Even Money - By Dick Francis & Felix Francis Page 0,64

he said without a pause.

“No,” I said. “I’m an on-course bookie, mostly at the Midlands’ meetings.”

“Horses or dogs?” he asked.

“Horses,” I said. “Although I have stood at dog racing in the past, there’s little profit in it these days.”

He raised his eyebrows. “And why is that?”

“Not enough tracks,” I said. “There used to be masses of them, but they keep closing for redevelopment. Too few tracks mean too few dogs. It all becomes far too predictable. And the public’s appetite for dog racing has also changed. Nowadays, they all sit in restaurants and bet from their dinner tables using the tote.”

“You make it sound as if you don’t like the tote,” he said with a smile.

“I don’t,” I said. “The tote can never lose its shirt. It always takes its cut before paying out the winning tickets. They can’t get it wrong because they don’t have to set the prices, while I have to use my knowledge and experience to keep myself in business.”

“I see,” he said slowly, clearly losing interest.

“But I will be at home whenever Sophie needs me,” I said.

I decided not to mention unwelcome nighttime visitors or men with twelve-centimeter knives.

“Thank you, Mr. Talbot,” said the psychiatrist. “I’m sure you will.”

His tone implied that he didn’t really believe it. He looked down and wrote more notes.

“Excuse me,” I said. He looked up. “I assure you that Sophie’s well-being is far more important to me than my work. I desperately want her home. And I will do everything within my power to ensure she remains safe and unharmed. I love my wife.”

I had sat all day holding Sophie’s hand, listening to these emotionally distant professionals discussing her most personal secrets in matter-of-fact detail, and now I quite surprised myself with the passion of my plea. But I did want Sophie home.

I realized that I wanted it very much indeed.

“Yes, Mr. Talbot,” said the psychiatrist, “I believe you do.” He smiled at Sophie, who went on holding my hand very tightly.

He went back to writing a few more notes before looking up. “Mrs. Talbot, Mr. Talbot, thank you both for your time. As you know, we shall have further discussion among us before we make our final decision. Today is Thursday. We should have an answer for you by tomorrow or Saturday.” He looked around at the other medical staff as if inquiring whether any of them had anything more to say. They didn’t.

“Thank you, then,” he said, rising to his feet, indicating that our time was up.

“Thank you,” said Sophie.

We stood up in turn and made our way out of the conference room.

“I thought that went quite well,” I said to her quietly.

“Did you?” she said.

“Yes,” I said, being upbeat. “Didn’t you?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t like that psychiatrist much.”

“He seemed OK to me,” I said. “I’m sure it will be all right.”

We walked together, side by side, along the corridor towards her room.

“Do you really love me?” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “Very much.”

She didn’t stop walking. But she did start smiling.

I spent the evening at the hospital with Sophie watching the television. Neither of us spoke about the assessment or what conclusion the medics might come to. Neither did we make any plans for the coming weeks. Twice in the past, we had been cruelly disappointed, having decided to go away together on holiday only to have the case conference rule against release.

Nowadays, we told ourselves that discharge was an unexpected bonus to be celebrated, but, deep down, we would still be devastated if they refused to allow her home this time. The new drug regime was working well, and Sophie was becoming less tired from the side effects as her body became used to the medications.

But neither of us wanted to tempt fate by discussing the matter, so we sat quietly watching a string of situation comedies on a golden-oldies TV channel.

Was I, in fact, being sensible in wanting Sophie to come home with so many unresolved issues surrounding my father?

John Smith, or whoever he was, had gone on ad infinitum about his blessed microcoder, but he hadn’t once mentioned any money. I wondered again if he even knew about the cash. He certainly did if he was working with Shifty-eyes. But had it been Shifty-eyes in the dark blue Ford? Or was there someone else? Maybe John really was from the Australian Racing Board, and there was a whole team behind him.

And what was the money for?

Where’s the money, Shifty-eyes had hissed at my father