Dick Francis's Damage by FELIX FRANCIS

Author:FELIX FRANCIS
Language: eng
Format: azw3, mobi, pdf
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2014-09-08T07:00:00+00:00

18

Grand National Day started inauspiciously with a call from Crispin at a quarter to nine on my cell. I looked at the number readout on the screen.

“What are you doing in the office on a Saturday?”

“Checking Roger Vincent’s mail. And a good job I did too. There’s a note from our friend.”

It was brief, and to the point.

Too little, too late. Enjoy your day.

“Not much doubt, then,” I said.

“No,” Crispin agreed. “What do we do?”

A trip to Outer Mongolia seemed like a good idea. Or maybe to the Moon.

“There’s nothing that we aren’t already doing,” I said. “I suppose you could phone the racetrack and say you’ve had a credible threat to the Grand National, but it will mean calling in the police.”

“I could say it was from the antibrigade.”

“That would still bring in the cops,” I said.

“And we aren’t certain that the disruption will be at Aintree. It could be at one of the other meetings.”

“We could cope with disruption anywhere else. No, it has to be here.”

And it was.

—

AINTREE on the Saturday of the meeting had been sold out for weeks. Hence, my first problem was to gain entry to the racetrack.

On Friday, I had simply paid my money at the turnstiles, but that was now not an option. Entrance on Grand National Day was by tickets purchased in advance only.

I made my way from the railway station around to the horse trailer parking area to find the special reception set up in a temporary cabin for the owners and trainers.

Aintree, in common with most other racetracks, looked after the horse owners pretty well, allocating up to six entrance tickets per runner, as well as providing free food vouchers and complimentary race programs, all of which had to be collected from reception.

I stood in the line of expectant clusters, many of them no doubt dreaming of winning “the big one,” while the three women behind the counter did their best to keep up with the demand.

When it was my turn, I simply passed my BHA pass across the counter to one of the young women and asked her for an owner’s cardboard badge. She looked up at me and then down at the pass and then back up at me again.

“I’m working undercover,” I whispered so that those collecting tickets alongside me wouldn’t hear. “That’s what I look like under this lot.” I smiled at her.

The photograph on the pass showed a clean-shaven man with short, spiky blond hair. I was currently wearing a full dark beard with matching curls, together with some thick-rimmed eyeglasses.

She hesitated, turned to the older woman standing next to her and showed her my ID.

“He says he’s working undercover,” she said rather too loudly for my liking. “He wants an owner’s badge.”

I smiled at the man standing next to me, who had turned to look my way.

The older woman waved for me to go around to the side door of the cabin.

“Why don’t you wear your BHA pass? That’s why it has a lanyard.

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