Crossfire (16 page)

And the other was a handwritten note on lined paper that simply read, in capital letters:

I picked up the envelope in which it had arrived. It was a standard white envelope available from any high-street store. The address had also been handwritten in the same manner as the note. The postmark was slightly blurred, and it was difficult to tell where it had actually been posted. However, the date was clear to see. The letter had been mailed on Monday, July 13, the day after Roderick Ward supposedly died, the very day his body had been discovered.

I sat on my bed for quite a while, looking at the note and wondering if “in time” meant before the “accident” occurred and if “the stuff ” had anything to do with my mother’s tax papers.

I looked carefully at it once again. Now, I was no handwriting expert, but this message to Stella Beecher looked, to my eyes, to have been written in the same style, and to be on the same type of paper, as the blackmail note that I had found on my mother’s desk.

On Thursday evening, at seven forty-five, I carried a bottle of fairly reasonable red wine around from Kauri House to the Hall in Lambourn for a kitchen supper with Isabella and her guests. I was looking forwards to a change in both venue and company.

As I had expected, the supper was not quite as casual as Isabella had made out. Far from being in jeans, she herself was wearing a tight black dress that showed off her alluring curves to their best advantage. I was pleased with myself that I had decided to put on a jacket and tie, but there again, I’d worn a jacket and tie for dinner in officers’ messes for years, especially on a weekday. Dressing for dinner, even for a kitchen supper, was like a comfort blanket. For all its preoccupation with killing the enemy, the British Army was still very formal in its manners.

“Tom,” she squealed, opening the front door wide and taking my offered bottle. “How lovely. Come and meet the others.”

I followed her from the hallway towards the kitchen, and the noise. The room was already pretty full of guests. Isabella grabbed my arm and pulled me into the throng, where everyone seemed to be talking at once.

“Ewen,” she shouted to a fair-haired man about forty years old. “Ewen,” she shouted again, grabbing hold of his sleeve. “I want you to meet Tom. Tom, this is Ewen Yorke. Ewen, Tom.”

We shook hands.

“Tom Forsyth,” I said.

“Ah,” he said in a dramatic manner, throwing an arm wide and nearly knocking over someone’s glass behind him. “Jackson, we have a spy in our midst.”

“A spy?” Isabella said.

“Yes,” Ewen said. “A damn spy from Kauri Stables. Come to steal our secrets about Saturday.”

“Ah,” I said. “You must mean about Newark Hall in the Game Spirit.” His mouth opened. “You’ve got no chance with Scientific running.”

“There you are,” he boomed. “What did I tell you? He’s a bloody spy. Fetch the firing squad.” He laughed heartily at his own joke, and we all joined in. Little did he know.

“Where is this spy?” said a tall man, pushing his way past people towards me.

“Tom,” said Isabella. “This is my husband, Jackson Warren.”

“Good to meet you,” I said, shaking his offered hand and hoping he couldn’t see the envy in my eyes, envy that he had managed to snare my beautiful Isabella.

Jackson Warren certainly didn’t give the impression of someone suffering from prostate cancer. I knew that he was sixty-one years old because I’d looked him up on the Internet, but his lack of any gray hair seemed to belie the fact. Rather unkindly, I wondered if he dyed it, or perhaps just being married to a much younger woman had helped keep him youthful.

“So, are you spying on us, or on Ewen?” he asked jovially, with an infectious booming laugh.

“Both,” I said jokily, but I had partially misjudged the moment.

“Not for the Sunday papers, I hope,” he said, changing his mood instantly from amusement to disdain. “Though, I suppose, one more bastard won’t make any difference.” He laughed once more, but this time, the amusement didn’t reach his eyes and there was an unsettling seriousness about his face.

“Come on, darling,” said Isabella, sensing his unease. “Relax. Tom’s not a spy. In fact, he’s a hero.”

I gave her a stern look as if to say, “No, please don’t,” but the message didn’t get through.

“A hero?” said Ewen.

Isabella was about to reply when I cut her off sharply.

