Crisis

3

The discovery of a dead human along with the dead horses changed everything.

Within minutes the whole place was crawling with more police, many of them in full white forensic overalls, some with hoods and face masks, and blue and white POLICE DO NOT CROSS tape was strung everywhere, including across the door from the office to the stable yard.

Presently, another police officer arrived in the kitchen and asked Ryan for a list of names of all his staff and confirmation that they were accounted for.

The list was apparently no problem, it was in the office, but the whereabouts of the twenty-six individuals was less certain and more difficult to establish.

‘They went with the horses,’ Ryan explained.

Newmarket, it seemed, had rallied round in time of crisis, and accommodation for the surviving equines had been quickly offered by nearby stables with available space. Great care had been taken to record the location of each of the remaining four-legged residents, but less attention had been apportioned to the two-legged variety.

‘How many staff live on site?’ asked the policeman.

‘Eighteen,’ Ryan replied. ‘Six in flats built over the old stables and twelve others in a special hostel round the back in the new yard.’

‘New yard?’

‘Yes,’ said Ryan. ‘I currently train a hundred and five horses, at least I did before this. It’s now ninety-eight. The three old stable blocks in the quad close to the house can each house twelve, that’s only thirty-six, and we have four barns each with twenty-four stalls in the new yard, one hundred and thirty-two spaces in total. We call it the new yard but most of it’s more than thirty years old now. The last barn was built just before the turn of the millennium.’

‘Did anyone live over the stables that burned?’

‘No, thank God. We were refurbishing the two flats in that one. Almost finished them too. What a bloody waste of money that was.’ His shoulders drooped and he leaned forward on the office desk with a huge sigh as if even standing up straight was too much of an effort.

‘Mr Chadwick,’ the policeman said quite forcefully, ‘there is someone lying dead in your stable block. We need urgently to establish the whereabouts of your staff to eliminate them as the possible victim.’

‘Yes, of course. I’ll make some calls.’

Ryan spent the next two hours ringing round his staff and his neighbours. Meanwhile, Declan and Arabella left by the house front door, which opened directly onto Bury Road, to return to their own stable yard; Ryan’s wife, Susan, went to collect their children from her mother. Finally, Tony departed for Windsor where he had two rides at the evening race meeting.

Racing, and life, went on, at least for most.

Oliver and I sat at his kitchen table and he talked me through the events of the night.

‘I’m in bed by ten most evenings,’ he said. ‘My bedroom overlooks the old yard and I was woken at midnight by shouts outside from the stable lads. Thought I was having a nightmare. Except it was real. The block was already well alight with flames leaping through the roof. I could feel the heat through the window glass.’

‘Was it you or your wife who woke up first?’ I asked.

‘Me,’ he said. ‘Maria and I now sleep in separate rooms.’ He forced a smile, almost in embarrassment. ‘She claims my snoring keeps her awake.’

‘Where’s her bedroom?’

‘Only across the landing,’ he said.

‘Does it overlook the yard as well?’

‘No, the garden. Anyway, I immediately called the fire brigade, and then Ryan. Next I banged on Maria’s door to wake her. Then I rushed outside to help try and save the horses. It was pandemonium, pure pandemonium. Horses hate fire. Drives them crazy. We were fighting against them trying to get them out. It was awful.’

He swallowed hard, fighting back tears.

‘The heat was so bad we couldn’t get close to the block that was alight. All we could hear was the poor horses inside screaming, and that made the others even more frightened. Ryan and I decided they all had to be got away so we took those we could save down the road and tied them to the wooden fences beyond the Severals. We simply left them there while we got the others out. By the time we’d finished, we had almost a hundred top Thoroughbreds tied up in Newmarket town centre. Still had to keep the colts away from the fillies, mind, especially those in season. Even though all were shit-scared by the fire, their natural instincts are pretty strong so it was quite a struggle.’ He forced a laugh. ‘Funny now, I suppose. But not then, I can tell you.’

‘No,’ I said sympathetically. ‘What are the Severals?’

‘Trotting circles. At the town end of Bury Road.’ He paused. ‘People are pretty good though. When they heard about the fire, and the grapevine works pretty well in these parts, they all came out to help. About half of the horses were taken along to old Widgery’s place and the others went to yards all over the town, wherever there was any room.’

‘Old Widgery’s place?’ I asked.

‘You must know. Tom Widgery. Used to train on Fordham Road. Big place. Empty now since he died last December.’

I looked blank.

