Spiral of Hooves

by Roland Clarke

  “That’s a bloody first. Roman always put Gilles down and treated him like an idiot. And I was called even worse, nothing but foul-mouthed insults.”

  She guessed that Roman had misrepresented or ignored the claim over the values of the horses, and the scandal over Odette’s pregnancy. As Armand questioned the constable, she walked to one side and tried to lose herself in the landscape.

  It still evoked the precious time spent with Gilles, the breakaway from Fenburgh. The memories were alive, riding along Holkham Beach, leaping over the surf and rolling in the waves. Watching skeins of geese flying, listening to songbirds singing, wrapped in each other’s arms as the sun set in a panoramic display of reds, oranges, purples and blues. So natural and so unique that Gilles couldn’t name a place to rival it.

  *

  “What evidence have you for those allegations, Mr. Sabatier? A burglary in Sussex, and an accident in Canada? Nothing proves they are related. It’s all circumstantial, like this damaged Jet Ski. There’s nothing to work on.”

  As with their Québec counterparts, the local authorities were quick to take the misadventure route. Was this Roman’s interference again, or just their interpretation? Armand could tell at a glance that the dents and burns were from a thermite charge.

  How do I explain why I know about thermite charges without implicating myself? Let the forensics reveal that evidence.

  He ignored the sunset and kept the snow at bay, but a storm was gathering within his head.

  “Isn’t it suspicious that Gilles’s groom in Canada dies in unusual circumstances, and now he disappears after another accident? Aren’t there too many coincidences?”

  The policeman looked carefully at the damaged machine.

  “Possibly, but as I said, this incident could mean Gilles Boissard is in hiding or has committed suicide. But that is mere supposition without evidence.”

  “But who gains?” asked Armand. “His father? Or perhaps the owner of Vecheech, who now has the best of the Boissard horses?”

  “First, we must confirm that he is missing. It’s only been twenty-nine hours since you spoke to him and the search found nothing but the Jet Ski and the car. I won’t close the case, so I may be able to do something...” Armand didn’t feel hopeful but let the constable continue. “...the coastguard needs the jet ski—for an accident report. The beach hut will remain sealed, and we can check the car.”

  “If I hear anything, Constable Goodwin, I will contact you.”

  “Thank you, please trust us. We want this resolved. We will talk very soon. Goodbye.”

  Is it too late to admit what I saw in Québec? But this is the wrong police force, and I’ve already broken British laws to uncover the truth.

  He looked over towards Carly, who had taken off her boots and socks to stand in the sea. She was the one needing his help now. This was not the time to speculate on what might have happened. If the pattern emerging played out, then Carly could be the next victim; unless he forced his suspects to make an error that the police would act upon—a mistake that didn't risk Carly’s life.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Carly tried hard to distract herself. Perhaps looking for some crisps or something stupid might act as a block. But the tears and the choking couldn’t be controlled, and Armand must have noticed.

  “It’s okay, Vix. Let it out. Cry. I know, it's the best way.”

  “I’m not... hungry,” she choked, “I’ll ride.”

  “Not yet. You need to eat regularly, please.”

  He was right; the insulin and food were inseparable—like her and Gilles. She cursed to herself, asking why he had left her. Lina had tried but failed, but then there had been a twist. Gilles was dead according to the authorities, who had accepted a suicide note sent to Roman as genuine.

  She kept asking, why would he send the note to his father and not to his partner? And why take that way out?

  The memories were alive and hurt. Maybe going outside and riding Torc would help. Forget lunch and the post. Or maybe hack Wanda as there were so few days left before she would be going to Canada. Vecheech had dealt the day’s first devastation when she had opened the email to her:

  From: Patrick Harfang

  Re: Hazelmead

  Due to the financial downturn, Vecheech Enterprises Inc has to consolidate its operations. Therefore, Hazelmead has become surplus to requirements and Vecheech will be selling the property. All eight of our horses will be shipped to our facilities in Canada. We have effected all the arrangements with our agents, but please confirm. Our thanks for your services and those of Armand Sabatier.

