Front Runner (A Dick Francis Novel) - Softcover

Francis, Felix

Softcover

ISBN 10: 042527893X ISBN 13: 9780425278932

Verlag: G.P. Putnam's Sons, 2016

Inhaltsangabe

British investigator Jefferson Hinkley is back in this compelling Dick Francis thriller by the New York Times–bestselling author of Crisis.
 
In his role as an undercover investigator for the British Horseracing Authority, Jeff Hinkley is approached by a multi-time champion jockey to discuss the delicate matter of losing races on purpose. Little does he know that the call will set off a lethal chain of events, including the apparent suicide of the jockey and an attempt on Hinkley’s own life. Never one to leave suspicious events alone, Hinkley begins investigating the jockey and the races he may have thrown. But there are others out there who intend to prevent his inquiry from probing further...at any cost.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Felix Francis, a graduate of London University, is an accomplished outdoorsman, marksman, and pilot who has assisted with the research of many of his father's novels. The coauthor and author of numerous Dick Francis novels, he lives in England.

Dick Francis was born in South Wales in 1920. He was a young rider of distinction winning awards and trophies at horse shows throughout the United Kingdom. At the outbreak of World War II he joined the Royal Air Force as a pilot, flying fighter and bomber aircraft including the Spitfire and Lancaster. He became one of the most successful postwar steeplechase jockeys, winning more than 350 races and riding for Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother. After his retirement from the saddle in 1957, he published an autobiography, The Sport of Queens, before going on to write more than forty acclaimed books. A three-time Edgar Award winner, he also received the prestigious Crime Writers’ Association’s Cartier Diamond Dagger, was named Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, and was awarded a CBE in the Queen’s Birthday Honours List in 2000. He died in February 2010, at age eighty-nine, and remains among the greatest thriller writers of all time.

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The display on the digital thermometer to my left read105 degrees—105 degrees Celsius, that is, 221 degreesFahrenheit. Sweat ran off the end of my nose in a continuous stream and I could feel the heat deep in my chest as I breathed in the searing air. I’d been in saunas before, but never one this hot.

“So what do you want?” I asked. My companion in this hellish place didn’t answer. He simply stared at the floor between his feet. “Come on,” I said.

“I haven’t come all this way for my health. It’s far too bloody hot in here. You wanted to talk to me, so talk.”

He lifted his head.“At least you’re not in one of these damn things.” He tugged at the black nylon sweat suit he was wearing. As if the heat alone wasn’t bad enough.

“Maybe not, but I didn’t come here to be slow-roasted.”

He  still  didn’t talk.  He  just  looked at me.  Dave  Swinton, twenty-nine years old and  already eight times champion steeplechase jockey. At five-foot-ten, he had a continuous struggle with his weight, that was common knowledge, but owners and trainers were often happy to accept a touch overweight in order to have his exceptional skill in the saddle. And for good reason—the stats showed that he won almost a third of the races in which he rode.

“Off the record?” he said.

“Don’t be silly,” I replied. I was an investigator for the British Horseracing Authority, the organization responsible for regulatory control of all Thoroughbred racing in the United Kingdom. Nothing I saw or heard to do with racing could be off the record.

“I’ll deny I said it.”

“Said what?” I asked.

“I’ve been in this bloody oven now for over ten minutes and I’m starting to look like a lobster. Either you tell me why I’m here or I’m gone.” I wondered why he’d been so insistent that we should talk in his  sauna.  I had thought it was  because he  needed  to shed  a pound or two before racing  at  Newbury  that  afternoon,  but maybe it was actually to make sure that I had no recording equipment hidden about my person. As a rule, I used my iPhone to record meetings, but that was in the pocket of my jacket, which was  hanging  up on a  peg outside,  along  with the  rest of my clothes. Dave went on looking at me as if still undecided.

“Right,” I said. “I’m done.” I stood up, wrapped the towel I had been sitting on around my waist and pushed open the sauna’s wooden door.

