Warned Off (16 page)

Half
a mile back up the hill I’d noticed the ruins of some buildings. I drove there.
They lay a hundred yards off the tree-lined road. Mounds of tumbled sandstone
and old broken bricks partially hid the shell of a burned-out barn. The uneven
spars, charred a velvety black, looked like some crazy graph against the blue
of the sky. The fire must have started high up, maybe in the hayloft, and
burned its way down. Only five or six feet of the barn walls survived; I parked
behind them.

I picked my way through the rubble,
grass and weeds and settled on the sandstone blocks. Sloping gently downhill
toward the canal the land was separated by hedgerows into small fields. Raising
my binoculars I focused on Greene’s boat.

There was now only one barge beside
Greene’s, its grey tarpaulin gathering a spread of bird droppings.

I scanned the canal and the bridge and
the lock, sweeping back and forth, watching for activity from Greene’s boat. It
began rolling slightly in the still water.

I kept the boat in the bright optics.
Greene came out, jumped to the towpath and made for the bridge, walking quickly.

He crossed the road and went through the
gate of the white cottage which I took to be the home of the lock-keeper. As he
walked on the paved path it was strange, seeing him so close, not to hear his
boot-heels click.

He knocked then drummed impatiently on
the door till a woman opened it. She must have been almost seventy but stood
ramrod straight, a good four inches taller than Greene. He said his piece and
she moved aside to let him in. Less than a minute later he was back out. The
old woman watched him till he was through the gate and back on to the road
before closing the door slowly. Greene jogged back to the boat, jumped on deck
and went straight inside the cabin.

I waited more than an hour, shifting
uncomfortably on the stone seat, my eyelids feeling bruised from the lens cups
on the binoculars. I laid them down and stood up to stretch my limbs.

A lime-green Renault approached the
bridge and pulled in sharply on the grass verge. I put the glasses to my eyes
and rested my elbows on the sandstone. Skinner got out, opened the back door
and a large, thick-barrelled dog joined him. A Rottweiler.

He strode down the tow-path to Greene’s
boat and the dog leapt on deck. Skinner followed, wrenched open the door and
went in, slamming it behind him.

He was inside for about twenty minutes
and when the door opened again the dog came out first, then Skinner, then
Greene. Each was talking and gesturing. If they weren’t arguing they sure
weren’t trading compliments. Skinner finally turned and moved toward the side
of the boat. The dog took this as the off signal and jumped onto the tow-path
but Skinner stopped and turned on Greene again.

Greene opened his arms and shrugged in a
‘what could I have done?’ gesture and Skinner moved forward and poked him hard
in the shoulder. Greene took a step back then suddenly started doing some
finger-pointing of his own. He moved toward Skinner but faltered as he saw the
dog bounding back on to the deck. I lowered the binoculars to see the big white
wet teeth.

Greene backed off. Skinner said
something and Greene turned away and went inside. The animal tucked itself in
at Skinner’s heel as they walked to the car. The vet swung the Renault in what
was meant to be a U till he found himself almost hitting the nearside of the
bridge. He reversed fast, straightened up and sped away.

Three men on a summer morning ... One in
a car, angry, one in a boat, scared, one on a hill, almost happy.

The choice for me now was to leave and
risk missing something or stay and see what happened next. I could go home and
change into more suitable clothing, bring back a flask of tea and some food, a
flashlight and storm-lamp. I would be gone almost two hours.

Too long.

Greene could be anywhere by the time I
got back. He was panicked and probably wouldn’t sit around much longer. I
returned to my watchtower and settled behind the stone again. I’d burst the
hornet’s nest, I had to wait for the sting.

Within fifteen
minutes the Renault was back. Skinner couldn’t have gone much farther than the
village. Greene emerged from the boat with a suitcase and hurried to the car.

Skinner was away before Greene had
closed the door properly. I got up and ran to my car, the binoculars swinging
from my neck and banging on my ribs.

Pulling out from behind the blackened
barn I drove to the top of the track just in time to see the lime-green car
blurring along through the trees and flying past the entrance.

I accelerated down the pot-holed track
which battered the Granada’s suspension into a series of clunks and bangs.
Swinging onto the road the tyres squealed as they tried to bite on tarmac. I
straightened her quickly and soon the only noise was the engine racing and the
wind rushing past.

I had to keep Skinner’s car in sight but
couldn’t afford to get too close in case he saw me or Greene looked back. The
straight stretches were the worst, it wouldn’t take Skinner long to realise the
car in his mirror had been following the same road for miles.

Balancing that was the fact that the vet
seldom did less than eighty, meaning the road in front of him would need much
more attention than the one behind. Whenever the opportunity arose I’d let
another car overtake for a while. But few were travelling at my speed and if I
tucked behind anyone for more than a few minutes the Renault got so far away it
looked like a knot at the end of a grey ribbon. There was a risk, too, that he
might head down some side road and be gone before I got there.