  Please note that your contracts will expire in three months, with the usual remuneration.

  Kind regards,

  Patrick Harfang, CEO Vercheech Enterprises Inc

  “Life makes no bloody sense, Loup. Gilles is dead, and now I’m losing the ride on Wanda, just when I have a chance. Why?”

  “Patrick Harfang’s timing is appalling, and we get evicted before the season ends, merde.”

  “Damn Lina. She threatened to have her revenge on us all, so she went straight to Patrick Harfang, damn her to hell! She had Gilles killed and now gets Wanda. Devious cow.”

  “I can’t believe she persuaded Harfang, even with all her credentials,” said Armand. “Unless she already had access to Vecheech, or perhaps offered him her Boissard research. Is it just coincidence that the two companies share the same initial?”

  “It’s simpler—she persuaded him Wanda was ideal for the Canadian equestrian team. So I’ve lost Gilles, Wanda, my job—everything.”

  “We have each other. And you still have Torc. I’ll back you both all the way, whatever happens.”

  *

  The lake shimmered as the afternoon sunlight flickered on its calm. Carly trotted Torc along the cinder track and turned up the hill, following Guinness’s lead. The air smelt fresh from the shower, but it wasn’t enough. The dry weather was making the going firm, just when the horses needed runs. Maybe she should just do the dressage or show-jumping shows.

  It was gutting to have lost the other horses, although she still had Torc and Dido; and everything Gilles had taught her. Still, she had to focus.

  She encouraged Torc up the shaded slope, where the trees reached limbs towards them. Guinness loped beside her. The sun filled the air with fingers of light in which insects spiralled and hummed. Everything was still alive, though drowsy.

  Alongside the road, winding past the church, cottages nestled. Glancing at the church clock as it struck the hour, she checked her watch—four p.m. Even though Wanda had been amazing, Carly was glad to be on Torc. She would always be special as Carly’s first star ride.

  Whatever she had achieved with them, Wanda, Pin, Muninn, even clumsy Huginn, they would remain with her, in her memories; and she had learnt from all of them. Especially Wanda, but she had to fight the regret and look forward as there were still two mares to compete, and she had gained the recognition of Elite training. Or was that with Wanda, as she had been the one with potential? Torc had impressed at Badminton, proving her mare had more to give as well. Sad then, that Dido was not turning out to be a jumper like her dam. Maybe selecting an Arab sire for extra stamina had been a mistake.

  As the main road came into view, she eased Torc to a slow walk and stopped at the junction, Guinness sitting patiently on the verge. They waited as a few cars worked their way past a grey van whose driver was poring over a map. She turned right out of Horsted Keynes, glancing back towards the village green and The Green Man, her favourite pub and a reminder of better days. There were some cherished memories, but not ones to distract her while hacking along a busy road.

  Guinness chose the short route home, towards the Bluebell Railway. Carly enjoyed going back across the fields or through the woods, and Torc never heeded the train when it went past, chuffing and tooting. The mare slid on the tarmac, damp under the canopy over the road. It was darker here, and the roots rose from the bank like snakes.

 
Riding out into the sunlight towards the barn, she heard a mechanical roar behind her, the van. She moved onto the grass edge of the road, slowing to let him pass. At first, he seemed to skid, but then he accelerated towards her. Grey metal loomed. Steep banks and trees hemmed them in.

  Adrenaline and panic spurred her and Torc on; the track was reachable to their right, but then the van careered towards them blocking their route. She pulled away across the bridge over the stream. The gateway was too far. The hedge between was too high—unless she gave Torc room to jump. She set up the mare for the first length of hedge. Impassable blackthorn, designed to deter animals. Jumpable, if it wasn’t for the slippery road and a narrow take-off.

  The van mounted the grass, scraping along the thorn barrier. With metal inches away, the mare jumped out of the killer’s path.

  Torc crashed through the hedge, thorns slicing them both as the sound of the van disappeared into the distance.

