Ghosts from the Past

by Sally Spedding

  “You’ve really done it now, Sion,” she snapped. “Just like this morning going after that ex-copper at the hotel. We don’t need this complication, not with what else we’ve got on. Supposing he has a stroke? Dies? What then? And our money? Our happy-ever-after?”

  Our money?

  I stalled. That length of steel hot in my grip. The light too poor to make a further move forward. And where had that young, male voice got to?

  Then I realised this new smell was nothing to do with sheep. Although a townie, I wasn’t that ignorant. Alison had kept horses, hadn’t she? I reached out. Felt one hoof then another. A firm, bony leg and smooth-muscled thigh lying flat against the floor.

  No…

  Was this what she’d meant by ‘the other one?’

  I edged closer, blinking hard for better vision and yes, as still and silent as a shroud, lay a creature I recognised. Whether dead or drugged I didn’t have time to find out as the sharp buzz of a two-way radio was emanating from the cab.

  *

  “What delay?” growled Sion Evans to his caller, letting the truck swerve to the right. “How bloody long for? Look, calm down, woman. I can’t hear you.”

  Woman?

  “Let me speak to her!” Shrieked his companion as the Scania swerved again, making me lose my balance. “It’s my business as well…”

  “Wait your turn, merch,” he snarled. “This is serious.” Sion Evans then returned to attention to whoever was giving him bad news. “Yes, I’m listening,” he said. “So, I hang back somewhere till you can make contact again? Got it. But where in God’s name are you?”

  The eight-wheeled monster was swerving again to curses I’d never heard of despite thirty-two years in the Force.

  Now.

  I reached another partition, less solid this time, and another access door, fractionally open. How long was this damned thing? Too long, but at least I could see the backs of their heads. The passenger on the right had hers wrapped in a black, fringed scarf. The driver’s covered by a ribbed beanie emphasising the bulky shapes of his ears.

  *

  No delivery notes. No memo stickers, no mess at all. The front of the cab had clearly been spruced up. But why?

  I was now in directly in line of the driver’s rear-view mirror, and more than once his black eyes darted my way. I had to be quick. To duck down out of sight. This hellish journey must be stopped and Vervain saved from wherever he was going.

  “How did you get the Deschamps’ horse into this truck?” I shouted out. “I didn’t see or hear anything near Ty Capel. And where d’you think you’re taking him in that state? Is he drugged? What’s your game?”

  Both turned around. Shock and fear elongating their wind-blasted faces. Sion Evans recognised me in a flash. His adversary from the Coed Glas Hotel, all over again.

  He slapped his two-way radio on top of the dashboard and stepped on the gas. The suddenness of it made me grab the partition for support.

  “Sort ‘im out,” he snarled to his companion. “Or you’ll be spending the night in an oxygen tent.”

  Charming.

  But it wasn’t until the tall, stern-faced woman re-positioned herself that I realised her left leg had shielded that same Thumb Hole Hunter rifle he’d threatened me with earlier at the hotel.

  Time to change tack.

  “Turn this crate round and take me and the horse back,” I said in the way I’d been trained. Low-key menace. Usually more effective, but not here.

  “Our property. Our business,” she boasted. “We’ve got all the papers, so back off or you’ll be next for the knife”

  Knife?

  “You imbecile!” Sion Evans yelled at her. “Christ bloody Jesus! Did you ‘ave to say that?”

  Bile leached into my throat as I pushed myself between the front seats and managed to reach the rifle. However, I’d not bargained on her strength. With a ferocious twist of the rifle barrel, she reclaimed it. Tried to turn the business end my way, but I landed a blow from my scrap-iron sword on her shoulder. Then his.

  She yelped and toppled against her door while his hands left the wheel.

  Blood alright, but they’d live.

  “And where’s Mathieu Deschamps?” My low-key approach abandoned. “An innocent little kid? In here too, is he? Well, that’ll mean a long time in the slammer for you both. And your cop brother, if he’s involved.”

