‘Lopping shears,’ Gordon pronounced. ‘For lopping off small branches of trees in the woods. Have to keep young trees pruned, you know, or you get a useless tangle where nothing will grow.’
He took the shears from Picton’s hands to show him how they worked. The act of parting the handles widely away from each other opened heavy metal jaws at the far end; sharp, clean and oiled jaws with an opening wide enough to grip a branch three inches thick. Gordon, with a strong, quick motion, pulled the handles towards each other, and the metal jaws closed with a snap.
‘Very useful,’ Gordon said, nodding, and rewrapped the shears in their sacking.
Archie, Picton and I said nothing.
I felt faintly sick.
Archie walked away speechlessly and Gordon, not understanding, laid the sacking parcel back in the Land-Rover and walked after him, saying, puzzled, ‘Archie! What is it?’
Picton said to me, ‘Well?’
‘Well,’ I said, swallowing, ‘what if you took those shears apart? They look clean, but in the jaws… in that hinge… just one drop of blood… or one hair… that would do, wouldn’t it?’
‘So these shears fit the bill?’
I nodded faintly. ‘Mr Kirk saw the colt’s leg, like I did. And he saw the foot.’ I swallowed again. ‘Lopping shears. Oh, Christ.’
‘It was only a horse,’ he protested.
‘Some people love their horses like they do their children,’ I said. ‘Suppose someone lopped off your son’s foot?’
He stared. I said wryly, ‘Betty Bracken is the fifth bereaved owner I’ve met in the last three weeks. Their grief gets to you.’
‘My son,’ he said slowly, ‘had a dog that got run over. He worried us sick… wouldn’t eat properly…’ He stopped, then said, ‘You and Archie Kirk are too close to this.’
‘And the Great British public,’ I reminded him, ‘poured their hearts out to those cavalry horses maimed by terrorists in Hyde Park.’
He was old enough to remember the carnage that had given rise to the daily bulletins and to medals and hero status bestowed on Sefton, the wonderful survivor of heartless bombs set off specifically to kill harmless horses used by the army solely as a spectacle in plumed parades.
This time the Great British public would vilify the deed, but wouldn’t, and couldn’t, believe a national idol guilty. Terrorists, yes. Vandals, yes. Idol… no.
Picton and I walked in the wake of Archie and Gordon, returning to Ginnie in front of the house.
‘I don’t understand,’ Ginnie was saying plaintively. ‘When you say the Land-Rover may have been taken and used in a crime… what crime do you mean?’
Gordon jumped in without waiting for Picton to explain.
‘It’s always for robbery,’ he said confidently. ‘Where did the thieves take it?’
Instead of answering, Norman Picton asked if it was Gordon Quint’s habit to leave the ignition key in the Land-Rover.
‘Of course not,’ Gordon said, affronted. ‘Though a little thing like no ignition key never stops a practiced thief.’
‘If you did by any chance leave the key available — which I’m sure you didn’t, sir, please don’t get angry — but if anyone could have found and used your key, would it have been on a key ring with a silver chain and a silver horseshoe?’
‘Oh, no,’ Ginnie interrupted, utterly guilelessly. ‘That’s Ellis’s key ring. And it’s not a silver horseshoe, it’s white gold. I had it made especially for him last Christmas.’
I drove Archie Kirk back to Newbury. The unmarked car ahead of us carried the four policemen and a variety of bagged, docketed, documented objects for which receipts had been given to Gordon Quint.
Lopping shears in sacking. Machete, the same. Oily rag and oil can. Sample of horse-feed nuts. Instant photos of red-dragon logo. Careful containers of many lifted fingerprints, including one sharply defined right full hand-print from the Land-Rover’s hood that, on first inspection, matched exactly the right hand-print from the Coke can held by Jonathan at the lake.
‘There’s no doubt that it was the Quint Land-Rover in my sister’s lane,’ Archie said. ‘There’s no doubt Ellis’s keys were in the ignition. But there’s no proof that Ellis himself was anywhere near.’
‘No,’ I agreed. ‘No one saw him.’
‘Did Norman ask you to write a report?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’ll give your report and Jonathan’s statement to the Crown Prosecution Service, along with his own findings. After that, it’s up to them.’
‘Mm.’
After a silence, as if searching for words of comfort, Archie said, ‘You’ve done wonders.’
‘I hate it.’
‘But it doesn’t stop you.’
What if he can’t help it…? What if I couldn’t help it, either?
At the police station, saying good-bye, Archie said, ‘Sid… you don’t mind if I call you Sid? And I’m Archie, of course, as you know… I do have some idea of what you’re facing. I just wanted you to know.’
‘I… er… thanks,’ I said. ‘If you wait a minute, I’ll phone the equine hospital and find out how the colt is doing.’
His face lightened but the news was moderate.
‘I’ve reattached the tendon,’ Bill reported. ‘I grafted a couple of blood vessels so there’s now an adequate blood supply to the foot. Nerves are always difficult. I’ve done my absolute best and, bar infection, the foot could technically stay in place. The whole leg is now in a cast. The colt is semiconscious. We have him in slings. But you know how unpredictable this all is. Horses don’t recover as easily as humans. There’ll be no question of racing, of course, but breeding… I understand he’s got the bloodlines of champions. Absolutely no promises, mind.’
‘You’re brilliant,’ I said.
‘It’s nice,’ he chuckled, ‘to be appreciated.’
I said, ‘A policeman will come and collect some of the colt’s hair and blood.’
‘Good. Catch the bugger,’ he said.
I drove willy nilly without haste in heavy traffic to London. By the time I reached the pub I was half an hour late for my appointment with Kevin Mills of The Pump and he wasn’t there. No balding head, no paunch, no drooping beer-frothed mustache, no cynical world-weariness.
Without regret I mooched tiredly to the bar, bought some whisky and poured into it enough London tap water to give the distiller fits.
All I wanted was to finish my mild tranquilizer, go home, find something to eat, and sleep. Sleep, I thought, yawning, had overall priority.
A woman’s voice at my side upset those plans.
‘Are you Sid Halley?’ it said.
I turned reluctantly. She had shining black shoulder-length hair, bright light-blue eyes and dark-red lipstick, sharply edged. Naturally unblemished skin had been given a matte porcelain powdering. Black eyebrows and eyelashes gave her face strong definition, an impression her manner reinforced. She wore black clothes in June. I found it impossible to guess her age, within ten years, from her face, but her manicured red-nailed hands said no more than thirty.
‘I’m from The Pump,’ she said. ‘My colleague, Kevin Mills, has been called away to a rape.’
I said, ‘Oh,’ vaguely.
‘I’m India Cathcart,’ she said.
I said ‘Oh’ again, just as vaguely, but I knew her by her name, by her reputation and by her writing. She was a major columnist, a ruthless interviewer, a decon structing nemesis, a pitiless exposer of pathetic human secrets. They said she kept a penknife handy for sharpening her ball-points, She was also funny, and I, like every Pump addict, avidly read her stuff and laughed even as I winced.