by Ian Taylor
He owned other properties than this, a couple of warehouses, a small block of flats, a few semis and HMOs and a dozen terraced houses, as well as shares in many businesses, but nothing in his property portfolio suited him so well as this: a place in which to vanish and begin a new life. He had no radio or TV, but his assistants updated him on events and brought him a box of new mobile phones. He had spent most of the day talking on them and rearranging his affairs.
His lawyers were liaising with the fire service and were pressing for a decision in the official category of a primary fire in a dwelling that involved fatalities and was caused by unknown factors. But there was still disagreement as to the cause of the blaze. The oil lamp was now considered a secondary factor to arson—but the question was still open as to who started the fire. A fire inspector's decision was pending, but it was hampered by the police murder enquiry. It seemed there would be no decision and no insurance claim any time soon. Phil was furious.
He was troubled by thoughts of the dead. Would he attend their funerals? No, of course not, far too dangerous. The Boswells and the police would be hunting for him. Would he mourn? Yes, he would, but briefly. However, it was a final severance, and there was no point dwelling on what couldn't be changed. He missed Harry's cool head for business, but he would cope. At any rate, his accountant would. He was appalled that the police could think he might have started the fire himself, when it was either Luke Smith or members of the London underworld. But there was nothing he could do to establish his innocence.
He couldn't do anything without money. His bank accounts had been frozen, and the fire insurance seemed a near impossibility. He had other channels of funding, of course, but capital would be slow to accumulate. He had thought that he would go across to Ireland and buy a place as grand as Birch Hall. When he was ready, Good Times would
be shipped over. Then he would start his life again. But at the moment this was a fantasy.
He had toyed with the idea of going to America, but he had no idea about the ease or otherwise of race fixing there. He had blood relations in Ireland. He would be welcome and protected if he threw a bit of money around. His accountant was busy freeing up his offshore funds. But before he could go anywhere he had to clear his name, otherwise he would be travelling in disguise as a wanted man, and Lucky Phil Yates would be history.
He had rushed into the doomed Birch Hall with the intention of taking what he could from the office safe. But by the time he had fought his way through the blazing rooms, he had discovered that gypsies were already there, along with a shadowy army-clad figure, who seemed intent on blowing off the safe door. He had no gun with which to confront them and had been forced to abandon the attempt and escape through a ground floor window. He was furious that gypsies had beaten him to it. Along with the gold and the bonds, there was a small fortune in cash in the safe. One day he would make Luke Smith and those gyppos pay. One day. There had to be justice.
It was three in the afternoon, Good Times’ second exercise hour of the day. At least his handsome chestnut stallion knew who he was! He saddled up and set out across the moor. He was observed by nothing more sinister than nesting curlews and a skylark. Perfect. He had vanished from the world and would rise again, quite literally, like a phoenix from the ashes. All that was missing was a touch of his legendary luck.
Good Times was unusually placid. He didn't notice this at first but as the minutes passed, the feeling crept over him like the invisible early hints that you were coming down with flu. The horse had been fed and rested and groomed after his cross-country race with Luke Smith. He looked to be in his usual healthy condition. But something was missing.
"What's up, boy? Are you poorly?"
The animal's usual response to the tone of his voice was absent: no soft whinnying, no slight shake of the head. He was mystified. By the time he had turned to come back his impressions had clarified. It was as if Good Times was quietly waiting for something. But what?
* * *
Malcolm observed the moortop farm through his field glasses. The Range Rover, under which he had attached a tracking device while it was still on the drive at Birch Hall, was
backed into an open-fronted cart shed attached to the eastern end of the house. The horse trailer that had been used to bring the racehorse had been put into one next to it. He assumed the stable for the horse was at the back of the property, but he would be easily spotted if he tried to get a better view. And he wasn't ready yet to be seen.
It was midsummer and pleasantly warm, even at twelve hundred feet above sea
level. Curlews were piping in the reeds to the south of the house, and a rare skylark was
singing above its nest in the moorland grasses behind him. But the occupant of the house showed little interest in such things. He had spent some time removing items from the Range Rover and carrying them into the property.
