Front Runner (21 page)

She produced some delicious canapés and Quentin opened another bottle.

“I can't have too much to drink,” I said in mock protest as he refilled my glass. “I have to be up early to get to the airport.”

“Off to a hot Christmas,” Quentin said. “Sounds a bit odd to me.”

“They must have them all the time in Australia,” I said. “I suppose you get accustomed to what you're used to.”

“Will you still have roast turkey for Christmas lunch?” Faye asked.

“I have no idea. In fact, I have no idea of anything about this trip except that I have to be at Luton Airport at eight o'clock tomorrow morning.”

“Luton?” Faye said. “I'd have thought it would've been Heathrow.”

“So did I,” I said, “but apparently our flight departs from Luton. I just hope there's decent legroom. It's a long way.”

“When are you back?” Faye asked.

“January the third,” I said. “We leave on the second and fly back overnight.”

“I do hope you have a lovely time,” Faye said warmly.

“I feel rather guilty at leaving you,” I said.

“Don't be silly. Q and I will be fine. Kenneth is coming here for lunch on Christmas Day itself, so that will be great fun.”

Quentin didn't look like he thought it would be any fun at all, but I couldn't worry about that. I was so excited at the prospect of spending the next eleven days with Henri that I could hardly sit still during dinner.

I
was outside Luton Airport Parkway railway station in good time at ten minutes to eight on Wednesday morning when my cell phone rang.

I thought it was going to be Henri, but it was Detective Sergeant Jagger.

“Having spoken to the jockey Bill McKenzie and having checked his phone records, we have now arrested Leslie Morris on suspicion of blackmail.”

“Great,” I said. “Thank you for letting me know.”

“My superior officer, D.C.I. Owens, now heads the inquiry into the death of Mr. David Swinton. He wants to interview you himself concerning the events in Lambourn on the morning that Mr. Swinton died.”

“When?” I asked with some trepidation.

“As soon as possible. Can you come to Reading today?”

“I'm afraid that's out of the question. I'm currently at the airport and am flying to the Cayman Islands for Christmas.”

“Hmm.” He didn't sound very happy at that news. “When are you back?”

“Not until the third of January,” I said. That didn't seem to
please him much either. “But I have nothing more to add than I have already given you in my statements. Are you charging Morris with Dave Swinton's murder?”

“At present, he is being interviewed only concerning the blackmail of Mr. William McKenzie.”

“Well, if I were you, I'd also ask him about the blackmail of Dave Swinton and Willy Mitchell.”

“All in due course, Mr. Hinkley. All in due course. One doesn't need to rush these things.”

I wondered if it gave them more time to hold Morris in custody if they arrested him for each offense in turn.

“Have you searched Morris's house?” I asked.

“Not yet, but it will be later today.”

“See if you can find a small red notebook,” I said. “It contains the records of all his bets on the dubious race at Sandown and that should be enough to prove Morris knew beforehand that McKenzie wouldn't win.”

A large black Range Rover drew up in front of the station with Henri waving at me through the back window. I waved back.

“Look,” I said to D.S. Jagger, “I've got to go now. I'll call you from the Cayman Islands tomorrow. I can speak to Chief Inspector Owens then, if he wants.”

A smartly dressed chauffeur climbed out of the driver's seat and loaded my suitcase into the Range Rover's trunk. I, meanwhile, climbed in the back next to Henri.

There were two other people already in the vehicle.

Sir Richard Reynard was sitting in the front seat, and there was another woman in the back with Henri.

“This is my aunt Mary,” Henri said.

“I'm so pleased to meet you,” I said, shaking her hand.

“Me too. I've heard much about you from my husband.”

The driver climbed back in and drove off, but we didn't go to the regular passenger terminal. Instead, we went to the other side of the airport to the private aviation center, where a Reynard Shipping–liveried twin-engined jet aircraft awaited us. We even drove out in the Range Rover, across the concrete apron to the base of the aircraft steps.

It suddenly dawned on me that we were going to the Cayman Islands not on a knees-to-the-chest charter flight but on a private jet.

No wonder I hadn't had to book my own ticket.

Henri grinned like a Cheshire Cat. “I didn't think you knew.”

“But why only one suitcase?” I asked.

