Dick Francis's Gamble - Felix Francis [9]
So I had done nothing. I had always tried to avoid personal confrontation, not least because I had grown up with it all around me from my parents, who had fought each other tooth and nail for more than thirty years until they had finally divorced in their late fifties.
“But it says here,” I said to Claudia, pointing at the newspaper, “that the murder had all the characteristics of a gangland killing. Now, surely I would have known if Herb had been involved in that sort of thing.”
“I bet my friends have all sorts of skeletons in their cupboards we’ll never hear about.”
“You’re such a cynic,” I said, but she did have some strange friends.
“A realist,” she replied. “It saves being disappointed.”
“Disappointed?”
“Yes,” she said. “If I believe the worst of people, then I’m not disappointed when it turns out to be accurate.”
“And do you believe the worst of me?”
“Don’t be silly,” she said, coming over and stroking my hair with flour-covered hands. “I know the worst of you.”
“And are you disappointed?”
“Always!” She laughed.
But I began to wonder if it was true.
I arrived at the offices of Lyall & Black on the fourth floor of 64 Lombard Street at eight-fifteen a.m. on Monday morning to find the door blocked by a burly-looking police constable in full uniform complete with anti-stab vest and helmet.
“Sorry, sir,” he said in an official tone as I tried to push past him, “no one is allowed into these offices without permission from my superior officer.”
“But I work here,” I said.
“Your name, sir?” he asked.
“Nicholas Foxton.”
He consulted a list that he had removed from his trouser pocket.
“Mr. N. Foxton,” he read. “Very well, sir, you may go in.” He moved slightly to one side while I passed, but then he stepped quickly back into his former spot as if expecting to prevent a rush from those not on his list.
The offices of Lyall & Black had never seen such activity so early on a Monday morning.
Both the senior partners, Patrick Lyall and Gregory Black, were in the client waiting area leaning on the chest-high reception desk.
“Oh hi, Nicholas,” said Patrick as I entered. “The police are here.”
“So I see,” I said. “Is it to do with Herb?”
They nodded.
“We’ve both been here since seven,” Patrick said. “But they won’t let us along into our offices. We’ve been told not to go beyond here.”
“Have they said what they are looking for, exactly?” I asked.
“No,” Gregory said sharply with irritation. “I presume they are hoping to find some clue as to who killed him. But I’m not happy about it. There may be sensitive client material on his desk that I wouldn’t want them to see. It’s highly confidential.”
I thought it was unlikely that the police would accept that anything was in the least bit confidential if it could have a bearing on unmasking a murderer.
“When did you find out he was dead?” I asked them. I knew that Herb’s name had finally been included in the late news on Sunday evening.
“Yesterday afternoon,” said Patrick. “I received a call from the police asking us to meet them here this morning. How about you?”
“I did try and call you on Saturday, but there was no reply,” I said. “I was actually with Herb when he was shot.”
“My God,” said Patrick, “that’s right. You were going to the races together.”
“And I was standing right next to him when he was killed,” I said.
“How awful,” Patrick said. “Did you see who killed him?”
“Well, sort of,” I said. “But I was looking mostly at his gun.”
“I just don’t understand it.” Patrick shook his head. “Why would anyone want to kill Herb Kovak?”
“Dreadful business,” said Gregory, also shaking his head. “Not good for the firm. Not good at all.”
It wasn’t too hot for Herb either, I thought, but decided not to say so. Lyall & Black, although very small, had risen to be one of the significant players in the financial services industry solely due to the single-mindedness of both Patrick Lyall and Gregory Black. Where Lyall & Black led, others usually followed. They took an innovative approach to their clients’ investments, often recommending