Bolt - By Dick Francis Page 0,81

into the big envelope, switched on the tape recorder, and drew out the first of the packets of money, laying it on the table beside my glass.

He came back at length with a pint and drank a third of it thirstily.

‘Why are you limping?’ he said, putting the glass down watchfully.

‘Twisted my ankle.’

‘You’re that jockey,’ he said. ‘Kit Fielding.’

I could feel alarm vibrating in him at the identification and pushed the money towards him, to anchor him, to prevent flight.

‘A hundred,’ I said, ‘up front.’

‘It wasn’t my fault,’ he said in a rush, half aggressively, on the defensive.

‘No, I know that. Take the money.’

He stretched out a big-knuckled hand, picked up the booty, checked it, and slotted it into an internal pocket.

‘Tell me what happened,’ I said.

He wasn’t ready, however. The unease, cause and effect, had to be dealt with first.

‘Look, I don’t want this going any further,’ he said nervously. ‘I’ve been in two minds … I saw this advertisement Friday … but, look, see, by rights I shouldn’t have been at the races. I’m telling you I was there, but I don’t want it going no further.’

‘Mm,’ I said non-committally.

‘But, see, I could do with some untaxed dosh, who couldn’t? So I thought, maybe if it was worth two hundred to you, I’d tell you.’

‘The rest’s in here,’ I said, pointing to the brown envelope. ‘Just … tell me what happened.’

‘Look, I was supposed to be at work. I made out I’d got flu. I wouldn’t get fired if the bosses found out, just a dressing down, but I don’t want the wife knowing, see what I mean? She thought I was at work. I went home my regular time. She’d bellyache something chronic if she knew. She’s dead set against gambling, see what I mean?’

‘And you,’ I said, ‘like your little flutter.’

‘Nothing wrong in that, is there?’ he demanded.

‘No,’ I said.

‘The wife doesn’t know I’m here,’ he said. ‘This isn’t my local. I told her I had to come into Bradbury for a part for my motor. I’m draining the sump and I need a new filter. I’ll have to keep quiet about meeting you, see? I had to ring you up this morning while I was out with the dog. So, see what I mean, I don’t want this getting about.’

I thought without guilt of my sharp-eared little recorder, but reflected that Mr Smith’s gusher would dry in a microsecond if he found it was there. He seemed, however, not the sort of man who would ever suspect its existence.

‘I’m sure it won’t get about, Mr Smith,’ I said.

He jumped again slightly at the name.

‘See, the name’s not Smith, I expect you guessed. But well, if you don’t know, I’m that much safer, see what I mean?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

He drank most of the beer and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief; white with brown lines and checks round the edge. The two men playing darts finished their game and went out to the saloon bar, leaving us alone in our spartan surroundings.

‘I’d been looking at the horses in the paddock,’ he said, ‘and I was going off towards the bookies when this character came up to me and offered me a fiver to deliver a message.’

‘A fiver,’ I said.

‘Yeah … well, see what I mean, I said, “Ten, and you’re on.”’ He sniffed. ‘He wasn’t best pleased. He gave me a right filthy look, but in the end he coughed up. Ten smackers. It meant I’d be betting free on that race, see what I mean?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘So he says, this character, that all I’d got to do was walk over to a man he would point out, and tell him that Danielle wanted him to go up to the balcony to see the view.’

‘He said that precisely?’

‘He made me repeat it twice. Then he gave me two fivers and pointed at a big man in a dark overcoat, very distinguished looking, and when I turned round, he’d gone. Anyway, he paid me to pass on the message, so I did. I didn’t think anything of it, see what I mean? I mean, there didn’t seem any harm in it. I knew the balcony wasn’t open, but if he wanted to go up there, so what, see what I mean?’

‘I can see that,’ I said.

‘I passed on the message, and the distinguished looking gent thanked me, and I went on out to the bookies and put two fivers on Applejack.’

Mr Smith was a loser, I thought.