‘Oh God,’ she was crying, ‘I do so hope you’re right.’
‘Believe it,’ I said. ‘It’s true.’
We talked for a while longer about the children and the future of the house. I managed to steer the conversation around to the stable staff.
‘What has happened to them all?’ I asked her.
‘Gone off to other jobs. Mostly in Lambourn,’ she said.
‘What about Juliet?’ I said.
‘She’s with Andrew Woodward now,’ said Kate. ‘It’s a good job, and she’s done really well to get it. I’m so pleased for her. I like Juliet Burns.’
Jesus had liked Judas Iscariot. They had kissed.
‘How about Fred Manley?’ I asked. Fred had been Bill’s head lad.
‘I’m not sure. He may have retired.’
‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘Fred is actually a lot younger than he looks. He’s not yet fifty.’
‘I don’t believe it!’ said Kate. ‘I always felt so sorry for him having to carry such heavy loads at his age.’ She laughed. It was a start.
‘Do you know where he lives?’ I asked.
‘In one of those cottages on the Baydon road. Next door to Juliet, I think.’
Wow!
‘Do you have his phone number?’
‘Yes.’ There was a pause. ‘But it’s in the den.’
‘Ah.’
‘Well,’ she said, taking a deep breath, ‘I have to go in there sometime. I suppose it had better be now.’
I heard her lay the phone down and I could hear her foot-falls on the wooden floor as she walked away. And again as she came back. She picked up the phone. There was a breathlessness in her voice as she gave me the number.
‘Well done, Kate,’ I said. ‘Be strong and believe what I told you.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘Oh, and one more thing, Kate. Could you do me a favour?’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘What do you want?’
I explained at some length what I needed without giving away the whole truth.
‘It sounds a bit strange,’ she said after I told her, ‘but if that’s what you want, I suppose it’s no problem.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘It will probably be tomorrow afternoon. I’ll call you.’
I tried Fred Manley’s number but got his wife.
‘Sorry, Mr Halley,’ she said. ‘Fred’s not here just now.’
‘When will he be back?’ I asked.
‘He’ll be back for his dinner, at one.’
‘I’ll call again then.’
‘Right you are,’ she said and disconnected.
It was a quarter to ten.
Provided Marina received the ‘all clear’ from Mr Pandita during his round this morning, she would be free to come home around midday.
I spent an hour cleaning the flat and washing up the dishes that were stacked in the kitchen sink. I was genuinely excited by the prospect of Marina’s homecoming. I was about to leave for the hospital when the phone rang. It was Charles.
‘Do you really think it’s necessary for me to stay in London?’ he asked, clearly hoping to be given the green light to go home to Oxfordshire.
‘Are you still at Jenny and Anthony’s?’ I asked back.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m desperate for a decent single malt. I’m fed up with carrot juice and bean sprouts, I can tell you.’
I laughed. ‘It’ll do you good.’
I thought about what I was planning to do.
‘I think it might be safer for you to stay away from Aynsford for a while longer,’ I said. ‘A few more days.’
‘I’ll go to my club then,’ he said. ‘I’ve been with Jenny now for two nights and everyone knows that guests begin to smell after three. I’ll move into the Army amp; Navy tomorrow.’ The lure of the bar had become too great.
I arrived at St Thomas’s to find Marina dressed and sitting in a chair.
‘They’ve cleared me for release,’ she said. She made it sound like the parole board.
‘Great,’ I said.
A hospital porter arrived with a wheelchair and he pushed Marina along the corridors and down in the lift to the patient discharges’ desk near the main entrance. I retrieved the car from where I had parked it, legally this time, in the underground car park, and we were soon a distant memory at the hospital. Today’s dramas had taken over.
‘Stop fussing,’ Marina said as I shepherded her into the Ebury Street building and up in the lift to our flat. ‘I’m fine.’
I knew she was fine. I was fussing because I was worried about her security.
At one o’clock, with Marina settled on the sofa with the Sunday papers, I telephoned Fred Manley, and spoke to him for nearly an hour.
‘Don’t let your dinner get cold,’ I said.
‘No problem, it’s keeping warm in the oven.’
He told me all about the systems that Bill had used, and about who went away with horses that needed to stay overnight at the northern tracks. In the end he told me more than I could have hoped for.
‘Thanks, Fred,’ I said. ‘That’s very helpful.’
‘What’s it for?’ he asked.
‘Oh, just some research I’m doing about training methods. I was about to ask Bill about it when he died.’
‘Damn shame that was. Mr Burton was a good man and a fine employer. I knew where I stood with him.’
‘Have you found another job?’ I asked him.
‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘To be honest, I’m thinking of leaving racing. It’s not like it used to be. The fun’s gone out of it. Nowadays, it’s all about blame. If a horse doesn’t win, the owners blame the trainers and the trainers blame their staff. There are bound to be more losers than winners, stands to reason. Mr Burton, mind, he never blamed his lads but nearly all the other trainers do. Mr Burton had one owner that used to rant and rave at him for the horses not winning. We all could hear it from the house. But Mr Burton never used us as his excuse. Proper gentleman, he was, unlike that owner.’
‘Do you know which of the owners it was?’ I asked.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘It was that lord. You know, the builder.’
‘Lord Enstone?’ I said.
‘Yeah, that’s the one. Lord Enstone.’
Finally, I let him go and have his dinner. I hoped it wasn’t completely ruined.
Marina and I spent a quiet afternoon cuddled up on the sofa watching a rugby international on the television. Marina kept her leg up on a footstool as instructed by the surgeon and we eased the hours with a bottle of Chablis.
I arrived at the Ebury Street Wine Bar at a quarter to seven to be sure to be there before Chris Beecher. I had left Marina still on the sofa and had doubled-locked the flat on my way out. I didn’t expect to be away for long.
The wine bar was very quiet when I arrived so I chose a table where I could sit with my back to the wall with a good view of the door. I knew a politician who always insisted on sitting the same way in restaurants and for the same reason. It was difficult for anyone to creep up without being spotted.
I wondered why I was giving Chris Beecher a scoop after what he had done to me. After all, it was he who had sent Evan Walker after me with a shotgun, and it was he who had shown Marina’s face to the world. But now I needed him. I needed his large readership. I needed his bloody-mindedness. And, above everything else, I needed his rottweiler tendencies. Once he had a good bite, I knew he wouldn’t let go.
He arrived at ten to seven and was surprised to see that I was there ahead of him.
‘Hiya, Sid,’ he said. ‘What are you drinking?’
I hadn’t yet ordered.
‘Are you buying?’ I asked.
‘Depends,’ he said. ‘Is it a good story?’
‘The best,’ I assured him.