The Price of Horses

by Ian Taylor

  What held his attention was movement: the mainline trains entering and leaving the station, express coaches to distant cities making their way from the bus terminus, threading their route out of town to the motorways. Movement was something he understood. It was in his blood, going back more than a thousand years to the time when his people roamed the desert and hills of Rajasthan.

  Hidden in his secret eyrie, he spent hours watching movement. He had observed the flights of geese and wild duck through the winter months, carving their passage between the city's waterways and their feeding grounds in the surrounding countryside. Whenever he saw the birds, his own wild spirit leaped to greet them, as if he was about to join them on their timeless journeying.

  Closer to his base were the flights of the resident urban birds: the jackdaws that roosted in the parkland trees, the starlings that slept in the old warehouses by the river and the pigeons that lived in his block and in the tower of All Saints church half a mile away.

  The arrival in the city centre of a pair of peregrine falcons had caused some excitement. They had made their home on the sheltered southern side of the roof of a

  redundant church that stood between his block and All Saints. The parent birds were raising offspring, and he had watched as the male picked off pigeons in mid-air on their perilous journey from All Saints' tower to the railway station roof.

  He felt a keen affinity with the peregrines, while in his imagination the hapless

  pigeons were the members of the settled world, the gorgios, slow-moving and sluggish-witted.

  Members of the settled world surrounded folk like him with as many laws and petty regulations as they could. They tried to shackle the gypsy traveller because they couldn't tame him. So the traveller had no choice but to seize his chances or succumb to the pressure to conform. He had decided long ago that he was never going to give in.

  Luke listened to the Scotsman's voice on the other end of the phone telling him how

  hard life was these days and how resourceful a dealer in "quality merchandise" had to be merely to stay alive. There was nothing in Tam's spiel he hadn't heard before. It was Tam's long-winded way of softening him up for some favour or risky project from which they would both make enough money to put their feet up for six months "in Scarborough or Skegness."

  As far as Luke knew, the antiques dealer had never been to either town. But Tam, like every born hustler, could never stop working, not for six months or even six hours. Luke imagined the man even dreamed of cutting deals in his sleep.

  It was true he had made a lot of money with Tam, most of which he had used to buy pasture land that he rented out to other gypsy travellers for rough grazing. He had even bought a small hill farm in the Welsh Marches, where his own horses were cared for by an extended family of traveller craftsmen who had rent-free use of the buildings.

  But he had no interest in money for its own sake, and to cap it all, he had developed a growing dislike for the Scotsman. He had come to the conclusion that it was impossible to believe a word the dealer said, even to someone like himself, who had known him for over a decade. When Tam got around to asking about his state of health, he was ready with his own stock reply.

  "Me? Not good, mush. This kind o' work's getting too dodgy. Last time, if you care to recall, I almost got nicked… I know there'll be a moon, but I ain't up for it tonight… You want to find a younger guy to do this sort o' work."

  While Tam continued persuading, Luke reached on to a shelf for a can of beer. He put the phone on the window ledge and took a long swig. He almost choked.

  "How much?… You're taking the piss, mush—there ain't such a figure! We gonna be nicking an old master? You know some Chinese billionaire buyers now, right?"

  He took another swig of beer as Tam continued his sales talk. Eventually, as usual, Luke's curiosity got the better of him.

  "Okay, I'll come down. But no promises! I don't care if it's an easy climb or not. You give me something tonight, mush, if it's gonna pay so much… 20K in advance, right? Make damn sure you've got it! You will? Okay, see you later."

  He rang off, drank his beer and stared from the window. He shouldn't have agreed. Tam McBride was trouble. He was taking bigger and bigger risks—or, truth be told, the cunning dealer was expecting that he would take the risks for him. And Tam knew too many dangerous people who could brush a poor burglar aside like a flea on a fox's ear if things went wrong. But where the dealer was concerned, there was always a challenge to be faced and a stack of money to be made. Maybe he'd be able to sign off on that derelict North Pennine hill farm only forty miles from Appleby…

  3

  An hour later, after he had been out to his favourite diner for a big fry-up and a mug of tea, Luke began to organize himself for the night to come. He took items from the shelves and laid them out on his bed in reverse order of requirement: packing straw, soft cloths, lock pickers, a small torch, flat-bladed knives, a small screwdriver, a coiled nylon rope, a balaclava and a pair of supple leather gloves. He checked the items thoroughly, almost reverentially. His life might depend on some of them.