  On an advanced course, she would be clear. Instead, the mare crumpled on landing, sliding across the water meadow on her side, before slipping over the bank into the stream. Carly stayed with her, one leg trapped. The mare struggled to get out of the water. Through a red haze, Carly kept clear of lashing hooves. She pulled her leg free as Torc straddled the stream upside down, trapped between the banks.

  If she crawled out, the mare’s head would drop underwater. She had to stay and support her until help came.

  Guinness whimpered on the bank, unsure how he could help, except by licking off her sweat.

  Despite the fall, her mobile was still strapped to her crash hat, but would it work here? She adjusted her position, resting Torc on her shoulder as her right hand reached the phone. It flipped open with one signal bar. She dialled Armand, and it rang, but no answer.

  “Damn, just when we needed him, girl—frick.”

  All she could do was leave a message and hope he found it in time.

  She was cold, wet and shaky. Dizziness wasn’t good either. The fall had ripped off the insulin pump, plus her bum bag with the sugar boosts. Her immediate concern was, Torc mustn’t give up. There was too much blood, and the mare was no longer attempting to turn upright. Her breathing was shallow, like Carly’s own.

  FORTY-FIVE

  The flight details were confirmed, although nobody could say who would meet the eight Vecheech horses when they landed in Calgary. Someone from the company wasn’t good enough. Armand wanted to know more, but the ultimate destination was confidential. Vecheech had not even given the bloodstock agents in England the information, just the essentials of where to collect the horses and which airport Vecheech wanted them flown to. Putting a transmitter in one of the saddle trunks was tempting.

  He had noticed Carly ringing on the other line as he was closing his call to the agents. She had left a message, so he rang straight back.

  The mobile kept ringing, and he expected a re-route to the home line. She must be negotiating traffic. Or the signal was weak. Or it was everything he feared.

  On the eighth ring, she answered.

  He realised the crisis as soon as she said, “Van made Torc fall—she’s hurt badly.” He told her he was coming with help.

  Merde, she sounds distressed and weak. I fear a hypo or worse. Everything’s against her.

  As he ran outside, he rang the emergency line and asked for the fire department. They had another Animal Rescue emergency, but their special unit would come as soon as it was free. They would notify a vet.

  He ensured all his emergency gear was in the jeep, and then sped up the drive and turned right. He negotiated the lanes, juggling urgency and safety. The hoot of the Bluebell faded as the trees closed in on him, roots crawling out of the earth. His stomach churned as beyond the tunnel of trees he saw the black barn. He fought to ignore the image of another ruin, black and menacing in the snow.

  Glimpsing Guinness pacing beside the stream, he skidded onto the grass kerb and jumped over the gate, carrying his knapsack. The dog barked towards what could be Torc. Sunshine glinted on water like on snow. He ignored it, although he could see white flecked with blood. There were lives in danger, so he forced himself forward.

  Then the shot came.

  His shoulder burst with pain, and he threw himself to the ground, knowing the sniper would fire again.

  Cygne was lying in the snow, motionless. Blood oozed out of her head, from beneath the shattered helmet.

  No that's the past—resist, for Carly. She’s watching me, her eyes pleading. I can hear Torc’s helpless snorts.

  The crows fleeing overhead explained the loud report, a bird scare cannon. The sound wasn’t a gun; that was in his head.

  He forced himself to stand, and he assessed the carnage ahead: Torc on her side, head in Carly’s arms, blood everywhere, speckling the mare’s whiteness.

  Focus. Breathe.

  Torc was not only trapped just centimetres above the water, but she was also bleeding from a gash in her chest and others across her legs. Blood spurted from an artery near the left cannon bone. Her nose was haemorrhaging; hopefully, it was only a sinus bleed and not an injured skull.

  “Help is coming, Vix. I’ll do what I can.”

  “Thanks, Loup.” The reply spurred him on, as she added, “I need to eat... my bag... lost...”

  Armand forced his eyes along the glistening trail of the crash: blood on the barbed wire and thorns, blood in the pools of mud, and then the waist bag and the crucial medicine. He recovered it and smeared some hypo-stop on Carly’s lips.

