Crisis

5

On Tuesday morning, my phone rang at seven o’clock precisely, but I’d been reading the daily newspapers for over an hour by then.

‘Harrison, my friend, how are you?’ There was a slight southern twang to the Sheikh’s middle-eastern accent, the result of having mostly learned his English from watching old Hollywood movies plus a stint at a US Air Force flight-training facility in Alabama.

‘I am well, Your Highness,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

‘Good. Now tell me what is going on. All I have received is a garbled message from Oliver Chadwick that two of my horses have died in a fire.’

‘Yes, sir,’ I replied.

I gave him an update of the known facts and the loss of life, both equine and human, including the demise of Prince of Troy.

There was a short pause from the other end of the line, which may have been due to the distance the signal had to travel.

‘Such a noble animal,’ said the Sheikh. ‘I was in England only last week to watch him win the Two Thousand Guineas.’ There was another pause, or was it a sigh? ‘I had hoped he would prove to be the foundation of my new breeding operation. I suppose I will just have to go on looking.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

‘Thank you. Who was the person who died?’ the Sheikh asked.

‘Not yet identified, as far as I’m aware.’

‘One of the stable staff?’

‘No, sir. All of those are accounted for. Ryan Chadwick thinks it may have been a homeless person seeking out a warm spot to sleep. It was clear but cold here on Sunday night.’

‘Please pass my condolences to both Oliver and Ryan Chadwick. Do they know how the fire started?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘The trouble with stables is that there is so much flammable material around. Ryan uses shredded newspaper for his horses’ bedding. A careless match or cigarette end would easily set the whole lot alight. The police are still investigating.’

‘Try to find out the reason from them.’

‘How long do you want me to stay? I don’t feel that I’m really required. The press are getting all the information they need from the authorities. There is nothing that should be a concern for you.’

‘But I am concerned,’ the Sheikh replied in a mildly rebuking tone. ‘Two of my best horses are dead and I don’t know why.’

‘Of course, sir,’ I replied apologetically. ‘What I meant was that there has been no press comment concerning you or any other owner. I’ve checked them all. There is nothing in today’s papers that should in any way be a concern for your reputation.’

‘That is good.’

‘Yes, but I have one question,’ I said. ‘I overheard a conversation in which it was stated that you intended moving your horses away from Ryan Chadwick.’

He laughed.

‘And people ask me why I pay Simpson White’s exorbitant fees. That information is highly confidential.’

‘Yes,’ I said again. ‘But is it true?’

His laughter died.

‘It is partially true. I am planning to move two horses from Ryan to Declan Chadwick.’

‘Which two?’ I asked.

‘Two fillies that I have purchased.’

‘Can I ask why you are moving them?’

There was definitely a pause this time.

‘I do not like being told what to do.’ He spoke the words very slowly and precisely.

I waited in silence. If he wanted to tell me more, he would.

He did.

‘Oliver Chadwick told me I had to buy the two fillies to save his stables. He was overstretched. Too much in debt and his bank was threatening to take away his house.’

‘So you bought the horses to help him out?’

‘Yes,’ said the Sheikh.

‘But now you are moving them?’

‘Yes,’ he said again. ‘I bought the horses only because my bloodstock agent convinced me that they were good value for money.’

‘Bill Vandufful?’

‘Yes. Do you know him?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘But Oliver Chadwick told me that Mr Vandufful was the individual who did the bidding for him at the sale last year.’

‘He had also bought Prince of Troy for me as a yearling. He recognised the potential without having to pay silly money.’

What had Oliver told me the previous evening? Sheikh Karim told me he wanted good colts but not at any price. Half a million was my limit.

I was a little surprised that the Sheikh would be bothered about the amount he paid for a champion racehorse. If magazine rich lists could be believed, he was individually worth more than a few billion, to say nothing of the wealth of his nation that he personally controlled. I thought it was the winning that was important, not the price. Maybe I was wrong.

‘Moderation in their leader is important for my people,’ he said, as if he was reading my mind. ‘We have to prepare for the day the oil runs out.’

‘But why are you moving the fillies to Declan? Why not to another stable unconnected with the Chadwick family?’

‘Vandufful tells me that Oliver has passed Castleton House Stables to the wrong son and that, in time, Declan will prove to be the better trainer of the two.’

‘So will you move your other horses to Declan?’ I asked.

‘I am content to leave those with Ryan,’ he replied, but there was something about the tone of his voice that made me think that future purchases might go directly to Declan.

‘Are you aware there is bad blood between Ryan and Declan?’

‘Bad blood between brothers is nothing new to me. It is commonplace in this part of the world.’

‘But your moving the horses from one to the other has exacerbated the hostility between them.’

‘There is an old Arab saying that sometimes it is necessary to hit a camel with a stick to see if it has any life left in it.’ There was amusement in his voice as if he knew exactly what he’d been doing. It was all a game.

