Decider - By Dick Francis Page 0,66

Carteret asked.

‘This is all Yarrow showed the Strattons.’

‘How does he get crowds up five storeys?’

I smiled. ‘Presumably they walk, like they did in the old grandstand that exploded…’

‘No lifts. No escalators in the floor plan.’ He looked up. ‘No client would buy this, not in this day and age.’

‘I’d guess,’ I said, ‘that Conrad Stratton has committed himself and the racecourse to whatever Yarrow produced.’

‘Signed a contract, do you mean?’

‘I don’t know. If he did, it’s not binding, as he hadn’t the power to.’

He frowned. ‘Bit of a mess, though.’

‘Not if Wilson Yarrow’s disqualified himself in some way.’

‘Literally? Do you mean disbarred? Struck off?’

‘More like dishonest.’

‘Well, good luck with the diaries. I don’t remember anything like that.’

‘But… something?’

‘Yes.’

I looked at my watch. ‘Do you have a number I could ring for a taxi?’

‘Sure. It’s in the kitchen. I’ll do it for you.’ He went away on the errand and presently returned, carrying a carrier bag and followed by his wife, who hovered in the doorway.

‘Take the diaries in this,’ he said, beginning to transfer them to the carrier, ‘and my wife says I must drive you to Paddington myself. She says you’re in pain.’

Disconcerted, I glanced at his wife and rubbed a hand over my face while I sought for a response.

‘She’s a nurse,’ Carteret said. ‘She thought you had arthritis until I explained about the roof falling in. She says you’re forcing yourself to move and you need to rest a bit.’

‘Haven’t time.’

He cheerfully nodded. ‘Like, I may have a roaring temperature today but I can’t fit in flu until, let’s say, next Tuesday?’

‘Quite right.’

‘So I will drive you to Paddington.’

‘I’m truly grateful.’

He nodded, satisfied that I meant it.

‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘I thought the current medical theory was “get up and go”.’

Carteret’s wife gave me a sweetly indulgent smile and went away, and Carteret himself put the carrierful of diaries in his car and on arrival at Paddington Station drove round the back taxi road to park close between platforms, among the trains.

On the way there I said, ‘Stratton Park racecourse will be advertising for proposals for its new stands. Why don’t you ask your firm to put in for the competition?’

‘I don’t know anything about grandstands.’

‘I do,’ I said. ‘I could tell you what’s needed.’

‘Why don’t you do it yourself?’

I shook my head. ‘Not my sort of thing.’

‘I’ll see what my firm says,’ he remarked doubtfully.

‘Tell them to write and express interest and ask for how large a crowd the stands are envisaged to cater for. You can’t even begin to design stands until you’ve an idea of the size needed. Someone must have told Yarrow, because he got that about right.’

‘My firm can but try, I suppose,’ Carteret said. ‘There are fifteen thousand architects in Britain currently out of work. People don’t think they need architects. They don’t want to pay the fees, then they complain if they knock down a wall and the bedrooms fall into the basement.’

‘Life’s rotten,’ I said dryly.

‘Still the same cynic, I see.’

He carried the diaries to the train and stored them and me into a seat. ‘I’ll phone you when I get back from Disney. Where will you be?’

I gave him my home number. ‘Amanda may answer. She’ll take a message.’

‘Don’t let’s leave it another ten years,’ he said. ‘OK?’

Swaying towards Swindon I dipped into the diaries and finally drowned in nostalgia. How young we’d been! How unformed and trusting! How serious and certain.

I came to a deep thrust of the knife.

Carteret had written:

Lee and Amanda got married today in church, the whole bit, like she wanted. They’re both nineteen. I think he’s a fool but have to admit they looked very pleased with themselves. She’s dreamy. Trust Lee. Her father, ultra pukkah, he paid for it all. Her young sister Shelly was bridesmaid, a bit spotty. Lee’s mother came. Madeline. A knockout. Fancied her rotten. She says I’m too young. Went to Amanda’s folks’ house after, for champagne and cake etc. About forty people. Amanda’s cousins, girl friends, old uncles, that sort of thing. I had to toast the bridesmaid. Who’d be a best man? Lee says they’ll live on air. Must say they were walking on it. They went off to practise being Mr and Mrs in Paris for three days. Amanda’s parents gave it to them for a wedding present.

God, I thought, I remembered that wedding day in every tiny detail. I’d been positive we’d be blissful for ever and ever. Sad, sad illusion.

On the next page, Carteret