The Price of Horses

by Ian Taylor

  "Tell you what, Charlie. You work for me. I have the paddocks and cottages. You have half the profit from the crops. All winners, yeah?"

  Charlie's good eye narrowed cunningly. "Sure you want them paddocks?"

  Phil smiled patronisingly. "What are you trying to say, Charlie?"

  "Paddocks ain't no good."

  "They were okay when I last saw 'em."

  "Take another look," Charlie hissed.

  He stood up to leave. Harry, at the last moment, let him pass.

  "Hell's he on about?" Phil asked as the door closed behind Charlie.

  Harry shrugged. "Guy's crazy, ain't he? Talks rubbish. It's a wonder he's able to run that sawmill."

  "Mebbe he's smarter than folk think. He could know something about Cath Scaife and be blackmailing her."

  "Like what?"

  Phil shrugged. "Hell do I know? Some dodgy business deal, most like. Cash sales that were unrecorded. Diseased stock that was illegally buried. Mebbe they have cocaine orgies down there!"

  "I think he's just bluffing," Harry said dismissively. "The guy's a fantasist."

  Before Phil could reply his mobile rang. "Nige—what?" He listened for a full minute, then turned to Harry. "Nige said some delivery guy he knows saw a gyppo down by Cuckoo Nest. Sounds like our man." His mood changed completely. "That's what Charlie Gibb has on Cath Scaife—harbouring felons! Harry, let's spoil their day!"

  18

  After a leisurely bath, Luke busied himself in the cottage bedroom packing a travelling bag he had borrowed from Cath.

  Angie burst in. She looked at the scene in disbelief. "You can't leave—you've only just got here!"

  "Important business trip," he replied without elaboration.

  "Are you going robbing?" she asked eagerly. "Can I come?"

  He shook his head. "I'm finished with all that. I'm gonna see my dadu. No gorgios allowed." He smiled. "Specially not pretty ones."

  He picked up his bag and moved to the door. She grabbed his arm.

  "I want to be with you, Luke!" she blurted out. "I need you!"

  "Well, you can't have me," he replied sternly.

  "Why not? We'd make a great couple."

  "I'm spoke for."

  "Mam's too old for you," she said resentfully.

  "You're far too young." He kissed her tenderly on the forehead. "But I still like you a lot."

  "Do you, Luke?" She was filled with a flood of warmth and sexual excitation.

  "You're the second-best farmer in the world!"

  She looked disappointed. "Only second?"

  He gave her a hug. "Take care of the farm, Angie. I'll be back soon as I can. Ask Cath about your gypsy connections." A moment later he had gone. She sank down on the bed, smiling wistfully.

  He sat in the Citroen Estate in the stackyard. Cath leaned in at the window.

  "Keep out of bother, Luke. You've got half the known world after you!"

  He laughed. "They won't find me."

  They kissed. He pulled out of the farm gate and drove away. The receding sound of

  the Citroen's engine was blotted out as an intercity train sped past. When the train had gone, the sound of the Citroen could no longer be heard.

  A feeling of emptiness enveloped her. Would the police catch him, she wondered? Would she ever see him again? In spite of their feelings for each other, the very nature of the modern world could throw up a new set of obstacles to keep them apart. As well as arrest and detention, there was the chaos of the beleaguered gypsy world, where any number of problems could demand his involvement and delay him.

  She did her best to suppress these negative thoughts. Of course he would come back. They had Phil Yates to deal with. She had to help Luke to get justice. And they were linked by blood. That was a truth no problems were big enough to destroy.

  * * *

  The Mercedes sped through the country lanes, Harry at the wheel and Phil beside him. Brian and Steve sat on the back seat. Hirst followed in his unmarked police car.

  Cath had only just gone back into the house when the Mercedes swept into the stackyard. Hirst parked in the gateway, blocking the exit.

  Phil, Harry, Brian and Steve approached the farmhouse. Cath came out again, grim-faced.

  "This is harassment!" she shouted. "Get off my land or I'll call the police!"

