Crisis

by Felix Francis

  When I arrived in Hamilton Road, there were already two TV news vans parked side by side outside Declan’s house, their rooftop satellite dishes facing skywards like a pair of large white hands waiting for a catch.

  ‘Turn into the yard rather than the house,’ I said to the driver, but if I thought that meant I would escape the attention of the camera crews, I was much mistaken. They were camped out at every entrance, even if they hadn’t actually yet trespassed onto the property itself.

  I kept my head down as the Mercedes pulled into the stable yard, where there was considerable confusion around what should be done.

  Chrissie was in the yard office and in a bit of a fluster.

  ‘What are we to do?’ she asked in desperation. ‘Some of the lads haven’t even come in to work.’

  ‘Keep calm and carry on as best you can,’ I said. ‘I was with Declan last night and he told me to ask you to send all the horses out for a canter, except for today’s runners. He also said to tell Joe to get the two off to York before seven-fifteen.’

  ‘How can we? The place is besieged by the press.’

  ‘Ignore them,’ I said. ‘The more you carry on as before, the less they’ll be interested. That’s the best thing you can do for Declan.’

  She stared at me.

  ‘Did he do it?’ she asked.

  ‘Declan categorically denies having done anything wrong.’

  I wasn’t convinced she believed it. Did I?

  ‘Has Arabella been out to see you yet?’ I asked.

  ‘You’re joking,’ Chrissie said with a laugh. ‘Arabella never appears before eight-thirty even on the best of days. Mostly later. Sometimes not at all.’

  I’d have to leave for Bury St Edmunds by eight-thirty, at the very latest, and this clearly wasn’t going to be one of the best of days.

  ‘I need to speak to her,’ I said, pulling my phone out of my pocket. ‘I’ll give her a call.’

  ‘I’d wait a bit if I were you,’ Chrissie said. ‘She has quite a sharp tongue in her head if she’s woken too early.’

  I knew how she felt, I thought, and yawned.

  ‘Coffee?’ Chrissie asked.

  ‘I’ll make it,’ I said. ‘You go and sort out the horses.’

  She went out while I put the kettle on.

  I yawned again. What was I doing here? I surely could have just called Chrissie on the phone from the comfort of my bed.

  I took my coffee out in the yard to see what was going on.

  Chrissie was shouting at an unfortunate stable lad who looked barely old enough to be in long trousers let alone in charge of a racehorse. ‘Why are you late? You should have been here half an hour ago.’

  ‘Sorry, Miss Chrissie,’ he said, cowering away from her. ‘My dad told me not to come at all. Not to a murderer’s stable.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Chrissie retorted angrily. ‘Mr Chadwick has done nothing wrong. It’s all just a misunderstanding. He’ll be back before we know it.’ I admired her loyalty. ‘Now go and tack up Pepper Mill. Pull out in five minutes.’

  The boy went off at a run.

  Contrary to Declan’s worst fears, Chrissie seemed to have everything pretty much under control as the first lot pulled out and disappeared onto the Heath through a gate at the far end of the yard, pushing the waiting press out of the way.

  Chrissie and I watched them go.

  ‘I thought all the yards had coordinated cap colours,’ I said, observing that Declan’s lads were wearing all sorts.

  ‘Many do,’ Chrissie said. ‘But it’s their choice. There are no hard-and-fast rules. Declan says he doesn’t hold with that sort of thing anyway. Tells the lads to wear what they like as long as they’ve got a helmet on underneath.’

  I thought back to Ryan’s uniform light-blue caps with red pom-poms and wondered if Declan’s decision was simply to be contrary to his elder brother.

  Next on the agenda was the departure of the two runners to York. Declan’s horsebox was driven into the yard and Joe, the travelling head lad, supervised the loading with a perpetual scowl on his face.

  ‘Right,’ he said miserably. ‘We’d better get going, although God knows if they’ll be allowed to run.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘Because the guv’nor’s training licence may have been revoked by then.’

