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  Books by Dick Francis

  THE SPORT OF QUEENS (autobiography)

  DEAD CERT

  NERVE

  FOR KICKS

  ODDS AGAINST

  FLYING FINISH

  BLOOD SPORT

  FORFEIT

  ENQUIRY

  RAT RACE

  BONECRACK

  SMOKESCREEN

  SLAY-RIDE

  KNOCK DOWN

  HIGH STAKES

  IN THE FRAME

  RISK

  TRIAL RUN

  WHIP HAND

  REFLEX

  TWICE SHY

  BANKER

  THE DANGER

  PROOF

  BREAK IN

  LESTER: The Official Biography

  BOLT

  HOT MONEY

  THE EDGE

  STRAIGHT

  LONGSHOT

  COMEBACK

  DRIVING FORCE

  DECIDER

  WILD HORSES

  COME TO GRIEF

  TO THE HILT

  10-1b PENALITY

  FIELD OF THIRTEEN

  SECOND WIND

  SHATTERED

  DICK FRANCIS

  Hot Money

  THE DICK FRANCIS LIBRARY

  Michael Joseph

  London

  MICHAEL JOSEPH

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  Penguin Books India (P) Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India

  Penguin Books (NZ) Ltd, Cnr Rosedale and Airborne Roads, Albany, Auckland, New Zealand

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  www.penguin.com

  First published in Great Britain September 1987

  Second impression October 1987

  Third impression November 1987

  Fourth impression March 1996

  Fifth impression January 2003

  Copyright © Dick Francis, 1987

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-0-14-192961-3

  With love and thanks as usual to MERRICK and FELIX

  THE PEMBROKES

  MALCOLM PEMBROKE

  HIS WIVES

  1 Vivien

  2 Joyce

  3 Alicia

  4 Coochie

  5 Moira

  VIVIEN’S CHILDREN

  1 Donald, married to Helen

  2 Lucy, married to Edwin

  3 Thomas, married to Berenice

  JOYCE’S CHILD

  1 Ian, unmarried

  ALICIA’S CHILDREN

  1 Gervase, married to Ursula

  2 Ferdinand, married to Debs

  3 Serena, unmarried

  COOCHIE’S CHILDREN

  1 Robin

  2 Peter, dead

  One

  I intensely disliked my father’s fifth wife, but not to the point of murder.

  I, the fruit of his second ill-considered gallop up the aisle, had gone dutifully to the next two of his subsequent nuptials, the changes of ‘mother’ punctuating my life at six and fourteen.

  At thirty however I’d revolted: wild horses couldn’t have dragged me to witness his wedding to the sharp-eyed honey-tongued Moira, his fifth choice. Moira had been the subject of the bitterest quarrel my father and I ever had and the direct cause of a non-speaking wilderness which had lasted three years.

  After Moira was murdered, the police came bristling with suspicion to my door, and it was by the merest fluke that I could prove I’d been geographically elsewhere when her grasping little soul had left her carefully tended body. I didn’t go to her funeral, but I wasn’t alone in that. My father didn’t go either.

  A month after her death he telephoned me, and it was so long since I’d heard his voice that it seemed that of a stranger.

  ‘Ian?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Malcolm.’

  ‘Hello,’ I said.

  ‘Are you doing anything?’

  ‘Reading the price of gold.’

  ‘No, dammit,’ he said testily. ‘In general, are you busy?’

  ‘In general,’ I said, ‘fairly.’

  The newspaper lay on my lap, an empty wine glass at my elbow. It was late evening, after eleven, growing cold. I had that day quit my job and put on idleness like a comfortable coat.

  He sighed down the line. ‘I suppose you know about Moira?’

  ‘Front page news,’ I agreed. ‘The price of gold is on… er… page thirty-two.’

  ‘If you want me to apologise,’ he said, ‘I’m not going to.’

  His image stood sharp and clear in my mind: a stocky, grey-haired man with bright blue eyes and a fizzing vitality that flowed from him in sparks of static electricity in cold weather. He was to my mind stubborn, opinionated, rash and often stupid. He was also financially canny, intuitive, quick-brained and courageous, and hadn’t been nicknamed Midas for nothing.

  ‘Are you still there?’ he demanded.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well… I need your help.’

  He said it as if it were an everyday requirement, but I couldn’t remember his asking anyone for help ever before, certainly not me.

  ‘Er…’ I said uncertainly. ‘What sort of help?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when you get here.’

  ‘Where is “here”?’

  ‘Newmarket,’ he said. ‘Come to the sales tomorrow afternoon.’

  There was a note in his voice which couldn’t be called entreaty but was far from a direct order, and I was accustomed only to orders.

  ‘All right,’ I said slowly.

  ‘Good.’

