by Crossfire
“Do you go racing a lot?” I asked.
“Not as much as I once did,” she said. “Ewen is always so busy these days that I never see him like I used to, either at the races or at home.”
She sighed again. Clearly, success had not brought happiness, at least not for Mrs. Yorke.
“But enough about me. Tell me about you.” She turned in her chair to give me her full attention, and a much better view of her ample cleavage. Ewen should spend more time with her, I thought, both at home and at the races, or he might soon find her straying.
“Not much to tell,” I said.
“Now, come on. You must have lots of stories.”
“None that I’d be happy to repeat,” I said.
“Go on,” she said, putting her hand on my arm. “You can tell me.” She fluttered her eyelashes at me. It made me think that it was probably already too late for Ewen, far too late.
Isabella insisted that everyone move around after the lasagna and so, in spite of Julie Yorke’s best efforts, I escaped her advances before they became too obvious, but not before she’d had the shock of her life trying to play footsie under the table with my prosthesis.
“My God! What’s that?” she had exclaimed, but quietly, almost under her breath.
And so I’d been forced to explain about the IED and all the other things I would have preferred to keep confidential.
Far from turning her off, the idea of a man with only one leg had seemed to excite her yet further. She had become even more determined to invade my privacy with intimate questions that I was seriously not prepared to answer.
As soon as Isabella suggested it, I was quick and happy to move seats, opting to sit between Jackson Warren and another man at the second table.
I’d had my fill of the female of the species for one night.
“So how long have you been back?” Jackson asked me as I sat down.
“In Lambourn?” I asked.
“From Afghanistan.”
“Four months,” I said.
“In hospital?” he asked.
I nodded. Isabella must have told him.
“In hospital?” the man on my other side asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I was wounded.”
He looked at me and was clearly waiting for me to expand on my answer. As far as I was concerned, he was waiting in vain.
“Tom, here, lost a foot,” Jackson said, filling the silence.
It felt as though I’d jumped out of one frying pan and into another.
“Really,” said the man with astonishment. “Which one?”
“Does it matter?” I asked with obvious displeasure.
“Er . . . er . . .” He was suddenly uncomfortable, and I sat silently, doing nothing to relieve his embarrassment. “No,” he said finally, “I suppose not.”
It mattered to me.
“I’m sorry,” he said, looking down and intently studying his dessert plate of chocolate mousse with brandy snaps and cream.
I nearly asked him if he was sorry for my losing a foot or sorry for asking me which one I’d lost, but it was Jackson I should have been really cross with, for mentioning it in the first place.
“Thank you,” I said. I paused. “It was my right foot.”
“It’s amazing,” he said, looking up at my face. “I watched you walk over here just now and I had no idea.”
“Prosthetic limbs have come a long way since the days of Long John Silver,” I said. “There were some at the rehab center who could run up stairs two at a time.”
“Amazing,” he said again.
“I’m Tom Forsyth,” I said.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he replied. “Alex Reece. Good to meet you.”
We shook hands in the awkward manner of people sitting alongside each other. He was a small man in his thirties, with thinning ginger hair and horn-rimmed spectacles of the same color. He was wearing a navy cardigan over a white shirt, and brown flannel trousers.
“Are you a trainer too?” I asked.
“Oh no,” he said with a nervous laugh. “I haven’t a clue about horses. In fact, to tell you the truth, I’m rather frightened of them. I’m an accountant.”
“Alex, here,” Jackson interjected, “keeps my hard-earned income out of the grasping hands of the tax man.”
“I try,” Alex said with a smile.
“Legally?” I asked, smiling back.
“Of course legally,” said Jackson, feigning annoyance.
“The line between avoidance, which is legal, and evasion, which isn’t, can sometimes be somewhat blurred,”Alex said, ignoring him.
“And what exactly is that meant to mean?” demanded Jackson, the simulated irritation having been replaced by the real thing.
“Nothing,” Alex said, backpedaling furiously, and again embarrassed. “Just that sometimes what we believe is avoidance may be seen as evasion by the Revenue.” Alex Reece was digging himself deeper into the hole.
“And who is right?” I asked, enjoying his discomfort.
“We are,” Jackson stated firmly. “Aren’t we, Alex?” he insisted.
“It is the courts who ultimately decide who’s right,” Alex said, clearly oblivious to the thinness of the thread by which his employment was dangling.
“In what way?” I asked.
“We put in a return based on our understanding of the tax law,” he said, seemingly unaware of Jackson’s staring eyes to my left. “If the Revenue challenge that understanding, they might demand that we pay more tax. If we then challenge their challenge and refuse to pay, they have to take us to court, and then a jury will decide whose interpretation of the law is correct.”
“Sounds simple,” I said.
“But it can be very expensive,” Alex said. “If you lose in court, you will end up paying far more than the tax you should have paid in the first place, because they will fine you on top. And, of course, the court has the power to do more than just take away your money. They can also send you to prison if they think you were trying to evade paying tax on purpose. To say nothing of what else the Revenue might turn up with their digging. It’s a risk we shouldn’t take.”
