Warned Off (18 page)

A coldness descended on me ... I’d told
her who and I’d told her where and Kruger was dead when we got there. I thought
back again to my suspicions of her when Harle’s body was dumped on me at Kempton
and the coldness turned to nausea as I faced the logical conclusion – she was
working for Stoke and Roscoe.

I lay awake for hours trying to talk
myself out of it but the rationale was undeniable. I should have  guessed
on the very first night. Why had she appeared out of the blue at the cottage?
She’d said it was to warn me about Roscoe and I believed her.

After less than half an hour she’d
launched a now obviously deliberate seduction which I was vain enough and
stupid enough to be flattered by.

My last thoughts before finally falling
asleep were that I deserved everything I’d got.

Next
morning I rang McCarthy and warned him about Jackie. ‘What are you going to do
about it?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. Maybe we can use it to
our advantage.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’ll have to think.
I’m going to Suffolk tomorrow to try and see Stoke’s wife. We’ll just have to
wait and see how things play out after that.’

‘How will you get to see her with Stoke
around?’

‘I’m counting on him leaving for York
tomorrow. He should be away for at least three days.’

‘What are you hoping to get out of her?’

‘She’s an old girlfriend of mine, leave
it to me.’

‘You’re the original eternal optimist
Eddie.’

‘Show me someone in racing who isn’t an
optimist?’

‘True. Maybe I should have said
delusional.’

‘Listen, I know one thing now that
Kruger’s dead, I know there’s no chance of getting my licence back. But promise
me a half-hour interview with that senior steward when this over. At least I
can tell him what I think of him.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘What did the police say about Kruger?’

‘What do you think?  That it looked
like a suicide was what they said.’

‘But you told them otherwise?’

‘I told them he had a criminal record
and it might not be as straightforward as it seemed.’

‘Let’s hope they value your opinion more
than they do mine,’

I moped around for the rest of the day
knowing Jackie would phone that night. When she did I knew I’d have to
apologise for last night’s argument and I knew I’d have to sweet talk her, to
keep her believing I suspected nothing.

To do that would stick in my throat but
it was necessary if I wanted to turn her treachery to my advantage at some
point. She rang at five to ten and I managed to hide the bitterness in my voice
and play the part well. Before she hung up she told me she loved me. Like Judas
loved Jesus, I thought, and went miserably to bed.

Across
the flat fenland I saw the trees when I was still miles away, the long rows of
trunks curving when they reached the big house, enveloping it. Scrawled on the
sky above them was the silver swelling vapour trail of a jet.

It was just after three o’clock when I
turned out of the sunshine into that dark avenue.  Stopping about thirty
yards before the road curved round to the driveway of the house, I got out and
locked the car. Keeping to the trees I walked quickly to the main gates. All
looked quiet around the house.

The gates were about twelve feet high,
the bars ornately plaited, topped by black spikes. There were no padlocks, just
large keyholes: one in the centre, one at the bottom. I reached for the
lock-picks in my pocket and went to work on the higher lock. Three minutes
later, I was still fiddling with it and getting anxious.  Had Stoke put in
some special mechanism?

I was as comfortably dressed as a man
can be for climbing gates: cords, a loose cotton shirt and strong flexible
shoes. Up to the centre column where the gates joined there were enough
footholds to reach the top. Crossing the spikes was going to be the tricky part
but I couldn’t afford more time working the locks.

I started climbing and halfway up had
the sudden thought that someone might be watching from the house, which was
about two hundred yards away. I glanced across. The view was partially blocked
by the big silent waterless fountain in the middle of the lawn and I felt a bit
more secure.

The thought of climbing this side as a
stallion and ending up on the other as a gelding made me very careful as I
reached the top and stepped across the spikes onto the bar welded to the inside.
The foot-room on it was two inches and bringing all my weight onto it I swung
my left leg over, uttering a short prayer that the welder had been a
time-served tradesman with a pride in his work.

As my right leg cleared the spikes I
pushed off, twisted in mid-air and landed, if not like a cat, then at least
with everything in place.

