Beginning:
Winded and coughing, I lay on one elbow and spat out a mouthful of grass and mud. The horse I'd been riding raised its weight off my ankle, scrambled untidily to its feet and departed at an unfeeling gallop. I waited for things to settle: chest heaving, bones still rattling from the bang, sense of balance recovering from a thirty-mile-an-hour somersault and a few tumbling rolls. Nor harm done. Nothing broken. Just another fall.Friday 56:
"But...everyone takes photographs."
"Sure they do. But not everyone takes a long series of photographs which illustrate a whole way of life." She tapped off the ash. "It's all there, isn't it? The hard work, the dedication, the bad weather, the humdrum, the triumphs, the pain...I've only looked through these pictures once, and in so sort of order and I know what your life's like. I know it intimately. Because that's how you've photographed it."
A jockey unravels nasty secrets of corruption, blackmail, and murder in this mystery from grand master of crime fiction Dick Francis.
Longtime jockey Philip Nore is no hero. But when he begins to suspect that a racetrack photographer’s fatal accident was really murder, he sets out to discover the truth and trap the killer. Slowly, he unravels some nasty secrets of corruption, blackmail and murder—and unwittingly sets himself up as the killer’s next target...
I've heard of this author but not read anything, it does sound good though. I added you to the Linky. Happy Sunday!
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