“Are you trying to tell me something, Alex?” Jackson asked angrily, leaning over me and pointing his right forefinger at his accountant’s face. “Because I’m warning you, if I end up in court I will tell them it was all my accountant’s idea.”
“What was his idea?” I asked tactlessly.
“Nothing,” said Jackson, suddenly realizing he’d said too much.
There was an uncomfortable few moments of silence. The others at the table, who had been listening to the exchange, suddenly decided it was best to start talking amongst themselves again, and turned away.
Jackson stood up, scraping his chair on the stone floor, and stomped out of the room.
“So how long have you been Jackson’s accountant?” I asked Alex.
He didn’t answer but simply watched the door through which Jackson had disappeared.
“Sorry. What did you say?” he said eventually.
“I asked you how long you’d been Jackson’s accountant.”
He stared at me. “Too long,” he said.
The kitchen supper soon broke up and most of the guests departed, Alex Reece being the first out of the door, almost at a run. Eventually, there were only a handful remaining, and I found myself amongst them. I had tried, politely, to depart, but Isabella had insisted on my staying for a nightcap, and I had been easily persuaded. I had nothing much to get up early for in the morning.
In all, five of us moved through from the kitchen into the equally spacious drawing room, including a couple I had seen only at a distance across the room earlier. He was wearing a dark suit and blue-striped tie while she was in a long charcoal-colored jersey over a brown skirt. I placed them both in their early sixties.
“Hello,” I said to them. “I’m Tom Forsyth.” I held out my hand.
“Yes,” said the man rather sneeringly, not shaking it. “We kno
w. Bella spoke of little else over dinner.”
“Oh, really,” I said with a laugh. “All good, I hope. And you are?”
The man said nothing.
“Peter and Rebecca Garraway,” the woman said softly. “Please excuse my husband. He’s just jealous because Bella doesn’t speak about him all the time.”
I wasn’t sure if she was joking or not. Peter Garraway certainly wasn’t laughing. Instead, he turned away, sat down on a sofa and patted the seat beside him. His wife obediently went over and joined him. What a bundle of fun, I thought, not. Why didn’t they just go home?
Isabella handed around drinks while her husband remained conspicuous by his continued absence. But no one mentioned it, not even me.
“I thought all you trainers went to bed early,” I said to Ewen Yorke as he sank into the armchair next to me and buried his nose into a brandy snifter.
“You must be joking,” he said. “And turn down our Bella’s best VSOP? Not bloody likely.” He tilted his head right back and poured the golden-brown liquid down his throat. I couldn’t help but think of my mother pouring her green-potato-peel concoction down her horses’ throats in the same manner.
Ewen’s wife, Julie, had departed with the other guests, saying she was tired and was going home to bed. Her husband seemed to be in no hurry to join her. Isabella refilled his glass.
“So, Tom,” he said, taking another sizable mouthful. “Where does the army send you next? Back to Afghanistan? Back to the fight?”
Isabella was looking at me intently.
“I think my fighting days are over,” I said. “I’m getting too old for that.”
“Nonsense,” Isabella said. “You’re the same age as me.”
“But front-line fighting is for younger men. More than half of those in the army that have been killed in Afghanistan were under twenty-four, and more of them were teenagers than were older than me. In the modern infantry, you’re past it by the age of thirty.”
“I can’t believe that,” Ewen said. “I was still wet behind the ears until I was at least thirty.”
“But it’s true,” I said. “In a ten-year period, Alexander the Great, the Greek King of Macedonia, conquered Turkey and Egypt, much of the rest of the Middle East, as well as all of Persia and parts of India as far away as the Himalayas, and he managed it all by the time he was thirty. He is still revered by soldiers the world over as one of the greatest military commanders of all time, yet he was only thirty-two when he died. Sadly, the truth of the matter is that I’m over the hill already.”
Was I trying to convince them, or myself?
“So what will you do instead?” Ewen asked.
“I’m not really sure,” I said. “Perhaps I’ll take up racehorse training.”
“It’s not always as exciting as it appears,” he said. “Particularly not at seven-thirty on cold, wet winter mornings.”
“Especially after a late night out drinking,” said Isabella with a laugh.
“Oh God,” said Ewen, looking at his watch. “Quick. Give me another brandy.”
Isabella and I laughed. Peter Garraway sat stony-faced on the sofa.
“At least it would be a bit safer than you’re used to,” Rebecca Garraway said.
“I don’t really think I’ll be joining the ranks of racehorse trainers,” I said with a smile. “It was only a joke.”
However, neither Rebecca nor her husband seemed amused by it.
“I think it’s time I was off,” I said, standing up. “Isabella, thank you for a lovely evening. Good night, all.”
“Good night,” Ewen and Rebecca called back as Isabella showed me out into the hallway. Peter Garraway said nothing.
“Thank you for tonight,” I said, as Isabella opened the front door. “It’s been great fun.”
“I’m sorry about the Garraways,” she said, lowering her voice. “They can be a bit strange at times, especially him. I think he fancies me.” She laughed. “But I think he’s creepy.”
“And rather rude,” I whispered back, pulling a face. “Who are they?”
