The Price of Horses

by Ian Taylor

  His distrust of grappling hooks was confirmed. The brickwork at the western end of the gully was seriously frost-damaged and would have given way under his weight. He opened his rucksack, removed the rope and left it neatly coiled in the gully, ready for his escape. He would loop it behind the bracket that secured the hopper and pull it through when he reached the ground.

  He knew there would be some means of access from the house to the gully, and

  sure enough, there was a wood-and-felt dormer-type trapdoor at the far end. He inserted a flat-bladed knife between the door and its surrounding framework, relieved to find there were no locks. With firm downward movements, he freed the two wooden catches that held the woodwork in place, and the trapdoor swung inwards on its hinges with no more than a brief squeak. He put on his leather gloves and balaclava, then vanished through the door into the house.

  He was in a large attic, set out like a workshop for repairing damaged furniture. The room reeked of lacquers, varnishes and glue. Obviously the rich ex-con liked to indulge in practical activities. He crossed to the next attic room and peered out of a window. The front garden lay below: a wide moonlit terrace with urns leading to a lawn and a shrubbery. He left the room and descended a flight of stairs to the first-floor landing. Moonlight streamed in through a large uncurtained window. The doors from the landing were all open except one. He listened at the closed door… Silence.

  A ground-floor rear reception room was his target. He found the room shuttered, the air stale and lifeless. It was merely a place for the owner to gloat over his illegally acquired possessions. He located two large cabinets: one contained figurines and seal stones from Iraqi museums; the other held the T'ang figurines.

  With his torch between his teeth and wearing the surgical gloves, he quickly picked the cabinet's lock. He removed soft cloths from his rucksack, took the four horse figurines Tam had described to him, wrapped them in the cloths and packed them carefully in the straw inside the rucksack.

  As he moved to the door, he spotted an infrared security light winking in a recess. He froze, shocked.

  "Damn you, Tam, you lying Scots fishbrain!" he cursed the dealer under his breath.

  Then he tightened the waistband on his rucksack and hurried from the room.

  He stepped warily into the moonlit hallway. Before he could reach the stairs to the first floor, he felt the cold steel of a double-barrelled shotgun pressed to the back of his neck.

  The infrared had done for him. He stood absolutely still, every faculty stretched to its limit. He heard the distinctive rhyming slang of an East End voice behind him. The voice seemed filled with amusement.

  "A greasy little tea leaf! D'you think you can take my bread and honey? Help yourself, just like that, to my stuff? Your kind don't deserve quality goods. You're too stupid to appreciate them. But you're in my world now. I'm the only law that exists here. I can tell you I'm a believer in capital punishment. And I've a special hell for lawbreakers like you." The voice grew harsher, more authoritative. "Put down the bag, tea leaf. Put it down and take two steps away from it."

  Luke obeyed. There was nothing to be gained from heroics. "You can have it, mate. I'm on my way. Don't want no trouble."

  "But I do! I enjoy a bit of Barney Rubble. Especially other people's. It's punishment time, tea leaf. Hands on your head! Do it now!"

  Luke obeyed. He caught a glimpse of a figure behind him dressed in a burgundy satin robe and fancy leather moccasins. The figure prodded him with the shotgun.

  "See that door, tea leaf? Go through it and keep walking."

  All Luke could do was play for time and watch for any lapse of attention on the part of whom he assumed must be the rich ex-con.

  "Look, mate, just forget it, okay?"

  "Too late, me old China plate! Too late! Through the fucking door! Now!"

  Luke obeyed. He found himself in a corridor. More prodding from the shotgun

  propelled him to the far end.

  "Turn the key, open the door and go outside. Hands back on your crust of bread! Do it now!"

  Luke found himself in a rear courtyard. In the moonlight he could make out stables and other outbuildings surrounding a central paved area. Now he was outside he felt his chances of escape might increase.

  "I made a mistake, mate, okay? You got your stuff back. Why can't you leave it at

  that and let me go?"

  But his captor was not going to succumb to the distraction of dialogue, continuing to drive him forward with savage stabs of the shotgun barrels and rasping commands: "Move! Move!"

