Dick Francis - Crossfire

She seemed satisfied, if a little uninterested. "And do you have a name for the person whose window was broken?"

"No."

"And no address," she said.

"No," I agreed, "but it was reported in the local newspaper as having happened in Willow Close, Hungerford."

"Right, then," she said decisively. "Let's go and ask someone."

We climbed out of the car.

"Let's start at number sixteen," I said, pointing to one of the houses. "I saw the net curtains in the front room twitch when we arrived. Perhaps they keep an eye on everything that goes on here."

I'm not buying," an elderly woman shouted through the door of number sixteen. "I never buy from door-to-door salesmen."

"We're not selling," I shouted back through the wood. "We'd just like to ask you some questions."

"I don't want any religion, either," the woman shouted again. "Go away."

"Do you remember someone throwing a brick through one of your neighbors' windows?" I asked her.

"What?" she said.

I repeated the question with more volume.

"That wasn't one of my neighbors," she said with certainty. "That was down the end of the close."

"Which house?" I asked her, still through the closed door.

"Down the end," she repeated.

"I know," I said, "but which house?"

"George Sutton's house."

"Which number?" I asked.

"I don't know numbers," she said. "Now go away."

I noted that there was a Neighborhood Watch sticker on the frosted glass next to the door, and I didn't really want her calling the police.

"Come on, let's go," I said to Isabella. "Thank you," I called loudly through the door at the woman. "Have a nice day."

We went back to the Golf, and I could see the net curtains twitching again. I waved as we climbed back into Isabella's car and she drove away down towards the end of the close and out of the woman's sight.

"Which house do you fancy?" I asked, as we stopped at the end.

"Let's try the one with the car in the drive," Isabella said.

We walked up the driveway past a bright yellow Honda Jazz and rang the doorbell. A smart young woman answered, carrying a baby on her hip.

"Yes?" she said. "Can I help you?"

"Hello," said Isabella, jumping in and taking the lead. "Hello, little one," she said to the child, tickling its chin. "We're trying to find Mr. Sutton."

"Old Man Sutton or his son?" the young woman asked helpfully.

"Either," Isabella said, still fussing over the child.

"Old Man Sutton has gone into an old-folks nursing home," the woman said. "His son comes round sometimes to collect his mail."

"How long has Mr. Sutton been in a nursing home?" I asked.

"Since just before Christmas. He'd been going downhill for quite a while. Such a shame. He seemed a nice old chap."

"Do you know which home he's in?" I asked her.

"Sorry," she said, shaking her head.

"And which house is his?"

"Number eight," she said, pointing across the road.

"Do you remember an incident when someone threw a brick through his window?" I asked.

"I heard about it, but it happened before we moved in," she said. "We've only been here eight months or so. Since Jimbo here was born." She smiled down at the baby.

"Do you know how I can contact Mr. Sutton's son?" I asked her.

"Hold on," she said. "I've got his telephone number somewhere."

She disappeared into the house but was soon back with a business card but without little Jimbo.

"Here it is," she said. "Fred Sutton." She read out his number, and Isabella wrote it down.

"Thank you," I said. "I'll give him a call."

"He might be at work right now," the woman said. "He works shifts."

"I'll try him anyway," I said. "What does he do?"

She consulted the business card that was still in her hand.

"He's a policeman," she said. "A detective sergeant."

So why, all of a sudden, don't you want to call this Fred Sutton?" Isabella demanded. We were again sitting in her car, having driven out of Willow Close and into the center of Hungerford.

"I will. But I'll call him later."

"But I thought you wanted to know about this brick through the window," she said.

"I do." I dearly wanted to know why the brick was thrown, but did I now dare ask?

"Well, call him, then."

I was beginning to be sorry that I had asked Isabella to drive me. How could I explain to her that I didn't want to discuss anything to do with Willow Close with any member of the police, let alone a detective sergeant? If he was any good at his job, his detective antennae would be throbbing wildly as soon as I mentioned anything to do with a Roderick Ward, especially if, as I suspected, DS Fred Sutton had been the policeman who had witnessed young Mr. Ward throwing the brick through his father's window in the first place.

"I can't," I said. "I can't involve the police."

"Why on earth not?" she asked, rather self-righteously.

"I just can't," I said. "I promised my young soldier I wouldn't talk to the police."

"But why not?" she asked again, imploring me to answer.

I looked at her. "I'm really sorry," I said. "But I can't tell you why." Even to my ears, I sounded melodramatic.

"Don't be so bloody ridiculous." She was clearly annoyed. "I think I'd better take you home now."

"Maybe that would be best," I said.

My chances of any future bonuses had obviously diminished somewhat.

I passed the afternoon using my mother's computer in her office and its Internet connection. She probably wouldn't have liked it, but, as she was out when Isabella had dropped me back, I hadn't asked.

I did have my own computer, a laptop. It had been in one of the blue holdalls I'd retrieved from Aldershot, but my mother hadn't moved into the wireless age yet, so it was easier to use her old desktop model with its Internet cable plugged straight into the telephone point in the wall.

I looked up reports of inquests using the online service of the Oxford Mail. There were masses of them, hundreds and hundreds, even thousands.

I searched for an inquest with the name Roderick Ward, and there it was, reported briefly by the paper on Wednesday, July 15. But it had been only the opening and adjournment of the inquest immediately after the accident.

It would appear that the full inquest was yet to be heard. However, the short report did contain one interesting piece of information that the Newbury Weekly News had omitted. According to the Oxford Mail website, Roderick Ward's body had been formally identified at the short hearing by his sister, a Mrs. Stella Beecher, also from Oxford.

Perhaps Mr. Roderick Ward really was dead, after all.

At nine o'clock sharp on Tuesday evening my mother received another demand from the blackmailer. The three residents of Kauri House were suffering through another unhappy dinner around the kitchen table when the telephone rang. Both my mother and stepfather jumped, and then they looked at each other.

"Nine o'clock," my stepfather said. "He always calls at exactly nine o'clock."

The phone continued to ring. Neither of them seemed very keen to answer it, so I stood up and started to move over towards it.

"No," my mother screamed, leaping to her feet. "I'll get it."

She pushed past me and grabbed the receiver.

"Hello," she said tentatively into the phone. "Yes, this is Mrs. Kauri."

I was standing right next to her, and I tried to hear what the person at the other end was saying, but he or she was speaking too softly.

My mother listened for less than a minute.

"Yes. I understand," my mother said finally. She placed the phone back in its cradle. "Scientific at Newbury, on Saturday."

"To lose?" I asked.

She nodded. "In the Game Spirit Steeplechase."

She walked like a zombie back to her chair and sat down heavily.