Crossfire Read online

‘Still out with the first lot,’ he said.

  I picked up the envelope and looked at the back. ‘IN CASE OF NON-DELIVERY PLEASE RETURN TO HMRC was printed across the flap, so there was no mistake – it was definitely from the taxman.

  I slid my finger under the flap and ripped open the envelope.

  ‘You can’t do that,’ my stepfather said indignantly.

  ‘I just did,’ I said, taking out the contents. I unfolded the letter. It was simply a routine monthly reminder for her PAYE payments for the stable staff.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘This is just a reminder notice. It was generated by a computer. No one is going to come here. Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked, still looking worried.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But they will come in the end if we don’t do something about this mess.’

  ‘But what can we do?’ he said.

  It was a good question.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ I said, ‘but I do know that we will be in even more trouble if we do nothing and then the taxman comes calling. We simply have to go to them with answers before they come to us with questions.’

  My mother swept into the kitchen and placed her hands on the Aga.

  ‘God, it’s cold out there,’ she said. Neither my stepfather nor I said anything. She turned round. ‘What’s wrong with you two? Quiet all of a sudden?’

  ‘A letter has arrived from the tax office,’ my stepfather said.

  In spite of her cold-induced rosy cheeks, my mother went a shade paler.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said in a more reassuring tone than her husband’s. ‘It’s just an automatic PAYE reminder. Nothing to worry about.’ I tossed the letter onto the kitchen table.

  ‘Are you certain?’ she asked, moving forward and picking it up.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But I was saying to Derek here, we will have to tell the taxman soon about what’s happened, and before he starts asking us difficult questions we can’t answer.’

  ‘Why would he?’

  ‘Because you should have sent them a tax return by January the thirty-first.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘But why does that mean we have to tell them everything? Why can’t I just send them a tax return now?’

  Why not indeed? I thought. As things stood, I could just about argue that I was not an accessory to tax evasion, but I certainly wouldn’t be able to if I helped her send in a fraudulent tax return.

  Junior officers have to learn, from cover to cover, the contents of a booklet entitled Values and Standards of the British Army. Paragraph twenty-seven states:

  Those entrusted with public and non-public funds must adhere unswervingly to the appropriate financial regulations. Dishonesty or deception in the control and management of these funds is not a ‘victimless crime’ but shows a lack of integrity and moral courage which has a corrosive effect on operational effectiveness through the breakdown in trust.

  ‘Let’s leave it for a few days,’ I said. ‘The tax website says you won’t get any more penalties until the end of the month.’ Other than the interest, of course.

  *

  I left my mother and Derek to reflect on things in the kitchen while I went out to the stable yard in search of Ian Norland.

  ‘You’re still here, then?’ he said as I found him in the feed store.

  ‘Seems so,’ I said.

  I stood in silence and watched him measure out some oats from a hopper into some metal bowls.

  ‘I’m not going to talk to you,’ he said. ‘It nearly cost me my job last time.’

  ‘We’ve moved on since then.’

  ‘Who has?’

  ‘My mother and me,’ I said. ‘We’re now on the same side.’

  ‘I’ll wait for her to tell me that, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘She’s in the kitchen right now,’ I said. ‘Go and ask her.’

  ‘I think I’ll wait for her to come out.’

  ‘No,’ I insisted. ‘Please go and ask her now. I need to talk to you.’

  He went off reluctantly in the direction of the house, looking back once or twice as if I might call him back and say it was all a joke. I hoped my mother wouldn’t actually bite his head off.

  In his absence I went from the feed store into the tack room next door. It was all very neat and smelled strongly of leather, like those handbag counters in Oxford Street department stores. On the left-hand wall there were about twenty metal saddle racks, about half of which were occupied by saddles with their girths wrapped round them. On the opposite wall there were rows of coat hooks holdings bridles and, at the end between the saddles and bridles, there were shelves of folded horse rugs and other paraphernalia including a box of assorted bits and a couple of riding helmets.

