by Dick Francis
‘Well done, Kate,’ I said. ‘Be strong and believe what I told you.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘Oh, and one more thing, Kate. Could you do me a favour?’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘What do you want?’
I explained at some length what I needed without giving away the whole truth.
‘It sounds a bit strange,’ she said after I told her, ‘but if that’s what you want, I suppose it’s no problem.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘It will probably be tomorrow afternoon. I’ll call you.’
I tried Fred Manley’s number but got his wife.
‘Sorry, Mr Halley,’ she said. ‘Fred’s not here just now.’
‘When will he be back?’ I asked.
‘He’ll be back for his dinner, at one.’
‘I’ll call again then.’
‘Right you are,’ she said and disconnected.
It was a quarter to ten.
Provided Marina received the ‘all clear’ from Mr Pandita during his round this morning, she would be free to come home around midday.
I spent an hour cleaning the flat and washing up the dishes that were stacked in the kitchen sink. I was genuinely excited by the prospect of Marina’s homecoming. I was about to leave for the hospital when the phone rang. It was Charles.
‘Do you really think it’s necessary for me to stay in London?’ he asked, clearly hoping to be given the green light to go home to Oxfordshire.
‘Are you still at Jenny and Anthony’s?’ I asked back.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m desperate for a decent single malt. I’m fed up with carrot juice and bean sprouts, I can tell you.’
I laughed. ‘It’ll do you good.’
I thought about what I was planning to do.
‘I think it might be safer for you to stay away from Aynsford for a while longer,’ I said. ‘A few more days.’
‘I’ll go to my club then,’ he said. ‘I’ve been with Jenny now for two nights and everyone knows that guests begin to smell after three. I’ll move into the Army amp; Navy tomorrow.’ The lure of the bar had become too great.
I arrived at St Thomas’s to find Marina dressed and sitting in a chair.
‘They’ve cleared me for release,’ she said. She made it sound like the parole board.
‘Great,’ I said.
A hospital porter arrived with a wheelchair and he pushed Marina along the corridors and down in the lift to the patient discharges’ desk near the main entrance. I retrieved the car from where I had parked it, legally this time, in the underground car park, and we were soon a distant memory at the hospital. Today’s dramas had taken over.
‘Stop fussing,’ Marina said as I shepherded her into the Ebury Street building and up in the lift to our flat. ‘I’m fine.’
I knew she was fine. I was fussing because I was worried about her security.
At one o’clock, with Marina settled on the sofa with the Sunday papers, I telephoned Fred Manley, and spoke to him for nearly an hour.
‘Don’t let your dinner get cold,’ I said.
‘No problem, it’s keeping warm in the oven.’
He told me all about the systems that Bill had used, and about who went away with horses that needed to stay overnight at the northern tracks. In the end he told me more than I could have hoped for.
‘Thanks, Fred,’ I said. ‘That’s very helpful.’
‘What’s it for?’ he asked.
‘Oh, just some research I’m doing about training methods. I was about to ask Bill about it when he died.’
‘Damn shame that was. Mr Burton was a good man and a fine employer. I knew where I stood with him.’
‘Have you found another job?’ I asked him.
‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘To be honest, I’m thinking of leaving racing. It’s not like it used to be. The fun’s gone out of it. Nowadays, it’s all about blame. If a horse doesn’t win, the owners blame the trainers and the trainers blame their staff. There are bound to be more losers than winners, stands to reason. Mr Burton, mind, he never blamed his lads but nearly all the other trainers do. Mr Burton had one owner that used to rant and rave at him for the horses not winning. We all could hear it from the house. But Mr Burton never used us as his excuse. Proper gentleman, he was, unlike that owner.’
‘Do you know which of the owners it was?’ I asked.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘It was that lord. You know, the builder.’
‘Lord Enstone?’ I said.
‘Yeah, that’s the one. Lord Enstone.’
Finally, I let him go and have his dinner. I hoped it wasn’t completely ruined.
Marina and I spent a quiet afternoon cuddled up on the sofa watching a rugby international on the television. Marina kept her leg up on a footstool as instructed by the surgeon and we eased the hours with a bottle of Chablis.
I arrived at the Ebury Street Wine Bar at a quarter to seven to be sure to be there before Chris Beecher. I had left Marina still on the sofa and had doubled-locked the flat on my way out. I didn’t expect to be away for long.
The wine bar was very quiet when I arrived so I chose a table where I could sit with my back to the wall with a good view of the door. I knew a politician who always insisted on sitting the same way in restaurants and for the same reason. It was difficult for anyone to creep up without being spotted.
I wondered why I was giving Chris Beecher a scoop after what he had done to me. After all, it was he who had sent Evan Walker after me with a shotgun, and it was he who had shown Marina’s face to the world. But now I needed him. I needed his large readership. I needed his bloody-mindedness. And, above everything else, I needed his rottweiler tendencies. Once he had a good bite, I knew he wouldn’t let go.
He arrived at ten to seven and was surprised to see that I was there ahead of him.
‘Hiya, Sid,’ he said. ‘What are you drinking?’