  "Be my guest," Harry replied with a humourless smile as Hirst strolled into the stackyard. "You're not as important as you like to think you are. Today we have a warrant to search the property."

  Hirst joined them and produced the search warrant. "Catherine Scaife, we have reason to believe you may be harbouring an escaped felon."

  "What nonsense is this?" she replied angrily. "I'm harbouring no one!"

  Hirst ignored her. He turned to Brian and Steve. "Take a look around the house,

  lads. Shoot on sight if you see him. We'll split up and search the buildings."

  "Where are the other police officers?" Cath demanded to know. "This search is illegal!"

  "Shut it, mouthy bitch!" Steve snarled. He slapped her hard across the face and she fell awkwardly, unable to prevent the back of her head from hitting the yardstones.

  Angie, returning from the cottage, grabbed a yard broom and attacked Steve. "Leave her alone, you fucking thug!"

  Brian clipped her on the jaw with a nicely timed right-hand jab. She sprawled on the yard and lay still.

  Phil was in his element, dealing out orders like a rigged deck of cards. "Watch over 'em, Steve. Bat 'em again if you need to. We'll take a look round the farmyard. Bri, do the house."

  Brian took a handgun from his belt and entered the farmhouse, while Steve stood over Cath and Angie. Harry and Hirst headed for the buildings. Phil set off to investigate the paddocks.

  As Harry and Hirst, handguns drawn, checked the barn, Angie dragged herself to her feet. Cath still lay where she had fallen.

  "What the hell have you done to my mam?" Angie yelled. She made to grab the yard broom again, but a blow from Steve sent her backwards against the garden seat. Her nose began bleeding, and she spat blood from biting her tongue.

  "Shut up and stop there!" Steve snarled. He slapped her across the side of her face, a blow that set her ear ringing.

  Cath came to and sat up. She stared at Angie and then at the minder. "What have you—?" Before she could finish her question, Steve slapped her again.

  "Sit next to your brat and shut up! If you move, you'll get this." He produced a knuckleduster from his pocket. He had no intention of using it, as it would leave obvious signs of blows, but it had the effect of silencing the two women.

  When Phil arrived in the first paddock his smile of happy anticipation turned to furious horror at the sight of the grass, which was brown and withered. "Charlie fucking Gibb!" he exploded. He kicked the nearest fence post in outrage. The entire structure collapsed, right around the field, like a row of dominoes. Phil stared aghast. "CHARLIEEE!!!"

  High up in the sawmill loft Charlie watched events at Cuckoo Nest through his telescope. The entire roof void of the mill rang to his wild laughter. "Serve you right, Phil Yates!" he yelled. "And there's more where that came from! Ever fancied getting a shave

  with a chainsaw, eh?" He laughed again. "Ain't no one smarter'n Charlie Gibb!"

  Back at the farm, Harry and Hirst, having found no sign of their quarry in the buildings, approached the lineside cottage. The locked door flew open with one well-aimed kick from Harry.

  Hirst glanced in the kitchen and sitting room, then joined Harry upstairs. He pulled a sour face, prodding Luke's heap of washing with the toe of his shoe. "He's been here. I can smell a dirty gyppo anywhere."

  "We gonna wait?" Harry asked. "We'll box him in with our motors by the farm gate."

  "I can't." Hirst looked apologetic. "I've a meeting with the Super in an hour."

  The two men put their guns away.

  "Next time we bring the dogs," Harry said decisively.

  Hirst drove away to keep his appointmen
t. Cath and Angie still sat side by side on the garden seat, with the addition that Steve had bound their wrists with gaffer tape. Phil, Harry and Brian joined him. Harry shook his head at Steve's enquiring glance.

  Harry ordered the women to be unbound and to stand up. He towered over them threateningly. "That gyppo—where the hell's he gone? Be smart now. No lies."

  "He's a traveller," Cath replied huskily. "He worked a while and then moved on. It's what they do. You know that."

  "Moved on where?" Phil asked sternly.

  "How should I know? They don't tell us gorgios anything." She could always pull that one now, she thought.

  "Travellers work for you a lot, do they?" Phil asked with quiet menace. He stared at Cath intently, unnerving her.