  He put on a light showerproof zip-up jacket with elasticated cuffs, then rehearsed swinging his frameless rucksack on to his back with a ten-kilo weight inside and snapping the waistband strap closed. The movement required perfect balance. He couldn't risk damage to items in the rucksack, but he might have to leave in a hurry.

  With great care, he placed his gear in the rucksack, the small items in the side pockets and the rest in the body of the bag. Finally he took a pair of surgical gloves, folded one inside the other, then put them in his inside jacket pocket. He checked to make sure he had not forgotten anything—then, clad in the perfect disguise of hard hat and overalls, left by the rusting fire escape. A workman checking the state of the building was not likely to arouse much curiosity.

  By six o'clock he was driving his old Renault Estate through an area of darkened yards and warehouses in a rundown industrial sector by a disused railway siding. He could hear the constant wail of police sirens through his open driver's window. They filled him, as always, with a toxic mix of dread and detestation.

  Most of the businesses on the industrial estate had either moved or gone bust in the recession, giving the area the appearance of an abandoned wasteland. He pulled up outside Tam's yard and stared at the fancy carved sign above the double gates:

  T McBRIDE

  ANTIQUES DEALER & FURNITURE RESTORER

  The sign was no more than a front. Very little dealing and no restoration work at all

  had ever occurred in the place. It was like the whole of Tam's life—a facade, behind which lay a world of trickery and deception. He wondered what would be left in the dealer’s character when all the subterfuge had been removed. Nothing perhaps. Silence. A black hole.

  Luke sat a moment, beset by fresh doubts. He had the disconcerting feeling that it

  would be a very long time before he came that way again, if ever. Would he be caught tonight for the first time and get five years in jail? Would he be killed? But his curiosity got the better of him again. He took out his mobile and stared at it as if it was an unexploded bomb, then he tapped in Tam's number and announced his presence.

  The gates opened remotely, and Luke drove into the yard. He pulled past a range of disused outbuildings and stopped by a shabby door marked OFFICE. The place looked even more derelict than the last time he visited, designed to support Tam's claim, should the Revenue guys start pressuring him, that he had given up the antiques trade and was getting used to retirement.

  Nothing much had changed in Tam's office, either. There was a scattering of the usual antiques dotted about—odd items of porcelain, glassware, bronzes and silver—that gave the impression of a film set that could be packed up and disappeared in minutes.

  Anything of real value was kept elsewhere, in a location known only to the cunning dealer himself.

  Tam, at fifty-five, was a thickset, tough-looking Scot with a mass of greyi
ng curly hair and florid features. He sat at his desk, a stack of out-of-date invoices at his elbow, held down by a damaged pseudo-Greek bust.

  “Spring Heeled Luke,” Tam grinned, "my lucky charm! Glad ye could find time to drop by

  Something wasn't right, Luke could sense it. He was picking up a bad vibe. "Ain't

  gonna be lucky tonight, Tam. Bad omens—gavvers everywhere."

  "The po-liss, eh?" Tam emphasised the first syllable. His grin slipped slyly sideways. "And who, I'm wondering, would they be after?" He fixed Luke with a questioning glance.

  Luke was used to the Scotsman's attempts at unsettling humour. But he was not going to be fazed. "Dunno, Tam. Some tricky dealer like you mebbe."

  The Scotsman laughed. "That's more like it. If ye canna conjure a joke, ye's unfit for purpose." He watched Luke pacing restlessly around the room. "It's the past that's vexing ye still, is it, laddie?" The Scotsman fashioned a look of feigned sympathy.

