Outside Chance

by Lyndon Stacey

  Lisa looked skywards. ‘You know you’re crazy, don’t you?’

  Logan rang just before midday.

  ‘Ben? How’re you doing?’

  ‘Surprisingly, not too bad, thanks,’ Ben replied. ‘Just spent half an hour trying to get some sense out of my insurance company, but I guess we’ve all been there at some time or another. Apparently they’re short-staffed just at the moment and it’s unlikely that anyone will be able to come and assess the damage until Wednesday. The female I spoke to said it would be best if I didn’t touch anything until then. Yeah, right!’

  ‘I can print you off some copies of the photos I took,’ Logan offered.

  ‘Well, actually, I was going to ask you if you could,’ Ben admitted. ‘I told the girl I’d got pictures.’

  ‘Yeah, no problem. Look, I got hold of a friend of a friend about this car crash in Hungary, and I’ve got some answers.’

  ‘Already? Wow!’

  ‘Well, there’s no point in hanging around,’ Logan said. ‘Anyway, I don’t know whether it’s going to be any help to you, because we haven’t really found what you were asking for.’

  ‘Oh.’ Ben was disappointed.

  ‘Yeah, well, I don’t know if you got the dates mixed up or something, but I got the guy to do a sweep of all recorded RTAs within a twenty-mile radius of Szolnok, and within a couple of years either side of the date you gave me. Stefan Varga’s name didn’t come up, but there were two in which the casualty was an unknown young man. One was a fair bit earlier – almost a year earlier, in fact – and the other was six months after your date.’

  ‘Was he sure?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Any other details?’

  ‘In the first the vehicle was burnt out, and the second apparently drove into a wall at high speed. I think the verdict was suicide. Neither car was registered and there were no dental records, it seems. Whether that’s because the Hungarians weren’t hot on them in those days, or whether the deceased parties weren’t registered with one, I’m not sure.’

  ‘And did DI Ford find out anything more?’

  Logan raised his eyebrows. ‘That would be confidential police business.’

  ‘But you did look, right?’

  ‘He got more or less the same. I think he assumes that Varga was killed in the second incident.’

  Which, Ben reflected, was the assumption he would have made, if Nico hadn’t told him about the fire.

  ‘So, are you going to tell me why you wanted to know?’

  Ben hesitated. He didn’t want to say too much at this stage; Logan was so damned sharp.

  ‘Er, well, it’s not common knowledge, but there could be a child involved. I just wondered whether there was any possibility that Varga was still alive.’

  ‘The child is searching for him?’

  ‘Not exactly. He’s got no idea who his father was. At least, he hadn’t when he turned up at Truman’s yard, yesterday. I don’t know what’s happened since. I should imagine Ford must know by now.’

  ‘And you think the boy might bear Truman a grudge?’

  ‘Heavens, no! He’s just a kid. A kid with a good deal of steel in him, but just a kid, nevertheless.’

  ‘So what about the article in the paper about the horse? I take it that wasn’t your doing.’

  ‘No. My guess is Helen: Truman’s eldest. I think she rather hoped I might get the blame.’

  ‘Charming. By the way, I filled Ford in on the fun and games here last night and he’s not happy, to put it mildly, that you didn’t call in the troops. I got an ear-bashing and, unless I’m much mistaken, you’re in line for one, too.’

  Ben groaned.

  ‘I suppose it was inevitable. Let’s hope he doesn’t bring Hancock with him, that’s all. I swear I’m going to sock him one, one day.’

  ‘Ah, DS Wanker,’ Logan said on a note of recognition.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Hancock. That’s what one of my colleagues calls him: DS Wanker. He reckons the name Hancock derives from Handcock, but to be honest I think he made it up because he can’t stand the bloke either. Listen: anything else I can do for you?’

  ‘Um, I don’t suppose you could find out what Cajun King’s microchip identification is without letting Truman know you’re asking? Ford would have it, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Probably,’ Logan said slowly. ‘Ben, do you think you know where the horse is? Because, if you do … ’

  Ben hesitated.