  He disconnected immediately, letting me ask no questions: and I thought of the last time I’d seen him, when I’d tried to dissuade him from marrying Moira, describing her progressively, in face of his implacable purpose, as a bad misjudgement on his part and as a skilful, untruthful manipulator and, finally, as a rapacious bloodsucking tramp. He’d knocked me down to the floor with one fast, dreadful blow, which he’d been quite capable of at sixty-five, three years ago. Striding furiously away, he’d left me lying dazed on my carpet and had afterwards behaved as if I no longer existed, packing into boxes everything I’d left in my old room in his house and sending them by public carrier to my flat.

  Time had proved me right about Moira, but the unforgivable words had remained unforgiven to her death and, it had seemed, beyond. On this October evening, though, perhaps they were provisionally on ice.

  I, Ian Pembroke, the fifth of my father’s nine children, had from the mists of infancy loved him blindly through thunderous years of domestic in-fighting which had left me permanently impervious to fortissimo voices and slammed doors. In a totally confused chaotic upbringing, I’d spent scattered unhappy periods with my bitter mother but had mostly been passed from wife to wife in my father’s house as part of the furniture and fittings, treated by hi
m throughout with the same random but genuine affection he gave to his dogs.

  Only with the advent of Coochie, his fourth wife, had there been peace, but by the time she took over I was fourteen and world-weary, cynically expecting a resumption of hostilities within a year of the honeymoon.

  Coochie, however, had been different. Coochie of all of them had been my only real mother, the only one who’d given me a sense of worth and identity, who’d listened and encouraged and offered good advice. Coochie produced twin boys, my half-brothers Robin and Peter, and it had seemed that at last Malcolm Pembroke had achieved a friendly family unit, albeit a sort of sunny clearing surrounded by jungle thickets of ex-wives and discontented siblings.

  I grew up and left home but went back often, feeling never excluded. Coochie would have seen Malcolm into a happy old age but, when she was forty and the twins eleven, a hit-and-run driver swerved her car off the road and downhill onto rocks. Coochie and Peter had been killed outright. Robin, the elder twin, suffered brain damage. I had been away. Malcolm was in his office: a policeman went to him to tell him, and he let me know soon after. I’d learned the meaning of grief on that drizzly afternoon, and still mourned them all, their loss irreparable.

  On the October evening of Malcolm’s telephone call, I glanced at them as usual as I went to bed, their three bright faces grinning out from a silver frame on my chest of drawers. Robin lived — just — in serene twilight in a nursing home. I went to see him now and again. He no longer looked like the boy in the photograph, but was five years older, growing tall, empty-eyed.

  I wondered what Malcolm could possibly want. He was rich enough to buy anything he ne eded, maybe - only maybe - excluding the whole of Fort Knox. I couldn’t think of anything I could do for him that he couldn’t get from anyone else.

  Newmarket, I thought. The sales.

  Newmarket was all very well for me because I’d been working as an assistant to a racehorse trainer. But Newmarket for Malcolm? Malcolm never gambled on horses, only on gold. Malcolm had made several immense consecutive fortunes from buying and selling the hard yellow stuff, and had years ago reacted to my stated choice of occupation by saying merely, ‘Horses? Racing? Good Lord! Well, if that’s what you want, my boy, off you go. But don’t expect me to know the first thing about anything.’ And as far as I knew, he was still as ignorant of the subject as he’d been all along.

  Malcolm and Newmarket bloodstock sales simply didn’t mix. Not the Malcolm I’d known, anyway.

  I drove the next day to the isolated Suffolk town whose major industry was the sport of kings, and among the scattered purposeful crowd found my father standing bareheaded in the area outside the sale-ring building, eyes intently focused on a catalogue.

  He looked just the same. Brushed grey hair, smooth brown vicuna knee-length overcoat, charcoal business suit, silk tie, polished black shoes; confidently bringing his City presence into the casual sophistication of the country.

  It was a golden day, crisp and clear, the sky a cold cloudless blue. I walked across to him in my own brand of working clothes: cavalry twill trousers, checked wool shirt, padded olive-green jacket, tweed cap. A surface contrast that went personality deep.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ I said neutrally.

  He raised his eyes and gave me a stare as blue as the sky.

  ‘So you came.’

  ‘Well… yes.’

  He nodded vaguely, looking me over. ‘You look older,’ he said.

  ‘Three years.’

  ‘Three years and a crooked nose.’ He observed it dispassionately. ‘I suppose you broke that falling off a horse?’

  ‘No… You broke it.’

  ‘Did I?’ He seemed only mildly surprised. ‘You deserved it.’

  I didn’t answer. He shrugged. ‘Do you want some coffee?’

  ‘OK.’

  We hadn’t touched each other, I thought. Not a hug, not a handshake, not a passing pat on the arm. Three years’ silence couldn’t easily be bridged.

  He set off not in the direction of the regular refreshment room, but towards one of the private rooms set aside for the privileged. I followed in his footsteps, remembering wryly that it took him roughly two minutes any time to talk himself into the plushest recesses, wherever.