  Luke realized the man was doing something with a mobile phone. He heard the lock click open in the door of an outbuilding ahead of him. His captor's voice came again:

  "Open the door in front of you." He laughed. "We're off for some tea and cakes!"

  Obediently Luke opened the door of the outbuilding.

  "Light switch on the left at shoulder height. Switch it on."

  Luke entered the building and put on the light. He found himself in a large vivarium occupied by at least a dozen sleeping snakes that were coiled on the sinewy branches of what looked like real trees and on the sand of the floor. The temperature had risen by at least twenty degrees Celsius.

  His captor laughed again. "This is the punishment block, tea leaf!"

  "Jesus!" Luke exclaimed involuntarily.

  "Welcome to hell!" His captor cackled in huge amusement. "In ten minutes' time you'll be brown bread, me old China!"

  Luke recalled Tam's words: By common consent he's a bit of a psycho. How did Tam know? Did he have insider contacts in the London mob?

  Disturbed by the light, the snakes began to uncurl and writhe towards Luke.

  "It's a long time since I took their venom," his captor commented airily. "Any one of them could kill you in a most unpleasant way." He prodded Luke in the back with the shotgun. "I'll leave you to savour your last moments in this life and contemplate your complete stupidity!"

  Luke had to make a move before he found himself locked in. He bent down suddenly and blew on the head of the nearest snake. It was an introductory technique he used when approaching a horse for the first time, his breath conveying the mystery of his life energy—but he had no idea if it would work with snakes! Then he reached fast and picked the creature up. He turned to face his captor, a lean, balding fellow of fifty with grey designer stubble, saw his look of astonishment and fear as he flung the animal at his head.

  "The last moments are all yours me old China!" Luke yelled.

  The rich ex-con fell backwards with a startled cry. The shotgun went off, blowing a

  hole in the roof. The shock of the deafening report sent the snakes crazy; they began writhing purposefully towards the two men. Luke ran, slamming the outbuilding door as he reached the paved yard. He heard his ex-captor's cries of terror coming from within the vivarium…

  He ran back into the house, grabbed his rucksack, swung it onto his back and snapped the waistband firmly closed. He unbolted the front door and sprinted from the building as an alarm bleeped somewhere in the house. He was out, but where the hell was Tam?

  He reached the field lane and was just in time to see the Volvo pulling out slowly from the trees. He caught up with the vehicle and hammered on the roof, forcing Tam to brake to a halt. Then he whipped off his rucksack and pushed it ahead of him onto the back seat. He ducked down as the Scotsman drove away fast.

  "What went wrong back there?" Tam asked as he headed for the M1.

  "You're a liar!" Luke roared from the darkness at the back of the Volvo. "That's what went wrong! I'm never gonna work with you again. And to prove it, I'm gonna kill you!"

  5

  Back in Tam's office the Scotsman repacked the T'ang figurines in four small wooden crates marked SCOTTISH RASPBERRIES.

  Luke paced around the room. "You were gonna damn well leave me!" he yelled, "You heap o' Scotch shite!"

  Tam fussed with the repackaging. He was unable to meet his accuser's eyes. "I wasn
a, Luke," he blustered. "Believe me. On my mother's life."

  Luke, incensed, continued pacing. "That guy had infrared! He'd have known I was there as soon as I crossed his goddamn garden!"

  Tam flung out his arms in a gesture of helplessness. "I didna ken it. Must be new."

  Luke swept the papers from Tam's desk. "You're a bloody liar! You said you knew the security guy!"

  "He must've brought in some other body. How was I supposed to ken that?" Tam countered. "The bastard misled me! He set us up for his ain fun and games!"

  Tam's reply checked Luke's outrage. The Scotsman was tricky, but he was no fool. He would never have risked sending him into the place if he had known about the infrared

  security. But Luke's anger quickly welled up again at the thought of his narrow escape. "I could've been killed in there! What would you have done then? If I'd been caught, you'd have had the whole of my clan out to lynch you! You'd be finished!"

  This wasn't strictly true. Luke's extended Romany family knew little of substance about his secret nocturnal life—and anyway, Tam would deny the association. There was also the chilling possibility, if the rich ex-con had got his way, that his remains would never have been found. Killings at the upper levels of the criminal underworld rarely left bodies behind.