“Uncle Richard and Aunt Mary always have at least two each, while lesser mortals like us can have only one. There's not that much room in the hold, and if the aircraft's too heavy, we have to make two fuel stops instead of one.”

“Where?” I asked.

“Last time, it was Bermuda. I think it depends on the winds.”

“Who else is coming?”

“Martin and Theresa were meant to be with us, but Martin had to go on ahead over a week ago. I don't know if Theresa will be coming.”

We found out soon enough as another vehicle drew up beside the Range Rover and Theresa Reynard got out of one side while Bentley Robertson, the creepy, lecherous lawyer, got out of the other.

“Oh God!” Henri said. “What's
he
doing here?”

Traveling with us, it seemed, as we watched his single bag being loaded into the luggage hold alongside ours. Henri was not at all pleased, and I could tell from Bentley's unfriendly stare that he was just as unhappy about my presence as I was about his.

“Please keep him away from me,” she said.

“I'll do my best.”

We went on board the jet.

The interior was laid out with no luxury spared. There were ten passenger seats in total, each of them cream leather armchairs that wouldn't have looked out of place in a stately home.

“How the other half live,” I said quietly to myself.

The ten seats were laid out in three distinct sections, with one on either side at the front, then a group of four—two each side of a table facing one another—and finally four more at the back in two rows coach style.

Henri went straight to the very back and sat in the seat nearest the window while beckoning me to quickly take the one next to her. I knew why. In this way, she was protecting herself from having to sit next to or opposite Bentley Robertson.

She needn't have worried.

Bentley came on board and immediately sat in one of the seats at the table. He spread out papers from his briefcase and concentrated only on them.

Theresa Reynard boarded and sat down next to Bentley. My suspicious mind went into overdrive wondering if there was a sexual rapport between the two of them. There was just something about their body language that shouted
lovers
at me.

“Do you think Martin and Theresa's marriage is OK?” I asked Henri.

“Yeah, I think so,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

“I just wondered why Martin went on ahead and Theresa didn't go with him.”

“I expect she was too busy Christmas shopping,” she said, smiling.

Sir Richard and Lady Mary Reynard came on board and sat
in the two seats at the very front. And then we waited. There seemed to be no urgency to close the cabin door and get going.

The reason became obvious after about ten minutes when a chauffeur-driven limousine pulled up at the steps. I watched through the window as Derrick and Gay Smith climbed out of the vehicle and came on board as their copious luggage was shoehorned into the aircraft's hold. Clearly, no one had informed
them
of the one-bag limit.

Gay and Derrick greeted Sir Richard and Lady Mary with polite kisses, then came through the cabin to the two seats in front of Henri and myself.

I stood up in the aisle.

“Hello, Jeff,” Gay said with a broad smile. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

She gave me a peck on the cheek while Derrick shook my hand. “We are just hitching a ride back home,” he said. “Sorry we're late.”

It was clear that the Smiths were the last of the passengers to arrive, as there was now some activity up front with the main door being closed and the engines started.

“Do you always travel like this?” I asked Henri.

“I wish. The trust is so tight with
my
money that I'm usually in coach, although I have been on this baby a few times. But not so often that I'm not really excited every time.”

I was excited too. Extremely. And it wasn't all to do with flying on a private jet. I'd be excited to be anywhere with Henrietta Shawcross.

—

W
E
ACTUALLY
REFUELED
at St. John's in Newfoundland, where the outside temperature was a balmy minus seven degrees.
Needless to say, all eight of the passengers remained warm and cozy in the cabin rather than choosing to venture the hundred yards or so across the icy windblown tarmac to the airport buildings.

After forty minutes, we were on our way again.

I could get quite used to this, I thought, as I was presented with yet another plate of delicious food prepared by the onboard steward.

“More champagne, sir?” he said.

I felt it would be churlish for me to say no after he'd gone to all the trouble of opening the bottle.

“Lovely,” I said, and he poured more of the bubbles into my glass.

Henri giggled and I held her hand.

I'd left my troubles behind in winter-gripped England, and there were eleven days ahead of warmth and sunshine in the company of a gorgeous girl.

What could have been better?

With every sip of Veuve Clicquot, I could feel the strength and vigor returning to my body.

