Dick Francis's Damage Read Online Free PDF

passion. “And it will probably prevent me from ever being a judge, certainly not an Appeal Court judge or higher.”
    Ah, I thought. The nub.
    â€œCan you imagine how the press would describe me:
Mr. Justice Calderfield, whose own son went to jail for intent to supply a Class A drug, was sitting today in the case of a drug dealer.
They’d have a bloody field day.”
    â€œDoes Faye know about all this?” I asked.
    â€œNo. Thank God. So far, Kenneth has managed to keep everything quiet. He thought it would all go away, that the case would be dropped. But, last week, at the plea and case management hearing, the CPS gave their decision that thanks to the bloody friend’s statement, they believe there is enough evidence for a conviction and are proceeding to trial. A date has been set in June.”
    Quentin looked wretched. He could clearly see that the meteoric rise of QC,QC was about to hit the buffers, and the next generation was not even going to get onto the main line.
    â€œSo what do you exactly want me to do?” I asked.
    He looked at me afresh.
    â€œFind the bastard friend who gave the police the statement and prove he’s lying.”
    â€œWhat if he’s not lying?”
    Quentin looked at me again. “Then buy him off. Offer him a few hundred quid to retract his evidence.”
    It all sounded so easy.
    â€”
    I HAD another cappuccino at the café while Quentin went home alone.
    â€œIt wouldn’t do to turn up together,” he’d explained needlessly.
    I called Lydia.
    â€œI’m just leaving,” she said.
    â€œThen I’ll wait for you. I’m in a café in Brewers Lane—you know, the lane we sometimes take from the station to Faye’s house.”
    â€œI know it.”
    â€œRight. See you in a bit.”
    I left my coffee to cool while I nipped down to the corner to buy a copy of the
Racing Post
. I usually read it on my tablet computer, but I’d carelessly left it at home.
    The Saturday after the Cheltenham Festival always seemed to me to be a bit of an anticlimax, all the best horses having run in the preceding four days, but there were still five race meetings in Great Britain and another two in Ireland. And with over twenty-five thousand racehorses in training in both countries, there were plenty of horses available.
    The British racing industry moved on relentlessly.
    On all but a handful of days in a year, there were at least two race meetings scheduled somewhere in the UK, and on Boxing Day there could be as many as ten in England alone.
    Much of the newspaper, however, looked back at the previous four days’ racing, with a front-page color picture of Electrode jumping the last fence on his way to victory in the Gold Cup. There were more pictures inside, one of Duncan Johnson standing with his wife, both all smiles, in the winner’s enclosure after the race. The horse was already being quoted at just six-to-one by the bookmakers to complete the hat trick the following year.
    I wondered if the current Mrs. Johnson would still be around to see it.
    While I waited, I read through the racing news section as well as the gossip columns. It was an essential part of my job to be “up-to-date” with all things happening on or around a racetrack.
    Lydia arrived at ten o’clock and the two of us walked together around the corner to Faye and Quentin’s magnificent three-story Georgian town house overlooking Richmond Green. Being a top barrister, QC,QC wasn’t short of the odd bob or two.
    â€œWe’d better not stay too long,” Lydia said as we walked down the path to their front door. “We don’t want to tire Faye.”
    â€œI agree. We’ll stay just half an hour or so.”
    Faye answered the door looking nothing like someone who was battling with a life-threatening illness. She was bright and cheerful, with immaculate makeup beneath her neatly styled brown curls, and she wore a