  It was the bridles I was most interested in.

  As I looked at them one of the stable staff came in and collected a saddle from one of the racks and a bridle from a hook.

  ‘Are these bridles specific to each horse?’ I asked him.

  ‘No, mate,’ he said. ‘Not usually. The lads have one each and there are a few spare. This is mine.’ He held up the one he had just removed from a hook. ‘My saddle, too.’

  ‘Did you have to buy it?’ I asked him.

  ‘Naah, of course not,’ he said with a grin. ‘This is the one the guv’nor gives me to use, while I’m ’ere, like.’

  ‘And are these saddles also used in the races?’

  ‘Naah,’ he said again. ‘The jocks have their own saddles.’

  ‘And their own bridles?’

  ‘Naah,’ he said once more. ‘But we ’ave special racing ones of those. Jack keeps them in the racing tack room with the other stuff.’

  ‘Who’s Jack?’ I said.

  ‘Travelling ’ead lad.’ He paused. ‘Who are you, anyway?’

  ‘I’m Mrs Kauri’s son,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ he said, glancing down at my right leg. ‘I ’eard you were ’ere.’

  ‘Where is the racing tack room?’ I asked him.

  ‘Round the other side,’ he said, pointing through the far wall, the one with the shelves.

  ‘Thank you, Declan,’ my mother said domineeringly, coming into the tack room. ‘Now, get on.’

  Declan went bright pink and scurried away with his saddle and bridle under his arm.

  ‘I’ll thank you not to interrogate my staff,’ she said.

  I walked round her and pulled the tack-room door shut.

  ‘Mother,’ I said formally. ‘If you want me to go now, I will.’ I paused briefly. ‘I’ll also try to visit you in Holloway Prison.’ She opened her mouth to speak but I cut her off. ‘Or you can let me help you and I might just keep you out of jail.’

  Actually, secretly, I was beginning to think that the chances of managing that were very slight.

  She stood tight-lipped in front of me. I thought she might cry again but at that moment Ian Norland opened the tack-room door behind her and joined us.

  ‘Ian,’ my mother said without turning round, her voice full of emotion. ‘You may say what you like to my son. Please answer any questions he might ask you. Show him whatever he wants to see. Give him whatever help he needs.’

  With that, she turned abruptly and marched out of the tack room, closing the door behind her.

  ‘I told you last week that something bloody strange was going on round here,’ Ian said. ‘And it sure is.’ He paused. ‘I’ll answer your questions and I’ll show you what you want to see, but don’t ask me to help you if it’s illegal.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I said.

  ‘Or against the Rules of Racing,’ he said.

  ‘I won’t do that either,’ I said. ‘I promise.’

  I hoped it was another promise I’d be able to keep.

  To my eye, the racing bridles looked identical to those in the general tack room. However, Ian assured me they were newer and of better quality.

  ‘The reins are all double stitched to the bit rings,’ he said, showing me, ‘so that ther
e’s less chance of them breaking during the race.’

  Both the bridles and the reins were predominantly made of leather, although there was a fair amount of metal and rubber as well.

  ‘Does each horse have its own bridle?’ I asked.

  ‘They do on any given race day,’ Ian said. ‘But we have fifteen racing bridles in here and they do for all our runners.’

  We were in the racing tack room. Apart from the bridles hanging on hooks there was a mountain of other equipment, the most colourful being the mass of jockeys’ silks hanging on a rail. There were also two boxes of special bits, and others of blinkers, visors, cheek-pieces, and sheepskin nosebands. Up against the far wall, on top of a sort of sideboard, there were neat stacks of horse blankets, weight cloths, and under-saddle pads, and there was even a collection of padded jackets for the stable staff to wear in the parade ring.

  ‘So, say on Saturday, when Scientific runs at Newbury,’ I said. ‘Can you tell which bridle he’ll use?’

  Ian looked at me strangely. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Jack will take any one of these.’ He waved a hand at the fifteen bridles on their hooks.

