Dead Heat - By Dick Francis & Felix Francis Page 0,86

said. ‘Took the girls with her.’

‘Carl,’ I said, ‘I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you say something to me?’

‘Didn’t seem to matter,’ he said. ‘To tell you the truth, I was relieved when she went. I couldn’t stand the rows. I’m much happier on my own. We’re not divorced or anything and she and the girls come over for the weekends and it’s sometimes pretty good.’

What could I say? Restaurant work, with its odd hours, never was highly recommended for happy marriages.

‘Could I stay for a couple of nights, then?’ I asked. ‘I will he gone by the weekend.’

‘Stay as long as you like,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell Jenny that she and the girls can’t stay over this weekend.’

‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘Don’t do that. I’ll find myself a more permanent place by then. Much better all round.’

‘You might be right,’ he said. ‘Are you coming into work today?’

‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘I think so. But maybe not until later. I want to hire the car first.’

Carl dropped me at the car-hire offices on his way into work.

‘Certainly, sir,’ they said. ‘What sort of car would you like?’

‘What have you got?’ I asked.

I decided on a Ford Mondeo. I wanted a fairly nondescript vehicle that wouldn’t attract attention if, for example, I went again to the members’ car park at Smith’s Lawn and the Guards Polo Club.

One of the car-hire-company staff insisted in coming with me to my bank to make the payment arrangements before he would give me the keys of the Mondeo. It often seemed to me that the restaurant business was one of the few that allowed its customers to consume the goods before asking for any payment or even a guarantee of payment. The old joke about doing the washing up had worn a bit thin over the years and I had never known anyone actually do it, although I had come across many a customer who didn’t have the wherewithal to pay for his dinner after he had eaten it. What could I do? Reach down his throat and pull it out again? In truth, there wasn’t anything one could do except send him on his way, accepting his promise to return with the readies in the morning. In most cases a cheque quickly appeared with profuse apologies. Only twice, in the six years that I had been open, had I simply not heard anything afterwards, and one of those was because the person in question had died the day after, but, thankfully, not from eating my food. On the other occasion two couples whom I didn’t know and who had enjoyed the full dining experience we offered including three courses with coffee and two bottles of my best wine, had both then claimed that they thought the other couple was paying. They had given me their assurances and their addresses, both of which turned out to be false, and I had carelessly failed to record the registration number of their car. I bet they had thought it was funny. I hadn’t. I would recognize any one of them instantly if they ever tried it again.

While I was in the bank I drew out a large wad of cash and also arranged for a replacement credit card to be sent to me at the Hay Net at the earliest opportunity. Tomorrow, they said. How about this afternoon? I asked. We will try, they said, but I would have to pay for the courier. Fine, I said, get on with it. Without my credit card I felt as naked as I had been in the road last night.

I sat in my new wheels and took stock of my situation. I was alive, I had a change of clothes in my overnight bag, my passport in my pocket, somewhere to sleep for the next two nights and I could always put up a bed in the office of the restaurant if I had to. But I had no watch and my mobile telephone was, I was sure, totally beyond repair, having been alongside my wallet in the pocket of my blazer, which had been hanging over the back of the sofa in my cottage when I went to bed last night.

I parked the car and went into the mobile phone shop in the High Street. I explained to the young woman behind the counter that my house had burnt down with my phone in it and I needed a replacement, preferably with the same number as before. Now