I hadn’t yet ordered.
‘Are you buying?’ I asked.
‘Depends,’ he said. ‘Is it a good story?’
‘The best,’ I assured him.
‘All right, I’m buying.’
I had a large glass of the wine of the month while he had a pint of bitter.
‘So what’s the angle?’ he said, after having a good sip.
‘All in good time. You have to earn this story. I need you to set something up for me.’
‘Shoot,’ he said. I rather wished he wouldn’t use that turn of phrase.
I explained in detail what I wanted him to do and when.
‘Why?’ he asked.
‘You’ll find out,’ I said. ‘That will be the story. Are you on?’
‘Yes, I’m on.’
‘Good. You can make the call now.’ I gave him the number.
He spoke into his mobile phone for quite a time before hanging up.
He smiled at me. He was enjoying the conspiracy. ‘All set,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow afternoon at one o’clock. Where you said. We’ll meet in the kitchen.’
‘Great,’ I said. ‘I’ll be there by twelve to set things up. You should arrive by twelve thirty at the latest.’
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Now don’t be talking to any other papers in the meantime.’
‘I won’t,’ I said. ‘And you keep mum, too.’
‘You bet.’
On Monday morning, Marina’s leg was sore so she stayed in bed while I spent some productive time calling Bond Street boutiques.
Charles rang at nine thirty to tell me he was leaving Jenny’s to set course for the bar at his club and that I should call him there if I needed him.
‘Thanks for telling me,’ I said, ‘but could you come round to Ebury Street first, to sit with Marina for a few hours?’
I could sense the hesitation in him.
‘I’ve got an excellent bottle of Glenfiddich that could stand some damage,’ I said. ‘And a side of smoked salmon in the fridge for lunch.’
‘I’ll be there in thirty-five minute
s,’ he said.
‘Perfect.’
I spent the thirty-five minutes telling Marina what I was going to be doing this afternoon.
‘Darling, please be careful,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to find myself a widow before we even get married.’
‘I thought you were still thinking about it.’
‘I am, I am. All the time. That’s why I don’t want to lose you before I decide. Then all this thinking would be a waste.’
‘Oh, thanks.’
‘No, I mean it, my darling, please be careful.’
I promised I would. I hoped I could keep the promise.
Charles arrived and took up his post as guardian of Marina.
‘I don’t need anyone,’ Marina had complained when I told her Charles was coming.
‘I’d prefer it,’ I’d said. And, I thought, it would give Charles a purpose in life. To say he was bored with his time in London was an understatement.
‘Now rest that leg and I’ll be back later,’ I said, and left them.
I arrived in Lambourn at ten to twelve and drove round the back of Bill Burton’s now-empty stables and parked my car where, until recently, he had kept his horsebox. Kate had told me that it had been repossessed by the finance company at her request.
I’d called Kate earlier that morning to tell her that it was definitely this afternoon that I needed the favour. Fine, she’d said, see you later.
I removed a large hold-all from the boot of my car and carried it through the empty and lifeless stable yard to the house. Kate was in the kitchen giving some early lunch to Alice, her youngest, Bill’s much-wanted daughter.
‘Hello, Kate,’ I said, giving her a kiss.
‘Hi, Sid. How nice to see you. Do you want some lunch?’
‘Just coffee would be lovely. Do you mind if I go and set up?’
‘Help yourself — though I’m not really sure what you’re doing.’
I had purposely not told her everything. It would have been too distressing.
‘My visitor is coming at one o’clock,’ I said.
‘OK.’ I think she realised that asking who the visitor was would be pointless, so she didn’t. ‘I’ll be going shortly to do some shopping in Wantage, and will have Alice with me. I have to pick the other children up from school there at three so I won’t be back until three thirty at the earliest. Is that OK?
‘Better make it four,’ I said. ‘Or even four thirty, if that’s not too late.’ I wasn’t sure how long my little plan would take.
‘OK. I’ll take the children to see Mummy for tea. Black or white coffee?’
‘White, please.’
‘I’ll bring it through.’
Setting up took me about twenty minutes and just as I finished, Chris Beecher arrived. I heard his car on the drive.
‘Your visitor is here early,’ said Kate as I went back into the kitchen. ‘We’re off now, and we may see you later. If you finish early, put the key through the letter box when you go. I’ve another one to get in with.’
‘Right,’ I said. I gave her a kiss. ‘And thank you.’
Chris and Kate passed each other at the kitchen door and briefly paused to shake hands without formal introductions. I watched Kate strap little Alice into her car seat and then drive away.
Chris watched with me. ‘Does she know what you’re up to?’ he asked.
‘Not exactly. She thinks you’re my visitor.’
‘Ah.’
Chris and I went through everything again to be sure we had the sequence right.
‘And once you start talking,’ he said, ‘you don’t want me to say anything, is that right?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Please try not to say or ask anything, however keen you might be. But don’t stop listening.’
‘No chance of that.’
I went into the sitting room to wait, and Chris went back to the kitchen. I couldn’t hear a car on the drive from where I was, but at one o’clock sharp I detected voices in the kitchen. Our real visitor had arrived, and then I could hear Chris laying on the charm as he guided our visitor through the house.
