded.
“We had reason to believe you were responsible for the attempted murder of the jockey, William Searle.”
“So what’s happened that now makes you so sure