‘I cannot imagine. What do you know about Owen Cliff Yorkshire?’
‘Bugger all. Who is he?’
‘Quite likely a friend of Lord Tilepit.’
‘Sid,’ he protested, ‘I do my job. Rapes, murders, little old ladies smothered in their sleep. I do not chew off the fingernails of my paycheck.’
He banged the slot machine frustratedly. ‘The bloody thing hates me.’
‘It has no soul,’ I said. I fed in a stray token myself with my plastic fingers and pulled the handle. Three horses. Fountains of love. Life’s little irony.
Kevin Mills took his paunch, his mustache and his disgusted disgruntlement off to his word processor, and I again phoned Norman as John Paul Jones.
‘My colleagues now think John Paul Jones is a snitch,’ he said.
‘Fine.’
‘What is it this time?’
‘Do you still have any of those horse nuts I collected from Betty Bracken’s field, and those others we took from the Land-Rover?’
‘Yes, we do. And as you know, they’re identical in composition.’
‘Then could you find out if they were manufactured by Topline Foods Limited, of Frodsham in Cheshire?’
After a short silence he said cautiously, ‘It could be done, but is it necessary?’
‘If you could let me have some of the nuts I could do it myself.’
‘I can’t let you have any. They are bagged and counted.’
‘Shit.’ And I could so easily have kept some in my own pocket. Careless. Couldn’t be helped.
‘Why does it matter where they came from?’ Norman asked.
‘Um… You know you told me you thought there might be a heavyweight somewhere behind the scenes? Well, I’ve been asked to find out.’
‘Jeez,’ he said. ‘Who asked you?’
‘Can’t tell you. Client confidentiality and all that.’
‘Is it Archie Kirk?’
‘Not so far as I know.’
‘Huh!’ He sounded unconvinced. ‘I’ll go this far. If you get me some authenticated Topline nuts I’ll see if I can run a check on them to find out if they match the ones we have. That’s the best I can do, and that’s stretching it, and you wouldn’t have a prayer if you hadn’t been the designer of our whole prosecution — and you can not quote me on that.’
‘I’m truly grateful. I’ll get some Topline nuts, but they probably won’t match the ones you have.’
‘Why not?’
‘The grains — the balance of ingredients — will have changed since those were manufactured. Every batch must have its own profile, so to speak.’
He well knew what I meant, as an analysis of ingredients could reveal their origins as reliably as grooves on a bullet.
‘What interests you in Topline Foods?’ Norman asked.
‘My client.’
‘Bugger your client. Tell me.’ I didn’t answer and he sighed heavily. ‘All right. You can’t tell me now. I hate amateur detectives. I’ve got you a strip off that dirty Northampton material. At least, it’s promised for later today. What are you going to do about it, and have you cracked Ellis Quint’s alibi yet?’
‘You’re brilliant,’ I said. ‘Where can I meet you? And no, I haven’t cracked the alibi.’
‘Try harder.’
‘I’m only an amateur.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Come to the lake at five o’clock. I’m picking up the boat to take it home for winter storage. OK?’
‘I’ll be there.’
‘See you.’
I phoned the hospital in Canterbury. Rachel, the ward sister told me, was ‘resting comfortably.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘She’s no worse than yesterday, Mr Halley. When can you return?’
‘Sometime soon.’
‘Good.’
I spent the afternoon exchanging my old vulnerable analog mobile cellular telephone for a digital mobile receiving eight splintered transmissions that would baffle even the Thames Valley stalwarts, let alone The Pump.
From my apartment I then phoned Miss Richardson of Northamptonshire, who said vehemently that no, I certainly might not call on her again. Ginnie and Gordon Quint were her dear friends and it was unthinkable that Ellis could harm horses, and I was foul and wicked even to think it. Ginnie had told her about it. Ginnie had been very distressed. It was all my fault that she had killed herself.
I persevered with two questions, however, and did get answers of sorts.
‘Did your vet say how long he thought the foot had been off when the colt was found at seven o’clock?’
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘Could you give me his name and phone number?’
‘No.’
As I had over the years accumulated a whole shelfful of area telephone directories, it was not so difficult via the Northamptonshire Yellow Pages to find and talk to Miss Richardson’s vet. He would, he said, have been helpful if he could. All he could with confidence say was that neither the colt’s leg nor the severed foot had shown signs of recent bleeding. Miss Richardson herself had insisted he put the colt out of his misery immediately, and, as it was also his own judgment, he had done so.
He had been unable to suggest to the police any particular time for the attack; earlier rather than later was as far as he could go. The wound had been clean: one chop. The vet said he was surprised a yearling would have stood still long enough for shears to be applied. Yes, he confirmed, the colt had been lightly shod, and yes, there had been horse nuts scattered around, but Miss Richardson often gave her horses nuts as a supplement to grass.
He’d been helpful, but no help.
After that I had to decide how to get to the lake, as the normal taken-for-granted act of driving now had complications. I had a knob fixed on the steering wheel of my Mercedes which gave me a good grip for one- (right)handed operation. With my left, unfeeling hand I shifted the automatic-gear lever.
I experimentally flexed and clenched my right hand. Sharp protests. Boring. With irritation I resorted to ibuprofen and drove to the lake wishing Chico were around to do it.
Norman had winched his boat halfway onto its trailer. Big, competent and observant, he watched my slow emergence to upright and frowned.
‘What hurts?’ he asked.
‘Self-esteem.’
He laughed. ‘Give me a hand with the boat, will you? Pull when I lift.’
I looked at the job and said briefly that I couldn’t.
‘You only need one hand for pulling.’
I told him unemotionally that Gordon Quint had aimed for my head and done lesser but inconvenient damage. ‘I’m telling you, in case he tries again and succeeds. He was slightly out of his mind over Ginnie.’
Norman predictably said I should make an official complaint.
‘No,’ I said. ‘This is unofficial, and ends right here.’
He went off to fetch a friend to help him with the boat, and then busied himself with wrapping and stowing his powerful outboard engine.
I said, ‘What first gave you the feeling that there was some heavyweight meandering behind the scenes?’
‘First?’ He went on working while he thought. ‘It’s months ago. I talked it over with Archie. I expect it was because one minute I was putting together an ordinary case — even if Ellis Quint’s fame made it newsworthy — and the next I was being leaned on by the superintendent to find some reason to drop it, and when I showed him the strength of the evidence, he said the Chief Constable was unhappy, and the reason for the Chief Constable’s unhappiness was always the same, which was political pressure from outside.’
‘What sort of political?’
Norman shrugged. ‘Not party politics especially. A pressure group. Lobbying. A bargain struck somewhere, along the lines of “get the Quint prosecution aborted and such-and-such a good thing will come your way!” ’