  He clearly always looked on the dark side of life.

  ‘Surely not,’ I said. ‘Not before any conviction, and we’re a long way off that. He hasn’t even been charged.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it,’ Chrissie said. ‘The racing authorities are a law unto themselves. They do what they bloody like.’

  But they’re not above the law of the land, I thought. There may have been a time in the past when decisions of the Jockey Club were untouchable, but not any more. Nowadays, rulings that unfairly restricted someone’s ability to lawfully earn their living, in sport or otherwise, could be overturned by a court.

  ‘I am sure Mr Chadwick would want you all to carry on as normal,’ I said, and sent the dejected Joe on his way to York, still chuntering under his breath that he’d soon be out of a job, and who would employ him again at his age.

  Just like old Fred Piper at Ryan’s place, I thought.

  Getting old was a bugger.

  I waited until seven-thirty before calling Arabella. I would simply have to take my chances with her sharp tongue.

  I tried her mobile but, after six rings, it went to voicemail.

  ‘Try the internal phone,’ Chrissie said when I hung up without leaving a message. ‘Dial twelve for the kitchen and thirteen for their bedroom.’

  I picked up the handset on Declan’s desk and dialled 13.

  I let it ring about ten times before hanging up.

  ‘She’ll still be asleep,’ Chrissie said.

  ‘I’ll try again in a while.’

  But five minutes later there was still no answer and there must have been some concern showing in my face.

  ‘I have a back-door key in here somewhere,’ Chrissie said, searching through her desk drawers. ‘In case they lock themselves out.’ She held it up triumphantly.

  But the key wasn’t required. The door wasn’t locked.

  Chrissie hung back nervously outside, so I went in alone.

  ‘Hello?’ I called out loudly as I walked through to the front hallway. ‘Anyone home?’

  In spite of what I’d said to Chrissie earlier, things here would never again carry on as they had before.

  Arabella was hanging from the banister of the galleried landing, an upturned chair beneath her dangling legs, and she was stone cold to the touch.

  She’d been dead for hours.

  16

  ‘I need to call the police,’ I said to Chrissie when I went back to her.

  ‘And an ambulance?’ she asked, deep concern in her face.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Just the police.’

  She put her hand up to her mouth. ‘Is she . . . ?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Oh my God!’ She went pale and wobbled at the knees.

  ‘Come on,’ I said, taking her elbow. ‘Let’s get you into the office.’

  I steered her across the yard and she slumped down onto her chair. I fetched her a glass of water and some of the colour returned to her cheeks.

  Rather than dialling 999, I decided to call DCI Eastwood direct using my mobile, and I went outside so as not to distress Chrissie any further. She did not need to hear the gory details.

  ‘DCI Eastwood,’ he said, answering at the second ring.

  ‘Good morning, Chief Inspector,’ I said. ‘This is Harry Foster. I am at Declan Chadwick’s house. I came here to speak to Mrs Chadwick but it would appear that she has committed suicide.’

  ‘Suicide?’

  ‘Yes. I found her myself. She’s hanging from the banister in the hallway.’

  ‘Are you sure she’s dead?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I had checked. There had been no pulse in the wrist and there was already
a noticeable stiffening of her muscles due to rigor mortis, especially in the face, resulting in what a pathologist friend once told me was known as the death grimace. Even Arabella’s immaculate make-up couldn’t disguise that. ‘There is absolutely no doubt in my mind whatsoever. I reckon she’s been dead for several hours.’

  ‘Have you called an ambulance?’ the DCI asked.

  ‘No. You are the first person I have spoken to.’

  ‘You should have also called an ambulance. A qualified medic is required to certify death. However, as you are so certain that she is dead, I’ll get a police medical examiner there as soon as possible to confirm it. In the meantime, please do not allow anyone to disturb the scene.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I assured him. ‘But be advised that the press are camped outside the property. TV crews included.’

  ‘That’s all we need. How do they know?’

