by Ian Taylor
They sat in Clive's Range Rover at the foot of the main steps with Samantha behind the wheel. Phil saw them off, keeping up his image of the attentive host. Clive looked at the headless statuary standing on each side of the steps. They seemed bizarre and even macabre under the outside lights.
"What happened to your statues?" he asked with puzzled amusement.
"Some drunken idiot took a dislike to them," Phil replied with a grin. "I'll be getting some new ones made to replace them."
Clive smiled. "Will they be drunk-proof?"
"I'll be having them made of tungsten steel," Phil replied. He hardly cared what he said about them anymore.
Clive couldn't think of a reply to Phil's unexpected comment. He was saved by Samantha revving the engine impatiently. "We'll be off then, Phil. Thanks for a very fine evening." He heard a chuckle of amusement—or was it contempt?—escape from the lips of his driver.
Phil waved them off. "Look in on Good Times for me, Clive!"
Clive waved acknowledgement. Phil watched the Range Rover pull away down the drive and suddenly felt intolerably lonely. He didn't have any real friends; he just had money. If he went bust tomorrow, he'd be no one. Lucky Phil Yates would not be gracing his hangers-on with any more reflected glamour. He would be remembered for less than fifteen minutes. The name of his horse would outlast his own.
Sy and Farley noted the farewells from the bushes at the side of the drive. Farley's lurcher bitch watched silently with them.
"Luke will have seen 'em leave. It's time we made our move," Sy decided. "Hope Royston and Bennett know it's time they took over out here."
They melted into the darkness. As they made their way through the dancing moon- shadows at the back of the house, Kingsley silently joined them.
"We're all here," Kingsley whispered. "We locked up the farmhouse and came in the Land Rover. Luke phoned us to say we might be wanted here and to bring the farm vehicle."
"Where are those two gorgios?" Sy asked.
"Chasing mullos in the bushes back there." Kingsley pointed. "It's Royston and Bennett having a laugh. Luke told me he's going in and he'll open the back door soon as he can. We'll leave the two gorgios to Royston and Bennett."
"They're getting motto in the big room," Farley said. "We could get in the house and they wouldn't know we were there."
"Where's the bike?" Sy asked.
"In the bushes at the top of the drive all ready for you."
"And the truck?"
"In the trees opposite the gateway with the pickup."
"Right. I'm away on the drom with the pickup," Sy announced. "Farley will be with the truck. See you later, mush."
Sy and Farley vanished into the night. Kingsley waited patiently by the back door.
* * *
Luke entered the first floor of the house by roping himself to a chimney and abseiling across the housefront to an open window. Once inside, he retrieved the rope in case anyone spotted it. He had only a general idea of what was happening outside, as it was far too risky to make any but the most urgent phone calls. These were moments when a deeper level of awareness took over. The gorgio world called it telepathy. But it wasn't just a mind thing, it was a gut thing, a knowing, developed only in those who lived dangerously.
He found himself in a bathroom that led directly into Phil Yates' bedroom, which was obvious because of the clothes. He sat on the bed and chanced a quick call to Sy, who briefed him on the situation in the grounds.
He located the back stairs, went down and opened the door to the rear yard. Kingsley was waiting for him.
"What d'you want me to do?" Kingsley asked.
"Wait here. I'll text you ‘- “ok “when I want you with me."
Then Luke was gone back upstairs to explore the bedrooms. He had to find Cath and Angie and get them back to the farm where they might be safe. Anything could happen now at Birch Hall and he didn't want them involved.
But he couldn't find them.
A search of the top floor revealed a number of empty rooms that had once been servants' quarters. They contained a few stored items of furniture and a half-dozen paintings covered with cloths. Returning to the first floor, he looked in all the rooms. There was nothing remarkable in them except for the two handguns he found in the bedside drawers of the two occupied bedrooms, which he had already identified as Phil's and Harry's. The guns were both fully loaded. He put them into the side pockets of the small rucksack he was wearing, then proceeded to the last room on the landing, near the head of the main staircase.
