“She’s going for a blood test in a few days,” Fleming said. “We’ll know if she’s in foal then, but I think your boy may have done the business.”
“Fine. I’ll keep in touch.” He hung up and sighed. He was tired to the bone, but before he settled for the night, he took out the bottle of morphine and the hypodermic needle with the ketamine. Sylvia Hewitt’s glass of water had contained enough horse tranquilizer to knock out a carthorse permanently, so he reckoned one heavy slug of it along with the morphine was enough to ensure she would no longer be a problem. He refused to allow himself to contemplate what he had done and instead concentrated on getting rid of the evidence. He wrapped the bottle and the syringe in a hotel napkin and smashed them against the wall, Then he took one of the glasses in his room, dropped it on the floor, and added the broken pieces to the crushed bottle and syringe. He slipped out of his room, walked along the corridor and up another flight of stairs until he came to an unattended porter’s trolley. He emptied the glass into the bin and tossed the towel and napkin in a laundry basket before he returned to his room. It was after eleven when he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Over the next two nights they began to move the vehicles to the warehouse. They had disguised the Royal mascot on the Daimler so no one would be suspicious, but when it was driven to the warehouse in Aldersgate at four in the morning, there was hardly a soul around. The movement of the clothes and motorbikes was simpler but also done under cover of night. There was no looking back now, and de Jersey called Dulay. The Hortensia Princess was on its way to the South Coast of England with Dulay at the helm. All the months of preparation, the working out of timings and details had begun to gel.
On May 1, Royal Flush won his first race of the season at Lingfield by seven lengths. Mickey Rowland was sad that de Jersey had not been there to witness his victory; Fleming was surprised. They both received calls from de Jersey and gave him a second-by-second account of the race, how Royal Flush had not even been breathing hard afterward. He had traveled home calmly and eaten his feed, and both jockey and trainer were confident.
“You should have been there, Mr. de Jersey,” said Fleming. “He did you proud. He did us all proud. You’ve got a champion there. You should have seen the Sheikh’s trainer sniffing around him. We’ll headline in the Racing News, I guarantee it.”
There was an awkward pause, then Fleming went on. “With regard to the filly, Bandit Queen, she’s in foal.”
“Jesus God,” de Jersey said, closing his eyes.
“You want me to ship her out to Ireland to this Shaughnessy character?”
“Yes, I’ll call with the details. Well done, and thank you again.”
Christina watched as the lads celebrated Royal Flush’s win. Fleming had cracked open the champagne. He was drinking directly from a bottle. “Did you see him?” he asked Christina.
“Of course. It was on Channel Four. Did you speak to my husband? He told me that he had to go to Dublin.”
“He was over the moon. If our boy wins the next one, he’s got one hell of a chance at the Derby. Can I offer you a glass? The boss ordered a crate for the lads.”
“No, thank you,” she said, turning as one of the lads asked Fleming about arranging the horse box for Bandit Queen.
“Be over there later with the paperwork,” Fleming called back.
“Are you selling her?” Christina asked, perplexed. Edward had bought the horse for her.
“Yep, she’s being shipped out to Ireland.”
“Oh, I see. Is that why he’s going over there?”
“I guess so. She’s been bought by a Michael Shaughnessy, old friend of Mr. de Jersey’s.”
“Well, congratulations to everyone,” she said and went back toward the house. Then she changed her mind and went to her car. She drove over to where the brood mares were stabled and parked. She sat watching as the filly was led out of her stall while the lads drove up in the horse box. Christina got out and crossed to them as they were draping Bandit Queen in a blanket.
“Another gone,” she said, half to herself, then moved closer to stroke the mare’s head.
A young lad stood to one side holding the halter. “Sad to see her go,” he said. “We had high hopes for her.”
“Do you know this man Michael Shaughnessy who’s apparently bought her?”
“No, Mrs. de Jersey, but she must have cost him a packet. Like I said, we had high hopes for her, and she won her maiden race almost as well as our Royal Flush.”
“Thank you,” Christina said and went back to her car. She drove to the house, and as she went into the kitchen, the phone rang.
“Christina? It’s Helen Lyons.”
Christina sighed. “Hello, Helen,” she said. “How are you?”
“Oh, a little better now. I’m staying with a friend in Devon, and she’s taking good care of me. Is this an inconvenient time to call?”
“Erm, no.”
“It’s about my insurance from the house. Sylvia was taking care of it. They still haven’t settled, you know, since the fire.”
“Good heavens! That is a long time.”
“Well, that’s what I thought, but with things the way they are between Sylvia and me, I don’t feel I can call her.”
“I understand, Helen, but it seems you’re going to have to. Or perhaps you should write to her.”
“I have, but she hasn’t replied. I was wondering…” Her voice tapered off.
Christina said nothing.
“Well, as I said, I really don’t want to speak to her, and I was wondering if you would be kind enough to call her for me as you knew David so well.”
Christina sighed again. She could see no way out of it. “I’ll call her for you, Helen.”
“Oh, thank you. Please would you ask her to send me the details of the insurance policy. I’d be most grateful.”
Christina took down Sylvia’s number and Helen’s in Devon and said she would call her back as soon as she had contacted Sylvia. She hung up feeling irritated. She had no interest in Helen or her sister, especially when she considered what David Lyons had done to her husband. She lit a cigarette before she rang Sylvia. There was no reply. She made another call to Dublin, to the Westcliffe Hotel, where her husband usually stayed. She was told that Mr. de Jersey had not booked in, and they were not expecting him. This time she slammed the receiver down. Another lie! She stubbed out her cigarette and lit another immediately.
The phone rang, and she snatched it up. “Yes?”
“Christina, it’s Helen. Did you call her?”
“Yes, there was no reply.”
“Did you try her office? I did give you her work number as well, didn’t I?”
“No.”
Helen gave Christina Sylvia’s work number, thanked her profusely, and apologized again.
“Helen, I’ll call you back as soon as I’ve spoken to Sylvia. So there’s no need for you to ring me again. Good-bye now.”
Christina hung up. She felt like weeping. She sat smoking one cigarette after another, then forced herself to leave the kitchen. She’d change the beds and see to the laundry. After that she’d return to the study. She would go through every document she could find. When her husband returned home she would be ready for him, and this time she wanted answers, not lies.
Once everything had been transported to the warehouse, they cleared the barn. De Jersey and Driscoll spent hours cleaning up. They didn’t leave a scrap of evidence. The stove, the heaters, and the big lamps were all removed. They lit a bonfire to burn the waste, the paper cups, the rubber gloves. With only twenty-four hours to go, it was the calm before the storm.
De Jersey tapped the window of the Mercedes. In a chauffeur’s uniform behind the wheel, Driscoll lowered the window. “It’s time,” de Jersey said. “Let’s get the ball rolling.”