Don had never seen so much blood. He ruined his uniform when he tried in vain to attend to the poor creature as it lay whinnying piteously on the road. It had taken the vet over half an hour to arrive and put the animal out of its misery, then another forty minutes for a trailer with a winch to turn up and take the body away.
Meanwhile, the motorway had been at a standstill, and huge jams built up as the early morning rush hour approached.
Don vividly recalled seeing the Fire Brigade hosing the blood from the motorway as he now tried, cautiously, to get past this animal. His plan was to attempt to control it from the front. Pressing the accelerator, gently so as not to create too much noise, he crept closer and closer.
He gently eased the car over to the offside. Just a little more and he would be level with the horse’s rear quarters. Gently, gently, closer and closer; just another few more seconds and he’d be in front of it.
The horse suddenly became aware of what it perceived to be a strange creature creeping up alongside him, and it panicked. It tossed its head in the air and let out a loud whinny.
“Easy, boy,” said Don, knowing the animal could not hear him. “Stand still, you stupid thing!”
The horse suddenly bucked, then it kicked out behind itself and began to trot even faster.
By now, the light was fading rapidly and, with the sun setting low in the sky behind him, Don knew the horse would be almost invisible to anyone driving towards them.
The animal trotted even faster.
“Come on!” shouted Don, becoming frustrated, “I’m trying to help you.”
Don was getting worried that another vehicle was bound to appear on the road ahead of them before long. He would need to find a way to warn any oncoming traffic of the danger, but he realised he couldn’t dare use his rotating blue light for fear of spooking his quarry even more.
However, Don knew he had to think of something to highlight the danger to other road users – and fast. The horse still showed no sign of slowing, so Don decided it was worth the risk to experiment with operating his hazard warning lights.
He held his breath and flicked the switch. Amber light from the four-way flashers instantly bathed the road in front and behind the moving vehicle.
“Blast!” he shouted. The flashing light had spooked Don more than the horse, and he fumbled the switch off almost as soon as it operated.
Without warning, the horse slowed right down and stopped dead in the road. Don was forced to slam on his brakes. The car slid to a halt only feet away from the tail of the frightened animal. He was close, too close. Don began to gently back his vehicle away, but the horse began to shake his head and look all around.
Displaying amazing agility, the animal spun around and reared onto its hind legs. Don flinched as metal horseshoes thrashed the air a scant few yards in front of him. He stamped on the pedal and slewed the car backwards out of the way.
The horse suddenly leapt forward and ran full tilt past the startled officer. It was now heading back the way they had come. This was getting out of hand. There was no time to radio the control room, so Don performed a hasty three-point turn and, once again, gave chase.
Thankfully, the sun had completely dropped out of the sky, so although he was heading West, he wasn’t blinded as he would have been a few minutes earlier. However, without the light of the setting sun, visibility was becoming very poor.
“Oh, shit!” Don shouted aloud. Through the gloom, he could make out the headlamps of an approaching Land Rover – a mere few hundred yards in front of him.
Don knew he had to take a risk. He flashed his headlights. No response. He flashed again, then repeatedly, all the while praying it wouldn’t scare the horse into an even more dangerous frenzy. To his immense relief, the driver of the Land Rover flashed an acknowledgement and pulled up onto the grass verge to its nearside. A few seconds later the horse, followed by the police car, raced harmlessly past the now stationary vehicle.
After a further quarter of a mile or so, the horse, finally exhausted, slowed to a trot then to a sedate walk. Amazingly, it calmed right down and now appeared not to have a care in the world. It quietly ambled into an entrance at the side of the road and stopped just in front of a five-bar wooden gate.
Don pulled up across the entrance, hoping to use his vehicle to cut off the animal’s access to the road. The horse started looking around but made no attempt to run off. Cautiously, Don got out of his car.
He had never ridden a horse in his life and, still fairly new to the rural area, he had no idea what to do next.
Then he had a brainwave. He opened the boot of his car and began to look for a towrope among the untidily packed road signs and other sundry equipment that had been thrown carelessly inside. Don sighed. As someone who had so recently worked as a Traffic motorcyclist, he hated seeing kit not being cared for properly. My own fault, he thought to himself. I should have checked the car when I picked it up.
After a minute or so, he found what he was looking for. However, the thick rope was a bit short as well as being somewhat greasy with oil. Nevertheless, it would have to do.
Don worked feverishly. Thankfully the rope had a metal eye at one end, and he was able to thread the other end through the hole to fashion himself a crude noose. Armed with his makeshift lasso he walked nervously towards the horse. The animal whinnied and tossed its head but didn’t kick out. Don held the rope in both hands ready to throw it over the horse’s neck. If he succeeded he intended to tie the horse to the gate and await the arrival of the dog handler.
As Don walked forward, the horse once more began to fret and shake his head more vigorously. Don paused when it started to paw the ground with its foreleg. Did he dare risk moving further forward, or would the horse try to kick him?
Suddenly, “What the Hell do you think you’re doing? Get out of my way!” came a sharp voice from behind.
Don spun around to see that the Land Rover from earlier had turned around and followed him along the road. It was now parked a few yards from the police vehicle.