  Luke shrugged. "What if it is?" But it wasn't the past that was unsettling him. It was more like a premonition. Was he losing his nerve, or was he developing second sight? But now Tam had mentioned it, images of the lying police officer Nigel Hirst rushed into his mind. Hirst with his sneers and his talk of "filthy gyppos."

  Tam poured his companion a mug of coffee. "Whisht. Clear your head. Ye canna live wi' ghaists at your elbow."

  For a moment Tam seemed to be genuinely sympathetic. How much did he know of the past, Luke wondered? Did he know who had started the trailer fire? Did he know why? But he was aware if he asked him the slippery Scot would insult him with denials.

  He sat on the only other chair in the room and drank the offered coffee. He disliked the stuff, preferring tea like most gypsy travellers, but decided to avoid further friction. He needed to relax, or the task ahead of him might prove to be his last.

  * * *

  Tam's Volvo Estate moved slowly through the quiet suburban streets of a small county town forty miles to the north of London. Could be anywhere, Luke thought. Anonymous dormitory England.

  His restlessness and anxiety had left him at last. He could no longer hear police

  sirens, which always reminded him of the tragedy in his life and its unsatisfactory

  conclusion. He felt calm, his innate curiosity beginning to stir as he wondered about the shape of the night that lay ahead of him.

  "What's so special about this job?" He didn't expect an entirely honest reply.

  Tam smiled. "I was hoping ye'd get round to showing an interest. We're paying a call on a rich ex-con. He's a top guy. Speciality's antique smuggling. Likes to get hold o' stuff that's still rare. Guess it makes him feel special. Some call him eccentric. Others just say he's a twisted sense o' humour. By common consent he's a bit of a psycho. Lives on his own. Hates people."

  "Sounds like you."

  The Scotsman laughed. "That's the spirit, laddie! Takes one to know one!"

  "What's he got?"

  Tam was grinning widely now. "Treasures, my friend! Vases. Seal stones. Bronzes. Jewellery. Stuff from Egypt. A load o' loot from museums in Iraq." He paused for dramatic effect. "But they're not what we're after now."

  Luke was intrigued. He realized Tam had him well and truly hooked. "What then? I can't get a Turner landscape into my backpack!"

  "Whisht! We're after Ming ch'i, laddie. Spirit objects—embodiments o' spirit."

  "You sound like a goddamn sales catalogue!"

  Tam elaborated. "T'ang tomb figures to me and ye. He's a cabinet full. But we just want the horses."

  "Why the horses?" Luke asked in puzzlement.

  "My client believes in 'em. He's a horsey guy. He thinks they'll bring him good luck."

  "He's a superstitious fella."

  "Guess he is."

  "He got a name?"

  Tam shook his head. "Just ye bother about the horses, laddie!"

  That subject was evidently closed. "So what's the deal?"

  "C.O.D. And that's up to ye."

  "I need an advance. And that's down to you!"

  Tam feigned exasperation. "Whisht, laddie! Ye'll be paid."

  "Ten percent tonight, Tam. We agreed. How do I know I'll see another penny? I'm taking the risk here, y'know!"

  "Dinna fret. Ye'll be able to retire to Skeggy on this. Trust me."

  "Stuff Skeggy! You should've got a career as a stand-up!"

  They drove on in silence for five minutes. Luke's mind was focused, and he needed answers.

  "What's the get-in?"

  Tam turned the Volvo on to a leafy minor road. "Gable end wall. On'y bit that isna watched. Ye've done harder."

  "One guy? Only one? You sure?"

  Tam showed signs of impatience. Luke was unable to tell if they were genuine or for effect.

  "Give me some credit, laddie! The guy sleeps alone in the first floor back. Not even a paid-for escort. He has his London associates round but only at weekends. Most rooms are unused."

  Luke's mind flooded with doubt. "How d'you know all this?"

  "I ken the body who installed the security."

  "How come? A long way out o' your field, ain't it?"

  "I bought his gambling debts. Small stuff really. But now, unofficially, he works for me."

