Crisis

by Felix Francis

  The first thing on my agenda after breakfast was to call ASW.

  ‘How are things going?’ he asked.

  I filled him in on the events of the past couple of days, while deciding to leave out any mention of Kate. There are some things the boss doesn’t need to know.

  ‘I saw some reports on the news,’ he said. ‘Seems like a complete mess. Did Declan cause the fire?’

  ‘I don’t believe so. I think he’s telling the truth but not necessarily the whole truth. There’s something else going on in this family and, in spite of the animosity between them and the death of two of their number, no one is mentioning it.’

  ‘So what do you do next?’ ASW said. ‘I had a conversation with the Sheikh early this morning and he’s quite happy for you to stay there a while longer if it’s going to be productive. Georgina has provisionally booked your hotel room until the end of next week.’

  If it’s going to be productive, I thought. Easy to say.

  ‘Can we get hold of any bank records?’ I asked. ‘Money seems to be an important issue here.’

  ‘When is it not?’ he said with a laugh. ‘Whose money in particular?’

  ‘Zoe and Peter Robertson’s for a start. And I’d quite like to speak to Peter Robertson, although he seems to be rather an oddball if what everyone says is anything to go by.’

  ‘And his wife has just been murdered.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘But the police must have interviewed him by now, if only to eliminate him from their enquiries. In my limited experience, the cops always suspect the spouse first.’

  ‘Can’t you ask them what he said?’

  ‘I fear my relationship with the DCI in charge of the case has soured somewhat, but I could try. Or else I could come down to London and go and see him over the weekend.’

  ‘When is his wife’s funeral?’ ASW asked.

  ‘I haven’t heard but it’s unlikely to be soon. Zoe’s body, or what’s left of it, is a major piece of evidence and any future defence team would want their own post-mortem carried out. I should think a funeral is several months away, at best.’

  ‘Poor man. Not only is his wife dead, but he can’t even lay her to rest.’

  ‘I think I’ll go and see him tomorrow if that’s all right.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ ASW said crisply. ‘I’ll send you his address. Keep me posted, and I’ll get on to the research boys to see what they can do about the bank records.’

  ‘Thanks. And tell Rufus I’m learning fast about the gee-gees.’

  ‘He’s absolutely furious that you’re in Newmarket while he’s stuck in Florence.’

  ‘Ask him if he needs any tips.’

  We disconnected with ASW still laughing.

  Next I called Kate at work.

  ‘Hello, Sherlock,’ she said cheerily. ‘Unearthed any more clues?’

  ‘Do you know,’ I said seriously, ‘I found Moriarty this morning hiding in my wardrobe.’

  ‘Ha, ha! Very funny.’ But she didn’t actually laugh. ‘So what plans have you got for today?’

  ‘I thought I might go back to the races this afternoon. Get a better idea of what really goes on. For some reason I wasn’t properly concentrating yesterday. Then I might go out for dinner. What do you think?’

  ‘Sounds pretty good to me, although the dinner bit seems rather spurious. I thought you were having room service.’

  I smiled. ‘It could be arranged,’ I said.

  ‘Excellent. Now what are you doing this morning?’

  ‘Nothing. Why?’

  ‘Well, I happened to mention to my boss that I was with the personal representative of Sheikh Karim at the races last night and he was dead keen that you should be given a tour of the sales complex.’

  ‘Would you be conducting this tour?’ I asked.

  ‘It could be arranged,’ she said, mimicking what I’d said. ‘But we might have my boss with us. He’s very eager for the Sheikh to spend more money on buying horses. That’s more money buying horses from us, of course.’

  ‘Of course. How long will this tour take? First race today is at one-forty.’

  ‘Come to the main reception at eleven. That would give us plenty of time.’

  ‘Great. See you then.’

  She hung up and I found myself grinning like the Cheshire Cat that had also got the cream. Calm down, I told myself, you’ve been here before and it didn’t work out. But I was determined that neither Declan, nor any other member of the Chadwick family for that matter, was going to ruin my night this time.

