By Dick Francis
For millionaire jockey Alan York, successful is an advantage. For Joe Nantwich, victory capacity no soft backhanders; and for invoice Davidson, entrance operating on strongly fancied Admiral, triumph is an imposter. It capacity homicide - his personal. Turning inner most detective, York makes use of Joe's underworld connections to move at the path of the killers - simply to attract a chain of blanks. but if ambushed via a gang of vicious thugs, he choices up a few clues together with his cuts and bruises. Bill's homicide starts to make extra experience. till York reveals himself in clinic, with out a memory.'Fresh and fascinating ...very lively' - "Sunday Times". 'As a jockey, Dick Francis was once unbeatable while he bought into his stride. an identical is right, these days, of his crime writing' - "Daily Mirror."
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Extra resources for Dead Cert (The Dick Francis library)
Yes, sir. He's on late turn. Busy evening here, Saturday,' he grinned. ' I smiled back, sat down on the bench and waited. After five minutes Lodge came in quickly, peeling off his coat. ' he said to the policeman at the enquiry desk. 'Gentleman here to see you, sir,' said Small, gesturing to me. ' Lodge turned round. I stood up. 'Good evening,' I said. ' Lodge gave me a piercing look but showed no surprise at seeing me. His eyes fell to the neck of my shirt, and his eyebrows rose a fraction.
Sonny had his knife out at Plumpton, too, but he was pinned down by a big heavy man, and didn't get much chance to use it. But I saw his face quite clearly. Peaky you couldn't mistake, with that dark widow's peak growing down his forehead. The other three were all rounded up into the same group at Plumpton. I was waiting to give someone a lift, and I had a long time to look at the taxi-drivers after the fight was over. Bert, the man with the horse, had a black eye today, and the man who held my right arm, whose name I don't know, he had some sticking plaster on his fore head.
Yes, but which faces? ' 'Oh, I see. ' I asked. He narrowed his eyes, thinking, and tugged his moustache. 'One of 'em. Well, there's one nasty-looking chap with sort of slitty eyes. I wouldn't like a ride in his taxi. You'd know him by his hair, I reckon. It grows nearly down to his eyebrows. Rum-looking cove. ' 'I don't want him,' I said. ' He beamed at me. 'There's another one I see sometimes, too. ' 'Thanks a lot,' I said. I gave him a pound note and his beam grew wider. He tucked it into an inside pocket.
Dead Cert (The Dick Francis library) by Dick Francis