by Joe McNally
‘That’s my guess.’
‘What was the motive?’
Greene shrugged. ‘He must have double-crossed them.’
‘How?’
‘How the hell should I know? I’m only telling you what I think happened.’ He finished his coffee. It didn’t look like he wanted to hear any more questions. Leaning forward, he put the empty mug on top of the old mantelpiece and held his head again. ‘You got an aspirin?’ he asked.
I brought four from the kitchen with a glass of water. He took them all at once and managed to keep them down. I squatted to his level and took the glass off him. He looked at me, waiting for me to speak.
Spreading his palms upwards in an open ‘honest’ gesture he said, ‘Look, I’ve told you everything I know. Can you get rid of those guys?’
‘You haven’t told me why they’re after you. You say you don’t know them. You say they killed Harle because he double-crossed them…what would they want with you?’
‘I don’t know, maybe they’re scared I’ll talk, just like I’ve done to you.’
‘But if you didn’t actually see them kill Alan then, as far as they’re concerned, you’d have nothing to talk about, would you?’
He shrugged and tried the ‘honest’ gesture again. ‘Look, I don’t know why they’re here, maybe they think Alan told me something about the deal they were setting up. Maybe they think I’ll go to the police.’
I sat and stared at him for a while. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Okay.’ I went to the window again and looked out from the side. I turned away, pacing the worn rug behind the sofa, trying to look like I was thinking hard.
Greene was convinced. His anxious gaze followed me. I let him stew a while then told him what my plan was: to use a long coat I had in the back of the car to cover him as he dashed out.
I stopped pacing and looked at him. ‘Okay?’
‘Sounds a bit risky to me.’
‘Would you rather stay here?’
His head dropped again. I returned to the window, looked out and then spoke to Greene. ‘Ready?’
‘Now?’
‘I don’t see either of them at the moment.’
‘Okay.’ He looked scared.
We went through the routine and Greene bolted into the car like a rat down a hole. ‘Drive, for fuck’s sake!’ he yelped.
I accelerated away, wipers swishing, along the edge of the wood, leaving it to the birds, the badgers and the foxes.
An hour later, I eased the car to a halt in the lay-by next to the canal. Greene was still lying down in the back; he’d been fretting about being followed. ‘You can come out now.’ I said.
‘Where are we?’ he asked, still prone.
‘Home. At the canal.’
‘Anything behind us?’
Most of your nerve if you ever had any.
‘Nothing.’ I said.
‘They didn’t follow us?’
‘Nope.’
The springs creaked as he sat up. Daylight on his face showed the effects of the heavy night and the tough morning.
‘You all right?’ I asked, not caring about the answer.
‘For now I am but I’ve just been thinking, if they found me at your place, what’s to stop them finding me here?’
‘Nothing, I suppose.’
He frowned and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Do you think they could?’
‘They seem smart enough.’
‘Shit! I’d better start looking for somewhere else… I’d better tell Sk-’ He stopped himself.
‘You’d better tell who?’
‘Nobody. Forget it.’ He got out.
I rolled the window down. ‘Who else is involved, Phil?’
He turned and headed for the boat. ‘What about The Sporting Life piece?’ I asked.
‘Cancel it,’ he called. ‘I don’t want it printed.’
‘I’ll save it then, it’ll make a good obituary.’ I thought he was out of earshot, but he faltered before stepping on the boat and disappearing through the green and yellow door.
50
Half a mile up the hill from the canal lay the ruins of some buildings. I drove there, approaching them along a tangled, overgrown track. Mounds of tumbled sandstone and old broken bricks partially hid the shell of a burned-out barn. The uneven spars, charred a velvety black, looked like some crazy graph against the sky.
I picked my way through the rubble, grass and weeds and settled on the sandstone blocks.
The land sloped gently down, separated by hedgerows into small fields. I raised my binoculars and focused on Greene’s boat. Just one barge floated beside Greene’s, its grey tarpaulin gathering a spread of bird droppings.