I waited. When I was sure that they would be in the right place, I left the sitting room and walked across the hall. The house was old fashioned and it had locks with big black keys on all the internal doors. I went silently through one of the doors the other side of the hall, then closed and locked it behind me. I put the key in my pocket. Our visitor was facing the window, sitting in the big armchair.
We were in Bill Burton’s den. The scene of his death.
I walked round until I was in front of the chair.
‘Hello, Juliet,’ I said.
CHAPTER 19
Juliet looked at me, then at Chris and back to me again.
‘Hello, Sid,’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’ She shifted in the chair and looked slightly uneasy.
‘I arranged it,’ I said.
‘But, I thought…’ She turned to look at Chris again. ‘I thought you said you wanted to interview me for the newspaper.’
Chris didn’t say a word.
‘He did,’ I said, ‘because I asked him to.’
Chris had called her on the telephone from the wine bar to ask if he could write an article about her for The Pump as a rising assistant trainer. He had told her that he was doing a series of such pieces on the future stars of racing and she would be the first. He had told her he wanted to meet her at the place where she had started her career, at Bill Burton’s. I had assumed that her vanity would overcome any reluctance, and I had been right. Juliet had been really keen and had readily agreed.
So here she was.
I hoped that she was feeling a little uncomfortable to be back in the room where Bill had died. I was.
‘Why?’ she said.
‘I wanted to have a little chat,’ I said.
‘What about?’ She was keeping her cool but her eyes betrayed her anxiety. She looked back and forth from me to Chris with a little white showing around her irises.
‘And what’s that for?’ she asked, pointing at the video camera on a tripod that I had set up facing her. I had brought it with me in the hold-all together with a separate tape recorder and microphone. Just to be on the safe side.
‘To make sure we have a full record of what we say in our little chat,’ I said.
‘I don’t want a little chat with you,’ she said, and stood up. ‘I think I’ll leave now.’
She walked over to the door and tried to open it. ‘Unlock this immediately!’ she demanded.
‘I could,’ I said slowly, ‘but then I would have to give these to the police.’
I withdrew the photographs of the contents of her wardrobe from my pocket.
‘What are those?’ There was a slight concern in her voice.
‘Photographs,’ I said. ‘Sit down and I’ll show you.’
‘Show me here.’ She stayed by the door.
‘No. Sit down.’
She stood for a moment, looking first at me and then at Chris.
‘All right, I will, but I’m not going to answer any questions.’
She moved back to the chair and sat down. She leaned back and crossed her legs. She was trying to give the impression that she was in control of the situation. I wondered for how long she would believe it.
‘Show me the photographs,’ she said.
I handed them to her.
She looked through all six prints, taking her time. ‘So?’ she said.
‘They are photographs of the inside of your wardrobe.’
‘I can see that. So what?’ She didn’t ask how I had got them.
‘Your wardrobe is full of designer clothes, shoes and handbags.’
‘So? I like smart things. What’s wrong with that?’
‘They’re very expensive,’ I said.
‘I’m an expensive girl,’ she replied, smiling.
‘Where did you get them?’ I asked.
‘That’s none of your bloody business,’ she said, growing in
confidence.
‘I think it is,’ I said.
‘Why?’
‘Because assistant trainers don’t usually make enough to buy upwards of thirty thousand pounds’ worth of clothes,’ I said. ‘Not unless they’re selling information about the horses they look after or are up to other acts of no good.’
She slowly uncrossed her legs and then recrossed them the other way. ‘They were given to me by a rich admirer,’ she said.
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘you mean George Lochs.’
That shook her. She quickly sat forward in the chair, but then recovered her composure and leaned back again.
‘Who’s he?’ she asked.
‘Come on, Juliet, that won’t do! You know perfectly well who George Lochs is. He gave you all that stuff in your wardrobe.’
‘Now what makes you think that?’ she said.
‘I called the Jimmy Choo boutique in Sloane Street this morning and I asked if they kept a record of everyone who buys their shoes. The manager said they did, but he wouldn’t tell me who was on the list.’
Juliet smiled slightly. But she had relaxed too soon.
‘So I called their boutique in New Bond Street and said that I was phoning on behalf of Miss Juliet Burns who was abroad and had lost a buckle off a shoe and wanted to have a replacement sent out to her. They told me that they had no record of a Miss Juliet Burns having bought any shoes from them.’
I walked round behind the chair and bent down close to Juliet’s ear.
‘I told them that maybe that was because I had bought them for her myself. And who was I, they had asked. George Lochs, I’d said. Well, of course, Mr Lochs, they said, how nice to hear from you again. Now, which pair was it? So I described the turquoise pair you can see in the photographs and they knew it straight away.’
I didn’t tell her that I had also called Gucci and Armani, saying I was George Lochs. They, too, had all been so pleased to hear from me again.
‘So what if George did buy them for me,’ Juliet said. ‘There’s no crime in that.’
‘Were they payment for services?’ I said.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’