Dick Francis's Gamble - Felix Francis [92]
All I had said to her on the phone from Cheltenham had been that I was desperate and could she help by putting us up for a night or two.
“How desperate?” she had asked calmly.
“Life or death,” I’d said. “Complete secrecy.”
She had asked nothing further but had simply said, “Come,” and she’d asked no questions when we’d arrived, not until after my traumatized mother and fiancée had been safely ushered up to bed. As it had with me, the shock and fear had manifested itself in them after the event.
In all the years I had known Jan, both as her former jockey and more recently as her financial adviser, I had never known her to be flustered or panicked by anything. She was the steady head I needed in this crisis.
But how much did I tell her?
Would she even believe me?
“I know this is going to sound rather overly dramatic,” I said. “But someone is trying to kill me.”
“What’s her name?” Jan asked with a laugh.
“I’m being serious, Jan,” I said. “Tonight a man came to my mother’s cottage to murder me. He had a gun. I promise you, we are extremely fortunate to be alive. The same man has now tried to kill me twice.”
“Let’s hope it isn’t third time lucky.”
“He won’t get a third time.”
“How can you be sure?” she asked.
“Because he’s dead. The last time I saw him he was lying on the floor of my mother’s living room with his neck broken.”
She stared at me. “You are being serious, aren’t you?”
I nodded. “Very.”
“Have you called the police?”
“Yes,” I said. “But I need to call them again.” I looked at my watch. It had been at least two hours since I’d spoken to Chief Inspector Tomlinson. But they could wait a little longer.
“So why come here?” she asked. “Why not go straight to the police?”
“I need somewhere to hide where no one can find me.”
Not even the police, I thought.
“But, if the man’s dead, why do you still need to hide?” she asked.
“Because he was a hired killer, and I am worried that whoever hired him will simply hire another.”
I could tell from the look on Jan’s face that her credulity had reached its limit.
“It’s true, I assure you,” I said. “I’m not making it up, and I think it’s all to do with stealing a hundred million euros from the European Union. Now, that really is big money. And what’s the going rate for having someone killed these days? Twenty thousand? A hundred grand maybe? Or even half a million? That’s still only a half of one percent of the take. Cheap at twice the price.”
“But what have you got to do with stealing a hundred million euros?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “But I may have asked the wrong questions to those that have. And I suspect that somebody believes I need to be permanently removed before I ask some more questions and bring the whole scheme tumbling down round their ears.”
“So what are you going to do?” she said.
“Ask the questions quickly,” I said, grinning at her. “And then keep my head down.”
Someone answered after just one ring when I called my mother’s cottage. I was sitting in Jan’s office and using her mobile phone, and I had carefully withheld the number from caller ID. I hoped it was enough to keep it secret.
“Hello,” I said.
“Is that Nicholas Foxton?” came a man’s voice in reply.
“It is,” I said. “To whom am I talking?”
“Detective Chief Inspector Flight,” he said, “Gloucestershire Police.”
Not another detective chief inspector, I thought. What’s the collective noun for detective chief inspectors? It was a posse of police, so maybe it’s an evidence of detective chief inspectors.
“Where are you, Mr. Foxton?” asked this particular chief inspector.
“Somewhere safe,” I said.
“And where is that?” he asked again.
I ignored him. “Who was the man who tried to kill me?” I asked.
“Mr. Foxton,” he said, “I need you to come to a police station to be interviewed. Tonight.”
He was persistent, I’d give him that.
“Have you spoken to DCI Tomlinson from Merseyside Police?” I asked. “Or Superintendent Yering from the Metropolitan Police Armed Response Team?”
“No,” he said, “not personally.”
“Then I suggest you do,” I said.
“Mr. Foxton,” he said, “you are in danger