The door was locked. His pulse quickened—this must be where Phil had put Cath and Angie. He pressed his ear to the woodwork, as the noise from the ground floor was growing louder, Green, Green Grass of Home followed by Moon River drifting up the stairs.
But yes, there it was: a female voice, whimpering, pleading, crying.
* * *
Hirst and the Latvian girl lay naked on the bed, engaged in a sado-masochistic sex act. The girl's clothes were scattered on the floor and her hands were tied to the bedhead. Hirst's suit was casually tossed over a small bedroom armchair, his shoulder holster and service weapon lying on top of a tallboy.
The girl, in pain, began to weep."No, no!" She began to cry more loudly. "You stop
now. You stop please!"
Hirst slapped her face, which made her weep even more.
"Cry all you want, girlie," Hirst laughed. "The more the better!" He slapped her again much harder. The girl screamed.
Luke, who had found an adjoining bathroom that he guessed had once been a dressing room with a separate entrance from the landing, appeared in the communicating doorway. There was no sign of Cath and Angie, but he recognised Hirst at once
"Having fun?"
Hirst froze at the sound of Luke's voice. He leaped from the bed, aiming an arcing fist at Luke's head. Luke stepped back and cracked Hirst on the jaw, the power of the blow increased by the detective's forward momentum. Hirst crashed to the floor as Luke whipped out his knife and cut the girl's bonds.
Hirst dragged himself to his feet. "Who the fuck are you?" he snarled, glaring at the dark-skinned intruder.
Luke kept the Latvian girl behind him, shielding her from further harm. "A mullo from the past. And you're that criminal gavver Nigel Hirst."
"Luke Smith!" Hirst spat the words out as if they had burned his tongue.
Luke tossed his knife in the air and caught it again, tempting the detective into making a move. But Hirst, for the moment, seemed to prefer to talk.
"It's Phil Yates you want, not me. He was the one who burned your trailer."
Luke showed no emotion. "I'll get round to him later."
"What d'you want with me?"
"Justice. You did the driving, you were involved, so you pay the price."
As they talked, Luke watched Hirst's eyes. He saw them shift to the left towards his handgun on the tallboy. The gavver was about to make his move, but Luke was ready.
Before either of them could do anything, a shot rang out, seeming deafeningly loud in the confines of the bedroom. Hirst fell backwards against the dressing table. A glance was enough to tell Luke that the man was dead, shot in the head midway between the eyes.
He coaxed Hirst's service weapon from the two-handed grip of the Latvian girl, who had calmly removed it and taken revenge for them both. It was no chance shot, either—Luke realised the girl knew how to shoot. He texted "ok" to Kingsley, then opened the bedroom door. The next moment Kingsley stepped into room.
"That was quick," Kingsley remarked drily, looking at Hirst's body. "Who's the rakli?"
Luke wiped the girl's fingerprints from the gun using Hirst's pristine pocket handkerchief. "She needs our protection. What vehicle can we spare?"
"Only the farm Land Rover," Kingsley replied.
Luke thought a moment. "It's a good thing we've got it. Get Minnie and May to take the rakli back to Cuckoo Nest and stay with her. The rest of us have everything still to do here. And it's far too dan
gerous for raklies—we don't want any more womenfolk taken prisoner."
"It wasn't too dangerous for this one!" Kingsley indicated the Latvian girl.
"That gavver was careless," Luke said. "Others might not be."
He tried to explain to the Latvian girl that she would be safe with them but was
surprised when she showed resistance.
"She thinks all guys are monsters," Kingsley remarked.
Luke recalled the tales he had heard at horse fairs and traveller gatherings in the recent past of French and other European gypsies getting their girls pregnant and selling the offspring to childless couples for anything from five to fifty grand. Gypsy traveller babies were good-looking, and there was a ready market. There were other stories almost too harrowing to believe. That men of the kaulo ratti had to resort to extremes like this filled him with despair.
