Crisis

13

When the teashop closed, we walked up the Bury Road to the Bedford Lodge for a drink and, halfway there, I took her hand in mine. She said nothing, just looked up at my face and smiled.

At Nancy’s, we had talked mostly about the food, the weather or the traffic, and certainly nothing about ourselves, but that all changed as we drank champagne in the hotel bar, sitting, this time, side by side on a couch.

‘Is that a uniform?’ I asked.

She was wearing a dark-blue two-piece suit over an open-necked white shirt, with a burgundy-red scarf tied like a cravat inside the collar. The scarf was decorated with multiple blue bridle bits and numerous strange white logos that looked to me a bit like round-top tables with three legs. The same logo was embroidered in blue on the vees of her shirt collar.

‘Certainly is,’ she said. ‘I came straight from work, remember.’

At Tatts, I thought — whatever that was.

‘What’s the logo?’ I asked.

‘It’s meant to represent the rotunda up at Park Paddocks.’

I was none the wiser and it clearly showed in my face.

‘The sales,’ she said. ‘I work for Tattersalls, the horse auctioneers.’

Tatts — Tattersalls. Of course.

‘Doing what?’ I asked.

‘I’m on the bloodstock sales team. I help prepare the sales catalogues. And I act as a runner at the sales.’

‘A runner? In a race?’

She laughed. ‘No, silly. When the hammer comes down on a sale, it’s my job to run to get the successful bidder to sign the purchase confirmation form. It’s quite exciting when the amounts are big — several million guineas.’

‘Why are horses still sold in guineas?’ I asked, taking another sip of my champagne.

‘Tradition, I suppose. Tattersalls have been selling horses in guineas for two hundred and fifty years.’

‘Why are they called guineas?’

‘Originally a guinea was a coin made from gold found in Guinea, West Africa. I know because we recently had one on display up at Park Paddocks. At first, the value of a guinea used to go up and down but then it was fixed at twenty-one shillings, or a pound and five pence in modern money. The vendor was always paid the pound and we kept the odd shilling for our services. It’s pretty much the same these days, but now there’s VAT to add, of course.’

‘It must really confuse your foreign buyers,’ I said.

‘There’s a big electronic board in the sales ring to help them. It also shows the bid price in dollars, euros and yen.’

‘Do the sales go on every day?’ I asked.

‘Oh no,’ she said with another laugh. ‘We only sell for thirty-three days in a whole year here. Our next one’s not until mid-July. But our Irish division has twenty days or so at Fairyhouse, near Dublin, and they also run a few sale days at Cheltenham and Ascot as well. And that’s just Tatts. There are several other sales companies. Racehorses are being sold somewhere in the world on most days. It’s a huge global business. We alone sold over thirteen thousand horses last year.’

‘Thirteen thousand!’ I was astounded. ‘That’s an awful lot of guineas.’

‘How about you?’ she said. ‘What do you do?’

‘I’m a lawyer.’

‘I know,’ she mocked. ‘Janie told me that much. But what do you do?’

‘I sort out other people’s crises, at least I try to, especially their public relations disasters that inevitably follow on from their physical ones. Although, this week, I feel more like a detective than a PR man.’

‘A detective?’

‘I’m here representing the owner of Prince of Troy. He wants me to find out why his red-hot favourite for the Derby died in a fire.’

‘Literally a red-hot favourite,’ she said, but then winced at her poor attempt at humour. ‘Sorry. That was inappropriate.’

‘Very,’ I agreed. But I laughed anyway. The way I felt at the moment, I would laugh at anything.

We discussed our backgrounds and our families.

Kate was thirty-five, three years older than Janie, and they had lived all their lives in the Newmarket area.

‘Where do you live now?’ I asked.

‘In Six Mile Bottom.’

I laughed. ‘Is there really such a place? It sounds rather rude.’

‘Back in the seventeenth century, the original racecourse was eight miles long. There was a dip in the land six miles from the finish and that’s how the village got its name.’ She smiled and it lit up my life. ‘How about you?’

‘Nowhere near as exciting,’ I said. ‘I rent a flat in Neasden, northwest London. I’ve lived there for seven years, since I first came up from Devon. It’s high time I moved somewhere nicer. It really is the most depressing place, noisy and close to the North Circular Road, but there’s a good gym just round the corner and it’s convenient for the tube, easy for getting to work on the Jubilee Line.’

‘Where’s work?’ she asked.

‘Knightsbridge.’

‘Harrods,’ she said. ‘They’re in Knightsbridge.’

‘I work just round the corner from Harrods but I hardly ever go in.’

‘I went once, but all I remember is getting lost looking for the ladies.’

We laughed in unison.

Boy, this felt good.

I ordered another round of fizz from the bar and we sat together on the couch comparing our likes and dislikes, favourite films and music, indeed, anything and everything.

‘Best holiday destination?’ I asked.

‘The Maldives,’ she said without hesitation. ‘Fabulous villa on stilts set in the turquoise Indian Ocean. Absolute paradise.’

