I’d almost come in my wellingtons, the same as I’d worn on the gallops the previous morning.
In fact, I had misjudged the dress code altogether.
Of course, I knew that one dressed up for Royal Ascot, but I quite expected a weekday evening meeting at Newmarket to be casual, scruffy even. How wrong I was. The sunshine had brought the ladies out in their finery, albeit without quite the degree of fancy millinery found in East Berkshire in June, and most of the men were in jackets and ties, or suits.
I felt very underdressed in chinos and a sweater.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said to Kate. ‘I should have worn my suit.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said. ‘Anything goes these days.’
And she was right. Among the sartorially elegant were a smattering of jeans and T-shirts and even a few pairs of flip-flops, not that they would be allowed in the Premier Enclosure if the notices at the entrance were to be believed.
But it wasn’t only the smartness of the people that was a surprise to me.
My only previous experience of attending horse racing had been as a teenager at a wet Saturday afternoon point-to-point at Flete Park in South Devon, where the mud had been ankle deep and a seriously overcrowded beer tent the only shelter from the persistent rain.
Newmarket on this sunny, warm evening could not have been more different.
The public enclosures were pristine, with manicured velvet lawns, neatly trimmed hedges and an abundance of bright yellow and red flowers, seemingly matching the terracotta-red roofs of many of the buildings. Even the track itself would have put many a domestic garden to shame with its lush green grass awaiting the arrival of the horses.
‘Drink?’ Kate said.
‘Absolutely,’ I replied. I looked around. ‘Where?’
She laughed.
‘Tattersalls have a permanent box here. It’s not booked by the bigwigs tonight so, after you called, I went and asked my boss if the staff could use it.’
She held up some badges.
‘Fantastic. Lead on.’
We went into the grandstand and then up in a lift to the top floor where the thick-pile carpet would not have been out of place in a five-star London hotel.
Definitely not wellington-boot territory.
A party was in full swing in the Tattersalls box with about a dozen people already there. Kate made introductions before getting us drinks from the bar in the corner.
‘We’ve all clubbed together to pay for the drinks,’ she said. ‘But we’ll have to go down if we want any food. The racecourse catering is far too expensive.’
‘I don’t want anything yet,’ I said. ‘Later maybe.’
Indeed, I had hopes of partaking of the hotel dinner we’d missed the previous evening, or maybe even the room service.
We took two glasses of Prosecco out onto the box terrace and looked out across the Heath towards the west. It looked fantastic in the late afternoon sunshine. So did Kate. I took her hand in mine and she looked at me and smiled. Last night’s troubles were just a fading memory.
‘I love evening racing,’ she said. ‘So easy to come after work. But this is the only evening meeting of the year held here. All the others are on the July course.’
‘The July course?’ I said.
She laughed. ‘Newmarket has two racecourses, three even, if you count the round course, but that’s only used once a year, for the Town Plate. This is the Rowley Mile course.’
‘Named after King Charles II,’ I said, remembering the history.
‘That’s right,’ Kate said. ‘We race here in the spring and autumn. But, in the summer, it’s only on the July course down the road over there.’ She pointed into the distance.
‘In July,’ I said, mocking her slightly.
‘Yes. In July.’ She smiled again. ‘But, rather confusingly, also in June and August. We’ve had some great Friday nights there. They put on a band after racing. Good bands, too. It’s always packed.’
‘We’ll have to go one night,’ I said.
‘Will you still be here by then?’
‘Probably, the way things are going at the moment.’
‘How was it in Bury St Edmunds?’
‘Fine, I think.’ I wondered how much I could tell her. ‘They haven’t released Declan yet but I don’t believe they have enough to charge him.’
‘How long can they keep him locked up?’
‘Twenty-four hours initially. That’s up at nine o’clock this evening. But they can apply for extensions from the courts. Four days is the maximum but I’d be very surprised if they get that long. There simply isn’t the evidence, and I’m pretty certain he didn’t do it.’
