Free Dick Francis's Refusal by Felix Francis Page A

brings you here, then? Haven’t seen much of you lately.”
    â€œActually, I came to speak to you.”
    â€œReally.” He seemed surprised. “Never heard of the telephone?”
    â€œMuch better in person,” I said.
    â€œWhat about?”
    â€œRed Rosette.”
    â€œWhat about him?”
    â€œHis run at Sandown last month,” I said. “In the novice chase. Same day as the Mercia Gold Cup.”
    He shook his head slightly. “Can’t remember. I ride lots of horses. I know he didn’t win. I’d have remembered that.”
    â€œNo,” I said, “he didn’t win. Made a hash of the last fence. You asked him to take an extra stride, but there wasn’t room. He got in too close and plowed his way through. Do you remember now?”
    â€œYeah, I believe I do. Silly mistake of mine. I thought he was too tired to stand off, and I misjudged the distance.”
    â€œYeah,” I echoed. “And how about Martian Man in the novice hurdle here at Newbury on the same day as the Hennessy? Was that a silly mistake as well?”
    Jimmy stopped walking.
    â€œWhat are you implying?” he asked, not looking at me.
    â€œI’m not implying anything,” I said, although it was clear I was. “I just wondered if you had a theory of why a horse that on all his previous runs had been a front-runner with no noteworthy sprint finish had been held up for so long at the back of the field on this occasion that he’d never had a chance to overhaul the leaders in the straight.”
    â€œI did nothing wrong,” he declared.
    â€œDidn’t you?” I asked pointedly.
    â€œLeave me alone,” he said, setting off again at an even faster pace.
    I walked a few steps after him but then stopped and called out to him instead. “Is that what you said to Billy McCusker?”
    There was an almost imperceptible break in his stride, only for a split second, but I’d noticed. He recovered quickly and walked away towards the racetrack exit without looking back.
    â€œWho is Billy McCusker?” Marina asked.
    â€œI think he may be the man on the telephone with the Northern Irish accent.”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    â€œ C ALL THE POLICE,” Marina demanded.
    â€œI will,” I said, “when I’m sure it’s him.”
    We were sitting in our Range Rover, having safely negotiated the return trip across the parking lot.
    â€œBut who is he anyway?”
    â€œA former Belfast paramilitary thug who’s now a bookmaker in Manchester.”
    It wasn’t the answer that Marina had wanted or expected.
    â€œMy God!” she said. “That’s all we need. A bloody terrorist after us.”
    â€œMommy!” Sassy shouted from the backseat. “That’s a naughty word.”
    â€œShush, darling,” I said.
    But it wasn’t Marina’s use of the naughty word
bloody
that I found disturbing, it was the word
terrorist
. I was about to start the engine when I suddenly had visions of booby traps and car bombs.
    â€œWhat on earth are you doing?” Marina asked in irritation as I slipped out of the driver’s seat and went to look under the Range Rover’s hood. I also checked all around the vehicle, and underneath it as well, but there was nothing out of the ordinary, at least nothing I could see.
    â€œJust checking,” I said with a smile as I climbed back in, but there remained a certain degree of unease in my mind when I did finally push the start button.
    Nothing happened. Of course nothing happened, nothing other than the twin-turbo V6 3.0-liter diesel engine coming smoothly to life.
    I silently rebuked myself for being so melodramatic. The situation was tense enough already.
    Nevertheless, I spent almost as much time watching the rearview mirror as I did the road on the fifty or so miles up the A34 to home, but, if a car had followed us, I couldn’t spot it.
    I was