Even Money - By Dick Francis & Felix Francis Page 0,99
runners in each race, and, in spite of the closeness of the racetrack to the city center, not that many punters had actually turned up. Those who had seemed to have little cash with them to gamble, and overall it was not a very profitable afternoon for us and hardly covered the cost of the petrol to get there.
One of the plus points, however, had been Duggie. He had gradually opened up as the day progressed and had clearly enjoyed himself. The more responsibility I gave him to pay out the winning tickets, the more confident I became in his ability.
“Where are we on Monday?” I asked Luca as we packed up after the last race.
“Nowhere,” he said. “It’s a day off.”
“Not anymore,” I said. “We’re going to Bangor-on-Dee.”
“That’s a long way for a small meeting.”
“Nevertheless, we’re going,” I said. “I’ve looked at the race entries. Tell Larry Porter he’s going too. And tell him to bring the box of tricks.”
Luca stopped loading the trolley, stood up and looked at me.
“Right,” he said, smiling. “I will.”
“And Luca,” I said. “I need you to do something for me on Friday.”
“We’re at Warwick on Friday,” he said.
“Not anymore, we’re not,” I said. “Friday is now a day off from racing. I want you to go and see some of your electronics club delinquents, the trustworthy ones, Duggie’s friends. I need their help.”
I explained fully what I wanted him to do and his enthusiasm level went off the scale. I didn’t mention to him, however, that I’d be spending Friday afternoon at my father’s funeral in Slough Crematorium.
“Duggie here will help you,” I said as we loaded the equipment into the back of the Volvo. “He seems to know them pretty well.”
Duggie smiled. “Does that mean I’ve got the job?” he asked.
“You’re on probation,” I said. “Until Monday.”
He looked at me uncertainly.
“Not that sort of probation,” I said with a laugh.
We discussed our plans as I drove back around the M42 in the rush-hour traffic, and then on to my house in Kenilworth.
“Warwick tomorrow evening, then?” said Luca.
“Definitely,” I said. “Do you want to come here first or go straight there?”
“We’ll come here first,” Luca replied. “First race is at six-thirty. Here at five?”
“Five will be fine,” I said.
“I hope your wife will be all right, Mr. Talbot,” Duggie said as he climbed into Luca’s car.
“Thank you, Duggie,” I said.
He would do well, I thought.
You could have cut the air in the house with a knife, such was the tension between the sisters. The truce, it seemed, was over.
Sophie met me in the hallway tight-lipped, with angry-looking eyes. She nodded her head in the direction of the stairs at the same time as looking up. I understood immediately that she wanted me to go up. So I did. And she followed.
Safely in the privacy of our bedroom, she explained the problem, not that I couldn’t have guessed.
“My bloody father,” she said explosively. “Why can’t he be more reasonable?”
It was a rhetorical question. I’d been asking myself the same thing since the day I’d first met him.
“What’s he done now, my darling?” I said in my most calming of voices.
“Oh, nothing,” she said in frustration.
Whatever he’d said was obviously about me, and she’d suddenly decided against telling me, probably to avoid hurting my feelings.
“Come and sit down, my love,” I said, sitting on the side of the bed and patting the space next to me. She came over and sat down. I put my arm around her shoulders. “Tell me,” I said.
“My father can be such a fool,” she said. She started to cry.
“Hey, come on,” I said, stroking her hair. “Whatever he said can’t be that bad.” She said nothing. So I went on. “He probably told you that it was me who was the cause of all your problems and you’d be much better off leaving me to come home to live with him and your mother.”
She sat up straight and looked at me. “How did you know?” she asked.
“Because it’s what he always says. Ignore him. He’s wrong.”
“I know he’s wrong,” she said. “I told him so. In fact, I told him that it was him who was the cause of my problems, not you.”
“I bet he didn’t like that,” I said with a laugh.
“No,” she said, also laughing, “he didn’t.” She wiped her eyes with a tissue from the bedside table. “He said that he’d cut me out of his will if I didn’t ‘see sense,’ as he put it.”