‘So who did?’ she asked.
‘That, my darling, is the million-dollar question.’
The horses came out onto the course for the first race, cantering down to the start far away to our right.
‘We must have a bet,’ Kate exclaimed. ‘Come on!’
She dragged me back inside the box.
‘But on what?’ I said. ‘I don’t even know which horses are running.’
She thrust a racecard into my hands. ‘Choose one.’
‘But I don’t know which are any good.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, just choose one by its name or its colours.’
I glanced down the list of horses in the first race.
‘Criminal Lawyer,’ I said. ‘Number three.’
She grabbed the racecard as if she didn’t believe me, but it was true.
‘That’s got to be a good omen. Let’s stake your shirt!’
In the end we decided on something rather smaller, more like a sock. Ten pounds each way, to be precise, and we cheered madly as Criminal Lawyer made a valiant effort, but finished fifth out of the twelve.
‘Ah well,’ Kate said, ripping up the ticket and tossing the bits away like confetti. ‘Better luck in the next.’
She chose one in the second race, a horse called Happy Night, which did not live up to its name, finishing a poor seventh out of the eight runners.
More confetti.
‘The bookmakers must love people like us,’ I said. ‘Selecting horses solely by their names. If I were a bookie, I’d own a horse called “Sure Thing” or “Guaranteed Winner” and then make sure it was useless. I’d rake it in every time it ran.’
‘I’ll admit it’s not the best method,’ Kate said. ‘We should seriously study the form and go and see the horses to see which one looks the best.’
But how will I know that? I thought. They all looked pretty similar to me – four legs, with a head at one end and a tail at the other.
Nevertheless, we went down in the lift and out towards the parade ring to inspect the runners in the third, and ran straight into Ryan Chadwick coming the other way.
And he wasn’t at all happy to see me.
‘What the bloody hell are you doing here?’ he asked angrily, as if spoiling for a fight.
‘Just enjoying an evening at the races,’ I said lightheartedly, trying to diffuse his anger.
‘I thought you’d be with the police and my damn brother.’ He thrust his face towards mine. ‘I thought you were on my side, not his. I’m the bloody victim here.’
I thought that Zoe’s husband and children might beg to differ.
‘You can tell Declan from me that I’ll wring his bloody neck if he ever comes anywhere near me. I hope he rots in jail. The bastard killed my best horse.’
He was working up a real head of steam so I thought it was prudent not to mention that Declan hadn’t even been charged, let alone convicted.
But Ryan wasn’t finished yet.
‘And you’re no better,’ he hissed, repeatedly poking me in the chest with his right forefinger. ‘Worming your way into my father’s house then stabbing us in the back. You’re nothing but an effing traitor.’
‘Shut up, Mr Chadwick,’ said Kate, coming to my defence. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
He turned from me t
o her with rage in his eyes. He bunched his fists and I was seriously afraid he was going to hit her.
‘Who the hell are you to tell me what to do?’ he demanded.
‘I’m Janie’s sister,’ Kate said. ‘Now go away and leave us in peace.’
Ryan focused on her face and he was still in enough control to realise that punching the lights out of his yard secretary’s sister might not be the greatest career move, even if he thought verbally abusing the representative of one of his most important owners had been.
He started to turn away, but I grabbed hold of his jacket sleeve and pulled him back.
‘Tell me, Ryan,’ I said calmly. ‘Why did you break Declan’s nose in a Doncaster hotel?’
‘Is that what he told you? Little shit.’
No, I thought, Declan hadn’t told me. I had guessed. But I wasn’t going to say so.
‘Is it true?’ I asked.
‘Yes, it’s true, but I was provoked.’
‘How?’ I asked.
He stared at me for two or three long seconds.
‘Never you mind,’ he said.
He pulled his sleeve out of my grasp and walked briskly away.
‘What was all that about?’ Kate asked as we made our way to the parade ring.
