The Price of Horses

by Ian Taylor

  Phil woke up, gripping the edge of his duvet like a lifeline. "Goddamn!" He turned to

  Dot. She was still asleep. "Dot! Dot!"

  She woke up and saw Phil leaning over her. "Jesus Christ—what?"

  He seemed about to speak but changed his mind.

  "What the hell's going on, Phil?"

  "It's nothing. Go back to sleep."

  "Damnit, Phil! I need to rest. We've got the races tomorrow, for Chrissake!" She turned away and went back to sleep.

  He got out of bed, put on his dressing gown and left the room.

  In the bedroom next to Phil's Harry was fast asleep in his made-to-measure super-king-size bed. Maureen lay awake beside him. Her mobile bleeped softly. She checked the message, then got carefully out of bed, put on her robe and stole silently from the room, taking the mobile with her.

  As soon as the bedroom door had closed, Harry opened his eyes, sat up and stared at his wife's empty place. He swung his massive frame out of bed and stood undecided in the middle of the room. Then he seized a tin of cotton-wool balls and, with a savage grunt, crushed it in fury. The lid flew off and coloured cotton-wool balls exploded all over the floor. He flung the tin across the room, where it whipped his wedding photo clean off the dressing table. The photo smashed to fragments against the wall.

  * * *

  At four a.m. precisely, Malcolm McBride scooped up his clothes and left his current female companion sleeping. He propped an already-prepared note against her travel clock on the bedside table: Business—could be some days—please keep the place as tidy as you found it. I'll be in touch. He knew she was too much in awe of his reputation to take advantage of his absence.

  He padded into the sitting room of his generously proportioned flat in Bethnal Green, dressed quickly and checked his travelling bag to make sure nothing had been forgotten. Then he took the lift to the parking floor. His camouflage gear, sniper's rifle and backpack were already in his car. Five minutes later he was heading north in his beloved X-Type Jag on the three-and-a-half-hour drive to see his wounded brother.

  Malcolm was a man of principle and a firm believer that any punishment that might be meted out should be in proportion to the crime. In the London underworld he was respected and feared in equal measure. Nicknamed M, in a serio-comic subversion of the Bond franchise, he was the man who was summoned when the balance of power was threatened by wayward and overweening elements. If you were paid a visit by M, he was usually the last person you would see in this unfortunate world—if you were lucky. Mostly his victims didn't see or hear anything.

  It was a welcome change to be driving beyond the M25. Malcolm resolved to do it more often. He wanted to retire. The kind of people he worked for these days were mere shadows compared with an earlier generation of men. Those were real men! Men whose

  word you could trust, who ran their businesses according to old-fashioned values like respect and fair dealing.

  You always knew where you were with men like that. If they requested your expertise it was always well-founded. It was to keep the world in balance. No volcanic eruptions. No collision of tectonic plates. Just business as usual. No mess. Not like the state of things now.

  Now it was a free-for-all. A muddle of rival factions. Shifting loyalties. Casual killings. Betrayals as common—and as inevitable—as flies on a corpse. A dismal procession of squalid deaths at the hands of characterless men. As the old order faded away these men pushed themselves forward. Men who sounded—and even looked—like each other. Men with no scruples. With no finer attributes than a shorthorn bull in an art museum. He could no longer work for such vapid brutes, such empty men.

  The body who died in his snake house was one of these upstarts. A man who enjoyed inflicting pain whether it was merited or not. He wouldn't be missed. The gap he had left had already been filled by a rival faction. What interested Malcolm was the guy's death, which was appropriate. His mysterious nemesis was someone he would like to meet.

  It was clear to Malcolm that Tam had suffered an injustice. After rigorous questioning on the phone, it seemed his brother had acted in good faith and there was no justification for the use of such violence against him. Just because the perpetrators could didn't mean they should. It was his duty to deliver a timely reminder that unnecessary and self-indulgent actions could lead to unpleasant consequences. The balance of power, however provisional and imperfect, had to be maintained, or the world would spiral into chaos.