“Isabella exaggerates,” I said quickly. “I’m in the army, that’s all. And I’ve been in Afghanistan.”

“Really,” said an attractive woman in a low-cut dress who was standing next to Ewen. “Was it very hot?”

“No, not really,” I said. “It’s very hot in the summer, but it’s damn cold in the winter, especially at night.” Trust a Brit, I thought, to talk about the weather.

“Did you see any action?” Ewen asked.

“A fair bit,” I said. “But I was only there for a couple of months this last time.”

“So you’ve been before?” Ewen said.

“I’ve been in the army since I was seventeen,” I said. “I’ve been most places.”

“Were you in Iraq?” the woman asked with intensity.

“Yes. In Basra. And also in Bosnia and Kosovo. The modern army keeps you busy.” I laughed.

“How exciting,” she said.

“It can be,” I agreed. “But only in short bursts. Mostly it’s very boring.” Time, I thought, to change the subject. “So, Ewen,” I said, “how many horses do you train?”

“There you are,” he said expansively. “I told you he was a spy.”

We all laughed.

The attractive woman next to Ewen turned out to be his wife, Julie, and I found myself sitting next to her at supper at one of two large round tables set up in the extensive Lambourn Hall kitchen.

On the other side, on my left, was a Mrs. Toleron, a rather dull gray-haired woman who didn’t stop telling me about how successful her “wonderful” husband had been in business. She had even introduced herself as Mrs. Martin Toleron, as if I would recognize her spouse’s name.

“You must have heard of him,” she exclaimed, amazed that I hadn’t. “He was head of Toleron Plastics until we sold out a few months ago. It was all in the papers at the time, and on the television.”

I didn’t tell her that a few months ago I had been fighting for my life in a Birmingham hospital and, at the time, the business news hadn’t been very high on my agenda.

“We were the biggest plastic-drainpipe manufacturer in Europe.”

“Really,” I said, trying to keep myself from yawning.

“Yes,” she said, incorrectly sensing some interest on my part. “We made white, gray or black drainpipe in continuous lengths. Mile after mile of it.”

“Thank goodness for rain,” I said, but she didn’t get the joke.

As soon as I was able, and without appearing too rude, I managed to stem the tide of plastic drainpipe from my left, turning more eagerly towards Julie on my right.

“So, how many horses does Ewen train?” I asked her, as we tucked in to lasagna and garlic bread. “He never did tell me.”

“About sixty,” she said. “But it’s getting more all the time. We’re no longer really big enough at home, so we are looking to buy the Webster place.”

“Webster place?” I asked.

“You must know, on the hill off the Wantage Road. Old Larry Webster used to train there, but he dropped down dead a couple of years ago now. It’s been on the market for months and months. Price is too high, I reckon, and it needs a lot doing to it. Ewen’s dead keen to open another yard, but I’d rather stay the size we are.” She sighed. “Ewen says we’re too small, but the truth is, he’s not very good at saying no to new owners.” She smiled wearily.

“He’s lucky in the current economic climate to have the option,” I said.

“I know,” she agreed. “Lots of trainers are having troubles. I hear it all the time from their wives at the races.”

“Do you go racing a lot?” I asked.

“Not as much as I once did,” she said. “Ewen is always so busy these days that I never see him like I used to, either at the races or at home.”

She sighed again. Clearly, success had not brought happiness, at least not for Mrs. Yorke.

“But enough about me. Tell me about you.” She turned in her chair to give me her full attention, and a much better view of her ample cleavage. Ewen should spend more time with her, I thought, both at home and at the races, or he might soon find her straying.

“Not much to tell,” I said.

“Now, come on. You must have lots of stories.”

“None that I’d be happy to repeat,” I said.

“Go on,” she said, putting her hand on my arm. “You can tell me.” She fluttered her eyelashes at me. It made me think that it was probably already too late for Ewen, far too late.

 

 

I
sabella insisted that everyone move around after the lasagna and so, in spite of Julie Yorke’s best efforts, I escaped her advances before they became too obvious, but not before she’d had the shock of her life trying to play footsie under the table with my prosthesis.