Away from the trees, I suddenly felt
very exposed on this long tarmac drive. I wondered about servants. The place
was certainly big enough to justify a gardener and a maid, at least. But there
were no signs of life, the only sounds distant birdsong and the gravel dust
crunching beneath my shoes.

The double doors at the front of the
house were firmly closed. The two door knockers were of the same dark metal and
I picked up the one on the right. It clattered down sending an echo into the
hall and back out toward the dry fountain behind me.

I waited a minute before trying again.
The same clatter, the echo seemed quieter. Nothing. No footsteps in the hallway,
no turning of handles.

Stepping away I walked backwards and
looked up at the windows: three rows of four on each side of the doors. All the
curtains were the same shade of pea-green, a distinctive colour which scratched
at my memory. I saw nothing in the windows but reflections of white drifting
clouds. I wondered if Stoke had taken Charmain with him.

I went round the back to look for a
tradesman’s entrance, or something and found the tidiness and uniformity of the
front giving way to a paved yard of broken flagstones with high weeds living in
the cracks. A stable block with three boxes had both half-doors of the end box
lying open. The bottom door of the centre one had a deep semi-circular gap
where a crib-biting horse had gnawed the wood away. There were no other signs
of horses, not even a strand of straw.

Beside the stables was an electric
mower, big and shiny, the blades clogged with dried cuttings. Against the
handle of the mower a pitchfork rested and on the ground beside it, spikes up,
was a rake.

The windows had white net curtains which
needed cleaning, or maybe it was the glass that was dirty. There was only one
narrow single door, stark black against the white walls.

I lifted the metal door knocker but it
was stiff and useless. I banged four times with my hand. No answer. Another
four thumps, this time I thought I heard a noise. Standing close I put my ear
against the wooden panel ... Silence. I listened hard, taking half a lungful of
air and holding it to stop even the sound of my breathing.

I heard something.

The hairs on the back of my neck began
pricking. I could feel them almost as if they were rising one at a time,
stiffening away from the nerve ends at the sound. It had not come from the
house. There it was again. Behind me. Very close behind me. From low in the
back of the throat of what sounded like a very large, very unfriendly animal.

Slowly I turned my head away from the
door, bringing my weight square onto my heels. Before I could see what it was and
where it was it growled again, longer this time, deeper, more drawn out, more
savage. I finished turning. My back was touching the door. My hands were by my
side, my head motionless on a rigid neck.

Only my eyes moved to see what was
making the noise. They moved down and to the right and focused ten feet away
and recognised the animal that was watching me. Recognised the blackness of it,
broken only by the tan-coloured right leg. An animal I’d last seen bounding
into a lime-green Renault. Skinner’s car ... Skinner’s dog ... Skinner’s big
bloody Rottweiler.

We
looked at each other and there was no doubt in either of our minds who was more
afraid. The growl became constant. The dark eyes seemed to sparkle and narrow.
The fleshy lips drew back. Its teeth looked so white I could have believed they
were false. If only. If only a swift kick would knock the whole set from his
mouth onto the cracked paving.

The growl grew louder and the dog began
crouching, slowly going back on his haunches, gradually coiling. My brain
searched crazily for a way out and suggested I start talking softly to him. But
I rejected it, convinced that the slightest sound or movement would trip the
switch and set him at my throat.

The dog was ready, fully coiled, the
growl steady and loud. I realised my left wrist was resting against the door
handle. Slowly, I raised my hand, clasped the handle and turned it. There was a
click and the door opened. The relief trickled out silently through my nostrils
with the breath I’d been holding.

I considered just turning quickly and
pushing through but I couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t be fast enough to follow me.
If I could just ease it open behind me a few inches at a time till it was wide
enough to slip through ... I started. One inch ... two inches ... the growl
deepened ... three inches ... it barked and snarled ... four inches ... A noise
from behind me, close to my left ear, a noise of metal on metal, the terrible
spirit-sapping noise which meant there would be no five-inch opening ... the
noise of a security chain taking up the slack links, tightening, closing off my
escape route. The dog was ready.

