Dick Francis's Gamble Read Online Free PDF Page B

out for a coffee?” asked Jessica Winter, the firm’s Compliance Officer. The photocopy room, which also doubled as the small kitchen where we made all our hot drinks, was beyond the offices and hence currently out-of-bounds.
    â€œYes,” said the chief inspector, “but not all of you at once. I will be starting the interviews soon. And if you do go, please be back by ten o’clock.”
    Jessica stood up quickly and made for the door. Half a dozen more made a move in the same direction, including me. Clearly none of us exactly relished the prospect of being confined in close proximity to Gregory Black for the next half hour.
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    I had to wait until after eleven before I was interviewed and, much to Gregory Black’s annoyance, I was second on the policeman’s list after Patrick Lyall.
    I don’t know whether the policeman did it on purpose to further antagonize Gregory, but the interviews were carried out in his office and at his desk, with Chief Inspector Tomlinson sitting in the high-backed leather executive chair in which Gregory usually rested his ample frame. That wouldn’t go down well, I thought, especially during a certain Gregory Black’s interview.
    â€œNow then, Mr. Foxton,” said the chief inspector while studying his papers, “I understand you were at Aintree races on Saturday afternoon and were interviewed there by one of my colleagues.”
    â€œYes,” I replied. “By Detective Inspector Matthews.”
    He nodded. “Have you anything further you wish to add to what you said in that interview?”
    â€œYes, I have,” I said. “I tried to call Inspector Matthews yesterday. In fact, I left a message for him to call me back, but he didn’t. It was about this.”
    I removed from my pocket the folded piece of paper I had found in Herb’s coat and spread it out on the desk, rotating it so the chief inspector could read the words. I knew them now by heart: YOU SHOULD HAVE DONE WHAT YOU WERE TOLD. YOU MAY SAY YOU REGRET IT, BUT YOU WONT BE REGRETTING IT FOR LONG.
    After quite a few moments, he looked up at me. “Where did you find this?”
    â€œIn Mr. Kovak’s coat pocket. He’d left his coat in my car when we arrived at the races. I found it only yesterday.”
    The chief inspector studied the paper once more but without touching it.
    â€œDo you recognize the handwriting?” he asked.
    â€œNo,” I replied. But I wouldn’t, the note had been written carefully in capital letters, each one very precise and separate.
    â€œAnd you have handled this paper?” I assumed it was a rhetorical question as he had clearly seen me remove the paper from my pocket and spread it out. I remained silent.
    â€œDid you not think this might be evidence?” he asked. “Handling it may jeopardize the chances of recovering any forensics.”
    â€œIt was screwed up in his coat pocket,” I said in my defense. “I didn’t know what it was until I’d opened it up and by then it was too late.”
    He studied it once more.
    â€œAnd what do you think it means?”
    â€œI’ve no idea,” I said. “But I think it might be a warning.”
    â€œA warning? Why a warning?”
    â€œI’ve spent much of the night thinking about it,” I said. “It’s clearly not a threat or it would say ‘Do as you are told or else’ and not ‘You should have done what you were told.’”
    â€œOK,” the policeman said slowly, “but that doesn’t make it a warning.”
    â€œI know,” I said. “But think about it. If you wanted to kill someone, you’d hardly ring them up and tell them, now would you? It would do nothing except put them on their guard and make it more difficult for you. They might even ask for police protection. There is absolutely nothing to be gained and everything to lose. Surely you would just do it,