Crisis

16

‘I need to call the police,’ I said to Chrissie when I went back to her.

‘And an ambulance?’ she asked, deep concern in her face.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Just the police.’

She put her hand up to her mouth. ‘Is she...?’

I nodded.

‘Oh my God!’ She went pale and wobbled at the knees.

‘Come on,’ I said, taking her elbow. ‘Let’s get you into the office.’

I steered her across the yard and she slumped down onto her chair. I fetched her a glass of water and some of the colour returned to her cheeks.

Rather than dialling 999, I decided to call DCI Eastwood direct using my mobile, and I went outside so as not to distress Chrissie any further. She did not need to hear the gory details.

‘DCI Eastwood,’ he said, answering at the second ring.

‘Good morning, Chief Inspector,’ I said. ‘This is Harry Foster. I am at Declan Chadwick’s house. I came here to speak to Mrs Chadwick but it would appear that she has committed suicide.’

‘Suicide?’

‘Yes. I found her myself. She’s hanging from the banister in the hallway.’

‘Are you sure she’s dead?’

‘Yes,’ I said. I had checked. There had been no pulse in the wrist and there was already a noticeable stiffening of her muscles due to rigor mortis, especially in the face, resulting in what a pathologist friend once told me was known as the death grimace. Even Arabella’s immaculate make-up couldn’t disguise that. ‘There is absolutely no doubt in my mind whatsoever. I reckon she’s been dead for several hours.’

‘Have you called an ambulance?’ the DCI asked.

‘No. You are the first person I have spoken to.’

‘You should have also called an ambulance. A qualified medic is required to certify death. However, as you are so certain that she is dead, I’ll get a police medical examiner there as soon as possible to confirm it. In the meantime, please do not allow anyone to disturb the scene.’

‘I won’t,’ I assured him. ‘But be advised that the press are camped outside the property. TV crews included.’

‘That’s all we need. How do they know?’

‘They don’t. Not about Mrs Chadwick, anyway, but someone has tipped them off that Declan Chadwick is the man you’ve arrested. It’s been on the TV news since midnight.’ I paused. ‘I assume you will not now be questioning him as planned at nine-thirty.’

‘No. We will postpone that. We’re still waiting for some forensic results anyhow. In the meantime, Mr Chadwick can remain in the cells.’

He won’t be happy with that, I thought, but it was the least of his troubles.

‘Will you tell him about his wife?’

‘Only after it’s been confirmed by the medical examiner.’

He clearly didn’t want to take my word for it.

‘So should I stay here or come to the investigation centre?’ I asked.

‘Stay right where you are,’ the DCI said decisively. ‘I will come there myself.’

The horses returned from first lot and I intercepted one of the older lads and told him that all further lots for the day had been cancelled.

He gave me a questioning look. ‘Is that what Miss Chrissie says?’

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Miss Chrissie is not feeling too well and she has asked me to pass on the message. Just muck out and feed the horses, then the staff can knock off early.’

He wasn’t going to argue with that. ‘How about our runners this evening over at the racecourse?’

Decision time.

I decided it would be inappropriate for the horses to run with the trainer under arrest and his wife dead.

‘They won’t be going,’ I said. ‘I’ll inform the relevant authorities.’

‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’ll let the lads know.’

I went back into the office. Chrissie was leaning on the desk with her head in her hands.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked. Silly question really.

She lifted her head and looked at me with tears in her eyes.

‘What are we to do?’ she asked desperately.

‘I’ve cancelled the rest of the exercise for today and told the staff to simply feed and muck out, and then go home. And I don’t think it’s right for any of Declan’s horses to run today. Can you call Joe and turn him round? Don’t tell him why, just that he’s to come back here.’ She nodded. ‘Then you had better let York Racecourse know they won’t be coming. Same for Newmarket this evening. Try not to give a reason other than Declan is indisposed. They will know about that by now from the news.’

She nodded again and reached for her phone. I think she was thankful for something to do.

I picked up the back-door key from her desk. ‘I’ll lock the house.’

She shuddered at the thought of what was within. So did I a bit.

Somehow it seemed all wrong to leave Arabella still hanging from the banister, but DCI Eastwood had been adamant that I should leave the scene undisturbed.

It would take a good half an hour for him to get to Newmarket from Bury St Edmunds, especially at this time of the morning, even with blue flashers and his siren on.

I took the key over to the back door but, instead of locking it, I went in.

I wouldn’t disturb anything but I thought I might have a quick look around. I’d not get another chance.

Arabella was, unsurprisingly, just where I’d left her, although there was now some pooling of unfortunate fluid on the polished parquet floor beneath her feet. I was thankful it wouldn’t be my job to cut her down.

The last time I had seen her alive had been the previous evening when I’d left to follow Declan to the investigation centre. At that time her mascara had streamed down her face with the tears, and she had cried some more when I’d been on the telephone to her at midnight.

Yet her face showed no signs of that now.

The mascara was back in place as if, even in death, her appearance had been important to her.

She had used the belt of a white bathrobe, the remainder of which was laid neatly on the bed in the master bedroom.

Nothing else appeared to be out of place and the bed had not been slept in. I had a quick peep in the bathroom and, in particular, into the medicine cabinet, using a damp flannel from a basin to open it.

One of the other operatives at Simpson White had reliably informed me that one could learn a great deal about people by discovering what pills they took each night.

In this case, all I really learned was that both Declan and Arabella had lived fairly healthy lives. There were no pills for raised blood pressure or high cholesterol, and nothing that suggested asthma or diabetes. Just a mundane collection of painkillers and indigestion remedies.

I closed the cabinet and returned the flannel to its original position.