  "What if they do?"

  "Soft spot for 'em, ain'tcha?" Phil persisted.

  "They're just people. They work hard. They don't cause me any trouble." She left the

  implication hanging in the air.

  "Lie for 'em, would you? Cover up for 'em?"

  Phil's eyes bored into her. She grew increasingly uneasy.

  "Look, I hardly know these people. They just come here to work in the orchard. That's all."

  Phil turned away with a knowing look. "Okay, that's it for now. Let's go." The four men got into the Mercedes and drove out of the stackyard.

  Cath, fearful, watched them leave. Angie helped her to shuffle slowly back into the house.

  The four men in the Mercedes were silent for some minutes, thinking about the recent events.

  "That was a goddamn waste of time," Harry said gloomily. "What's happened to the paddocks?"

  "To hell with the paddocks!" Phil snarled. He was silent for a moment. "Harry, I know now. It was her."

  * * *

  Malcolm had watched the Mercedes leave Birch Hall with the four men. A short while later the two women drove off in a Range Rover, probably to the increasingly distant shops. He had observed that chauffeuring the women was one of the minder's tasks—but not today. The men had more pressing business by the obvious haste with which they had driven away.

  He put his field glasses in his backpack and took out his camera and zoom lens, fixing them to the tripod that was already set up. He took a dozen photographs of the main housefront, closing in a little with each exposure until the final photograph showed only the main steps and entrance. Then he put the camera and zoom lens away and took his sniper's rifle from its case.

  The rifle was a Dragunov SVU-A that he had used for long-distance work for the last five years. Although it wasn't the lightest sniper's rifle on the market, he found its accuracy

  at distances of over half a mile to be impressive. He estimated that from where he stood to the main entrance of the house was no more than six hundred yards, well within the Dragunov's capabilities.

  The ammunition he was about to use was a special kind of dum-dum bullet that he had obtained from a longstanding contact. The bullets were designed to cause maximum damage on impact. He had already decided on his targets from his survey with the field glasses.

  The conditions were perfect, with no wind and a uniform layer of altostratus at twenty thousand feet. He adjusted the bipod and PSO-1 scope and swept the housefront a couple of times before he was satisfied that both he and his rifle were as one.

  He proceeded systematically to destroy the heads and raised arms of the statuary that stood on the front terrace: fifteen shots, thus using only half of his thirty-round magazine. He surveyed the damage in his field glasses and felt pleased. The occupants of the house would realise that he could pick them off with ease. He looked forward to seeing their reaction.

  He had set up two concealed cameras in the trees with a clear view of the front of the house, one camera for daylight and one for night vision. He controlled them from his laptop. He hoped for a bit of amusing viewing when he got back to his cottage.

  He packed up his gear and returned to the Jag, which was hidden among bushes fifty yards from the road. He knew the vehicle would be safe, as it wasn't keepered woodland; there were no signs of feeding stations for pheasants or other game. Phil Yates owned the adjoining timber but did not indulge in rough shooting. Perhaps the man had a soft spot for wildlife.

  He returned to his cottage and spent some time making adjustments to his photographs. Then he drove five miles to post the second of his brown envelopes in a village with a bright red post box but no sign of a post office. Stage Two was complete. The shape of Stage Three would depend on his target's reaction.

  * * *

  When Phil arrived back at Birch Hall he thought his heart would explode from the sense of outrage that gripped him. This guy, whoever he was, was not going to stop. He found Dot staring glumly at the damage. She was not the hysterical type, which was a relief. Maureen, who was given to fits of excitement, was nowhere to be seen.

  "Where's Mo?" He hoped she hadn't fled in a state of terror.

  "Hiding under the bed, whaddya think?" Dot replied, without a change of expression. She added, as an afterthought, "or she might've run away to Tenerife with the postman—or anyone who seems remotely like a human being."