One chance. I stepped quickly away from
the door, turned and slammed my shoulder against it, high up, as close to the
chain as possible. The door held. I bounced back and turned as the dog sprang.

I dodged, twisting to my left. His head
came up, jaws open, and he tried to snap them shut on the junction of my chest
and shoulder at my right armpit. My body was still turning and the jaws closed
on fresh air but only just. The shoulder of my shirt was wet with slavering
mucus.

When the dog landed he lost his balance
and rolled over. I ran. The stable block was ten long strides away. I hoped to
dive into the middle box through the gap left by the open half-door at the top.

I could hear the snarl of rage and the
rough pads of his feet and claws scraping the concrete as he came after me.
About three yards from my take-off point he caught me. His teeth pierced the
flesh on the back of my left thigh and I felt the corduroy tightening quickly
at the front as he gathered the loose material in his jaws. He let go my leg to
rip away the rest of the cloth.

I heard it tearing as the tightness at
the front gave way to flap loosely and I waited to feel the teeth again in my
bare flesh. I stumbled, nearly went down, tried to catch my balance by grabbing
at the handle, of the mower, missed it and caught the wooden shaft of the thing
leaning against it, the pitchfork.

I couldn’t regain my balance, but kept
hold of the pitchfork and pulled it out to the side as I automatically tucked
my head in and rolled as I landed. I whirled the pitchfork round at about two
feet above ground level. Somewhere in the swinging arc the dog should be.

He was. I heard the thump as the shaft
hit him, and the snarl of pain and anger. I came to rest sitting on the ground.
The blow knocked the dog over but he was up again and running at me. There was
no time to get to my feet and I swung the fork again, timing it, and cracked
him hard on the side of the head. He yelped this time, almost like a pup, and
broke off to the side to recover. I got up. He stared at me, warier now.

Dazed, I backed toward the open box at
the end of the stable block, limping badly. The blood felt cold on the back of
my leg as the fresh air reached it through the torn hole.

I kept backing slowly. His growl was
guttural now, drawn out. He crouched again then started toward me, low,
stalking slowly. I held the pitchfork straight out, the spikes about four feet
from his open jaws. I reached the box, backed in and, raising the fork about
the height of the half-door, kept him at bay till I’d dragged the bottom half
of the door closed.

It was almost five feet high with a big
thick safe bolt at the top. I pushed the bolt well home then continued, for
some reason, moving backwards till the rear wall of the box stopped me. With my
back against it I slid down, all my energy draining as I did so. Sitting on the
floor, knees bent to keep the wound off the dirt, I felt exhausted. My hands
barely had the strength to shake.

I stood the pitchfork against the wall
then rested my head back against it too. The box was dark and empty. Some
bundled old newspapers were heaped in a corner. Nothing else. Nothing but
daylight coming through the top half of the door.

The sun’s rays warmed me and I almost
smiled. Then a big black shape blocked the light as the dog cleared the bolted
door in one leap and I nearly died.

From somewhere
another surge of strength came and I was on my feet as he landed. For a few moments
he didn’t seem to focus on me, a couple of seconds’ adjustment from daylight to
half darkness. I was only going to get one chance. Grabbing the pitchfork and
throwing all my weight on my good leg I turned, bringing the sharp prongs round
and upwards in a scooping motion.

The points pierced the black hair under
his big ribcage and he yelped again and snarled as he tried to turn his head
and bite at the wooden shaft of this thing stabbing his guts. I bent low to
keep the fork in him and drove, stumbling and crying with exertion and fear
toward the corner of the box. His head met one wall and his tail the other and
his body curved in the middle as I forced the tines in all the way to the U
shape till I heard his ribs crack and give way. I knew I would never forget his
dying howl.

The last sensation I was aware of was
the points sticking into the wood as they came out the other side of his body.
I held him there impaled till I was sure his breathing had stopped. Even then I
left the fork in him, pinning him to the wall. I was panting hard, as much from
nervous reaction as exhaustion. I finally released my grip on the fork and
turned away toward the door, sickened but safe.