"You must be with us," he told the girl. "If the police catch you, they'll send you back to your country. Then the bad guys will get you and bring you here again.”
Something in the earnestness of his manner must have convinced her. She looked trustingly into his eyes. "Okay. I go with you." She began to get dressed. He would have to tell Taiso what had happened and leave the girl's fate in his hands.
Luke arranged Hirst's body on the bed and placed the handgun in his outstretched
fingers. It was not a convincing suicide, but there was nothing more he could do for now.
Then he wiped any surface the girl might have touched to remove her fingerprints—and also his own. Phil or Harry or both of them were running a prostitute racket, and he had to find out more. He guessed the girl's passport would be locked away in Phil's office.
"Your friends, the other girls—where are they?" he asked the Latvian.
"In big house in city."
"How many?"
The girl held up six fingers.
Luke was repelled by this information to such an extent that he felt defiled just being in a house owned by such men. And this dead cop had been in on it too. If he could locate the girls' passports, who would he give them to? Maybe he should try to free the girls himself. But then what? He couldn't find hiding places for them all—and there was a limit to Taiso's tolerance.
He was unable to get more out of the Latvian, and Kingsley was impatient to leave. As they made their way along the landing and down the back stairs, the strains of For He's A Jolly Good Fellow drifted through the house.
Hirst was dead and a young girl had been saved, but where were Cath and Angie? Was there a basement in the place? Were they locked in the ice house? He was at a loss where to search for them next.
24
Brian and Steve walked briskly past the shrubberies at the back of the Hall. They had wasted half an hour being led a frustrating dance by foxes in the trees at the back of the garages that they had mistaken for intruders. Without the dogs, of course, it was near impossible to tell the difference. That the foxes were really gypsies had never occurred to them.
"That wind's getting stronger," Brian observed. "You could hide an entire platoon out here and we wouldn't hear a thing."
"That suggests to me that those farm women can scream all they like and no one will notice,” Steve said with a laugh. “We should visit ‘em now, while they’re all pie-eyed in the Hall.”
They suddenly found themselves confronted by two shadowy figures dressed in dark clothing and wearing cat masks. The element of surprise worked to the figures' advantage. Before the minders could make a move, Royston and Bennett had them hooded and tranquillized. They took their handguns, bound the minders' wrists and ankles and gaffer-taped their mouths for good measure. Then they rolled them unceremoniously into the shrubbery.
* * *
Unknown to Royston and Bennett, Cath and Angie were still tied to wall fittings in the outbuilding a mere one hundred yards away. Cath seemed unconscious, her head slumped sideways. Angie tussled with her bonds, got a hand free and removed her gag.
"Mam? Mam!"
Cath did not respond.
Angie freed her other hand and began untying the cords around Cath's wrists. "Mam—speak to me!" As she unfastened the last of Cath's bonds, her mother fell to the floor. Angie knelt beside her. "Mam—wake up!"
Cath was dehydrated and unconscious. Angie felt her way to the door but found it was locked. Unable to find the light switch, she hammered on the door with her fists and shouted: "Help! Help! Somebody help me!" But her cries, like so much litter, were carried away by the indifferent wind.
The effort of shouting was too much for her dry throat and resulted in a coughing fit. When she had recovered, she knelt by her mother again and tried to rouse her. Cath didn’t respond. Angie felt her mother’s hands and forearms. They were cold. Was her mother dying
Water, she thought, I must find water! Although she searched the walls by touch and at last located the light switch, she found no water anywhere in the building, no tap, no sink or cistern. She panicked and beat again on the door, but as before, there was no response from outside.
Blood, she thought. Blood! She pricked her finger on a hairgrip and smeared the slow trickle on her mother's lips. It was better than nothing, but still not enough. Her mother's lips were not as dry, but she made no attempt to swallow the blood. Water! she screamed to herself. Water! Water! Water! But the building was as dry as the central Sahara.