  * * *

  The door handle of Luke's bedroom turned with a squeak and a shadowy figure entered the room. Luke stepped from behind the door and had his knife to the figure's throat before he realised who it was.

  "Cath!" he exclaimed in surprise. He released her. "I didn't know who you were in that thing." He smiled at her appearance, dressed in her old raincoat. They stood very close. She seemed embarrassed.

  "I came to see my patient. How's the leg?"

  He laughed. "It's okay, doc. You've got a gift for healing. Us Roms would be

  proud o' you. We'd call you a true drabhani."

  The charge picked up between them. She slipped off her raincoat, revealing her nakedness. He understood the meaning of her smile across the supper table.

  He threw back the bed covers. "Best get in. Might catch cold."

  They slid under the bedclothes. They embraced, cautiously at first, then more passionately, seizing each other with wild abandonment. After a while they rolled apart and lay still.

  "You needed that!" she laughed.

  He joined in her laughter. "So did you!"

  She rested her head on his shoulder. "I know you took the Land Rover." She was silent a moment. "You're after Phil Yates, aren't you?"

  "That bastard owes me!" He made no attempt to modify his anger.

  "I get the impression he owes you more than money," she said thoughtfully.

  "There's personal stuff," he admitted.

  "Want to tell me about it?"

  He looked at her, obviously reluctant to say more. They caressed each other for a while in silence.

  "Talk to me," she prompted again. "We might be able to help each other."

  He rolled on top of her. "You don't wanna know my problems."

  She rolled back on top of him. "Try me."

  He laughed. "Okay, doc. You win." He studied her. "We were stopped in a reg'lar atchin tan called Hob Moor. It's down the drom a little way from here. We were poovin the gryes—getting 'em a bit o' free grazing."

  The more he talked the more animated he became. She watched him with growing

  fascination.

  He sat up, leaning back with the pillow against the headboard. "There was a trailer fire. My dai—my mother—and my sister died. This gavver, this Hirst, he said my mother'd most likely been drinking. She never touched more'n tea in her whole life! He said she was prob'ly the cause o' the fire, as gypsies were all drunkards! I was in court on that day, but I started shouting at Hirst and calling him a liar, so they threw me out."

  "You think Hirst was covering for someone?" she asked.

  "I do," he replied vehemently. "But I ain't no proof." He paused a moment, then decided to continue. "I think my dadu and my brother know something 'bout why it happened. But they ain't saying."

  "You suspect Phil Yates?"

  He shrugged. "Mebbe. I don't know."

  "You'll need help if you're going to take on a man like that."

  "Is that an offer?"

  "It's a promise."

  An hour later, in the pale pre-sunrise light, Cath left the cottage as a long goods train trundled south on the up line. As she walked back to the farmhouse, she failed to spot Angie watching from behind the bedroom curtains.

  * * *

  Angie sat at the breakfast table, red-eyed and sullen. Cath hurried into the kitchen, fastening her work shirt. She looked at Angie with concern.

  "What's wrong with you?"

  Angie glared at her mother. "Predator!"

  Cath, shocked, was lost for word
s.

  "I saw you, didn't I? Sneaking back from the cottage!"

  Cath's anger was aroused. "I've not been sneaking anywhere!"

  "Dad will be turning in his grave!" Angie announced accusingly.

  "You won't make me feel guilty, young lady, so you needn't try! I've every right to

  come and go here as I please!"

  Angie wouldn't give up. "You're a thief! I wanted him! And now he's lost to me forever!"

  Cath laughed. "Don't be such a drama queen. He's far too old for you."

  "And I suppose dad wasn't too old for you? Like you were sixteen and he was thirty-six!"

  Cath found herself losing the argument. "I'm only looking after him." She cursed herself for offering such a feeble reply.

  "Liar! You were gone ages. You've destroyed us!" Angie left the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Cath threw her hands into the air in frustration. "Children!"

