Dick Francis - Under Orders

I removed a large hold-all from the boot of my car and carried it through the empty and lifeless stable yard to the house. Kate was in the kitchen giving some early lunch to Alice, her youngest, Bill’s much-wanted daughter.

‘Hello, Kate,’ I said, giving her a kiss.

‘Hi, Sid. How nice to see you. Do you want some lunch?’

‘Just coffee would be lovely. Do you mind if I go and set up?’

‘Help yourself — though I’m not really sure what you’re doing.’

I had purposely not told her everything. It would have been too distressing.

‘My visitor is coming at one o’clock,’ I said.

‘OK.’ I think she realised that asking who the visitor was would be pointless, so she didn’t. ‘I’ll be going shortly to do some shopping in Wantage, and will have Alice with me. I have to pick the other children up from school there at three so I won’t be back until three thirty at the earliest. Is that OK?

‘Better make it four,’ I said. ‘Or even four thirty, if that’s not too late.’ I wasn’t sure how long my little plan would take.

‘OK. I’ll take the children to see Mummy for tea. Black or white coffee?’

‘White, please.’

‘I’ll bring it through.’

Setting up took me about twenty minutes and just as I finished, Chris Beecher arrived. I heard his car on the drive.

‘Your visitor is here early,’ said Kate as I went back into the kitchen. ‘We’re off now, and we may see you later. If you finish early, put the key through the letter box when you go. I’ve another one to get in with.’

‘Right,’ I said. I gave her a kiss. ‘And thank you.’

Chris and Kate passed each other at the kitchen door and briefly paused to shake hands without formal introductions. I watched Kate strap little Alice into her car seat and then drive away.

Chris watched with me. ‘Does she know what you’re up to?’ he asked.

‘Not exactly. She thinks you’re my visitor.’

‘Ah.’

Chris and I went through everything again to be sure we had the sequence right.

‘And once you start talking,’ he said, ‘you don’t want me to say anything, is that right?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Please try not to say or ask anything , however keen you might be. But don’t stop listening.’

‘No chance of that.’

I went into the sitting room to wait, and Chris went back to the kitchen. I couldn’t hear a car on the drive from where I was, but at one o’clock sharp I detected voices in the kitchen. Our real visitor had arrived, and then I could hear Chris laying on the charm as he guided our visitor through the house.

I waited. When I was sure that they would be in the right place, I left the sitting room and walked across the hall. The house was old fashioned and it had locks with big black keys on all the internal doors. I went silently through one of the doors the other side of the hall, then closed and locked it behind me. I put the key in my pocket. Our visitor was facing the window, sitting in the big armchair.

We were in Bill Burton’s den. The scene of his death.

I walked round until I was in front of the chair.

‘Hello, Juliet,’ I said.

Juliet looked at me, then at Chris and back to me again.

‘Hello, Sid,’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’ She shifted in the chair and looked slightly uneasy.

‘I arranged it,’ I said.

‘But, I thought…’ She turned to look at Chris again. ‘I thought you said you wanted to interview me for the newspaper.’

Chris didn’t say a word.

‘He did,’ I said, ‘because I asked him to.’

Chris had called her on the telephone from the wine bar to ask if he could write an article about her for The Pump as a rising assistant trainer. He had told her that he was doing a series of such pieces on the future stars of racing and she would be the first. He had told her he wanted to meet her at the place where she had started her career, at Bill Burton’s. I had assumed that her vanity would overcome any reluctance, and I had been right. Juliet had been really keen and had readily agreed.

So here she was.

I hoped that she was feeling a little uncomfortable to be back in the room where Bill had died. I was.

‘Why?’ she said.

‘I wanted to have a little chat,’ I said.

‘What about?’ She was keeping her cool but her eyes betrayed her anxiety. She looked back and forth from me to Chris with a little white showing around her irises.

‘And what’s that for?’ she asked, pointing at the video camera on a tripod that I had set up facing her. I had brought it with me in the hold-all together with a separate tape recorder and microphone. Just to be on the safe side.

‘To make sure we have a full record of what we say in our little chat,’ I said.

‘I don’t want a little chat with you,’ she said, and stood up. ‘I think I’ll leave now.’

She walked over to the door and tried to open it. ‘Unlock this immediately!’ she demanded.

‘I could,’ I said slowly, ‘but then I would have to give these to the police.’

I withdrew the photographs of the contents of her wardrobe from my pocket.

‘What are those?’ There was a slight concern in her voice.

‘Photographs,’ I said. ‘Sit down and I’ll show you.’

‘Show me here.’ She stayed by the door.

‘No. Sit down.’

She stood for a moment, looking first at me and then at Chris.

‘All right, I will, but I’m not going to answer any questions.’

She moved back to the chair and sat down. She leaned back and crossed her legs. She was trying to give the impression that she was in control of the situation. I wondered for how long she would believe it.

‘Show me the photographs,’ she said.

I handed them to her.

She looked through all six prints, taking her time. ‘So?’ she said.

‘They are photographs of the inside of your wardrobe.’

‘I can see that. So what?’ She didn’t ask how I had got them.

‘Your wardrobe is full of designer clothes, shoes and handbags.’

‘So? I like smart things. What’s wrong with that?’

‘They’re very expensive,’ I said.

‘I’m an expensive girl,’ she replied, smiling.

‘Where did you get them?’ I asked.

‘That’s none of your bloody business,’ she said, growing in confidence.

‘I think it is,’ I said.

‘Why?’

‘Because assistant trainers don’t usually make enough to buy upwards of thirty thousand pounds’ worth of clothes,’ I said. ‘Not unless they’re selling information about the horses they look after or are up to other acts of no good.’

She slowly uncrossed her legs and then recrossed them the other way. ‘They were given to me by a rich admirer,’ she said.

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘you mean George Lochs.’

That shook her. She quickly sat forward in the chair, but then recovered her composure and leaned back again.

‘Who’s he?’ she asked.

‘Come on, Juliet, that won’t do! You know perfectly well who George Lochs is. He gave you all that stuff in your wardrobe.’

‘Now what makes you think that?’ she said.

‘I called the Jimmy Choo boutique in Sloane Street this morning and I asked if they kept a record of everyone who buys their shoes. The manager said they did, but he wouldn’t tell me who was on the list.’

Juliet smiled slightly. But she had relaxed too soon.

‘So I called their boutique in New Bond Street and said that I was phoning on behalf of Miss Juliet Burns who was abroad and had lost a buckle off a shoe and wanted to have a replacement sent out to her. They told me that they had no record of a Miss Juliet Burns having bought any shoes from them.’