Crisis

15

Needless to say, the police did not allow Declan to go home, not on that evening, nor at any time on the next day.

‘Who’ll look after the horses?’ Declan asked me when I saw him just before he was taken off to spend his first night in a cell.

‘I’m sure Chrissie will have it all in hand,’ I said.

‘But she’s only the yard secretary.’

‘No matter. She seemed very capable to me. And Arabella will surely help too.’

He stared at me in disbelief. ‘Arabella is completely useless with the horses. Too bloody busy with her effing make-up.’

I didn’t know whether he was joking or not. Probably not, if his tone was anything to go by.

‘I’ll give her a call anyway. Let her know what’s happening.’

He didn’t look very happy at the prospect.

‘Tell her I’m sorry,’ Declan said.

What for? I wondered.

‘How about you?’ he said. ‘You can go and sort out what’s happening with the horses in the morning.’

‘Me?’ It was now my turn to stare at him in disbelief. ‘I know nothing about training horses. Don’t you have an assistant?’

‘He’s away in Scotland. His grandmother died. Funeral tomorrow.’

‘But I’ll be needed here,’ I explained. ‘To be with you.’

‘Not before nine-thirty,’ he said. ‘You told that detective yourself that I was entitled to proper rest and that I couldn’t be questioned again until nine-thirty. You need to be at the yard by six. You can then be here at nine-thirty.’

I looked at my watch. It was already almost midnight. I sighed.

‘Isn’t there anyone else you could ask?’

‘No,’ he said decisively. ‘Chrissie is good but she needs direction. Tell her to send the whole lot out for a canter. That can’t do any harm for one day. Other than tomorrow’s runners, of course. And tell Joe to get my two off to York by quarter past seven at the latest otherwise they’ll be late, and then I have two more tomorrow evening at Newmarket. But they can be walked over.’

‘Who’s Joe?’

‘My travelling head lad.’

‘Right,’ I said, resignedly.

‘And tell Chrissie to make Saturday’s declarations by ten o’clock. I’ll have to do the entries later in the day.’

‘Declan,’ I said. ‘You may not be in a position to do anything tomorrow.’

He stared again. ‘But they’ll have to let me go when they find out I’m telling the truth.’ I didn’t answer. ‘Won’t they?’

‘They can hold you for twenty-four hours, thirty-six if the superintendent authorises it.’ Which he probably would, I thought. ‘Then they can apply to a magistrate for extensions to that too. Ninety-six hours altogether. That’s four days.’

‘Four days?’ He suddenly looked despondent, and very vulnerable. ‘My whole training business may have gone down the tubes in four days.’

My forty-pound investment on Orion’s Glory for the Derby was beginning to look rather too speculative.

I called Arabella from the taxi on my way back to the Bedford Lodge, and to say that she was in a state of severe agitation would have been an understatement.

Drunk too, I thought.

She’d obviously been hitting the bottle fairly hard in the three hours since the police had departed with her arrested husband. Declan might have been right about her being useless when it came to helping with the horses, but it wasn’t so much the horses’ future, or even Declan’s, that she was concerned about, it was her own.

‘What am I going to do now that Declan’s in jail?’ she wailed.

‘He’s not in jail,’ I pointed out.

‘As good as,’ she said. ‘How can I face anyone?’

Her earlier cast-iron confidence that Declan was innocent had clearly evaporated.

‘The police took away his Audi,’ she said. ‘Wrapped it all up in white plastic and put it on the back of a lorry.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘It’s normal procedure. They want to do forensic tests, that’s all.’

‘Forensic tests? For what? A body in the boot?’ Now she was openly crying, no doubt aided by the steady intake of alcohol.

‘Let’s not jump to any conclusions,’ I said, trying to sound reassuring. ‘He’s only being questioned at the moment.’

‘About what exactly? What are they saying?’

Discussions between a client and his lawyer are privileged and highly confidential; even the court couldn’t force me to disclose what Declan had said to me in the privacy of the legal consultation room. So how much should I tell his wife?

I decided that I could tell her whatever Declan had already told the police. That would be in the public domain sooner or later, especially if used as evidence in a trial.

But first, I had some important questions of my own, and for her.

‘Why do you call Peter Robertson “Pete”?’

There was a short but distinct pause from the other end. Perhaps she wasn’t as drunk as I’d assumed and she clearly retained some degree of control.

‘Why shouldn’t I?’ she said. ‘Zoe always called him Pete.’

‘But how do you know that? When did you last speak to her?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Some time ago.’

‘How long ago exactly?’ I asked. ‘This is important. Were you in regular contact?’

‘Why is it so bloody important?’

‘Because Declan collected her off a train at Cambridge Station last Sunday morning.’

‘What? Zoe? This Sunday just gone?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘The day she died.’

This time there was a much longer pause from her end.

‘Is that why he was arrested?’

‘Almost certainly,’ I said. ‘The last person known to have seen the victim alive invariably becomes the chief suspect.’