  15

  Brian and Steve exercised the Dobermans, as usual, while their bosses ate breakfast. They followed the usual circuit around the grounds, the rear yard and garage area first, then the ponds and shrubberies at the back of the house, finishing with a stroll around the edges of the front lawn. They performed the routine twice a day, with the exception of any days Phil required them to be with him at race meetings and public events. They watched the dogs closely, looking for any change in behaviour that might indicate the presence of trespassers.

  Today was one of those rare occasions. The dogs picked up the scent of the previous night's intruder, and the two men let them sniff around until they eventually lost interest in a trail that was becoming increasingly cold.

  "Whoever it was he didn't come back," Brian observed. "He might just have been sussing the place for a break-in. Guess we gave him something to change his mind."

  "What else would he have been doing here?" Steve asked, puzzled by his companion's attitude.

  Brian shrugged. "No idea. But the fact he was here at all—and it was obviously just one guy on his own—makes me wonder."

  Steve found Brian's tone slightly ominous. "Wonder what?"

  "I don't know," Brian replied. He shrugged. "It was most like just a one-off."

  The two men put any doubts aside and wandered leisurely past the eastern wing of the house and on to the wide front lawn.

  "You'll be on your own at the races today then," Steve remarked. "Let's hope there's no trouble."

  "Harry and Nige will be there." Brian laughed. "Short of an assassination attempt I should think we'll manage."

  "Don't tempt fate," Steve cautioned. "The one time we drop our guard will be the day someone has a go at Phil. The number of enemies he's made, I'm surprised there hasn't been some sort of face-off already."

  Brian looked thoughtful. "Are you thinking that gyppo last night might be the start of something?"

  Steve shrugged. "I don't know. Could be though. Phil's always been jumpy round gyppos, even if they've only been moving their vanners to one o' their fields and we've had to drive past 'em. He looks around all shifty like and gets real tense, as if someone had put the law on him. Watch him today at the races and you'll see what I mean. There's bound to be a gyppo or two around, 'cos this is one o' the meetings they go to."

  "I'll be there one hundred percent," Brian confirmed. "I need this job. If we lost Phil, we might suddenly find we're homeless."

  "Don't be so damn gloomy! You've got me worried now," Steve confessed. "There's something in Phil's past," he said thoughtfully, "I mean between him and some gyppo." He looked knowingly at his colleague. "He gets that spooked look that comes over him when gyppos are mentioned. He's had a run in with one for sure."

  Brian laughed. "You'd better be on red alert this afternoon then."

  Steve shrugged dismissively. "I don't expect any trouble. Not in the daylight. If any trouble comes, I'm pretty sure it'll be at night time. But I'll be watching the cameras. And I'll walk round with the dogs. I need this job as much as you!"

  "You really happy here then, Steve?" Brian asked. "I mean really? Phil and Harry aren't such likeable guys."

  "It's crossed my mind," Steve admitted. "We have to clean up the shit Phil leaves behind him. But it's not much and not often. We get well paid to live in a place we could never afford ourselves. And we can have one o' Harry's girls for free whenever we want one. What could possibly go that wrong it would make it all come to an end?"

  Brian pulled a thoughtful face. "I ask myself that same question every day. But it will end, won't it, like the other jobs we've had. Something'll happen. It's just a question of when…and how."

  * * *

  Cath had finished tethering the goats and feeding the pigs with no help from Angie when she heard Luke tinkering with her old Citroen Estate that she kept in a lean-to shed near

  the deep-litter houses. Five minutes later she arrived in the lean-to with two mugs of tea. Angie had still not appeared.

  They drank their tea in silence. She noticed he was walking normally and seemed to have no pain. She wondered if he would be moving on. His interest in the Citroen suggested he might be getting restless.

  "No one's started this old thing for ages. What makes you think you can?" she asked with a challenging smile.

  "She'll go, no problem." He laughed mischievously, revealing a hitherto unknown side of himself. "Just needs the right guy to turn her on!"

