The Silver Falcon (36 page)

His interview with Ellie had been illuminating. The girl had talked her head off; reading it, Andrew called her obscene names under his breath. She had been a junior maid at Beaumont when the first Mrs Schriber was alive. She talked about the night she died, and here MacNeil had scored heavily with a pen. It seemed a long time to her between the time when she saw Master Richard go into his mother's room and come out again, rushing downstairs and shouting for his father, till Dr Graham called an ambulance. She was only a girl in her teens and nobody paid any attention to her, but she was certain it was something like five hours from the time Richard discovered his mother unconscious before help was summoned to the house. She didn't say anything, it wasn't her place to comment, but she hadn't forgotten. And then after Mrs Frances Schriber died, Mr Charles had cleared out all the medicine cupboards and thrown every single thing away. He had forbidden the prescription of barbiturates to any member of the staff. Here the investigator added his own comment. Almost as if he had something on his conscience concerning drugs. It was all the more worrying for Ellie, when Dr Graham came and told her to put two sleeping pills in a hot drink and give it to Mrs Isabel, after the master died. He had sounded as if he wanted to help her, but Ellie didn't hold with putting something into a drink without the person knowing, so she didn't do it. Andrew swore out loud. He had made a terrible mistake, trying to trust that stupid black bitch.

After Mrs Isabel left for England, Ellie had found the pills in her bedroom. Dr Graham had calmed her scruples about giving them to her mistress by telling her they were a special kind that gave sweet dreams to a sad person. Ellie's young man had gone off with another girl in Freemont, and she was feeling mighty sad. So she took the pills herself. Out of ignorance she had overdosed and nearly died. MacNeil's man had taken what was left of the pills and had them analysed. They were the strongest and most addictive of the barbiturates, and their prescription was very rare because of the danger of rapid dependence. Anyone taking them unwittingly over a short period in that strength, would have become addicted. MacNeil had written his comments at the end of the page. ‘No doctor would administer such a drug without his patient's knowledge, unless his motive was sinister. Looks to me as if he and the old man let the first wife die, and then A.G. was setting up the second one for a fake suicide. Certain now that my original hunch was the right one. They framed the son to cover themselves, and A.G. expected to get the money. If Isabel S. is in danger of her life it's always been from Dr Graham, with twenty million bucks to gain. Has he an alibi for the night that housekeeper was murdered.…'

Andrew dropped the folder. It all stemmed from that one attempt to hurry; to get Isabel hooked on the sleeping pills, to establish that she was taking them. And then it would have been so easy to put enough in a drink to be fatal. A tragic suicide, brought on by grief after her husband's death. All neatly tidied up. His second mistake had been to over-react to Richard's reappearance. Getting himself banned from the house, so she was out of reach. And then she went to England. That was why he had employed MacNeil; to keep him informed of what was happening, so that if there was any truth in his wife's spiteful allegation, and Isabel and Richard were lovers, he could fly over and take action. He knew that the accident in Barbados was just that; but it gave him the excuse to employ the detective and set the scene in which Richard was to play the villain. And if there was the slightest danger of remarriage, he would know at once through MacNeil. He put the notebook away. He didn't need to read any more. That explained why MacNeil had followed him instead of Richard. Down to Lambourn that day in the black Ford, and again in the early morning when he went to bury the gloves. He had a moment of palpitating shock, and hustled through the final entry in the notebook. There were no records of a telephone call to New York, or any written or cabled communication. There hadn't been time. What the operative in New York knew about the sleeping pills presented quite a different problem. The kind of problem that twenty million dollars would help to solve quite easily. Andrew would go and visit the operative whose name had been conveniently written down in the notebook. He didn't need to be too worried by that.