‘I just hope your camel didn’t turn into a fire-breathing dragon,’ I said.

All his amusement evaporated instantly.

‘Are you serious?’ the Sheikh asked. ‘Are you saying that the fire was deliberate?’

‘No, I’m not,’ I said. ‘But I don’t know. We will have to wait for the results of the police investigation.’

There was another slight pause.

‘I want you to stay in Newmarket,’ the Sheikh said. ‘I need you to be my eyes and ears. You will ask questions and determine why my horses died.’

There was now a degree of desperation in his voice as if he was suddenly afraid that his little game had precipitated the disaster.

‘Surely the police will do that,’ I said.

‘I do not control the police in your country. You will report directly to me. I will speak with Colonel White to arrange it.’

‘How long do you want me to stay here?’ I asked.

‘For as long as it takes.’

Just after eight o’clock, I walked from the hotel down Bury Road and in through the top gate into the new yard.

Unlike the old, it was not laid out around a central quad but consisted of three parallel American-style stable barns with a fourth sitting at right angles to the other three at the farthest end from the house. Beyond the barns were an automatic horse-walker and a large covered exercise oval set on the far side of a railed paddock. The stable-staff hostel was tucked into the corner of the paddock close to one end of the cross barn.

I went into the nearest barn.

It had a wide central concrete walkway running the full length between large open sliding doors at the ends. There were twenty-four stalls in total, twelve on each side of the walkway, six at either end, with tack room, bedding and feed stores located between them in the middle.

And everywhere there were large NO SMOKING signs in bold black type, threatening instant dismissal for anyone caught doing otherwise.

I expected the place to be a hive of activity but, while there were plenty of horses standing in their stalls, the only human I could find was one small elderly-looking man busily sweeping the walkway with a stiff brush.

‘Where is everyone?’ I asked.

‘Warren Hill,’ he replied without stopping his sweeping. ‘Second lot went out about half an hour ago now. First lot today was at six.’

‘On the gallops?’ I said, not completely sure of what he was on about.

‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘Up the Warren Hill polytrack. They’ll be back soon.’ He stopped his sweeping, leaned on the broom and looked me up and down. ‘And who are you, might I ask?’

‘Harry Foster,’ I said. ‘I’m here to help Mr Chadwick deal with the fire.’

‘Dreadful thing, that fire,’ he said wistfully. ‘Bloody shame.’

I held out my hand and he shook it, the feel of his palm all leathery and dry from a life outside in the elements.

‘I’m Fred Piper,’ said my newfound friend. ‘Been here pretty much all my life. The only one left now from old Mr Chadwick’s time. I don’t ride the horses these days, mind — hips and knees are bloody crocked.’ He grinned briefly, showing me several gaps in his teeth. ‘I just keep the place tidy now. Pass me that muck shovel, will you?’

I picked up the metal shovel that was leaning against the stable wall and handed it to him. He used it to collect what he’d been sweeping and put it in a wheelbarrow.

‘All I’m useful for these days is tidying.’

He sighed deeply and I thought there were tears in his eyes.

‘I’m sure Mr Chadwick is very pleased you are,’ I said.

‘Mr Chadwick senior might be,’ Fred said with surprising bitterness, ‘but young Mr Ryan isn’t. Wants me gone at the end of the month. Told me last week he couldn’t afford to pay me wages any more. I said I’d do the job for nothing. I’d be lost without it.’

‘Where do you live?’ I asked.

‘In the hostel,’ he replied gloomily. ‘Losing my home as well as my job. And no one’s going to give me another, not at my age. Castleton House Stables is all I know.’

‘How old are you?’ I asked.

‘Fifty-nine.’

He looked much older.

‘Where are you going to go?’

‘Dunno,’ Fred said. ‘Had hoped Mr Ryan would change his mind, but that won’t happen now. Not with seven less horses to look after. He laid off another two boys this morning. Told them to pack up and go, right there and then when they turned up for work at six o’clock. Bloody disgrace. Back in Mr Chadwick senior’s time we had a lad for every two horses. Treated like royalty, they were. Now it’s four per lad if you’re lucky, maybe five. Same everywhere.’

‘Do you have any family?’ I asked.

‘These are my family,’ he said, throwing his arm around. ‘These horses and those that went before them.’

At that point our conversation was interrupted by the return of several other horses into the barn, presumably back from Warren Hill, being led by other stable lads.

There was no banter at all. The animals were led silently into their stalls and their tack removed. They were given a brief rub-down and a cursory brush followed by having a rug thrown over their backs. Then the lads trudged off to prepare their next horse for the third lot, hardly lifting their eyes from the floor.

‘Not a very happy bunch, are they?’ I said to Fred Piper.

‘And why would they be?’ he said acidly. ‘They’re worried about their jobs. The yard hasn’t had a winner since Prince of Troy won the Guineas.’

‘But that’s only just over a week ago,’ I said.

