‘Thanks,’ Tony said. ‘Did I mention she thinks her brother’s murder is my fault?’
‘Ah,’ said Ambrose. ‘She didn’t say anything. I thought … ’
‘Any day before yesterday, you would have thought right.’
‘So where has she gone?’
Tony gestured towards the bows with his head. ‘She’s having a kip.’
Ambrose smiled the weary smile of a married man who knows how these things go. ‘So you sorted things out, then?’
Tony shook his head, trying not to show how upset he was. ‘Armed truce, I think you’d have to call it. Exhaustion in a points victory over rage.’
‘At least she’s talking to you.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a plus,’ Tony said wryly. He was spared any further explanation by the opening of the cabin door.
Looking slightly smudged and tousled, Carol appeared. ‘Does this place have— Oh, Sergeant Ambrose. I had no idea you were here.’
‘Just arrived, ma’am. I hoped I’d find you here. I’ve got an update for you both,’ he said, all serious business now his next boss was in the room.
‘In a minute,’ Carol said. ‘Tony, what do you do for a loo here?’
‘The door on the left,’ he said, pointing right. Carol gave him a pissed-off look and disappeared into the head. ‘It’s actually a proper bathroom,’ he said to Ambrose. ‘She’ll be impressed.’
Ambrose looked doubtful. ‘If you say so.’
‘This update – it’s not good, is it? I can tell by the way you were avoiding looking at either of us.’
Ambrose glared at him. ‘You know better than to ask.’ He looked around the galley appreciatively. ‘This is lovely, this. I’d love a boat. Me and the wife and the kids, we’d properly enjoy ourselves with one of these.’
‘Really?’ Tony tried not to sound bemused.
‘Yeah. What’s not to like? Your own boss, no traffic jams, take things easy, but you’ve still got your home comforts around you.’
‘You could borrow it, you know.’ Tony waved an expansive hand in the air. ‘I hardly use it. You might as well.’
‘You mean it?’
‘Sure. Trust me, Alvin. This is not going to be my home. I’m only here right now because I realised this morning that it’s safer than Bradfield.’
Carol emerged in time to hear the last phrase. She’d managed to smooth out the crumples and looked fresh and alert. ‘I wish you’d thought about safety a bit sooner,’ she said, before giving Ambrose the full wattage of a welcoming smile. Tony wondered how she could find the energy to keep lashing out at him. ‘So, Sergeant. What have you got that’s too important for a phone call?’
The corner of Ambrose’s mouth quirked in something that might have been a smile. ‘To be honest, I needed to get out of the building. There’s a kind of energy that builds up when an inquiry isn’t going the way you want. It’s not a good energy, and sometimes you just got to get out of it. I need to get my mojo back. So I took the opportunity to bring you the latest news myself.’ He sighed. ‘It’s not good, I’m afraid, though it’s a lot less bad than it could have been.’
‘Micky?’ Tony asked. ‘Has he gone for her? Is she OK? Is Betsy OK?’
Ambrose nodded. ‘They’re both fine.’
‘What happened, Sergeant?’ Carol cut in, cool and firm, back in full professional command of herself.
‘Vance got through the security cordon.’ He shook his head in amazement. ‘He was on a quad bike with a bag of stallion stud nuts, whatever they are. Dressed like one of the local landed gentry. One of the stable lads stopped him, but he gave some convincing load of tosh about having promised Micky to drop off this special feed. Drove straight into the barn and set a slow-burning fire. Then drove off on this bloody quad bike in full view of the cops. He was out of sight by the time the barn went up.’
‘Was anyone injured?’
‘A stable lad died trying to save Betsy Thorne. She nearly got hit by a falling beam. Would have, if it hadn’t been for the dead lad knocking her clear. A couple of the stable lads have minor burns, apparently. They think the real target was the stable block itself. He was going for the horses.’ Ambrose looked apologetic. ‘Like Tony said: he’s going for what matters to his victims. So they have to live with the consequences of what they did to him.’
Carol’s face froze in a rigid mask.
‘What happened to the horses?’ Tony asked. It was the first thing that came to mind.