He surmised that the occupant was getting stocked up for a long wait. Two young guys had turned up in a Jeep at midday and taken bulky objects, which looked like bedding, into the house. He had wondered if Phil Yates was renting or if he actually owned the place.
An hour's research on his laptop the previous evening, at the end of his third day's surveillance, had put the matter beyond doubt. The farmhouse and two thousand acres of
surrounding moorland was owned by a firm named Midas Holdings, which was itself owned by a succession of shell companies. The ultimate owner of these companies was impossible to trace. The legerdemain of Phil Yates' accountant had obviously been cunningly employed.
Malcolm settled down in the warm moorland grasses to wait. He had noted the times when the young men visited the house, and there were no other callers. It was fitting for his new identity of birdwatcher and conservationist to have the tools of his trade around him: the field glasses, the camera, a backpack full of maps and protein snacks.
True to his new trade, he had to make notes of his observations: the moortop habitat of blanket bog with its variety of plant life, the nesting birds with their numbers of fledglings. The comings and goings of people, if any. He was enjoying himself so much he was tempted to take the life up full time in his retirement. A nice change from shooting people—even recalcitrant farmers.
There was a downside. The moortop was formidably bleak when it rained, and the downpours were heavy. There were no trees to drink up the wet, and the water plummeted down the steep hillsides, a constant threat to the villages below. And who cut down the trees? Answer: the mediaeval landowners, including the Church. Why did they do it? Answer: to turn the hills into sheep runs when wool was a profitable export, evicting all their tenants but the shepherd. He prided himself on his thorough due diligence.
What had happened since those distant times? Shooting estates had taken over—and they required heather, not trees, as cover and food for grouse. And were things likely to change? Not without strenuous persuasion. Fines, financial incentives, lectures from men like himself on the terminal folly of greed.
A figure appeared from the front door of the farmhouse. A small lonely figure in a drab waxed jacket and corduroy cap that stood looking at the uninhabited expanse of the moortop. That man had caused a deal of suffering to others. Now it was going to be his turn to feel pain. Phase One of the levelling had been thoroughly rolled out.
* * *
On the afternoon of the fourth day of his moorland sojourn, Phil exercised, groomed and fed Good Times then closed the stable and went to the house. The horse was still oddly withdrawn, as if he was merely tolerating the presence of his rider. Their lively repartee had completely gone. He couldn't figure it out.
He entered the house by the back door and was unprepared for the figure that sat in the shadows of the small sitting room pointing a gun at him.
"How the hell did you get in?" Phil asked, wondering if he could work his way past the stranger to get his newly acquired revolver from the kitchen drawer.
"A trick o' the trade, Mr Yates," the stranger replied in a thi
ck Scottish accent. "Will ye be seated now sae we can natter."
It wasn't a question but a command. Phil sat by the embers of his wood fire and
waited.
"Ye'll need to put more wood on; we's going to be some wee while."
Phil obeyed. He was unable to make out the stranger's features, but an inner chill spread through him as the voice, though harsher, reminded him of Tam. The house had no
electric power, only bottled gas, so he was unable to flick on a switch to reveal the man's identity.
"Ye'll recall a wee matter o' four T'ang horses, will ye no?" the stranger asked. "My question to ye is: Why did ye want them? Think carefully afore ye reply. I want ye to tell me the truth."
Phil reflected. He had wanted to acquire them because he hoped they would bring him good luck. But to say this to a stranger seemed shallow, even slightly pathetic. And the horses hadn't brought him luck at all but had turned themselves into a curse. How could he explain that they had been contaminated by the hands of a man he feared and detested?
The stranger's voice broke the silence. "Ye's a lang while answering. Mebbe ye didna want them for anything at all. Mebbe ye only wanted them because anither body had them. Am I right?"
"I've nothing to say to you on this subject," Phil managed at last. "My reasons don't concern you."