A very irate young lady wearing a green Barbour jacket, having alighted the vehicle, marched purposefully past the bemused police officer. Calmly and confidently, she walked over to the horse and put her hand under its chin. She then stroked his nose. The horse was instantly comforted and nuzzled the woman. Don was impressed.
“You’ve been watching too many cowboy films,” the woman said scornfully to Don, pointing at his length of rope. “Open the gate, will you.”
Without waiting for a reply, she turned around while Don operated the metal lever and opened the gate. The young woman led the horse into the field where it dropped its head and began to chew grass, perfectly contented, as though nothing had happened.
“Thank you for that, Miss,” said Don. “I’m not much good with horses.”
The woman dropped her stern countenance and smiled.
“I can see that,” she said. “You could have scared the poor thing to death, you know.”
Don estimated her to be in her late twenties and, from her accent, a member of the local gentry.
“Any idea who he belongs to?” he asked.
“Monty? Oh yes, I know who owns him. She’s a local girl – and she’ll be getting the sharp edge of my tongue tomorrow. It’s not the first time this naughty boy has made it out into the traffic. There’ll be an accident one day, then she’ll be sorry.”
“Do you know who owns the field, perhaps I should tell him he has a visitor.”
The smile vanished. “Why do you assume it’s a ‘him’? I own this field. Or don’t you think women should own land?”
“I didn’t mean…”
“Don’t worry, you’re no different to anyone else around here,” she said brusquely. She then brushed past Don, walked back to her Land Rover and, without further ado, climbed in, slammed the door, and drove away.
Too late, having finally regained his composure, Don realised he should have taken more details from the woman – i
ncluding her name and address.
Chapter Three
A Simple Domestic
“Are you completely mad?” Suzanne shouted, standing in front of her husband. “This was all supposed to be behind us. It’s the reason we came to this shithole! Are we never going to be free of it? Well, are we!”
“Calm down, you stupid bitch!” Steve shouted back at her. He stood up from the sofa where he had been sitting and confronted the angry woman.” Do you want the whole village to hear us?” he hissed, waving his arms about.
Steven Hoskins wasn’t a big man, probably an inch or two shorter than his wife, and he was usually the personification of calm. Infuriatingly so, according to Suzanne. However, that evening, while his wife was out, he’d been drinking a lot more than usual. As with so many other usually calm and equitable people, alcohol released his inner demons.
“I’m a bitch, now am I?” she shouted back at him. Unfortunately, Suzanne had also been drinking. “Well this bitch has had enough, do you hear me? More than enough! They were fucking children for crissake! We could all get sent to prison for pictures like that, you idiot!”
“I didn’t know, did I? I was told they were older.”
“What! So, you’re blind now as well! Perhaps if you stopped playing with yourself for five minutes, your eyesight might improve. How could you possibly think they were older?”
“They could have been jockeys.”
“You bloody stupid man! Well, I’m telling you this and you’d better listen. You’re completely on your own this time. If you get arrested, I’m washing my hands of you.”
“Oh no, you won’t. I know a thing or two about you as well, remember? If anything happens to me you’re coming down with me.”
“You spineless faggot!” Suzanne screamed. “Do you think you can get away with threatening me? I’ll bloody show you!”
She picked up a glass vase from the occasional table in front of her and hurled it in Steve’s general direction. It smashed to pieces on the wall behind his head, causing a picture to come loose and fall noisily to the floor.
Still furious, Suzanne screamed in frustration and ran at Steve with her fingers extended. He grabbed her wrists as she tried to scratch his face. As he pulled his head back out of reach of her nails, she brought her knee up as hard as she could between his legs. Fortunately for him, she missed her target and made solid, but relatively harmless, contact with the top of his inner thigh.
At this, Steve lost his temper and pushed her away from him. The push was hard enough to make her fall back against an armchair. He picked up a heavy marble ashtray and made as if to throw it at her. At the last moment, he appeared to think better of it and instead threw it at the expensive colour television set in the corner of the room. The ashtray missed the screen, but it hit the controls and knocked the channel selector knob out of its housing.
Still angry, Steve picked up one of the Waterford crystal whisky glasses he’d been drinking from. He smashed it into the fireplace. Now he turned his attention to the furniture and began throwing everything around the room.
“You’re lucky I don’t fucking kill you!” he shouted.
“You’re mad!” his wife screeched at him. “Fucking mad! I’m not safe here with you, you lunatic! I’m off out of it!” She ran to the front door.
“Go on then, fuck off!” he yelled back at her. “See if I care! I should never have married you in the first place.”
“You bastard!” she shouted. “You really are a fucking bastard! I’m going to set the law on you, and don’t think I don’t bloody mean it!”
She ran from the house and slammed the door behind her. There were tears streaming down her face as she stumbled down the gravel drive and out through the wooden gate into the road.
Steve stared at the, now closed, front door for a full minute. Then he took a fresh glass from the cabinet and poured a drink from the half-empty whisky bottle. He knocked it back in one.