  ‘They don’t. Not about Mrs Chadwick, anyway, but someone has tipped them off that Declan Chadwick is the man you’ve arrested. It’s been on the TV news since midnight.’ I paused. ‘I assume you will not now be questioning him as planned at nine-thirty.’

  ‘No. We will postpone that. We’re still waiting for some forensic results anyhow. In the meantime, Mr Chadwick can remain in the cells.’

  He won’t be happy with that, I thought, but it was the least of his troubles.

  ‘Will you tell him about his wife?’

  ‘Only after it’s been confirmed by the medical examiner.’

  He clearly didn’t want to take my word for it.

  ‘So should I stay here or come to the investigation centre?’ I asked.

  ‘Stay right where you are,’ the DCI said decisively. ‘I will come there myself.’

  The horses returned from first lot and I intercepted one of the older lads and told him that all further lots for the day had been cancelled.

  He gave me a questioning look. ‘Is that what Miss Chrissie says?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Miss Chrissie is not feeling too well and she has asked me to pass on the message. Just muck out and feed the horses, then the staff can knock off early.’

  He wasn’t going to argue with that. ‘How about our runners this evening over at the racecourse?’

  Decision time.

  I decided it would be inappropriate for the horses to run with the trainer under arrest and his wife dead.

  ‘They won’t be going,’ I said. ‘I’ll inform the relevant authorities.’

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’ll let the lads know.’

  I went back into the office. Chrissie was leaning on the desk with her head in her hands.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I asked. Silly question really.

  She lifted her head and looked at me with tears in her eyes.

  ‘What are we to do?’ she asked desperately.

  ‘I’ve cancelled the rest of the exercise for today and told the staff to simply feed and muck out, and then go home. And I don’t think it’s right for any of Declan’s horses to run today. Can you call Joe and turn him round? Don’t tell him why, just that he’s to come back here.’ She nodded. ‘Then you had better let York Racecourse know they won’t be coming. Same for Newmarket this evening. Try not to give a reason other than Declan is indisposed. They will know about that by now from the news.’

  She nodded again and reached for her phone. I think she was thankful for something to do.

  I picked up the back-door key from her desk. ‘I’ll lock the house.’

  She shuddered at the thought of what was within. So did I a bit.

  Somehow it seemed all wrong to leave Arabella still hanging from the banister, but DCI Eastwood had been adamant that I should leave the scene undisturbed.

  It would take a good half an hour for him to get to Newmarket from Bury St Edmunds, especially at this time of the morning, even with blue flashers and his siren on.

  I took the key over to the back door but, instead of locking it, I went in.

  I wouldn’t disturb anything but I thought I might have a quick look around. I’d not get another chance.

  Arabella was, unsurprisingly, just where I’d left her, although there was now some pooling of unfortunate fluid on the polished parquet floor beneath her feet. I was thankful it wouldn’t be my job to cut her down.

  The last time I had seen her alive had been the previous evening when I’d left to follow Declan to the investigation centre. At that time her mascara had streamed down her face with the tears, and she had cried some more when I’d been on the telephone to her at midnight.

  Yet her face showed no signs of that now.

  The mascara was back in place as if, even in death, her appearance had been important to her.

  She had used the belt of a white bathrobe, the remainder of which was laid neatly on the bed in the master bedroom.

  Nothing else appeared to be out of place and the bed had not been slept in. I had a quick peep in the bathroom and, in particular, into the medicine cabinet, using a damp flannel from a basin to open it.

  One of the other operatives at Simpson White had reliably informed me that one could learn a great deal about people by discovering what pills they took each night.

  In this case, all I really learned was that both Declan and Arabella had lived fairly healthy lives. There were no pills for raised blood pressure or high cholesterol, and nothing that suggested asthma or diabetes. Just a mundane collection of painkillers and indigestion remedies.

  I closed the cabinet and returned the flannel to its original position.

