Under Orders Read Online Free Page A

the Ripper. Nor even after George, Duke of Clarence, the brother of Richard III, who was convicted of treason and drowned in a vat of malmsey wine at the Tower of London in 1478. Clarence Lochstein had been named by his mother after the Duke of Clarence pub at the end of her road in Islington.
    There were rumours that Clarence/George had been asked to leave Harrow for taking bets on the horses from the other boys and, it was said, from some of the staff. However, he still won a place at the London School of Economics. Clarence Lochstein/George Lochs was a bright chap.
    ‘Can I introduce Sid Halley?’ said Charles, oblivious to the private nature of the men’s conversation.
    George Lochs jumped. Whilst his reputation had reached me, mine had also clearly reached him.
    It was a reaction I was quite used to. It’s a bit like when a police car stops behind you at traffic lights. A strange feeling of guilt inevitably comes over you even when you’ve done nothing wrong. Do they know that I was speeding five minutes ago? Are my tyres legal? Should I have had that second glass of wine? Only when the police car turns off or passes by does theheartbeat begin to return to normal, the palms of the hands stop sweating.
    ‘Sid. Good. Glad you could come.’ Lord Enstone smiled broadly. ‘Have you met George Lochs? George, Sid.’
    We shook hands and looked into each other’s eyes. His palm was not noticeably damp and his face gave nothing away.
    ‘And you know my son, Peter,’ he said.
    I had met him once or twice on racecourses. We nodded in recognition. Peter was an averagely competent amateur jockey in his early thirties who had for some years enjoyed limited success, mostly in races reserved for amateur riders.
    ‘Do you have a ride in the Foxhunters later?’ I asked him.
    ‘I wish,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t convince an owner to put me up.’
    ‘What about your father’s horses?’ I asked, giving his father a wink.
    ‘No bloody chance,’ said Peter with a half-hearted smile. ‘Mean old bastard won’t let me ride them.’
    ‘If the boy wants to break his neck riding in races, that’s his business, but I don’t want to aid and abet him,’ said Jonny, ruffling his son’s blond hair. ‘I’d never forgive myself.’
    Peter pulled his head away from his father’s hand with irritation and stomped off through the doorway. It was clearly a topic much discussed in the past.
    ‘Charles, take young George here inside and find him a glass of fizz,’ said Lord Enstone. ‘I want to have a word with Sid in private.’
    It was clear that young George didn’t actually want to be taken off for a glass of fizz or anything else.
    ‘Promise I won’t listen,’ he said with a smile, standing his ground.
    ‘Dead right, you won’t.’ Enstone was losing his cool andwith it his cultured RP accent. ‘Jist gan’ in there with Charlie, bonnie lad, I’m askin’, OK?’ Pure Geordie.
    A few years previously, I’d also done a check on him for a horse-owning syndicate that he had wanted to join. Jonny Enstone was a builder. He had left school in Newcastle aged sixteen to become an apprentice bricklayer with J. W. Best Ltd, a small local general building company owned by the father of a school friend. Within two years he was running the business and, soon after, he bought out the friend’s father. Expansion was rapid and, under the banner ‘The J. W. Best built house you’ll ever buy’, Best Houses marched north, south and west covering the country with smart little three- and four-bedroomed boxes from Glasgow to Plymouth and beyond. Jonny Enstone had become Sir John, then Lord Enstone but he still had his hands on his business. He was famous for arriving very early one dark morning at a building site some two hundred miles from his home, and personally sacking anyone who was even a minute late at seven o’clock. He then removed the jacket of his pinstripe suit, rolled up the sleeves of his starched white shirt and worked