‘Work days,’ I said.
He looked at me sharply. ‘You learn fast.’
‘Oliver told me.’
‘But I don’t hold by that. I work horses most days.’
‘To avoid the touts?’
‘Not really. I just find it more convenient to spread them out rather than engage a mass of work riders twice a week. If you really want to avoid the bloody touts, work a horse when none of them are watching.’
‘At night?’ I said.
Declan laughed. ‘I’m not that crazy. Galloping fast in the dark is inviting disaster. Best leave that malarkey to Dick Turpin and Black Bess. No. You do what I did ten days ago. Staged my own Derby trial on the Limekilns gallop at exactly three thirty-five in the afternoon. Pitched Orion’s Glory against my two best four-year-olds over the full mile-and-a-half. He went away from them near the end as if they were going backwards, and the touts, plus everyone else for that matter, were all at the racecourse admiring Prince of Troy as he was winning the Two Thousand Guineas.’ He laughed again at having outwitted the enemy. ‘Keep that to yourself, mind.’
‘Why was it so important not to be seen?’
He stared at me. ‘Because of the price, man.’
I looked at him blankly.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘Suppose I think that Orion’s Glory is a very special horse, so special, in fact, that he might well win the Derby. Which I do. He’s come on in leaps and bounds since he ran at Doncaster last month. Really filled out behind. The last thing I need is for a bunch of bloody touts to tip him to everybody and bring down the starting price, perhaps even make him favourite now that Prince of Troy is dead.’
I assumed it was because he wanted to bet on it, but it seemed that that wasn’t the only reason.
‘Other trainers will make plans to foil you if they think your horse has a good chance. I want Orion’s Glory to be the surprise package of the race — to sneak up and win when no one’s expecting it, when all the favourites are busy covering each other.’
‘We’re one work rider short for tomorrow,’ Chrissie said, interrupting. ‘Second lot. Jamie has to go to York. He’s riding in the first.’
‘Call Bob Cox,’ Declan said. ‘Ask him.’
‘Already have,’ Chrissie replied. ‘He’s laid up with an ankle injury.’
‘Have you tried Colin Noble?’
Chrissie picked up her telephone.
‘Who are the work riders?’ I asked.
‘Mainly current or ex-jockeys. Most trainers have their regulars but there’s always a group waiting on a Wednesday morning down near the entrance to the Rowley Mile course hoping for a spare ride, and a payday. I use them sometimes if I’m short. May have to do that tomorrow.’
‘Couldn’t you ride one yourself?’
‘I will do if we’re desperate — like we were today — but I can’t ride them and watch them at the same time.’
Arabella came into the yard office.
‘I’ve just had a call from Pete Robertson,’ she said. ‘It seems that Zoe has gone missing again.’
I happened to be looking at Declan as she said it, and he went completely white as the blood drained out of his face.
8
‘Was the human victim male or female?’ I asked.
‘I can’t tell you that at the present time,’ replied the man sitting in front of me wearing a rather crumpled grey suit.
‘Can’t or won’t?’ I said.
‘Both.’
I was sitting in an interview room in Newmarket Police Station, where a temporary incident centre had been set up following the events at Castleton House Stables. I had asked to speak to Superintendent Bennett but, according to the man on the other side of the table, he hadn’t been available.
‘You’ll have to make do with me,’ he’d said.
‘And you are?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Eastwood,’ he’d replied. ‘I’m now leading the investigation into the fire at Castleton House Stables.’
At least I hadn’t been fobbed off with a junior. A DCI would do nicely.
‘Now, Mr Foster, what exactly is so important to have had me dragged out of a meeting with my staff?’
‘Zoe Robertson has gone missing from her home in Ealing,’ I said. ‘And she’s been missing since Sunday.’
There was a moment of silence while the detective absorbed the information.
‘And who is Zoe Robertson?’ he asked.
‘Robertson is her married name. She’s Oliver Chadwick’s daughter. Ryan’s sister.’
He nodded then sighed, as if there was something he wasn’t telling me.
‘Are you suggesting that she’s the victim of the fire?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But I don’t like coincidences.’
‘Neither do I, but if I overreacted to every coincidence in my career, I’d still be a detective constable. What proof have you got?’
‘None. But I thought you should know.’
‘Yes, thank you. Has she been reported missing to her local police?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It seems it’s not the first time she has disappeared but her husband claims she’s never not phoned home for as long as this before.’
For some reason the policeman’s interest was waning fast, as if he didn’t really believe what I was telling him.
‘How did you come by this knowledge?’ he asked.
‘I was with Declan Chadwick when Peter Robertson called. Peter is Zoe’s husband.’
‘Does Mr Chadwick agree with you that his sister may be the victim of the fire?’
‘He didn’t say so,’ I said. ‘But, there again, I didn’t actually ask him that particular question.’
I hadn’t needed to.
Back in his yard office, Declan had taken quite a few minutes to recover from the shock of hearing that his sister was missing, the colour only returning to his face after he’d sat down and drunk a glass of water.
‘What on earth is wrong with you?’ Arabella had asked as her husband had slumped down on the chair.
‘Nothing,’ he had mumbled unconvincingly. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Does she often go missing?’ I had asked into the ensuing silence.
‘Regularly,’ Arabella had said, in a way that suggested that not only was there nothing to worry about but that the whole saga had become a bit of a bore. ‘Zoe has mental health problems. Postnatal depression that hasn’t gone away.’
But still, I thought, I didn’t like coincidences, so here I was an hour later with the police reporting the matter, and hoping to get something in return.
‘Have you yet discovered the cause of the fire?’ I asked the chief inspector.
He looked up at me from writing something in his notes.
‘And who are you exactly, Mr Foster?’
‘Harrison Foster,’ I said, handing over my business card. ‘I represent His Highness Sheikh Ahmed Karim bin Mohamed Al Hamadi. He was the owner of two of the horses killed in the fire, including Prince of Troy. He is keen to understand why his horses died.’
He studied my card.
‘Lawyer, are you?’ asked the policeman in a tone that implied he didn’t much like lawyers.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Simpson White,’ he read out loud from the card. ‘Not a law firm I’m familiar with in these parts.’
‘London firm,’ I said. ‘We specialise in crisis management.’
‘Is this really a crisis?’ he asked.
‘It is if you’re Ryan Chadwick. Or Sheikh Karim. The favourite for the Derby has just died in highly suspicious circumstances. I’d call that a crisis.’
‘Highly suspicious circumstances...’ The DCI repeated the words slowly. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Unknown human body found in a fire started at dead of night,’ I said. ‘I’d call that highly suspicious, wouldn’t you?’