I picked more daffodils and put them in a vase, and punctually at noon my sister Lizzie arrived.
She flew in literally, from on high, in a helicopter.
Chapter 6
Lizzie owned a quarter share of the tiny Robinson 22, her only extravagance and the way she chose to use her inheritance from our parents. To my mind, the helicopter was her equivalent of Roger’s cruise ships and my steeplechasing, the elder sister’s statement that if boys could have toys, so could girls. She had shown us each in turn as children how to run a complicated train set. She’d taught us how to bat unafraid at cricket, she’d climbed trees like a cat; in her teens she’d led us into jungle woods and scary caves and defended us and lied for us in our wrong doings. Because of her, we’d grown up understanding many faces of courage.
She cut the engine and, when the rotor had stopped, jumped down from the little glass bubble and walked collectedly to meet me on the tarmac.
‘Hi,’ she said; small, light, wiry, pleased with life.
I hugged her.
‘Have you fixed lunch?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘Good. I brought a picnic.’
She returned to the helicopter and retrieved a carrier, which we took with us into the house. She never came empty handed. I never wasted time catering for her except to put champagne on ice. I popped the cork and poured it straight, and she relaxed in a big chair, taking a deep fizzy gulp and looking me over as sisters do.
‘How was the flight?’ I asked.
‘Bumpy over the moors. Some snow still lying about. I dropped down at Carlisle to refuel. Four hours, door to door.’
‘Three hundred and fifty miles,’ I said.
‘Near enough.’
‘It’s great to see you.’
‘Mm.’ She stretched, almost purring. ‘Tell me all.’
I told her a good deal, explaining who everyone was: Sandy Smith, Bruce Farway, the Watermeads, Jericho Rich, Brett, Dave, Kevin Keith Ogden and Jogger. I told her about Nina Young and her metamorphosis.
She inspected the empty cash box standing in all its grime on the newspaper. I showed her the rhyming dictionary and played her the tape of Jogger’s last message, but all the mental agility under the greying dark cap of hair couldn’t unlock the old soldier’s meaning.
‘Silly man,’ Lizzie said. ‘Did he fall or was he pushed?’
‘Pushing someone into a five-feet deep inspection pit is not a sure fire way of killing them.’
‘An accidental push, then.’
‘No one has owned up to it.’
With some hesitation I offered to show her the photographs of Jogger in the pit.
‘I’m not squeamish,’ she protested. ‘Hand them over.’
She studied them at length. ‘There’s nothing to tell, one way or another.’
‘No,’ I agreed, taking the photos back and returning them to their packet.
After a pause she asked, ‘What about these tubes in the thermos flask?’
I took two of the tubes from my safe, where I’d kept them overnight, and gave them to her. She unwrapped each from its tissue and held them up to the light.
‘Ten ccs,’ she said, reading the small numbers. ‘In other words, one tablespoonful.’
‘Only one?’ I was slightly surprised. I’d thought the tubes held more.
‘Only one,’ Lizzie confirmed. ‘A large mouthful.’
‘Yuk.’
‘Well, yes, it wouldn’t be prudent to drink this.’ She put the tubes back into the tissues, and into her handbag, just like Nina. ‘I suppose you want the results like, say, yesterday?’
‘It would be helpful.’
‘Day after tomorrow,’ she promised prosaically. ‘The best that can be done.’
‘I’ll try for patience.’
‘Never your best virtue.’
She sniffed the contents of the thermos and poured a little into a spare glass, putting her nose down close to the surface.
‘Coffee,’ she said, ‘and the milk’s off.’
‘It’s been in the thermos since Thursday at least.’
‘Do you want this analysed as well?’
‘What do you think?’ I asked.
She said, ‘I’d think the coffee was just there to cushion the tubes.’
‘Leave it, then,’ I said.
We drank more champagne and unpacked the picnic, which was the glorious gift of arguably the best restaurant in Scotland, La Potinière at Gullane in East Lothian. ‘The Browns send you their love,’ Lizzie said, referring to the owners. ‘They want to know when you’re coming back.’
They would want to know six months in advance and even then one might not get a table. Sometimes Lizzie, their close friend, had been down on her knees. This time, they’d sent chicken breasts stuffed with a mousseline of cream, hazelnuts and Calvados and a watercress salad with its hazelnut oil dressing packed separately, followed by a light lemon cheesecake that melted to ambrosia on the tongue.
I seldom cared much what I ate. Lizzie deplored it and educated me when she could. I’d have been willing to have graduated at La Potinière.
We companionably watched the first of the Cheltenham races on television, and it was no use looking back, it was three years since I’d finished second in the Champion Hurdle, a bitter sweet loss on the day.
‘Be glad you’re out of the worry of it,’ Lizzie said, watching me watching the jockeys.
‘What worry?’
‘The worry of someone else being given your rides.’
I smiled. That was, for all jockeys, the worst of worries, and I said, ‘You’re right. It’s a relief. Now I only have to worry about other transport firms pinching my customers.’
‘Which I don’t suppose they do, much.’
‘Not so far, luckily.’
The phone rang with a call from Isobel, reporting progress.
‘Everything’s OK,’ she said. ‘That new man, Aziz, has phoned from Yorkshire to say they want him to bring back eight animals, not seven, and the eighth is a half-bald old pony that can hardly walk. What do you want him to do?’
‘John Tigwood’s there,’ I said. ‘If he’ll be responsible if the pony dies on the way, we’ll ship it. Tell Aziz to get Tigwood to write a note absolving us, and sign and date it, including the time.’
‘Right.’
‘How did Aziz sound?’
‘Fed up,’ Isobel said cheerfully. ‘Can’t blame him.’
‘What’s all that about?’ Lizzie asked lazily as I put down the receiver, and I explained about the geriatric expedition and gave her a rundown on John Tigwood, profit-making philanthropist.
‘A fanatic?’
‘He has to be.’
We watched the rest of the races, all, that is, that were shown. Isobel phoned again in mid-programme at four to report all well; she was going off home. One of the local horses Harve had driven to Cheltenham had won, had I noticed?
‘Yes, terrific.’
‘Good for custom at the pub,’ she observed, bright girl, reminding me, as it happened, that I hadn’t checked that day on Jogger’s memorial.
I told Lizzie about the memorial, and the reason for it.
‘So you don’t think it was an accident!’ she said.
‘I want it to be.’
When the races had finished, we switched off the television and just talked in general, and later Aziz telephoned direct to my house, saying he hoped I didn’t mind but the office was shut with my own number on its answering machine.
‘No, of course not, I don’t mind. Where are you?’
‘Chieveley service station; that place north of Newbury. I’m inside, in a phone booth. I wanted to talk to you without them listening.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘It’s my first day with you, and I...’ He stopped, seeking the words. ‘Do you mind,’ he said in a rush, ‘coming to meet this box wherever it is that I’m taking it?’