by Joe McNally
‘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 back 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 and started 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 the plan.
‘My car’s parked right outside. Now, as I walk out I’m within two steps of the driver’s door, though I can be seen clearly from the woods. In the back seat I’ve got a long coat. Here’s what happens. I go out, open the back door and pull out the coat. You’ll be standing just inside this front door out of sight. As I straighten up, holding the coat, I’ll swing it round onto my shoulders like a cape, turning to face you as I do it. As the coat swirls round, you nip out and dive into the back seat. The coat will cover you if you time it right. Then I’ll turn to the front door of the house and lock it as if I’m locking you in. I’ll get in the car, you stay low and I’ll drive us out.’
I stopped pacing and looked at him. ‘Okay?’
‘Sounds a bit risky to me.’
‘Would you rather stay here?’
His head dropped again and he went silent. I walked back to the window, looked out and then turned to Greene. ‘Ready?’
‘Now?’
‘Best time. 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. Back at your boat.’
‘Anything behind us?’
Most of your nerve if you ever had any, I thought. ‘Nothing.’ I said.
They didn’t follow us?’
‘Nope.’
I heard the springs creak as he sat up. Daylight showed the effects of the heavy night on his face and the tough morning he’d put in.
‘You all right?’ I asked, not caring what the answer was.
‘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 away and started walking to the boat. ‘What about The Sporting Life piece?’ I asked.
‘Cancel it,’ he called back. ‘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 slightly before stepping on the boat and disappearing through the green and yellow door.
28
Half a mile back up the hill I’d noticed the ruins of some buildings. I drove there. They lay a hundred yards off the tree-lined road. 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 blue of the sky. The fire must have started high up, maybe in the hayloft, and burned its way down. Only five or six feet of the barn walls survived; I parked behind them.
I picked my way through the rubble, grass and weeds and settled on the sandstone blocks. Sloping gently downhill toward the canal the land was separated by hedgerows into small fields. Raising my binoculars I focused on Greene’s boat.
There was now only one barge beside Greene’s, its grey tarpaulin gathering a spread of bird droppings.
I scanned the canal and the bridge and the lock, sweeping back and forth, watching for activity from Greene’s boat. It began rolling slightly in the still water.
I kept the boat in the bright optics. Greene came out, jumped to the towpath and made for the bridge, walking quickly.
He crossed the road and went through the gate of the white cottage which I took to be the home of the lock-keeper. As he walked on the paved path it was strange, seeing him so close, not to hear his boot-heels click.
He knocked then drummed impatiently on the door till a woman opened it. She must have been almost seventy but stood ramrod straight, a good 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 him till he was through the gate and back on to the road before closing the door slowly. Greene jogged back to the boat, jumped on deck and went straight inside the cabin.
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 my limbs.
A lime-green Renault approached the bridge and pulled in sharply on the grass verge. I put the glasses to my eyes and rested my elbows on the sandstone. Skinner got out, opened the back door and a large, thick-barrelled dog joined him. A Rottweiler.
He strode down the tow-path to Greene’s boat and the dog leapt on deck. Skinner followed, wrenched open the door and went in, slamming it behind him.
He was inside for about twenty minutes and when the door opened again the dog came out first, then Skinner, then Greene. Each was talking and gesturing. If they weren’t arguing they sure weren’t trading compliments. Skinner finally turned and moved toward the side of the boat. The dog took this as the off signal and jumped onto the tow-path but Skinner stopped and turned on Greene again.
Greene opened 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 suddenly started doing some finger-pointing of his own. He moved toward Skinner but faltered as he saw the dog bounding back on to the deck. I lowered the binoculars to see the big white wet teeth.
Greene backed off. Skinner said something and Greene turned away and went inside. The animal tucked itself in at Skinner’s heel as they walked to the car. The vet swung the Renault in what was meant to be a U till he found himself almost hitting the nearside of the bridge. He reversed fast, straightened up and sped away.
Three men on a summer morning ... One in a car, angry, one in a boat, scared, one on a hill, almost happy.
The choice for me now was to leave and risk missing something or stay and see what happened next. I could go home and change into more suitable clothing, bring back a flask of tea and some food, a flashlight and storm-lamp. I would be gone almost two hours.
Too long.
Greene could be anywhere by the time I got back. He was panicked 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.
Within fifteen minutes the Renault was back. Skinner couldn’t have gone much farther than the village. Greene emerged from the boat with a suitcase and hurried to the car.
Skinne
r was away before Greene had closed the door properly. I got up and ran to my car, the binoculars swinging from my neck and banging on my ribs.
Pulling out from behind the blackened barn I drove to the top of the track just in time to see the lime-green car blurring along through the trees and flying past the entrance.
I accelerated down the pot-holed track 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 quickly and soon the only noise was the engine racing and the wind rushing past.