It could have been so easy if his original plan had worked. A tragic suicide after Charles's death. So easy. But things had never come to him without a struggle. And twenty million dollars was worth fighting for. He gave a little chuckle. MacNeil had written about him, the evening before he himself was murdered. ‘Probably killed the first wife … could be a real psychopath.…' He chuckled again. There was nothing mad about him. He knew exactly what he was doing; MacNeil had found that out. He wanted the money, because it was due to him. He might not be rich, like Charles, because his father had been a damned fool gambler, but he was more of a gentleman than any uppity German immigrant.… He was respected and admired by everyone. He'd fronted for Charles for all those years, and he was
owed
every cent of that money. He closed the notebook. That would have to be destroyed. Leaf by leaf. He took it into the bathroom, and began tearing out the pages, one by one, and setting them alight. He dropped the twisted ashes into the lavatory, flushing them away at intervals. Then he went back into his room and searched through MacNeil's belongings. He found the gun, as he expected, with MacNeil's identity card and gun licence. There were two clips of ammunition. All legitimate. And so convenient. He had wondered how to get hold of a gun when he first formulated his plan. It would be possible; he was certain that enquiries in the sleazier districts of London night life, accompanied by enough dollars, would get one for him. Now he didn't have to worry about it. He tested the weapon; it was a Luger automatic. He had been a very good pistol and rifle shot from the time he was a boy. He locked up MacNeil's suitcases and pushed them under the bed. He hid the gun under a heap of clothes in his own chest of drawers. Then he went down to the restaurant for dinner. He felt very hungry, and in a mood to celebrate. Everything was falling into place.

‘Well,' Inspector Lewis said, ‘that was a bloody waste of time.' He paused on the pavement outside Richard Schriber's block of flats. His assistant opened the rear door of the car, and stepped back to let him go in first. They settled themselves in the back seat and the car moved off towards Park Lane. ‘Bloody useless,' Lewis repeated. ‘She didn't want to know about it.'

‘I don't know,' the younger man said, ‘I don't think she had anything more to tell us. And there's all that stuff in the paper this morning about a man confessing –'

‘We've had half a dozen cranks trying to claim they did it,' the Inspector said angrily. ‘You always get the nutters coming out with a nasty case like this. Just fogs up the issue.'

‘We'll have to go and see this one, won't we? Kent police seemed to think he might be a possible. Vagrant with a record of petty break-ins –'

‘We'll go,' Lewis said irritably, ‘because we can't afford not to; but it's a waste of time. The man that went into that house went in to kill, not to steal. And we're nowhere near catching him yet.'

‘She gave me her horse for the Derby,' the assistant said. ‘Seemed very confident. No kind of a price though; I might have a couple of quid on him.'

The inspector grunted. He didn't understand racing and he never bet. ‘Bloody Kent,' he grumbled. ‘Waste of time. We'll have the papers yelling if we don't turn up something soon. There's been something about the murder nearly every day.'

‘It caught the public's imagination,' the other man said.

‘It would,' Lewis sneered. ‘Anything with a bit of horror and they lap it up. Nothing like a good murder to keep them happy. Christ, I think human beings stink!' He leaned forward to the driver.

‘Call through to my office and tell 'em I'm going direct down to Maidstone to see this joker they've got there. And tell the press the same if they come sniffing round. Bloody waste of time.' He sat back, chin down on his chest, discouraging conversation for the rest of the journey.

The racecourse at Epsom was deserted on a Sunday. It was a warm sunny morning when Andrew drove up and parked his car by the side of the grandstand. The famous turf was smooth and richly green; there was a group of model-plane enthusiasts flying their machines on the downs across the track, and two riders, out for a morning hack, cantered along the grass in the distance. Andrew had never been to Epsom; twice Charles had invited him to France to see one of his runners at Longchamp, but not to England. He got out of the car and looked round. The space was impressive; photographs and television coverage of the Derby gave no indication of how open and rural Epsom was. On the day of the great race it was a seething mass of people, a Martian invasion of cars, and decorated buses, with private helicopters buzzing overhead. A brilliant backdrop for the most prestigious race in the world. But that morning it was ghostly; the huge stands gaped at him, the little sward of turf reserved for the first three horses, the Royal Box above it, looked insignificant. The banks of flowers had not been put in place around the semi-circle. The Members' Enclosure, with its lawn and seats, was safe behind its gates and rails, the space reserved for the élite. It seemed sadly isolated. Andrew ducked under the white rail and began to walk along the course, down past the winning post to the final furlong marker, past the stands. There were notices forbidding people to walk across the sacred turf, soon to be raced over by the world's most valuable bloodstock. Andrew ignored them and walked on; he noticed a little group of Sunday idlers, obediently keeping the other side of the rails. The English were a law-abiding people. They took notices more seriously than anyone in the States. He could feel their disapproval as he passed them.