‘Don’t you know anything about racing?’ he asked, making it sound like an accusation.

‘No,’ I said.

‘Tom Widgery was the most famous trainer who ever lived,’ Oliver said patiently, as if he was addressing a child. ‘Won everything many times over. Still holds the record for number of Classic wins.’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I was always keener on cricket.’

He gave me a stare of disapproval bordering on disgust but then he clearly remembered why I was there and smiled.

‘A fine game,’ he said, obviously not believing it. ‘But it’s not really a business.’

It is for some, I thought, but it was not worth labouring the point.

‘How about Sheikh Karim’s horses, other than Prince of Troy? Are they all safe?’

A pained expression came over Oliver’s face.

‘Sadly not,’ he said. ‘One of the other six lost was also owned by the Sheikh, a promising two-year-old colt called Conductivity. Cost a minor fortune as a yearling last October. Was due to have his first run this coming weekend up the road. Would have been a future champion, I’m sure. Damned shame.’

‘Was it insured?’ I asked.

‘Not by us,’ Oliver said. ‘That’s the owner’s responsibility. You tell me.’

I was pretty sure that Conductivity wouldn’t have been insured. Nor Prince of Troy. Sheikh Karim would act as his own underwriter and stand the risk himself.

‘How about the stables? Were they insured?’

‘You bet they were.’

‘And who stands to benefit from that, you or Ryan?’

‘I do. I still own everything. Ryan is my tenant. But neither of us are insured for loss of business.’

‘But the yard wasn’t full,’ I said. ‘So at least Ryan has the free space to cope with the loss of twelve boxes.’ Particularly with seven fewer horses, I thought, but decided not to say so.

‘I suppose so,’ Oliver conceded. ‘Not like in my day. Then the yard was full to overflowing with every box taken and a waiting list as long as your arm.’

‘Is the business in trouble?’ I asked.

‘No, nothing like that. It’s just... well, how do I say it?... He’s not me. I suppose a son always finds it difficult taking over a profession from a successful father. I try to keep out of his way as much as possible, but the owners... you know... they still want me to guide him.’

It sounded to me like a recipe for complete disaster.

‘So are the numbers of horses in the yard still declining or are they on the way back up?’

‘Times are difficult,’ Oliver said in reply. ‘People don’t have the spare cash they used to.’

I took that to mean that, yes, numbers were still declining.

I thought back to what Arabella Chadwick had said to Ryan while I was outside the kitchen door: It’s not Declan’s fault the Sheikh has decided to move the horses.

I decided it was high time I spoke directly with my client.

By the end of the afternoon several more facts had been established, the most pertinent one being that every one of Ryan’s stable staff had been accounted for. So the body in the burned-out stable block remained unidentified.

‘Do you have CCTV?’ I asked as we sat at the kitchen table.

‘Yeah, lots of it,’ Ryan replied. ‘We have cameras covering every stable block and every exit.’

‘So what does it show?’

‘Nothing.’ He threw his hands up in exasperation. ‘The control box with the hard-drive recorder was in the roof space of the block that burned. Whole thing is lost. Unbelievable. I’ve got lovely pictures of the new yard. Masses of them. That system is housed in the lads’ hostel. But for the old yard — nothing.’

‘How about sprinklers?’ I asked.

‘We have them in the new yard,’ Ryan said. ‘And we were having them retrofitted as part of the refurbishment of the flats in the old. I can’t bloody believe it. Another week and those in that block would have been working.’

‘Why was Prince of Troy in a building with no sprinkler system?’ I asked. ‘Surely your most valuable asset should have been in the safest place?’

‘I thought it was the safest place,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s close to the house. We’ve had intruders before in the new yard. And I keep all the colts together in the old yard. They’re easier to handle there without any fillies around. Before the fire I had twenty-six colts, sixteen three-year-olds and ten aged two.’

‘Are all the rest fillies then?’ I asked.

Ryan looked at me strangely.

‘No. There are also geldings and mares.’

‘What’s the difference between a filly and a mare?’ I asked.

Even I knew what a gelding was.

‘Age,’ he said, with an air of humouring an imbecile. ‘In British racing, a filly becomes a mare on her fifth birthday.’

‘On the first of January,’ I said, rather proud of myself that I knew that all horses have their birthday on the first day of the year, irrespective of when they were actually born.

‘In the northern hemisphere, yes,’ Ryan said. ‘In Australia it’s the first of August.’