I had to keep Skinner’s car in sight but couldn’t afford to get too close in case he saw me or Greene looked back. The straight stretches were the worst, it wouldn’t take Skinner long to realise the car in his mirror had been following the same road for miles.
Balancing that was the fact that the vet seldom did less than eighty, meaning the road in front of him would need much more attention than the one behind. Whenever the opportunity arose I’d let another car overtake for a while. But few were travelling 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. There was a risk, too, that 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 had raised the temperature in the car till sweat prickled in my scalp and ran from my armpits down my sides. Opening the window brought a rush of air and noise and seemed to slow the car. I made do with the vents.
Sweat, excitement, adrenaline. Greene was obviously in something up to his neck and Skinner probably just as deep. They had to be running now to the next guy in line. I smiled, confidence growing, I’d been following them all this time and neither had twigged. I was entitled to feel pleased.
I should have known better.
The engine missed, picked up again for a few seconds, spluttered, then died. The oil light in the dash came on, I jabbed madly at the gas pedal, then I looked at the fuel gauge – empty. I was pumping air.
The Renault disappeared round a bend.
Braking to a halt I switched on the hazard lights, jumped out and got from the boot the spare gallon I always carried. As the petrol glugged and burbled into the tank I watched across the flat land through the rippling haze as the Renault, side-on, briefly came into view again then disappeared off the edge of the world.
The empty tank sucked slowly at the plastic spout of the can. I swore loudly and was tempted to pour only half the contents in and get after Skinner but I knew that 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 strongly but didn’t catch. I tried again. Nothing ... the fuel wasn’t through yet. Pumping the pedal hard and fast I tried to draw it quicker from the tank. 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 line in the distance coming away from the road at right angles. This row of trees was about three miles ahead on my left.
The needle on the fuel gauge kept pointing at red like some insistent school teacher trying to hammer home a lesson. The gallon hadn’t moved it a fraction and what was left in the tank was being 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 came to the line of trees the more obvious was their density. I was within a hundred yards when I saw there were two rows of trees and running between them a narrow road. I slowed as I passed the entrance. Something caught my eye and I braked and reversed.
At the turn-off, a car tyre had ploughed a furrow through a patch of dark earth still soggy from the morning rain. In the middle of the furrow was a rabbit, its back end and rear legs badly crushed. Its ears twitched and it tried to raise its head and look in my direction as I got out of the car and walked toward it. Squatting I saw that the wheel had virtually 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 then broke its neck.
It couldn’t have lived more than a few minutes with those injuries, which meant the vehicle that did it must have turned up the road a very short time before. I picked up the body and laid it in the grass at the base of a tree.
Decision time. Was it Skinner’s car that had taken that road? There had to be a strong chance it was. 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 tunnel of trees, quietly coasting out of gear when I could. Two hundred yards away I could see the road swung to the right and I started looking 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 stopped. There was no verge, just a solid border of Leylandii. Taking my binoculars I crossed over into the trees and began to wriggle through in a slow slalom.
I cut across diagonally till I was stopped by a hedge which rose like a solid green wall. It was about twelve feet high and on my side the tree branches had been cut away completely up to that height so that 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 was strong and dense enough to let me climb it. It measured roughly five feet across at the top and easily supported my weight as I crawled onto it 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. Behind it was the Renault. Both cars were empty.
The house was not.
With my binoculars trained through a ground-floor window I could see 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 that this was no social visit, there was nothing more to learn lying atop the hedge. Harle, Greene, Roscoe, Kruger, Skinner and now Stoke – whatever this was, they were all in it.
I rolled over, leaving two dents in the hedge 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. In pale blue metal with big lit-up lampshade tops, they matched exactly. I pulled in wondering if they were quaint display items for tourists but a boy of eighteen or so came out of the hut with a sunny, ‘What’ll it be, sir?’
‘It’ll be a tank full 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 told her everything. At Roscoe’s, she said, all was quiet.
29
The next three days were spent at the races watching Howard Stoke. I wanted to see how he ran his business, who bet with him and when and, if possible, in what amounts. I wanted to see 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 Newbur
y 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 on the left thigh before galloping away 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 dismounted, 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 white star on his forehead. His number cloth said eight and I checked my racecard. He was called Castleford.
His lad and trainer were out on the course now and Castleford galloped toward them. Suddenly he veered off, crashing through the plastic rails onto the steeplechase course. His lad ran 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 were dragging on the ground. The horse lowered his head and half crab-walked over to the rails where he turned his hind legs to the lad. The boy approached cautiously, his hand outstretched. There was a low murmur from the stands.
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.
He went quietly with him and as the crowd applauded the boy reached up to pat the horse’s head. Castleford turned quickly, 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 away.
