“Don’t try to threaten me, you withered old wreck!” Her bravado was simply for show, as she knew only too well.
“Threaten is an ugly word, and not one I care to use,” continued Lau. “Nevertheless, the file is safely lodged with my lawyers in case I should meet with any unforeseen accident. My death or disappearance for more than a few days would certainly trigger its release to the authorities.”
“Fine. What do you want, Lau?”
“You know what I want.”
“Goldman and Timmins?”
“Just so. Goldman is about to start an assignment protecting a racehorse entered in the Cheltenham Gold Cup.”
“You’re kidding me,” she smirked at the thought of Goldman protecting anything, when he could scarcely look after himself.
“No, I arranged it myself, through a gambling contact” said Lau.
“What’s the horse called?”
“Summer Lightning.”
“And who is Edna Timmins?” enquired Scarlatti.
“One thing at a time. First Goldman, then we will talk of Timmins.” Experience had taught Lau to be patient in all things.
“You can provide me with the necessary equipment?” she asked.
He passed her a business card. “This man will be your contact, Ms Scarlatti. He will provide you with guns, ammunition, anything you may need. I have arranged a meeting for Friday at 11am. Be there.”
“Is there anything else?” she queried.
“You don’t need me to tell you your flat has police forensics crawling all over it.”
“No.”
“There is a room available for you on the first floor of this building, until you make other arrangements. Don’t forget, you will be under surveillance until the assignment is complete.”
She just nodded. She couldn’t trust herself to speak to Lau any further. She would bide her time.
Part Twenty-Nine
The sun blazed down on the house and grounds of Baddeley Manor. Hymie and Mike had told the taxi driver to set them down at the entrance to the drive and were now regretting it. The drive seemed to stretch out forever.
“How long does a drive need to be?” speculated Hymie.
“Well, it’s to keep the riff-raff out obviously,” said Mike.
“But we’re here anyway,” smirked Hymie.
“Maybe it’s to keep out burglars?”
“Well, possibly poor burglars who can’t afford cars,” continued Hymie, “but then they wouldn’t get away very fast down this drive, would they? They could phone for the police to meet them at the gate.”
“So maybe having a long drive is a good idea after all,” said Mike.
“Tell that to my legs, they’re almost dropping off with tiredness. I could swing for that ruddy Scarlatti woman. Destroyed my car, tried to kill me…and now leaves us to the mercy of public transport to get to the middle of nowhere.” Hymie was nothing if not bitter and resentful. “Three trains, four buses, two taxis and now shanks’s pony.”
“There goes today’s wages!” cried Mike, wishing he’d left the negotiations to Hymie so that at least he’d have someone else to blame.
“What’s worse, Scarlatti’s on the loose again. Did you hear it on the radio?” asked Hymie.
“I was with you when you heard about it, you plonker. Someone hijacked the van they were taking her to prison in. Makes you glad you’re out of London for a few days, eh H.?”
“If you say so, Mike. Personally all this fresh air’s getting on my nerves.”
They finally reached journey’s end and passing through an elaborately carved wooden porch, Mike pulled on an antique metal door-ringer, in the shape of a devil’s head.
For what seemed like an eternity nothing happened and then, when they had almost given up hope, the door creaked open and an even creakier exhibit in butlers clothing greeted them. Jervis had been there so long he was listed in the house inventory; butler, one, clapped-out. He displayed all the usual attributes of his anachronistic class; rotundity, sleekness, discretion, dignity and rabid loyalty but in his case all of these things were overshadowed by forgetfulness bordering on the senile. He was, after all, on the old side of very old.
“Good afternoon, deliveries are round the back of the house if you wouldn’t mind,” said Jervis, in the voice he reserved for tradesmen.
“We’re Goldman and Murphy and we have an appointment with the lady of the house,” said Hymie.
He looked dubiously at them in a way which inferred that they fell some way short of the guests he was used to dealing with and then retired to obtain further information.
“I’ll be back shortly,” he said. Jervis closed the door and shuffled off into the house. Outside everything remained quiet.
“Maybe he’s died on us,” quipped Mike, after another interminable wait.
“Don’t make jokes like that, you may be right.”
Mike rang the bell again.
Nothing happened.
He rang it again, repeatedly and after a while the doddery old butler re-appeared, like some decrepit genie being summoned from his lamp.
“Yes, can I help you?” asked Jervis, as though meeting them for the first time.
