Thief Taker

by Alan Scholefield

  “Leo, you never told me about the dead kitten.”

  “Is it important?”

  “Stop for a moment.”

  They were coming on to the bridge approaches and he pulled to the side.

  “Listen,” she said. “You never told me that the horse’s name was Nemo either.”

  “So?”

  “So what do you know about asthmatics?”

  “Nothing, thank God.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you one thing, no asthmatic in his or her right mind would have a kitten or a dog or any other animal like that which might be likely to cause an allergic reaction and bring on an attack. That’s one thing that’s odd. But what about these names? Didn’t you take Latin?”

  “No. Did you?”

  “They said it would come in handy one day. Listen, nemo means no one. Take the “l” away from Nihill and you’ve got nihil. Which in Latin means nothing. And the caravan was called Erewhon which is nowhere. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “How about this: If you were trying to erase yourself, change not only your name but your whole being, how about a surname meaning nothing, a moving house called nowhere, pulled by no name, the horse. For goodness sake, Leo, she was trying to disappear. Even from herself.”

  “And Erewhon meant Utopia. That’s what she was looking for.”

  “And then it all went sour.”

  “I think I want to talk to her. The Forest of Dean’s only twenty or thirty miles out of our way.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “OK, we’ll eat in a place called Lexton. The caravan’s nearby.”

  CHAPTER XXVI

  Macrae and Eddie Twyford were met by a uniformed sergeant in a patrol car.

  “Is this the house?” Macrae said. It was one of a terrace of small villas in north-east London and even though Eddie had put all his expertise into the drive, it had taken them the best part of forty minutes to get there. So Macrae had radioed for help and the patrol car was waiting.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Seen anyone?”

  “No, sir. Everything quiet.”

  “You been round the back?”

  “I was told to watch the house. That’s all, sir.”

  There was no garden in the front. It had been tarmacked and oil spillage told that it was a hardstanding for a car.

  Macrae, followed by the sergeant and Eddie, went up the front path. The house had been built at the turn of the century and had the typical small panels of coloured glass on either side of the door. It was only two floors and Macrae thought he knew the layout for it was not dissimilar to his own house.

  He rang the doorbell. He rang it again. He rattled the letter-flap. He went to the bow window and, shielding the reflection on the glass with his hands, he peered in. The room was a standard front parlour. The furniture was dark and the room was gloomy.

  “Let’s go round the back,” Macrae said.

  The two men followed him along the path at the side of the house. The rear was a junk yard of old tins and plastic. A washing line sagged on its poles.

  Macrae looked through the back windows but all he saw was a kitchen with unwashed dishes.

  He returned to the front and stood on the sill of the downstairs bow window then climbed gingerly on to the sergeant’s shoulder but he could not reach high enough to look through the first-floor window. He came down and stared at the front door.

  “Can you open it?” he said to the uniformed sergeant. “Have you a sledgehammer?”

  “A sledgehammer?” The sergeant looked shocked.

  “All right, laddie, force it.”

  The sergeant examined the door and was about to put his shoulder to it when Macrae said, “This isn’t television. You’ll end up in hospital. Break the glass.”

  He broke one of the glass side panels, reached in and unlatched the door. They went in.

  “Jesus!” Eddie said, putting a handkerchief to his nose.

  “Not very nice, is it?” Macrae said.

  The passageway smelled strongly of drains and rotting food.

  Macrae mounted the stairs. There were two bedrooms and a bathroom on the floor above.

  He stuck his head into the first bedroom but it was empty. Then he went into the second. An elderly woman was lying on the floor in a tangle of sheets and bedclothes. A dozen or more pills of varying colours were scattered on the bed and the carpet. Macrae bent over her. He could not detect any sign of life. He told the sergeant to radio for an ambulance.

  He went into the bathroom. A partly empty bottle of sherry was standing on the washbasin.

  He went into the second bedroom. The bed was unmade and on the floor next to it was a cardboard box and a yellow duster. On the bed itself, caught up in a fold in the sheet, was a single bullet. He picked up the duster and, above the smell of the room, he could detect a different smell: gun oil.

  He looked through the cardboard box and found assorted papers, some were pages torn from notebooks. Underneath them were three photographs. One was of Silver and Zoe walking along a street, the two others were street shots of Zoe alone. There were several newspaper clippings about the trial of Ronald Arthur Purvis and one of a London murder case in which Macrae and Silver had been involved.

  Macrae and Eddie had discussed the possible scenario in the car. It was Macrae’s contention that no matter how twisted the mind, how long the brooding, how deep the need for revenge, the fact was that most criminals did not seek out the policemen, judges, or jurymen who sent them to gaol and try exact an eye for an eye.

  But you could never tell.

  Not when the man had been beaten so badly.

  Now Eddie said, “What d’you think, guv’nor?”

  “He could be any bloody where,” Macrae said. “Look at this!” He picked another torn page from the box. “He must have been making notes. He’s written down…I can’t make it out. It looks like…Paxham. That’s where…Oh, Christ!”

  He grabbed the phone and got through to Directory Inquiries. “The Paxham Arms,” he said. “It’s in Paxham. On the Welsh borders somewhere.”

