‘Well, they bloody know,’ he shouted down the line. ‘I had some copper on my doorstep here at seven o’clock this morning, and all he talked about was the effing sex offenders register.’
DS Jagger had assured me that he would act on my information, but I hadn’t expected his approach to be quite so insensitive.
I had discovered for myself the previous morning that Detective Sergeant Jagger was neither the most tactful nor the most considerate of men. He was only interested in securing an arrest. He didn’t care what collateral damage was done to people’s lives in the process, and he made no allowance to mitigate it.
He had obviously looked up Mitchell’s conviction on the police computer and favoured the bull-in-the-china-shop approach, just like Paul Maldini. I didn’t think it was likely to encourage Willy to cooperate.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I had no choice. I was threatened with arrest for obstructing the police unless I gave him your name.’
‘I wish I’d never told you anything.’
‘But you did,’ I said. ‘And surely that makes you safer. Now if the blackmailer gets some girl to go to the police and complain about you having sex with her, they will know it’s a lie.’
‘Will they?’ He didn’t sound like he believed it. ‘Why, then, has this bloody copper been going on about how I’m a danger to society? He says I should have been chucked in jail and the key thrown away. He kept calling me a paedophile. Poor Amy is still in floods of tears over it.’
It was, as they would say in American football, unnecessary roughness.
‘He was just trying to frighten you into revealing something that you didn’t want him to know.’
He grunted.
‘So what did you tell him?’ I asked.
‘Same as I told you,’ he said, ‘but I don’t think he took much notice. He treated me all the while like something that he’d picked up on his shoe. But I’m not the bloody villain here. I’m the victim.’
The BHA might disagree.
After all, he had failed to win a race on purpose.
I thought it was prudent to call Bill McKenzie and warn him that he might, too, be getting an unwelcome visit from DS Jagger. It had the potential to be far more damaging for his marriage than it would have been for Willy’s.
I was too late.
Jagger had already been there. He had obviously gone straight on from Mitchell’s place.
‘Oh, thank you very much,’ Bill said sarcastically. ‘You may well have destroyed my marriage.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
But it had been him who had been with another woman, not me.
‘Has your wife found out about the photos?’ I asked.
‘No, thank God, but she insists on knowing why that policeman was here. She claims she has a right to know if I’ve been accused of something. I told her that I hadn’t — I was just helping them with their inquiries. But now she wants to know what those inquiries are about.’
‘What did you tell her?’ I asked.
‘Nothing,’ Bill said. ‘Hence we’re not talking to each other at all at the moment. It’s dreadful.’
‘Tell me, Bill,’ I said. ‘Did you speak to Leslie Morris after riding Wisden Wonder at Sandown?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Of course not.’
‘Did you speak to him at all during the Tingle Creek meeting?’
‘I’ve only ever spoken to him in France. Not before and not since. And I never want to speak to him again.’
I had been invited to spend Tuesday evening with Faye and Quentin, to join them for a sort of Christmas dinner, before I went away.
I spent some of the afternoon wrapping up presents for them — Jo Malone perfume for her and a silk bow tie and coordinating handkerchief for him. It made me think about some other presents I should be taking with me to the Cayman Islands.
I wondered how many of us there would be. Uncle Richard and Aunt Mary for sure, plus Martin Reynard and his wife, Theresa. How many others?
I left early for Richmond and occupied a constructive hour in a department store in the centre buying a selection of ties for the men and silk scarves for the ladies — three of each, so I’d have some spares. They would be easy to pack and nice and lightweight for my luggage allowance.
In addition, I looked for something for Henri, and that was far more difficult.
What did you buy for someone on the Sunday Times Rich List?
Any sort of jewellery would definitely be out. There was nothing I could afford that would even come close to what she had probably inherited from her mother.
I searched around in vain for quite a while, finally deciding in desperation on some Chanel № 5 Parfum. Lydia used to wear it all the time, and I liked it.
I arrived at Faye and Quentin’s house at seven o’clock sharp, as instructed.
The place looked wonderful with a tall twinkling Christmas tree in the hallway. Faye had gone to town with the decorations and the sitting room and dining room were adorned with scented candles, festive swags and row upon row of Christmas cards hung on strings between the ceiling beams.
‘It’s lovely,’ I said to her, giving her a kiss on the cheek.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Ever since this bloody cancer took control of my life, I’ve wondered if each Christmas will be my last. I’d hate to go out after a damp squib.’
I smiled at her and rubbed her shoulders. I hadn’t realized she thought that way. Perhaps I shouldn’t be going away.
No one but the actual sufferer fully understands what a diagnosis of cancer really means. It isn’t just the body that’s affected, it is the mind as well. Even when it appears to be beaten, as in Faye’s case, it still has an all-encompassing and persistent presence, forcing one to make difficult choices and confiscating one’s free will. It is the enemy within, the fifth column, forever ready to rise up and strike unless forcibly restrained at every turn.
‘Come on,’ Faye said, snapping us out of the moment. ‘Let’s open a bottle of bubbly.’
Quentin arrived home as we were on our second glass.
‘What a dreadful day,’ he said as he came into the kitchen, where Faye was cooking the dinner and I was sitting on a barstool watching her.
I gave him a flute of champagne, which he drank down in one long slurp.
‘God! I needed that,’ he said.
I refilled his glass.
‘What was dreadful about it?’ Faye asked.
‘Oh, nothing important,’ he said, taking another sip of champagne. ‘It just never ceases to amaze me how juries can come up with some of their verdicts. I’ve spent ten whole weeks explaining to them in the minutest detail how the defendant was as guilty as sin of fraud and tax evasion, and they take a mere forty-five minutes to acquit him. I think jury trials are a joke in fraud cases. The average man off the street doesn’t understand the complexities and hence won’t convict, irrespective of how persuasive the facts are. They’ve been talking about changing it for years but nothing happens.’
‘What had he done?’ I asked.
‘He claimed he was not subject to UK capital gains tax on the proceeds of the sale of his printing company. He maintained that he was tax resident in the Channel Islands at the time of the sale, but it was blatantly not true. How the jury couldn’t see he was lying is beyond me.’
‘OK, you two, that’s enough legal talk,’ Faye said firmly. ‘This is family time.’
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.’