Little did I realize how much I would need it.

—

W
E
LANDED
ON
Grand Cayman nearly twelve hours after leaving Luton. It was almost four in the afternoon, the local time being five hours behind that at home.

Suddenly, my senses were full of first impressions—the bright colors of the buildings, the intensity of the tropical sunlight, the flatness of the country, the freshness of the ozone-filled sea air and, of course, the warmth.

“Where are we staying?” I asked Henri as we waited to have our passports checked by the Cayman Island immigration officials.

“Uncle Richard and Aunt Mary are staying at Martin and Theresa's place, but I imagined that you would rather be somewhere on our own.”

She imagined right.

“I've rented an apartment in a condominium just down Seven Mile Beach from them.”

“Sounds perfect,” I said. “How about Bentley? I hope he's not sharing it with us.”

Henri pulled a face. “If he is, I'm going back to England.”

In the end, Henri had to put her foot down when her uncle suggested that it might indeed be a good idea for Bentley to stay with us in our apartment since it had two spare bedrooms, adding that he could
keep
Henrietta in order
.

I wasn't sure if he was being serious or not. Henri thought he was.

“No,” Henri said firmly. “Absolutely not. If he can't stay with Martin, he'll have to find a hotel.”

“But it's Christmas,” said Sir Richard. “There won't be any hotel rooms free.”

“Then he'll have to sleep on the beach,” Henri said without the slightest note of compromise. “What's he doing here anyway?”

“We have a board meeting tomorrow, remember?” Sir Richard said. “I assume you did get the papers?”

She nodded.

Much to Henri's relief, Theresa announced that Bentley would be staying in their guest cottage, with Sir Richard and Lady Mary taking the guest suite in the main house.

Maybe I was completely wrong, but why did I suspect that Theresa had arranged for Bentley to be in her guest cottage because it was a convenient location for a clandestine assignation between them?

—

T
HERE
WERE
three luxury cars waiting for us outside the private terminal. One for Derrick and Gay to take them to their home, another for Sir Richard and Lady Mary—both with chauffeurs—and the third with Martin at the wheel, waiting for Theresa and, it seemed, Bentley.

Martin got out of his car and greeted his parents and his wife, giving Theresa the smallest little peck on the cheek. Hardly a greeting for a loving couple, I thought. Not one that had been apart for more than a week.

He steadfastly ignored me, pointedly not shaking my offered hand.

“You can ride with us,” Sir Richard said to Henri, but it was quite clear that with two large suitcases each, there was hardly enough room in the car for them both plus their luggage.

“It's fine,” I said. “We'll get a taxi.”

“It's only about ten minutes away,” he said.

Henri and I hailed one of the island's many taxi minivans for the short journey to the Coral Stone Club, a three-story condominium complex nestling between two much taller buildings off West Bay Road.

Henri picked up the key to the apartment from the manager's office while I supervised the unloading of the bags by the taxi driver and paid him using some of the dollars I had obtained from my bank.

“If I was allowed to lift anything, I'd carry you over the threshold,” I said to Henri as we went in.

“But it's not our own home.”

“It is for the next eleven days,” I said. “And that's good enough for me.”

The apartment was on the ground floor and stretched right through the building on the southern edge of the complex. Painted lemon yellow, with white-and-blue furnishings, the open-plan kitchen and living area was bright and cool, but it was the view through the large picture windows at the far end that was totally breathtaking.

The spectacular Seven Mile Beach was just a few steps away, complete with archetypal desert island coconut palms growing at lazy angles out of the brilliant white sand. And, beyond that, the dazzling turquoise blue Caribbean Sea shimmered and danced as it reflected the rays of the late-afternoon sun as it began to dip toward the western horizon.

“Wow!” I said.

Henri opened the sliding door and we went outside together onto the beach.

“Wow!” I said again as I looked either way at the mile upon mile of soft white powder.

“It's not really seven miles long,” Henri said. “Only about six.”

Long enough, I thought.

We went back inside.

“I've told Uncle Richard we would go up to Martin's house for a drink with them at sunset.”

“What time is that?” I asked.

“Just before six.”

I glanced at my watch. That gave us almost a full hour.

I looked at her and she looked back at me.

“Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” she said, grinning.