by Ian Taylor
Cath was impressed with his passion and sense of purpose. "What's your special skill, if you have one?"
He almost laughed. Cat burglar extraordinaire he thought. "I'm good with gryes. I think I'm gonna stick with that." He pulled a sombre face. "I was gonna look at a little farm up in the hills that's for sale." He shrugged. "Guess I didn't make it."
Cath prepared tea with the spare electric kettle and ceramic teapot she had brought from the farmhouse. He had answered a few of her questions, but there were more she needed to ask. Why was he on the run? What had he been doing to have the police chasing him? Was he dangerous? Was he violent? Should she keep Angie away from him?
She gave him a key to the cottage, and they left him drinking his tea. Those questions would have to wait for another day.
* * *
Phil Yates was up at first light as usual. He left Dot sleeping and, in his robe and slippers, padded downstairs through the silent house to his office on the ground floor at the back of the property. It had once been the billiards room, but Phil had got rid of the carpets and the embossed wallpaper, preferring a more clinical, sharp-edged business environment.
He and Harry had carried the crates containing the T'ang horses into the office and locked them in before joining their wives in the dining room for dinner, as he had got used to calling their evening meal. He had wanted to unpack the horses straight after they had
eaten but had to delay the longed-for moment due to other business. There were
arrangements to make for the race meeting on Saturday and a long call to Clive about the
fitness of the three horses he was entering. Then, finally, he had spoken with Detective Inspector Nigel Hirst.
Hirst informed him of the accident and the escape of Luke Smith who, at the time, was being brought in for questioning in relation to the theft of "certain valuable artefacts" and the bizarre death of their owner. "A case of the biter bit if ever there was."
"Is it the Luke Smith?" Phil had asked, a sickening feeling in his stomach, expecting the detective to tell him the worst.
"I don't know," Hirst had replied. "I'm doing my best to find out. But there's that many filthy gyppos with the same goddamn surname it's going to take a while. I'll get back to you when I know for certain."
"You're a gambling man, Nige, what are the odds it's him?"
"I'd say fifty-fifty, no more, no less at this stage."
Phil had to make do with that. But his confrontation with Sy Boswell and Tam's revelation had awoken the ghosts of the past and increased his paranoia. He had suffered an unsettled night. But this morning, in the pre-dawn quiet, he felt calm at last as he unlocked the office and took the T'ang horses from their packaging.
There they were: four beauties that stood side by side on his desk, reflecting the first of the daylight coming in through the window that almost seemed to bring them to life. He pulled up a chair and sat for a long time gloating over his possessions. They were his now, four magical beings to place around his property to keep him and his world safe. In the distant past kings and tribal chiefs had used the severed heads of enemies for the task of protection. Magical horses, Phil felt, was a far more civilised way.
But the joyful experience had been marred. He could live with the fact that Tam
McBride knew that the horses were in his possession because Tam was too afraid to
breathe a word. It was the cat burglar he had used that had ruined the experience—and until Hirst confirmed his identity he could not begin to enjoy his new treasures.
He put the horses back in their crates and almost wept with disappointment and frustration. He had to know who the burglar was. He had to find out so that, if necessary, he could be removed. Only then could he begin fully to appreciate the wonder of his new possessions.
As he locked the office door he realised his hands were shaking. Damn that burglar, he thought. Whoever it was, he had to be got rid of. And soon. He couldn't take any chances.
* * *
Tam McBride was woken by the pain in his knees. The bullets had been removed and he had been bandaged up, but then he had to ask the kindly paramedic if he thought it likely he would ever walk again.
"You need to go to a physio," the paramedic had told him. "I'll give you her phone number. She'll help you off the record, but you'll need a full wallet."
In spite of the pain—or perhaps because of it—Tam was angry. What had been the biggest single heist of his long career, one that would provide the final payment for his retirement to the Mediterranean island of his dreams, had become the worst of all possible nightmares. He was lame and an invalid and was under sentence of death.
He had to find Luke Smith. Then, perhaps, he could persuade Phil Yates to pay him for the T'ang horses. If he failed he would have to flee, his retirement plans unrealized—and just hope Phil wouldn't send a hitman after him. But Phil Yates had a long memory, and he was a man who bore grudges. One day, as he was having breakfast in some rundown eatery in downtown Marseilles, a body could pull up on a motorcycle and pop him as casually as a tin man on a fairground shooting stall.
He had to find Luke Smith. But he couldn't even begin the quest until he was well
enough to drive again. And where would he look? He would have to begin by mixing in
gypsy traveller circles—but if Luke got to know he was chasing him, his own life would be under threat from any young Rom with a clan reputation to make. And he only had till midsummer, less than five short weeks away.
Tam swallowed two painkillers with a glass of whisky. He cursed his unlucky fate. But he wanted more than anything to retire with dignity. He wanted to live on his chosen sun-drenched island. He didn't want to be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his brief life. He had to find Luke Smith. And there was only one man he could turn to in his plight: his dangerous but principled twin brother, Malcolm.