‘Two dead, the rest were either out in the fields or else rescued by the stable lads. They were incredibly brave, according to the officers on the ground.’
‘And they didn’t catch him? He just drove away on his quad bike,’ said Carol, exasperated and angry.
‘They found the quad bike in a wood nearby. Along with a trailer. From the tyre tracks, it looks like he was driving an SUV. West Midlands have already got details of the trailer-hire place, they’re hoping to find out what he’s driving. But it’s Saturday evening and there’s nobody there, so God knows when that’ll pay off.’
‘He wasn’t driving an SUV last night, was he?’ Tony asked. ‘One of your people told me one of the neighbours saw a Ford saloon in the driveway before the fire started.’
‘Yeah, we’ve backtracked on the traffic cameras and we think that’s what he was driving. No clear shots of him, though. And we lose him about a mile away from yours. He must have cut through side streets, away from the main roads.’
‘So he dumped that car and hired an SUV,’ Carol said. ‘Have you checked all the car-hire places in the area? He had to make the swap somewhere, and he wouldn’t have wanted to drive the Ford any longer than he had to. It was tainted, it had to go.’
Ambrose looked startled. ‘I don’t think we’ve done that yet,’ he said, sounding worried. So he should, Tony thought.
Carol fixed him with a cold blue stare. ‘You’re really not used to this scale of operation, are you, Sergeant? Not had much experience of coordinating manhunts down here in West Mercia? Struggling with first principles, are you?’
‘We only just found out about the SUV before I left the office,’ Ambrose said. ‘I expect it’s been actioned by now. But I don’t know, because I’ve not been there. We’re not incompetent, ma’am.’
‘No. I’m sure you’re not.’ Carol sighed. ‘Is it me, or does it seem to you that Micky’s got off very lightly in all of this? Compared to me, and Tony? And Chris, of course, who got what was meant for me.’
‘What’s your point?’ Tony said, butting in before Ambrose could say something she’d flay him for.
She blinked hard, screwing up her eyes. ‘She was his enabler for years. Old habits die hard. Isn’t that what you’re always telling us, Tony? What if this fire was just Vance throwing dust in our eyes? What if Terry Gates wasn’t Vance’s only helper on the outside?’
47
Even on a Saturday evening, Heathrow was still so busy that only the security staff paid any attention to the customers. Nobody wondered why a man with dark hair, brown eyes behind glasses, and a moustache might re-emerge from the men’s toilets with dark blond hair in a completely different style, bright blue eyes and no facial hair. For now, Patrick Gordon was back in his box, replaced by Mark Curran, company director from Notting Hill.
He’d left the SUV in the long-stay lot and within half an hour he was behind the wheel of another Ford, a silver Focus estate this time, Bruce Springsteen’s Greatest Hits blasting out of the speakers. Better days, indeed. Tonight he was going to sleep in his own bed, back in Vinton Woods. He might even take a day off tomorrow. Even the Lord rested on the seventh day. He had more acts of vengeance to perform, more spectacular deaths to orchestrate and deliver. Then it would be time to shake the dust of this old, tired country from his heels. He’d originally thought the Caribbean would fit the bill for his new life. But the Arab world was the crucible of change right now. A man of means could live very well in a city like Dubai or Jeddah. There were places in the Gulf where l
ife was still cheap, where a man could exercise his appetites without interference, as long as the price was right. More importantly, these places had no extradition arrangements with the UK. And everyone spoke English. So he’d covered his bases and bought a property in each region.
Vance could almost feel the warmth on his skin. It was time he took what was rightfully his. He’d worked hard for his success. All those years of pretence, hiding his contempt for all the insignificant people he’d had to be nice to, acting like he was one of them. The common touch, that’s what they said he had. As if. The only common touch he’d wanted was the one where he got to slap them senseless.
Prison had almost been a relief. Of course he still had to present a facade to the authorities. But there were plenty of opportunities behind bars to strip off all the false faces and let people see the real Jacko Vance in the full rawness of his power. He loved that moment when so-called hard men realised he wasn’t the pushover they’d assumed; the way their eyes widened and their mouths tightened in fear when it dawned on them that they were dealing with someone who had no limits. Not in the way that they understood limits. Yes, prison had been the perfect place to hone his skills.