  ‘Let’s just say, I want to be sure I know where he’s not.’

  ‘And just what the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means, I’m pretty sure the idea is crazy, but I’ll sleep better if I check it out.’

  In his car, rapidly approaching the Csikós’ Romsey encampment, Ben remembered the soothing words he’d spoken to Lisa that morning, and doubted that he could imbue them with as much confidence now if she were there to hear them.

  Zipped securely into his jacket pocket was a grey plastic device – roughly rectangular and some six inches by three by one – with a digital screen in the top quarter of one face. It was a microchip scanner, and Penny, the young, female vet at the RSPCA centre who’d handed it over to Ben at closing time that afternoon, had done so with no small measure of reluctance, making Ben promise faithfully that he’d return it first thing in the morning, as soon as the centre opened. He’d known Penny ever since collecting Mouse from the centre four years previously and had even dated her in the early days; he knew this was the only reason why she was going out on a limb for him now.

  If getting the scanner had been a little tricky, finding the opportunity to put it to use was going to be even more so, and the mental picture of himself moving among the loose horses was one that Ben had to keep pushing away, lest his nerve fail before he started.

  He had set out in good time but the route he took to Romsey was tortuous. He took in several narrow lanes – where he pulled into a couple of gateways to check for following vehicles – and once he did a complete circuit of a roundabout for the same reason. His fear was that Spence and his mate might be watching the cottage or the surrounding roads, with instructions to see where he went, and he really didn’t want to turn up on the Csikós’ doorstep with those two in close attendance.

  If anyone was tailing him, they were obviously better at their job than he was, because he didn’t spot them. He arrived at his destination as certain as he could be that he’d made the journey alone.

  At his suggestion Lisa had left to stay with her mother, and phoned just before he set out, to say that she’d arrived safely, so that was one worry off his mind.

  Logan had rung back midway through the afternoon with Cajun King’s microchip ID number, but thankfully he’d asked no further questions about how Ben intended to use the information.

  Looking at his watch as he climbed stiffly out of the car, Ben could see that there was less than half an hour to go before the show was due to start and the Csikós’ camp was the usual hive of activity it was before a performance. The final touches were being put to the horses’ grooming; tack waited, polished and shining, and the members of the troupe wore chaps and coats over their show costumes as they worked.

  Not wanting to get in the way, but nevertheless loving the sense of controlled urgency that pervaded the stables at these times, Ben strolled through the building in search of either Nico or Jakob. He found the older man first, in the small barn helping Anna and Jeta brush out the long manes and tails of the string of loose horses. It was the first time Ben had seen any of the herd horses being handled and, in view of his mission, it was encouraging that they seemed content to submit to being tied up. Feeling the hard oblong of the scanner in his jacket pocket he wandered closer.

  Jakob looked up with a welcoming smile.

  ‘Ben! I didn’t know you were coming tonight.’

  ‘Last-minute decision.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s come to help,’ Jeta suggested provocatively, glancing up from u
nder her lashes.

  ‘Why? Can’t you manage?’ Ben responded smoothly, turning the taunt back on to her.

  ‘Of course I can!’ Jeta flared immediately.

  Jakob chuckled, straightening up and patting the rump of the horse he’d been brushing. Then he frowned. ‘Have you been fighting, Ben? What happened to your face?’

  Ben shrugged. ‘Not all my assignments are as easy as this one,’ he said. ‘Sometimes people don’t like me asking questions.’

  ‘Your job?’ Jakob shook his head. ‘I never thought …’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t happen all that often. If it did, I’d find myself another career, I can tell you.’

  Jakob looked as though he would have said something more but he was forestalled by a shrill whistle, which Ben knew was the signal to start making the final preparations: tacking up the ridden horses and peeling off the protective layers of clothing to reveal the costumes beneath.