“We’re here to see Lady Hunting-Baddeley. You were going to check whether we were expected,” said Hymie.
“I was?”
“You were,” Mike assured him.
“And your names are?” asked Jervis, scarcely crediting what they were saying.
“Goldman and Murphy!” they cried, simultaneously.
“Perhaps we could wait inside this time, in case you forget us again.” added Mike helpfully.
“Well, I’m sure I would have remembered you two,” said Jervis, implying that they were somehow sub-human. There was a trace of tetchiness in his voice, but he reluctantly let them in.
“Just a moment please,” he said. Jervis shuffled off into the house again, leaving the two of them to wait indoors for a change. They sat on two carved-backed wooden chairs and gazed around the reception hall, drinking in the ambience which had presumably accumulated over centuries of occupation. On all sides lay ancient oil paintings in heavy gilt frames. Here an eighteenth-century long-case clock, there an assemblage of antique porcelain. Mike started to pace up and down, stopping in front of an old family portrait to stare intently at the signature in the corner.
“It’s a Bugrot,” he declared, after much deliberation.
“Who’s ever heard of a Bugrot painting? Surely he did racing cars?” said Hymie, dubiously.
“That was Bugati you great wally!” said Mike, “don’t you know anything?”
“Well, I’ve never heard of an artist called Bugrot anyway, you steaming great nit! Bugrot’s what you get on your roses.”
“You’re having me on, H. When were you ever in a garden, except by accident?”
“Okay, okay, have it your way, Mike, I’m no Alan Titmarsh.”
“Too true, and the painting’s by Bugrot just the same. Come and have a look for yourself.” They walked up to the heavy gilt frame.
“Must be Dutch school,” speculated Hymie, ignorantly.
“With a name like Bugrot? Danish, surely,” continued Mike, idiotically.
“Hello, Mr Goldman, Mr Murphy.” It was Lucinda Hunting-Baddeley.
“I’m sorry to have kept you, gentlemen. Jervis came into the drawing room ten minutes ago, but it took him that long to remember what he came to tell me. Poor old chap. He’s getting far too old for the job really but they don’t make butlers like him any more. It would break his heart if I suggested he should retire.”
“Think nothing of it madam, we were just admiring your Bugrot,” said Mike, determined to get to the bottom of the artist’s signature. He raised his eyes to the painting.
“Oh, the Burgôt? Yes, it’s not a bad daub, don’t you think? He’s rather a promising French portraitist. It’s a particular favourite of mine as it’s the only one I have of the entire family.” She passed over Mike’s
embarrassment effortlessly.
Hymie might have known Mike’s grasp of modern art would be less than slight, but chose not to undermine a junior partner in JP Confidential in front of their sole living client.
“I expect you’ll want to see your charge now, won’t you?” asked Lucinda.
“Charge? I thought you were paying us,” said Mike.
“Summer Lightning, Mr Murphy.”
“Of course,” said Hymie, gesturing for Mike to shut up.
In short order they crossed the courtyard, entered the stable-block and were soon gazing intently into the large brown eyes of the most impressive racehorse either of them had ever set eyes on. It was also the only racehorse either of them had ever set eyes on, at least close up.
The horse looked distinctly unimpressed, as though he were being asked to shake hands with the village idiot and his less intelligent brother.
“Lightning, these are Mr Goldman and Mr Murphy. They’ve come to look after you for a few days,” said the lady of the manor.
If he could have put his head in his hands, Lightning would have done so. He settled for shaking his head and showing his teeth.
“Well, I’ll leave you to get acquainted. I’ll send the head stable boy over to explain what’s what.” So saying, their hostess headed back to the house, leaving the pair wondering what they’d let themselves in for.
Hymie reached out to pat the horse’s head and received a playful nip for his trouble.
“There, there boy!” he said.
“I think he likes you,” said Mike.
“I’d hate to see what he does to you if he doesn’t like you,” replied Hymie.
“Hello guys, I’m Jack the head stable-boy. I see you’re getting to know Lightning. He’s a great horse. He’s all heart. Strong and fast too. We’re expecting great things of him. Which one of you is Goldman, and which one’s Murphy?”
“I’m Hymie Goldman,” said H., holding out his hand in greeting.
“And I’m Mike Murphy.” Mike eyed the newcomer with suspicion, as though he didn’t trust anyone near Lightning.