Skinner went east and after two hours we
reached the flat fenland of Cambridgeshire. The sun had raised the temperature
in the car till sweat prickled in my scalp and ran from my armpits down my
sides. Opening the window brought a rush of air and noise and seemed to slow
the car. I made do with the vents.

Sweat, excitement, adrenaline. Greene
was obviously in something up to his neck and Skinner probably just as deep.
They had to be running now to the next guy in line. I smiled, confidence
growing, I’d been following them all this time and neither had twigged. I was
entitled to feel pleased.

I should have known better.

The engine missed, picked up again for a
few seconds, spluttered, then died. The oil light in the dash came on, I jabbed
madly at the gas pedal, then I looked at the fuel gauge – empty. I was pumping
air.

The Renault disappeared round a bend.

Braking to a halt I switched on the
hazard lights, jumped out and got from the boot the spare gallon I always
carried. As the petrol glugged and burbled into the tank I watched across the
flat land through the rippling haze as the Renault, side-on, briefly came into
view again then disappeared off the edge of the world.

The empty tank sucked slowly at the
plastic spout of the can. I swore loudly and was tempted to pour only half the
contents in and get after Skinner but I knew that at the speeds I’d been doing
even the full can would only take me another twenty-five miles. There might not
be a petrol station for fifty.

The last few drops ran down the
paintwork as I pulled the spout away and shoved the cap on.

The engine turned strongly but didn’t
catch. I tried again. Nothing ... the fuel wasn’t through yet. Pumping the
pedal hard and fast I tried to draw it quicker from the tank. Another turn ...
Still not there.

I cursed myself for letting the fuel get
so low. Trying to be patient, I counted to ten, quickening at seven, then
turned the key again.

It started.

I let the clutch out and the car bucked
forward. Within twenty seconds I was doing eighty again but the tarmac
stretched long, straight and empty.

Ten miles on, the road climbed almost
imperceptibly over moor-like land, treeless except for a line in the distance
coming away from the road at right angles. This row of trees was about three
miles ahead on my left.

The needle on the fuel gauge kept pointing
at red like some insistent school teacher trying to hammer home a lesson. The
gallon hadn’t moved it a fraction and what was left in the tank was being
burned at a mighty rate. If I didn’t come on a garage soon, apart from never
catching up with Skinner, I’d be in for a long walk.

The closer I came to the line of trees
the more obvious was their density. I was within a hundred yards when I saw
there were two rows of trees and running between them a narrow road. I slowed
as I passed the entrance. Something caught my eye and I braked and reversed.

At the turn-off, a car tyre had ploughed
a furrow through a patch of dark earth still soggy from the morning rain. In
the middle of the furrow was a rabbit, its back end and rear legs badly
crushed. Its ears twitched and it tried to raise its head and look in my
direction as I got out of the car and walked toward it. Squatting I saw that
the wheel had virtually flattened it from just under the ribcage down. A muddy
tread-mark crossed the crushed white bob of its tail. I gently raised its head
then broke its neck.

It couldn’t have lived more than a few
minutes with those injuries, which meant the vehicle that did it must have
turned up the road a very short time before. I picked up the body and laid it
in the grass at the base of a tree.

Decision time. Was it Skinner’s car that
had taken that road? There had to be a strong chance it was. And if not? Well,
with only about ten miles left in the tank it didn’t seem likely I’d catch him
anyway.

I drove into the tunnel of trees,
quietly coasting out of gear when I could. Two hundred yards away I could see
the road swung to the right and I started looking for a gap to pull into.

There was none. The trees were so dense
you couldn’t have ridden a horse through them.

A hundred yards from the bend I stopped.
There was no verge, just a solid border of Leylandii. Taking my binoculars I
crossed over into the trees and began to wriggle through in a slow slalom.

I cut across diagonally till I was
stopped by a hedge which rose like a solid green wall. It was about twelve feet
high and on my side the tree branches had been cut away completely up to that
height so that none could pierce it or alter its shape.

I pushed the toe of my boot into the
hedge and though it gave a bit, it was strong and dense enough to let me climb
it. It measured roughly five feet across at the top and easily supported my
weight as I crawled onto it and lay flat to admire the view.

The road through the trees opened out
onto a drive as wide as a motorway. It led to a big Georgian-style
cream-coloured house with rows of green-curtained windows. Parked in front of
the black double doors was a silver Rolls-Royce. Behind it was the Renault.
Both cars were empty.

The house was not.

With my binoculars trained through a ground-floor
window I could see Skinner and Greene. They were standing. Another man was
pacing, talking, gesturing angrily. I wished I could lip read and work out just
how hard a time those two were getting from Howard Stoke.