‘When did you go there?’

‘Twelve years ago,’ she said. ‘On my honeymoon.’

‘Your honeymoon!’ I was stunned. ‘You didn’t say you were married.’

‘I’m not. Not any more, anyway. The marriage lasted only a fraction longer than the honeymoon.’

‘So why are the Maldives still your best destination?’

‘Because I suddenly realised when I was there that I loved the place far more than I loved the man. Woke me up, in fact. I’d have been happier if he’d gone home and left me there on my own. We should have gone on the honeymoon before the marriage ceremony. That would have saved us both a heap of grief. Stupid, really. I married far too young and to the wrong man.’

She looked at me and I wondered what was going through her mind.

‘Fortunately the divorce was fairly straightforward,’ she said. ‘No kids. Realised in time with that one, thank God. Not that I wouldn’t like to have some one day, although I’m getting a bit old now. Can you believe it that if a woman has a baby over thirty-five, she’s called a geriatric mother?’ She shook her head. ‘How about you? Any little Fosters running around?’

‘None that I’m aware of,’ I said, and decided it was time to change the subject — this one was getting far too heavy much too quickly and I wasn’t sure I was ready for a discussion about marriage, let alone children.

‘Are you a cat or dog person?’ I asked.

‘Dog,’ she said. ‘Definitely.’

‘Why not cat?’

‘Dogs are more affectionate. Cats don’t wag their tails at you when you come home from work.’

‘I like that, good answer,’ I said. ‘Mac or PC?’

‘PC at work, Mac at home.’

‘But which do you prefer?’ I asked.

‘Don’t mind. I’m used to them both.’

‘So you’re bilingual?’

‘More like ambidextrous,’ she said.

‘Oh,’ I said, mocking her this time. ‘I’d give my right hand to be ambidextrous.’

‘Oh, do shut up.’ She laughed, leaned over and nestled her head on my chest.

I could smell her hair. I stroked it and she remained there in silence, pressing into me. I nearly asked her right then to come with me to my room but I was afraid of being too forward, too impatient.

I glanced at my watch.

‘Good God. It’s nearly nine o’clock. Do you fancy some dinner?’

‘I fancy you more,’ she replied seductively.

Now who was being too forward, too impatient?

Did I care?

‘So what do you want to do?’ I asked.

‘Dinner or sex?’ she said. ‘Decisions, decisions. How about a little dinner first and then lots of sex after?’

‘Sounds good to me,’ I said. ‘Or we could have lots of sex first and then room service after?’

‘That’s a much better idea,’ she said with a giggle, and I wondered if it was just the champagne talking.

Once a lawyer, always a lawyer.

The last thing I wanted was for her to wake up in the morning with a sore head, accusing me of having taken advantage of her, even of raping her, on the grounds that she had been incapable through drink of giving proper consent.

I decided that I’d take my chances with that, but in the end it didn’t matter, for we never got to do it anyway.

My phone rang as Kate and I were leaving the bar, hand in hand, en route to my bedroom. I very nearly ignored it, but habits are strong, so I slid my finger across the screen to answer.

‘Hello?’ I said. ‘Harry Foster speaking.’

‘It’s Arabella Chadwick. Can you come to our house?’ There was a degree of desperation in her voice, even panic. ‘Please come.’

‘What? Now?’

‘Yes, now. Straight away. We need you.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘The police are here. They’re arresting Declan for Zoe’s murder.’

Ten minutes later I was climbing out of a taxi in the driveway of Declan and Arabella’s house on Hamilton Road, when I’d have so much rather been in bed with Kate.

‘Wait for me, will you?’ I said to the taxi driver. ‘I may need you.’

‘You’re paying,’ he said, reclining his seat and closing his eyes.

There were four other vehicles parked in the driveway, two marked police squad cars, one blue Ford Mondeo and one plain white van with SUFFOLK CONSTABULARY painted on the side.

Arabella was standing outside the front door, as if waiting for me.

‘Thank God you’re here,’ she said.

‘Where are they?’ I asked, waving at the empty cars.

‘Declan is in the dining room with two plain-clothes detectives and a uniformed copper. Four others in white spacesuits are searching the place. I was told to get out.’

‘They can’t do that.’

‘They just did. That’s why we need you.’

‘What you need is a lawyer.’

‘But you are a lawyer,’ Arabella said. ‘You told us so on Monday.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘but Declan needs a solicitor who regularly deals with major criminal cases. Don’t you know any other lawyers?’

‘No.’ She was adamant. ‘Declan wants you. He says that you can prove his innocence.’

My first, second and every instinct was screaming ‘no’. I may be a lawyer by training, and I was certainly accredited by the Law Society, such that I was permitted to practise as a defence solicitor in England and Wales, but I’d done precious little serious criminal work and certainly nothing approaching murder.

My more standard fare in that respect was what I called the five Bs — Bankers, Bonus, Booze, Birds and Barbiturates (although it was nowadays more likely to be cocaine) — bailing over-rich, over-drunk, over-sexed and over-drugged young men out of difficult and often violent situations in nightclubs, while trying to keep a lid on the publicity to protect the reputations of their employers.

