Dick Francis's Front Runner

34

I went back to bed but I still couldn’t sleep.

I lay on my back in the dark, thinking and asking myself many questions, but I came up with very few definitive answers.

Apart from the one in Dave Swinton’s sauna, were the other attempts on my life nothing to do with the blackmailing of jockeys to fix races?

Were they all to do with the fact that I knew Martin Reynard had been at Newbury races on Hennessy Gold Cup day, and I’d taken a photograph to prove it?

It seemed rather extreme, as others would surely have also seen him there on that day.

Was it Martin Reynard, not Leslie Morris, who’d sent a couple of London’s criminal fraternity to kill me with a carving knife?

Indeed, when those attempts had failed, had he resolved to murder me here in Cayman with the contaminated dive tank?

And perhaps the most important question of all — if I was right, how did I stop him from trying again?

If it had been Martin who had taken the opportunity to delete the photo from my iPhone during the confusion on the boat, was that enough? Was that an end to it? Or did he still feel the need to bump me off?

Could I take that chance?

So far, I’d been very lucky to survive; the doctors kept telling me so.

Could I trust that my luck would hold? I had to be lucky every time whereas my would-be murderer had to be lucky only once.

I could report my suspicions to the revenue, but it wouldn’t result in an arrest — not yet, anyway. There would be weeks, months or even years of investigation.

Maybe not even that.

I suspected that no crime had yet taken place, as we must still be in the tax year in question. Any tax return for the current year would not be due to be filed until well into the year after next, more than twelve months away. A crime would be committed only at that point if a tax return was not submitted, and the due tax not paid.

A year’s income tax didn’t seem worth murdering me over, not on the off chance that I might have spotted what was going on, especially as the attempts had done nothing more than make me increasingly determined to discover why.

But Derrick Smith had been constantly telling people that I was some sort of secret-agent super sleuth who could spot and prevent wrongdoing from afar with almost mystical powers.

Had Martin believed it and simply decided to act sooner rather than later?

But murder?

All he had to do was accept his responsibilities and pay his tax, like everybody else. End of story.

Other than the minor fact that he may have tried three times to cause my untimely death, I didn’t have any particular axe to grind against Martin — after all, I was an investigator for the BHA not the tax authorities. But would it make it safer for me if I told him that I believed he had become UK tax resident for the current year, and that I had informed many others including the revenue? He could hardly murder everyone, so would he then have anything to gain by killing me?

No.

Except, perhaps, for revenge.

‘Tell me more about Martin,’ I said to Henri over breakfast the following morning.

‘What about him?’ she replied.

‘Who was he married to before Theresa?’

‘Some bimbo called Lorraine who he met when he was a student.’

‘Were they at the same university?’

‘Good God, no,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Lorraine didn’t go to university. She always used to say studying was a waste of time and that she went instead to the University of Life. More like the Borstal of Life, if you ask me. I know for a fact that she’s been done for shoplifting several times, even though Martin provides handsomely for both her and Joshua.’

‘How did they meet?’

‘In Spain, when he was twenty. She was nineteen. He was there on holiday and she worked in a bar on the Costa Brava. Absolute disaster it was. Met, married and a mother all within nine months to the day. The divorce took a little longer, but not much. Uncle Richard was furious with him.’

‘Why on earth did Martin marry her?’ I said. ‘She surely could have had an abortion.’

‘She didn’t tell him she was pregnant until it was too late for that, so Martin did the “honourable” thing without even telling his parents. She may not have gone to university but our Lorraine is no mug. She’s far cleverer than him, that’s for sure. He’s been her meal ticket for life.’

‘He can’t be that much of a mug if he’s the managing director of Reynard Shipping,’ I said.

‘Uncle Richard has all the brains in the family. While Martin may be called the managing director, it’s Uncle Richard who really manages everything. He makes all the decisions. He worries, rightly, what will happen to the firm after he’s gone. That’s why we’ve sold the Hong Kong end of the business. I think Uncle Richard is afraid that Martin will lose it all.’

How sad, I thought. Richard Reynard had two sons, one an artist who lived in the Scottish Highlands and had no interest in business, while the other was not quite up to running the family firm.

‘Would you say Martin and Theresa have a happy marriage?’ I asked.

‘What is this?’ she said sharply. ‘The Spanish Inquisition? You asked me that before. Do you know something I don’t?’

‘No,’ I lied. ‘I just wondered. Theresa seems to be quite keen on Bentley.’

‘I can’t think why. He’s a horrid little man.’

‘Doesn’t he have any family of his own to spend Christmas with?’

‘I know that he has parents,’ she said. ‘I’ve met them. But perhaps they’ve disowned him. This isn’t the first time he’s spent Christmas with us.’