  The Newmarket sales building was in the form of an amphitheatre, sloping banks of seats rising all round from the ground-level ring where each horse was led round while being auctioned. Underneath the seating and in a large adjacent building were rooms used as offices by auctioneers and bloodstock agents, and as entertainment rooms by commercial firms, such as Ebury Jewellers, Malcolm’s present willing hosts.

  I was used only to the basic concrete boxes of the bloodstock agents’ offices. Ebury’s space was decorated in contrast as an expensive showroom, with well-lit glass display cases round three walls shining with silver and sparkling with baubles, everything locked away safely but temptingly visible. Down the centre of the room, on brown wall-to-wall carpeting, stood a long polished table surrounded with armed, leather-covered dining chairs. Before each chair was neatly laid a leather-edged blotter alongside a gold-tooled tub containing pens, suggesting that all any client needed to provide here was his cheque-book.

  A smooth young gentleman welcomed Malcolm with enthusiastic tact and offered drinks and goodies from the well-stocked buffet table which filled most of the fourth wall. Lunch, it seemed, was an all-day affair. Malcolm and I took cups of coffee and sat at the table, I, at any rate, feeling awkward. Malcolm fiddled with his spoon. A large loud lady came in and began talking to the smooth young man about having one of her dogs modelled in silver. Malcolm raised his eyes to them briefly and then looked down again at his cup.

  ‘What sort of help?’ I said.

  I suppose I expected him to say he wanted help in some way with horses, in view of the venue he’d chosen, but it seemed to be nothing as straightforward.

  ‘I want you beside me,’ he said.

  I frowned, puzzled. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Beside me,’ he said. ‘All the time.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you do,’ he said. He looked up at my face, i’m going to travel a bit. I want you with me.’

  I made no fast reply and he said abruptly, explosively,‘Dammit, Ian, I’m not asking the world. A bit of your time, a bit of your attention, that’s all.’

  ‘Why now, and why me?’

  ‘You’re my son.’ He stopped fiddling with the spoon and dropped it onto the blotter where it left a round stain. He leaned back in his chair. ‘I trust you.’ He paused, “I need someone I can trust.’

  ‘Why?’

  He didn’t tell me why. He said, ‘Can’t you get some time off from work? Have a holiday?’

  I thought of the trainer I’d just left, whose daughter had made my job untenable because she wanted it for her fiancé. There was no immediate need for me to find another place, save for paying the rent. At thirty-three, I’d worked for three different trainers, and had lately come to feel I was growing too old to carry on as anyone’s assistant. The natural progression was towards becoming a trainer myself, a dicey course without money.

  ‘What are you thinking?” Malcolm asked.

  ‘Roughly whether you would lend me half a million quid.’

  ‘No,” he said.

  I smiled. ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘I’ll pay your fares and your hotel bills.’

  Across the room the loud lady was giving the smooth young man her address. A waitress had arrived and was busy unpacking fresh sandwiches and more alcohol onto the white-clothed table. I watched her idly for a few seconds, then looked back to Malcolm’s face, and surprised there an expression that could only be interpreted as anxiety.

  I was unexpectedly moved. I’d never wanted to quarrel with him: I’d wanted him to see Moira as I did, as a calculating, sweet-talking honeypot who was after his money, and who had used the devastation of Coochie’s death to insinuate h
erself with him, turning up constantly with sympathy and offers to cook. Malcolm, deep in grief, had been helpless and grateful and seemed hardly to notice when she began threading her arm through his in company, and saying‘we’. I had for the whole three silent years wanted peace with my father, but I couldn’t bear to go to his house and see Moira smirking in Coochie’s place, even if he would have let me in through the door.

  Now that Moira was dead, peace was maybe possible, and it seemed now as though he really wanted it also. I thought fleetingly that peace wasn’t his prime object, that peace was only a preliminary necessary for some other purpose, but all the same it was enough.

  ‘Yes,” I said,‘all right. I can take time off.’

  His relief was visible. ‘Good! Good! Come along then, I may as well buy a horse.’ He stood up, full of sudden energy, waving his catalogue. ‘Which do you suggest?’

  ‘Why on earth do you want a horse?’

  ‘To race, of course.’

  ‘But you’ve never been interested …’

  ‘Everyone should have a hobby,” he said briskly, though he’d never had one in his life. ‘Mine is racing.’ And, as an afterthought, he added, ‘Henceforth,” and began to walk to the door.

  The smooth young man detached himself from the dog lady and begged Malcolm to come back any time. Malcolm assured him he would, then wheeled round away from him again and marched across to one of the display cabinets.

  ‘While I was waiting for you, I bought a cup,’ he said to me over his shoulder. ‘Want to see? One rather like that.’ He pointed. ‘It’s being engraved.’

  The cup in question was a highly-decorated and graceful elongated jug, eighteen inches tall and made undoubtedly of sterling silver.

  ‘What’s it for?” I asked.

  ‘I don’t know yet. Haven’t made up my mind.’

  ‘But… the engraving?’

  ‘Mm. The Coochie Pembroke Memorial Challenge Trophy. Rather good, don’t you think?’