  The unhurried voice gave him the number and he dialled.

  “Give me the manager.”

  “I’m the owner,” a voice said. “Will I do?”

  Macrae identified himself. “Has a Mr Silver checked in yet?”

  There was a pause. “No. Mr and Mrs Silver haven’t arrived yet. Is anything wrong?”

  “Listen carefully. When they do I want you to tell Mr Silver He paused, thinking of Zoe.

  “Yes?”

  “Tell him that the desk sergeant has a message for him.”

  “The desk sergeant?”

  “That’s right. For God’s sake write this down.”

  “Yes. Of course.” He repeated what Macrae had said.

  4 And the message is in reply to his request…” He sought for the words and phrases that might give Silver a clue about what was happening, without frightening Zoe.

  “In reply to his request…” repeated the voice.

  “Listen…tell him that that Detective Superintendent Macrae is bringing the message to him. Got that? Because he needs to see him. Tell him not to go fishing or leave the pub.”

  “…not to leave the pub.”

  “Read it back to me.”

  The voice read it back. “OK,” Macrae said. “How long does it take to get to you from London?”

  “Depends how fast you drive.”

  “Fast.”

  “Three hours.”

  “I’ll be there in three hours.”

  He told the uniformed sergeant to get on to Les Wilson and tell him to alert the Somerset and Avon police and then have someone guard the house after the body had been removed.

  Then he said to Eddie, “Come on, let’s go.”

  The Black Horse was the only pub in Lexton. A sign said, “Bar food. Home cooking.”

  “Home cooking! I bet it’s from Swindon and microwaved,” Zoe said, as they parked. “Anyway,
who the hell wants home-cooking when you go out? French home-cooking perhaps, but not British.”

  “Fuss, fuss,” Leo said.

  It was a gloomy day and the interior of the pub, a series of small interconnecting alcoves each with black settles and a table, and lit by small shaded lights, was dark enough to make them pause while they became used to it. But it did have a fire and Zoe immediately went towards it, rubbing her hands.

  She was dressed in her new “country” wardrobe. It reminded Silver — though he was wise enough not to say so — of the kind of gear an explorer might have worn for a final assault on one of the Poles: a blue beanie on her head, a red quilted anorak, ski trousers and Ugg boots.

  “I might want to walk home if I get fed up with you,” she had said, darkly.

  They were the only two in the place and the publican and his wife were behind the bar cleaning glasses. They were both large and Dickensian. His face was framed by grey muttonchop whiskers and he wore a red bandana round his neck. His wife wore a fisherman’s smock. It was clear they saw themselves as “characters”.

  “Not too good,” the publican said, tilting his head at the great outdoors.

  “Except for ducks,” his wife said, in a Welsh accent.

  This was something Silver had noticed before: country folk never said hello, they always opened a conversation with a remark about the day.

  “We came through some rain,” he said, accepting the tradition.

  “Where from?”

  “London.”

  “Ah.” He made it sound as though it was in some remote land. “You’ll find Lexton a bit quiet after London.” Then he winked.

  Leo ordered a couple of glasses of wine. The woman behind the bar said, “If you’re thinking of having lunch, my love, it’s all on the blackboard. Except there’s no plaice and chips. Couldn’t get any fish this morning.”

  Zoe and Silver studied the blackboard. There were all the familiar old enemies: lasagne, chili con carne, stuffed baked potatoes…”

  “Is it really home-cooking?” Zoe said, innocently.

  The publican set up the glasses of wine and said, “Everything cooked by my wife’s fair hands.” He winked again.

  “Well…” the woman said.

  “I feel like bangers and mash,” Silver said.

  “I can do you that. I’ve got some nice spicy pork sausages.”

  “Make it two,” Zoe said.

  They stood at the fire drinking the wine but were near enough to the bar to be able to talk to the publican.

  Silver said, “I was here a few days ago. There was a young woman in a caravan in the woods. Gypsy caravan. Do you know if she’s still there?”

  “I haven’t heard she’s gone,” said the publican.

  “Never comes in here,” said his wife. “Her friend did though.”

  “The hippy,” her husband said.

  “For goodness sake. Any young man with long hair is a hippy to Fred. He’s a carpenter.”

  “Bunny will believe anything,” Fred said. “If he’s a carpenter I’m a…I dunno what…Anyway you best ask Rawley. He’ll know.”

  “Rawley?” Silver said.

  “Rawley’s been hanging about with her,” Fred said with a wink at Leo and Zoe. “Haven’t you, Rawley?”

  He looked past Silver, who turned and followed his glance. In a dim alcove behind them there was a faint rustle and Leo could make out a figure he had missed before. At first all he could see was a bundle of clothing, then a face and eyes. He looked like a tramp.

  “What say you, Rawley, old sport?” said Fred. “Your girlfriend still down in the forest?”

  Rawley moved again, feeling for his two plastic bags under the table. He did not speak.

  “You going to marry her, then, Rawley?”

  “Leave off, Fred. Don’t tease him.”

  Fred winked again.

  “I’m not teasing him. I just want to know if Rawley’s going to make an honest woman of her. What’s she like, Rawley, old sport? I was told she was some sort of painter. You been helping her paint?”