When it became clear from the body
language that this was no social visit, there was nothing more to learn lying
atop the hedge. Harle, Greene, Roscoe, Kruger, Skinner and now Stoke – whatever
this was, they were all in it.

I rolled over, leaving two dents in the
hedge where my elbows had rested, scrambled down and made my way back to the
car.

At the junction I turned left. The road
to the right had no petrol stations for a long way. It was also the road
Skinner would take to go home.

Within five minutes I found a village
and came upon what was little more than a wooden hut by the side of the road
fronted by two of the oldest petrol pumps I’d ever seen. In pale blue metal
with big lit-up lampshade tops, they matched exactly. I pulled in wondering if
they were quaint display items for tourists but a boy of eighteen or so came
out of the hut with a sunny, ‘What’ll it be, sir?’

‘It’ll be a tank full of four star and
...’ I went and got the empty petrol can and laid it at his feet ‘one for the
road.’

I made it home for Jackie’s ten o’clock
call and told her everything. At Roscoe’s, she said, all was quiet.

The
next three days were spent at the races watching Howard Stoke. I wanted to see
how he ran his business, who bet with him and when and, if possible, in what
amounts. I wanted to see who spoke to him but didn’t have a bet. I wanted to
see if Greene or Charmain would show up.

The start of the first race at Newbury
on the Friday was delayed when a horse threw his jockey. Most riderless horses
bolt but this one seemed intent on doing damage and kicked his fallen rider
savagely on the left thigh before galloping away down the course. He covered a
circuit of the track slowing only occasionally to throw a kick at the running
rails.

The rest of the runners circled at the
stalls, their jockeys dismounted, leading them round. The loose horse had
everyone’s attention. The stands were two-thirds full and the bookmakers
watched from their stools.

The horse was brown with one white
stocking on his off hind and a white star on his forehead. His number cloth
said eight and I checked my racecard. He was called Castleford.

His lad and trainer were out on the
course now and Castleford galloped toward them. Suddenly he veered off,
crashing through the plastic rails onto the steeplechase course. His lad ran
after him waving his arms as the horse spun and bore down on him.

The boy stood his ground and when
Castleford was ten yards from him he dug his feet in and stopped. The reins had
come loose and were dragging on the ground. The horse lowered his head and half
crab-walked over to the rails where he turned his hind legs to the lad. The boy
approached cautiously, his hand outstretched. There was a low murmur from the
stands.

He got to the horse’s head without being
kicked and reached slowly for the loose rein, caught it and turned the horse
gently back toward the paddock.

He went quietly with him and as the
crowd applauded the boy reached up to pat the horse’s head. Castleford turned
quickly, opened his mouth and took the lad’s arm between his teeth. The boy’s
cry could be heard high in the stands and the applause gave way to oohs and
aahs.

Castleford pulled the lad off his feet
shaking him like a terrier with a teddy-bear as the trainer and two groundsmen
ran to help. One of the men, wielding a long-handled hoe, smashed it down on
the horse’s head. Castleford, stunned, let go his lad and the other man dragged
the boy away.

His friend with the hoe hit the horse
again then the trainer grabbed one end of the rein and urged the groundsman to
drop his weapon and get the other.

With a man each side of his head holding
the rein tight at the mouth, Castleford, much subdued, walked back off the
course and away behind the stands. Two medics comforted the shocked and
bleeding lad till the ambulance, fresh back from delivering the injured jockey
to the doctors’ room, rolled up to take him on the same journey.

As soon as the race got under way Stoke
left his stool and hurried off in the direction of the unsaddling enclosure. It
was the only time I’d seen him leave his pitch during a race. Even his clerk
looked surprised.

The race had been over for a while by
the time Stoke returned. A handful of punters were waiting to be paid and his
anxious clerk looked pleased to see him. When he’d paid out, Stoke made a call
from the telephone on the small shelf attached to the rails. The conversation
was short and when he hung up I saw him smile.

Three more races were delayed that day
and the meeting ran over time by almost an hour. The last result brought a long
queue at Stoke’s pitch but he seemed calm as he paid them all before stepping
off his stool, leaving the bewildered looking clerk to pack up the gear.

Trailing Stoke to the bar I watched him
go in among the soft lights and the smiling faces hazed in blue cigar smoke.

I could have used a whisky myself,
chilled by two fat ice cubes. I decided to have it back at the cottage as there
didn’t seem much point hanging around watching Stoke drink his usual quota. I hadn’t
really learnt much over the last three days and the euphoria from finding the
gang at Stoke’s house was seeping away.

I got into the car, already anticipating
Jackie’s call that night. Maybe she’d have picked up something worthwhile
today. She’d had nothing to report the previous two evenings and in a way I was
glad, at least it kept her safe.