One side of his mind noted the sharp fall in the ground on the rail side, and the steep incline of that final run in after Tattenham Corner, deceptive even viewed from the other end. To a tired horse that combination of fall in the level and rising ground for the final hundred and fifty yards must make the post seem like the summit of a mountain still to climb. Easy to become unbalanced after the sharp turn from the back straight into that fearsome corner and then out again, on and up, assaulted by the unbelievable roar from the crowd on both sides of the course fighting for the stamina and speed to reach that little white circle on top of its post.… Everest indeed, for horse and jockey.

Andrew paused for a moment as he turned, facing towards the end of the course, the sun warm on his back. All his life he had loved racing and he had forgotten for a few moments his purpose in coming to the course. Charles's horse would face that test. Charles, his great friend, who had betrayed him and used him. Tears stung in his eyes. He pushed his clenched hands into his jacket pockets, dragging them down, and began to walk slowly back. He searched the stands, looking upwards to the tiers of private boxes, each named after horses which had won the Derby. Hyperion; Alycidon, My Babu, Roberto, Mill Reef.… Tim had said Isabel would be in the Mill Reef box, on the first level. He paused to look up, straining his eyes. Too far away, too high up. He ducked under the rails and began to walk along the narrow path to the right, leading to the paddock. It was a long walk from the stands. There was a line of loose boxes behind the railed paddock, saddling enclosures. A veterinary box. Tiers of steps around the paddock itself, with mushroom seats at the rails. She would walk down to the paddock just before the race, and go in to see the Falcon mounted up, with Tim and Nigel. And Richard, of course. Andrew's mouth turned down in a grimace. Richard would be there. If Charles Schriber could see that, wherever his spirit roamed, that moment would almost be sufficient punishment for the way he had treated his best friend.…

The paddock was always crowded. He knew that, because the Queen was present at the Derby and her procession down the course to the paddock was one of the highlights of the day. He remembered reading an article in a sporting magazine in the States, commenting on her vulnerability to assassination from any terrorist in the crowd.

There would be police hidden among them, detectives placed at vantage points along her route. Her security would envelop the others in the centre of that big green ring. He couldn't do anything there. He turned away and began walking back towards the road at the back of the stands, there stood the stables, where the horses waited before each race. Maximum security. No admittance. Some came and stayed overnight; others arrived that morning. Nobody was allowed into that yard without a special pass and an identity card. Then only the trainer, members of his staff, and the owner if signed in by him. Everyone signed the book on entering. There were no loopholes left for a potential doper. The gates were manned by racecourse security guards; all winners were dope tested, in the Classic race itself all placed horses were examined.

It was shut tight against outsiders. So Tim had explained to him. He strolled across the empty road and stood looking up at the solid gates. Until after the last race. He took his hands out of his pockets, flexed the fingers. That was the moment. Flushed with triumph after her win, perhaps.… It would be all the more just. And of course he had an ally; someone who was cooperating with him, helping every step of the way. That was ironic too. He would have been helpless without Tim Ryan. He gave a little laugh and turned away, back to his car. He had to call his wife that evening. She had written to him twice and he'd fobbed her off with a couple of telephone calls. Now he could give her a date for his return. She could get everything ready to welcome him back. He got into the car, reversed into the road and turned back for London. He hummed a little tune as he drove.

13

Roy Farrant stood on Newmarket Heath; it was eight o'clock in the morning and he had seen his horse Rocket Man do his final six-furlong gallop the day before the Derby. He had always loved Newmarket; it was the centre of British racing, headquarters of the National Stud, populated by the top flat trainers, proud of the tradition that stretched back to Charles II's love of racing horses on the superb heathland. Royal patronage had given the town its birth and 250 years of racing had stamped it with indelible character.