  “Good, but I think this will taste better.” He passed her two fruit-cereal bars. She tried to say something, but he said, “Quiet, chérie. Eat.”

  He checked her for other injuries.

  He took the weight of Torc’s body, and Carly pulled herself onto the bank. She checked her sugar levels.

  The mare jerked violently and snorted again, her eyes staring.

  “We need something to support her,” said Armand. “I have to get her out, when I’ve sedated her.”

  “That was a spasm—she’s not struggling to get up anymore.”

  Rescuing them would test him, but he couldn’t fail again. There were two lives this time. They were in the precious golden hour of survival. He must save them both.

  FORTY-SIX

  The transformation of Armand from mild-mannered helper to an ant on speed amazed Carly. Holding Torc’s head, he unfastened the girth and eased off the saddle. Then, he took off his jacket and used it to blindfold the mare, while keeping it loose enough to slip off when she rose. She prayed Torc would stand again. The mare was all that she had left. The dream was now dead, but life couldn’t end here—in the mud again.

  Armand used some snags and his belt to build a support under Torc’s head. He ripped off his shirt and wedged it over the worst wound, stemming the bleeding.

  As he ran to the jeep, he shouted, “Those should hold long enough. She needs some blankets, and then you’re next.”

  She kept an eye on Torc as Armand negotiated the water meadow with the jeep.

  Once he had parked, Carly forced herself to lift the tailgate open. She found some rugs to throw over the mare before the cold caused more damage.

  “Okay, Vix. Thanks. I want you to change into the dry clothes, on the front seat, now, please.”

  She changed as he disappeared into the stream carrying a coiled strap. In control, Armand’s manner eased Carly’s fears. He wasn’t playing at being emergency services—he had become them. No, she told herself, this Loup had always been there, hiding in the shadows. Prepared for an emergency, with the equipment to respond, but not ready to act—until now.

  “Hey, Vix, are you changed? I need your help.”

  “Coming, just say what you need, Loup.”

  He could cope, but he was getting her moving and motivated; so she didn’t collapse. He must have seen the shakes and sweat. She was exhausted and ready to curl up, but she knew that she must not fall asleep.

  “Put this loop around the hit
ch, while I secure it around Torc. Oh, and find the med kit in my sack.”

  As he scrambled back and tightened the ratchet on the jeep end of the strap, she searched for the med kit. It was fully equipped with bandages, needles, hypo-stop, spare blood meter, and insulin pump, as well as tail bandages, swabs, drugs and more. All designed for emergency field use and in a khaki case.

  It now made sense. Loup had not been Cadre Noir, but with a rescue service, which explained the jeep.

  “Okay, this is temporary. I can’t lift Torc yet, but I need to stem the bleeding.”

  “The vet’s not coming?” she asked as her breathing quickened. She couldn’t lose Torc, not in this way.

  “He’s probably held up. I’m sorry and if you don’t want to...”

  “She’s my girl; I’ll help.”

  It would distract from exhaustion and the pain, especially in her shoulder; and stop her from thinking about her life unravelling.

  They climbed down into the stream, and he removed his blood-soaked shirt while she reassured the mare. Despite their bond, Torc would struggle; especially when they moved her.

  She hoped Torc did respond, otherwise they were too late.

  “Merde, this gash has left a flap of skin. I’ll leave the vet to operate, but lifting her could tear it more if it catches. I need to cover it.”

  He scanned the med kit, so she asked, “Clean it and stitch it you mean?”

  “I can’t do it properly—although I’ve the equipment. I’ll clean what I can and tape it closed.”

  Loup took a phial of an anti-inflammatory drug, shook it and with a veterinary needle injected air into the bottle. Then he withdrew the same amount of drug, and after thumping it with the heel of his hand, he swabbed the injection site. He inserted the needle and pushed it in. Torc winced, to Carly’s relief.

  Then they wrapped another rug around the artery, fastening it with tail bandages and duct tape.

  “Okay let’s try and get her out.”

  He climbed out of the stream and pulled a large box from the jeep. It was a portable winch, for lifting tree trunks, or horses.