“My God! What’s that?” she had exclaimed, but quietly, almost under her breath.

And so I’d been forced to explain about the IED and all the other things I would have preferred to keep confidential.

Far from turning her off, the idea of a man with only one leg had seemed to excite her yet further. She had become even more determined to invade my privacy with intimate questions that I was seriously not prepared to answer.

As soon as Isabella suggested it, I was quick and happy to move seats, opting to sit between Jackson Warren and another man at the second table.

I’d had my fill of the female of the species for one night.

“So how long have you been back?” Jackson asked me as I sat down.

“In Lambourn?” I asked.

“From Afghanistan.”

“Four months,” I said.

“In hospital?” he asked.

I nodded. Isabella must have told him.

“In hospital?” the man on my other side asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I was wounded.”

He looked at me and was clearly waiting for me to expand on my answer. As far as I was concerned, he was waiting in vain.

“Tom, here, lost a foot,” Jackson said, filling the silence.

It felt as though I’d jumped out of one frying pan and into another.

“Really,” said the man with astonishment. “Which one?”

“Does it matter?” I asked with obvious displeasure.

“Er . . . er . . .” He was suddenly uncomfortable, and I sat silently, doing nothing to relieve his embarrassment. “No,” he said finally, “I suppose not.”

It mattered to me.

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking down and intently studying his dessert plate of chocolate mousse with brandy snaps and cream.

I nearly asked him if he was sorry for my losing a foot or sorry for asking me which one I’d lost, but it was Jackson I should have been really cross with, for mentioning it in the first place.

“Thank you,” I said. I paused. “It was my right foot.”

“It’s amazing,” he said, looking up at my face. “I watched you walk over here just now and I had no idea.”

“Prosthetic limbs have come a long way since the days of Long John Silver,” I said. “There were some at the rehab center who could run up stairs two at a time.”

“Amazing,” he said again.

“I’m Tom Forsyth,” I said.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he replied. “Alex Reece. Good to meet you.”

We shook hands in the awkward manner of people sitting alongside each other. He was a small man in his thirties, with thinning ginger hair and horn-rimmed spectacles of the same color. He was wearing a navy cardigan over a white shirt, and brown flannel trousers.

“Are you a trainer too?” I asked.

“Oh no,” he said with a nervous laugh. “I haven’t a clue about horses. In fact, to tell you the truth, I’m rather frightened of them. I’m an accountant.”

“Alex, here,” Jackson interjected, “keeps my hard-earned income out of the grasping hands of the tax man.”

“I try,” Alex said with a smile.

“Legally?” I asked, smiling back.

“Of course legally,” said Jackson, feigning annoyance.

“The line between avoidance, which is legal, and evasion, which isn’t, can sometimes be somewhat blurred,”Alex said, ignoring him.

“And what exactly is that meant to mean?” demanded Jackson, the simulated irritation having been replaced by the real thing.

“Nothing,” Alex said, backpedaling furiously, and again embarrassed. “Just that sometimes what we believe is avoidance may be seen as evasion by the Revenue.” Alex Reece was digging himself deeper into the hole.

“And who is right?” I asked, enjoying his discomfort.

“We are,” Jackson stated firmly. “Aren’t we, Alex?” he insisted.

“It is the courts who ultimately decide who’s right,” Alex said, clearly oblivious to the thinness of the thread by which his employment was dangling.

“In what way?” I asked.

“We put in a return based on our understanding of the tax law,” he said, seemingly unaware of Jackson’s staring eyes to my left. “If the Revenue challenge that understanding, they might demand that we pay more tax. If we then challenge their challenge and refuse to pay, they have to take us to court, and then a jury will decide whose interpretation of the law is correct.”

“Sounds simple,” I said.

“But it can be very expensive,” Alex said. “If you lose in court, you will end up paying far more than the tax you should have paid in the first place, because they will fine you on top. And, of course, the court has the power to do more than just take away your money. They can also send you to prison if they think you were trying to evade paying tax on purpose. To say nothing of what else the Revenue might turn up with their digging. It’s a risk we shouldn’t take.”