Dick Francis's Gamble - Felix Francis [75]
They shouldn’t really be surprised, I thought. Jump jockeys were made tough and a breed apart from normal human beings. Broken bones and concussion were accepted as normal hazards of their employment, to be endured and recovered from as quickly as possible. All jockeys were self-employed—no rides meant no pay. It was a powerful incentive for quick healing.
There was nothing in the report about his attacker other than the stated hope that Searle would soon be able to be interviewed by the detectives investigating the incident about the identity of his assailant.
I wondered, meanwhile, if Billy was getting police protection.
The night passed without incident, although I lay awake for much of it half listening for someone climbing the drainpipe outside my bedroom window with gun in hand, and murder in mind.
I also spent the time thinking.
In particular, I spent the time thinking about the note I had found in Herb’s coat pocket. I knew the words of it by heart.
YOU SHOULD HAVE DONE WHAT YOU WERE
TOLD. YOU MAY SAY YOU REGRET IT, BUT
YOU WONT BE REGRETTING IT FOR LONG.
I had told DCI Tomlinson that I thought it hadn’t been so much a warning as an apology, even though he’d pooh-poohed the idea.
However, it did mean one thing for certain: Herb had known his killer, or at least he knew someone who knew he was going to die. That was assuming that the “won’t be regretting it for long” did, in fact, refer to him dying soon. It could, I suppose, have been from a girlfriend who was dumping him for not doing as he was told, but somehow I doubted it. Notes from girlfriends are never written in stark capital letters without a salutation of some kind, and a name.
What had Herb been told to do that he hadn’t done?
Was it something to do with the gambling and the credit cards, or was there something else?
I turned on the bedside light and wrote out the words in full on a notepad:
YOU SHOULD HAVE DONE WHAT YOU WERE
TOLD. YOU MAY SAY YOU REGRET IT, BUT
YOU WONT BE REGRETTING IT FOR LONG.
I studied it carefully.
Maybe Herb hadn’t “not done” something that he’d been told to do, perhaps he had “done” something that he’d been told not to.
But to whom had he expressed regret for his inaction or action? And why had he regretted it? Because it had been wrong or because it had placed him in danger?
Still so many questions and still so few answers.
“Leave the investigating to the professionals,” the chief inspector had said to me. But how long would they take? And would I still be alive by then?
Maybe it was time for me to start poking a few hornets’ nests, and hope not to get stung.
I went into the hospital just after seven-thirty on Wednesday morning. Claudia was so much improved, sitting up in her uncomfortable bed without as much as a murmur about backache, and she was eating a breakfast of muesli and natural yogurt.
“Well, look at you,” I said, smiling broadly. “You obviously had a better night than me.”
“Why? What was wrong with your night?” she asked.
“Lumpy hotel bed,” I said.
“Why didn’t you go home?”
Ah, I thought, careless. Now what do I say?
“I wanted to be nearer you, my darling.”
“But what a waste of money,” she said with mock disapproval of my profligacy. “If I have to stay in here another night, I insist you go home. I’ll be fine.”
Little did she know that there was no way I was going home and neither was she. It was far too risky.
“You look well enough to run a marathon,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll chuck you out just as soon as Dr. Tomic’s seen you.”
“The nurse says he’s usually here by eight.”
I looked up at the clock on the wall, the one that had driven me mad the previous day when Claudia had been in the operating room.
It was ten minutes before eight.
As if on cue, Dr. Tomic swept into the room. He had the blue scrubs on but this time wore a doctor’s white coat over them.
“Good morning, Claudia,” he said, and he nodded at me. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better than last night,” Claudia replied. “But I’m rather