I tried explaining all of that to Arabella. But she wouldn’t listen.

‘Declan needs you,’ she said. ‘Not some other person we don’t know.’

‘But he only met me two days ago,’ I pointed out.

‘Better than not at all. Declan trusts you.’

‘How can he?’ I said. ‘He doesn’t know me.’

‘If Sheikh Karim trusts you, that’s good enough for us.’

I stared at her. She was a very determined woman.

‘I’ll have to make a call,’ I said.

I walked away from her and used my mobile to ring ASW.

‘I don’t see why not,’ he said after I’d explained the situation. ‘It might help you find out why the horses died. I’m sure the Sheikh would approve. I’ll fix it with him in the morning.’

‘What about the potential for conflict of interest?’ I said. ‘If Declan actually did set fire to the stables and killed the Sheikh’s horses, then I would then be representing opposing parties.’

‘Mmm, I see what you mean. Awkward.’

Ensuring there was no conflict of interest should always be a primary concern for any legal entity although, in my experience, some commercial solicitors could evidently barely even spell the words, ploughing on regardless with a case when they should have rightly stepped aside altogether.

‘Do you think Declan did it?’ ASW asked.

I thought back to how he had gone so pale and faint when he’d initially heard the news that Zoe had gone missing. That had been genuine, I was sure of it. But I was also convinced he knew more than he was telling, otherwise why would the news have produced such a reaction in the first place?

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But there’s a lot more going on in the Chadwick family than first meets the eye.’

‘All the more reason for sticking close to them.’

‘If you say so,’ I said. ‘I’ll go along with it for now, but they’ll have to find someone else if he’s charged.’

At that point the front door of the house was opened and Declan came out escorted by a large uniformed policeman. At least there were no handcuffs. The ex-jockey looked very small and vulnerable next to his burly minder. They were followed out by DCI Eastwood and another man also in plain clothes. His sergeant, I thought.

‘I’ve got to go,’ I said to ASW.

I hung up and walked purposefully over to the chief inspector.

‘Hello, Mr Foster,’ he said. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

‘I’m Mr Chadwick’s solicitor.’

If he was surprised to see me in the first place, he was now astounded.

‘But I thought you represented Sheikh Karim.’

‘I do, but I’m also here to represent Mr Chadwick.’

I could tell he didn’t like it but he couldn’t send me away, that would have contravened Declan’s rights, and he knew it.

The uniformed policeman took Declan over to one of the squad cars and placed him in the back seat.

‘Where are you taking him?’ I asked DCI Eastwood.

‘Bury St Edmunds PIC.’

‘PIC?’

‘Police Investigation Centre. On River Lane.’

I walked over and stood next to the car.

‘Declan,’ I shouted. He turned and looked out at me through the window. ‘Don’t say anything to anyone other than confirming your name and address. Do you understand?’

He looked as if he was in a daze.

‘Do you understand?’ I shouted again.

This time Declan’s eyes focused on my face and he nodded.

‘Good. Say nothing. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

He nodded again.

I turned back to the chief inspector. ‘Mrs Chadwick requires access to her home.’

‘No problem,’ he said. ‘However, my officers will complete their search of the premises. Please advise Mrs Chadwick not to obstruct them in any way or she will be liable for arrest. It would be ideal if she remained in her dining room until my officers have finished. And we reserve the right to seal off any areas of the house we see fit for further examination.’

‘She will get a list of any items removed?’

‘Of course.’

The DCI climbed into the Mondeo and backed it out onto the road, while the sergeant sat in the squad car next to Declan and was driven away.

I went over to Arabella.

‘Why is this happening?’ she said desolately. ‘Declan would never hurt anyone. It’s all a big mistake.’

‘Then he will soon be home,’ I said, trying to reassure her. ‘The police have said you can go back into the house but they are going to finish searching. They have the right to do so. They may also lock some rooms if they think that’s necessary. Just stay calm and let them get on with it. Best not to even talk to them. They will give you a list of everything they take away.’

‘Take away?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Computers, for example. Or mobile phones. The police are especially keen on seizing people’s phones. They can give up all sorts of information.’

‘But Declan didn’t do it,’ she said confidently. ‘I know he didn’t.’

Was she trying to convince me, or herself?

She started crying, which spoilt the immaculate make-up.

‘Is there anyone who can come and be with you tonight?’ I asked. ‘Or somewhere you can go and stay? Perhaps with friends?’

I didn’t suggest she go and stay with Ryan or Oliver. Quite apart from the ongoing feud over the Sheikh’s horses, they might not take kindly to the knowledge that Declan was accused of killing another member of the family.

‘Maybe I’ll call a girlfriend,’ Arabella said. But then she looked at me, her black mascara now cascading down her cheeks along with the tears. ‘But how can I tell anyone my husband’s been arrested for murder?’

They’ll find out soon enough, I thought.