Felix Francis: Crisis

I stepped over the bulging hoses and walked towards the door that the policeman had indicated.

I knocked.

There was no answer, not least because those inside would have had great difficulty in hearing. Not only were there shouts from the firemen manning the hoses and the constant roar of the fire-engine pumps out on the road, but I could also hear raised voices from within.

I stepped through the door to find that I was in an office with wooden desks against two walls, and two upright chairs, both in need of some reupholstery to their seats. On each desk there were computer monitors, switched off, and, above, rows of wooden pegs on which hung a mass of vibrantly coloured racing silks. The window next to the door would give someone sitting at the far desk a clear view out towards the stable yard.

The raised voices were coming from deeper within, so I walked along a short passage from the office towards the kitchen where the door was slightly ajar.

‘Why the hell should you care anyway?’ I could clearly hear a loud angry male voice. ‘You’ve done your best to put a spanner in my works at every turn.’

‘That’s not fair,’ countered a high-pitched female, emotion causing her voice to tremble somewhat. ‘It’s not Declan’s fault the Sheikh has decided to move the horses. He has always tried to help you.’

‘Ha! You call that help? You must be bloody joking. Stupid cow.’

‘Don’t speak to Bella like that.’ It was a second angry male voice. ‘If you have a problem with me, let’s go outside and sort it man to man.’

‘Stop it!’ shouted an older male voice. ‘We’re in enough trouble already without you two behaving like spoilt brats in the playground. Why can’t you all just get on?’

I was holding back in the passage, and for two reasons. First, I didn’t want to embarrass the family by bursting in when they were in the middle of a slanging match, and secondly, I thought I might just learn something. One never knew when an overheard snippet could be useful.

But there was a lull in the proceedings with just a general background hubbub, so I went up to the kitchen door and knocked loudly.

Everyone inside went immediately silent.

I waited.

A few seconds later, I heard footsteps and the door was pulled wide open by a short elderly man with a full head of wavy grey hair.

‘Mr Chadwick?’ I asked. ‘Oliver Chadwick?’

He nodded. ‘That’s me.’

‘Harrison Foster,’ I said. ‘From Simpson White. I believe you’re expecting me.’ I handed him one of my business cards.

‘Yes,’ he said, not sounding very pleased about it. ‘Come on in.’

There were seven of them altogether in the kitchen, four men and three women.

‘I’m Ryan Chadwick,’ said one of the men, confidently coming forward and offering his hand. ‘I’m the trainer here.’ He was obviously his father’s son, short and wiry with similar features and the same wavy hair, although his was mostly still dark with just a few grey streaks at the temples. ‘This is my wife, Susan.’

Susan Chadwick was a petite brunette, and even a catastrophic fire at her husband’s workplace had not prevented her from dressing smartly and applying bright red lipstick.

‘Declan Chadwick,’ said another of the men, stepping forward to shake my hand. ‘Ryan’s brother. And my wife Arabella.’

Arabella was a good three or four inches taller than her husband, with long blonde straight hair, centre-parted. She too had managed to apply her make-up, complete with mascara-lengthened lashes and rose eyeshadow.

‘And I’m Tony,’ said the fourth man, coming forward. ‘The runt of the Chadwick boys.’ He laughed but the others didn’t.

Even though I knew that Tony was actually in his thirties, his lack of stature, slight build and fresh face made him look much younger. He wore tight skinny jeans over his tight skinny legs and I wondered if he’d bought them from the children’s department.

That left just one other woman and there was an awkward pause before she stepped forward. ‘I’m Maria,’ she said. ‘Oliver’s wife.’

She alone of the women gave the impression of having being roused rapidly from her bed by the fire — her long fair hair was straggly and tied back into a ponytail, and she was wearing a loose-fitting grey sweatshirt and joggers.

According to Georgina’s brief, Maria was Oliver’s third wife, and clearly not the parent of either Ryan or Declan. For a start, she barely looked any older than them, and there was no acknowledgement from either as I shook her hand. Indeed, they turned the other way as if even looking at her was more than they could bear.

The wicked stepmother , I thought. And clearly not in favour.

‘Is there somewhere we could speak privately?’ I said to Oliver.

He looked at me, somewhat surprised. ‘There’s nothing you can’t say in front of my sons.’

I would have preferred it otherwise but, if he was happy, so be it.

I looked at each of them in turn. ‘My name is Harry Foster. I’m a lawyer and I am here as Sheikh Karim’s personal representative.’ I handed out more of my business cards. ‘The Sheikh is very keen to ensure that nothing is said or done that in any way reflects badly on him or his reputation. And that means he also has the wellbeing of you and your stables at heart. It must be clearly understood that nothing should be said by any of you to anyone, and specifically not to the press, without clearing it with me first, and I mean nothing. Not even ‘no comment’. That makes it look like you’re hiding something. Better to say nothing at all. Do you understand?’

I looked at Oliver and then at Ryan, Declan and Tony.

They didn’t like it. I could read it in their faces: Who is this upstart who is telling us what we can and can’t do in our own house?

‘Do you understand?’ I repeated.

‘Yes,’ said Oliver.

I looked at the others and they nodded.

‘Good. Now, can you fill me in on what has happened so far this morning? Who knew that Prince of Troy was one of the horses lost? And how did the press find out?’ I showed them the front page of the Evening Standard with its bold headline.

‘I spoke with all the owners I could find,’ Ryan said. ‘I left a message for the Sheikh.’

I was quite certain that he wouldn’t have given it to the newspapers.

‘Who else?’

‘I informed Weatherbys.’

‘Weatherbys?’ I asked.

‘They do all the administration for British racing. I have to tell them immediately if any horse entered in a race has to be scratched. Prince of Troy was one of those entered for the Derby. Weatherbys will have issued an urgent press release so that no more ante-post bets were placed on him.’

‘What time did you tell them?’ I asked.

‘I called their Racing Calendar Office at eight-thirty, when it opened.’

‘Did you tell them why Prince of Troy had to be scratched?’

‘Of course,’ Ryan said. ‘I notified them he’d died, and the six others, as I am required to do. And it’s hardly a bloody secret we’ve had a fire. There’ve been fire engines out on the road since midnight. Doesn’t take an effing genius to put those facts together.’ He nodded towards the newspaper I was still holding.

He was getting quite agitated, and who could really blame him? Seven of his best horses were dead. His Derby dream had literally gone up in smoke.

We were interrupted by a loud knock on the outside door.

Oliver went to answer it and returned with one of the two senior policemen I had seen earlier. The officer removed his silver-braided peaked cap as he came into the kitchen.

‘Mr Ryan Chadwick?’ he asked.

‘That’s me,’ said Ryan, stepping forward.