“I lost a race this week.”

I put one foot through the doorway. “So? You can’t win them all.” 

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I lost it on purpose.”

I stopped and turned  to him. I knew most of the Rules of Racing by heart. Rule (D)45.1  stated that a jockey was required, at all times, to have made a genuine attempt  to obtain from his horse timely, real and substantial  efforts to achieve the best possible placing. To lose a race on purpose was to willfully flout that rule, an offense that could carry a penalty of ten years’ disqualification from the sport.

“Why?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. He simply went back to studying the space between his feet.

“Why?” I asked him again.

“Forget I ever said it.”

“I can hardly do that,” I said. Winding back time wasn’t possible. Just as  uninventing the atom bomb wasn’t ever going to happen. I looked down at him, but he went on scrutinizing the floor.
 
“Can’t we get out of this bloody heat and talk about this overa glass of iced beer?”

“I can’t drink anything,” he replied sharply without moving his head. “Not even water. What the hell do you think I’m doing this for? I’ve got to lose two pounds to ride Integrated in the Hennessy.”

“Won’t you be dehydrated?”

“Usual state for me,” he said, trying to produce  a laugh. “I’ve been wasting every day since I was sixteen. I can’t remember what a square meal looks like. Nor a beer. In fact, I haven’t had a proper drink for years; alcohol contains far too many calories. Not that I miss it much, I don’t like the taste.” He laughed again, but just once. “Why do I do it? you ask. That’s a bloody good question.” 

He stood up and we both went out of the wooden box into the coolness. I wondered how many people had  a sauna in the corner of their garage, not that there wasn’t still plenty of room for a couple of expensive cars as well, a silver Mercedes saloon and  a dark green Jaguar XK sports coupé, both adorned with personalized license plates. Dave flicked off a big red switch next to the door.

“It must cost a fortune  to heat,” I said.

“I claim my electricity bill against tax as a business expense,” he said, smiling. “This sauna is a necessity for my job.”

“How often do you use it?”

“Every day. I used to go to the one in the local gym, but then they turned down the temperature—something to do with health and safety.” He peeled off the nylon sweat suit and stepped naked onto a scale.

“What the hell is that?” I said, pointing at an ugly purple-and- black ring on his back.

“Something landed on me,” he said with a smile. “Hoofprint.” He looked down at the scale.“I’m still too heavy,” he said with a sigh.  “No lunch for me today, to go with my no breakfast.”

“But you surely have to eat. You need the energy.”

“Can’t afford to,” he said. “According to his bloody owner, if I can’t do a hundred  and forty-four pounds stripped by two this afternoon, I don’t get to ride Integrated, and he’s one of the best young chasers in the country. He’s incredibly well handicapped for the Hennessy, and if I don’t ride him today and he wins, I can kiss good-bye to riding him anytime in the future—maybe start kissing good-bye to my whole career.” 

He  could kiss  good-bye  to his  career anyway  if he’d  been purposely losing races.

“Tell me about the race you didn’t win,” I said.

 “I need a shower,” he replied, ignoring me and going into the house.

“You can use the one in the guest bathroom, if you like. Top of the stairs on the right.”He bounded up the stairs and disappeared into what I pre- sumed was his bedroom, closing the door firmly behind him.Not for the first time I wondered what I was doing here.

“Come now, Jeff.” That’s what Dave had said intently downthe line when he’d called me at ten to seven that morning. “At once. I need to talk to you. Right now. It’s vital.”

“Can’t we talk on the phone?” I’d asked.

“No. Absolutely not. Far too important. This has to be done face-to-face.”

Dave Swinton was one of the very few members of the racing fraternity that I called a friend. Mostly, I avoided social contact with those I was supposed to police, but, two years previously, Dave and I had been stranded for twenty-four hours together by an unseasonal ice storm as we tried to return home to...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: G.P. Putnam's Sons
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2016
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 042527893X
• ISBN 13: 9780425278932
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 400
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar