The night before the 2,000 Guineas at Newmarket sees the great and the good of the horse-racing community gathered for a prestigious black-tie Gala dinner. It is a fitting testament to the glamour of the occasion that top chef Max Moreton is cooking the evening’s meal.

Max is something of a celebrity in Newmarket circles. He is founder of the racing town’s favourite Michelin-starred restaurant, the Hay Net. However, spending the night retching in the throes of agony is the last thing Max expects. But much worse is to come . . . his food is suspected of putting twenty-four of the dinner guests in hospital. Max’s pride and professionalism tells him all is not as it seems.

Within hours, Max’s restaurant is forcibly closed, his reputation teeters on the brink of ruin, and a court case looms. But the day is far from over, and soon Max Moreton finds himself desperately fighting for more than just his livelihood…

Dead Heat is the latest searing, intrigue-filled blockbuster from the Grand Master of thriller writing.

Set in the world of haute cuisine, Dead Heat introduces a new Dick Francis lead character, top chef Max Moreton.

The night before the Two Thousand Guineas at Newmarket sees the great and the good of the horse-racing community gathered for a prestigious black-tie gala dinner. It is a fitting testament to the glamour of the occasion that Max is invited to be the guest chef and he is responsible for all aspects of the evening’s meal.

Within hours, one of the diners is reported dead, Max’s restaurant is forcibly closed, his reputation teeters on the brink of ruin, and a court case looms. But the day is far from over, more carnage is yet to come, and soon Max Moreton finds himself desperately fighting for more than just his livelihood.

The following is a short extract from Dead Heat, just to whet your appetite:

The bomb went off while I was crossing the corridor.

At first I couldn’t understand what was going on. Everything seemed to be in silence. I couldn’t hear. I tried to speak but I couldn’t hear that either. I shouted. Nothing. All I could hear was a high pitched hissing in my head.

I looked down at my hands and they seemed to be all right. I moved them. No problem. I clapped. I could feel my hands coming together but I couldn’t hear the sound. It was very frightening.

My left knee hurt. I looked down and noticed that my black and white checked trousers had been torn. The white checks were turning red with my blood. What’s black and white and red all over…? My brain was drifting.

My hearing came back with a rush and suddenly there was a mass of sound. Someone close by was screaming. A female, high pitched, scream that went on and on, breaking only occasionally for a moment as the screamer drew breath. An alarm bell was ringing incessantly somewhere down the corridor and there were shouts from some male voices, mostly pleading for help.

I pulled myself up to a standing position using the door frame and felt unwell. I didn’t particularly relish going to see what had become of my staff and the guests but I knew I must. I couldn’t just stand here all day while others might need help. The screaming had lessened to a whimper as I gingerly made my way across the corridor and looked in. I hadn’t expected there to be so much blood.

Bright, fresh, scarlet-red blood. Masses of the stuff. It was not only on the floor but on the walls, and there were even great splashes of it on the ceiling. The lunch tables had been thrown up against the back wall by the explosion and I had to pick my way over broken chairs to get through the door and into the room that I had so recently vacated with ease. The glass in the windows and doors had completely vanished, and along with it had departed large chunks of the balconies and about a third of the end wall.

I thought that if the blast could do such damage to concrete and steel, the occupants must have stood no chance. Carnage was not too strong a word for the scene. There must have been at least thirty-five people either in that room or on the balcony beyond when the bomb exploded, and most of them seemed to have disappeared altogether.

A whimper to my left had me scampering under the upturned tables to find the source.

MaryLou Fordham lay on her back close to the rear wall. I could only see her from the waist up as she was half covered with a torn and rapidly reddening tablecloth. The blood that was soaking into the white starched cotton was an exact colour match with her bright scarlet chiffon blouse that had fared rather badly and now hung as a tattered mass around her neck. I knelt down beside her on my right knee and touched her forehead. Her eyes swivelled round in my direction. Big, wide, frightened, brown eyes in a deathly pale face, a face cut and bleeding from numerous shards of flying glass.

“Help will be on the way,” I said to her, somewhat inadequately in the circumstances. “Just hang on.”

There was a lot of blood below her waist so I lifted the tablecloth a little to see what damage had been done. It was not easy to see. There was not much light under the blood-soaked cloth and there was a tangle of broken chairs and tables in the way. I shuffled down to get a better look and only then did my confused brain take in the true horror. Both of MaryLou’s lovely legs had gone. Blown away.

Felix Francis on life in the Dick Francis household and the new Dick Francis novel, Dead Heat

The production of a Dick Francis novel has always been a mixture of inspiration, perspiration and teamwork. The first one was published when I was nine, and I grew up in a house where breakfast talk would be about the damage a bullet might do to a man’s guts rather than the more mundane topics of everyday life. My parents did the books together with daily discussions, planning and debate. In September 2000 my mother died just a month before my father’s 80th birthday. The energy and determination had gone. The Dick Francis novel factory had, it seemed, closed for good.

Then, six years on, a new generation was ready to deliver again the necessary vigour. I convinced my father that I could take over the role once filled by my mother, and the family firm was suddenly back in business. Under Orders was published in September 2006 and was well received by both the critics and the public. So plans were hatched for yet another Dick Francis, novel number 40.

Father and son set about their task with dedication and passion. It wasn’t really a race, but was it Dick or was it Felix that finished first? Neither, it was a Dead Heat.