Aha, I thought, the true reason reveals itself.
“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “I’ve promised Mum I’ll take her back to her cottage tomorrow, so why don’t I take us all out to dinner tonight, then we’ll go back to Woodmancote with Mum round lunchtime, and you can either stay there or come with me to the races in the evening. What do you say?”
“I’m not going to the races.”
“OK,” I said, “that’s fine. You can stay at Mum’s cottage.”
“Oh, all right,” she said in a resigned tone. “Where shall we go for dinner tonight?”
“Some nice quiet pub with good food.”
And preferably where I wouldn’t be recognized by any Lambourn locals.
On Jan’s recommendation, we went to the Bear Hotel in Hungerford for a sumptuous dinner in their Brasserie restaurant, washed down with a bottle of fine wine.
“I’ll miss you,” Jan said over coffee. “It’s been great having the house full again. Please can you all come back for Christmas?”
My mother and Claudia toasted her kindness with large snifters of brandy, and it seemed to have done the trick as I drove a happy carload back to Lambourn and to bed.
Will the police still be there?” Claudia asked as I drove the last few miles to Woodmancote.
It was the question I had been wondering about ever since I’d agreed to bring my mother home.
“I don’t care if they are,” my mother said loudly from the backseat. “I’m just so looking forward to being home again.”
“If they are,” I said, “I’ll pretend to be a taxi driver just delivering you two.” I dug in my pocket and gave Claudia a twenty-pound note. “Here. Give me this and I’ll drive away after I’ve unloaded your stuff. Then I’ll call you later from the races.”
“But they might recognize you,” Claudia said.
“I’ll just have to take that chance.”
What I was more worried about was arriving to find the whole place sealed up as a crime scene, with POLICE-DO NOT CROSS tape across the porch and padlocks on the doors.
I needn’t have worried. We arrived to find no tape, no padlocks and no police guard.
The only external signs that anything was different was a new dangling wire that connected the corner of the building to a telegraph pole in the lane-the hasty repair of the cut telephone wire.
My mother let us in through the front door, using her key.
It was all, remarkably, just the same as before, with no visible evidence to show that a ferocious life-or-death struggle had gone on here less than a week previously. However, none of us could resist staring at the foot of the stairwell, at the place where we had last seen the gunman. There was no white chalk outline of a body or any other such comic-book indication of where the man had lain. Indeed, there was nothing at all to signify that anyone had violently died there.
The police had even secured the kitchen window, fixing a piece of plywood over the broken windowpane.
“Fine,” said my mother, trying to show that things were back to normal and that she wasn’t as uneasy as she sounded. “Who’d like a cup of tea?”
“Lovely,” said Claudia, also betraying a nervousness in her voice.
I couldn’t blame them. Being once again in that cottage suddenly brought the memory of the terrifying evening back into vivid focus, and none of us had quite realized the effect it would have.
“What time are you leaving for the races?” Claudia asked.
I looked at my watch. It was just past three o’clock, and the first of the six races was at half past five.
“In about an hour and a half or so,” I said.
“And what time is your WI meeting?” she asked my mother.
“Seven-thirty,” she said. “But I usually go round to Joan’s beforehand. We go to the meetings together.”
“So what time do you leave here?” Claudia asked patiently.
“About six,” she said. “Joan and I usually have a sherry or two before we leave. Gives us a bit of courage for the meeting.” She giggled like a schoolgirl.
“And what time does it end?” Claudia asked.
“I’m usually home by ten, ten-thirty at the very latest.”
“I really don’t fancy being here on my own all evening,” Claudia said. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m coming to the races.”
19
In the end, Claudia and I dropped my mother off at Joan’s house at a quarter to five on our way to Cheltenham Races. It seemed she didn’t particularly want to be on her own in the cottage either, which didn’t bode well for the morning, when Claudia and I planned to return to London.
“Who is it we are going to see?” Claudia asked as we turned in to the racetrack parking lot.
“A man called Shenington,” I said. “Viscount Shenington. And he’s hired a private box.”
“Very posh,” she replied, making a face.
We might be glad of the box, I thought as we climbed out of the car. The brief sunny interlude of yesterday morning was a distant memory, and another weather front had moved in from the west, bringing a return to the thick clouds and rain that had characterized the weather for the majority of the last week. Evening meetings like this one at Cheltenham, with no floodlighting, relied on long, bright summer evenings. I reckoned the last race on this particular dank, miserable evening might be run in near-total darkness.
“And who is this Viscount, exactly?” Claudia asked as we walked to the entrance huddled together under her minute umbrella.
“He’s a racehorse owner and the senior trustee of the Roberts Family Trust. They’re clients of Lyall and Black.”
“Oh,” she said, seemingly losing interest. Was my job really that boring? “So why do you need to talk to this man before you see the police?”
I had purposely not told Claudia anything about my suspicions concerning the Bulgarian factory and housing project. She had far too many of her own problems to contend with without having mine added on top.
“The Trust,” I said, “has made an investment in something which I think is a front for fraud. I need to learn more about it before I speak to the police. I just have some questions to ask him, that’s all.”
“Will it take long?” she asked.
“He wants to speak to me after the racing.”
“Oh,” she said again, this time sounding disappointed. “So we’re here till the bitter end.”
“I’m afraid so,” I said. “But he has invited us to his box for the whole time, and there’ll be food and drink available.”
That cheered her a bit, and she perked up a lot more when she discovered that the box in question was a magnificent glassfronted affair at the top of the grandstand with a wonderful view over the racetrack.
It was also dry and warm.
Even though we were hardly late at ten past five, the box was already full of guests, none of whom I recognized.
I was just beginning to think we must be in the wrong place when Ben Roberts came through the door, instinctively ducking his head as he did so.
“Ah, Mr. Foxton,” he said, marching over to me with outstretched hand.
“Ben,” I replied. “How nice to see you again. Can I introduce my fiancee, Claudia?”
“Great,” said Ben, shaking her hand and smiling. “I’m Ben Roberts.”
Claudia smiled back.
“Come and meet my father.”
He led the way across the room to a group of men standing in the far corner. It was pretty obvious which one
