Front Runner (22 page)

E
ven though Henri and I had known each other for almost three whole weeks, this was our first time, and it was a journey of discovery and delight, of tenderness and love, with moments of primeval rawness and desire.

For me, it was like a reawakening of my emotions after almost a year of abstinence, a release of sexual tension that sent multiple shudders through my body.

“Wow!” It was now Henri's turn to say it. “You sure needed that.”

I certainly did.

Afterward, we lay entwined on the bed, our naked skin glistening wet from the exertion. So much for my promise to Faye to take things easy.

I snuggled up to Henri, happy and content, and also rather relieved that my aerobics appeared not to have reopened any of my various incisions.

“Come on,” she said, sitting up. “Don't go to sleep. It's nearly time to confront the family.”

“What did Martin say when you told him I was coming with you?” I asked, not moving.

“I didn't tell him,” she said. “I only asked Uncle Richard. He's the one who matters. Even though Martin has taken over as managing director, Uncle Richard is the chairman and he's still very much the boss.”

“Martin didn't seem particularly surprised to see me at the airport. He just ignored me.”

“Perhaps Theresa told him. I had to ask her if it was all right to bring you to Christmas lunch. It's at their place.”

She rolled off the bed and I watched as she walked into the bathroom. What a fabulous sight.

I heard the shower start and I soon joined her under the spray.

“That was more lovely than I had ever imagined,” I said.

“For me too,” she replied.

We embraced again and kissed in the stream of water, causing me to shudder once more with pleasure.

“And we still have eleven nights left.”

—

T
HE
SUN
was only just above the horizon as Henri and I walked hand in hand along the beach about two hundred yards to Martin and Theresa's house.

If I'd thought the apartment at the Coral Stone Club was spectacular, then the Reynard residence was beyond compare. The two-story building had been constructed in an L shape, with both wings angled toward the beach to give the maximum number of rooms a view of the sea. And it was vast.

In the inside apex of the L was a terrace containing a kidney-shaped swimming pool surrounded by white sail-like sunshades stretched horizontally on stainless steel frames.

As far as I could see, it was the only private house on this part of the beachfront, with condominiums stretching away, cheek by
jowl, on either side. Not that the Reynards were overlooked. Several towering casuarina trees provided both privacy and shade for the terrace. And that is where we found the others, sitting in a semicircle close to the pool, looking out to sea.

“Ah, there you are,” Sir Richard said. “You've nearly missed it.”

We watched as the sun appeared to go straight down into the sea, staring until the very last tiny piece of the fiery disk had vanished for another day. It was the most dramatic sunset I had ever seen.

“No green flash,” Sir Richard announced. “Not that I could see anyway.”

“Green flash?” I said.

“Sometimes when the sun finally disappears, you can see a flash of green,” he replied. “At least, that's what people say, even though I've never seen it myself. It's said to be due to the sunlight refracting through the earth's atmosphere, but I rather think it's just an old wives' tale.”

“It's perfectly true,” Theresa said. “It happens all the time.”

I wondered if she actually believed it or was just being contrary to wind up her father-in-law.

“What would you like, Henri?” Martin asked.

“White wine, please,” she replied.

“Beer do you?” Martin said to me without any warmth in his voice.

“Great,” I said. “Thanks.”

He stood up and went inside the house, soon reappearing with a glass of white wine for Henri and an opened green beer bottle for me.

“It's Caybrew,” he said, handing it to me without once looking at my face. “It's the local lager.”

“Lovely,” I said.

I took the bottle and drank a welcome mouthful of its cool contents.

Even though the sun had only been down a few minutes, it was already getting quite gloomy.

“We'd best all go in,” Theresa said. “The mosquitoes and sand flies are at their worst when it's getting dark.”

“Are mosquitoes a big problem here?” I asked.

“They were once,” she said. “It was so bad that everyone had to cover up and wear nets over their faces. But, nowadays, the government sprays to keep them in check. But there are still a few about, and the best way to avoid being bitten is to be indoors at dusk. So come on, everyone, I've got some smoked salmon waiting.”

She rounded us up like miscreant children.

We went inside to their cavernous living room that sat in the middle of the L, stretching right up through both floors to an octagonal cupola perched high at the point on the roof where the two wings met.

“It was designed to keep the house cool,” Theresa said with a smile as she saw me looking up. “The windows in the cupola can be opened to let out the hot air, although we tend to use the air-conditioning most of the time anyway.”

It was certainly cool in the house compared to outside.

And it wasn't just the temperature of the air.

Martin and Theresa were fighting.

Not that they were shouting at each other or anything. Indeed, they were not even talking. But, nevertheless, there was a flaming fight going on between them, conducted exclusively with body language.

No one else seemed to have noticed, but I had been trained
by the Army to read the body language of Afghan tribal elders. They would smile at you and speak sweet nothings in your ear while at the same time blowing your brains out with an AK-47. “Never look at someone's mouth when they are speaking to you,” my instructor had said. “Always look into their eyes. If their smile doesn't reach the eyes, watch out.”

Theresa's smiles were never getting close.

—

H
ENRI
AND
I
didn't stay long. The time change meant we were dog-tired and ready for bed by eight o'clock. It had been a long day and I'd been up for nearly twenty hours.

“We can't go to bed just yet,” I said as we walked back along the beach in the dark to the Coral Stone Club.

“Why not?” she replied with a giggle.

“I mean, we can't go to sleep yet. We'd be awake again in the middle of the night.”

We managed to stay up until nine, chancing the mosquitoes and sitting outside on the patio to share a bottle of white wine that the management had kindly placed as a welcome gift in the refrigerator.

