‘Through the yard with all the trash cans?’ I asked.
He was comically astounded. I didn’t explain that his aunt had taken me out that way. I said, ‘Couldn’t it have been a rambler’s Land-Rover?’
He said sullenly, ‘I don’t know why I bothered to tell you.’
I asked, ‘What else did you notice about the Land-Rover, except for its color?’
‘Nothing. I told you, I was more interested in getting back into the house without anyone spotting me.’.
I thought a bit and said, ‘How close did you get to it?’
‘I touched it. I didn’t see it until I was almost on top of it. Like I told you, I was running along the lane. I was mostly looking at the ground, and it was still almost dark.’
‘Was it facing you, or did you run into the back of it?’
‘Facing. There was still enough moonlight to reflect off the windshield. That’s what I saw first, the reflection.’
‘What part of it did you touch?’
‘The hood.’ Then he added, as if surprised by the extent of his memory, ‘It was quite hot.’
‘Did you see a number plate?’
‘Not a chance. I wasn’t hanging about for things like that.’
‘What else did you see?’
‘Nothing.’
‘How did you know there was no one in the cab? There might have been a couple lying in there snogging.’
‘Well, there wasn’t. I looked through the window.’
‘Open or shut window?’
‘Open.’ He surprised himself again. ‘I looked in fast, on the way past. No people, just a load of machinery behind the front seats.’
‘What sort of machinery?’
‘How the eff do I know? It had handles sticking up. Like a lawn mower. I didn’t look. I was in a hurry. I didn’t want to be seen.’
‘No,’ I agreed. ‘How about an ignition key?’
‘Hey?’ It was a protest of hurt feelings. ‘I didn’t drive it away.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t take every car I see. Not alone, ever.’
‘There’s no fun in it if you’re alone?’
‘Not so much.’
‘So there was a key in the ignition?’
‘I suppose so. Yeah.’
‘Was there one key, or a bunch?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Was there a key ring?’
‘You don’t ask much!’
‘Think, then.’
He said unwillingly, ‘See, I notice ignition keys.’
‘Yes.’
‘It was a bunch of keys, then. They had a silver horseshoe dangling from them on a little chain. A little horseshoe. Just an ordinary key ring.’
We stared at each other briefly.
He said, ‘I didn’t think anything of it.’
‘No,’ I agreed. ‘You wouldn’t. Well, go back a bit. When you put your hand on the hood, were you looking at the windshield?’
‘I must have been.’
‘What was on it?’
‘Nothing. What do you mean?’
‘Did it have a tax disk?’
‘It must have done, mustn’t it?’ he said.
‘Well, did it have anything else? Like, say, a sticker saying “Save the Tigers”?’
‘No, it didn’t.’
‘Shut your eyes and think,’ I urged him. ‘You’re running. You don’t want to be seen. You nearly collide with a Land-Rover. Your face is quite near the windscreen—’
‘There was a red dragon,’ he interrupted. ‘A red circle with a dragon thing in it. Not very big. One of those sort of transparent transfers that stick to glass.’
‘Great,’ I said. ‘Anything else?’
For the first time he gave it concentrated thought, but came up with nothing more.
‘I’m nothing to do with the police,’ I said, ‘and I won’t spoil your probation and I won’t give you away to your aunt, but I’d like to write down what you’ve told me, and if you agree that I’ve got it right, will you sign it?’
‘Hey. I don’t know. I don’t know why I told you.’
‘It might matter a lot. It might not matter at all. But I’d like to find this bugger…’ God help me, I thought. I have to.
‘So would I.’ He meant it. Perhaps there was hope for him yet.
He turned on his heel and went rapidly alone into the house, not wanting to be seen in even semi-reputable company, I assumed. I followed more slowly. Jonathan had not returned to the drawing room, where the tenants still sat stolidly, the difficult old aunt complained about being woken early, the deaf husband said, ‘Eh?’ mechanically at frequent intervals and Betty Bracken sat looking into space. Only the three dogs, now lying down and resting their heads on their front paws, seemed fully sane.
I said to Mrs Bracken, ‘Do you by any chance have a typewriter?’
She said incuriously, ‘There’s one in the office.’
‘Er…’
‘I’ll show you.’ She rose and led me to a small, tidy back room containing the bones of communication but an impression of under-use.
‘I don’t know how anything works,’ Betty Bracken said frankly. ‘We have a part-time secretary, once a week. Help yourself.’
She left, nodding, and I thanked her, and I found an electric typewriter under a fitted dust cover, plugged ready into the current.
I wrote:
Finding it difficult to sleep, I went for a short walk in the grounds of Combe Bassett Manor at about three-thirty in the morning. [I inserted the date.] In the lane near to the gate of the home paddock I passed a Land-Rover that was parked there. The vehicle was blue. I did not look at the number plate. The engine was still hot when I touched the hood in passing. There was a key in the ignition. It was one of a bunch of keys on a key ring which had a silver horseshoe on a chain. There was no one in the vehicle. There was some sort of equipment behind the front seat, but I did not take a close look. On the inside of the windshield I observed a small transfer of a red dragon in a red circle. I went past the vehicle and returned to the house.
Under another fitted cover I located a copier, so I left the little office with three sheets of paper and went in search of Jonathan, running him to earth eating a haphazard breakfast in the kitchen. He paused over his cereal, spoon in air, while he read what I’d written. Wordlessly, I produced a ball-point pen and held it out to him.
He hesitated, shrugged and signed the first of the papers with loops and a flourish.
‘Why three?’ he asked suspiciously, pushing the copies away.
‘One for you,’ I said calmly. ‘One for my records. One for the on-going file of bits and pieces which may eventually catch our villain.’
‘Oh.’ He considered. ‘All right, then.’ He signed the other two sheets and I gave him one to keep. He seemed quite pleased with his civic-mindedness. He was rereading his edited deposition over his flakes as I left.
Back in the drawing room, looking for her, I asked where Mrs Bracken had gone. The aunt, the tenants and the deaf husband made no reply.
Negotiating the hinterland passage and the dustbin yard again, I arrived back at the field to see Mrs Bracken herself, the fence-leaners, the Scots vet and her brother watching the horse ambulance drive into the field and draw up conveniently close to the colt.
The horse ambulance consisted of a narrow, low-slung trailer pulled by a Land-Rover. There was a driver and a groom used to handling sick and injured horses and, with crooning noises from the solicitous Eva, the poor young colt made a painful-looking, head-bobbing stagger up a gentle ramp into the waiting stall.
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ Mrs Bracken whispered beside me. ‘My dear, dear young fellow… how could they?’
I shook my head. Rachel Ferns’ pony and four prized colts… How could anyone.