Dick Francis - Crossfire

"You must be joking," he said. "And turn down our Bella's best VSOP? Not bloody likely." He tilted his head right back and poured the golden-brown liquid down his throat. I couldn't help but think of my mother pouring her green-potato-peel concoction down her horses' throats in the same manner.

Ewen's wife, Julie, had departed with the other guests, saying she was tired and was going home to bed. Her husband seemed to be in no hurry to join her. Isabella refilled his glass.

"So, Tom," he said, taking another sizable mouthful. "Where does the army send you next? Back to Afghanistan? Back to the fight?"

Isabella was looking at me intently.

"I think my fighting days are over," I said. "I'm getting too old for that."

"Nonsense," Isabella said. "You're the same age as me."

"But front-line fighting is for younger men. More than half of those in the army that have been killed in Afghanistan were under twenty-four, and more of them were teenagers than were older than me. In the modern infantry, you're past it by the age of thirty."

"I can't believe that," Ewen said. "I was still wet behind the ears until I was at least thirty."

"But it's true," I said. "In a ten-year period, Alexander the Great, the Greek King of Macedonia, conquered Turkey and Egypt, much of the rest of the Middle East, as well as all of Persia and parts of India as far away as the Himalayas, and he managed it all by the time he was thirty. He is still revered by soldiers the world over as one of the greatest military commanders of all time, yet he was only thirty-two when he died. Sadly, the truth of the matter is that I'm over the hill already."

Was I trying to convince them, or myself?

"So what will you do instead?" Ewen asked.

"I'm not really sure," I said. "Perhaps I'll take up racehorse training."

"It's not always as exciting as it appears," he said. "Particularly not at seven-thirty on cold, wet winter mornings."

"Especially after a late night out drinking," said Isabella with a laugh.

"Oh God," said Ewen, looking at his watch. "Quick. Give me another brandy."

Isabella and I laughed. Peter Garraway sat stony-faced on the sofa.

"At least it would be a bit safer than you're used to," Rebecca Garraway said.

"I don't really think I'll be joining the ranks of racehorse trainers," I said with a smile. "It was only a joke."

However, neither Rebecca nor her husband seemed amused by it.

"I think it's time I was off," I said, standing up. "Isabella, thank you for a lovely evening. Good night, all."

"Good night," Ewen and Rebecca called back as Isabella showed me out into the hallway. Peter Garraway said nothing.

"Thank you for tonight," I said, as Isabella opened the front door. "It's been great fun."

"I'm sorry about the Garraways," she said, lowering her voice. "They can be a bit strange at times, especially him. I think he fancies me." She laughed. "But I think he's creepy."

"And rather rude," I whispered back, pulling a face. "Who are they?"

"Old friends of Jackson's." She rolled her eyes. "Unfortunately, they're our houseguests. The Garraways always come over for the end of the pheasant-shooting season-Peter is a great shot-and they're staying on for the races on Saturday."

"At Newbury?"

She nodded. "Are you going?"

"Probably," I said.

"Great. Maybe see you there." She laughed. "Unless, of course, you see the Garraways first."

"What exactly does Peter Garraway do?" I asked.

"He makes pots and pots of money," she said. "And he owns racehorses. Ewen trains some of them."

I thought that explained a lot.

"I don't think Mr. Garraway is overimpressed by his trainer drinking your brandy until all hours of the night."

"Oh, that's not the problem," she said. "I think it's because Peter and Jackson had a bit of a stand-up row earlier. Over some business project they're working on together. I didn't really listen."

"What sort of business?" I asked.

"Financial services or something," she said. "I don't really know. Business is not my thing." She laughed. "But Peter must do very well out of it. We go and stay with them occasionally, and their house makes this place look like a weekend cottage. It's absolutely huge."

"Where is it?" I asked.

"In Gibraltar."

The Silver Pines Nursing Home was a modern redbrick monstrosity built onto the side of what had once been an attractive Victorian residence on the northern edge of the town of Andover, in Hampshire.

"Certainly, sir," said one of the pink-uniformed lady carers when I asked if I might visit Mr. Sutton. "Are you a relative?"

"No," I said. "I live in the same road as Mr. Sutton. In Hungerford."

"I see," said the carer. She wasn't really interested. "I think he's in the dayroom. He sits there most mornings after breakfast."

I followed her along the corridor into what had once been the old house. The dayroom was the large bay-windowed front parlor, and there were about fifteen high-backed upright armchairs arranged around by the walls. About half of the chairs were occupied, and most of the occupants were asleep.

"Mr. Sutton," called the pink lady walking towards one elderly gentleman. "Wake up, Mr. Sutton. You've got a visitor." She shook the old boy, and he slowly raised his head and opened his eyes. "That's better." She spoke to him as if he were a child, then she leaned forwards and wiped a drop of dribble from the corner of his mouth. I began to think that I shouldn't have come.

"Hello, Mr. Sutton." I spoke in the same loud manner that the lady had used. "Do you remember me?" I asked. "It's John, John from Willow Close." Unsurprisingly, he stared at me without recognition. "Jimbo and his mum send their love. Has your son, Fred, been in yet today?"

The pink lady seemed satisfied. "Can I leave you two together, then?" she asked. "The tea trolley will be round soon if you want anything."

"Thank you," I said.

She walked away, back towards the entrance, and I sat down on an empty chair next to Old Man Sutton. All the while, he went on staring at me.

"I don't know you," he said.

I watched with distaste as he used his right hand to remove a set of false teeth from his mouth. He studied them closely, took a wooden toothpick from his shirt pocket and used it to remove a piece of his breakfast that had become stuck in a crevice. Satisfied, he returned the denture to his mouth with an audible snap.

"I don't know you," he said again, the teeth now safely back in position.

I looked around me. There were six other residents in the room, and all but one had now drifted off to sleep. The one whose eyes were open was staring out through the window at the garden and ignoring us.

"Mr. Sutton," I said, straight to his face. "I want to ask you about a man called Roderick Ward."

I hadn't been sure what reaction to expect. I'd thought that maybe Old Man Sutton wouldn't be able to remember what he'd had for dinner last night, let alone something that happened nearly a year previously.

I was wrong.

He remembered, all right. I could see it in his eyes.

"Roderick Ward is a thieving little bastard." He said it softly but very clearly. "I'd like to wring his bloody neck." He held out his hands towards me as if he might wring my neck instead.

"Roderick Ward is already dead," I said.

Old Man Sutton dropped his hands into his lap. "Good," he said. "Who killed him?"

"He died in a road accident," I said.

"That was too good for him," the old man said with venom. "I'd have killed him slowly."

I was slightly taken aback. "What did he do to you?" I asked. It had to be more than throwing a brick through his window.

"He stole my life savings," he said.

"How?" I asked.

"Some harebrained scheme of his that went bust," he said. He shook his head. "I should never have listened to him."