Crossfire (40 page)

“Of course,” my mother had replied, stony-faced.

“And finally,” the inspector had said, standing up and now with a smile, “it is such an honor to meet you. I’m a great admirer, and over the years, I’ve backed lots of your winners.”

So it was official, some tax men could be human after all.

 

 

T
he post-race press conference was still in full swing, and my mother appeared to be absolutely loving it.

“No, of course I’m not ill,” she said, putting Gordon Rambler from the
Racing Post
in his place with a stare. “I’m retiring, not dying.” She laughed, and the throng laughed with her.

No, I thought, my mother wasn’t dying, but Isabella had, snuffed out in the prime of her life. The paramedics had tried to revive her, but she had lost far too much blood, to say nothing of the gaping hole that Jackson had made in her side. There had never been any hope with a shot from such close range.

Strangely, in spite of everything, I grieved for Isabella. I hadn’t been wrong when I’d told her, aged ten, that I loved her. I still did. But now there would be no bonus, nor even the prospect of one. Isabella, my sweetheart, who had unknowingly helped in her own downfall by acting as my driver the day we had been to Old Man Sutton’s house in Hungerford.

Needless to say, the Thames Valley Constabulary had not been greatly impressed by all the nocturnal activity that had been going on at Greystone Stables. I had called them using my cell phone as soon as Isabella had been hit, and they had subsequently arrived in convoy with an ambulance, and had promptly arrested everyone.

“You should have called us immediately if someone had been kidnapped,” they said later at Newbury police station, their ill-disguised anger clearly directed at me for having taken things into my own hands.

“But we couldn’t,” my stepfather had said with conviction, coming to my defense. “The kidnappers told me that they would kill Josephine if the police were involved.”

The police, of course, thought that was an insufficient reason for not involving them, especially, as they had pointed out, I appeared to know exactly where the kidnappers had taken their hostage.

Alex Reece had apparently wanted nothing to do with Warren and Garraway’s plan to recover the money, and had decided that flight would be a much better policy. He had consequently boarded a British Airways jumbo from Heathrow to New York just a few hours before the shootout at the Greystone Stables corral began.

Somewhat carelessly, however, he had failed to clean out his suitcase properly and had been apprehended by a sniffer dog from the U.S. customs on his arrival at Kennedy Airport. He had subsequently been charged with importing cocaine into the United States, and was presently languishing in jail on Rikers Island in New York, waiting to be served with extradition papers by the government of Gibraltar on fraud charges.

Garraway, meanwhile, had been singing like a canary and blaming everything on Jackson Warren, so much so that his lawyers had successfully persuaded a judge to grant him bail on the kidnapping and false-imprisonment charges. However, the judge had ordered that Garraway’s passport be confiscated, and as I heard unofficially from the tax inspector, the Revenue were greatly looking forwards to the day, very soon, when Peter Garraway’s enforced extended stay in the United Kingdom would automatically make him resident here for tax purposes. The inspector had smiled broadly and rubbed his hands together. “We’ve been trying to get him for years,” he’d said. “And now we will.”

 

 

S
o who is taking over the training license?” It was Gordon Rambler who asked my mother the inevitable question. “And what will happen to the horses?”

“The horses will all be staying at Kauri House Stables,” she said. “I spoke with all my owners yesterday, and they are all supportive.”

That wasn’t entirely true, and some of her owners were decidedly unsupportive, but they had all been convinced, out of loyalty to her, to stay on board, at least for the immediate future. And Martin Toleron had helped here too, vocally pledging his support, and his future horses, to the new training regime.

“So who is it?” Rambler was becoming impatient. “Who’s taking over?”

They were all expecting one of the sport’s up-and-coming young trainers to be moving into the big league.

“My son,” she said with a flourish. “My son, Thomas Forsyth, will henceforth be training the horses at Kauri Stables.”

I think it would be fair to say that there was a slight intake of breath, even amongst the most hardened of the racing journalists.

“And,” my mother went on, into the silence, “he will be assisted by Ian Norland, my previous head lad, who has been promoted to assistant trainer.”

“Can we all assume,” Gordon Rambler said, recovering his composure, “that you will still be round to guide and advise them when necessary?”

“Of course,” she said, smiling broadly.

But one should never assume anything.