I scanned the canal, the bridge, and the lock. Greene’s boat, began rolling in the still water, then Greene came out, jumped to the towpath and hurried toward the bridge.
He crossed the road and went through the gate of the white cottage. As he walked on the paved path, it seemed strange, seeing him so close in these bright optics, not to hear his boot-heels click.
He knocked then drummed impatiently on the door until a woman opened it. She must have been almost seventy but stood ramrod straight, about four inches taller than Greene. He said his piece and she moved aside to let him in. Less than a minute later, he was back out. The old woman watched until he was through the gate and onto the road before closing the door slowly. Greene jogged to the boat, jumped on deck and went inside.
I waited more than an hour, shifting uncomfortably on the stone seat, my eyelids feeling bruised from the lens cups on the binoculars. I laid them down and stood up to stretch.
A lime-green Renault approached the bridge and pulled in sharply on the grass verge. Skinner got out, raised the rear hatch and a large, thick-barrelled dog joined him. A Rottweiler.
He strode down the towpath to Greene’s boat and the dog leapt on deck. Skinner followed, wrenched open the door and went in, slamming it.
He stayed inside for about twenty minutes and when the door opened again, the dog came out first.
Skinner and Greene followed, talking and gesturing. If they weren’t arguing, they sure weren’t trading compliments. Skinner edged toward the side of the boat. The dog took this as the off signal and jumped to the towpath, but Skinner stopped and turned on Greene again.
Greene spread his arms and shrugged in a ‘what could I have done?’ gesture and Skinner moved forward and poked him hard in the shoulder. Greene took a step back then did some finger-pointing of his own. He advanced on Skinner but faltered as he saw the dog bounding onto the deck. I panned down to see the big white wet teeth.
Greene backed off. Skinner spoke and Greene turned away and went inside. The animal stayed at Skinner’s heel as they walked to the car. The vet swung the Renault, straightened up and sped off.
I lowered the binoculars…decision time. I could go home and change into suitable clothing, grab a flask of tea and some food, a flashlight and storm-lamp. I would be gone almost two hours.
Too long.
Greene might be anywhere by that time. He seemed panicky and probably wouldn’t sit around much longer. I returned to my watchtower and settled behind the stone again. I’d burst the hornet’s nest, I had to wait for the sting.
51
Within fifteen minutes of leaving, the Renault came back. Skinner couldn’t have gone farther than the village.
Greene emerged from the boat with a suitcase and hurried to the car.
Skinner screeched away and spun up the hill in my direction. I ran to my car, binoculars swinging round my neck, banging on my ribs.
I reached the top of the track in time to see the lime-green car blurring along through the trees and flying past the entrance.
I accelerated down the pot-holed strip, which battered the Granada’s suspension into a series of clunks and bangs. Swinging onto the road, the tyres squealed as they tried to bite on tarmac. I straightened her and soon the only noise was the engine racing and the wind rushing past.
&nbs
p; I had to keep Skinner in view but couldn’t afford to get too close in case he spotted me, or Greene looked back. The straight stretches were the worst; it wouldn’t take Skinner long to realize the car in his mirror had been on the same road for miles.
But the vet seldom dropped below eighty, meaning the road in front would need all his attention.
Whenever the opportunity arose, I’d let another car overtake for a while. But few travelled at my speed, and if I tucked behind anyone for more than a few minutes, the Renault got so far away it looked like a knot at the end of a grey ribbon. I was afraid he might head down some side road and be gone before I got there.
Skinner went east and after two hours, we reached the flat fenland of Cambridgeshire. The sun raised the temperature in the car until sweat prickled in my scalp and ran from my armpits. I opened the window and a rush of air and noise filled the car and seemed to slow it. I made do with the vents.
Sweat, excitement, adrenaline. Greene was obviously in something up to his neck and Skinner too.
They’d be running now to the next guy in line. I smiled, confidence growing, I’d been following them all this time and neither had sussed. I was entitled to feel pleased.