  That was as much as Luke could get out of the Scotsman. He would have to be content or call it off.

  The Volvo entered a village main street. Expensive properties, a few newly built but most older, lined both sides of the road. All were in darkness. The car clock showed 1.45 a.m. Tam drove more slowly, checking his mirrors, glancing keenly out of the windows. Luke leaned forward, attentive.

  "I've changed my mind, Tam. There'll be cameras everywhere round here. Every brick's a gold bar! It's too much risk."

  "Risk?" Tam exclaimed. "What about me? I'm a businessman!" His tone softened. "Don't ye worry, laddie, our guy has no cameras on the end wall, on'y front and back."

  The Volvo pulled into a field lane and stopped in the cover of trees. Its headlights were doused. As if synchronized, the full moon slid free from a bank of cumulus.

  Tam pointed to a large detached property that stood at the far side of a small paddock. "That's the one."

  A minute later, Luke's shadowy figure left the car.

  4

  Luke crossed the paddock, vaulted a post-and-rail fence, then found himself in the large back garden of the old three-storey brick-built manor house. From experience he guessed the building's date at around 1700-1710. He could see in the moonlight that the property stood in extensive grounds, with lawns, ranges of outbuildings and borders filled with low-maintenance shrubs. Wide gravel paths led around to the front of the house. As he drew closer, he could see that the place had a double-pitched roof.

  Following Tam's advice, he moved away from the back of the house where there were supposed to be surveillance cameras, although he was unable for the life of him to spot any. He supposed he must be too far back to see them, but he began to wonder if the Scotsman had been economical with the truth. Looking at the layout of the property, the logical place for cameras was on the northwest and southwest corners of the house, covering the back, front and western gable end wall. The eastern end of the house was attached to a range of outbuildings and was too exposed to be approached. He was wary of cameras. They were the one and only cause of his unfortunate police reputation.

  He came closer, crouching among the bushes and studying the gable end wall in the moonlight. The wall itself was in shadow, a problem only for gorgios with no night vision. But it was obvious now that there were no motion-sensitive lights and no cameras fixed to the house walls. How the hell was the property protected? He cursed Tam under his breath. What else had the slippery Scot lied about? He began to have serious misgivings about the entire business, but the lure of large profit kept him focused. When he was paid for the heist, he would spend a few days exploring the potential of that hill farm.

  First he had to decide if the climb was possible. After five minutes' examination
, he decided there was only one route, and even that might prove too difficult. Damn that greedy oat-brained Scot! He had every right to back out, telling Tam the wall was unclimbable.

  But, as so often before, a part of him refused to give in. It wasn't that he had a reputation to uphold, because very few people actually knew he was involved in this line of

  work—it was all supposition—and the few who did know kept the knowledge to themselves, not wanting to lose a man with such skills to punters with deeper pockets.

  It was a personal thing. He was proud that he could achieve climbs that had defeated the best cat burglars. Occasionally he'd had to resort to rock-climbers' gear, but mostly his free-climbing skills relied solely on speed, strength and agility.

  This was going to be one of those climbs. Tightening the rucksack waistband, he began to work his way up the wall via drainpipes and window architecture. He found a few good finger holds where loose mortar had come adrift and scratched out a couple more with the small screwdriver hooked to his jacket collar. He could have saved himself the forty-foot climb by breaking what he assumed was a small bathroom window on the first floor, but he resisted the temptation. The window would almost certainly be wired.

  He could have used a grappling hook. But he had learned from past experience that the higher you climbed the more unreliable the brickwork became on a property of this age. If it gave way, all you could do was go down. He had only fallen three times in the last ten years, but each time he had managed, parkour-style, to roll through the fall upon landing, saving himself broken limbs and a terminated career.

  As he reached the gully between the double-pitches of the roof, he lost his grip on

  a loose, unmortared coping stone and had to hang by one hand for a half minute while he shifted his weight so he could grab a rainwater hopper to save himself. He'd had these moments before, and his pulse hardly registered the danger. Then he was into the gully, getting his breath back and refocusing.