  "But you're alive, Luke," Tam replied. "You're alive—and we've got the booty!"

  "So what's my escape worth to you?" Luke asked, expecting an evasive reply.

  Tam shrugged. "As a private sale? I'd say we'd get around 80K."

  "Bollocks!" Luke exploded. "You promised me fifty before we even set off!"

  Tam pursed his lips, feigning a difficult mental calculation. "Well…a hundred then, mebbe. But I'd ha'e to go to auction to get that much. And obviously I canna do that."

  Luke's fury erupted again. "You're full of lying tinker shite!" He grabbed an antique vase and smashed it on the floor.

  The Scotsman threw up his hands in alarm. "Okay, laddie—enough! 160K. But it's hot. My man will only gi'e me half the value."

  "Know what I think?" Luke replied coldly. "I think 600K. Your guy gets them cheap at three hundred. I want half for risking my neck. 150K. Now!"

  "Ye's a crazy man! I don't ha'e that kind o' lucre here! I'll ha'e to wait till my man pays me—and ye'll ha'e to wait too!" Tam closed the last of the four crates.

  Luke grabbed the Scotsman by his coat collar and slammed him against the wall. "You don't tell me what I'm gonna do! Not anymore! I risked my life for this deal! You're gonna pay me!"

  Tam reached for a hammer, which he had used to pin the crates closed. Before his fingers could close on the handle, Luke struck him half a dozen hard blows about the face and body, and the winded Scotsman fell to the floor. Luke leaped on top of him, his knife to Tam's throat.

  "For the love of Jesus!" Tam exclaimed.

  "Going religious now are you, you Scotch bastard?" Luke roared. "Well, this is the gospel according to Luke: Pay me—or I'll cut your goddamn throat!"

  Tam appeared to resign himself. "You know where the safe is, laddie."

  Luke ripped Tam's keys off his belt and unlocked a false cupboard which concealed the wall safe. He tossed the contents of the safe on to Tam's desk. There were only a few small bundles of notes. He riffled through them, thrust them into his inside pockets, then

  turned angrily to Tam, who was still on the floor and in pain.

  "There's no more than 5K here. What the hell d'you take me for? I thought we could trust each other enough at least to get the job done! After all these years, you were gonna rip me off with a few quid when those antiques are worth at least half a million! You dirty lying Scottish scum! One day you'll meet the wrong fella who'll blow you away like the nasty little louse that you are!" He hit Tam again. "Who is this guy I've risked my life for?"

  Tam shook his head. "I canna say. I gave my word."

  "Your word?" Luke exploded again. "It's worth sod all!"

  Luke cracked Tam again, then snatched up the antique bust and raised it over the Scotsman's head. "Who is he? I want paying!"

  Tam appeared to give in. "Folk ca' him…Lucky." His voice was barely a whisper.

  Luke lowered the bust. "Is he a dog? Lucky what?"

  But Tam had passed out. Luke shook him.

  "WHO'S THE MUSH CALLED LUCKY?"

  Tam was unconscious, a bloody mess.

  * * *

  Luke drove his Renault Estate through a ramshackle assemblage of semi-permanent traveller sites that had been allowed to straggle for miles between the motorway and a marshy loop of the river. The area was constantly threatened with enforcement notices, that immediately became bogged down in legal disputes. The local council was wary of pouring taxpayers' money into the pockets of lawyers, and little official action had been taken to remove anyone. The travellers were also fortunate that only the northern limits of the area were overlooked by houses, and these were mostly rented, or more commonly sub-let, by other travellers to a range of kindred groups from poshrats to pikies.

  He pulled up by a pair of galvanized iron gates, which bore the hand-painted

  information SMITH. MOTORS.

  An integral door opened and Samson, a gypsy traveller youth of seventeen, stuck his head out, then grinned and disappeared. The gates creaked slowly open, and Luke drove into the yard.

  He was met by a chaos of second-hand vehicles: cars, vans, pickups and small trucks. Workshops, hidden behind walls of galvanized iron, stood to one side of the yard. Two smart but unostentatious travellers' trailers occupied the opposite side. Luke got out of the Renault and studied the scene. He could hear diesel generators throbbing in the background. Samson hung around watchfully.