‘A week is an age in racing. Never would have happened in Mr Chadwick senior’s days. Last Saturday, we had five runners at Lingfield with three more at Ascot and none of them were even close. Prince of Troy was our only hope and now he’s gone. Everyone’s wondering who’s next for the chop.’

‘How many staff have gone already?’ I asked.

‘Half a dozen or so in the past month.’

‘Where are they now?’

‘Some have found jobs with other trainers but many of those are cutting back on lad numbers too. More and more work riders are being used — mostly ex-jocks — which means the lads don’t actually ride the horses so they can spend more time mucking out. Some yards now have six or seven to a single lad. It’s crazy. How can you learn to love them when you’ve got seven to look after?’

He put out his hand and patted the head of a horse in one of the stalls on my left. The huge creature moved its head up and down as if it were agreeing with him.

‘The lads these days don’t seem to care as much as we old-timers do.’

The age-old gripe, I thought, of the elder towards the younger.

Was it true?

Maybe, but were things any worse for that? A racehorse was a working beast, bred and trained to run faster than its neighbour. Surely they weren’t pets to be loved and mollycoddled like a lapdog.

I personally had never owned an animal of any sort. I’d always had more than enough trouble from the humans in my life without taking on a being that couldn’t sit down and have a rational discussion about anything. Not that any members of my immediate family were in that category anyway.

My father always started an argument fairly coherently but quickly reverted to type, shouting down anyone with a view different from his.

If I contradicted him, which I invariably did, he would loudly accuse me of being a ‘stupid boy’ but without the affection and tolerance of Captain Mainwaring to Private Pike in Dad’s Army.

My mother was scarcely any better. If forty years of marriage to my father had taught her anything, it was to keep her own counsel and say nothing. Especially if she wanted a quiet life.

The only thing they appeared to agree on was that a move away from my nice secure job in a solicitors’ practice in rural Totnes to the cut-and-thrust, man-eats-man uncertainty of central London was a huge mistake, and very hurtful.

In spite of what ASW had said at our first meeting, I was now earning more than three times as much as I’d done in Totnes, and I loved my work infinitely more, but that was irrelevant as far as my parents were concerned. They only saw that I had forsaken them for the bright lights of the wicked metropolis.

And, if I were being honest, I would have to agree that one of my main motivations for seeking a change from the boredom of Totnes was indeed to put as many miles as possible between me and the family home.

London was far enough away to make a trip home for Sunday lunch very difficult, if not impossible, and I had managed to resist my mother’s pleas to come home for any weekend that wasn’t near Christmas or her birthday.

But I was not fooling myself. As an only child, I knew that it would come down to me to look after them eventually and, of course, I would then step up to the plate. But, until then, I would keep away as much as possible and hope that, when the Grim Reaper was ready, he would take them both swiftly before they became infirm and incontinent.

At least my parents had one child to care for them in their dotage. The prospects of me ever becoming a father seemed to be diminishing year on year.

For several years from my late twenties I’d had a regular but neurotic girlfriend and we had even rented a flat together. The romance had been steady rather than deeply exciting or passionate and had come to a dramatic end one night when I’d taken her to a smart restaurant in Torquay.

Having gone down on one knee and removed a very moderately priced solitaire diamond ring from my trouser pocket, I had popped the question only to be given a firm ‘Not bloody likely’ for an answer.

It seems that she had been planning for some time to end our relationship, as she longed for someone more aspirational than a country solicitor for a future husband. Little did she realise that it was her actions that night which spurred me on to seek out Simpson White less than a year later.

And, if the truth were told, I was more relieved than heartbroken, even at the time. Looking back now, I realise that we weren’t at all suited and I had only asked her to marry me because I naively believed it was the next logical step.

It had been a lucky escape and I sometimes still lay awake at night in a cold sweat, thanking my lucky stars that she had turned me down.

I’d moved out of our shared flat that very night and vowed never to ask the question of anyone unless I was absolutely certain that I couldn’t live without her for a single second longer. As a result, however, I’d since had a string of short-term liaisons with various girls, most of which I had finished almost as fast as they had started because I was in search only of Miss Perfect.

Had I set my sights too high? At the age of thirty-seven was I now in danger of missing out in the matrimonial stakes altogether? Or at least until it was too late to have a family?

Maybe love and marriage would happen one day, or maybe not. I’d long ago stopped worrying about it and had become quite used to living on my own. In many ways it was preferable, not least in being able to please only myself with regard to what I did and when. I suppose it made me selfish, and I did have a few pangs of guilt when my mother spoke of her intense desire to have grandchildren. She should have had more than one child, I thought, but then the mental image of my parents procreating together quickly put paid to that.

Perhaps I should be grateful that I existed at all.

The sound of metal horseshoes clattering on the concrete floor brought me back from my daydreaming and I watched as the third lot were ridden out to exercise on the polytrack up Warren Hill.

I went in search of Ryan Chadwick.