  “That’s slander,” said the driver. “As for the boy, don’t know nothing about him.” And although I’d convinced myself I’d heard that young. pleading voice, I somehow believed him. Snatching Vervain was probably enough of a risk for such a thicko.

  The transporter wobbled ominously, righted itself and came to a lurching stop.

  “The boy’s nothing to do with us. Nothing. Ask his frigging useless father.”

  I’d got the Hunter, cocked and ready behind them out of reach. The road ahead narrow, unlit. Still swathed in that lingering, Dickensian fog. No-one would see any of us die.

  “My phone and two sets of keys? Where are they?” I bellowed. My training suddenly come to an end. “And my shoes and socks? You didn’t need to take them.”

  “Didn’t we?” A short, snide laugh.

  I poked Sion Evans in the back of his fat neck with the rifle’s barrel. He tried to duck away.

  “Give me that radio. Now,” I said.

  “Take it Beti.”

  “Beti what?” I asked. “Do tell.”

  “Show some respect, Saes,” she sneered.

  “The radio, now!” I shoved the polished rifle barrel against her black scarf. Her skull hard as rock against it.

  “Don’t,” said Sion Evans gripping his groin, obviously needing to take a leak.

  But she wasn’t stupid. Did as she was told. The Motorola’s casing warm from recent use, felt good. Solid. I knew how they worked. No problem.

  Thankyou, Beti.

  “So, where’s this abattoir you mentioned? And is Gilles Dugard on your payroll just like someone’s paying you, eh?”

  “Shut the fuck up, you waste of old skin,” growled the driver, wriggling in his seat. A dark stain appearing at the tops of his thighs. “Or I’ll stick to my promise. Remember smokies? My speciality?”

  How could I forget? Yet seconds were sliding by. I had the upper hand. Use it or lose it. Not for the first time did I wish I’d not I’d retired from the Force. That I could still issue a caution. Make an arrest…

  “I can get you ten years minimum for abduction and extortion,” I said. “I’ll ask again. Three questions to keep it simple.”

  I soon realised there’d be no more questions. No more answers because the black-scarved woman had pulled a Beretta Elite from inside her coat. Its black mouth - a replica of hers - laughing behind it.

  Where the hell had that USA model come from?

  But I’d got the radio and the rifle. I’d not used such a weapon since I was a kid in a Cromer fairground. Later, as a rookie cop at Hendon, the focus had been on hand guns. So not surprising that my first shot ricoched off the top of the windscreen, making them both fall sideways, screaming. I wasn’t going to risk murder. I had Alison to think of. And Laure Deschamps. Instead, I knocked her weapon to the floor, aware that Vervain had woken up and was struggling to stand, squealing then roaring. But what could I do with a beast gone mad with fear, now butting and crashing against his partition?

  Shouts from the cab. Another falling-out. Good. Disarray was always useful I told myself, sneaking away towards the grey thoroughbred. I thought of Laure again and Alison who’d also been brought up with horses, and what they’d do in this situation. But hadn’t I managed to calm him in the yard that afternoon? I set the rifle down. It rattled away into the darkness.

  Damn. Deep breath…

  “Ssshh, come here,” I whispered in a more feminine way to Vervain’s giant-sized bum and twitching tail blocking my way through the access door. “It’s me, Laure. OK?”

  At this, the race horse manoeuvred himself roun
d, unsteady on his feet. Calmer, yet still snorting hot, horsey air on to my face. I noticed the halter’s rope had broken leaving not enough for me to get hold of, so I grabbed his cheek-piece and while doing so, slipped in a deeper pool of manure. My ankles felt as if as if all their ops and physio were down the pan, with bones disintegrating so I could almost hear them, while a ton of terrified horseflesh was pulling me up to the truck’s roof, then down…

  My God...

  No good pretending to be Laure any more. Those two in the cab could be on their way over.

  “Vervain, it’s your last chance,” I panted. “Come on, mate. Help me out, for Chrissake.”

  Maybe it was the sheep stink still clinging to my clothes, maybe imprisonment and injection by strangers, but he broke free. Again, rearing up on his mighty back legs before falling against the truck’s side with the scrape and crunch of bone on steel.

