Dick Francis
Driving Force
My thanks to
Lambourn Racehorse Transport
and
John Hughes
Robert Schulman
Professor Ellie J. C. Goldstein
Professor Jeremy H. Thompson
and
Merrick and Felix
as always
Chapter 1
I had told the drivers never on any account to pick up a hitchhiker but of course one day they did, and by the time they reached my house he was dead.
The bell by the back door rang as I was heating up left-over beef stew for a fairly boring supper, consequence of living alone, and with barely a sigh and no premonition I switched off the hotplate, put the saucepan to one side and went to see who had come. Friends tended to enter at once while yelling my name, as the door was seldom locked. Employees mostly knocked first and entered next, still with little ceremony. Only strangers rang the bell and waited.
This time it was different. This time when I opened the door the light from inside the house fell yellowly on the stretched scared eyes of two of the men who worked for me, who stood uncomfortably on the doormat shifting from foot to foot, agonisedly and obviously expectant of wrath to come.
My own response to these clear signals of disaster was the familiar adrenaline rush of alarm that no amount of dealing with earlier crises could prevent. The old pump quickened. My voice came out high.
‘What’s the matter?’ I said. ‘What happened?’
I glanced over their shoulders. The bulk of one of the two largest in my fleet of horseboxes stood reassuringly in the shadows out on the tarmacked parking area, the house lights raising gleams along its silvery flank. At least they hadn’t run it into a ditch: at least they’d brought it home. All else had to be secondary.
‘Look, Freddie,’ Dave Yates said, a defensive whine developing, ‘it’s not our fault.’
‘What isn’t?’
‘This four-eyes we picked up...’
‘You what?’
The younger one said, ‘I told you we shouldn’t, Dave.’
In him the anxiety whine was already full-blown, since wriggling out of blame was his familiar habit. He, Brett Gardner, already on my list for the chop, had been hired for his muscles and his mechanical know-how, the whinging nature at first unsuspected. His three months’ trial period was almost up, and I wouldn’t be making him permanent.
He was a competent watchful driver. I’d trusted him from the start with my biggest and most expensive wagons but I’d had requests from several good customers not to send him to transport their horses to the races, as he tended to sow his own dissatisfactions like a virus. Stable lads travelling with him went home incubating grouses, to their employers’ irritation.
‘It wasn’t as if we had any horses on board,’ Dave Yates was saying, trying to placate. ‘Just Brett and me.’
I’d told all the drivers over and over that picking up hitchhikers while there were horses on board invalidated the insurance. I told them I’d sack any of them instantly if they did that. I’d also told them never, ever, to give any lifts at all to anyone, even if the box was empty of horses, and even if they knew the lift-begger personally. No, Freddie, of course not, they’d said seriously; and now I wondered just how often they’d disobeyed me.
‘What about the four-eyes?’ I said, my annoyance obvious. ‘What’s actually the matter?’
Dave said desperately, ‘He’s dead.’
‘You... stupid...’ Words failed me, drowned in anger. I could have hit him, and no doubt he saw it, backing away instinctively, fright rising. All sorts of scenarios presented themselves in rapid succession, none of them promising anything but trouble and lawsuits. ‘What did he do?’ I demanded. ‘Try to jump off while you were moving? Or did you run him over...’ And dear Christ, I thought, let it not be that.
Dave’s surprised shake of the head put at least those fears to rest.
‘He’s in the box,’ he said. ‘Lying on the seat. We tried to wake him when we got to Newbury, to tell him it was time to get off. And we couldn’t. I mean... he’s dead.’
‘Are you sure?’
They both reluctantly nodded.
I switched on the outside lights to flood the tarmac with visibility and went over with them for a look-see. They skittered one each side of me, crabbing sideways, making unhappy deprecating flapping movements with their hands, trying to shed their guilt, to justify themselves, to get me to understand it was unfortunate but not, definitely not, as Dave had said, their fault.
Dave, of about my own height (five nine) and age (mid-thirties) was primarily a horseman and secondarily a driver, usually travelling with animals that for some reason weren’t being sent with enough attendants of their own. I’d seen him and Brett off that morning to pick up nine two-year-olds locally for a one-way trip to Newmarket, their owner being in the process of transferring his entire string from one perfectly good trainer to another in a typical bad-tempered huff. It wasn’t that man’s first expensive across-country flounce, and no doubt not his last. I’d shipped his three-year-old colts for him the previous day and was booked for fillies on the morrow. More money than sense, I thought.
I knew the nine two-year-olds had arrived safely in their new home as Brett had made the customary calls to my office both when he reached his destination and at the start of his return journey. All the boxes were equipped with mobile phones: the regular reporting calls were a useful routine, even if the older drivers thought one fussy. Fussy Freddie they might well call me behind my back, but with a fleet of fourteen boxes zig-zagging round England most days carrying multi-million fortunes on the hoof, I couldn’t afford ignorance or negligent mistakes.
The front cabs of big horseboxes were always pretty roomy, having to accommodate several attendants besides one or sometimes two drivers. The cabs of my nine-horse rigs could hold eight people at a pinch, not in pullman comfort but at least sitting down. Behind the driver and the two front passenger seats a long padded rear seat usually gave support to four or five narrow bottoms: on this occasion, its entire length was occupied by one man lying on his back, feet towards me, silent and no longer worried about time.
I climbed into the cab and stood looking down at him.
I’d expected, I’d realised, some sort of tramp. Someone with a stubble, smelly jacket, grubby jeans, down on his luck. Not a prosperous-looking middle-aged fat man in suit, tie and gold onyx signet ring, with leather-soled polished shoes pointing mutely to heaven. Not a man who looked as if he could have bought other more suitable transport.
He was certainly dead. I didn’t attempt to feel for a pulse, nor close the sagging mouth or the half-open lids behind the thick-lensed glasses. A rolled up horse rug had provided him with pillow. One arm had fallen by his side, the hand with the ring resting laxly on the floor, near but not touching a black briefcase. I jumped down from the cab, shut its door and looked at the worried faces of my men who would no longer meet my eyes.
‘How much did he pay you?’ I asked bluntly.
‘Freddie!’ Dave wriggled in embarrassment, trying to deny it, happy-go-lucky always, likeable, but of variable good sense.
‘I’d never...’ Brett began, fake indignation always ready.
I gave him a disillusioned stare and interrupted, ‘Where did you pick him up, why did he want a ride, and how much did he offer?’
‘Dave fixed it,’ Brett said accusingly.
‘But you had your cut.’ I took it for granted; not a question.
‘Brett asked him for more,’ Dave said with fury. ‘Demanded it.’
‘Yes, well, calm down.’ I began to walk back towards the house. ‘You’d better sort out what you’re going to tell the police. Did he give you a name, for instance?’