  I decided that I’d switch off my phone good and early.

  But not yet. I had calls to make, and first on the list was Declan.

  I called the Rowley House Stables yard office and Chrissie answered. She had clearly put the receiver back on the hook.

  ‘Hi, Chrissie,’ I said. ‘How are things?’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, ‘now Mr Declan is back.’

  ‘How many owners turned up?’

  ‘Just one in the end. That bloody Mr Reardon. Arrived with a trailer towed behind a Range Rover, I ask you. Not even a proper horse trailer, neither. More like one of those for moving cows or sheep. Demanded his horse. Stupid bully. I told him to help himself but I swear he didn’t even know its name, let alone what it looked like.’ She was laughing at the memory. ‘He insisted that someone should load his horse for him, so I told him that would only happen if he settled his outstanding invoices first.’

  ‘Good girl,’ I said. ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘He got back into his flashy Range Rover and drove away. But he had to turn it round. Silly man should have unhooked the trailer first. He was all over the place. Took him a good ten minutes of toing and froing to get it round. It was the funniest thing I’ve seen in years. The tears were streaming down my face. And the more I laughed the angrier he got. Didn’t help his driving, neither.’

  ‘He won’t have liked being humiliated,’ I said. ‘He’ll take his horse away anyway.’

  ‘Good riddance,’ Chrissie said. ‘We’ll be better off without him.’

  Things had obviously looked up since the same time yesterday.

  ‘Is Declan around?’ I asked.

  ‘He was but he’s stepped out. Do you need him?’

  ‘Not really. I’m just checking he’s all right.’

  ‘I think so. He slept in my spare room last night and was keen as mustard to get here this morning. He hasn’t been into the house yet though. Says he can’t face it.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ I said. ‘But how are things in the stable yard?’

  ‘Fine, I think,’ she said. ‘Declan got cross that I hadn’t done the declarations for tomorrow’s racing at Newbury. Things must be back to normal if he’s complaining about me.’ She laughed again.

  Next I called Oliver. He should be at home having his breakfast between lots. I had no intention of giving him an easy time.

  ‘Oh, hello, Harry,’ he said nervously. ‘Did you get my message?’

  ‘Yes, Oliver, I did. You would do very well to tell that bloody son of yours to control his tongue. Remember the Sheikh has horses with Declan too.’

  I think Oliver was slightly taken aback by the forcefulness of my reply. I was a bit, as well.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Ryan had just had a bad day. He’d come straight back from York where his runners didn’t do very well in the Dante. I’m sure he didn’t intend to be disrespectful.’

  That’s exactly what he had intended, I thought, but there would be little to gain by persisting further in making his father squirm.

  I imagined it must be difficult being a racehorse trainer when it came to dealing with the owners. A bit like the headmaster of an expensive private school dealing with parents who had little idea of the true conduct or ability of their idle, stupid child, while believing absolutely that he or she was both an angel and a genius. A subtle blend of grovelling and realism was required to maintain the cash flow, yet manage future expectations.<
br />
  And, coincidentally, the cost of keeping a son at Eton or Harrow was almost exactly the same as having a racehorse with a top trainer. Funny that.

  ‘Have you spoken to the Sheikh?’ Oliver asked, the worry thick in his voice.

  ‘Relax, Oliver,’ I said. ‘Rest assured, I will not be reporting the incident to His Highness.’ I could hear his audible sigh of relief. ‘But I will not expect it to ever be repeated.’

  ‘No, absolutely not. Thank you, Harry, thank you.’

  Was his guard down?

  ‘Oliver,’ I said. ‘Tell me about Zoe.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Everything. What was she like?’

  ‘Strange girl,’ Oliver said. ‘Always was. Perhaps I was more used to boys. I was one of two boys myself, and I had three sons before Zoe came along. She became quite odd from an early age, you know, surly and badly behaved.’

  ‘How early an age?’