  Riley, now a lean and swarthy Rom, appeared in a trailer doorway. The brothers stared at each other in silence. Ambrose, still sprightly, though the passing years had lined his face, appeared from the other trailer. He smiled with pleasure when he saw Luke.

  Father and son embraced warmly.

  "Been a good while, son." Ambrose pulled a reproachful face. "I thought I'd lost you to the gorgios!"

  Luke laughed. "You think I'd settle for a dull life like that?"

  Riley stepped down from his trailer. "Only time we see him it's trouble."

  "Mornin' to you, brother," Luke replied with a mocking grin. "Happy in the motor trade, are you?"

  "Let him alone, Riley." Ambrose gave his eldest son a warning look.

  "Any chance of a better motor?" Luke asked.

  Riley sneered. "Didn't I know it? Gavvers looking for the Renault, eh?"

  "Wrong, brother. I fancy a spot o' man hunting. That's a bit out o' your league though, ain't it?" Luke smiled at his scowling brother. "I need a better class o' motor."

  Ambrose turned to the watching youth. "Sam, bring out the BMW. Come in, Luke.

  Have a bite o' breakfast. Rose is making it for us now."

  Ambrose and Luke followed Riley into his trailer, where they drank tea while they waited for Rose, Riley's wife, a very dark oriental-looking Romany, to prepare the usual fry-up.

  "Still at Radford's?" Ambrose asked. He didn't want to probe too much and risk arousing his son's quick temper.

  "I like it there," Luke replied. He grinned. "See all, unseen."

  "Ain't you nothing better to do than watch gorgios all day?" Riley scoffed.

  Luke smiled. "Peregrine falcons. Heard of 'em have you? The world's best hunters. They teach me something every day."

  Before Riley could reply, Rose came in from the kitchen with their breakfast. She averted her gaze when Luke looked at her. Two young children appeared behind her.

  "Take the chavvies to the other van, Rose," Riley ordered. "We got business talk here."

  Rose ushered the children out. The three men ate in silence until the meal was almost finished. Riley suddenly thumped his fist on the table.

  "What I got for a brother, eh? We're honest travellers here! Should be working with me, not for rogues like Tam McBride!"

  "You
should be setting yourself up on my land, not hiding away down here with this riff-raff," Luke retorted angrily. "Anyway, who says I'm working with Tam?"

  "You were dikkered driving up there last night. We got more spies than the gavvers! You gonna ruin the fam'ly with a crook like that—that's the truth!"

  "Our fam'ly was ruined fifteen years ago, brother—and that's the truth!"

  "What happened back then ain't no excuse for thieving!" Riley replied accusingly.

  "Who's thieving?" Luke's face was an image of guileless innocence.

  "You telling me Tam McBride's an honest trader?" Riley replied scornfully.

  "Know what I think, brother? I think that fire back then took your spirit. I think you've been like a beaten man since. Been trying hard as you can to be a gorgio!"

  "Gorgio? Me?" Riley stood up and aimed a blow at Luke, but he brushed it aside and caught his brother in an arm lock.

  "You ain't no traveller, hiding in here! I'm more traveller'n you! I live by my wits and care naught for tomorrow!"

  "Enough!" Ambrose shouted. "Ain't getting us nowhere fighting. Sit. Make an end o' these insults."

  Riley and Luke backed off and resumed their seats at the table.

  "Like the gavvers said, that fire were an accident. Accept it, Luke," Ambrose almost begged his younger son.

  "You know a mush called Lucky?" Luke asked. He noticed the warning glances, quickly hidden, that passed between his father and brother.

  "Hell d'you want with him?" Riley demanded.

  "You know him then?" Luke tried not to sound too eager.

  "Might do," Riley replied. "Why?"

  "Ain't none o' your business why. He owes me is all. Who is he?"

  "No one." Riley wafted a hand dismissively. "A jumped-up piece of English shite."

  "Give me his name," Luke demanded. "He owes me."

  "You keep away from him," Riley replied savagely. "You'll come off worse if you don't! I'm telling you for your own good!"

  Luke got to his feet threateningly, outraged by his brother's attitude. "You don't tell me what to do! I can look out for myself! Just give me his goddamn name!"