by Joe McNally
‘All the same ...’
‘All the same nothing, Mac! If I’m here when the police arrive Cranley will lock me up for a month just for questioning! Now, I’m sick and tired of the bastard who’s doing this and I’m going to find him and kick the fucking shit out of him!’
‘You’re shouting, Eddie.’
‘Who cares?’
‘Now look - ’
‘You look, McCarthy! Look at me leaving here. Now, you tell the police what you like when they get here but don’t mention my name! I’m off. I am going to get whoever is doing this and the next call you get from me will be to tell you I’m holding the bastard by the balls!’
I ran back across the field, got in my car and drove home at very high speed, still boiling with anger.
I spent the rest of a long day knowing it must be Stoke. He had to be the top man. Skinner and Greene had been in terror of him, he’d engineered Greene’s death and probably ordered Harle’s. The only one I couldn’t positively tie him to was Roscoe but I was certain he was involved with whatever was going on at Roscoe’s yard.
Seething with rage it was all I could do not to drive to Stoke’s house and beat him to a pulp. But I had to keep control until I’d got some evidence. Surely Charmain would know something? And surely, if she was fully aware just how evil he was, she wouldn’t protect him?
I’d have to get into that house and see her. Stoke probably wouldn’t leave for York till Monday. This was only Saturday morning. I wondered if my temper would hold.
The anger bubbled and fuelled frustration and when Jackie rang that night, full of hope and excitement, I was sharp with her and we had a row. In the end she hung up. Disgusted with myself I sat down and tried to get drunk. Half a bottle of whisky later I was still sober, angry and bitter.
I went to bed and lay in the darkness regretting the argument with Jackie and thinking how happy we’d been last night on the phone when I’d told her we were going to meet Kruger.
A coldness descended on me ... I’d told her who and I’d told her where and Kruger was dead when we got there. I thought back again to my suspicions of her when Harle’s body was dumped on me at Kempton and the coldness turned to nausea as I faced the logical conclusion – she was working for Stoke and Roscoe.
I lay awake for hours trying to talk myself out of it but the rationale was undeniable. I should have guessed on the very first night. Why had she appeared out of the blue at the cottage? She’d said it was to warn me about Roscoe and I believed her.
After less than half an hour she’d launched a now obviously deliberate seduction which I was vain enough and stupid enough to be flattered by.
My last thoughts before finally falling asleep were that I deserved everything I’d got.
31
Next morning I rang McCarthy and warned him about Jackie. ‘What are you going to do about it?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. Maybe we can use it to our advantage.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know yet. I’ll have to think. I’m going to Suffolk tomorrow to try and see Stoke’s wife. We’ll just have to wait and see how things play out after that.’
‘How will you get to see her with Stoke around?’
‘I’m counting on him leaving for York tomorrow. He should be away for at least three days.’
‘What are you hoping to get out of her?’
‘She’s an old girlfriend of mine, leave it to me.’
‘You’re the original eternal optimist Eddie.’
‘Show me someone in racing who isn’t an optimist?’
‘True. Maybe I should have said delusional.’
‘Listen, I know one thing now that Kruger’s dead, I know there’s no chance of getting my licence back. But promise me a half-hour interview with that senior steward when this over. At least I can tell him what I think of him.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘What did the police say about Kruger?’
‘What do you think? That it looked like a suicide was what they said.’
‘But you told them otherwise?’
‘I told them he had a criminal record and it might not be as straightforward as it seemed.’
‘Let’s hope they value your opinion more than they do mine,’
I moped around for the rest of the day knowing Jackie would phone that night. When she did I knew I’d have to apologise for last night’s argument and I knew I’d have to sweet talk her, to keep her believing I suspected nothing.
To do that would stick in my throat but it was necessary if I wanted to turn her treachery to my advantage at some point. She rang at five to ten and I managed to hide the bitterness in my voice and play the part well. Before she hung up she told me she loved me. Like Judas loved Jesus, I thought, and went miserably to bed.
Across the flat fenland I saw the trees when I was still miles away, the long rows of trunks curving when they reached the big house, enveloping it. Scrawled on the sky above them was the silver swelling vapour trail of a jet.
It was just after three o’clock when I turned out of the sunshine into that dark avenue. Stopping about thirty yards before the road curved round to the driveway of the house, I got out and locked the car. Keeping to the trees I walked quickly to the main gates. All looked quiet around the house.
The gates were about twelve feet high, the bars ornately plaited, topped by black spikes. There were no padlocks, just large keyholes: one in the centre, one at the bottom. I reached for the lock-picks in my pocket and went to work on the higher lock. Three minutes later, I was still fiddling with it and getting anxious. Had Stoke put in some special mechanism?
I was as comfortably dressed as a man can be for climbing gates: cords, a loose cotton shirt and strong flexible shoes. Up to the centre column where the gates joined there were enough footholds to reach the top. Crossing the spikes was going to be the tricky part but I couldn’t afford more time working the locks.
I started climbing and halfway up had the sudden thought that someone might be watching from the house, which was about two hundred yards away. I glanced across. The view was partially blocked by the big silent waterless fountain in the middle of the lawn and I felt a bit more secure.