‘It seems that Ryan is unhappy that I am acting as his brother’s solicitor.’
‘He’s more than unhappy if you ask me. I’ve never seen a man so angry.’
‘It was quite funny though,’ I said, laughing.
‘What was?’
‘Watching a man of only nine stone trying to throw his weight around.’
We giggled, probably more from the release of tension that the encounter had produced. Quite funny, but not really. There had been something rather menacing about Ryan’s behaviour, only nine stone or not.
It will all come out. I can’t stand the shame.
What would come out? What was it that no one was talking about?
We finally had a winner in the fifth race but it was a short-priced favourite and the payout was insufficient to make much of a dent in all our previous losses. But we celebrated nevertheless with another round of Prosecco.
‘It isn’t the money that’s important,’ Kate said, ‘it’s the excitement.’
Easy for you to say, I thought, when it’s not your money.
‘Betting on horses is clearly a mug’s game,’ I said. ‘My boss says there’s no such thing as a poor bookmaker.’
‘Boring!’
Hence I loaded our winnings, and more, on a horse called Love Me Forever in the last race, and then waved goodbye to the cash as the damned nag trailed in at the rear of the ten runners.
But I didn’t care.
I’d only chosen that horse so I could scream ‘Come on, Love Me Forever’ at the top of my voice from the grandstand, and mean every word of it.
‘What now?’ I said to Kate. ‘How about dinner?’
‘Lovely. Where?’
‘The Bedford Lodge Hotel.’
‘I doubt we’ll get a table,’ Kate said. ‘Race nights are always busy.’
‘I think we will,’ I said.
I’d taken the precaution of booking one earlier, just in case.
We walked out of the racecourse to where my driver was waiting and my phone rang as we were climbing into the car.
Not again, I thought.
‘Hello?’ I said, answering.
‘Mr Foster?’ said a voice. ‘This is the custody sergeant at Bury St Edmunds. I have Mr Declan Chadwick for you.’
‘Harry,’ he said, coming on the line. ‘They’re releasing me. Something called RUI.’
‘Released under investigation,’ I said.
‘Yes, that’s it. What does it mean?’
‘Exactly what it says. You are being released from custody but the investigation of your possible involvement will go on. The police will probably keep your car, phone and computer until they are satisfied there is no further evidence to be obtained from them. Eventually they will either have to charge you or notify you that the investigation is at an end and that no further action will be taken against you.’
There was a pause while he absorbed the information.
‘It’s a good thing,’ I assured him. ‘It means you are now free to leave the investigation centre.’
‘Can you come and collect me?’ he asked.
‘No, I can’t,’ I said adamantly. I was not having him ruin another dinner with Kate. ‘But I’ll send a car and driver for you. He’ll be with you in about half an hour.’
‘But where shall I go?’ he said miserably. ‘I can’t go home. Not without Arabella there.’
That was his problem, not mine, but I did feel extremely sorry for him.
‘Isn’t there someone you could go and stay with?’ I asked. Not Ryan, I thought. ‘How about your dad? Or Tony?’
From his silence I inferred that neither was a popular choice.
‘How about Chrissie, then?’ I said.
‘But she’s just my secretary.’
‘As may be,’ I said, ‘but she’s very loyal and I’m sure she will help if she can. Call her and see if she’s got a spare room, or even a sofa, you can borrow. I’ll speak to you in the morning. I’ll call the yard office.’
‘But . . .’
‘No buts, Declan. You need the horses as much as they need you.’
The Mercedes dropped Kate and me at the Bedford Lodge Hotel and then set off to collect Declan from Bury St Edmunds.
‘No problem,’ the driver had said when I asked him. ‘I get paid by the hour and the mile. The more the merrier. I’ll take him to wherever he wants to go. I hear it’s very nice in John o’Groats at this time of year.’
He was still laughing to himself as he drove off.
‘So they’ve released Declan?’ Kate said, when we had settled at our table in the hotel’s Squires Restaurant.
