Crossfire (14 page)

But, of course, I could find no records of the profits made by the company called Kauri House Stables (Gibraltar) Ltd. In fact, there was no reference to any such entity anywhere in the
R
for Roderick drawer of the filing cabinet, or anywhere else, for that matter. However, I did find one interesting sheet of paper nestling amongst the tax returns. It was a letter from an investment fund manager welcoming my mother and stepfather into the select group of individuals invited to invest in his fund. The letter was dated three years previously and had been signed by a Mr. Anthony Cigar of Rock Bank (Gibraltar) Ltd.

Mr. Cigar hadn’t actually used the term “hedge fund,” but it was quite clear from his letter, and from the attached fee schedule, that a hedge fund was what he’d managed.

I sat at my mother’s desk and looked up Rock Bank (Gibraltar) Ltd on the Internet. I typed the name into Google and then clicked on the bank’s own Web address. The computer came back with the answer that the website was under construction and was unavailable to be displayed.

I went back to the Google page and clicked on the site for the
Gibraltar Chronicle,
one of the references that had mentioned the Rock Bank. It reported that back in September, Parkin & Cleeve Ltd, a UK-based firm of liquidators, had unsuccessfully filed a suit in the High Court in London against the individual directors of Rock Bank (Gibraltar) Ltd in an attempt to recover money on behalf of several of their clients. The directors were not named by the report, and the
Chronicle
had been unable to obtain a response from any representative of the bank.

It didn’t bode well for the recovery of my mother’s million dollars.

I yawned and looked at my watch. It was ten to midnight, and my mother and Derek had long before gone up to bed, and it was also well past my bedtime.

I flicked off the light in the office and went up the stairs.

My first day as sleuth-in-residence at Kauri House Stables hadn’t gone all my own way. I hoped for better news in the morning.

 

 

W
hen I came down to breakfast at eight o’clock I found my stepfather sitting silently, staring at a single brown envelope lying on the bleached-pine kitchen table, with “On Her Majesty’s Service” printed in bold type along the top.

“Have you opened it?” I asked him.

“Of course not,” he said. “It’s addressed to your mother.”

“Where is she?” I asked.

“Still out with the first lot,” he said.

I picked up the envelope and looked at the back. “In case of non-delivery, please return to HMRC” was printed across the flap, so there was no mistake—it was definitely from the tax man.

I slid my finger under the flap and ripped open the envelope.

“You can’t do that,” my stepfather said indignantly.

“I just did,” I said, taking out the contents. I unfolded the letter. It was simply a reminder for her Pay-As-You-Earn payments for the stable staff.

“It’s OK,” I said. “This is just a routine monthly reminder notice. It was generated by a computer. No one is going to come here. Not yet anyway.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, still looking worried.

“Yes,” I said.“But they will come in the end if we don’t do something about this mess.”

“But what can we do?” he said.

It was a good question.

“I don’t know yet,” I said, “but I do know that we will be in even more trouble if we do nothing and then the tax man comes calling. We simply have to go to them with answers before they come to us with questions.”

My mother swept into the kitchen and placed her hands on the Aga.

“God, it’s cold out there,” she said. Neither my stepfather nor I said anything. She turned around. “What’s wrong with you two? Quiet all of a sudden?”

“A letter has arrived from the tax office,” my stepfather said.

In spite of her cold-induced rosy cheeks, my mother went a shade paler.

“It’s all right,” I said in a more reassuring tone than her husband’s had been. “It’s just an automatic PAYE reminder. Nothing to worry about.” I tossed the letter onto the kitchen table.

“Are you certain?” she asked, moving forwards and picking it up.

“Yes,” I said. “But I was saying to Derek here, we will have to tell the tax man soon about what’s happened, and before he starts asking us difficult questions we can’t answer.”

“Why would he?”

“Because you should have sent them a tax return by January thirty-first.”

“Oh,” she said. “But why does that mean we have to tell them everything? Why can’t I just send them a tax return now?”

Why not indeed? I thought. As things stood, I could just about argue that I was not an accessory to tax evasion, but I certainly wouldn’t be able to if I helped her send in a fraudulent tax return.

Junior officers have to learn, from cover to cover, the contents of a booklet titled
Values and Standards of the British Army.
Paragraph twenty-seven states:

“Let’s leave it for a few days,” I said. “The tax website says you won’t get any more penalties until the end of the month.” Other than the interest, of course.

 

 

I
left my mother and Derek to reflect on things in the kitchen while I went out to the stable yard in search of Ian Norland.

“You’re still here, then?” he said as I found him in the feed store.

“Seems so,” I said.

I stood in silence and watched him measure out some oats from a hopper into some metal bowls.

“I’m not going to talk to you,” he said. “It nearly cost me my job last time.”

“We’ve moved on since then.”

“Who has?”

“My mother and me,” I said. “We’re now on the same side.”

“I’ll wait for her to tell me that, if you don’t mind.”

“She’s in the kitchen right now,” I said. “Go and ask her.”

“I think I’ll wait for her to come out.”

“No,” I insisted. “Please go and ask her now. I need to talk to you.”

He went off reluctantly in the direction of the house, looking back once or twice as if I might call him back and say it was all a joke. I hoped my mother wouldn’t actually bite his head off.

In his absence I went from the feed store into the tack room next door. It was all very neat and smelled strongly of leather, like those handbag counters in Oxford Street department stores. On the left-hand wall there were about twenty metal saddle racks, about half of which were occupied by saddles with their girths wrapped around them. On the opposite wall there were rows of coat hooks holdings bridles, and at the end between the saddles and bridles, there were shelves of folded horse rugs and other paraphernalia, including a box of assorted bits and a couple of riding helmets.

It was the bridles I was most interested in.