* * *
An hour after sunrise, Cath, sweating from her labours, stepped out of the Cuckoo Nest pig unit. She took off her face mask and gloves. She could hear Charlie's saw blades already running and guessed he was busy with a big order.
She stared thoughtfully across the yard towards the cottages. If the gypsy traveller was going to be hanging around until his knee was fully mended, she had to get to know him better.
He had not left the key she had given him in the lock, so she used her own. Did he expect her to be bringing him breakfast? If so, he would have to wait. To her surprise she heard footsteps behind her. Turning in the doorway she saw Angie approaching with food on a tray.
"Bacon, eggs and fried bread," her daughter announced with a grin. "A breakfast fit for any traveller."
"That's as far as you go," Cath said with a frown. "I'll take it from here." She cut Angie off before she could object. "You're not to be alone with him till we know more about him. I'd like you to make a start on the milking. I'll join you as soon as I can."
Angie frowned. "When's that?"
"Soon."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the best you're going to get."
Cath took the tray from her scowling daughter and waited to make sure she was heading for the milking parlour, then she entered the cottage. Luke seemed not to have
heard their voices. He was sitting in the window seat watching an intercity train as it hurtled by. Although, as far as she could tell, she had made no sound, he must have
sensed her behind him. He turned quickly, moving away from the window, his hand on the knife on his belt.
"Breakfast," she said, smiling. "How's the knee?"
He returned her smile, quite ingenuously, she thought with a sense of relief.
He shrugged. "It woke me in the night, but I got back to sleep."
"You should lie flat as much as you can. It'll heal faster."
He smiled again. "Like I said, I like to see stuff on the move. It gives me good vibes. I just don't see why these trains need to go so fast."
She laughed. "I think it'
s part of our obsession with conquering time."
She put the tray on the window seat, then went into the kitchen and made tea for them both. When she returned he was already halfway through his meal.
"This food's good! You rear it yourself?" Again the open, uncomplicated smile.
"The eggs and meat are ours. The bread's bought from a local baker."
"You do okay. You got a good life. I live mostly on beer and takeaways." He drained and refilled his mug of tea. "You two lovely ladies on your own?"
His question seemed honest enough. Did he expect an equally frank reply? Was he as genuinely friendly as he appeared, or was he a skilled manipulator? She decided to tell him the truth, hoping she wouldn't live to regret it.
"Matt, my husband, fell off a stack three years back and broke his neck."
"Jesus!" he exclaimed. "But the two of you can still run the place?"
She pulled a face. "It's not been easy."
He topped up his tea, left his empty plate on the window seat and sat opposite her on the other dining chair. He accepted one of her cigarettes and they smoked a while in silence.
"I never buy them myself," he admitted. "I'm not a habit kinda guy. I save every
penny so I can buy land. If you've a map of England in your house I can show you the places where I've bought stuff. The more I buy, the better chance my folk will have to find somewhere to stop. The way things are now with pollution and all that, I sometimes think the gorgios are gonna sink under it and die out. But we'll still be here. We have to keep up our travellers' skills or we'll go down with 'em."
He had begun to fascinate her. She realised he was a man with a mission. But there was something else about him, something that troubled her, that was dangerous and not at all idealistic.
He was watching her closely. "You won't be a widow long," he said, looking serious.
She felt the sudden intense charge between them, the power in his observation. "You telling my fortune?"
He shrugged and smiled. The moment passed. "It's just a feeling. But I ain't no good at dukkerin. My dai was, God rest her. Couldn't see her own death though."
They were silent again. She studied him as he drank his tea. Then, in one of her rare flashes of intuition, she realised what was bothering her.
"You're looking for someone, aren't you? You're on the hunt."
A sombre cast came over him. Not just in his eyes and face, but his whole being appeared to darken. Even the part of the room where he sat seemed to lose something of its light, as if he was drawing it into himself to nourish his purpose.
"I'm debt collecting."
He didn't elaborate. She felt his energy suddenly turn against her, gently repelling her. She got up to leave, taking the tray with her.
"I'll be back later. Rest. Keep out of sight."
He watched her as she left the room but said nothing more.
* * *
When the goats had been put out to browse, Cath and Angie returned to the farmhouse. Cath washed up Luke's breakfast things while her daughter peeled potatoes for their evening meal.
"You were ages in the cottage," Angie said accusingly. "I thought you must have moved in with him."
"We were just talking. I thought it was a good idea to try to get to know him. He could be with us for a few days."
"And did you…get to know him?"
Cath studied her daughter, picking up a strong impulse of resentment. She chose her words carefully. "Oh, I only broke the ice a little. He was very polite and complimented us on the quality of our food." She thought it wise not to mention that their tenant was on the lookout for someone who owed him money.
"You were a long time breaking the ice. It must have been pretty thick."