"Ye's wrang there," the stranger replied sternly. "But we'll leave that question for the
moment and ask anither: Why did ye not wish to buy the T'ang horses? Ye's a wealthy man. I've done a wee bit o' homework, and I ken ye's worth at least twenty Bernies—that's the term my associates use for twenty million quid. Plus the insurance for the house fire if it ever arrives. So why did ye not want to buy them? I think their owner might have been pleased to sell for a decent figure. Ye'd have been the official owner then, rather than a thief."
Again Phil had no answer. That he had left the matter entirely to Tam seemed a lame reply. That he had not offered to pay their true value of 600K seemed undeniably mean and petty. And it had backfired horribly. Instead of him being their proud legal owner, they had turned into vengeful monsters to be hidden away. But then they had escaped from their tomb to haunt him. How could he explain all that?
"I've nothing to say on the subject," Phil replied doggedly.
"Ye's not a very forthcoming body, are ye, Mr Yates?" the stranger said. "I'll mebbe have to resort to more persuasive means."
Ever since his father had been given a beating by Ambrose Smith, Phil had developed a horror of physical hurt. He had felt Smith's final blows in his own body, as his father staggered, unable to defend himself. Now he would do anything to avoid physical pain. Causing hurt to others with firearms was, of course, not included.
"Why are you asking me these questions? I'll give the horses back to you, if you like."
"So ye still have them?"
There was a long silence. Then, eventually, the reluctant admission: "No. I do not."
"But ye ken where they are?"
Silence. Then: "I'm not sure."
"So ye's lost them?"
Silence.
"I'll sum up," the stranger declared. "Ye wanted an item that belonged someone else. Ye didna want to pay for it, though ye could easily afford it. Now ye's lost them. Truly, ye sounds to me like a selfish and irresponsible man, Mr Yates. I might even say reckless, but with ither folk's lives, not ye's own. Ye's a no-account body, Mr Yates. I've nae choice but to treat ye as sikelike." Phase Two of the levelling had reached its midpoint.
The next moment Phil found himself slammed against the wall, his hands manacled
and his head hooded. He was pushed roughly through the room and out of the back door.
His interrogator had evidently hidden his vehicle in the tall green bracken to the north of the farmhouse. Phil found himself tossed as casually as a dead dog into the boot of the Scotsman's car.
30
Luke and Cath were eating a belated evening meal in the kitchen at Cuckoo Nest while Angie and Zanda were happily cooking for Sy and Kingsley in their cottage. Angie had walked out of the back door with the comment: "I'm not abandoning my feminist values; I'm getting to know some interesting folk." Kingsley in particular, her mother thought to herself.
As Luke and Cath continued their meal in the easy silence that had developed between them, his sharp hearing picked up the sound of an approaching motor before it had reached the stackyard. He was on his feet and out of the door before Cath realised what was happening. From the stackyard shadows he watched the vehicle pull up near the back door, as he phoned Sy to alert him to the uninvited arrival.
His astonishment left him speechless as Malcolm climbed from the Jag and helped Phil from the boot. The Scotsman unlocked the handcuffs and took the hood from Phil's head. Luke stepped from the shadows as Cath appeared in the doorway.
"This villain has come to visit ye," was Malcolm's opening remark. "He's been judged and found wanting. Let's see if ye gude folk can apprize his future."
By the light from the kitchen doorway Phil stared in dismay at his captor. It was the first time he had seen the man clearly.
"Tam!" he exclaimed.
Malcolm laughed. "It seems my bro' is a well-known guy. Every wee body I meet thinks I'm him. Yet this dummy canna even gi'e him a fair day's wages! He's a millionaire who wants the world for naught." He propelled Phil forward with a shove in the back. "I've judged him to be truly unworthy of the surname he bears. I've brought him to ye gude folk to pass sentence."
Memories flowed like spectres through Phil's mind. The last time he had stood in this yard, he had been in almost complete control of events. The farm had been only a few days from becoming his property. Now he was here with nothing, surrounded by enemies.