But now it was time to leave all that behind him and start a new life where he could focus on the good bits. As he drove through the dark he turned over to the radio news channel for the on-the-hour bulletin. The news of his attack on Micky’s stud should have hit the headlines by now. The headlines bypassed him in a blur of noise: Arab street protests, coalition cuts, prostitute murder in Bradfield. Then the item he was waiting for.
‘The racing stud farm of former TV star Micky Morgan was targeted in an arson attack this evening. A stable lad died in the inferno, while trying to rescue horses from the blazing stables. Two horses were also killed in the fire, which started in a hay barn. But prompt action by the stable staff meant the remaining fifteen thoroughbred racehorses were rescued. The building itself was extensively damaged. Police refused to comment on whether the attack was connected to the escape from prison this week of Ms Morgan’s ex-husband, the former athlete and TV presenter Jacko Vance. But a source close to Ms Morgan said, “We’ve been holding our breath, waiting for that evil man to strike out at Micky. To attack defenceless horses is as low as it gets.” More on this story in our next bulletin on the half-hour.’
Vance slammed his hand down on the steering wheel, making the car swerve, provoking a blare of the horn from behind. ‘Two horses and a stable lad?’ he shouted. ‘Two fucking horses and a poxy stable lad? All that risk, all that preparation for two fucking horses and a stable lad?’ It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough. It wasn’t even Micky who loved the horses, it was Betsy. He’d wanted the stables obliterated, Betsy’s second life destroyed, Micky impotent when it came to taking the pain away. The arsonist whose information he’d relied on had got it wrong. Either that or the greasy, greedy bastard had deliberately lied to him.
Rage flooded his body, raising his temperature and making him feel caged inside the car. Vance took the first exit and parked in a lay-by. He got out of the car and started kicking the plastic rubbish bin, swearing at the night. All the tension that had kept him going during the preparation for the attack on Micky’s farm exploded in a sudden rush of violence. ‘Bitch, bitch, bitch,’ he shouted into the sky.
Finally, he exhausted himself and staggered back against the car, a tide of angry misery still engulfing him. What he’d planned, that would have been enough. He’d have been satisfied with that. But she’d managed to get one over on him yet again. He couldn’t allow that to happen. Things would have to step up now. He’d complete tomorrow’s mission tonight. Thanks to his fetish for contingency planning, he’d brought all he needed with him, just in case. Afterwards, he could go back to Vinton Woods and lie low for a few days. He could activate the other camera systems and figure out how to destroy the other cops. Then he could come back for a second bite of the cherry and really make Micky pay.
Anything else was not an option.
Her legion of fans would still have recognised Micky Morgan, in spite of the years that had passed since she’d last appeared on their TV screens. It didn’t matter that there were silver threads running through the thick blonde hair, or that there were lines radiating from the corners of her blue eyes. The bone structure that underpinned her beauty meant she was still clearly that same woman who had smiled into their living rooms four days a week at lunchtime. The constant exercise of working with horses meant she’d kept in shape; her trademark long shapely legs still looked as good as ever they had, as Betsy frequently reassured her.
But tonight, the last thing on Micky’s mind was how she looked. Betsy had come close to losing her life for her beloved horses. If it hadn’t been for the quick wits and quicker hands of Johnny Fitzgerald, she’d have been the one crushed beneath a smouldering beam and Micky might have been without the only person who still made her life worth living. They’d been together for more than fifteen years now, and Micky couldn’t imagine life without Betsy. It went beyond love; it was a shared set of values and pleasures, a complementary set of skills and failings. And tonight she’d nearly lost it all.
The same thoughts and fears kept circling her mind, pushing everything else to the periphery. She knew with her head that Betsy was safe and well, soaking in the tub upstairs to get the smell of smoke out of her hair and skin. But Micky’s emotions were still churning. She really wasn’t paying much attention to the police officer who kept asking her questions she didn’t know the answers to.