Cath found she couldn't keep her perceptions to herself after all; the impressions she had gained during her visit to the cottage had grown stronger as the morning had passed. "I get the strangest feeling about him."
Angie stopped peeling potatoes. "What sort of feeling?" Her tone held hints of alarm and curiosity.
"I don't know… Like it wasn't just chance that brought him here. Like it was…" She searched for the word. "Like it was fate."
Angie turned to face her mother. "What are you trying to say?"
"I'm not sure yet. It just seems we've got caught up in unfinished business."
"What business—his or ours?"
"Both."
12
Phil's office was locked and deserted. The filing cabinets, the wall safe, the large desk with
its two laptops and fancy desk lamp and his upholstered office chairs stood in the dusty sunlight that streamed in through the east-facing window. A small dining table and chairs stood to one side of the desk. The fruit boxes containing the T'ang horses were stacked in a corner waiting for their new owner to decide on their future.
Phil and Harry returned from the gallops, went straight into the office and sat at the dining table. Maureen brought them breakfast on the hostess trolley and left without a word, not wishing to encroach on their sombre mood. The two men talked as they ate.
"These T'ang horses… I mean, whose idea was it anyway?" Harry asked in genuine puzzlement, glancing at the boxes in the corner.
"I saw photos of them in an antique collectors' mag," Phil said. "I thought they were beautiful, and I just had to have some for myself, to bring us good luck at the races." He felt it expedient to include Harry, but said nothing about their role as protectors. Harry would have scoffed at that. "I wanted to do a private deal and I asked around. I kept it very hush-hush. It was Tam McBride who located them. He said he could arrange to get them for me."
"He never said anything about them being in a private collection?" Harry asked.
"Not a word. He said it wouldn't be a problem to get hold of some. I thought he was going to buy them. There was no mention of cat burglars and snakes! The first I heard of that was on the TV news! He told me what he thought he'd have to pay, and we agreed a price, giving Tam a bit of profit. It wasn't the money that mattered to me, it was the horses and their magical powers."
"Don't you think too many people know too much about these horses already?" Harry looked Phil squarely in the eye. "I mean, it must be common knowledge on the antique collectors' circuit that they were stolen."
"Too many people know for sure." Phil's face clouded. "We're gonna have to reduce their number."
There was a knock at the door. Harry opened to admit Nigel Hirst.
"Nige!" Phil exclaimed. "Good of you to come so fast!" He gestured at the hostess
trolley. "Grab yourself some breakfast."
"Don't mind if I do." Hirst helped himself to a generous serving of sausages, eggs and toast.
While Hirst ate breakfast, Phil talked on the phone to Clive Fawcett and Harry checked with Brian, the minder, that he was aware he would be accompanying them to the races on Saturday and that they would be staying overnight.
When Hirst had moved on to his second cup of black coffee, Phil felt he'd had enough hospitality. "He's on the run, this gyppo guy? The one you mentioned on the phone last night?"
Hirst's features were set in their habitual expression of bitter distaste. Some who didn't know him would have simply called it a sneer. "He rolled one of our motors. Two of our best officers are in hospital with burns."
"This gyppo guy did that?" Phil asked in surprise.
It seemed that the truth was painful for Hirst to relate. "Well, no, not exactly. Actually they suffered a blowout on a slimy road. We have an eye witness, a local farmer, who saw it all from his tractor cab." He pulled his bitter face. "He didn't do anything to help though, apart from phoning the emergency services."
Phil wasn't sure if Hirst had expected the farmer to risk life and limb. He had a more important question. "You sure this Luke Smith's the one—you know, from back then?"
"He's the same. Fifteen years older, like us all." He smiled crookedly at Phil. "Fifteen years more dangerous."
Phil was starting
to fret. "He's looking for us—I know it! He must have found out what happened. He must have found out about us."
Harry introduced the voice of sanity. "You don't know that, Phil. That gyppo might just want paying for the heist."
Phil seemed unconvinced. "Mebbe… Mebbe not. Do your guys think he was the burglar?"
"I'd say we're ninety-five percent sure," Hirst replied. "He was driving a 4 x 4 BMW registered to a Riley Smith when we picked him up. It was just chance really, and our officers seized the moment. The BMW's completely legit, by the way. We're looking for this Riley guy to bring him in for questioning, but we've had no luck so far. He obviously registered the motor from an address of convenience. It's near impossible to keep tabs on these gyppos. There's still a few of 'em that move easily around the country, in spite of being on our nationwide database. Luke Smith's disappeared, and the BMW's just sitting in our compound. Who knows if anyone will ever claim it? We need to know if this Riley has a father named Ambrose. That'll clinch it. The Luke Smith we picked up will be the burglar and the last man in England you want to meet."
Phil was silent for a while, deep in his thoughts. Hirst helped himself to the last slice of toast while Harry moved to the desk and began work on his laptop. Phil turned to the detective.
"We can't take any chances, Nige. We must assume this guy is the one. We have to act as if he was."