  She climbed into the Citroen and turned the ignition. It almost started. He made adjustments under the bonnet. "Try again."

  It started. He adjusted the timing. She got out, leaving the engine idling.

  "You must be the right guy."

  He smiled. "Guess I am."

  She took his hand. "It's yours whenever you like. It's got three months still left on the road tax. The key for the farm fuel tank is hanging by the kitchen coat rack. Just help yourself."

  "Reckon I might."

  They embraced, holding each other close for some minutes.

  "We do that again if I can get the tractor going?" he asked with his impish grin.

  "I think that would be a cause for celebration!"

  No, she thought. He won't be moving on. He had unfinished business here, business with that devil who lived at Birch Hall.

  * * *

  The last race of the afternoon had ended. Racegoers thronged the winners' enclosure. Phil, in a loud suit, had Dot in an even more garish outfit hanging on his arm. Harry had Maureen on his. Dot smiled at everyone, whether stranger or acquaintance. Maureen tried to look happy. Brian stood a little behind the foursome, keeping the crowds back and watching for any sign of trouble. Hirst hovered nearby, avoiding the cameras.

  Freddie Parfitt, the jockey, sat astride Good Times. Clive Fawcett held the horse's halter, while Phil stroked the animal's head and congratulated its rider.

  A young TV interviewer and crew waited for Phil to give them his attention. At a sign from Phil the interviewer spoke to the camera. "Another winner for Lucky Phil Yates. Good Times, at 7 to 2, strolled home by five lengths." He turned to Phil. "What's the secret of your phenomenal run of successes, Mr Yates?"

  Phil spoke directly to camera, not even glancing at the interviewer, as if he had taken control of the show. "Guess I have an eye for a promising animal. I've been round horses all my life, my dad before me. You could definitely say horse culture is in my blood."

  The TV interviewer picked up on what he thought was a promising line of questioning but had to wait until the camera swung back on to him. "Could you tell us a bit about your father, Mr Yates? Did the knack of picking winners start with him?"

  Phil tightened up at the question. Dot realised and looked worried.

  "What kind of stupid question's that?" Phil eyed the interviewer as if he was unfit for his job. "We're not here to talk about my dad!"

  Dot increased her grip on Phil's arm. He noticed. With a visible effort he regained his composure. The young interviewer looked confused and embarrassed. Phil snatched the microphone fr
om his hand and took over completely.

  "First of all, I'd like to thank Clive Fawcett, my trainer. And Freddie Parfitt, my jockey. And, of course, Good Times! What a team!"

  Phil beckoned to Clive, who took his place on camera. "Clive Fawcett, ladies and gentlemen—the magician!"

  "The real genius is standing here at my side." Clive beamed at Phil. "Mr Phil Yates, today's deserving winner!"

  Phil tossed the microphone in the direction of the interviewer and moved on, smiling

  broadly and shaking hands with his admirers. Brian followed close behind.

  Harry had lost touch with Maureen, who had somehow managed to attach herself to Phil's left arm, while Dot still clung to his right. The big man seized the moment and drew Hirst aside.

  "Many gyppos on your patch these days, Nige?"

  Hirst shrugged. "No more'n usual. They're mostly on council sites. There's a bit of thieving, but what can you expect? Most of 'em's got no work. Why d'you ask?"

  "We had one snooping last night."

  Hirst saw his chance to wind Harry up. "Could be that Luke Smith."

  Harry looked troubled. "Hell do I know? We never got close enough. Anyway, I've no idea what the guy looks like."

  Hirst took a copy of Luke's mugshot from his wallet and gave it to Harry. "You do now."

  Harry studied the mugshot. "Can I keep this?"

  Hirst sniggered. "Put it on Phil's breakfast tray. It'll lighten up his day!"

  Hirst's comment reopened a well-worn line of thought in Harry's mind. "Phil still thinks he saw a bloke that night. Some long-haired hippy guy. Makes him more paranoid than ever."