  The girls gave their two horses a final quick whisk over with the brush, undid them and set them free. As they passed Ben, Anna Kovac gave him a shy smile, whilst Jeta looked him full in the eye and reached up to run her hand lightly down his cheek as she went by. Ben couldn’t prevent his gaze following her as she walked away, and she glanced back over her shoulder, confident that he’d be looking, and winked.

  Shaking his head once more, Jakob muttered something in his native tongue.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not about to fall into that trap,’ Ben assured him.

  ‘I’m glad.’ Jakob set his horse free to join the others and let himself out of the enclosed area, shutting the gate on a horse that would have followed him. ‘Your girl? Everything is well?’

  Ben nodded. ‘Yes, everything’s fine.’

  ‘Good. Now I must find that brother of mine.’ Jakob patted Ben’s shoulder in passing, and disappeared in search of Gyorgy.

  Ben watched him go then turned to look at the horses. They were all shifting restlessly, most with eyes and ears turned towards the bustle of the preparations. He supposed they had been with the troupe long enough to be anticipating the start of the show and their part in it, and he wondered what they made of their change of lifestyle. They certainly looked pretty eager.

  There was no time now to attempt to catch and scan any of the herd before the performance began, but Ben used the time to take the photo of Cajun King from his pocket and try to single out the possible candidates. It was frustrating that they were all milling about; he couldn’t be sure that he hadn’t counted the same horse twice, though there were at least four that were entirely the wrong colour, and two more whose general appearance ruled them out. Ben found he kept coming back to two in particular and decided that when he got the chance, he would start with those. Even so, it was hard to equate the sleek, immaculately turned out thoroughbred of the picture with any of the horses in front of him.

  ‘Ben! We start in two minutes.’ Nico’s voice sounded just behind him and such was the state of his nerves that he almost jumped out of his skin.

  ‘Thanks.’ Gathering his wits, Ben stuffed the picture into his jacket and turned, but Nico was already several feet away, striding off in the jaunty way that showed he was in showman mode, the silver trimmings on his costume gleaming. Before long he would be in the arena and the silver would sparkle under the blaze of lights as he wowed the audience with the seemingly casual brilliance of his horsemanship.

  Ben sighed. How could Jakob put all this in jeopardy for the sake of revenge, however well-deserved? And how could he involve Nico, a young man with a glittering career ahead of him? It seemed so out of character, but then, when you considered how close they were as a family, perhaps it was inevitable. Indeed, maybe the idea had come from the younger members of the troupe; it was quite possible he would never know.

  ‘Hell and damn!’ Ben muttered. He looked again at the loose horses. It was still just possible that he was on the wrong track entirely, but he wasn’t terribly optimistic on that front. The more he looked at the two strongest candidates, the more he felt drawn to the larger of the two. There was just something about him.

  He took the photo from his pocket again and compared it with the horse in front of him. The one in the picture was considerably darker, having what was known as a blanket clip – which left the natural coat on the animal’s back, quarters and legs – whereas the horses in the herd had all been clipped right out at some stage, presumably to remove previous clipping patterns such as King’s. With the cold weather, though, their coats were already growing back.

  ‘Still here, Ben?’

  Jakob had returned with Gyorgy, each paying out a length of nylon rope that stretched off towards the arena; it was hooked up at strategic points to form a corridor down which the herd would pass on the way to their ten minutes or so in the limelight.

  ‘You’d best get to your seat. This should be a good one.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  Ben was just in time to see the now familiar opening sequence, with the ten loose horses cantering into the arena and milling about aimlessly in the eerie greenish mist. Then, almost ethereal, came Duka, dashing round the herd and sending them down the arena in one tightly grouped bunch, with only the occasional glimpse of flattened ears or bared teeth as inducement. With his noble bearing and flowing, whiter-than-white mane and tail, he was the stuff of dreams and, looking into the audience, Ben could see wonder in the shining eyes of children and adults alike.