Yes, she thought this was Jacko’s handiwork. No, she hadn’t heard from him since he’d escaped. She hadn’t actually heard from him in years, which suited her just fine. No, she didn’t know where he might be. No, she didn’t know who might be helping him. He’d never been big on friends. Just on using people. No, she hadn’t seen or heard anything out of the ordinary that evening. She and Betsy had been playing bridge with a couple of friends from a nearby village when the alarm had gone up.
Micky shuddered at the memory. Betsy had been first to her feet, throwing her cards to the table and running for the door. The police protection officers had tried to keep them from leaving. They clearly hadn’t expected to be straight-armed out of the way by a middle-aged woman who was stronger than either of them. Micky had run after her, but one of the officers had been a bit more together and he’d grabbed her round the waist and manhandled her indoors. ‘It could be a tactic, the fire,’ he’d shouted at her. ‘He could be trying to draw you out so he can take a potshot at you.’
‘He doesn’t do shooting,’ Micky had shouted back at him. ‘You need two arms to target shoot well. And he doesn’t do anything he can’t do well.’
Where that had come from, she didn’t know. Until the events of this week, it had been a long time since she’d thought of Jacko. But since his escape, he’d felt like a constant presence, always at her shoulder, continually watching her and telling her how she could improve. When the police had come to her door, telling her what they believed he was up to, she’d had no trouble believing she would be high on his list of those who should be punished.
If not for Betsy and the horses, she would have run. Daphne, one of the friends they’d been playing bridge with, had counselled her to go. ‘Darling, he’s a brute. You mustn’t let yourself be a target for his spite. Betsy, tell her. She should take herself off somewhere he won’t find her.’
But it wasn’t an option. She couldn’t leave Betsy behind. And besides, how long was she supposed to stay gone? If they caught him in a day or two, fine. She could come back. But Jacko was resourceful. He would have planned his escape and its aftermath in detail and with precision. He could be on the lam for months. For ever. And what was she to do then? No, running wasn’t an option.
The policeman asked something and Micky roused herself enough to ask him to repeat it. ‘I asked if you could give us a list of the people who are turning up to take your horses away.’
 
; ‘I can do that,’ Betsy said, coming into the room. The first thing she’d done after the paramedics had given her the all-clear was to get on the phone to anyone in the surrounding area who might have spare stalls in their stables so she could provide shelter for her beloved horses. ‘I’m sorry, I should have given you the details. I was just so desperate to get the smell of smoke off me.’
‘I understand,’ he said.
Betsy was already scribbling names down on a sheet of scrap paper in her small precise script. She passed it to the policeman and put a reassuring hand on Micky’s shoulder. ‘Now, if that’s all, we’d appreciate a little peace and quiet,’ she said, charming but firm. When they were alone, she cradled Micky’s head against her breasts, loose inside her eminently respectable tartan dressing gown. ‘I don’t want another evening like this in a hurry,’ she said.
‘Me neither,’ Micky sighed. ‘I can’t believe he tried to kill the horses. What’s that about?’
‘It’s about hurting us, I think,’ Betsy said sensibly. She let Micky go and went to pour herself a Scotch. ‘Do you want one?’
Micky shook her head. ‘If that’s the case, I’m glad he chose the horses to go after rather than you.’
‘Oh, honey, don’t say that. It cost Johnny his life, don’t forget. And those poor horses. They must have died in utter fear and total agony. It makes me furious. Poor old Midnight Dancer and Trotters Bar. Innocent animals. There’s not much I would have put past Jacko, but harming those glorious, innocent animals is lower than I thought he could sink.’
Micky shook her head. ‘There’s nothing Jacko wouldn’t do if it served his ambitions. We should have realised that before we tied our lives to his.’
Betsy curled up on the chair opposite Micky. ‘We had no way of knowing what his secret life was.’
‘Maybe not. But we always knew he had one.’ Micky fiddled with her hair, winding a strand round her finger. ‘I’m so glad you’re safe.’
Betsy chuckled. ‘Me too. There was a terrible moment when I thought, “That’s it, Betsy. Curtains for you.” And then Johnny came to the rescue.’ Her face grew solemn.