Free Silks by Dick Francis, Felix Francis Page A

murder and, hey presto, the crime is solved but the real murderer is safe and well and living in clover.
    I called my father.
    ‘Hello,’ he said in his usual rather formal tone. I could imagine him sitting in front of the television in his bungalow watching the early evening news.
    ‘Hello, Dad,’ I said.
    ‘Ah, Geoff,’ he said. ‘How are things in the Smoke?’
    ‘Fine, thanks. How are things with you?’ It was a ritual. We spoke on the telephone about once a week and, every time, we exchanged these pleasantries. Sadly, these days we had little else to say to one another. We lived in different worlds. We had never been particularly close and he had moved to the village of Kings Sutton, near Banbury, from his native urban Surrey after my mother had died. I had thought that it had been astrange choice but perhaps, unlike me, he had needed to escape his memories.
    ‘Much the same,’ he said.
    ‘Dad,’ I said. ‘I know this is a strange question, but what have you been wearing today?’
    ‘Clothes,’ he said, amused. ‘Same as always. Why?’
    ‘What clothes?’ I asked.
    ‘Why do you need to know?’ he demanded suspiciously. We both knew that I was apt to criticize my father’s rather ageing wardrobe, and he didn’t like it.
    ‘I just do,’ I said. ‘Please.’
    ‘Fawn corduroy trousers and a yellow shirt under a green pullover,’ he said.
    ‘Does the pullover have any holes in it?’ I asked.
    ‘None of your business,’ he said sharply.
    ‘Does it have a hole in the left elbow?’ I persisted.
    ‘Only a small one,’ he said defensively. ‘It’s perfectly all right to wear around the house. Now what is this all about?’
    ‘Nothing,’ I said lightly. ‘Forget it. Forget I asked.’
    ‘You’re a strange boy,’ he said. He often said it. I thought he was a strange father, but I kept that to myself.
    ‘I’ll call you on Sunday then,’ I said to him. I often called on Sundays.
    ‘Right. Bye for now then.’ He put down the receiver at his end. He’d never liked talking on the phone and he was habitually eager to finish a conversation as soon as it had started. Today we had been briefer than usual.
    I sat and stared at the photograph in my hand, the photograph that had accompanied the note in the white envelope. It showed my father outside the front door of his bungalow wearing fawn-coloured trousers, a yellow shirt and a green pullover with asmall hole clearly visible on the left elbow, the yellow of the shirt beneath contrasting with the dark green of the wool. The photo had to have been taken today. For all his reluctance to buy new clothes, my father could never be accused of wearing dirty ones, and he always put on a clean shirt crisp from the local laundry every morning. I suppose he might have had more than one yellow shirt, but I doubted it.
    But how, I thought, had they, whoever they were, managed to get a photograph of my father so quickly? Julian Trent had been released from custody only on Friday, and Scot Barlow murdered only yesterday. I wondered if the one had been dependent on the other.
    Bruce Lygon still hadn’t called me, so I didn’t even know if Steve Mitchell had yet been charged with murder, but here I was, already being told to make sure he was convicted.
    As if on cue, my telephone rang.
    ‘Hello,’ I said, picking it up.
    ‘Geoffrey?’ said a now familiar voice.
    ‘Bruce,’ I replied. ‘What news?’
    ‘I’m on my way to have dinner with my wife,’ he said. ‘They charged Mitchell with murder at six this evening and he’ll be in court tomorrow at ten.’
    ‘Which court?’ I asked.
    ‘Newbury magistrates,’ he said. ‘He’s sure to be remanded. No provincial magistrate would ever give bail on a murder charge. I’ll apply, of course, but it will have to go before a judge for there to be any chance, and I think it’s most unlikely, considering the cause of death. Very nasty.’
    ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘I agree, but you never know when there