Westbrook was leaning against the rail looking down at de Jersey as he came up the stairs.
“Hi there. When you left the message that you wanted to talk to me, I didn’t think you’d come in person. I was waiting for you to ring back,” he said.
De Jersey put out his hand. “Well, we’re pretty close to kickoff, so I thought it best to run over the finer details in person.” They shook hands.
“Come in.” Westbrook strolled ahead of him through the open door.
De Jersey didn’t show how shocked he was by Westbrook’s appearance. The man’s face was haggard, with a yellowish, sickly pallor, and his clothes were unkempt.
“Can I offer you a drink?” Westbrook asked.
“No, thank you,” de Jersey said, and his nostrils flared at the stench of alcohol and urine. “Stinks like a cat’s litter tray in here,” he said.
“I know, it’s frightful, isn’t it? There are two moggies. God knows where they are. I don’t see them much. Live under the bed most of the time. But they’re why I’m here. I agreed with my relative to feed them and empty their shitty bins.” Westbrook slumped on the unmade bed. “I’ve not been out today,” he said.
De Jersey sat on the edge of a once elegant, velvet-covered wing chair. On the mantelpiece stood rows of pillboxes and bottles. Stuffed between them were letters, postcards, invitations, and unopened bills.
“Have you not been out because you’re sick or because you can’t be bothered?”
“Bit of both. I’m sick as hell, so I’ve been staying in watching the soaps. They all have such dreadful lives, it sort of takes the heat off my own.” He laughed, and de Jersey saw that even his teeth were worse than he remembered, as if the cancer was rotting his gums.
“You’d better get yourself together. You smell as bad as the cats’ tray. What about clean clothes?”
Westbrook indicated an old walnut wardrobe, its door hanging off its hinges. Inside were racks of suits, plus sweaters and shirts on shelves. “Oh, I’m flush for clothes, thanks to you, old chap. It’s just getting up the energy to get dressed. It’s not been a priority.”
“Make it one,” de Jersey snapped.
Westbrook stared at him, then shrugged. “Yes, sir.”
“What do you need to get yourself together? We have four days to go, and from the look of you, I’d say you’re not going to make it.”
Westbrook swung down his legs and glared at de Jersey. “I’ll make it. I’ll take some booster painkillers and some high-quality speed. I won’t let you down. Believe me, this is all I’m staying alive for.”
“All right, but if you fuck me over, it won’t be your life I’ll go after. Do you understand what I am saying?” He nodded at a picture of Westbrook’s kids.
“I understand you perfectly.”
De Jersey looked over the array of medicines. “Morphine,” he said coldly.
“Yes,” said Westbrook. “It’s not prescription, but it dulls the pain. My old aunt Sarah used it for years for arthritis. Got to be careful not to take too much, though.”
“I’ll have it.” De Jersey pocketed the bottle.
“Do you fancy a glass of wine? There’s a reasonable wine bar on the corner up the road. Bite to eat on me?” Westbrook gave a wolfish smile.
De Jersey stood up. If he had been uneasy about Westbrook before, he was even more so now. “You use that money I’m paying you to eat, not to get pissed.” He looked down at Westbrook’s feet. He was wearing holey socks. “Use it to get some laundry done too, and a new pair of socks. And if you’ve got a toothbrush, use it. Your breath stinks as much as you do.”
“I’m rotting away inside,” Westbrook said, stepping away defensively, but de Jersey held on to his jacket lapel.
“I’m depending on you and I’m watching you. Four days is all I ask for you to hold on to being straight. Then you can stew in your own shit for all I care. Four days. Look at me. Can you do it?”
Westbrook somehow found the strength to push de Jersey’s hand away from him. “Don’t threaten me. I said I’d be up for it. I haven’t let you down yet, and I have no intention of doing so now. Like I said, I have the drugs I need to keep me on my feet and my head clear. Take the morphine. I’ll suffer for you. How’s that?”
De Jersey felt compassion for him. “I’m sorry… but we’re worried about you. I don’t want you OD’ing on that stuff before the heist.”
Westbrook made a big effort to straighten up. It was both sad and admirable. “I’m ready, and I hope to God you are, because I don’t know how much longer I’ve got left.”
Sylvia had decided not to go into work but to take another week off. By the following morning, with still no call back from de Jersey, she was furious. She put in yet another, this time to the estate. A blustering man answered. He said he was the manager and would pass on the message.
Christina was in the kitchen when Fleming tapped on the door. “Mrs. de Jersey, there was a call from a Miss Hewitt for the boss. It came through to my office. Rude woman.”
“Oh, thank you, and yes, she is. She’s called here numerous times. Did you say he was still at his club?”
“No. I just said I’d pass on the message, and I gave her his mobile number as she said it was urgent. I hope that’s okay. I also need to have a word with him about scheduling some races. Can you ask him to give me a ring when it’s convenient?”
“Sure. I’ll call him now.”
Fleming seemed very put out about something.
“Are you all right?” Christina asked.
He gave her a curt nod and started to leave, then paused, his back to her. “It’s a tough time. A lot of the staff have been made redundant. It doesn’t make for good staff relations. Some of the young lads are worried. I know it can’t be helped, but like I said, it’s not easy.”
“I’m sorry, Donald, but Edward is trying to make himself financially more secure. It’s why he has to spend so much time in London. In fact, he’s meeting with bankers this week.”
Fleming gave her a rueful look.
“He said he may have to think about remortgaging the estate,” she told him. “If there’s anything I can do, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you, Mrs. de Jersey.”
Christina left a message at the St. James’s, then called her husband’s cell phone.
He answered. “Hello, darling. It’s a bit difficult for me to talk right now, I’m in the middle of a meeting. It’s sounding as if I may have some good news. Is it urgent?”
“Not really. Sylvia Hewitt has called again, and Donald gave her your mobile number. He also wants to sort out some racing dates. Also, please don’t forget the girls’ school play. You promised you’d be there.”
“Can we talk about this later?”
“Yes, sorry to interrupt, but I felt that Donald would really like to talk to you, and from what he said, Sylvia was angry that you hadn’t returned her calls.”
“I’ll call them both.”
She hung up, then went into her husband’s study. On the desk was a large diary. She opened it and looked down the listed races and the horses earmarked to compete. Some had lines crossed through them. She turned a few pages. She noticed that May second was circled and that a memo about a race at Brighton had been written in. She saw her own note to remind him of the school play; she picked up a pen and printed THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. She replaced the pen in the holder and glanced over the neat desk. Then she hooked a finger through one of the drawer handles and pulled. It was locked, which niggled her, but she left the study and forgot about it.
Later, from the kitchen window, she watched the jockeys leading the horses out for their midday training. It was cold and the sun was bright. Royal Flush was playing up again, bucking and shaking his head. He kicked out, and then the long line of valuable horses was heading for the rolling acres beyond the track. It all looked so perfect, so affluent, and she sighed. She knew how much her husband loved this life. Christina threw on her fur-lined coat and dragged her riding boots out of the hall closet. By the time she reached the stable yard, most of the horses were out exercising, and she walked from stable to stable, then turned into the tack room. It was a hive of activity. The pungent aroma of saddle soap mingled with the fresh smell of hay and manure. For the first time she felt as if she didn’t belong. She walked for an hour around all the stables, into the various yards and offices, and then to the garages. She stood by her husband’s Rolls-Royce, which was being polished by one of the chauffeurs, ready to be sold. She asked where the driver she usually used was and discovered that he no longer worked for them. It was only now that she realized just how many of the staff had gone. It made her feel even more inadequate. No wonder Donald Fleming was concerned. So much had happened while she had been away. So much that she hadn’t noticed on her return.