Felix Francis - Crisis

Had I set my sights too high? At the age of thirty-seven was I now in danger of missing out in the matrimonial stakes altogether? Or at least until it was too late to have a family?

Maybe love and marriage would happen one day, or maybe not. I’d long ago stopped worrying about it and had become quite used to living on my own. In many ways it was preferable, not least in being able to please only myself with regard to what I did and when. I suppose it made me selfish, and I did have a few pangs of guilt when my mother spoke of her intense desire to have grandchildren. She should have had more than one child , I thought, but then the mental image of my parents procreating together quickly put paid to that.

Perhaps I should be grateful that I existed at all.

The sound of metal horseshoes clattering on the concrete floor brought me back from my daydreaming and I watched as the third lot were ridden out to exercise on the polytrack up Warren Hill.

I went in search of Ryan Chadwick.

I had to go back onto Bury Road to get down to the house as the old yard was still taped off by the police. Hence I was unable to see into the burned-out shell of the stable block, but some drone shots on the breakfast television news had shown that a square tent had been erected inside, the white of its canvas in sharp contrast to the fire-blackened remains.

I assumed it had been placed over the spot where the human body had been found, about a third of the way along the building from the house.

The fire engines had finally disappeared from outside the main gate but there were several vehicles still parked close by on the verge. One was a white van with ‘CRIME SCENE INVESTIGATION UNIT’ painted in small black letters down each side, and there were two men in full-cover white plastic overalls standing next to the van’s open rear doors, hoods pulled back off their heads and face masks hanging at their throats.

‘Find anything?’ I asked them as I walked by.

They ignored me completely but I wasn’t going to be palmed off that easily.

‘I’m Harrison Foster,’ I said. ‘I represent Sheikh Karim. He owned two of the horses killed in the fire including Prince of Troy.’

They may not have heard of the Sheikh but they certainly had of Prince of Troy. Both of them turned to face me.

‘How can we help you, sir?’ one said in a tone that implied he had no intention of actually helping me at all.

‘The Sheikh wants to know why his horses died,’ I said. ‘What caused the fire?’

‘It’s too early to say,’ the other man replied. ‘We still have tests to carry out in the lab.’

‘You must have some idea,’ I said. ‘Was it an accident?’

‘Are you implying it wasn’t?’ asked the first man.

‘You tell me. You’re the ones who’ve been in there. Have you identified the human victim yet?’

‘That information will be given out in due course,’ the first man said unhelpfully.

‘Who’s your senior officer?’ I asked. ‘Is it still Superintendent Bennett?’

If they were surprised I knew the name, they didn’t show it.

‘He’s in overall charge but our immediate boss is the scene-of-crime officer.’ The man glanced over my left shoulder as he spoke.

I turned around and saw a third white-overalled individual coming out of the yard gate and walking towards us.

‘I’m the scene-of-crime officer here,’ he said, not extending his blue-plastic-clad right hand. ‘What do you want?’

‘I wondered if you had identified the human remains,’ I said.

‘And who are you exactly?’ He said it in a manner that I thought was more disparaging than intentionally rude, although it was a close-run thing.

‘Harrison Foster,’ I repeated. ‘I am the personal representative of His Highness Sheikh Ahmed Karim bin Mohamed Al Hamadi, owner of two of the horses who died, including Prince of Troy.’ I had used the Sheikh’s full name for added gravitas.

I received a look that made me believe that it wouldn’t have mattered if I’d been the Sheikh himself, he wasn’t going to tell me anything, but I was wrong, at least partially.

‘We have yet to establish the victim’s identity,’ he said. ‘Analysis of DNA still has to be carried out.’

‘So there was enough of the body left to find some DNA?’ I said.

‘It is expected so. That will be a job for the pathologist.’

‘How about the horses?’ I asked.

‘What about them?’

‘Will you do DNA tests on them too?’

He looked at me as if I were mad.

‘To prove they are the horses they are claimed to be,’ I said. ‘They were very valuable animals and some were insured.’

The ‘you are mad’ look didn’t change but he seemed to comprehend what I was saying.

‘Do you know something I don’t?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s just the way my mind works.’

ASW always claimed that I’d look for an ulterior motive if my own grandmother asked me over for tea. And he was right.

‘I will bear what you have said in mind,’ he said. ‘Now, sir, please allow us to get on with our jobs.’

‘I’m doing my job, too,’ I said. ‘The Sheikh expects me to find out how and why his horses died.’

‘Leave it to the police,’ he replied. ‘We know what we’re doing.’

Perhaps, I thought, but in my experience, the police rarely answered all the questions posed, only those where a crime might have been committed, and then not always those either. It was simply a matter of available resources and priorities.

‘Can I get into the house through here?’ I asked, pointing at the gate.

‘Not until we have finished our examination.’

‘But I went in here yesterday.’

‘As may be,’ he said. ‘But not today.’

So I walked along the road and rang the front door bell.

Maria answered the door in a pink dressing gown that hung open at the front revealing a pair of sexy cream silk pyjamas with the top two buttons undone.

‘Oh, hello, Harry,’ she said with a broad smile and glazed eyes. ‘Oliver’s out on the gallops. Do you want a drink?’

I looked at my watch. It was twenty past eight in the morning.

‘Much too early for me,’ I said.

‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘Come on in.’ She threw the front door wide open with an extravagant gesture.

‘I’m actually looking for Ryan,’ I said, not at all sure that Maria wasn’t inviting me in for something more than just liquid refreshment.

‘He’s with Oliver.’

‘On Warren Hill?’ I asked.

‘No idea. One set of gallops or another. They’re all the bloody same to me. But they’ll both be back here for breakfast. I know that. Nine o’clock sharp. I’ll be in the doghouse if their toast’s not ready.’ She rolled her eyes and threw her hands up over her head, an action that made the dressing gown swing further open, revealing more cleavage than was good for me at this time of the morning.

‘I thought Oliver had retired,’ I said, keeping my eyes firmly on hers.

She guffawed loudly.

‘If this is his idea of retirement, God help me. He works harder now than he ever did. He didn’t want to stop so young but Ryan had to quit riding so Oliver had his hand forced. Now he doesn’t trust Ryan not to make a total cock-up of the whole business.’

‘And has he?’ I asked.

‘Has he what?’

‘Made a total cock-up of the whole business?’

She suddenly seemed to remember that she was speaking to the representative one of the business’s main racehorse owners.

‘No, of course not,’ she said with a hollow laugh. ‘There have just been a few teething problems since Ryan took over. That’s all.’

Five years is a long time for teething problems, I thought.