I laughed. "OK, I'll chance it. Thanks."
"Great. Seven-thirty or thereabouts, at the Hall."
"Black tie?" I asked.
"Absolutely," she said, laughing. "No, of course not. Very casual. I'll be in jeans. It's just a kitchen supper with friends."
"I'll bring a bottle."
"That would be great," she said. "See you tomorrow."
She disconnected, and I handed the phone back to my mother, smiling.
"I don't know why you want to associate with that woman," she said in her most haughty voice. She made it sound as though I was fraternizing with the enemy.
I wasn't in the mood to have yet another argument with her over whom I should and should not be friends with. We had done enough of that throughout my teenage years, and she had usually won by refusing entry to the house for my friends of whom she hadn't approved, which, if I remembered correctly, had been most of them.
"Are you going to the races today?" I asked her instead.
"No," she replied. "I've no runners today."
"Do you only go to the races if you have a runner?" I asked.
She looked at me as if I was a fool. "Of course."
"I thought you might go just for the enjoyment of it," I said.
"Going to the races is my job," she said. "Would you do your job on days you didn't have to, just for the enjoyment?"
Actually, I would have, but there again, I enjoyed doing the things others might have been squeamish about.
"I might," I said.
"Not to Ludlow or Carlisle on a cold winter Wednesday, you wouldn't." She had a point. "It's not like Royal Ascot in June."
"No," I agreed. "So you can show me which bridle Scientific will use after lunch when the stable staff are off."
"Do you really think you can make the reins break during the race?" she asked.
"I had a good look at them," I said. "I think it might be possible."
"But how?"
"The reins are made of leather, but they have a nonslip rubber covering sewn round them, like the rubber on a table-tennis bat but with smaller pimples." She nodded. "The rubber is thin and not very strong. If I was able to break the leather inside the rubber, then it wouldn't be visible, and the reins would part during the race when the jockey pulls on them."
"It seems very risky," she said.
"Would you rather use your green-potato-peel soup?" I asked.
"No," she said adamantly. "That would ruin the horse forever."
"OK," I said. "You show me which bridle Scientific will wear, and I'll do the rest."
Was I getting myself in too deep here?
Was I about to become an accessory to a fraud on the betting public as well as to tax evasion?
Yes. Guilty on both counts.
8
I spent much of Thursday morning on a reasonably fruitful journey to Oxford.
Banbury Drive was in Summertown, a northern suburb of the city, and number twenty-six was one of a row of 1950s-built semidetached houses with bay windows and pebble-dash walls. Twenty-six Banbury Drive was the supposed address of Mrs. Jane Philips, my mother, which Roderick Ward had included on her tax return.
I parked my Jaguar a little way down the road, so it wouldn't be so visible, and walked to the front door of number twenty-six. I rang the bell.
I didn't really know what to expect, but nevertheless I was a little surprised when the door was opened a fraction by an elderly white-haired gentleman wearing maroon carpet slippers, no socks and brown trousers that had been pulled up a good six inches too far.
"What do you want?" he snapped at me through the narrow gap.
"Does someone called Mr. Roderick Ward live here?" I asked.
"Who?" he said, cupping a hand to his ear.
"Roderick Ward," I repeated.
"Never heard of him," said the man. "Now go away."
The door began to close.
"He was killed in a car crash last July," I said quickly, but the door continued to close. I placed my false foot into the diminishing space between the door and the frame. At least it wouldn't hurt if he tried to slam the door shut.
"He had a sister called Stella," I said loudly. "Stella Beecher."
The door stopped moving and reopened just a fraction. I removed my foot.
"Do you know Stella?" I asked him.
"Someone called Stella brings my Meals-on-Wheels," the man said.
"Every day?" I asked.
"Yes," he said.
"What time?" I asked. It was already nearly twelve o'clock.
"Around one," he said.
"Thank you, sir," I said formally. "And what is your name, please?"
"Are you from the council?" he asked.
"Of course," I said.
"Then you should know my bloody name," he said, and he slammed the door shut.
Damn it, I thought. That was stupid.
I stood on the pavement for a while, but it was cold and my real toes became chilled inside my inappropriate indoor footwear.
Of course, I had no toes on my right side, but that didn't mean I had no feeling there. The nerves that had once stretched all the way to my toes now ended seven inches below my knee. However, they often sent signals as if they had come from my foot.
In particular, when my real left foot was cold, the nerves in my right leg tended to confuse the situation by sometimes sending cold signals to my brain or, worse, as now, hot ones. It felt as though I had one foot inside a block of ice while the other was resting on a red-hot griddle plate. The sensation from the truncated nerves may have been from only a phantom limb, but they were real enough in my head, and they hurt.
I took shelter from the cold in my car. I started the engine and switched on the heater.
Consequently, I almost missed the arrival of the old man's meal.
A dark blue Nissan came towards me and pulled up in front of the house, and a middle-aged woman leapt out and almost ran to the old man's door carrying a foil-covered tray. She had a key and let herself in. Only a few seconds later she emerged again, slammed the door shut and was back in her car almost before I had a chance to get out of mine.
I walked in the road so she couldn't leave without reversing or running me over. She sounded the horn and waved me out of the way. I put up a hand in a police-style stop signal.
"I'm in a hurry," she shouted.
"I just need to ask you a question," I shouted back.
The driver's window slid down a few inches.
"Are you Stella Beecher?" I asked, coming alongside the car.
"No," she said.
"The old man said Stella delivered his meals."
She smiled. "He calls all of us Stella," she said. "Someone called Stella used to do it for him, but she hasn't been here for months."
"Is her name Stella Beecher?" I asked.
"I don't really know," the woman said. "We're volunteers. I'd only just started when she stopped coming." She looked at her watch. "Sorry, I've got to go. The old people don't like me being late with their food."
"How can I contact Stella?" I asked.
"Sorry," she said. "I've no idea where she is now."
"What's his name?" I asked, nodding at the house.
"Mr. Horner," she said. "He's a cantankerous old git. And he never even bothered to wash up his plate from yesterday." I could see his dirty plate lying on the front seat beside her. "Must dash."
She revved the engine and was gone.
I stood there, wishing I'd asked her name or for her contact details, or at least for the name of the organization for whom she acted as a volunteer. Perhaps the council would know, I thought. I'd ask them.
I walked back up the driveway of number twenty-six and rang the bell.
There was no reply.
I leaned down and called through the letter box. "Mr. Horner," I shouted. "I need to ask you some questions."
"Go away." I could hear him in the distance. "I'm having my lunch."
"I only want a minute," I shouted, again through the letter box. "I need to ask you about your post."
"What about my post?" he said from much closer.
I stood up straight, and he opened the door a crack on a security chain.