  “That’s enough, Fred!” She turned to Leo and Zoe. “He likes to tease people.” She turned to Rawley, “You all right, my love? You want something? Half of mild?”

  She pulled half of mild into a straight-sided glass, carried it over to Rawley’s table and returned to the fire. Standing with her back to him, she said, softly, “I don’t like to see him teased.”

  “Who is he?” Zoe said.

  “Rawley? He’s a local. Born here. In the forest. When the mining was still going. My family came here when I was a little girl so I’ve known Rawley all my life. He’s not as simple as people think and there’s no harm in him. We knew his family for many years. There were two boys. One died. Rawley was brought up by his mother. She took in washing. Poor Rawley. He never quite got to grips with life. Did odd jobs and things like that. Then he, well, they say he began to hear voices.”

  “And he was carted off to the loony bin,” Fred said, with a wink.

  “Not so loud!” Bunny said. She turned back to Leo and Zoe. “Then a couple of years ago he was released.” She turned to Rawley and said, “It’s all right, my love, you can drink it. It’s on the house.” She resumed her description. “He knows the forest inside out. Often sleeps out there.”

  There was a movement at Rawley’s table. He was trying to pick up his glass but his hands were shaking so much that he finally gave up and left it where it was and bent his head to sip from it.

  Rawley…Rawley…Jackanor. What did your little eyes see?

  He managed, after several tries, to get the glass up into his hands and took a long pull. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

  “That’s the trick,” Fred said.

  “Want another one, my love?”

  She fetched his glass and Fred drew him another half pint. She put it on his table.

  “Prayers,” Rawley said.

  “What’s that, my love?”

  “We must pray.”

  It was said so softly Leo almost missed it.

  “Who must pray?” Leo said.

  Rawley said, “Oh God…Oh God…” Then, “I runs. I runs…and runs…”

  “You been running, my love? You shouldn’t do that at your age.”

  “I’ll give you three wishes,” Rawley said, his voice slightly stronger.

  “Who?” said Fred. “Give who wishes?”

  “The princess.”

  “Of course,” Fred said, winking at the group near the fire. “There’s always a princess. Tell us the three wishes, Rawley.”

  “Leave him alone, Fred.”

  “Come on. What were they?”

  ““What is the first wish, said the prince — ?””

  “Oh, so there was a prince too was there?”

  “Fred!”

  “There’s always a prince. Come on, old sport, what did the prince say?”

  “He said…he said…”

  Rawley stopped and drank…then suddenly he put his hands to his ears as though to blot out all noise…

  “I told you,” Bunny said. “He hears voices.”

  There was a call from the kitchen and the sausages and mashed potatoes were put on a table near the fire. Silver and Zoe ate with relish. Rawley sat with his hands to his ears for a few minutes, rocking back and forth, then he seemed to gather himself. He picked up his drink and took another large swallow.

  Suddenly, he said, “Once upon a time there was a prince…”

  “You telling us a story now, Rawley? It’s like that programme on the television for the kiddies.”

  “Rawley likes children’s TV, don’t you, my love?”

  But Rawley was not listening. “Once upon a time there was a prince and he wanted to play the humpbacked beast…”

  “The what?” Fred said, and winked.

  “Rawley,” Bunny said. “Don’t you start being filthy now. Otherwise out you go.”

  “She loves him…She says she still loves him
…Even though…” His voice tailed away. Then he turned and looked at Leo and said, “I hears voices. In my head. Oh, yus.” He was crying.

  Embarrassed, Leo paid up quickly and they went out to the car. He drove slowly through the village, past the store where he had earlier asked the way, found the track and began to go down it. It was muddier than before. He remembered how difficult Eddie had found it and decided not to chance it.

  “You stay here,” he said, pulling up on the grass.

  “You must be crazy,” Zoe said looking around at the gloomy trees.

  “I’m not going to be long.”

  “Leo — !”

  “It’s thick mud and you’ll wreck your boots.”

  “Leo — !”

  “Anyway, you’d probably inhibit me. So just do what I ask.” His voice was harder.

  “You bastard!”

  He got out of the car and began to walk into the forest in the direction of the caravan.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  Ronnie was sitting in the little Mazda about fifty yards from the Black Horse. He had a clear view of the pub door. He had seen Silver and Zoe go in, now he saw them come out. He felt under his seat and reassured himself that the gun was still there. His hand was slimy with sweat and he could feel a dampness on his body and face.

  The fact was — and Ronnie had grown increasingly aware of it — the fact was that he was afraid…scared shitless. It had come on him gradually. When he had first watched the two of them come out of the house in Pimlico he had felt euphoric. It was all meshing. It was all coming right. The plan was perfect.

  He had followed them to the M4 and along the motorway, he had followed them to Lympton and watched and waited and driven ahead of them just like the police did on television.

  Even that had been all right because he had had to keep so far away from them he had not been able to see Silver clearly.

  But then he had followed them down the last section of the M4 and had been just behind them when they stopped suddenly at the Severn Bridge and he had had to pull up quickly. That was when he had seen Silver in close-up and the fear had begun to seep into him.