‘If no one likes him, why is he still employed by your company?’

She sighed. ‘It’s only me who can’t stand him. That’s because he and I have history.’ She paused and I waited while she worked out in her mind if she was going to tell me about the history. She obviously decided not to. ‘Uncle Richard almost worships the ground he walks on and, I have to admit, he’s very good at his job, and fiercely loyal to the firm.’

‘Do Bentley and Martin get on?’

‘Not really. Martin hates the fact that Uncle Richard talks to Bentley about business strategy more than to him. I know I shouldn’t say this but, at times, I think that Uncle Richard wishes that Bentley was his son rather than Martin.’

It was quite a statement.

‘How about you?’ I asked. ‘Do you get on all right with Martin?’

‘Yes, I’d say so,’ she said. ‘Sometimes I feel a bit sorry for him. It’s not really his fault that he’s not quite up to the job. He tries his best. But God knows what will happen to us when Uncle Richard finally retires. Or dies.’

‘How about the other directors? The two from the law firm?’

‘They don’t seem to have much to do with the day-to-day running of things. Their job is more to do with ensuring that we, as a board, comply with all the local regulations.’

‘You could always bring in more directors,’ I said. ‘Bentley, for example.’

Henri pulled a face. ‘Martin won’t allow that. He’s totally adamant. I think he feels threatened, and for good reason. I suppose we will have to have more directors at some point, but Uncle Richard is keen to keep control in the family for the time being, especially while we are selling off some of the company’s assets.’

I couldn’t argue with that.

‘Now, what would you like to do today?’ Henri asked.

‘What is there?’

‘We could go to Stingray City.’

Henri arranged to charter a boat to take us but we wouldn’t be going until later in the day, when the cruise-ship passengers had all departed.

‘It would be a nightmare earlier,’ Henri said. ‘Far too many people.’

From the beach in front of the apartment, we could see five huge cruise liners at anchor off George Town, each of them disgorging thousands of passengers onto the island for the day, all of them searching for something to keep them busy.

So we spent much of the day lying on sunbeds in the shadow of a beach cabana while I tried to work out what I should do.

I wondered if I should tell Henri of my suspicions.

The last thing I wanted to do was to ruin our budding affair by further accusing her cousin of trying to kill me. It had caused enough trouble when I’d suggested he’d purposely given me a contaminated dive tank. To now accuse him of also sending the men with the carving knife to stab me to death would probably be terminal for our relationship.

Perhaps I could tell her only that I believed Martin had inadvertently become tax resident in the UK. But she would likely say, So what? Why are you telling me? and all the other stuff would all come out.

But I felt I had to tell someone.

It would surely be safer for me if someone else knew.

But who?

Bentley, the lawyer, must already know. Otherwise, why would he have been so outspoken on the Newbury balcony?

What had he said at the time?

I know, and that in itself is bad enough.

If the company lawyer knew then, surely, in due course, Martin would have to file a UK tax return. Unless Bentley was planning to turn a blind eye.

Henri went down to the sea for a cooling swim while I went back inside the apartment to call Quentin. I needed some legal advice and he was my go-to lawyer of choice.

‘I’m not sure what to do,’ I said to him. ‘I don’t know the law.’

I explained the gist of my problems.

‘With reference to the tax position, no crime appears to have been committed as yet, so you are under no obligation to report anything to the authorities,’ he said. ‘That would only change later if you had firm evidence to the effect that a tax return and payment had not been submitted when due, hence a fraud had been committed.’

‘So what would you do now?’ I asked.

‘Say nothing and get out of there as soon as possible. I’d write formally to Reynard Shipping at their registered address explaining that you believe that Martin Reynard may be UK tax resident for the current tax year. You should copy the letter to their accountants, if you know who they are. You would then be fully covered from a legal point of view.’

It all sounded so logical.

‘But I would also contact the UK police,’ Quentin went on, ‘to inform them of your suspicions regarding the attacks on you, and then leave them to deal with it.’

Maybe saying nothing and leaving as soon as possible were the sensible things to do, but did I really want to prematurely end my time in Cayman with Henri?

This was the first holiday I’d had for years.

But I decided that I should take my brother-in-law’s advice. He hadn’t become a top QC by getting much wrong.

I logged on to the internet and looked up commercial flights back to London. There was a direct service the following evening.

I would stay until then.

I made a reservation online.

Meanwhile, I would say nothing to any of the Reynard gathering and, when I was safely home, I would write the letters as Quentin had suggested.

And, to ensure my well-being, I would make certain that I was never left alone with Martin Reynard. In fact, I would spend every moment of my remaining time on Grand Cayman in the company of one Henrietta Shawcross.

Little did I realize that it would not be enough.