She sat on the floor and leaned back against the wall, then pulled her mother against her and cradled her head like a sleeping child's. At least she could try to keep her mother warm. Sometime soon a rescuer would come.
She had to believe it or succumb to despair. She realised it was night time, as the few tiny cracks around the doorframe no longer showed up as they had earlier. No one would come to rescue them at night.
Hope vanished. Her spirits dropped like stones into an abyss. Their only visitor would be Phil Yates with his gun.
* * *
Phil hurried into his office and went to his wall safe. Before he could tap in the code, his
mobile rang.
"Clive—what's up?"
Clive explained that he had gone home, made himself a strong coffee, then walked across the yard to the stable block that was hidden from his line of sight behind the feed store and a range of garages. To his horror, he found that the padlock securing the door of the stable block had been severed with a bolt cutter and the loose box that should have contained Good Times was empty. He had yard lights but no cameras, so there wasn't going to be any visual evidence of the thieves.
"Someone either knew we'd be out or simply got lucky." This was an explanation that covered most possibilities, but neither he nor Phil were thinking clearly.
"Christ!" Phil exclaimed. "I'm on my way!"
"We're not going to find him in the middle of the night!" Clive objected. "He could be miles away by now."
"I'm coming anyway. Why don't you phone the police?"
"I will. But they won't turn up till daylight, and they might not be interested in a stolen horse, no matter how valuable it is." But he was talking to no one. Phil had already rung off.
As Phil ended the call, he saw the figurine of a T'ang horse catching the moonlight in the centre of his desk. He approached the figurine in disbelief and stared at it, as a sensation like ice-cold water trickled from the back of his neck all the way down his spine.
How could a figurine possibly be here? What did it mean? Good Times was missing and had been replaced by a T'ang horse! What kind of diabolical magic was this? The horse's expression—the turn of the head, that eye, those teeth!—seemed to be mocking him.
Was it taking its revenge because he hadn't asked permission to become its new owner but instead had shut it away out of sight like a prisoner in a dungeon? There was more going on here than could be explained by mere logic. He had caught his foot in an invisible tripwire that had awoken the world of sympathetic magic! When did this happen? Where? How?
He left the office and burst into the drawing
room, where Harry was stuffing the packaging from his gifts into a bin bag and Dot was dozing on a sofa.
"Who the hell's been into my office?"
"No one," Harry replied. "You locked the door—I saw you. Didn't you have to unlock it to get in?"
Of course he had. Or had he? He couldn't remember. For a moment Phil felt his carefully managed world was beginning to slip away from him. He banished the disturbing notion from his mind. "I thought you locked those T'ang horses in the old ice house?"
"So did I," Harry replied.
"One's got out!"
Harry laughed. "Well, you said yourself they're supposed to have magical powers. You put it in the office, Phil. You must have done it in your sleep." At least it was a change from screwing Maureen.
"I did not!" For a moment Phil was unsure. But no. No. If he was sleepwalking, he would have realised. "I did not, I tell you!"
Phil's mind was leaping from one nightmare scenario to another; he couldn't control it. Was Harry taking the piss—had he put the horse there himself? He knew where the key to the ice house was kept…
"Good Times is gone! I'll be back later." He made for the door. Harry didn't offer to help.
"Phil!" Dot called after him. "What the hell are you putting horses in the ice house for?"
He ignored her and hurried from the room.
"He never ran after me that fast!" Dot poured herself a large whisky. She sagged
forlornly on the sofa.
The Mercedes was out the front, but he couldn't remember leaving it there. Had his
possessions taken on a life of their own? Phil leaped into the driver's seat, turned the key and flicked on the headlights. The figurine of a T'ang horse stood in the middle of the drive, turned sideways-on to the car. The figurine glared back in the headlights, revealing the