  ‘Three or four. I remember thinking that school would sort her out but, if anything, it made her worse. She was always in trouble with the staff. She used to make things up all the time and then swear they were true. Didn’t know the difference if you ask me. We even had the child welfare people round here once because she’d claimed to a teacher that she was beaten and tied to her bed all the time at weekends. It was all nonsense, of course, but it caused us all sorts of trouble at the time, I can tell you.’

  ‘What sort of trouble?’ I asked tactlessly.

  ‘Her mother and I argued a lot. Yvonne always took Zoe’s side. Made excuses all the time.’

  I could imagine Oliver being a bit of a black-or-white father, and not being overly sympathetic to his daughter’s strange ways. And it would have undoubtedly made things worse – much worse.

  ‘Tell me about the time she went missing.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve heard about that, have you? Stupid girl. Her mother was in pieces, thinking she was dead. Then they found her drugged-up under a railway line in south London, and that was dreadfully upsetting. It might have been better for us all if she had died.’

  What a dreadful state of affairs, I thought, that a father would have wished his daughter dead. But she was dead now.

  ‘So you don’t grieve much for her?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know what to think. It was a terrible shock when the police told me it was her they’d found in the fire. Like she’d come home to die after all.’

  But, of course, he hadn’t known then that she’d been murdered.

  ‘So who do you think killed her?’ I asked.

  ‘I have no idea,’ he said. ‘But that husband of hers would be my bet. He’s another strange one.’

  ‘How often have you met him?’

  ‘Twice,’ he said. ‘And that’s twice too often if you ask me.’

  I said nothing but silently waited for him to continue.

  ‘The first time was the morning after they found Zoe in London. Yvonne and I went to a police station in Croydon to collect her.’ He forced a single laugh. ‘What a joke that was. Christmas Day, and Zoe refused point-blank even to see us. Instead, this lout of a young man comes out and tells us that Zoe doesn’t need us any more and he will look after her in future. I nearly decked him there and then, I was that angry. But the police said that, as Zoe was now legally an adult, she could live with whomever she liked, even if it was on the streets with a drug dealer. Unbelievable. As far as I’m concerned, she ceased to be my daughter on that day.’

  ‘So you didn’t go to their wedding?’

  ‘No chance. We weren’t even invited. In fact, I didn’t know they were married at all until they turned up here out of the blue about five years ago, along with their children.’

  ‘What did they want?’ I asked.

  ‘What do you think they wanted? Money, of course. Started off with some nonsense about her being entitled to her inheritance early because I’d divorced her mother and was marrying another woman. I told her she could sing for that because I wasn’t planning to leave her anything in my will anyway, so they then tried to blackmail me instead.’

  He suddenly shut up. I waited but there was nothing more.

  ‘Blackmail over what?’ I asked finally into the silence.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Just another one of her crazy made-up stories. So I gave them a bit of an earful and sent them both packing. Look, I must go now, Ryan’s ready for third lot.’

  He hung up quickly. Rather too quickly.

  Had he just let something slip that he hadn’t meant to?

  20

  I presented myself at the Tattersalls’ main reception at eleven o’clock precisely, having walked down from the Bedford Lodge Hotel.

  There was much activity at Castleton House Stables as I passed, and I stood in the gateway for a few moments watching the proceedings.

  The police had obviously completed their physical examination of the scene and there was now a collection of bulldozers, diggers and lorries taking away the remains of the burned-out stable block, and its dead equine residents. At Oliver’s expense, no doubt, or that of his insurer.

  I walked on down the High Street and past the Jockey Club buildings before turning left onto The Avenue and then in through the entrance to the sales complex.

  Today, being a non-sale day, the car park was almost empty but, as on every day, it was dominated by a massive limestone classical arch with huge pillars topped by a pediment, complete with moulded frieze. It would not have looked out of place as the ceremonial entrance to a royal palace. How odd, I thought, to have built it here.

  ‘Welcome to Tattersalls, Mr Foster,’ said the receptionist. ‘We have been expecting you. Please take a seat for a moment.’ She indicated towards some comfy upholstered upright chairs. ‘I’ll just inform the chairman that you’re here.’