  Unhappily aware of the job he shortly had to do, Ben couldn’t enjoy the performance as he usually did. The scanner was digging into his hip, as if to remind him, and he wondered, without joy, what mental state the horses would be in, having been rousted about the arena for ten or fifteen minutes by the Andalusian. His best opportunity would come, he felt, towards the end of the second half, when the entire troupe would be in the arena together, showing off the skills of the Magyar herdsmen. Then, with any luck, the area around the thoroughbreds’ barn would be deserted. Resignedly, Ben settled down for a wait of ninety minutes or more.

  The show was a huge success: the performance sold out and the crowd loud in its enthusiasm. In consequence the Csikós seemed to pull out extra stops. Each time Ben saw them, they seemed to have added something to their routine, and this time Nico even threw in Duka’s trick with the hat – learned only two days before – which drew delighted laughter from the audience.

  The interval, with its frenzy of ice-cream buying, came and went and the show continued. Suddenly the arena was full of whip-cracking Magyar plainsmen and Emilian was telling those watching about the girthless saddles. With a shock Ben realised that his moment had arrived – had almost passed, in fact. If he didn’t get a move on, he wouldn’t have time to catch his two suspects and scan them before the troupe left the arena again to prepare for the finale.

  Slipping from his seat, Ben climbed the wooden steps between the tiered seating and descended to the door that led outside. A man he didn’t know was guarding the entrance to the barn complex but he let Ben pass when he showed his ‘crew’ badge. From the logo on his navy blue jumper, Ben knew the man was part of the security force the troupe’s promoter had provided to steward their events.

  His feet made no noise on the peat as he made his way through the shadowy nether regions of the warm-up area, finding it deserted except for Jakob and Gyorgy, who stood holding three horses apiece, blankets thrown over their saddles, patiently waiting for their next stint under the spotlights. Ben kept his eye on them, but they were facing the other way and he passed unseen into the walkway that led to the stable area.

  Surprisingly, there were lights on in the barn.

  Ben’s steps faltered. He’d pictured himself moving quietly among the horses in the semi-dusk, able to duck down and merge with the shadows in the unlikely event that anyone came along. This put a different slant on things. He would have to try and locate the light switches because, lit as it was, he’d feel uncomfortably exposed. How could he, of all people, ever convincingly
explain away his presence in a barn full of horses?

  As it turned out, the question was irrelevant. He turned the last corner to see that Tamás was already there, his veterinary holdall open on the ground at his feet and a bowl of pinkish water beside him as he tended to a gash on the neck of one of the herd.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Ben enquired as he approached.

  Tamás looked round.

  ‘Oh, they all tried to come through the gateway at the same time and that horse of Nico’s kicked out. He’s a troublemaker, that one.’

  ‘I thought they were unshod,’ Ben said, observing a neat row of stitches in a shaven area on the animal’s neck.

  ‘I think he was pushed against the gatepost, where the metal sticks out,’ Tamás said, indicating the catch.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be riding? Who’s taken your place?’

  ‘Jeta. She has plaited her hair and put it under the hat, so to look like a man.’ The vet turned back to his stitching. ‘She loves to show that she can do what the men do.’

  ‘So, which horse is the troublemaker?’

  Tamás didn’t look round, but there was a sudden stillness about him.

  ‘The big brown one,’ he said, after a moment.

  ‘It’s a nice-looking horse.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did you call it Nico’s horse?’

  Ben kept his tone casual and Tamás’s reply was equally so.

  ‘Oh, when we bought them he said it was the pick of the bunch, so whenever it makes trouble I say, “That’s your horse again, Nico!” and he scowls so.’

  He produced a fairly accurate, if exaggerated, impersonation of Nico in one of his more stormy moods and Ben laughed, allowing Tamás to believe he’d carried the moment.

  Two more deft stitches and the vet straightened up. In the arena the music changed, heralding András and Miklós with their clowning routine which would be interrupted, as usual, by Nico’s dramatic entrance, hanging precariously under Duka’s neck.

  ‘He’ll be fine now,’ Tamás said, patting his patient. ‘And I must go. It is almost time for the finale.’