At least he was developing an appetite for this sort of work. Alex had a genuine love of animals that he didn’t have for people.
During a break in that afternoon’s meeting, she found him gazing at Wilma over the stable door.
‘Can I go in?’ He sounded unusually cautious, like a man asking to hold a new-born.
‘Of course.’ She unbolted the door and watched Alex approach the mare with an innate quietness; there was an unexpected softness to his movements too.
She had to stop Hamish following him into the stable. The small Westie had taken an instant liking to Alex which she found bemusing. He joked it was probably ‘a Scottish thing’ but now, as he slowly stroked the mare’s neck, taking care not to touch the drip, she could see it was ‘an animal thing’. When the mare responded to his touch and quiet voice with a low wicker, she found herself quashing a sharp stab of jealousy.
‘Why not have Adam put it out of its misery?’
‘It is called Wilma. Look in her eyes and tell me what you see.’
Keeping his hand resting lightly on the mare’s neck, Alex bent to look into her dark eyes. ‘I see a kinda light.’ He straightened up and looked directly at Ellie.
‘That’s hope. She hasn’t given up. She wants to live. When a horse loses that light there’s nothing you can do for them, but while it remains I’ll do anything and everything to help her survive.’
Wilma had turned her head towards Alex and was now gently licking his outstretched hand.
‘We need to get on.’ Ellie’s voice sounded loud and obtrusive in the quietness of the stable.
Alex bolted the door shut. ‘Do you remember the Hyde Park bomb?’
‘I was five, but yes, I remember. When the news came on I asked my mum what was under the sheets. When she told me horses I cried myself to sleep.’
‘Jamie’s dad was among the dead.’
‘Jamie Cordell? Thought he seemed rather keen on some of my ideas . . . you want to put Downs on the list?’
‘Don’t you?’ Alex sounded surprised.
The ex-IRA man had recently been revealed as involved with the bombing, but was not being prosecuted due to some fucked up letter of immunity that had formed part of the Irish peace agreement. She’d found it easy to add this small weasel to what Alex called her hitlist.
‘He’s been on it since the day he was identified. It might be good to kick off our dark-ops with an army-related killing — it’ll make your boys feel at home.’
‘Atta girl, Ellie.’ Alex casually draped his arm around her shoulder as they walked back to the empty house. He continued to talk about the when and where, but she was only aware of the weight of his arm and the feel of his rough hand cupping her shoulder.
Ten days later, Downs was kidnapped and driven to the wilds of Salisbury plain where, during a live fire exercise, he was blown up.
Ellie insisted on being there. She would not hide from the specifics and wanted Alex to know she had the stomach for the job. Their explosives expert had rigged up what Downs kept calling a murder-belt; black webbing which held sealed packets of Semtex against his middle-aged paunch.
‘You understand this is as much about the horses as the men?’ Ellie asked.
‘This is about some bitch psychopath with a God complex,’ he spat back at her, in a thick Belfast accent.
He’d refused to cooperate in any way with his own death. As they tipped him out of the back of an army-marked Land Rover and drove off to a safe distance, he’d got to his feet, yelling obscenities after them while pulling frantically at the padlocked belt.
Ellie volunteered to flick the switch. ‘It’s my party, boys!’
Boom! Downs’ death knell joined the many other explosions taking place on the plain that afternoon.
Alex dropped his eyes so he wouldn’t have to watch the body disintegrate. He still had flashbacks of the ten-year-old girl who had been running towards him with a happy smile when her father had detonated her new toy.
Although she had found it easy to push the detonator, it was what she imagined playing with an Xbox must be like; Ellie had found it far harder to watch the consequences — even from a distance. As body parts gently revolved into the afternoon sunshine, she thought some were still recognisable as they span through the air, before arcing gracefully and returning to earth with what she imagined to be the softest of thuds. This cinematic slow motion action was in stark contrast to the reality of the explosion, and maybe she only imagined she could see the look of terror on the face of the slowly falling head.
She vomited all over her new boots.
Alex placed a hand on the small of her back while he waited for her to stop retching. ‘It won’t get any easier, lass. Don’t think it will.’
‘I’m okay.’ She stood up, wiped her sleeve across her mouth and took a swig from the offered bottle of water. She rinsed her mouth and spat out the polluted liquid. ‘What do we do now?’
‘With all this live firing we should be safe until dusk. Then we’ll come and collect him.’
‘Collect rather than bury?’ She was still learning her new trade and was never shy about asking questions.
‘Something’s that buried can always be unburied and Downs’ DNA will be on every bugger’s database.’
‘So?’
‘So, we don’t want any connection to this particular body.’ Ellie looked perplexed.
‘Don’t go looking for trouble, lassie — don’t fight battles that are no part of your war.’
‘Sorry, still not with you.’ Ellie took another swig of water, this time slowly swallowing it. Her stomach was still churning and she instinctively knew that anything which went down too quickly was likely to return with equal speed.
‘He’s IRA, Ellie.’
‘Ex-IRA.’
‘No such thing, lass. They may be out of the news but they’re not out of action. It’s better for everyone if he just quietly disappears.’
Ellie grinned. ‘It was hardly quiet.’