I heard a crack behind me and the terror
surged back. I turned. It was the pitchfork handle hitting the floor as the
weight of the dog’s body pulled the tines from the wood. I limped from the box
and, to be doubly sure, bolted the door behind me.

Outside again in the sunlight I breathed
deep and long and leaned heavily on the mower. I didn’t feel too good. The
dog’s howl and the cracking of his ribs echoed in my head.

I was parched and couldn’t have raised
spit. I began hobbling toward the door of the house.

As I lay back against it, more through
weakness than anything else, it opened as far as the chain would allow. Resting
my head on the black wood I closed my eyes against the sunlight. Through the
gap, from somewhere inside the house, I thought I heard a call for help.

It was faint, but seemed very real. I
turned, resting on my good leg, and looked again at what I could see of the
security chain. The plea came again, louder this time.

Three yards along was a window at
ground-floor level. I decided to get the rake and smash the glass. My leg was
stiffening badly. I couldn’t straighten it without stifling a crying of pain.
Using the rake for support I made my way to the window.

Holding the rake like a rifle I was
about to smash one of the panes of glass low down when it occurred to me to try
opening the window first. It slid stiffly up for the first eighteen inches then
smoothly till it slotted behind the upper sash. The gap was big and the ledge
low enough to sit on and swing my legs through.

I was in a kitchen. Crossing the
threadbare rug I opened a door into a narrow corridor. I stopped, my hand on
the cool wall, and listened ... the cry came again. I started moving and heard
the sticky pull of my shoe on the linoleum. Blood rimmed the outer heel leaving
a horseshoe of red. I wouldn’t be hard to track if someone came in the back
way.

A door led to a large hallway which was
wide, well carpeted and ornately furnished. The tall polished wood walls held
paintings, mostly of racehorses in the style of seventeenth and
eighteenth-century painters: animals with small narrow heads and exaggeratedly long
bodies on stick-like legs.

Halfway along the hall was a staircase
of around thirty steps, fairly steep, the carpet bordered on each side by
polished wood. I started climbing, listening ... no more cries. Squeaks. Every
stair squeaked. My leg hurt. I was bleeding on the carpet. After ten steps my
left leg would no longer push my body up. I resorted to one step at a time.

When I reached the top the muscle in my
right thigh throbbed from doing all the work. On the first floor there were
eight rooms, none locked. I searched three then realised how long it would take
to do the same on every floor. I settled for a quick look in the others. The
furnishing in most was sparse and there was no one crying for help. I set off
up the next flight.

It took me a while to reach the top
floor. I checked every room. Most were empty of even a chair, many had no
carpets and, even in this early summer, they seemed damp and cold. I wondered
why Stoke didn’t just move to a smaller house and furnish all of it.

As I opened the door of the next room I
heard a sharp intake of breath. I went in. Charmain Stoke stood by the bed
looking at me. She wore a silk nightgown. Her hair, long and loose, shone as
the sun caught it through the window behind her.

Her face was perfectly made up and her
fingernails and toenails were painted pink.

On her left ankle was a broad gold
bracelet. On her right ankle was a steel manacle. The chain attached to it lay
in coils, its tail anchored to a square steel plate bolted to a side wall. The
green curtains, the pale pink of her gown, the yellow of her jewellery and the
silver glint of the chain and manacles were the only things in the room that
weren’t white.

The bed was a white four-poster with
white linen. The carpet was white and deep. There was a long dressing table,
two high-backed padded chairs, a chest of drawers, a wardrobe and a footstool;
all were white.

Charmain stood motionless, staring
blankly at me. A man she obviously didn’t recognise was in her bedroom bleeding
on the white carpet, yet she seemed perfectly calm.

Her brow creased, quizzical, though her
mind seemed miles away; she spoke quietly, ‘I know you.’

I nodded. ‘We’ve met before.’

She turned to face me full on. ‘Why are
you here?’

I shrugged. ‘I want to ask you some
questions.’