‘Oh God!’ she cried. I could clearly hear her sobbing. ‘The police also took away our computers and Declan’s phone. I thought they were going to take his clothes as well but they simply padlocked shut his dressing room door.’

‘Dressing room?’

‘We use spare bedrooms as dressing rooms. One each.’

No children, I thought.

‘They also found another phone in Declan’s room. A pink one. They asked if it was mine.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I told them I’d never seen it before.’ She paused as if not wanting to know the answer to her next question. ‘Was it Zoe’s?’

‘Yes, it was,’ I said. ‘Declan claims he dropped her off at Newmarket Station on Sunday afternoon, but she left her phone in his car. Didn’t he tell you about meeting her?’

‘Not a word.’

‘Where did you think he’d been all day?’

‘He told me he was going to see a yearling. He does it often on Sundays during the summer in the run-up to the autumn sales.’

‘What time was he back?’

‘I don’t know. I wasn’t here. I went to a hotel for the night.’

‘On your own?’

I must have sounded surprised.

‘Yes. On my own. I went to see a show at Potters Resort near Great Yarmouth. I know the owners. I stay with them. Four or five times a year they have top TV and West End stars performing on Sunday nights. I often go but Declan doesn’t want to. He doesn’t like live music much.’

‘But you were at Oliver’s with Declan on Monday when I arrived.’

‘Declan called me early to tell me about the fire so I came straight back.’

But not before you’d put on your make-up, I thought.

At this point the taxi arrived at the Bedford Lodge.

‘I’d better go now,’ I said. ‘Declan asked me to tell you he was sorry.’

‘For what?’ she asked acidly. ‘For killing his sister or for getting caught?’

I’d only thought it. Arabella had said it.

‘You mustn’t jump to conclusions,’ I said again. ‘Declan is totally adamant that he hasn’t done anything wrong. There’s probably a completely innocent explanation.’

‘There is nothing innocent about lying to me about meeting Zoe.’

She was crying again.

‘Look,’ I said. ‘Do you want me to find someone to come and be with you?’ Although goodness knows who I would get at this hour. Maybe Susan or Maria? But surely neither would be popular with Arabella.

Or did I dare call Kate? Would she even answer my call?

‘No,’ Arabella said. ‘Thank you. I really couldn’t face anyone. It would be too humiliating. I’ll be fine on my own.’

‘Try and get some sleep. We’ll speak more in the morning.’

I disconnected the call and went into the hotel.

Only when I was getting into bed did I realise she hadn’t answered my question of why she called Zoe’s husband Pete not Peter.

I made a mental note to ask her again when I next saw her.

When my alarm went off just after five, I was convinced that I’d been asleep for only a few minutes. But the clock said otherwise and it was already light outside, the first rays of morning sunshine streaming through a crack in the curtains.

I dragged myself reluctantly out of bed.

I was exhausted.

Was it really only twenty-four hours since I’d got up to go and see Ryan’s horses work? It felt more like a week than a day.

Why aren’t I still dead to the world, I asked myself as I stood under the shower trying to wash the sleep from my eyes. I couldn’t comprehend for one second why I’d agreed to go to Declan’s yard to see Chrissie. I must be mad.

I flicked on the BBC News Channel, more to keep me awake than anything else, and was greatly surprised to see footage of myself walking out of the police investigation centre the previous night and climbing into a taxi.

I hadn’t noticed the TV crew at the time, nor the presenter with them who was next seen speaking directly into the camera.

‘Police say that a forty-one-year-old man has been arrested on suspicion of murder in connection with the human remains found in Monday’s stable fire in Newmarket. The man is being questioned here at Bury St Edmunds.’ The shot again showed the building behind the reporter, with POLICE INVESTIGATION CENTRE written in large silver letters on its red-brick exterior wall. ‘No details have been officially released concerning the identity of the suspect but the BBC understands that he is being named locally as Declan Chadwick, brother of Ryan Chadwick, the trainer of the dead horses.’

I knew that it wouldn’t have taken long for the media to establish who had been arrested but even they had excelled themselves this time.

Maybe my waiting taxi driver of last evening hadn’t been asleep after all. One quick phone call, a tweet, or even a post on his Facebook page would have been enough.

And to think I’d put any future relationship with Kate at serious risk by not saying why I’d so abruptly abandoned her, for fear of being the source.

My driver and his Mercedes had been reinstated and they were waiting for me outside the hotel at quarter to six on Thursday morning.

There was a copy of a national newspaper lying on the passenger seat with ‘FIRE VICTIM’S BROTHER ARRESTED’ as its main headline in two-inch-high bold capitals.

I scanned through the front-page story. So much for the presumption of innocence, I thought, as paragraph after paragraph implied Declan’s guilt. No doubt the lawyers had been through everything with a fine-tooth comb to ensure it wasn’t libellous, but it must have been a close-run thing. And, in my view, the reporters had clearly breached Declan’s right to privacy — but they were only interested in selling newspapers.

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.