Even Money - By Dick Francis & Felix Francis Page 0,83

the door. Sophie still slept soundly beside me.

How could I have put her in such danger? I thought. What a fool I was.

The door handle slowly depressed and the door began to open. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. What was I to do?

“I made you some tea,” said Alice, coming into the room, carrying a tray with two mugs of steaming liquid.

“Oh, Alice,” I said with such relief in my voice that I almost cried. “Thank you.”

“It’s a beautiful morning,” she said in a whisper, looking at Sophie.

“Yes,” I replied in the same manner. “I’ll leave her to sleep.”

Alice put the tray down on my bedside table and, with a wave, she departed. I heard step three creak twice, as usual, as she went down.

What was I doing? I thought.

Was it time to go to the police and hold my hands up for my failings and ask for their help and protection?

It was all well and good for me to perform the James Bond, secret-agent act when it was only my life and my future on the line. But what would Sophie do without me, especially now that she was home and getting better? Maybe her recovery wouldn’t last forever, but surely I had an obligation to her in the meantime.

Shifty-eyes was still out there somewhere, and he surely would still be searching for his money. I was actually quite surprised that he hadn’t already found me. Mr. John Smith had seemingly had no problem in turning up in my home in the dead of night. Perhaps it was not as easy as I thought to get records from a Coroner’s Court. Or perhaps Shifty-eyes would have had to give his name to get them, and I suspected he might have been reluctant to do that. Maybe he still didn’t know that I existed, but I thought it unlikely.

Thinking about the Coroner’s Court reminded me that today was when I should call their office to see if an order had been signed to allow for my father’s funeral to take place. I wondered if my sisters knew yet that their father was dead, or whether they even cared.

Sophie slept in until nine-thirty, while the mug of tea cooled to room temperature on her bedside table. I took her up a fresh one and sat on the bed with her as she drank it.

“What a wonderful night,” she said, stretching her arms high above her head. “This bed is just so comfortable.” She snuggled down again under the covers.

“It’s been a very lonely bed without you in it,” I said.

“Oh, Ned,” she said, stroking my leg. “Let’s really try and make it work this time. I’m so tired of all this.”

If only, I thought. We had said this all too often in the past. False hope had burned in our breasts on so many occasions only to be dashed each time by seemingly unstoppable events.

“Yup,” I agreed, ruffling her hair. “Let’s really make it work this time.”

But first I had some unfinished business to deal with.

I left her to dress and titivate herself in front of her dressing-table mirror while I went downstairs to call the coroner’s office.

“The Thames Valley Police are still apparently objecting to a burial order,” I was informed by one of the officials. “You could try calling them and asking. It may be an oversight on their part.”

“Thank you,” I said. For nothing.

I called Thames Valley Police headquarters and asked to be put through to Detective Chief Inspector Llewellyn.

“Ah, Mr. Talbot,” he said, coming on the line.“The bookmaker.” His tone was instantly unfriendly.

“Yes, Chief Inspector,” I replied with far more levity. “And just why, exactly, don’t you like bookmakers?”

“My father was addicted to gambling,” he replied with surprising anger. “That, and demon drink, they stole my childhood.”

I was astonished that he’d told me. But it explained a lot.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“If you were really sorry, you’d give it up,” he said.

“But that wouldn’t make much difference, now would it?” I said somewhat sarcastically. “There are lots of other bookmakers.”

“One at a time,” he said. “One at a time. All you bookmakers are scum.”

Again, I was surprised by the passion of his outburst, but I could tell that whatever I might say would make no difference to his firmly entrenched opinion. His usually analytical, problem-solving, keen detective’s mind clearly couldn’t appreciate the lack of logic in his thinking on the issue.

“Can I go ahead and bury my father?” I asked by way of changing