Kelly stood in the centre of the stable and took stock of her options. Even if she got out of here, she now had no access to her transport. Trying to run might provoke a stronger display of force.
There was always the possibility that they’d locked her up while they waited for the police to arrive but from what she’d learned of Harry Grogan somehow she doubted that was the way he dealt with things.
Noises outside had her darting to the window. Through the dusty glass she saw figures coming out of the door to the house. One was the thin man who’d accosted her with the shotgun. The other was the big guy whose fist she’d run smack bang into. And rarely, she felt, did a description fit so aptly.
Their appearance brought her to a quick decision. She moved to the corner with the hayrack. It was made of plastic-coated metal and clearly secure enough to stand a horse yanking hay from between the narrow bars.
Kelly grabbed it with both hands and swung her feet off the floor, hooking one heel over the top and pulling her body up. By balancing on the top edges of the rack it was an easy job to hoist herself onto the dividing wall.
From there she could see she was in the centre box of a row of five. The next stable along didn’t offer anything. It too stood empty with the doors closed and—she assumed—bolted.
But she could see more light at the end of the row. She carefully clambered along the roof trusses until she reached the next wall. Sure enough the top door was open but the stable itself was occupied by a very large grey horse wearing a hessian-type rug. He reacted with a startled snort when a strange woman appeared looming above him.
“Easy now boy,” Kelly tried in a reassuring murmur. “I’m only passing through. Nothing to worry about.”
Sadly, her voice betrayed her doubt and the horse was tuned into tone not words. As she swung her leg over the wall he skittered away blowing hard through his flared nostrils. His feet scuffed through the wood shavings as he did so and she heard the metallic drag of an iron-shod hoof against the concrete underneath.
The shavings might provide her with a soft landing but that would do her no good at all if the horse kicked her to death out of sheer fright once she got down.
This stable also had a hayrack, and she edged along the top of the wall until she was directly over it. Slithering down into the rack had the grey horse backing into the far corner, white showing all around the iris of his bulging eyes. His ears flicked back and forth sending out semaphore distress signals.
Kelly pulled out a couple of handfuls of hay and held them out to the horse, clicking her tongue encouragingly. He favoured her with a look of absolute disdain.
“Oh sod you then,” Kelly muttered, dropping the hay. She lowered herself over the side of the rack and landed lightly enough on the ground that the animal didn’t have a fit at having a small human suddenly sharing his boudoir. In fact, now she was down at a level he was used to the horse’s curiosity overcame his fear. He took a couple of steps forwards and stretched out his elegant nose towards her, snuffling at her sleeve with a surprisingly muscular upper lip.
The closest Kelly had been before to a real horse was a distant donkey ride on the sands at Margate as a toddler. She found this one much too big and overwhelming by comparison, but when she tried to elbow him away his ears flattened immediately.
“Like to get your own way don’t you Dobbin?”
Further along the row of stables she heard a bolt being shot back then voices rising in alarm as they realised she’d gone. The grey horse, ever curious, barged past her and stuck his head outside. By peering through the gap between the top of the door and the underside of his neck Kelly could just see the two men looking round frantically. Their shouts had brought more people out into the yard—stable hands mostly, by the look of them.
She realised that her chances of a successful covert escape had just dropped to nil.
Somebody calmed down enough to start barking instructions for a methodical search. From what she could see, Kelly thought it was the big guy in charge—the one who’d knocked her out. She didn’t recognise his voice but she did recognise his accent.
Russian.
Kelly shrank back. Already they were unbolting the loose box next door, slamming the door again with a shout of, “Clear!” The grey horse was leaning against his own door craning his neck round to watch them as if it were the most exciting thing he’d seen in ages.
There wasn’t time to hide and nowhere to go anyway. Kelly caught a glimpse of a face appearing, prodding the horse back, then there was more shouting, triumphant this time and the door was thrown wide.
“Got her!”
The horse, startled by the sudden raised voices, took a couple of quick steps in reverse. Kelly had to dart to one side to avoid being flattened and put a steadying hand on his rug at the shoulder.
It was only as she did so that she saw the alarm in the faces crowding the open doorway. Somewhere behind them a man swore.
“Christ, she’s in with Mr Grogan’s colt!”
Something in his voice tipped it. Acting on pure survival instinct Kelly grabbed hold of a handful of mane. She had to reach up a long way to do it. She lifted her booted foot and placed it, edge on, against the grey horse’s impossibly fine-boned thoroughbred front leg, just level with his knee.
“Come any closer and the only races this horse’ll be running in future will be three-legged ones,” she snapped, injecting as much quiet savagery into it as she could manage. They had to believe her. If they didn’t . . .
The threat had an electrifying effect on her audience who froze horrified. The grey horse merely flicked an ear in her direction and watched her with a calmly trusting eye.
“What the hell are you after?” someone asked, sounding shaken.
It was a good question. For a moment Kelly’s mind went blank. “I want to talk to the vet,” she said. “Brian Stubbs. Bring him here.”
There was some muttering and shuffling and then everybody seemed to take a step back, parting so a newcomer could step forwards. He filled the doorway. The Russian hard-hitter, Kelly noticed, was at his shoulder.
The new arrival was not Brian Stubbs but she had no difficulty recognising him from his picture.
“Stubbs isn’t here,” Harry Grogan said, his voice a low growl. “Will I do?”
92
Dmitry was cruising Brixton giving shit to anyone he thought might have information about Kelly Jacks. According to all those he’d threatened so far, nobody did. He tried not to think about the stubborn resolve on the faces he encountered. Myshka had been right, he acknowledged with a sour smile. His treatment of the kid in the flat had cost him valuable co-operation.