Felix Francis - Crisis

‘Such a noble animal,’ said the Sheikh. ‘I was in England only last week to watch him win the Two Thousand Guineas.’ There was another pause, or was it a sigh? ‘I had hoped he would prove to be the foundation of my new breeding operation. I suppose I will just have to go on looking.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

‘Thank you. Who was the person who died?’ the Sheikh asked.

‘Not yet identified, as far as I’m aware.’

‘One of the stable staff?’

‘No, sir. All of those are accounted for. Ryan Chadwick thinks it may have been a homeless person seeking out a warm spot to sleep. It was clear but cold here on Sunday night.’

‘Please pass my condolences to both Oliver and Ryan Chadwick. Do they know how the fire started?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘The trouble with stables is that there is so much flammable material around. Ryan uses shredded newspaper for his horses’ bedding. A careless match or cigarette end would easily set the whole lot alight. The police are still investigating.’

‘Try to find out the reason from them.’

‘How long do you want me to stay? I don’t feel that I’m really required. The press are getting all the information they need from the authorities. There is nothing that should be a concern for you.’

‘But I am concerned,’ the Sheikh replied in a mildly rebuking tone. ‘Two of my best horses are dead and I don’t know why.’

‘Of course, sir,’ I replied apologetically. ‘What I meant was that there has been no press comment concerning you or any other owner. I’ve checked them all. There is nothing in today’s papers that should in any way be a concern for your reputation.’

‘That is good.’

‘Yes, but I have one question,’ I said. ‘I overheard a conversation in which it was stated that you intended moving your horses away from Ryan Chadwick.’

He laughed.

‘And people ask me why I pay Simpson White’s exorbitant fees. That information is highly confidential.’

‘Yes,’ I said again. ‘But is it true?’

His laughter died.

‘It is partially true. I am planning to move two horses from Ryan to Declan Chadwick.’

‘Which two?’ I asked.

‘Two fillies that I have purchased.’

‘Can I ask why you are moving them?’

There was definitely a pause this time.

‘I do not like being told what to do.’ He spoke the words very slowly and precisely.

I waited in silence. If he wanted to tell me more, he would.

He did.

‘Oliver Chadwick told me I had to buy the two fillies to save his stables. He was overstretched. Too much in debt and his bank was threatening to take away his house.’

‘So you bought the horses to help him out?’

‘Yes,’ said the Sheikh.

‘But now you are moving them?’

‘Yes,’ he said again. ‘I bought the horses only because my bloodstock agent convinced me that they were good value for money.’

‘Bill Vandufful?’

‘Yes. Do you know him?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘But Oliver Chadwick told me that Mr Vandufful was the individual who did the bidding for him at the sale last year.’

‘He had also bought Prince of Troy for me as a yearling. He recognised the potential without having to pay silly money.’

What had Oliver told me the previous evening? Sheikh Karim told me he wanted good colts but not at any price. Half a million was my limit .

I was a little surprised that the Sheikh would be bothered about the amount he paid for a champion racehorse. If magazine rich lists could be believed, he was individually worth more than a few billion, to say nothing of the wealth of his nation that he personally controlled. I thought it was the winning that was important, not the price. Maybe I was wrong.

‘Moderation in their leader is important for my people,’ he said, as if he was reading my mind. ‘We have to prepare for the day the oil runs out.’

‘But why are you moving the fillies to Declan? Why not to another stable unconnected with the Chadwick family?’

‘Vandufful tells me that Oliver has passed Castleton House Stables to the wrong son and that, in time, Declan will prove to be the better trainer of the two.’

‘So will you move your other horses to Declan?’ I asked.

‘I am content to leave those with Ryan,’ he replied, but there was something about the tone of his voice that made me think that future purchases might go directly to Declan.

‘Are you aware there is bad blood between Ryan and Declan?’

‘Bad blood between brothers is nothing new to me. It is commonplace in this part of the world.’

‘But your moving the horses from one to the other has exacerbated the hostility between them.’

‘There is an old Arab saying that sometimes it is necessary to hit a camel with a stick to see if it has any life left in it.’ There was amusement in his voice as if he knew exactly what he’d been doing. It was all a game.

‘I just hope your camel didn’t turn into a fire-breathing dragon,’ I said.

All his amusement evaporated instantly.

‘Are you serious?’ the Sheikh asked. ‘Are you saying that the fire was deliberate?’

‘No, I’m not,’ I said. ‘But I don’t know. We will have to wait for the results of the police investigation.’

There was another slight pause.

‘I want you to stay in Newmarket,’ the Sheikh said. ‘I need you to be my eyes and ears. You will ask questions and determine why my horses died.’

There was now a degree of desperation in his voice as if he was suddenly afraid that his little game had precipitated the disaster.

‘Surely the police will do that,’ I said.

‘I do not control the police in your country. You will report directly to me. I will speak with Colonel White to arrange it.’

‘How long do you want me to stay here?’ I asked.

‘For as long as it takes.’

Just after eight o’clock, I walked from the hotel down Bury Road and in through the top gate into the new yard.

Unlike the old, it was not laid out around a central quad but consisted of three parallel American-style stable barns with a fourth sitting at right angles to the other three at the farthest end from the house. Beyond the barns were an automatic horse-walker and a large covered exercise oval set on the far side of a railed paddock. The stable-staff hostel was tucked into the corner of the paddock close to one end of the cross barn.

I went into the nearest barn.

It had a wide central concrete walkway running the full length between large open sliding doors at the ends. There were twenty-four stalls in total, twelve on each side of the walkway, six at either end, with tack room, bedding and feed stores located between them in the middle.

And everywhere there were large NO SMOKING signs in bold black type, threatening instant dismissal for anyone caught doing otherwise.

I expected the place to be a hive of activity but, while there were plenty of horses standing in their stalls, the only human I could find was one small elderly-looking man busily sweeping the walkway with a stiff brush.

‘Where is everyone?’ I asked.

‘Warren Hill,’ he replied without stopping his sweeping. ‘Second lot went out about half an hour ago now. First lot today was at six.’

‘On the gallops?’ I said, not completely sure of what he was on about.

‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘Up the Warren Hill polytrack. They’ll be back soon.’ He stopped his sweeping, leaned on the broom and looked me up and down. ‘And who are you, might I ask?’

‘Harry Foster,’ I said. ‘I’m here to help Mr Chadwick deal with the fire.’

‘Dreadful thing, that fire,’ he said wistfully. ‘Bloody shame.’

I held out my hand and he shook it, the feel of his palm all leathery and dry from a life outside in the elements.