Felix Francis - Crisis

‘Superintendent Bennett,’ said the policeman, introducing himself. ‘Are all your stable staff accounted for?’

‘I believe so,’ Ryan said. ‘Why?’

‘Human remains have been found in the fire.’

The discovery of a dead human along with the dead horses changed everything.

Within minutes the whole place was crawling with more police, many of them in full white forensic overalls, some with hoods and face masks, and blue and white POLICE DO NOT CROSS tape was strung everywhere, including across the door from the office to the stable yard.

Presently, another police officer arrived in the kitchen and asked Ryan for a list of names of all his staff and confirmation that they were accounted for.

The list was apparently no problem, it was in the office, but the whereabouts of the twenty-six individuals was less certain and more difficult to establish.

‘They went with the horses,’ Ryan explained.

Newmarket, it seemed, had rallied round in time of crisis, and accommodation for the surviving equines had been quickly offered by nearby stables with available space. Great care had been taken to record the location of each of the remaining four-legged residents, but less attention had been apportioned to the two-legged variety.

‘How many staff live on site?’ asked the policeman.

‘Eighteen,’ Ryan replied. ‘Six in flats built over the old stables and twelve others in a special hostel round the back in the new yard.’

‘New yard?’

‘Yes,’ said Ryan. ‘I currently train a hundred and five horses, at least I did before this. It’s now ninety-eight. The three old stable blocks in the quad close to the house can each house twelve, that’s only thirty-six, and we have four barns each with twenty-four stalls in the new yard, one hundred and thirty-two spaces in total. We call it the new yard but most of it’s more than thirty years old now. The last barn was built just before the turn of the millennium.’

‘Did anyone live over the stables that burned?’

‘No, thank God. We were refurbishing the two flats in that one. Almost finished them too. What a bloody waste of money that was.’ His shoulders drooped and he leaned forward on the office desk with a huge sigh as if even standing up straight was too much of an effort.

‘Mr Chadwick,’ the policeman said quite forcefully, ‘there is someone lying dead in your stable block. We need urgently to establish the whereabouts of your staff to eliminate them as the possible victim.’

‘Yes, of course. I’ll make some calls.’

Ryan spent the next two hours ringing round his staff and his neighbours. Meanwhile, Declan and Arabella left by the house front door, which opened directly onto Bury Road, to return to their own stable yard; Ryan’s wife, Susan, went to collect their children from her mother. Finally, Tony departed for Windsor where he had two rides at the evening race meeting.

Racing, and life, went on, at least for most.

Oliver and I sat at his kitchen table and he talked me through the events of the night.

‘I’m in bed by ten most evenings,’ he said. ‘My bedroom overlooks the old yard and I was woken at midnight by shouts outside from the stable lads. Thought I was having a nightmare. Except it was real. The block was already well alight with flames leaping through the roof. I could feel the heat through the window glass.’

‘Was it you or your wife who woke up first?’ I asked.

‘Me,’ he said. ‘Maria and I now sleep in separate rooms.’ He forced a smile, almost in embarrassment. ‘She claims my snoring keeps her awake.’

‘Where’s her bedroom?’

‘Only across the landing,’ he said.

‘Does it overlook the yard as well?’

‘No, the garden. Anyway, I immediately called the fire brigade, and then Ryan. Next I banged on Maria’s door to wake her. Then I rushed outside to help try and save the horses. It was pandemonium, pure pandemonium. Horses hate fire. Drives them crazy. We were fighting against them trying to get them out. It was awful.’

He swallowed hard, fighting back tears.

‘The heat was so bad we couldn’t get close to the block that was alight. All we could hear was the poor horses inside screaming, and that made the others even more frightened. Ryan and I decided they all had to be got away so we took those we could save down the road and tied them to the wooden fences beyond the Severals. We simply left them there while we got the others out. By the time we’d finished, we had almost a hundred top Thoroughbreds tied up in Newmarket town centre. Still had to keep the colts away from the fillies, mind, especially those in season. Even though all were shit-scared by the fire, their natural instincts are pretty strong so it was quite a struggle.’ He forced a laugh. ‘Funny now, I suppose. But not then, I can tell you.’

‘No,’ I said sympathetically. ‘What are the Severals?’

‘Trotting circles. At the town end of Bury Road.’ He paused. ‘People are pretty good though. When they heard about the fire, and the grapevine works pretty well in these parts, they all came out to help. About half of the horses were taken along to old Widgery’s place and the others went to yards all over the town, wherever there was any room.’

‘Old Widgery’s place?’ I asked.

‘You must know. Tom Widgery. Used to train on Fordham Road. Big place. Empty now since he died last December.’

I looked blank.

‘Don’t you know anything about racing?’ he asked, making it sound like an accusation.

‘No,’ I said.

‘Tom Widgery was the most famous trainer who ever lived,’ Oliver said patiently, as if he was addressing a child. ‘Won everything many times over. Still holds the record for number of Classic wins.’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I was always keener on cricket.’

He gave me a stare of disapproval bordering on disgust but then he clearly remembered why I was there and smiled.

‘A fine game,’ he said, obviously not believing it. ‘But it’s not really a business.’

It is for some , I thought, but it was not worth labouring the point.

‘How about Sheikh Karim’s horses, other than Prince of Troy? Are they all safe?’

A pained expression came over Oliver’s face.

‘Sadly not,’ he said. ‘One of the other six lost was also owned by the Sheikh, a promising two-year-old colt called Conductivity. Cost a minor fortune as a yearling last October. Was due to have his first run this coming weekend up the road. Would have been a future champion, I’m sure. Damned shame.’

‘Was it insured?’ I asked.

‘Not by us,’ Oliver said. ‘That’s the owner’s responsibility. You tell me.’

I was pretty sure that Conductivity wouldn’t have been insured. Nor Prince of Troy. Sheikh Karim would act as his own underwriter and stand the risk himself.

‘How about the stables? Were they insured?’

‘You bet they were.’

‘And who stands to benefit from that, you or Ryan?’

‘I do. I still own everything. Ryan is my tenant. But neither of us are insured for loss of business.’

‘But the yard wasn’t full,’ I said. ‘So at least Ryan has the free space to cope with the loss of twelve boxes.’ Particularly with seven fewer horses , I thought, but decided not to say so.

‘I suppose so,’ Oliver conceded. ‘Not like in my day. Then the yard was full to overflowing with every box taken and a waiting list as long as your arm.’

‘Is the business in trouble?’ I asked.

‘No, nothing like that. It’s just... well, how do I say it?... He’s not me. I suppose a son always finds it difficult taking over a profession from a successful father. I try to keep out of his way as much as possible, but the owners... you know... they still want me to guide him.’