Indeed, the only medicine of interest was in the top drawer of Arabella’s bedside cabinet. Here I found a half-used bubble strip of fluoxetine together with a box containing three more full strips.

I left them as I’d found them.

I knew about fluoxetine. It was also called Prozac. My former neurotic girlfriend had taken it for anxiety and depression. Living in the Chadwick family and being unable to have children had obviously taken its toll on Arabella.

I went out of the bedroom onto the landing. The door opposite had been secured shut with a crude clasp and padlock. Declan’s dressing room, I presumed.

I looked at my watch. It had been twenty minutes since I’d phoned the chief inspector and I didn’t want to be still in the house when he arrived.

I went back down the stairs, averting my eyes from the disaster, and had a quick look round the rest of the property. Everything in the kitchen was clean and put away tidily, perhaps obsessively so.

I hadn’t been specifically looking for a suicide note but, nevertheless, there was one for me to find, and it would have been difficult to miss. A single sheet of lined white paper was stuck to the fridge door by a small magnetic Eiffel Tower.

It had just two short sentences written on it in neat handwriting.

It will all come out. I can’t stand the shame.

I didn’t touch the note. Instead, I had a quick glance round to ensure I hadn’t moved anything, and then let myself out the back door, locking it behind me.

I walked over to the yard office to find Chrissie on the telephone trying to get a word in edgeways.

‘But, Mr Reardon, we haven’t...’

I could hear an angry voice on the other end of the line interrupt her.

‘Yes, Mr Reardon, but...’

More inaudible, but clearly irate words, came down the wire.

‘Fine, Mr Reardon,’ Chrissie said finally. ‘As the horse’s owner, that’s your prerogative. Goodbye.’

She put the phone down firmly and burst into tears.

‘That’s the third one in the past fifteen minutes. Bloody man is sending someone to collect his horse. They’ll all be gone soon.’

The phone rang again.

‘Leave it,’ I said.

It rang about ten times before stopping. Then I took the receiver off its cradle and laid it down on the desk.

‘There,’ I said, smiling at her. ‘No more problems. Did you call Joe?’

‘He’s on his way back.’

That wouldn’t please him, I thought. He’d be more miserable than ever.

‘They hadn’t gone too far, anyway,’ Chrissie said. ‘I also called York. They weren’t very happy but... what the hell.’ She sighed. ‘I’d better tell the owners that their horses aren’t running after all.’

She reached towards the phone again.

‘Leave it,’ I said again. ‘They’ll work it out.’

‘Yeah, suppose so.’ She paused, then looked up at me. ‘Where have you been?’

‘Checking around the yard,’ I said. ‘Making sure the lads hurry up and go. We don’t really want them all here when the police arrive.’

‘But who will help load the horses when the owners arrive to collect them?’ she asked gloomily.

‘That’s their problem. Have they paid all their training fees?’

‘Of course not. Owners are always weeks behind with payment.’

‘Then we will not release their horses until they do,’ I said adamantly.

She smiled wanly up at me. ‘Can’t you come and work here full-time?’

My mobile rang in my pocket. It was DCI Eastwood.

‘I’m outside the front door with the police medical examiner,’ he said. ‘Where are you?’

‘Round the back in the stable yard,’ I said. ‘Come down the side of the house.’

It was two more hours before they removed Arabella.

She was zipped into a black plastic body bag and wheeled out on a trolley to a waiting van.

The assembled press had a field day, with the cameramen jostling to push their lenses between the iron railings to get the best shot. A most undignified departure, I thought, for someone who had been so proud of her home.

The event was carried live on the news channels and Chrissie and I watched it together on the TV in the office, where we had been told to wait.

Speculation was rife among the media that the body in the bag was actually that of Declan, but that notion was severely dampened by an interview at the gates with DCI Eastwood, who confirmed nothing other than a 41-year-old man was still in custody and helping police with their enquiries.

Eventually the chief inspector came back to the yard office.

Chrissie and I had already been questioned by Sergeant Venables, who had taken down the details of our movements that morning, not that I’d mentioned my second excursion into the house.

‘Did you go anywhere other than into the hallway?’ the DCI asked me.

‘No,’ I replied.

‘Not into the kitchen?’

‘Not on this occasion,’ I said. ‘But I’ve been in there before, on Tuesday morning.’

I wracked my brain to think if I had left any clue this morning.

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘No reason,’ he said. He consulted his notebook. ‘And can you confirm that the back door was unlocked when you first tried it?’

‘That’s correct,’ Chrissie said. ‘I had a key but it wasn’t needed.’

‘I went and locked the door after I’d spoken to you,’ I added.

He made another note in his book.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That will be all for now.’

He turned to go and I walked out of the office with him.

‘Has Declan Chadwick been informed of his wife’s death?’ I asked.

‘I understand that he was told earlier by the custody sergeant at Bury St Edmunds, once Mrs Chadwick’s death had been confirmed by the doctor.’

Poor Declan, I thought.

‘As his lawyer,’ I said, ‘I formally request that he be released on compassionate grounds.’

DCI Eastwood pursed his lips. ‘I’m afraid that will not happen.’

‘Have some sympathy, man,’ I said. ‘His wife has just killed herself.’

‘I agree that this is an unfortunate incident,’ he said, ‘but I still have a murder investigation to conduct.’

I personally thought it was more than just an ‘unfortunate incident’.

And I wasn’t giving up that easily. ‘I intend applying to a judge to order his immediate release.’

‘Mr Foster,’ said the DCI intently, ‘there have been some further developments of which you are so far unaware.’

‘What developments?’ I asked angrily.

He paused briefly, as if deciding whether to tell me.

‘We have had initial results of the forensic tests on Mr Chadwick’s car.’

‘And?’

‘Zoe Robertson’s blood has been found in the vehicle.’