Dick Francis's Refusal by Felix Francis Page A

the numbers down a bit, but I could still be looking at a potential pool of half a million.
    Perhaps I needed to start at the other end.
    I retrieved the folder of Sir Richard’s papers from the drawer in which I had placed them. If I could discover there had indeed been race fixing and, if so, who had been responsible, then I might be able to trace it back to an Irish connection.
    I looked again at each of the suspect races and made a detailed list of the jockeys and trainers involved. Two jockeys had ridden in all of the nine races, with one other having had a ride in seven.
    That, I decided, was where I would start.
    I used my computer to look up the racing fixtures for the coming weekend.
    Jump racing in England is mostly a winter sport, with the major steeplechase and hurdle races taking place each year between November and April. The Cheltenham Festival, the highlight of the jumping calendar, had been held the previous week, and the Grand National was another four weeks away, after which the steeplechase season would wind down for another year.
    Not that jump racing finished altogether. Many of the smaller tracks continued to stage jump meetings throughout the summer months, while most of the bigger ones, Cheltenham excepted, concentrated on the flat code until the late autumn.
    During June and July, many steeplechase horses, including the real stars of the sport, were rested and put out in paddocks to eat the fresh grass and stretch their legs.
    The jockeys, however, don’t enjoy such luxuries, spending the same time driving all over the country to ride the juvenile, beginner and novice horses that made up many of the fields, the horses that might just possibly become the stars of tomorrow. Rides gained on novices in the summer could occasionally turn into championship rides in future winters.
    But that was all several weeks away yet.
    The
Racing Post
website showed me that there were due to be three steeplechases and four hurdle races on a card at Newbury the following day, and the two jockeys who had ridden in all the nine suspect races would both be in action, together with another who had ridden in four of them.
    â€œI’m going to the races tomorrow,” I said, walking into the kitchen to make myself a cup of instant coffee.
    Marina looked horrified. “But what about Sassy and me?”
    â€œYou can come if you want.”
    â€œSid,” she said, putting her hands on her hips, “what about our safety? Have you forgotten there’s a maniac out there who abducts children?”
    â€œOf course I haven’t,” I said. “But sitting in here behind closed doors isn’t going to find out who it is. You’ll be safe enough at the races with all the people round or you can stay here and lock yourself in.”
    She stared at me across the kitchen, and I couldn’t read what she was thinking. “Are you mad?” she said. “Of course we’re coming with you. I’m not staying here on my own, with or without locked doors.”
    â€œGreat,” I said. “We’ll leave at eleven.”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    T HE THREE OF US went to Newbury in the Range Rover, with Sassy sitting in the center of the backseat on her booster.
    There had been no further communication from “our friend” since the two late-night calls on Thursday, and the lack of contact was beginning to worry me slightly. What was he planning? I didn’t think for a second that he’d given up on his quest.
    Consequently, I was extra vigilant as I turned through the gates and into the racetrack parking lot. I was pretty sure we would be safe inside the enclosures simply because it would be difficult to make a rapid getaway from there with a kidnapped child, but in the parking lot was another matter.
    I followed the directions of the attendants and parked in a growing line of cars on the grass. We waited for the group of four young men in the adjacent