The traffic was light. I reached the
exit within a minute of leaving my parking space, which was bad news for Phil
Greene. If I’d been delayed a while I might have seen him driving in. If I’d
stayed for that drink maybe I’d have seen him meeting Stoke in the bar. If I
hadn’t gone home when I did it’s just possible I could have saved his life.

Next
morning half my face was shaved when the phone rang. As I lifted the receiver
it slipped across the shaving cream on my fingers and clattered on the small
table.

I picked it up again. ‘Hello?’

‘Eddie.’ The voice was tense.

‘Mac. What’s up?’

‘Have you seen
The Sporting Life
?’

‘They don’t deliver here in the
backwoods.’

‘Phil Greene was killed at Newbury
yesterday.’

Logic told me he was mistaken. I didn’t
answer.

‘Eddie?’

‘I’m still here. What happened?’

‘He was savaged by a horse. They found
him in its stable after racing, ribs smashed, liver punctured, both arms broken,
official cause of death, severe head injuries.’

Already it was beginning to come
together. ‘Was the horse called Castleford?’

‘How did you know that?’

‘I was at Newbury yesterday. I saw the
horse take a mad turn and savage his jockey and his lad.’

‘That’s right. Do you know who owns
Castleford?’

‘I don’t know who owned him when he
arrived at the track but I’ve a fair idea who owned him when he killed Phil
Greene.’

‘Go on.’

‘Howard Stoke.’

‘How the hell ...?’

‘I added two and two and got the right answer,
for once.’

I told him about Stoke’s behaviour and
how he’d followed Castleford and his trainer as the horse was led away after
being caught.

‘Who found Greene?’ I asked

‘One of the groundsmen, checking boxes
before leaving.’

‘What time?’

‘About eight.’

‘Have you interviewed Stoke?’

‘One of my men spoke to him late last
night.’

‘What’s his story?’

‘He claims he was having a drink in the
bar when Greene arrived about six-fifteen and they got talking. He said Greene
was boisterous, happy, and drinking large whiskies. Stoke told him about the
horse he’d bought, said it was absolutely crazy and there probably wasn’t a man
alive who could ride him and all that Wild West stuff. Stoke said he’d had a
few too many himself. Anyway, according to him, Greene started boasting that
there wasn’t a horse alive he couldn’t ride. He said he would get him out of
his box and ride him bareback into the bar.

‘Stoke says he stopped all the kidding
at this point and told Greene there was no way he was to go near the horse. Greene
wouldn’t let up and Stoke, quote, had to get serious and threaten him to stay
away for his own good.

‘Apparently Greene then calmed down but
ten minutes later he disappeared, supposedly to the toilet. He never came back.
Stoke reckons he was determined to bring the horse out, just to show he
could  do it. My man said Stoke seemed very upset.’

Your man is easily led, I thought.

‘Did he ask Stoke why he bought the
horse?’

‘Yes. Stoke claims he didn’t want to see
the horse put down, but he didn’t want it to race again either, in case it
savaged anyone else.’

‘Did your man believe him?’

‘I think so.’

‘You’ve got some gullible people working
for you, Mac.’

‘That’s not exactly fair comment, Eddie,
we had no reason to suspect Stoke was involved.’

‘Listen, as soon as Stoke bought that
horse the first thing he did when he came back to his pitch was make a phone
call which was, very probably, to arrange for Greene to come to Newbury.’

‘Eddie ...’ He started back on the
defensive.

‘Mac, I’m sorry. You’re right. Your man
didn’t know enough of what was going on. Forget what I said.’

‘Okay.’

‘Have the police interviewed Stoke?’

‘They saw him last night. I spoke to
them just before I called you. They said it’s unlikely they’ll be looking for
anyone else but they’d wait for the verdict from the inquest.’

‘Mmm.’

‘As far as they’re concerned, Stoke’s
alibi, if he needed one, is cast iron. There were at least thirty people in that
bar when Greene went out and with all the noise that had come from the table
most of them probably noticed that he’d left and Stoke was still there.’

‘Why do you think Stoke was generating
the noise?’

‘Well, that’s a thought.’

‘A thought! ... Do me a favour, Mac, if
I’m still in one piece when this is over point me in the opposite direction
from Racecourse Security Services and tell me not to stop till I clear the
horizon.’

He didn’t reply.

‘Do you know when the inquest is?’ I
asked.

‘Probably early next week. I’ll contact
you as soon as I have the details.’

‘Okay.’

‘Right, I’ll leave you to it then.’

‘Mac, before you go, how did Greene get
access to the racecourse stables, where were Security?’

He cleared his throat. ‘We’ve identified
a breach there which is being investigated.’

‘Cut the official crap, Mac. What
happened?’

‘Last day of the meeting. Stoke’s was
the only horse still there.’

‘And?’

‘The guy on the gate skived off for a
drink.’

‘One of your people?’

‘It’ll cost him his job.’

‘It cost Greene his life.’