  I don’t know what Kate had told them but they did everything for me short of actually rolling out a red carpet.

  I was thankful that I’d worn my suit.

  Presently a tall lean man appeared, also in a suit, and walked purposefully over towards me.

  ‘Mr Foster?’ he said, outstretching his hand. ‘Welcome to Tattersalls. I’m Geoffrey Atherton, chairman and chief auctioneer.’

  I shook his hand warmly.

  ‘Thank you for inviting me,’ I said. ‘I had no idea that buying horses was such a grand affair. That’s quite a structure you have in the car park.’

  ‘The Tattersall Arch,’ he said, nodding. ‘It used to be the entrance to the auction house when we were situated in London during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. We moved it here in the 1960s.’

  ‘Quite a feat,’ I said.

  ‘Indeed, the original building was earmarked for demolition so it was a way of preserving what had been a symbol of Tattersalls for almost a century.’

  ‘The company goes back a long way, then,’ I said.

  ‘Since 1766. It was started by Richard Tattersall selling dogs on Hyde Park Corner.’

  ‘Dogs?’

  ‘Hounds, to be precise. For hunting. But at the end of each day’s hound sale, Richard would also sell a few horses, hacks and hunters mostly. However, it wasn’t long before he realised there was more profit in selling the horses than the dogs, although we went on selling foxhounds right up to the outbreak of the First World War, and we sold horses for hunting until well after that. But, nowadays, we are exclusively a Thoroughbred sales organisation. Racehorses.’

  As he’d been talking he had led the way back outside and we walked together across the perfectly tended grass lawns to a point where we could see clearly into one of the stable yards.

  ‘We have eight separate yards here, with over eight hundred boxes,’ Geoffrey said. ‘Horses have to be available for inspection before the auction starts. The sales catalogue tells prospective buyers where to find each lot and gives a full listing of its pedigree back at least three generations.’

  ‘How many do you sell in a day?’ I asked.

  ‘Up
to two hundred and fifty. Some days less, especially on the big days like the October Book One sale. Then we might only sell a hundred and twenty on each of the three days.’

  ‘But they’re the most expensive?’

  ‘We think they’re going to be, but quite a few in Books Two and Three always outsell some of those in Book One. The price depends solely on what people will pay for them at the auction. The deal is done only when the hammer drops.’

  We walked on towards the sales paddock.

  ‘This is where the lots parade just before going into the sales ring.’

  Like the waiting room at the dentist, I thought. But in this case it wouldn’t be the horse that was nervous, more likely the seller, intensely hoping their lot will fetch a good price, and more than the cost of producing it in the first place.

  At this point Kate came trotting across the grass to join us.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Mrs Williams.’ Geoffrey turned to me. ‘I believe you met Mrs Williams at the races last evening.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, trying hard not to laugh. ‘Mrs Williams was most accommodating. She invited me into your private box for a drink.’

  ‘Excellent,’ he said.

  Mrs Williams, indeed. Good job I hadn’t had to ask for her by name.

  I smiled at her. She was wearing her Tattersalls uniform with its embroidered rotunda logos.

  ‘There’s the rotunda I told you about,’ Kate said, as if reading my mind. She pointed at a twenty-foot-high round domed structure with pillars, standing nearby. It had a human bust on the very top and a fox standing on a pedestal at its centre.

  ‘In the 1700s it was situated at the corner of Hyde Park,’ Geoffrey said. ‘It was used by Richard Tattersall as his auctioneer’s podium. The bust on the top is George IV.’

  ‘Why the fox?’ I asked.

  ‘Foxes are part of our heritage, through our connection with selling foxhounds. Huntsmen have always been very fond of foxes.’

  But clearly not fond enough of them to stop chasing them to death across the countryside. It was a strange world. I wonder if the Pied Piper liked rats?

  We walked on through to the sales-ring building itself, an octagonal amphitheatre with steeply raked seating and high-up lantern-style windows, all of it dedicated to the promotion of Thoroughbred horseflesh as the greatest saleable commodity on earth.