  Dear God.

  With his eyes scrolled up showing mostly white and his teeth bared in agony, I clamped my palm on his neck and felt a faint but nevertheless regular pulse. He was hanging on. Like I must, aware now of the near side door flung open, bringing in the heavy night air.

  “Did you hear that?” The one called Beti complete with those killer boots was on her way. “Where is he? That ex-cop?”

  “Fuck knows. We’re in deep shit, that I do know. Kill him. Get rid. One shot’ll do.”

  I whispered goodbye to the brave, unlucky Vervain and somehow managed to slither out of the truck on to thick, wet weeds.

  Stay still.

  “Got a torch?” I heard her ask the thug.

  “No, and we’re late enough as it is. With a bit of luck that pest’ll get run over.”

  As I crouched down amongst the overgrown wetness, their voices were cut off by the slam of that same side door and the engine’s revving. The fog had lifted, but there was neither moon nor stars and, because Sion Evans hadn’t turned on his lights, it was hard to tell which direction he’d taken. At least he wasn’t reversing.

  *

  The two-way Motorola was making interesting noises as I tried tracing Evan’s recent conversation with his mystery woman caller. No joy. What else did I expect? Instead, I reached Eifion Evans at home. His tone quite different from earlier. Edgy, to say the least.

  “That fucking brother of mine,” was said with what seemed to be genuine horror once I’d finished my story. “You wouldn’t think we’d sucked from the same breast. Our Mam and Da’d be turning in their graves if they knew what he was up to. I should have shopped years ago. Him and his ways. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s Laure I’m worried about,” I said. “When she realises what’s happened to her precious horse.”

  “Bastards, both. I always said them two’d be double trouble the moment they met up at Cardigan’s mart last summer.”

  “What kind of mart?”

  “Horses and ponies. The odd, knackered racehorse. Cheap as chips to buy. Second Saturday every month it is. Not for the faint-hearted, mind. Walking meat mostly. A decent carcass can fetch three hundred quid. Most go to Italy for salami…”

  “Is that why the Scania’s a left-hand drive?”

  No reply.

  Tomorrow would be the second Saturday, but the crate was going in the wrong direction for that particular, grim destination.

  “She’s not your normal woman see?” added the cop suddenly. “But seems to keep her job at that hotel…”

  “Which one?” Although Laure had already said.

  “Sea Breeze.”

  A motorbike swept by, then two cars as I limped back towards distant lights and the sea’s distinctive roar, while experiencing the worst pain ever, since France.

  “There’s a Hunter air rifle in the truck somewhere, and she’s carrying a new Beretta Elite,” I warned him.

  Silence, save for the mew of distant gulls.

  “Police issue, perhaps?” I suggested. “This two-way definitely is.”

  “I’ll make enquiries. Somrthing stinks.”

  “Do I keep it or what? God knows what’s happened to mine.”

  “Yes. We must know where you are. If you need an ambulance.”

  Don’t go there.

  “Thanks, I’ll be fine. Won’t take me long to get back to Ty Capel either.”

  “And how’ll you get in? What if the farrier’s…”

  “Detective Constable Evans,” I interrupted. “The best thing you can do right now is get the Avon and Somerset Transport Police on this case and a vehicle checkpoint set up on the east-bound side of the Severn Bridge. As far as I could tell there are no Cymru or GB stickers on the vehicle, but it is a left-hand drive. The plate matches up from earlier today near the Coed Glas hotel. Can you recall it?”

  How could I add that Alison’s sudden departure, had erased what I’d memorised? I’d screwed up enough already.

  “Odi,” and he relayed it again. “But Christ knows how many horse sales there are this weekend with trucks like that ten a bloody penny. Scania, Volvo, Daf, Mercedes, you name it.” The cop seemed a heartbeat away from a stroke. But I didn’t care. I’d milk him for whatever I could. Coward being his middle name.

  “Try all the southern English ferry ports,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “I’ve a hunch they may be heading for the same one as unlucky Danny Lennox. Poole, in Dorset. I could have added more about the mysterious woman caller or the words ‘delay,’ ‘money’ and ‘knife,’ but time was short. Mathieu might already be back at Ty Capel, scared out of his wits.