  To be honest, that wasn’t the most helpful of answers.

  ‘Don’t any of the horses have their own bridle?’ I asked, trying not to sound desperate.

  ‘One or two,’ he said. ‘Old Perfidio has his own. That’s because he has a special bit to try and stop him biting his tongue during the race.’

  ‘But doesn’t sharing tack result in cross-contamination?’ I said.

  ‘Not that we’ve noticed. We always dip bridles in disinfectant after every use, even the regular exercise ones.’

  I could see that making Scientific’s bridle or reins break on Saturday in the Game Spirit Steeplechase was not going to be as easy as I had imagined, at least not without Ian or Jack knowing about it.

  ‘How about special nosebands?’ I asked. ‘Why, for example, do some horses run in sheepskin nosebands?’

  ‘Some trainers run all their horses in sheepskin nosebands,’ Ian said. ‘It helps them to see which horse is theirs. The colours aren’t very easy to see when the horses are coming straight at you, especially if it’s muddy.’

  ‘Do my mother’s horses all wear them?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not as a general rule. But we do use them occasionally if a horse tends to run with his head held up.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘If a horse runs with his head too high he isn’t looking at the bottom of the fences, and also when the jockey pulls the reins the horse will lift it higher, not put it down like he should. So we put a nice thick sheepskin on him and he has to lower his head a little to see where he’s going.’

  ‘Amazing,’ I said. ‘Does it really work?’

  ‘Of course it works,’ he said, almost affronted. ‘We wouldn’t do it if it didn’t work. We also sometimes put cross nosebands on them to keep their mouths shut, especially if they’re a puller. Keeping their mouths closed often stops them pulling too hard. Or an Australian noseband will lift the bit higher in the mouth to stop a horse putting his tongue over it.’

  ‘Is that important?’ I asked.

  ‘It can be,’ Ian said. ‘If a horse puts his tongue over the bit it can push on the back of the mouth and put pressure on the airway so the horse can’t breathe properly.’

  There was clearly so much I didn’t know about racehorse training.

  ‘I think you might have to revert to the liquidized green-potato-peel,’ I said to my mother when I went back into the kitchen.

  ‘Why?’ she said.

  ‘Because I can’t see how we are going to arrange for Scientific’s reins to break during the race on Saturday if we can’t even be sure which bridle he’ll be wearing.’

  ‘I’ll ask Jack,’ she said.

  ‘That might be a bit suspicious,’ I said. ‘Especially after the race. Much better if we can be sure ahead of time which bridle he’ll be wearing. Can’t you run him in a sheepskin noseband?’

  ‘That won’t help,’ she said. ‘We simply fit the sheepskin to a regular bridle using Velcro.’

  ‘Can’t you think of anything?’ I asked, not quite in desperation. ‘How about a cross or an Australian noseband?’

  ‘He could run in an Australian, I suppose. That would mean he would have to have the one bridle we have fitted with it.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘But you’ll have to show me.’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘No, later, when Ian and Jack have gone,’ I said. ‘And make sure Scientific is the only horse this week that runs in it.’

  The phone rang. My mother walked across the kitchen and picked it up.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Kauri House.’

  She listened for a moment.

  ‘It’s for you,’ she said, holding the telephone out towards me. I thought I detected a touch of irritation in her voice.

  ‘Hello?’ I said.

  ‘Hi, Tom. It’s Issy Warren. Would you like to come to supper tomorrow night?’

  ‘I thought you were cross with me,’ I said.

  ‘I am,’ she replied bluntly. ‘But I always invite people I’m cross with to supper. Have you tasted my cooking?’

  I laughed. ‘OK, I’ll chance it. Thanks.’

  ‘Great. Seven thirty or thereabouts, at the Hall.’

  ‘Black tie?’ I asked.

  ‘Absolutely,’ she said, laughing. ‘No, of course not. Very casual. I’ll be in jeans. It’s just a kitchen supper with friends.’