“Old friends of Jackson’s.” She rolled her eyes. “Unfortunately, they’re our houseguests. The Garraways always come over for the end of the pheasant-shooting season—Peter is a great shot—and they’re staying on for the races on Saturday.”
“At Newbury?”
She nodded. “Are you going?”
“Probably,” I said.
“Great. Maybe see you there.” She laughed. “Unless, of course, you see the Garraways first.”
“What exactly does Peter Garraway do?” I asked.
“He makes pots and pots of money,” she said. “And he owns racehorses. Ewen trains some of them.”
I thought that explained a lot.
“I don’t think Mr. Garraway is overimpressed by his trainer drinking your brandy until all hours of the night.”
“Oh, that’s not the problem,” she said. “I think it’s because Peter and Jackson had a bit of a stand-up row earlier. Over some business project they’re working on together. I didn’t really listen.”
“What sort of business?” I asked.
“Financial services or something,” she said. “I don’t really know. Business is not my thing.” She laughed. “But Peter must do very well out of it. We go and stay with them occasionally, and their house makes this place look like a weekend cottage. It’s absolutely huge.”
“Where is it?” I asked.
“In Gibraltar.”
9
The Silver Pines Nursing Home was a modern redbrick monstrosity built onto the side of what had once been an attractive Victorian residence on the northern edge of the town of Andover, in Hampshire.
“Certainly, sir,” said one of the pink-uniformed lady carers when I asked if I might visit Mr. Sutton. “Are you a relative?”
“No,” I said. “I live in the same road as Mr. Sutton. In Hungerford.”
“I see,” said the carer. She wasn’t really interested. “I think he’s in the dayroom. He sits there most mornings after breakfast.”
I followed her along the corridor into what had once been the old house. The dayroom was the large bay-windowed front parlor, and there were about fifteen high-backed upright armchairs arranged around by the walls. About half of the chairs were occupied, and most of the occupants were asleep.
“Mr. Sutton,” called the pink lady walking towards one elderly gentleman. “Wake up, Mr. Sutton. You’ve got a visitor.” She shook the old boy, and he slowly raised his head and opened his eyes. “That’s better.” She spoke to him as if he were a child, then she leaned forwards and wiped a drop of dribble from the corner of his mouth. I began to think that I shouldn’t have come.
“Hello, Mr. Sutton.” I spoke in the same loud manner that the lady had used. “Do you remember me?” I asked. “It’s John, John from Willow Close.” Unsurprisingly, he stared at me without recognition. “Jimbo and his mum send their love. Has your son, Fred, been in yet today?”
The pink lady seemed satisfied. “Can I leave you two together, then?” she asked. “The tea trolley will be round soon if you want anything.”
“Thank you,” I said.
She walked away, back towards the entrance, and I sat down on an empty chair next to Old Man Sutton. All the while, he went on staring at me.
“I don’t know you,” he said.
I watched with distaste as he used his right hand to remove a set of false teeth from his mouth. He studied them closely, took a wooden toothpick from his shirt pocket and used it to remove a piece of his breakfast that had become stuck in a crevice. Satisfied, he returned the denture to his mouth with an audible snap.
“I don’t know you,” he said again, the teeth now safely back in position.
I looked around me. There were six other residents in the room, and all but one had now drifted off to sleep. The one whose eyes were open was staring out through the window at the garden and ignoring us.
“Mr. Sutton,” I said, straight
to his face. “I want to ask you about a man called Roderick Ward.”
I hadn’t been sure what reaction to expect. I’d thought that maybe Old Man Sutton wouldn’t be able to remember what he’d had for dinner last night, let alone something that happened nearly a year previously.
I was wrong.
He remembered, all right. I could see it in his eyes.
“Roderick Ward is a thieving little bastard.” He said it softly but very clearly. “I’d like to wring his bloody neck.” He held out his hands towards me as if he might wring my neck instead.
“Roderick Ward is already dead,” I said.
Old Man Sutton dropped his hands into his lap. “Good,” he said. “Who killed him?”
“He died in a road accident,” I said.
“That was too good for him,” the old man said with venom. “I’d have killed him slowly.”
I was slightly taken aback. “What did he do to you?” I asked. It had to be more than throwing a brick through his window.
“He stole my life savings,” he said.
“How?” I asked.
“Some harebrained scheme of his that went bust,” he said. He shook his head. “I should never have listened to him.”
“So he didn’t exactly steal your savings?”
“As good as,” Mr. Sutton replied. “My son was furious with me. Kept saying I’d gambled away his inheritance.”
I didn’t think it had been the most tactful of comments.
“And what exactly was Roderick Ward’s harebrained scheme?” I asked.
He sat silently for a while, looking at me, as if deciding what to tell. Or perhaps he was trying to remember.
He again removed his false teeth and studied them closely. I wasn’t at all sure that he had understood my question, but after a while he replaced his teeth in his mouth and began. “I borrowed some money against my house to invest in some fancy investment fund that Roderick Bastard Ward guaranteed would make me rich.” He sighed. “All that happened was the fund went bust and I now have a bloody great mortgage, and I can’t afford the interest.”
I could understand why Detective Sergeant Fred had been so furious.
“What sort of investment fund was it?” I asked.