  12. Elisabeth.

  Friday 11th March. 9.30p.m. CET.

  God was on strike. He had to be. They’d found a gun - a 38 calibre Smith&Wesson complete with silencer and half a round of ammunition - hidden in a wc. cistern in the female Toilettes on Deck 3. And the boat was being stopped. Again.

  Hélas.

  At least the ferry’s interior lights flickered back into life and the storm outside seemed to have abated, but if lazy God expected gratitude, he’d have to wait.

  When I’d first worked at the Gallas’s abattoir before so much blood and suffering had driven me intro the welcoming arms of teacher training in 1975, my job was to tighten the steel bands around its beasts’ necks before the knife met their throats. This was designed to force more blood into the carotid artery. Make life easier all round.

  Now roles were reversed, and I was the victim with that same steel band tightening around my neck. The crucifix’s chain too. Supposing that the self-seal bag had stayed sealed, and despite the cistern’s rise and fall of water, my gun still bore my prints? Or those Audi girls recognise my shoes from beneath my cubicle door?

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the shorter, more rustic flic interrupted my imaginings. “We’ve already checked with all relevant national firearms databases in case any licensed gun holders are on board. As you can appreciate, this has taken time, only for us to draw a disappointing blank.”

  A pause followed by collective fear and suspicion while he stared down on us from his perch. His mean mouth on the move again. “However, if there’s anyone here who, for whatever reason, does possess an unlicensed firearm, you are duty bound to tell us immediately.”

  I waited for a raised hand or a step forward, but no.

  My mind was a shipwreck. Its nuts and bolts of order and logic, action and implication, cast to the deep. My mooring rope had snapped, setting me adrift into a world from which I thought I’d escaped.

  “Therefore,” he went on, “until all lines of enquiry have been exhausted, La Princess Poole will remain stationary. We apologise for this inconvenience but as before, appreciate your understanding.”

  Understanding? Well, I knew all about that. When Laure’s first period had arrived, it was I, not her own mother too busy flirting with her wide, fleshy hips, who’d reassured her as to what had so copiously leaked from her body. When Maman suffered her most worrying stroke after Christine had died. How her despair at function loss became mine, like mistle
toe on the apple tree. When I’d decided she needed special care.

  “Cabins are being made available for those passengers who’d not previously booked them,” said the red-suited tart who’d commandeered the microphone while the flic seemed to be looking directly at me.

  “So, go and relax, everyone,” he butted in. “But stay alert for further announcements.”

  “What about my dog all cooped up in the car boot?” barked a man in denims two rows in front of me.

  “And mine?” Said another. “She’ll panic.”

  “My two will need a drink.”

  Soon the room rippled with anxieties. Politeness become anger.

  The flic raised his voice and his hand. “Who has a pet that might need attention?”

  I hesitated, almost raising my hand like the good girl I’d been at school and ever since. But such an opportunity might not happen again, so my exposed hand became one of many. Certainly, too many to check off against yet another bloody list. He glanced at his taller colleague who nodded and tapped his watch face.

  “Go, but be back in ten minutes, please. And those parked nearest to the deceased’s Range Rover, may we remind you to show respect.”

  “Of course,” I murmured, nodding appropriately. Then I got up and joined the considerable exodus, still mindful to keep myself to myself.

  *

  Grateful barks, needy whines, whimpering a-plenty. In fact, the whole canine vocabulary - if one could call it that - reached my ears as I entered car deck A with my pulse secretly juddering. My dry mouth fixed in an unfathomable line as I ignored the cordoned-off Range Rover and resolutely made my way to my Peugeot. I was just another passenger about to attend to their small, dependent creature, which is why I opened the boot and immediately bent over to block out any unwanted spies.

  Focus.

  The whiff that met my nose was quite different to dog or cat excrement and, having made the swiftest of checks beneath the attractive bedding that so many second homers carry back and fore with them, I expertly topped up my paricular pet’s dose and closed the boot with hardly a sound.