  ‘I’ll bring a bottle.’

  ‘That would be great,’ she said. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  She disconnected and I handed the phone back to my mother, smiling.

  ‘I don’t know why you want to associate with that woman,’ she said in her most haughty voice. She made it sound as though I was fraternizing with the enemy.

  I wasn’t in the mood to have yet another argument with her over whom I should and should not be friends with. We had done enough of that throughout my teenage years, and she had usually won by refusing entry to the house for my friends of whom she hadn’t approved, which, if I remembered correctly, had been most of them.

  ‘Are you going to the races today?’ I asked her instead.

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I’ve no runners today.’

  ‘Do you only go to the races if you have a runner?’ I asked.

  She looked at me as if I was a fool. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I thought you might go just for the enjoyment of it.’ I said.

  ‘Going to the races is my job,’ she said. ‘Would you do your job on days you didn’t have to just for the enjoyment?’

  Actually, I would have but, there again, I enjoyed doing the things others might have found squeamish.

  ‘I might,’ I said.

  ‘Not to Ludlow or Carlisle on a cold winter Wednesday, you wouldn’t.’ She had a point. ‘It’s not like Royal Ascot in June.’

  ‘No,’ I agreed. ‘So you can show me which bridle Scientific will use after lunch when the stable staff are off.’

  ‘Do you really think you can make the reins break during the race?’ she asked.

  ‘I had a good look at them,’ I said. ‘I think it might be possible.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘The reins are made of leather but they have a non-slip rubber covering sewn round them, like the rubber on a table-tennis bat but with smaller pimples.’ She nodded. ‘The rubber is thin and not very strong. If I was able to break the leather inside the rubber then it wouldn’t be visible and the reins would part during the race when the jockey pulls on them.’

  ‘It seems very risky,’ she said.

  ‘Would you rather use your green-potato-peel soup?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ she said adamantly. ‘That would ruin the horse for ever.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘You show me which bridle Scientific will wear and I’ll do the rest.’

  Was I getting myself in too deep here?

  Was I about
to become an accessory to a fraud on the betting public as well as to tax evasion?

  Yes. Guilty on both counts.

  8

  I spent much of Thursday morning on a reasonably fruitful journey to Oxford.

  Banbury Drive was in Summertown, a northern suburb of the city, and number 26 was one of a row of 1950s built semi-detached houses with bay windows and pebble-dash walls. This was the supposed address of Mrs Jane Philips, my mother, which Roderick Ward had included on her tax return.

  I parked my Jaguar a little way down the road, so it wouldn’t be so visible, and walked to the front door of number 26. I rang the bell.

  I didn’t really know what to expect but, nevertheless, I was a little surprised when the door was opened a fraction by an elderly white-haired gentleman wearing maroon carpet slippers, no socks, and brown trousers that had been pulled up a good six inches too far.

  ‘What do you want?’ he snapped at me through the narrow gap.

  ‘Does someone called Mr Roderick Ward live here?’ I asked.

  ‘Who?’ he said, cupping a hand to his ear.

  ‘Roderick Ward,’ I repeated.

  ‘Never heard of him,’ said the man. ‘Now go away.’

  The door began to close.

  ‘He was killed in a car crash last July,’ I said quickly, but the door continued to close. I placed my false foot into the diminishing space between the door and the frame. At least it wouldn’t hurt if he tried to slam the door shut.

  ‘He had a sister called Stella,’ I said loudly. ‘Stella Beecher.’

  The door stopped moving and reopened just a fraction. I removed my foot.

  ‘Do you know Stella?’ I asked him.

  ‘Someone called Stella brings my meals-on-wheels,’ the man said.

  ‘Every day?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘What time?’ I asked. It was already nearly twelve o’clock.

  ‘Around one,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ I said formally. ‘And what is your name, please?’

  ‘Are you from the council?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  ‘Then you should know my bloody name,’ he said, and he slammed the door shut.

  Damn it, I thought. That was stupid.