The thought of climbing this side as a stallion and ending up on the other as a gelding made me very careful as I reached the top and stepped across the spikes onto the bar welded to the inside. The foot-room on it was two inches and bringing all my weight onto it I swung my left leg over, uttering a short prayer that the welder had been a time-served tradesman with a pride in his work.
As my right leg cleared the spikes I pushed off, twisted in mid-air and landed, if not like a cat, then at least with everything in place.
Away from the trees, I suddenly felt very exposed on this long tarmac drive. I wondered about servants. The place was certainly big enough to justify a gardener and a maid, at least. But there were no signs of life, the only sounds distant birdsong and the gravel dust crunching beneath my shoes.
The double doors at the front of the house were firmly closed. The two door knockers were of the same dark metal and I picked up the one on the right. It clattered down sending an echo into the hall and back out toward the dry fountain behind me.
I waited a minute before trying again. The same clatter, the echo seemed quieter. Nothing. No footsteps in the hallway, no turning of handles.
Stepping away I walked backwards and looked up at the windows: three rows of four on each side of the doors. All the curtains were the same shade of pea-green, a distinctive colour which scratched at my memory. I saw nothing in the windows but reflections of white drifting clouds. I wondered if Stoke had taken Charmain with him.
I went round the back to look for a tradesman’s entrance, or something and found the tidiness and uniformity of the front giving way to a paved yard of broken flagstones with high weeds living in the cracks. A stable block with three boxes had both half-doors of the end box lying open. The bottom door of the centre o
ne had a deep semi-circular gap where a crib-biting horse had gnawed the wood away. There were no other signs of horses, not even a strand of straw.
Beside the stables was an electric mower, big and shiny, the blades clogged with dried cuttings. Against the handle of the mower a pitchfork rested and on the ground beside it, spikes up, was a rake.
The windows had white net curtains which needed cleaning, or maybe it was the glass that was dirty. There was only one narrow single door, stark black against the white walls.
I lifted the metal door knocker but it was stiff and useless. I banged four times with my hand. No answer. Another four thumps, this time I thought I heard a noise. Standing close I put my ear against the wooden panel ... Silence. I listened hard, taking half a lungful of air and holding it to stop even the sound of my breathing.
I heard something.
The hairs on the back of my neck began pricking. I could feel them almost as if they were rising one at a time, stiffening away from the nerve ends at the sound. It had not come from the house. There it was again. Behind me. Very close behind me. From low in the back of the throat of what sounded like a very large, very unfriendly animal.
Slowly I turned my head away from the door, bringing my weight square onto my heels. Before I could see what it was and where it was it growled again, longer this time, deeper, more drawn out, more savage. I finished turning. My back was touching the door. My hands were by my side, my head motionless on a rigid neck.
Only my eyes moved to see what was making the noise. They moved down and to the right and focused ten feet away and recognised the animal that was watching me. Recognised the blackness of it, broken only by the tan-coloured right leg. An animal I’d last seen bounding into a lime-green Renault. Skinner’s car ... Skinner’s dog ... Skinner’s big bloody Rottweiler.
32
We looked at each other and there was no doubt in either of our minds who was more afraid. The growl became constant. The dark eyes seemed to sparkle and narrow. The fleshy lips drew back. Its teeth looked so white I could have believed they were false. If only. If only a swift kick would knock the whole set from his mouth onto the cracked paving.
The growl grew louder and the dog began crouching, slowly going back on his haunches, gradually coiling. My brain searched crazily for a way out and suggested I start talking softly to him. But I rejected it, convinced that the slightest sound or movement would trip the switch and set him at my throat.
The dog was ready, fully coiled, the growl steady and loud. I realised my left wrist was resting against the door handle. Slowly, I raised my hand, clasped the handle and turned it. There was a click and the door opened. The relief trickled out silently through my nostrils with the breath I’d been holding.
I considered just turning quickly and pushing through but I couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t be fast enough to follow me. If I could just ease it open behind me a few inches at a time till it was wide enough to slip through ... I started. One inch ... two inches ... the growl deepened ... three inches ... it barked and snarled ... four inches ... A noise from behind me, close to my left ear, a noise of metal on metal, the terrible spirit-sapping noise which meant there would be no five-inch opening ... the noise of a security chain taking up the slack links, tightening, closing off my escape route. The dog was ready.
One chance. I stepped quickly away from the door, turned and slammed my shoulder against it, high up, as close to the chain as possible. The door held. I bounced back and turned as the dog sprang.
I dodged, twisting to my left. His head came up, jaws open, and he tried to snap them shut on the junction of my chest and shoulder at my right armpit. My body was still turning and the jaws closed on fresh air but only just. The shoulder of my shirt was wet with slavering mucus.
When the dog landed he lost his balance and rolled over. I ran. The stable block was ten long strides away. I hoped to dive into the middle box through the gap left by the open half-door at the top.