  Harry was already scanning the woods in his field glasses. "This guy knows what

  he's doing," he said thoughtfully. "He must have a helluva rifle. Dum-dums over this distance are notoriously inaccurate. But he wants money, not dead bodies. You'll have to

  offer to cut a deal. We don't know who he is or where he's based. All we think we know is he's working for Tam. You'll have to put a white flag or some such out front. He'll be in touch for a meeting. That's when we'll get him."

  Harry's cool-headed advice, as so often, quietened Phil down. He took control immediately, addressing Brian and Steve.

  "Okay, guys, get the dogs and take a good look round. Start with the woodland opposite. Anything that isn't where it should be, you let us know. Then clean up the mess out here best you can." He was still coldly furious but calm. There was nothing else he could do. They'd had tough situations before, but they'd always come through as winners.

  He was already thinking of the trap they would set. He knew the location he would choose. But would the shooter agree? Could they tempt him out of his comfort zone? Or would he start picking them off one by one until they gave in? But that kind of violence only happened in the movies.

  They could simply conceal a tracker among the money, and Nige could haul him in with Bri and Steve in police uniforms. A quiet arrest and a body disappeared in a moortop quagmire.

  But what if there were two or more of them—could his guys handle a firefight? Would it be easier just to pay up and have done with it? The idea upset him. He was Phil Yates—and folk always did things his way!

  No, he was not going to give in. He felt sure the shooter was a lone gun. If he wanted his money, he'd have to come and get it.

  19

  Luke drove south for eighty miles, using A roads rather than the motorway. If by some stroke of bad luck he was spotted, a motorway was one of the worst places in the world to find yourself trapped on. He located the old brickworks in the gathering dusk. Leaving the Citroen behind a broken-down wall, he made his way on foot through the derelict site looking out for gypsy patrins.

  The old brickworks covered a large area, too far from big towns and main roads to be an attractive proposition for housing. Ruined buildings were dotted about among heaps of spoil, rusting machinery and expanses of puddles. A feral tomcat hissed at him from the gaping entrance of a broken drain. He mimicked the call of an interested female and the animal cautiously approached him, allowing him to stroke the sensitive areas behind its ears. One wild spirit recognising another.

  He noticed a big Datsun pickup parked discreetly behind what had once been an office block and workers' canteen. Near the pickup was an arrangement of broken bricks in the rough form of an arrow. He followed the direction indicated by the patrin until he caught a fleeting impression of Riley's shadowy figure moving ahead of him. He followed th
e figure through the gathering darkness.

  Ambrose and Riley were seated on old pallets by a small fire shielded by the walls of a roofless building. The two men got to their feet as he approached them.

  "Good to see you, son." Ambrose embraced him.

  Riley grasped Luke's hand. "This had better be good. It's taken us half the day to shake off the law. And it's all 'cos o' you. You got every gavver in the whole of England dikkerin for you."

  Luke smiled. "Greetings to you too, bro. Still happy in your life, eh?"

  The three gypsy travellers settled themselves around the fire.

  "What is it you want us to know?" Ambrose asked.

  "I've found out who burned our trailer," Luke began. "Got evidence that'll send 'em

  down. A witness, too, if needed."

  Covert glances passed between Ambrose and Riley. The latter stood up, furious.

  "The hell you have! How many times have we told you it was an accident! Why do you have to invent some new madness? Just let it go!"

  "Be silent, Riley," Ambrose commanded. "Let Luke finish."

  Riley resumed his seat. He glowered at his brother.

  Luke continued. "Phil Yates, Harry Rooke and that bent gavver, Hirst. Think they might be likely candidates?"

  Ambrose and Riley tightened up. They made no comment.

  Luke stared at them, incredulous. "Ain't you naught to say?"

  "You must understand, Luke," Ambrose began, "it was a difficult time."

  Riley shifted uneasily. "We had to make a choice."

  Luke looked at them, hurt and offended. "Damn—you know! You've known all along! But you never said a word to me!"

  "It was for your own good," Ambrose replied. "You'd have done some crazy thing and ended up mullo or in jail."

  "Was that your way o' caring for me?" Luke asked. "Pretending it was an accident? I never believed you…and it near destroyed my faith in you." He looked his father in the eye. "Tell me, Dadu. Tell me the truth now."