‘So it would appear. They obviously didn’t get an extension beyond the initial twenty-four hours.’
‘Does that mean he’s innocent?’
‘Not necessarily, but they probably wouldn’t have let him go so easily if they really thought he was guilty. Perhaps they’ve looked at the CCTV from Newmarket Station.’
‘What would it show?’ Kate asked.
I decided that Declan making a statement to the police was as good as putting its contents into the public domain, so I explained to her about him having picked up Zoe from Cambridge the previous Sunday, and how her blood had subsequently been found in his car.
Her eyebrows almost disappeared into her hairline.
‘No wonder the police arrested him.’
‘Yes, but Declan maintains he dropped her off, alive and well, at the station in Newmarket on Sunday afternoon for her to catch a train back to London.’
‘But she didn’t actually catch it?’
‘No. Instead she turned up dead in Oliver Chadwick’s stable yard.’
‘In the fire?’
‘Yes, but the post-mortem shows that she was dead before the fire started.’
The eyebrows went up again, maybe even further this time.
‘Wow! No wonder you went off so fast last night. Eat your heart out, Sherlock Holmes!’
I smiled across the table at her.
‘But what about Zoe’s blood in the car?’ she asked. ‘How did that get there?’
‘Elementary, my dear Watson,’ I said. ‘Zoe had a habit of self-harming. She regularly picked so hard at her fingers that they were red-raw and bleeding. The blood in the car came from that.’
‘She used to do that at school,’ Kate said wistfully. ‘How dreadful that she was still doing it all these years later.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘Zoe was clearly a very troubled individual.’
‘Obviously Arabella was too,’ Kate said. ‘And now that Declan has been released, it all seems such a waste. You’d think she would have waited to find out if he’d really done it before she killed herself.’
But
I wasn’t sure that Arabella’s suicide had anything to do with Zoe’s murder.
19
Sadly, Kate went home later in a taxi.
‘I need to get my Tatts uniform for work tomorrow,’ was her excuse and, to be honest, I could do with the sleep. By eleven o’clock, I was out on my feet, and an excellent bottle of Saint-Émilion Grand Cru over dinner hadn’t exactly helped.
‘Maybe we can see each other again tomorrow night,’ she said as I walked her out to the taxi. ‘I don’t have to work on Saturdays.’
‘That would be great,’ I said. ‘I’ll call you.’
I went to give her a peck on the cheek, but she turned it into a passionate kiss on the lips.
Bugger her Tatts uniform, I thought, as her taxi pulled away and I went reluctantly alone to my room.
The red message light was flashing on the bedside telephone.
Now what? Not Declan again with more bad news?
However, it was not Declan but Oliver Chadwick, and he was apologising on behalf of his eldest son.
‘I’m sure Ryan didn’t mean to be rude and I trust you didn’t take his words in that manner,’ he said. ‘It’s just that it has been rather a stressful time here recently.’
I could imagine the scenario.
Ryan would have worked out that his actions at the racecourse had been somewhat less than prudent, and he had gone to his father to confess that he’d spoken sharply to Sheikh Karim’s personal representative.
Oliver would have been furious with him and demanded that Ryan call me immediately to apologise. But Ryan would have refused because (a) he was embarrassed, and (b) he didn’t want to lose face, primarily the latter.
So Oliver had had to do it himself, but he’d called the hotel number, rather than my mobile, so that he wouldn’t actually have to speak to me. He could safely leave a voicemail. I’d have probably done the same in his position.
There was no reference to Ryan also repeatedly poking me in the chest with his forefinger, so he’d probably kept that little gem from his father.
I listened to Oliver’s message again.
‘I’m sure Ryan didn’t mean to be rude and I trust you didn’t take his words in that manner.’
A bit difficult not to, I thought, when he’d called me an effing traitor.
I slept the sleep of the just, eight full hours of deep, uninterrupted slumber, and woke on Friday morning refreshed and ready for action.
Crisis Page 17