They went into the kitchen, where Malcolm dumped his subdued prisoner on a milking stool while his accusers sat at the table. They were joined a moment later by Angie and Sy, responding to Luke's summons.
"Here's a body who has made owwer mony folk feel wretched and afeared," Malcolm began. "He's stolen T'ang horses and paid not a bean. He's caused a weel respected chappie to lose his life, not to mention a deal o' ithers. He's sorely injured my dear bro', as well as making a death threat agin him. I want each o' ye's to give a reason for his punishment." He looked first at Luke.
"I risked my life for him," Luke stated, "and he offered me not a penny. He killed my mother and sister in a trailer fire fifteen years ago and feels no regret."
"Ye's comments are duly noted," Malcolm stated with gravitas. He looked next at Cath and Angie.
Cath put her arm around Angie's shoulder. "He wanted our farm cheap. He pressured us and beat us up. He even abducted us and threatened to kill us."
"I hear ye's accusations," Malcolm said solemnly. "Are there any ither comments?"
Sy revealed the jagged scar on his arm. "He wants everything his way. He don't like losing. He uses violence whenever it suits him."
"Have ye onything to say to these gude folk, Mr Yates?" Malcolm asked.
Phil sat on the milking stool, mute. He shook his head. He did not look up.
"Ye made a comment to my bro' a while back, so he tells me, that ye thought it might ha'e been his Lang Gude Friday. I can say to ye, Phil Yates, that day has now come, and it's all ye's own. I'm asking ye gude folk if ye'll allow me to provide just closure?"
There were no voices of disagreement.
"Apprizal has been made, Mr Yates. I can tell ye that the value o' your future is naught."
Malcolm dragged Phil to his feet and propelled him to the door. Phil offered no resistance. He seemed hardly more than a stuffed effigy of himself—a man whose name had already been forgotten.
Malcolm turned to the accusers sitting around the table. "It's been my pleasure to
meet wi' ye gude folk."
With that he was gone into the brief darkness of the midsummer night.
* * *
A little before midnight, Luke and Sy arrived at the moorland farm in the
Toyota pickup, following the directions Malcolm had given them in a brief phone call. They never heard from Tam's brother again.
There was no evidence of life in the darkened house and no sign of Malcolm's vehicle. Harry's Range Rover and a horse trailer had been left in open-fronted outbuildings.
The gypsy travellers quietly ushered Good Times into Sy's horse trailer and drove back to Cuckoo Nest. Luke took the Range Rover, which he planned to sell with help from his reluctant brother. Construction work on the loose boxes and tack room was finished and Good Times was placed in the loose box next to Prince of Thieves. The two horses nickered softly to each other in affectionate greeting. Good Times had returned to stand guard over the T'ang horse figurines.
The next morning Good Times' distinctive blaze was dyed by Sy, until the animal became a beautiful overall glossy chestnut and much harder to recognise. Then Sy and Luke took the two horses out for an hour's pleasant exercise on the local bridleways.
Sy laughed. "Never thought I'd be riding a grye that belonged to Phil Yates. He's ours now. I'll ask Davey what he thinks we should do to make the best of him. Mebbe we'll have that stud here after all!"
"We should give him a new name," Luke thought. "One that has nothing to do with that criminal!"
"Any ideas?"
"How 'bout Travellers Bounty?"
"Mush, I like it!"
Sy, Zanda and Kingsley were joining Davey Wood for the day to attend a sale of gypsy vanners on travellers' land further south. While Cath and Angie were tethering the goats, Luke busied himself applying wood preserver to the exterior woodwork of the loose boxes and tack room.
As he was finishing Cath waved to him from the kitchen doorway. He washed his hands under the outside tap and joined her.
"There was an item on the news just now," she announced as he stepped through the door. "Phil Yates' naked body has been discovered at the gallops sitting in a deckchair in the car park. He'd been shot twice, once in the heart and once in the head. The police are calling it a professional job."