“How long have Martin and Theresa been married?” I asked.

“Eleven years,” Henri said. “I was a bridesmaid at their wedding. Why?”

“I was just wondering. Do they have any children?”

“Theresa is desperate to have one. Martin had a son by a former wife and I know it bothers her. She's had loads of tests and tried all sorts of fertility treatments. But no luck so far, and they're both getting on. It must be hard for them, as Martin's younger brother has four.”

“Is
he
involved in the family firm?”

“Not at all. He's an artist and hates anything to do with it.” She made it sound like a failing. “He and his wife live in some godforsaken place in the Scottish Highlands with no electricity. I haven't seen them for years.”

“Do you ever see Martin's son?”

“All the time. His name's Joshua. He's fifteen now. Martin supports him financially, and he comes to stay with them at weekends when they're in England and also during the school holidays. He's been here to Cayman as well, often, but sadly not for Christmas this year. It would have been nice to have some kids around.” She laughed. “Perhaps you and I will have some.”

We looked at each other. Were we really that serious?

—

I
WOKE
IN
THE
DARK
and it took me a moment or two to remember where I was. Then I heard Henri's rhythmic breathing beside me. I smiled. It was Christmas Eve in the Cayman Islands and all was well in my life.

A little while later, I heard Henri stir.

“Are you awake?” I asked quietly into the blackness.

“No,” she replied.

I snuggled over to her, searching for her body with my hands in the super-king-sized bed.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Time for sex,” I replied.

“Oh, goody.”

—

I
T
WAS
STILL
DARK
when I went into the kitchen to make us some coffee. The digital clock on the stove told me it was ten minutes to six, ten to eleven back in the UK.

When I went back into the bedroom, Henri was sitting up with the light on, reading.

“What's so interesting you have to read it in the middle of the night?”

“Papers for the board meeting. I've had them for over a week now, but I haven't even looked at them yet. Uncle Richard would be furious if he knew.”

“What time's the meeting?”

“Ten o'clock.”

“Why is it taking place here?” I asked.

“Because this is where the company has its registered office. Martin moved everything here three years ago when he became managing director.”

No wonder I hadn't been able to find any recent accounts for Reynard Shipping Limited at Companies House.

“Why?” I said.

“Partly because this is where he lives.”

“I thought you said he spends his time in Singapore.”

“He does, but this is his official home. Even though Cayman is not an independent country—it's an overseas territory of the UK—Martin and Theresa have what they call
status
here. It's like Cayman citizenship.”

She turned over another sheet of paper.

“Of course, the company move was also done for tax reasons. Reynard Shipping was a British company and was therefore paying UK corporate taxes on all its worldwide profits. The whole lot. Our competitors, meanwhile, were mostly based in Singapore or Hong Kong, which have far lower tax rates than the UK. Hence, we had become noncompetitive. We even began losing money. So Martin moved the company registration over here to take advantage of Cayman's tax laws.”

“Very wise,” I said.

“We still pay UK tax on our UK profit, of course, through our UK subsidiary. That's fair enough. But not on everything else as well.”

It all sounded eminently sensible.

I left her to read the board papers and went into the kitchen to call Detective Chief Inspector Owens, D.S. Jagger's senior officer, as I had promised.

“Ah, Mr. Hinkley,” he said when I was finally put through to him. “Thank you for calling.”

“Have you charged Leslie Morris with murder?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

“How about his son?”

“So far, we have been unable to locate Mr. Andrew Morris.”

“You mean he's gone missing?” I said.

“It would appear so,” agreed the chief inspector.

“Have you charged Mr. Morris Senior with anything?”

“Not yet. He's out on bail, pending further inquiries. He has to report back to us on fifteen January.”

“But surely you must have enough on him to charge him with blackmail.”

“Mr. McKenzie is no longer being very cooperative,” the chief inspector replied. “He maintains that he might be mistaken about the times of the calls made to him demanding that he lose the horse race—times that we know from the records match calls made to his phone from Morris's number. He now says he's not sure it was Morris who was blackmailing him.”

Unbelievable.

I would have to have words with young Bill.

“Mr. Hinkley, what I really wanted to talk to you about is your visit to Mr. Swinton's house on the morning of his death.”

“Yes?” I said. “What about it?”

“At the time you gave your first statement to D.S. Jagger, you were under the impression that Mr. Swinton himself had locked you in the sauna. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“We now believe that it might have been, in fact, the action of a third party.”

“Yes,” I said again. “I know.”

“At the time, why did you think it was Mr. Swinton?”

“I thought he was the only other person there, so it had to be him.”

“But what was it about Mr. Swinton's character that gave you reason to believe that he was capable of such a thing?”

“Dave Swinton was the most competitive person I have ever met,” I said, “and I've met quite a few in racing. He would do almost anything to win a race, even if it was not entirely within the rules. He considered that life itself was a series of games and that winning was all that mattered. That's why his marriage broke down. He was never prepared to lose an argument and he would never admit he was wrong even if he knew he was. Some people thought he was arrogant, and he was, but I'll tell you, without that arrogance, he would never have been half the jockey he was.”

“Does that mean you didn't get along?” asked the D.C.I.

“Not at all,” I said. “Dave and I were friends, but I still thought him capable of locking me in the sauna if he thought it would help him to win—whatever game he imagined we were playing at the time. Although, I have to admit, I was surprised and disappointed when I assumed he'd left me there to die. Why is all this relevant?”

“I like to get inside the character of the murder victim,” the policeman said. “To try and think like him. Somehow, it helps me to understand the reasons someone might want him dead.”