Even Money - By Dick Francis & Felix Francis Page 0,85

“Which one?”

“Well, to be sure, I don’t rightly know,” he said.

“Is the company Irish?” I asked. “Or English?”

“I don’t know that either,” he said. “All your father told me was that Kipper’s job was as an investigator looking into horse deaths. Maybe I just assumed he was with an insurance company.”

That wasn’t very helpful either.

However, he went on to tell me a few interesting things about the two missing counterfeit RFID chips that could turn out to be very helpful indeed, not least that a horse that had supposedly recently died from colic had, in fact, been switched using the fake RFIDs with a much less valuable animal, which had then been killed for a large insurance payout. And he indicated that the horse had been a winner at the Cheltenham Steeplechase Festival the previous March.

I remembered reading something only the other week in the Racing Post about a horse dying from colic.

“What was the horse’s name?” I asked him.

“No, no,” he said. “I’ve told you too much already.”

Indeed he had, but he had been boasting about his cleverness.

“Well, let me know if this Kipper fellow turns up at your door,” I said.

“Bejesus,” he bellowed. “I don’t want the likes of him here.”

“He’s dangerous, so keep clear of him.”

“To be sure, I will,” said Paddy.

“Also, let me know when you’re next in England,” I said. “Perhaps we can meet.”

“Well,” he said a little uncertainly, “I’m not sure about that.”

“Who are you anyway?” I asked. “What is your real name?”

“Now, that would be telling,” he said with a laugh, and hung up.

Detective Chief Inspector Llewellyn himself was at Banbury police station to meet me at two o’clock. He was accompanied, as always, by Detective Sergeant Murray with his notebook.

“Hello, Chief Inspector,” I said cheerfully as he appeared in the entrance lobby. “For what do I deserve this honor?”

“For telling me lies, Mr. Talbot,” he said without any humor. “I don’t like people telling me lies.”

Oh dear, I thought, he must know about my father’s luggage. How was I going to get out of this one?

“What lies?” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “I told you everything I know.”

“You told me that your father had given you nothing at Ascot,” he said.

“That’s right, he didn’t,” I protested.

“But I have reason to believe that he may have given you a black box like a television remote control.” He paused, and I stood there looking at him, saying nothing. “We understand from Australia that your father is thought to have stolen such a box. Now, quite by chance, one of my officers on the case helps with a club for young offenders in High Wycombe, and he tells me he saw a similar black box there last week. This morning, my officer called the person who had brought the black box to the club and, surprise, surprise, that person says that you gave it to him.”

Thanks, Luca, I thought. But he could probably have said nothing else.

“Oh, that thing,” I said.

“So you were lying,” he said almost triumphantly.

In fact, I hadn’t been. I had been completely truthful. My father had not given the box to me at Ascot, I’d actually found it with his luggage in Paddington.

“I’d forgotten about it, that’s all,” I said. “I was carrying it for him amongst our equipment. I found it the following day when I was setting up.”

Now I was telling lies, but Detective Sergeant Murray wrote them down nevertheless.

“You should have given the box to me immediately after you found it,” he said.

“Sorry,” I replied. “Is it important?”

He didn’t answer my question. “Where is it now?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. Technically, that was not a lie.

“But what did you do with it?” he persisted.

“I threw it away,” I said. “It didn’t seem to do anything. I thought it must have been a garage-door opener or something. Perhaps from his home. It wasn’t much use to me, so I just dumped it in the trash.”

“Where in the trash?” He was beginning to lose what little patience he had.

“At home, last weekend, in the house wheelie-bin,” I said. “But the men have been to empty it since then, so it’s probably somewhere on a Warwickshire council tip by now.”

“Didn’t you think it was odd that he would carry his garage-door opener halfway round the world?” the chief inspector asked.

“Not really,” I replied. “He had just told me that he was my father, who I believed had died thirty-seven years ago when I was a baby.