‘Trust me, lass. Let this one go. No connections, no hassle. You’re not the only one dealing in revenge.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Some mistakes are written in indelible ink.
In Wales, the tyres of Mia’s BMW crunched on the raked gravel as she drove slowly onto the immaculate yard. It belonged to Johnny Claybourne, the professional show jumper who had been blinded in one eye in a seemingly random attack. Only it wasn’t random. He was famous enough to be worth googling and Mia now knew the reason behind his assault.
The online Horse and Hound articles had described the fall from grace of this European medallist and his lifetime ban from the British Show Jumping Association. The RSPCA had decided that a criminal prosecution, on top of the removal of his livelihood, was not in the public interest — although there had been much media speculation that, as part of his remorse, Johnny Claybourne had made a sizeable donation to the charity.
‘Thank you for seeing me, Mr Claybourne.’ Mia visibly winced as she realised what she’d just said.
‘Johnny, please.’ He stroked his eye patch with a long elegant hand before offering it to Mia. His slim, tapering fingers produced a strong but sensitive grip. ‘It could have been worse.’
‘Really? That’s very philosophical of you.’
‘I’m merely on probation, Doctor Langley. I could be dead.’
The rider’s remaining good eye was a deep brown and it held the kind of light Mia had seen before. It was a type of physical scarring left on people who had been struck by metaphorical lightning — whether voluntarily, like religious converts, or involuntarily like those suffering from mental illness.
‘Please, call me Mia.’
Johnny’s right arm swept over the yard. ‘Would you like a tour?’
‘I’d prefer a coffee.’
‘Of course — this way.’
He led her into a large farmhouse kitchen that had had the farmhouse rigorously removed. Worktops of black granite covered gloss white units
— the sort with no handles where you pushed at the drawers to open them and they closed softly and silently with another push. For a man who lived alone, it was spotless with nothing on display to ruin the kitchen’s space-age lines. She wondered if Johnny was gay. As an ex-dressage competitor herself, Mia knew that most of the top men in her sport were, but show jumpers tended to be straight.
Jonny pressed some buttons on a built-in coffee machine and extracted a pair of white Limoges cups and saucers from one of the white cupboards.
‘How do you like it?’ A wide soft smile was never far from his face.
‘It’s very smart.’
‘No, I mean the coffee.’
‘A latte would be great . . . So, tell me about this probation, Johnny.’
‘She—’
‘She? You saw her?’
‘God, no. My right eye was already damaged beyond repair and even my good eye was closed from the whip strikes… She asked me why I’d beaten Topscore.’
‘Enough to require the removal of his right eye?’
‘I told her I couldn’t explain or excuse my action. All I could say was that it was a one-off release of built-up stress that was totally unforgivable.’
‘Was that before or after the destruction of your own eye?’
‘After. My punishment was non-negotiable.’
‘An eye for an eye.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Can I ask why you refused to make a formal statement of complaint about the assault?’
‘I didn’t want to waste police time.’
‘GBH with intent is hardly a waste of their time.’
‘Well, let’s just say that I didn’t want them to investigate it. I didn’t want any more publicity for one thing. I’m trying to get on with my riding and I don’t want the equestrian world reminded of what a twat I was with Topscore.’
‘What’s happened to him?’ Mia took her first sip of coffee.
‘He’s on the yard. Spends most of his day turned out when the weather’s good, but in at night to be spoilt by my guilt. It’s amazing how forgiving he is. You’d think he’d cower in the back of the box when he sees me, but no. Every time I check up on him, whether in the field or his box, he walks straight up and nuzzles me. It’s like he’s repeatedly telling me I’m forgiven.’
‘Dogs are the same. When I was younger, much younger, I used to dog-walk at a local Dog’s Trust shelter . . . it’s a well named charity.’
Johnny’s mobile rang and without checking the number, he excused himself and walked to the far side of the kitchen.
As it was obviously a private matter, Mia wandered over to the back door and gazed out at the pristine yard with its large equestrian statue, clipped box hedges and not a dropping or blade of straw in sight.
Johnny rejoined her. ‘Would you like to see the yard now?’
‘I would. I used to compete myself until I knackered my back.’
‘Jumping?’
‘Not likely — dressage: all four feet on the ground. Got to the Nationals at Prix St. Georges though.’
‘Top hat and tails — impressive!’
‘Not quite the same as individual European silver.’
As they strode through an American Barn of indoor stables towards the tack-room, Johnny told her he had eighteen boxes, a barn for unbacked two and three-year-olds and thirty acres of fenced paddocks. He showed her an impressive international sized indoor school and the same sized outdoor all-weather ménage.
‘No mirrors?’ Mia observed.
Johnny laughed. ‘No need — either the poles stay up or they don’t. Mirrors can’t help with that.’
Past the wash-down box, with its hot and cold running hoses, and a solarium used to warm up equine muscles before work and dry them off after a post-work shower, was the most impressive tack-room Mia had ever seen. Two girls were busy cleaning bridles which hung from metal hooks in the middle of the large, well-lit and cobweb-free room. In comparison to the kitchen it was cluttered. Rows of saddles and bridles lined one wall; individual rugs hanging on heated metal frames took up the second, and the third displayed a bank of blue, red and gold rosettes and championship plaques and sashes.
