Even Money - By Dick Francis & Felix Francis Page 0,45

at this time. You may reapply to my office in one week’s time.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

I looked at the detective chief inspector with renewed loathing. I was sure he had objected to me organizing a funeral only to irritate me.

“This inquest is adjourned,” said the coroner. “Next case, please.”

Those of us only concerned with the death of the now formally identified Peter James Talbot stood up and filed out of the court. In addition to Detective Chief Inspector Llewellyn and myself, there was Detective Sergeant Murray, three other men and a young woman who all made their way ahead of me from the courtroom into the lobby. I was pleased to note that I couldn’t see the shifty-eyed man from the parking lot and Sussex Gardens amongst them, not that I really expected him to be. It would surely have been far too dangerous for him to appear as I might have recognized him and told the police.

However, I was rather concerned that one of these four strangers might have been sent by him to gather information, so I rushed out to get a better look at them, and to see what they were doing.

One of the men and the young woman were standing with Chief Inspector Llewellyn and appeared to be asking him some questions, one with a notebook, the other with a handheld recorder. Reporters, I thought. One of the other two men was chatting with Sergeant Murray, but I couldn’t see the fourth anywhere in the lobby. I rushed out of the building, but he had seemingly disappeared completely. I stood in the street, turning around and around looking for him, but he’d gone.

I went back up the steps and into the building.

Both the reporters saw me at the same instant and hurried across.

“Do you know why your father was killed?” asked the young woman, beating the man to it by a short head.

“No,” I said. “Do you?”

She ignored my question. “Did you see the person who was responsible for his death?” she asked, thrusting her recording device into my face.

“No,” I said.

“Would you recognize the killer again?” asked the man, forcing his way in front of me and elbowing the woman to the side.

“No,” I said, hoping that he would print the answer so the killer would read it.

“Did he do that to your eye?” the young woman asked, trying to push her way back in front of me.

“Yes,” I said. “He kicked me. That’s why I was unable to see the person responsible, or indeed anything else that happened.”

“But why was he killed?” implored the man.

“I have no idea,” I said. “I hadn’t seen my father for thirty-six years until the day he died.”

“Why not?” the young woman asked almost accusingly.

“He emigrated to Australia when I was one,” I said, “and my mother and I didn’t go with him.”

They suddenly seemed to lose interest in me. Maybe they could tell that I wasn’t going to be much help to them.

What they really should have asked me was why my mother hadn’t immigrated to Australia with my father. The answer was because she’d been murdered by him. Not that I’d have told them.

9

Early on Tuesday morning I drove to South Devon and parked near a long line of multicolored beach huts behind Preston Sands, in Paignton. I had left Kenilworth at four-thirty to avoid any rush-hour traffic and had made it to what was described by the travel agents as the “English Riviera” in a little over three hours.

Ironically, I had driven right past Newton Abbot racetrack, where they were racing later that day. But I wasn’t here for my work. Luca and Betsy had taken the equipment and would be standing at Newbury for the evening meeting. I hoped to be able to join them later.

I locked my old Volvo and went for a walk along the seafront.

It was still relatively early, and Paignton was just coming to life, with the deck-chair-rental man putting out his blue-and-white-striped stockpile in rows on the grass for the holidaymakers to come and sit on. There were a few morning dog walkers about, one or two joggers and a man with a metal detector digging on the sand.

It was a beautiful June summer day, and, even at eight in the morning, the sun was already quite high in the sky to the east, its rays reflecting off the sea as millions of dancing sparkles. The temperature was rising, and I was regretting not having worn a pair of