Nina brought her coffee and followed me into the office.
‘Are you really all right?’ she enquired.
‘More or less.’
‘I’ve some news for you,’ she said, and paused, ‘but...’
‘Fire away. Is it the little glass tubes?’
‘What? No, not those, there hasn’t been a report on those yet. No, this is that advertisement in Horse and Hound.’
I thought back. So much seemed to have crowded in since Sunday. ‘Oh yes... the transport ad. “Anything considered.” ’
‘Yes, that’s right. Patrick got the magazine to tell him who had inserted it. And it’s rather extraordinary...’
‘Do go on.’
‘It was a Mr K. Ogden of Nottingham.’
‘No!’ My eyebrows shot up. ‘Well, well, that really is extraordinary.’
‘I thought you’d think so. The magazine said they checked him out the first time he ran the ad. They wanted to make sure there was nothing criminal in it. Seems they were satisfied Mr Ogden was harmlessly offering his services as an adviser or personal courier, rather on the lines of a universal aunt. The phone number in the advertisement is that of his own house. The magazine checked it. They supposed he must be getting work from the ad, as he’s kept on paying for the insertions.’
‘Wow,’ I said blankly. ‘He can’t have been doing too well, though. He was wanted for bouncing cheques and other pathetic bits of fraud. He might have seemed bona-fide to Horse and Hound — and maybe he was once — but I’d guess he’d stopped worrying about the legality of every transaction, as long as he was being paid.’
‘You can’t assume that,’ she protested primly.
‘Stands to reason.’ I shrugged. ‘But I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he didn’t know there were six tubes in the thermos. Just maybe. I wouldn’t bet on it.’
‘Cynic.’
‘I’d be cynical about anything after last night.’
‘What do the police think about last night?’
‘They didn’t say much. They said it was a wise man who knew his own enemies, or words to that effect.’
‘Oh.’ She blinked. ‘And do you?’
‘I think Sandy Smith’s right. Smashing up my things was out-of-control vandalism, done on the pleasure principle. I think I walked into the farmyard when I wasn’t expected, and the rest was embroidery. Infantile glee. Sly childish impulse to hurt.’
‘Some child, by the sound of things.’
‘An immature adult, then.’
‘Or a psychotic.’
‘A better word for it.’
She finished her coffee. ‘I suppose we’d better get on if we’re to catch that ferry. Realistically, is anything odd likely to happen on this trip?’
‘I don’t know. Did I tell you exactly where the container is, under your lorry?’
‘Not exactly, no.’
‘It’s a metal tube fixed fore and aft in a space that runs beneath the floorboards and above the fuel tanks. That space is outside the main longitudinal struts of the chassis, but hidden by the coachwork sides. You can’t see the space from the outside or from underneath, but if you know the tube’s there, it’s easily accessible. You can screw the end of it on and off without trouble, Jogger said.’
‘I might go under and take a look.’
Rather her than me. ‘Nigel was going to make a new slider for rolling underneath,’ I said.
‘Yes, he made it. He was showing it to Harve.’
‘If you want to look, use the slider. Tell Harve and Nigel I told you there’s a diesel inspection sort of glass bowl screwed on underneath, on the fuel line between the tanks and engine. You can check by that that the diesel’s clean. If it is, the bowl will look clear. Any dirt in the diesel drops into the bowl and one can unscrew it and clean it out. We had a filthy lot of fuel delivered once. The inspection globe was black with muck. Anyway, tell Harve you want to see it.’
‘I had an inspection arrangement in my own box.’
‘Sorry, I forgot.’
She smiled. ‘I’ll take a look.’
She went out and did so. Harve and Nigel thought her fussy, she said, coming back and brushing off dust. ‘And you could smuggle anything in that tube,’ she added. ‘I’ll keep an eye on it.’ She looked at the telephone. ‘A quick word with Patrick, do you mind?’
‘Go ahead.’
She phoned him at home because of the early hour and told him Harve’s version of the night’s events, checking each statement with me with her eyebrows. I nodded a few times. The gist was right; the omissions had been my own.
‘Patrick,’ she said to me, ‘wants to know what it was you walked in on.’
‘When I find out, I’ll tell him.’
‘He says to be careful.’
‘Mm.’
Harve rapped on the window, pointing at his watch.
‘Got to go,’ Nina said. ‘Bye Patrick. Bye Freddie. I’m on my way.’
I was sorry to see her depart. Except for Sandy and Lizzie, she was the only person around that I found I trusted. Suspicion was a nasty, unaccustomed companion.
Nigel drove out of the farmyard. From the cab Nina waved back to me as I watched from the window.
Reckoning that all good horse people by that time would be up and about I phoned Jericho Rich’s daughter and told her that her transport was rolling and she should have her new horse with her by the next evening, soon after eight o’clock, if that would suit her.
‘So soon? What service!’ she exclaimed. ‘Did you send that groom — Dave, is it? — that my father suggested?’
‘Not Dave, but someone as good.’
‘Oh, well, great. Thank you.’
‘A pleasure,’ I said, meaning it. And that’s what it was: a pleasure to get a neat job done and more than satisfy customers.
Another more-than-satisfied customer at that moment drove into the farmyard in a jeep from which every comfort had been stripped by time and hard usage. Marigold English, again in basic clothes and woolly hat, jumped out of her vehicle almost before it had stopped rolling and looked about her for signs of life.
I went out to meet her.
‘Morning Marigold. How are you settling in?’
‘Hello Freddie. Feel as if I’ve lived here for centuries.’ Her smile came and went. Her voice, as always, was geared to the deaf. ‘I’m on my way up to the Downs but I thought I’d just call in for a brief word. I phoned your house but some female said you were here.’
‘My sister,’ I said.
‘Oh, yes? Well, look, what do you know about this John Tigwood and some sort of ancient horse retirement scheme? The fellow wants to rope me in. What do I do? Tell me frankly. No one can overhear you. Give!’
I gave it to her as frankly as seemed prudent. ‘He’s a dedicated sort of man who persuades a lot of people round here to give old horses good homes. Michael Watermead’s taking two of the new batch we brought to Pixhill yesterday. So is Benjy Usher, unless Dot puts her considerable foot down. There’s no harm in it, if you’ve got room and grass.’
‘Would you say yes to him, then?’
‘It’s a regular charity in Pixhill.’ I thought for a moment and said, ‘Actually, one of this new lot is a horse I used to ride long ago. A great performer. A great buddy. Could you ask John Tigwood to let you have that particular horse? His name’s Peterman. If you’d feed him oats regularly to keep him healthy and warm, I’ll pay for them.’
‘So there’s a soft heart inside there!’ she teased me.
‘Well... he won races for me.’
‘OK, I’ll phone this Tigwood and offer the deal. Peterman, did you say?’
I nodded. ‘Don’t mention the oats.’
She gave me a slanted glance of friendly amusement. ‘One of these days your good deeds will find you out.’