The police haven’t found Moira’s murderer, but we have now got to try to do it ourselves. It’s no longer safe not to, which is why we engaged Norman West.’ I looked directly at Joyce. ‘Stop fussing over what Malcolm is spending and start thinking of ways to save his life, if only so that he can make more money, which he can do, but only if he’s alive.’
‘Ian …’ She was shocked.
‘You roused the whole family this morning on the telephone, telling them where to find me, and now seven of them that we know of are here, and others may be who’ve kept out of sight. Much though we hate the idea, Moira’s murderer may be here.’
‘No, no,’ Joyce exclaimed.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Malcolm’s primary defence against being murdered is staying out of reach of lethal instruments, which means people not knowing where to find him. Well, you, my darling mother, brought the whole pack here to the races, so now you’d better help Malcolm to leave before they catch him.’
‘I didn’t know he’d be here,’ she protested.
‘No, but he is. It’s time to be practical.’
No one pointed out that if she had known he’d be there, she would have sent everyone with even more zeal.
‘Do you have any ideas?’ Malcolm asked me hopefully.
‘Yes, I do. But we have to have Joyce’s help, plus her promise of silence.’
My mother was looking less than her normal commanding self and gave assurances almost meekly.
‘This is not a private bar,’ I said, ‘and if any of the family have bought Club passes, they may turn up in here at any moment, so we’d best lose no time. I’m going to leave you both here for a few minutes, but I’ll be back. Stay in this corner. Whatever happens, stay right here. If the family find you, still stay here. OK?’
They both nodded, and I left them sitting and looking warily at each other in the first tete-a-tete they’d shared for many a long year.
I went in search of the overall catering director whom I knew quite well because one of his daughters rode against me regularly in amateur races, and found him by sending urgent messages via the manager of the Members’ bar.
‘Ian,’ he said ten slow minutes later, coming to the bar from the back, where the bottles were, ‘what’s the trouble?’
He was a company director, head of a catering division, a capable man in his fifties, sprung from suburbia, upwardly mobile from merit, grown worldly wise.
I said the trouble was private, and he led me away from the crowds, through the back of the bar and into a small area of comparative quiet, out of sight of the customers.
My father, I told him, badly needed an immediate inconspicuous exit from the racecourse and wanted to know if a case of vintage Bollinger would ease his passage.
‘Not skipping his bookie, I hope?’ the caterer said laconically.
‘No, he wants to elope with my mother, his ex-wife, from under the eyes of his family.’
The caterer, amused, agreed that Bollinger might be nice. He also laughed at my plan, told me to put it into operation, he would see it went well, and to look after his Rosemary whenever she raced.
I went back through the bar to collect Malcolm and to ask Joyce to fetch her car and to drive it to where the caterers parked their vans, giving her directions. The two of them were still sitting alone at the table, not exactly gazing into each other’s eyes with rapture but at least not drawn apart in frost. They both seemed relieved at my reappearance, though, and Joyce picked up her handbag with alacrity to go to fetch her car.
‘If you see any of the others,’ I said, ‘just say you’re going home.’
‘I wasn’t born yesterday, darling,’ she replied with reviving sarcasm. ‘Run along and play games, and let me do my part.’
The game was the same one I’d thought of earlier in the changing-room, modified only by starting from a different point. It was just possible that the wrong eyes had spotted Malcolm in his brief passage outside from the exit door of the Directors’ rooms to the entrance door of the bar, but even if so, I thought we could fool them.
In the quiet private space at the rear of the bar, the catering director was watching the large chef remove his white coat and tall hat.
‘A case of vintage Bollinger for the caterer, a handout for the chef,’ I murmured