I could hear the snarl of rage and the rough pads of his feet and claws scraping the concrete as he came after me. About three yards from my take-off point he caught me. His teeth pierced the flesh on the back of my left thigh and I felt the corduroy tightening quickly at the front as he gathered the loose material in his jaws. He let go my leg to rip away the rest of the cloth.
I heard it tearing as the tightness at the front gave way to flap loosely and I waited to feel the teeth again in my bare flesh. I stumbled, nearly went down, tried to catch my balance by grabbing at the handle, of the mower, missed it and caught the wooden shaft of the thing leaning against it, the pitchfork.
I couldn’t regain my balance, but kept hold of the pitchfork and pulled it out to the side as I automatically tucked my head in and rolled as I landed. I whirled the pitchfork round at about two feet above ground level. Somewhere in the swinging arc the dog should be.
He was. I heard the thump as the shaft hit him, and the snarl of pain and anger. I came to rest sitting on the ground. The blow knocked the dog over but he was up again and running at me. There was no time to get to my feet and I swung the fork again, timing it, and cracked him hard on the side of the head. He yelped this time, almost like a pup, and broke off to the side to recover. I got up. He stared at me, warier now.
Dazed, I backed toward the open box at the end of the stable block, limping badly. The blood felt cold on the back of my leg as the fresh air reached it through the torn hole.
I kept backing slowly. His growl was guttural now, drawn out. He crouched again then started toward me, low, stalking slowly. I held the pitchfork straight out, the spikes about four feet from his open jaws. I reached the box, backed in and, raising the fork about the height of the half-door, kept him at bay till I’d dragged the bottom half of the door closed.
It was almost five feet high with a big thick safe bolt at the top. I pushed the bolt well home then continued, for some reason, moving backwards till the rear wall of the box stopped me. With my back against it I slid down, all my energy draining as I did so. Sitting on the floor, knees bent to keep the wound off the dirt, I felt exhausted. My hands barely had the strength to shake.
I stood the pitchfork against the wall then rested my head back against it too. The box was dark and empty. Some bundled old newspapers were heaped in a corner. Nothing else. Nothing but daylight coming through the top half of the door.
The sun’s rays warmed me and I almost smiled. Then a big black shape blocked the light as the dog cleared the bolted door in one leap and I nearly died.
From somewhere another surge of strength came and I was on my feet as he landed. For a few moments he didn’t seem to focus on me, a couple of seconds’ adjustment from daylight to half darkness. I was only going to get one chance. Grabbing the pitchfork and throwing all my weight on my good leg I turned, bringing the sharp prongs round and upwards in a scooping motion.
The points pierced the black hair under his big ribcage and he yelped again and snarled as he tried to turn his head and bite at the wooden shaft of this thing stabbing his guts. I bent low to keep the fork in him and drove, stumbling and crying with exertion and fear toward the corner of the box. His head met one wall and his tail the other and his body curved in the middle as I forced the tines in all the way to the U shape till I heard his ribs crack and give way. I knew I would never forget his dying howl.
The last sensation I was aware of was the points sticking into the wood as they came out the other side of his body. I held him there impaled till I was sure his breathing had stopped. Even then I left the fork in him, pinning him to the wall. I was panting hard, as much from nervous reaction as exhaustion. I finally released my grip on the fork and turned away toward the door, sickened but safe.
I heard a crack behind me and the terror surged back. I turned. It was the pitchfork handle hitting the floor as the weight of the dog’s body pulled the tines from the wood. I limped from the box and, to be doubly sure, bolted the door behind me.
Outside again in the
sunlight I breathed deep and long and leaned heavily on the mower. I didn’t feel too good. The dog’s howl and the cracking of his ribs echoed in my head.
I was parched and couldn’t have raised spit. I began hobbling toward the door of the house.
As I lay back against it, more through weakness than anything else, it opened as far as the chain would allow. Resting my head on the black wood I closed my eyes against the sunlight. Through the gap, from somewhere inside the house, I thought I heard a call for help.
It was faint, but seemed very real. I turned, resting on my good leg, and looked again at what I could see of the security chain. The plea came again, louder this time.
Three yards along was a window at ground-floor level. I decided to get the rake and smash the glass. My leg was stiffening badly. I couldn’t straighten it without stifling a crying of pain. Using the rake for support I made my way to the window.
Holding the rake like a rifle I was about to smash one of the panes of glass low down when it occurred to me to try opening the window first. It slid stiffly up for the first eighteen inches then smoothly till it slotted behind the upper sash. The gap was big and the ledge low enough to sit on and swing my legs through.
I was in a kitchen. Crossing the threadbare rug I opened a door into a narrow corridor. I stopped, my hand on the cool wall, and listened ... the cry came again. I started moving and heard the sticky pull of my shoe on the linoleum. Blood rimmed the outer heel leaving a horseshoe of red. I wouldn’t be hard to track if someone came in the back way.
A door led to a large hallway which was wide, well carpeted and ornately furnished. The tall polished wood walls held paintings, mostly of racehorses in the style of seventeenth and eighteenth-century painters: animals with small narrow heads and exaggeratedly long bodies on stick-like legs.
