Dead Heat - By Dick Francis & Felix Francis Page 0,90

sent me away to my death. It wouldn’t help if they only believed me after I was dead.

I used my new mobile to call the Hay Net. Martin, my barman, answered and I asked him to get Carl for me.

‘He’s in the kitchen, chef,’ said Martin. ‘I’ll get him.’

I waited.

‘Hello,’ Carl said finally. ‘Everything OK?’

‘No, not exactly,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to go away for a few days.’

‘Where to?’ he said.

Where to indeed? I thought. ‘Er, I’m not sure.’

‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I said. ‘My mother is unwell and I need to be with her. Can you cope without me for the rest of the week?’

‘Sure,’ he said rather uncertainly. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ll be fine. But has anything arrived for me, by courier?’

‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘about half an hour ago. Do you want me to bring it somewhere?’

‘No, it’s all right. I’ll come and collect it.’

‘How about your stuff at my place?’ he said. I had left my overnight bag and wash kit at his house.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said. ‘I’ll buy myself a new toothbrush and razor.’

‘I can fetch them if you like?’ he said, still sounding a little unsure.

‘No, it’s fine,’ I said. ‘I have to go right now. Leave the package by the front door, will you?’

‘All right, if you say so.’ He clearly thought I was crazy.

I drove down the familiar road to the restaurant looking left and right for any danger. There was none, at least there was none that I could see. I left the engine running as I jumped out and dashed inside the restaurant. The package was where I had asked Carl to leave it and I grabbed it and went straight back out to the car.

‘Max,’ called Carl, following me outside. ‘Max, wait.’

I stood by the open door of the car.

‘I’m sorry, Carl, I’ve got to go.’

‘Call me then,’ he said.

‘Later,’ I said. ‘I’ll try to call you later.’

I climbed in and drove off, checking my rear-view mirror every few seconds to see if I was being followed. I wasn’t. I was running away and even I wasn’t sure where I was going.

The following morning I ran further away. I caught the 10.50 a.m. flight to Chicago.

After leaving the restaurant the previous evening, I had driven aimlessly down the A14 to Huntingdon and had stopped in the deserted car park of a closed carpet store.

Someone once told me that it was possible to trace the location from which a mobile phone call was made. I had taken the risk and first called my mother. Secondly, I called Caroline.

‘Have you told the police?’ she’d asked after I had told her everything.

‘Not yet,’ I’d said. ‘I’m worried they won’t take me seriously.’

‘But someone has tried to kill you twice. Surely they will take that seriously.’

‘Both attempts were designed to look like accidents. Maybe the police will think I’m irrational or something.’ I was beginning to suspect as much myself.

‘How could someone have got into your house to tamper with the smoke alarm?’ she’d asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ I’d said. ‘But I’m absolutely certain that someone did. My front-door key was on the fob with my car keys that went missing after the crash. Whoever removed the battery and set light to my cottage must have it.’

As I had told her the full story, it had all seemed less and less plausible. I had no firm idea who the ‘someone’ could be who was trying to kill me, or even why. Would the police believe me or dismiss it all as some crazed, circumstantial conspiracy theory? I would have had to tell them I believed that the ‘someone’ might be a Russian polo pony importer whom I suspected only because he hadn’t turned up at a lunch to which he had been invited. If that was a crime, then half the population would be in court.

‘You can go and stay at my flat if you like,’ Caroline had said. ‘My upstairs neighbour has a key and I can call her to let you in.’

‘I’m not sure that’s safe either. Suppose someone has been following me. They would have seen me go there last weekend. I’m not taking that chance.’

‘You really are frightened, aren’t you?’ she’d said.

‘Very,’ I’d said.

‘Then come here. Come to Chicago. We can discuss everything through. Then we’ll decide what to do and who to tell.’

I had driven to one of the hotels on the northern edge of Heathrow and