‘Kelly, could you get Topscore in? And Rosie, bring Corrie in too — the vet’s coming to give her a flu jab.’
The girls left with a nod and Johnny turned to find Mia staring at his framed European medal. Sticking out of the corner of the frame was a large black turkey feather.
Johnny’s semi-permanent smile faded. ‘The greatest and worst moments of my life.’
‘You know that I know about the turkey feathers?’
‘E told me to expect you.’
‘E?’
‘My . . . probation officer.’ Johnny touched his eye patch.
‘You actually know the woman who did that to you?’
‘Not exactly. I only met her the once.’ Again Johnny stroked his eye patch. ‘But we speak on the phone when she’s got a horse for me.’
Mia just stared at him.
‘I’m never going to be allowed to compete again. Horse-lovers have long memories and would not tolerate seeing me back in the ring, not even at local shows with youngsters. So I’m using my time to help other horses abused by sport. I try to rehabilitate and rehome them, and if I can’t they’re retired to the big field, to live out the rest of their lives with no pressure put on them in any way.’
‘Was that part of your probation?’
‘Not really, I offered to do it. My remorse is very genuine, Mia.’
‘But how can you afford to do that if you’re no longer competing?
‘Oh, people still want their horses and themselves trained — in private, behind closed doors. And I back youngsters and bring them on to sell. Kelly’s a decent rider and she competes them at the lower levels then, when they’ve got a bit of form, I sell them on. And E sponsors the horses she sends here.’
‘Do you miss the competing?’
‘I miss the camaraderie of the circuit.’ Johnny’s good eye tightened. ‘Loneliness is the hardest part of my punishment — but the actual competing? Not as much as I thought. There was a lot of pressure from owners and team selectors. Every time I rode into a ring I was expected to win and horses aren’t machines — they have off-days too. Now I feel like I’m in the big-field . . . no pressure . . . it’s great.’
‘What does E stand for?’ Mia was back on track.
‘Ellie.’
‘Surname?’
Johnny shook his head.
‘But you’ve got her phone number?’
‘Yes. But don’t get too excited — it’s an unregistered pay-as-you-go.’
‘Could I have it?’
‘Not yet. E wants you to work a bit harder first — her words not mine.’
‘I could get the police to seize it.’
‘She’d just get a new sim.’
‘But she knows who I am?’
‘It would appear so.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Morality is not the same as conventionality.
Alex was on his way to the pub when his work phone rang. Keen not to lose the signal on the mountain road, he skidded to a halt and Hamish immediately jumped onto his lap, assuming a walk was on offer.
‘Gordon. How’s your recruitment campaign?’
‘Good. All current incident rooms are covered and likely candidates identified on other murder teams not yet working your cases.’
‘Easy?’
‘Like giving candy to a baby — hard cash still holds sway with coppers.’
‘Good, it keeps things nice and simple.’
‘There’s one fly in the ointment …’
‘Oh?’
‘The Norfolk DC got greedy and went to the papers. He’s been busted back to volume crime and denied access to the incident room.’
‘But we know as much as we need to on that job, don’t we? No forensics, no witnesses?’
‘True. Word is all the investigations are likely
to be moved to London. If each force sends some of their DCs, we should still have a few informants in situ.’
‘But if ours don’t go?’
‘We’ll recruit some Metpol. The cost of capital-living will make that fairly straightforward — especially as we’re just after info — no hard copy or evidence tampering. I’ll be in touch.’
Pushing the Land Rover back into gear, Alex’s thoughts turned to his new boss. He’d been astounded by Ellie’s capacity for biblical retribution. After blowing up Downs, she’d not been present for the turkey-related beating, but she’d stood stock still above the dog-fighting pit, watching as the young lad’s screams were quickly silenced by the dogs reaching his throat. His three mates had wet themselves and two had vomited but Ellie Grant hadn’t flinched. She’d only turned away when the dogs started tearing into each other.
Her slight frame had tensed against each of the shots as his best marksman dispatched them; success in various fighting rings had put these dogs beyond meaningful retirement. Revenge and a clean death was all Ellie could offer them; that and a decent burial in the bleakness of the Brecon Beacons. She was being very careful about which tracks she covered and which she left exposed.
After the dogs had been hauled from the pit, she’d climbed down into the blood and gore and placed a single black turkey feather by what remained of the lad’s hand. Her smile of gratitude was bright as he’d helped her back over the low plywood wall. She’d got herself new teeth. Not dentures. Individual implants. Their uniform whiteness was as startling as her crooked yellow ones had been. Taking off her gloves, she’d run a hand through newly cropped hair, which framed her pixie face and emphasized the largeness of her blue eyes. For the previous six weeks she’d avoided personal contact, relying on their mobiles instead and, when he’d first seen her new look, his voiced astonishment had made her blush. Nothing wrong in keeping the boss on-side.
‘What’s that for?’ He’d nodded at the feather.
‘Something and nothing.’
‘You never do something for nothing.’ Leaning against the pit wall, he’d lit a roll-up.
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