“Welcome to the Hunting-Baddeley Yard, guys. I gather you’re with us until the Gold Cup, in charge of security, so I hear.”
“Yes, that’s the ticket, Jack.” said Hymie
“Mrs H-B tells me you know all about horses, that right? continued Jack.
“Sure, I used to ride on the farm at home,” Hymie said, looking daggers at Mike.
“Oh, right, you’re from farming stock too. So am I; my family own estates in Berkshire, how about yours?”
“Oh, just a caravan at Bognor.”
He’d have to practice telling bigger lies, thought Hymie, as the words left his mouth. That was where real success lay. As it was, he just looked like a complete plonker.
“Well, you won’t need me to tell you much I don’t suppose. All the grooming, feeding and exercising will be taken care of by the regular team. You guys just get to move into the stables for round the clock surveillance at other times, right?”
“Right” said both. “Shit” they thought.
“Oh I was forgetting, we’re a man down. Ted Farrell broke his foot the other day, and we need a driver to get Lightning over to his training camp for 7 am tomorrow. Think you can handle it? We’ll help you load him into his box of course. It’s just over there at the back of the stables. I presume you’re licensed to drive a truck?” asked Jack.
“Oh, ah, yes” said Hymie.
‘Bigger lies’ he thought.
Mike looked a little doubtful.
“Great. Here’s a map to the training ground. Don’t forget, 40 mph max. Got it?”
“Of course, Jack, what do you take us for?” asked Hymie.
“Sure, I was forgetting. See you later, guys,” said Jack, leaving them to it.
The evening and night passed slowly and uneventfully. As they were on duty they had their meals delivered on a tray; bacon, egg, beans and chips, which suited them admirably. Lightning soon got used to them and settled down for his shut-eye at around 9pm. At 11pm he started snoring and continued through much of the night.
Hymie and Mike kept watch in shifts until the early hours.
Mike seemed to be afflicted by hayfever, which kept him awake sneezing for much of the night, while Hymie spent his waking moments in trying to develop a Business Plan for JP Confidential. The pile of waste-paper accumulating on the stable floor grew to impressive proportions as he disgarded one draft after another. Nevertheless he stuck at it, feeling sure that Ceefer Capital wouldn’t be too impressed if he couldn’t even tell them where he thought the business was going. He thought about calling Sarah Chandar, but wasn’t sure what to say and assumed she would take his call as a sign of weakness in any negotiations.
Morning broke over the stable-yard. It was cold with a scattered frost on the fields. The two horse-detectives awoke to their alarm clock at 6am, grumbling amongst themselves.
Suddenly the ghostly form of Jervis the butler appeared before them bearing a tray.
“Can I offer you breakfast, gentlemen?”
“Nothing could be better, Jervis. Thank you,” said Hymie.
He laid the tray on the floor and hovered around.
“Care to join us Jervis?” asked Mike.
“Oh no, sir, I’ve already eaten. I was wondering if I could assist you. Perhaps I could load Lightning into his box for you?”
“Well, it’s very kind of you, Jervis, but Jack the lad did say he would come and give us a hand.”
“Ah, I thought so, sir.”
“Sorry Jervis? What do you mean?” continued Hymie.
“Well, he has a habit of playing practical jokes sir. Far be it from me to criticize, but if I were you I would make alternative arrangements, sir. I myself know all there is to know about horseboxes and would be delighted to assist you.”
“Thanks for the tip off, Jervis. We’d be only too happy to take you up on your offer,” chipped in Mike.
The butler shuffled off with Lightning in tow, disappearing down to the end of the stable block. Once outside he loaded a different horse with similar markings into the horsebox, attached the box to the tow-bar at the back of the truck and, lifting the truck’s bonnet, cut through the brake cable. He then loaded Lightning into the back of a transporter and quietly drove off in it.
Mike and Hymie demolished their breakfasts oblivious to it all and then headed towards the far end of the stable block to join their benefactor.
“He’s gone,” said Mike, surprised.
“Strange or what?” Hymie was beginning to feel uneasy.
“Well, the horse is in the box and the keys are in the ignition,” said Mike. “We’ve got the map from yesterday, so it looks like it’s over to us now. You’re driving I take it, H.?”
“No, I thought you’d like to,” said Hymie. “It’s the junior partner’s privilege.”
“I don’t have a truck license,” said Mike, facetiously.
The Golden Pig Page 17