‘August?’ I said. ‘Why not July? That would be halfway through the year.’

Now it was his turn to be baffled.

‘I’ve no idea. But it’s definitely the first of August.’

‘So what happens if a horse emigrates from here to Australia or vice versa, does it become half a year older or younger?’

He shrugged his shoulders. His time for humouring me was clearly over.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘Is there anything else? I’ve got my entries to do and I need to concentrate. They’re difficult enough without all this palaver going on.’

He stood up to go.

‘Just one more thing,’ I said. ‘What security arrangements are there at night? Are the gates locked?’

‘Of course they’re locked,’ Ryan said irritably. ‘The whole place is locked up tight. My head lad lives in one of the flats and he does a check last thing at night before he goes to bed.’

‘Did he do it last night?’

‘I’m sure he did. He does it every night.’

‘Then how did someone get in and end up dead in the fire?’

‘I’ve no bloody idea,’ he said. ‘It was probably some homeless bastard. Climbed the gates and broke into the stables, looking for somewhere to bed down for the night. Set the place on fire with a discarded cigarette, I shouldn’t wonder. Bloody deserved to die, if you ask me.’

There was a remarkable lack of sympathy all round from the Chadwicks for the person who had just lost his life in their stables. All the compassion was for the horses.

And all afternoon, there was a continuous string of telephone calls from other trainers offering condolences for the lost animals, particularly Prince of Troy. I knew because I listened in on some of them using a second handset, just to be satisfied that the caller was not a member of the press and Ryan was not saying something he shouldn’t. But, after a while, I just let him get on with it.

The press were finding out what had happened from other sources.

Both the police and the fire service gave interviews, with senior officers standing on the road outside the gates of Castleton House Stables, and each was carried live on the TV news channels.

I watched on the set in the kitchen with Oliver, Maria and Ryan.

The Suffolk senior fire officer was up first, explaining how fire appliances from as far away as Bury St Edmunds and Ipswich had initially attended the fire along with one from neighbouring Cambridge. He reported that the fire was finally out and he thanked the firemen for their work. In all, five fire engines had been used including the two from Newmarket Fire Station, which would remain on site damping down for the rest of the day. He also stated that, as yet, no cause of the blaze had been established but fire investigators would be moving in just as soon as it was safe for them to do so.

The senior police officer, however, was far more informative.

He confirmed to the waiting press that seven horses had been lost in the fire and also revealed to the eager reporters that there had also been at least one human victim. Consequently, he said, the stable yard was being treated as a potential crime scene, even though he was at pains to point out that no actual cause of death had yet been established.

But the reporters didn’t care about that. Instead, they gleefully indulged in media speculation over foul play and who might have been responsible.

‘That’s totally ridiculous,’ Ryan shouted loudly at the TV. ‘Why would anyone purposely set fire to a stable full of horses?’

I could think of lots of reasons but decided not to mention them.

At five o’clock that afternoon, the police were still refusing Ryan access to his stables, not even to the new yard, which was outside the lines of POLICE DO NOT CROSS tape.

‘Look here,’ he told them with rising irritation. ‘In spite of everything, I still have a business to run. None of my horses has had any exercise today other than walking down to the town in the early hours. The stewards allowed me to withdraw my two at Wolverhampton this afternoon but I’ve got one declared at Beverley tomorrow, and then I have a whole raft of runners later in the week at York, Newbury and here at Newmarket. It’s all well and good them being in other people’s stables, but their regular bedding is here, as is their food. Horses don’t like change. Even without Prince of Troy, I’ve still got two left in the Dante on Thursday. If I don’t get them back here tonight, they’ll have no chance.’ Then he added, almost as an afterthought, ‘Also my staff can’t get to their homes. Some of them are still wearing their pyjamas.’

After more heated discussion between Ryan and the senior officers, they finally agreed that he could have access to the new yard, on condition that everyone used the top gate onto the road at the far end, well away from the old yard and house. The lads could also access their hostel, but the old stables and the flats above would still be off-limits.

‘What’s the Dante?’ I asked after the policemen had gone.

‘The Dante Stakes. A race at York this coming Thursday over a mile and a quarter. Acts as the last Derby trial, sixteen days before the big one. Prince of Troy was possibly going to run as part of his final preparation.’ He sighed deeply. ‘Don’t have to make that decision now. Still can’t believe he’s gone. Best horse I’ve had. Impossible to replace.’

I thought that, if I were he, I’d have been more worried about the human victim than the equine ones.