I should have known better.
The engine missed, picked up again, spluttered, and then died. The oil light in the dash lit up, I jabbed madly at the gas pedal, then looked at the fuel gauge – empty. I was pumping air.
The Renault disappeared round a bend.
Braking hard, I switched on the hazard lights, jumped out and grabbed the spare gallon I always carried in the boot. As the petrol glugged and burbled into the tank, I scanned the flat land through the rippling haze as the Renault, side-on, briefly came into view again before disappearing off the edge of the world.
The empty tank sucked slowly at the plastic spout of the can. I ran through my repertoire of curses, tempted to pour just half the contents in but at the speeds I’d been doing, even the full can would only take me another twenty-five miles. There might not be a petrol station for fifty.
The last few drops ran down the paintwork as I pulled the spout away and shoved the cap on.
The engine turned but didn’t catch. I tried again. Nothing…the fuel wasn’t through yet. I pumped the pedal hard and fast. Another turn…still not there.
I cursed myself for letting the fuel get so low. Trying to be patient, I counted to ten, quickening at seven, then turned the key again.
It started.
I let the clutch out and the car bucked forward. Within twenty seconds, I was doing eighty again but the tarmac stretched long, straight and empty.
Ten miles on, the road climbed almost imperceptibly over moor-like land, treeless except for a long, narrow wood in the distance.
The needle on the fuel gauge kept pointing at red, like some insistent schoolteacher trying to hammer home a lesson. The gallon hadn’t moved it a fraction and what was left in the tank burned at a mighty rate.
If I didn’t come on a garage soon, apart from never catching up with Skinner, I’d be in for a long walk.
The closer I got to the line of trees, the more obvious was their density. A hundred yards from them, I saw there were two broad rows of trees bordering a narrow road. I slowed as I passed the entrance. Something caught my eye and I braked and reversed.
At the turn-off, a tyre had ploughed a furrow through a patch of dark earth still soggy from the morning rain. In the middle of the furrow lay a rabbit, its back-end and rear legs crushed. Its ears twitched and it tried to raise its head as I walked toward it. The wheel had flattened it from just under the ribcage down.
A muddy tread-mark crossed the crushed white bob of its tail. I gently raised its head and broke its neck. It couldn’t have lived more than a few minutes with those injuries, so someone had turned in here.
Decision time. There had to be a strong chance Skinner’s car had done the damage. And if not? Well, with only about ten miles left in the tank it didn’t seem likely I’d catch him anyway.
I drove into the avenue of trees, coasting out of gear when I could. Two hundred yards ahead, the road swung to the right and I looked for a gap to pull into.
There was none. The trees were so dense you couldn’t have ridden a horse through them.
A hundred yards from the bend, I parked beside a solid border of Leylandii. Taking my binoculars, I crossed over into the trees and wriggled through in a slow slalom.
I cut across diagonally until I was stopped by a solid green wall of hedge about twelve feet high. On my side, the tree branches had been cut away completely up to that height so none could pierce it or alter its shape.
I pushed the toe of my boot into the hedge and though it gave a bit, it seemed strong and dense enough to let me climb. About five feet wide at the top, it easily supported my weight as I crawled across and lay flat to admire the view.
The road through the trees opened out onto a drive as wide as a motorway. It led to a big Georgian-style cream-coloured house with rows of green-curtained windows. Parked in front of the black double doors was a silver Rolls-Royce. Alongside it was the Renault. Both cars were empty.
The house was not.
With my binoculars trained through a ground-floor window, I saw Skinner and Greene. They were standing. Another man was pacing, talking, gesturing angrily. I wished I could lip read and work out just how hard a time those two were getting from Howard Stoke.
When it became clear from the body language this was no social visit, there was nothing more to learn. Harle, Greene, Roscoe, Kruger, Skinner and now Stoke – whatever this was, they were all in it.