The drink calmed him a bit, and he surveyed the damage in the room. He began to tidy up, cursing his bad temper. What was I thinking of? What a bloody shambles!
She won’t call the police, he thought to himself. She’s not that stupid, she’ll be back in a minute.
The church clock softly chimed for midnight.
Don Barton eased his patrol car into the bus lay-by and killed the engine. God, what an evening, he thought. One rubbish job after another.
As well as the runaway horse, there had been a report of vandalism in one of the local cemeteries.
(“Bloody Satanists,” the verger had said in all sincerity. “There’s loads of them around here, you can hear them chanting sometimes. I stay out of the way. It don’t pay to mess with that lot.”)
Then there had been an abandoned car in a ditch that would need a follow-up in the morning. A search had revealed no trace of the driver, and there was no reply at the home of the registered keep of the vehicle.
Hopefully, it was just a drunken driver keeping out of the way until he sobered up – but one could never discount the possibility of there being an injured person somewhere in the vicinity who needed help.
It was all very time-consuming. Routine, but important in its way.
Reaching for yet another cigarette, Don swore as his fingers found an empty packet. Had he really smoked the whole lot since booking on at six? The car’s overflowing ashtray gave him a silent and disapproving reply.
His shift still had two hours to run, so Don mentally explored the hundred or so square miles of countryside that represented his patch for tonight. He scratched his brains wondering as to where he was going to get some more smokes.
Well, there was an all-night garage on the A4 at Thatcham. Slightly off his ground – but not by much. Problem was, if he went there, the Newbury lads might call him in to help with some job or other. They were desperately under-strength, so he could easily find himself tied up all night.
Don wasn’t lazy, and usually he’d be only too happy to help his colleagues, but he was on duty at Royal Ascot Races the day after tomorrow. He really wanted a full day off before diving into the tedious, if very well paid, fourteen-hour shifts, including travel time, which went with policing the event.
Then he had a thought. How about the Green Lion pub up on the Wantage Road? When he’d booked-on and phoned in for briefing, the duty sergeant had told him the pub was having a private party after hours. As it was being held on licensed premises, he had every right to call in to check it was legitimate – and ensure they were obeying the rules.
They’d have fags. Kill two birds with one stone, then.
He crunched the Marina into gear and ambled forward. Don would much rather have been driving his Ford Escort van for routine patrol than this horrible motor. However, the saloon car, unlike the van, was equipped with a “repeater set” radio, and as Don was designated the “area car” for the evening, so he had no choice other than to use the hated motor.
The reason for this was that the van was primarily used for routine enquires on Don’s own “patch.” However, whilst driving the area car, he had responsibility for the whole rural section, and he was required to be available to be deployed to matters that couldn’t be left until the local officer was on duty. These jobs usually required a more immediate response.
The repeater sets were important because they allowed the officer to converse with his thirty-mile distant Headquarters Control Room whilst away from his vehicle. The set managed this by relaying short-range UHF transmissions from a hand-held Pye Pocketfone via the more powerful VHF set installed in the car.
This facility could be of vital importance to an officer attending the scene of a serious incident.
The car was supposed to be “double crewed,” but manning levels in the force at that time were critically low, and this frequently wasn’t possible. This didn’t bother Don. As an ex-Traffic motorcyclist, he was well used to working alone – and often preferred it that way.
Don was a conscientious police of
ficer – and he was only too well aware the remoteness of the area was a magnet for town-based burglars as well as so-called joyriders and the all-too-frequent vanloads of professional poachers. Consequently, he drove slowly on his journey to the pub, carefully scrutinising the widely scatted farms and dwellings as he went.
The Green Lion had once been an old coaching inn and had an impressive façade, making it an important landmark in the area. The building itself was set back from the road, and there was some limited parking for cars at the front.
The white painted brickwork of the pub was run through with oaken beams and an archway, large enough to accommodate a carriage and four horses, led into a space in the rear. The old stable block behind the main building had long since been converted into storage units, but the land adjacent to the units had been cleared and tarmacked to provide additional parking for customers.
Unlike most of the licensed premises in the area, the Green Lion was what was called a “managed house,” so the landlord was a manager and an employee of the brewery rather than a self-employed tenant or owner.
Managers in the pub world were at the bottom of the landlord hierarchy; they had to be a married couple, and between them were paid a pittance for the hours they worked. Their employers, usually a main brewery, rigidly curtailed the small part of the business they could run for themselves. Inevitably, fiddling was rife, and a hard-pressed manager was disinclined to turn away cash trade, even if it was after hours.
The “private party” was a much-abused loophole of which many landlords took advantage. Legally, it was permissible to carry on serving after hours as long as the persons present were bone-fide friends of the licensee – being treated at his expense. In law, a customer who had been buying drinks could not suddenly become a “friend” once time had been called. Strictly, no money at all could change hands during the “party.”
In reality, like so much legislation, the private party rules were impossible to enforce. So, most police areas operated a more common-sense compromise. Basically, all the landlord had to do was notify the local station in advance of the start of the party. Then as long as he locked the doors, kept the curtains closed and the noise to a minimum, all would be well.
Nine O'Clock Bus To Brompton Page 3