  Indeed, the only medicine of interest was in the top drawer of Arabella’s bedside cabinet. Here I found a half-used bubble strip of fluoxetine together with a box containing three more full strips.

  I left them as I’d found them.

  I knew about fluoxetine. It was also called Prozac. My former neurotic girlfriend had taken it for anxiety and depression. Living in the Chadwick family and being unable to have children had obviously taken its toll on Arabella.

  I went out of the bedroom onto the landing. The door opposite had been secured shut with a crude clasp and padlock. Declan’s dressing room, I presumed.

  I looked at my watch. It had been twenty minutes since I’d phoned the chief inspector and I didn’t want to be still in the house when he arrived.

  I went back down the stairs, averting my eyes from the disaster, and had a quick look round the rest of the property. Everything in the kitchen was clean and put away tidily, perhaps obsessively so.

  I hadn’t been specifically looking for a suicide note but, nevertheless, there was one for me to find, and it would have been difficult to miss. A single sheet of lined white paper was stuck to the fridge door by a small magnetic Eiffel Tower.

  It had just two short sentences written on it in neat handwriting.

  It will all come out. I can’t stand the shame.

  I didn’t touch the note. Instead, I had a quick glance round to ensure I hadn’t moved anything, and then let myself out the back door, locking it behind me.

  I walked over to the yard office to find Chrissie on the telephone trying to get a word in edgeways.

  ‘But, Mr Reardon, we haven’t . . .’

  I could hear an angry voice on the other end of the line interrupt her.

  ‘Yes, Mr Reardon, but . . .’

  More inaudible, but clearly irate words, came down the wire.

  ‘Fine, Mr Reardon,’ Chrissie said finally. ‘As the horse’s owner, that’s your prerogative. Goodbye.’

  She put the phone down firmly and burst into tears.

  ‘That’s the third one in the past fifteen minutes. Bloody man is sending someone to collect his horse. They’ll all be gone soon.’

  The phone rang again.

  ‘Leave it,’ I said.

  It rang about ten times before stopping. Then I took the receiver off its cradle and laid it down on the desk.

  ‘There,’ I said, smiling at her. ‘No more problems. Did you call Joe?’


  ‘He’s on his way back.’

  That wouldn’t please him, I thought. He’d be more miserable than ever.

  ‘They hadn’t gone too far, anyway,’ Chrissie said. ‘I also called York. They weren’t very happy but . . . what the hell.’ She sighed. ‘I’d better tell the owners that their horses aren’t running after all.’

  She reached towards the phone again.

  ‘Leave it,’ I said again. ‘They’ll work it out.’

  ‘Yeah, suppose so.’ She paused, then looked up at me. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Checking around the yard,’ I said. ‘Making sure the lads hurry up and go. We don’t really want them all here when the police arrive.’

  ‘But who will help load the horses when the owners arrive to collect them?’ she asked gloomily.

  ‘That’s their problem. Have they paid all their training fees?’

  ‘Of course not. Owners are always weeks behind with payment.’

  ‘Then we will not release their horses until they do,’ I said adamantly.

  She smiled wanly up at me. ‘Can’t you come and work here full-time?’

  My mobile rang in my pocket. It was DCI Eastwood.

  ‘I’m outside the front door with the police medical examiner,’ he said. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Round the back in the stable yard,’ I said. ‘Come down the side of the house.’

  It was two more hours before they removed Arabella.

  She was zipped into a black plastic body bag and wheeled out on a trolley to a waiting van.

  The assembled press had a field day, with the cameramen jostling to push their lenses between the iron railings to get the best shot. A most undignified departure, I thought, for someone who had been so proud of her home.

  The event was carried live on the news channels and Chrissie and I watched it together on the TV in the office, where we had been told to wait.

  Speculation was rife among the media that the body in the bag was actually that of Declan, but that notion was severely dampened by an interview at the gates with DCI Eastwood, who confirmed nothing other than a 41-year-old man was still in custody and helping police with their enquiries.