I rolled over, leaving two dents where my elbows had rested, scrambled down and made my way back to the car.
At the junction, I turned left. The road to the right had no petrol stations for a long way. It was also the road Skinner would take to go home.
Within five minutes, I found a village and came upon what was little more than a wooden hut by the side of the road, fronted by two of the oldest petrol pumps I’d ever seen. They were pale blue with big lit-up lampshade tops. I pulled in, wondering if they were quaint display items for tourists, but a boy of eighteen or so skipped out of the hut with a sunny, ‘What’ll it be, sir?’
‘It’ll be a tank of four star and…’ I went and got the empty petrol can and laid it at his feet ‘one for the road.’
I made it home for Jackie’s ten o’clock call and I told her everything.
52
I spent the next three days at the races watching Howard Stoke. I wanted to find out how he ran his business, who bet with him and when and, if possible, in what amounts. I wanted to know who spoke to him but didn’t have a bet. I wanted to see if Greene or Charmain would show up.
The start of the first race at Newbury on the Friday was delayed when a horse threw his jockey. Most riderless horses bolt, but this one seemed intent on doing damage, and kicked his fallen rider savagely before galloping off down the course. He covered a circuit of the track, slowing only occasionally to throw a kick at the running rails.
The rest of the runners circled at the stalls, their jockeys walking, leading them round. The loose horse had everyone’s attention. The stands were two-thirds full and the bookmakers watched from their stools.
The horse was brown with one white stocking on his off hind and a star on his forehead. His number cloth said eight and I checked my racecard. His name was Castleford.
His lad and trainer were out on the course now and Castleford galloped toward them. He veered off, crashing through the plastic rails onto the steeplechase track. His lad hurried after him waving his arms as the horse spun and bore down on him.
The boy stood his ground and when Castleford was ten yards from him, he dug his feet in and stopped.
The reins had come loose and dragged on the turf. The horse lowered his head and crab-walked over to the rails where he turned his hind legs to the lad. The boy approached cautiously, his hand outstretched. A low murmur rose from the stan
ds.
He got to the horse’s head without being kicked and reached slowly for the loose rein, caught it and turned the horse gently back toward the paddock.
The animal went quietly with him, and as the crowd applauded, the boy turned to pat the horse’s head.
Castleford opened his mouth and took the lad’s arm between his teeth. The boy’s cry could be heard high in the stands and the applause gave way to oohs and aahs.
Castleford pulled the lad off his feet, shaking him like a terrier with a teddy bear as the trainer and two groundsmen ran to help. One of the men, wielding a long-handled hoe, smashed it down on the horse’s head. Castleford, stunned, let go his lad and the other man dragged the boy to safety His friend with the hoe hit the horse again, then the trainer grabbed one end of the rein and urged the groundsman to drop his weapon and get the other.
With a man each side, holding the rein tight at the mouth, Castleford walked off the course and away behind the stands. Two medics comforted the shocked and bleeding lad until the ambulance rolled up.
As soon as the race got under way, Stoke left his stool and hurried off in the direction of the unsaddling enclosure. It was the only time I’d seen him leave his pitch during a race.
The winner was being hosed down by the time Stoke returned. A handful of punters waited and his anxious clerk seemed pleased to see him. When he’d paid out, Stoke made a call from the telephone on the small shelf attached to the rails. The conversation was short and when he hung up, he smiled.
Three more races were delayed that day and the meeting ran over time by almost an hour. The last result brought a long queue at Stoke’s pitch but he seemed calm as he paid them before stepping off his stool, leaving the bewildered looking clerk to pack up the gear.
I trailed Stoke to the bar, where he went in among the soft lights and the smiling faces hazed in blue cigar smoke.
I could have used a whiskey myself, chilled by two fat ice cubes. I decided to have it back at the cottage, as there didn’t seem any point in hanging around watching Stoke drink his usual quota. Over the last three days, I hadn’t learnt much, and the euphoria from finding the gang at Stoke’s house was evaporating.