As I looked at them one of the stable staff came in and collected a saddle from one of the racks and a bridle from a hook.

“Are these bridles specific to each horse?” I asked him.

“No, mate,” he said. “Not usually. The lads have one each, and there are a few spare. This is mine.” He held up the one he had just removed from a hook. “My saddle too.”

“Did you have to buy it?” I asked him.

“Naah, of course not,” he said with a grin. “This is the one the guv’nor gives me to use, while I’m ’ere, like.”

“And are these saddles also used in the races?”

“Naah,” he said again. “The jocks have their own saddles.”

“And their own bridles?”

“Naah,” he said once more. “But we ’ave special racing ones of those. Jack keeps them in the racing tack room with the other stuff.”

“Who’s Jack?” I said.

“Traveling ’ead lad.” He paused. “Who are you anyway?”

“I’m Mrs. Kauri’s son,” I said.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, glancing down at my right leg. “ ’Eard you were ’ere.”

“Where is the racing tack room?” I asked him.

“Round the other side,” he said, pointing through the far wall, the one with the shelves.

“Thank you, Declan,” my mother said domineeringly, coming into the tack room. “Now, get on.”

Declan went bright pink and scurried away with his saddle and bridle under his arm.

“I’ll thank you not to interrogate my staff,” she said.

I walked around her and pulled the tack-room door shut.

“Mother,” I said formally. “If you want me to go now, I will.” I paused briefly. “I’ll also try to visit you in Holloway Prison.” She opened her mouth to speak, but I cut her off. “Or you can let me help you, and I might just keep you out of jail.”

Actually, secretly, I was beginning to think that the chances of managing that were very slight.

She stood tight-lipped in front of me. I thought she might cry again, but at that moment Ian Norland opened the tack-room door behind her and joined us.

“Ian,” my mother said without turning around, her voice full of emotion. “You may say what you like to my son. Please answer any questions he might ask you. Show him whatever he wants to see. Give him whatever help he needs.”

With that, she turned abruptly and marched out of the tack room, closing the door behind her.

“I told you last week that something bloody strange was going on round here,” Ian said. “And it sure is.” He paused. “I’ll answer your questions and I’ll show you what you want to see, but don’t ask me to help you if it’s illegal.”

“I won’t,” I said.

“Or against the Rules of Racing,” he said.

“I won’t do that either,” I said. “I promise.”

I hoped it was another promise I’d be able to keep.

 

 

T
o my eye, the racing bridles looked identical to those in the general tack room. However, Ian assured me they were newer and of better quality.

“The reins are all double-stitched to the bit rings,” he said, showing me, “so that there’s less chance of them breaking during the race.”

Both the bridles and the reins were predominantly made of leather, although there was a fair amount of metal and rubber as well.

“Does each horse have its own bridle?” I asked.

“They do on any given race day,” Ian said. “But we have fifteen racing bridles in here, and they do for all our runners.”

We were in the racing tack room. Apart from the bridles hanging on hooks, there was a mountain of other equipment, the most colorful being the mass of jockeys’ silks hanging on a rail. There were also two boxes of special bits, and others of blinkers, visors, cheek pieces and sheepskin nosebands. Up against the far wall, on top of a sort of sideboard, there were neat stacks of horse blankets, weight cloths and under-saddle pads, and there was even a collection of padded jackets for the stable staff to wear in the parade ring.

“So, say on Saturday, when Scientific runs at Newbury,” I said. “Can you tell which bridle he’ll use?”

Ian looked at me strangely. “No,” he said. “Jack will take any one of these.” He waved a hand at the fifteen bridles on their hooks.

To be honest, that wasn’t the most helpful of answers.

“Don’t any of the horses have their own bridle?” I asked, trying not to sound desperate.

“One or two,” he said. “Old Perfidio has his own. That’s because he has a special bit to try and stop him from biting his tongue during the race.”

“But doesn’t sharing tack result in cross-contamination?” I said.

“Not that we’ve noticed. We always dip bridles in disinfectant after every use, even the regular exercise ones.”

I could see that making Scientific’s bridle or reins break on Saturday in the Game Spirit Steeplechase was not going to be as easy as I had imagined, at least not without Ian or Jack knowing about it.

“How about special nosebands?” I asked. “Why, for example, do some horses run in sheepskin nosebands?”

“Some trainers run all their horses in sheepskin nosebands,” Ian said. “It helps them to see which horse is theirs. The colors aren’t very easy to see when the horses are coming straight at you, especially if it’s muddy.”

“Do my mother’s horses all wear them?”

“No,” he said. “Not as a general rule. But we do use them occasionally if a horse tends to run with his head held up.”

“Why’s that?”

“If a horse runs with his head too high he isn’t looking at the bottom of the fences, and also when the jockey pulls the reins the horse will lift it higher, not put it down like he should. So we put a nice thick sheepskin on him and he has to lower his head a little to see where he’s going.”

“Amazing,” I said. “Does it really work?”

“Of course it works,” he said, almost affronted. “We wouldn’t do it if it didn’t work. We also sometimes put cross nosebands on them to keep their mouths shut, especially if they’re a puller. Keeping their mouths closed often stops them from pulling too hard. Or an Australian noseband will lift the bit higher in the mouth to stop a horse from putting his tongue over it.”

“Is that important?” I asked.

“It can be,” Ian said. “If a horse puts his tongue over the bit it can push on the back of the mouth and put pressure on the airway so the horse can’t breathe properly.”

There was clearly so much I didn’t know about racehorse training.

 

 

I
think you might have to revert to the liquidized green potato peel,” I said to my mother when I went back into the kitchen.

“Why?” she said.

“Because I can’t see how we are going to arrange for Scientific’s reins to break during the race on Saturday if we can’t even be sure which bridle he’ll be wearing.”