Free Dick Francis's Gamble by Felix Francis Page B

by the Regulator to do as our clients instruct and we can’t go off to the authorities every time they instruct us to do something we don’t think is sensible.”
    â€œBut we have a duty to report anything we believe to be illegal.”
    â€œAnd do you have any evidence that he wants to do something illegal with the funds?”
    â€œNo.” I paused. “But I wonder if breaking the rules of racing is illegal?”
    â€œDepends on what he’s doing,” said Patrick. “Defrauding the betting public is illegal. Remember that case at the Old Bailey a few years back.”
    I did indeed.
    â€œBilly told me he owed a guy some money,” I said. “Seems he needs a hundred grand. That’s a very big debt. I wonder if he’s got mixed up with a bookmaker.”
    â€œBetting is not illegal,” Patrick said.
    â€œMaybe not,” I agreed, “but it is strictly against the rules of racing for a professional jockey to bet.”
    â€œThat’s not our problem,” he said. “And if you do ask Billy any questions, for God’s sake try and be discreet. We also have a duty to keep his affairs confidential.”
    â€œOK, I will. I’ll see you in the office tomorrow.”
    â€œRight,” said Patrick. “Oh yes. Another thing. That policeman called yesterday asking for you.”
    â€œHe didn’t call my mobile. It was on all day, although the damn thing doesn’t work here. My mother lives in a mobile-phone signal hole.”
    â€œNo, well, that wouldn’t have mattered anyway because it seems he was rather rude to Mrs. McDowd so she refused to give him your number. She told him you were unavailable and not to be contacted.”
    I laughed. Good old Mrs. McDowd, one of our fearless office receptionists.
    â€œWhat did he want?” I asked.
    â€œSeems they want you to attend at Herb’s flat. Something about being his executor.” He gave me the policeman’s number, and I stored it in my phone. “Call him, will you? I don’t want Mrs. McDowd arrested for obstructing the police.”
    â€œOK,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”
    I disconnected from Patrick and called Detective Chief Inspector Tomlinson.
    â€œAh, Mr. Foxton,” he said. “Good of you to call. How are you feeling?”
    â€œI’m fine,” I replied, wondering why he would ask.
    â€œIs your toe OK?” he asked.
    â€œSorry?”
    â€œYour toe,” he repeated. “Your receptionist told me about your operation.”
    â€œOh, that,” I said, trying to suppress a laugh. “My toe is fine thank you. How can I help?”
    â€œWas Mr. Kovak in personal financial difficulties?” he asked.
    â€œIn what way?” I said.
    â€œWas he in debt?”
    â€œNot that I am aware of,” I said. “No more than any of us. Why do you ask?”
    â€œMr. Foxton, are you well enough to come to Mr. Kovak’s home? There are quite a few things I would like to discuss with you, and I also need you, as his executor, to agree to the removal of certain items from his flat to assist with our inquiries. I can send a car, if that helps.”
    I thought about my planned day at Cheltenham Races.
    â€œTomorrow would be better.”
    â€œOf course,” he said. “How about eight a.m.?”
    â€œEight tomorrow is fine,” I said. “I’ll be there.”
    â€œDo you need me to send a car?”
    Why not, I thought. “Yes, that would be great.”
    I’d have to develop a limp.
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    B illy Searle was in no mood to explain to me why he suddenly needed his money.
    â€œJust put the bloody cash in my bank account,” he shouted.
    We were standing on the terrace in front of the Weighing Room before the first race and heads were turning our way.
    â€œBilly, for goodness’ sake calm down,” I said quietly but determinedly.
    It didn’t work.
    â€œAnd what the