At one point Lucas disappeared into the Jockey Club rooms in the High Street and Chico and I drank in the White Hart and felt hot.
I changed the batteries. Routine. The day crawled.
'Let's go to Spain,' I said.
'Spain?'
'Anywhere.'
'I could just fancy a senorita.'
'You're disgusting.'
'Look who's talking.' We reordered and drank and still felt hot. 'How much do you reckon we'll get?' Chico said.
'More or less what we ask.'
George Caspar had promised, if Tri-Nitro recovered, that the horse's owner would give us the earth.
'A fee will do,' I'd said dryly.
Chico said, 'What will you ask, then?'
'I don't know. Perhaps five per cent of his prize money.'
'He couldn't complain.'
We set off southwards, finally, in the cooling car, and listened on the radio to the Dante Stakes at York.
Flotilla, to my intense pleasure, won it.
Chico, in the back seat, went to sleep. Lucas drove as impatiently as on the way up: and I sat and thought of Rosemary, and Trevor Deansgate, and Nicholas Ashe, and Trevor Deansgate, and Louise, and Trevor Deansgate.
Stab. Stab. I'll do what I said.'
Lucas dropped us at the entrance to the car park where I'd left the Scimitar. It would be like a furnace inside, I thought, sitting there all day in the sun. Chico and I walked over to it across the uneven stone-strewn ground.
Chico yawned.
A bath, I thought. A long drink. Dinner. Find a hotel room again… not the flat.
There was a Land Rover with a two-horse trailer parked beside my car. Odd, I thought idly, to see them in central London. Chico, still yawning, walked between the trailer and my car to wait for me to unlock the doors.
'It'll be baking,' I said, fishing down into my pocket for the keys, and looking downwards into the car.
Chico made a choking sort of noise. I looked up, and thought confusedly how fast, how very fast a slightly boring hot afternoon could turn to stone cold disaster.
A large man stood in the space between the trailer and my car with his left arm clamped around Chico, who was facing me. The man was more or less supporting Chico's weight, because Chico's head lolled forward.
In his right hand the man held a small pear-shaped black truncheon.
The second man was letting down the ramp at the rear of the trailer. I had no difficulty in recognising them. The last time I'd seen them I'd been with a fortune teller who hadn't liked my chances.
'Get in the trailer, laddie,' the one holding Chico said to me. 'The right hand stall, laddie. Nice and quick. Otherwise I'll give your friend another tap or two. On the eyes, laddie. Or the base of the brain.'
Chico, on the far side of the Scimitar, mumbled vaguely and moved his head. The big man raised his truncheon and produced another short burst of uncompromising Scottish accent.
'Get in the trailer,' he said. 'Go right in, to the back.'
Seething with fury, I walked round the back of my car and up the ramp into the trailer. The right hand stall, as he'd said. To the back. The second man stood carefully out of hitting distance, and there was no one else in the car park.
I found I was still holding my car keys, and put them back automatically into my pocket. Keys, handkerchief, money… and in the left-hand pocket, only a discharged battery. No weapon of any sort. A knife in the sock, I thought. I should have learned from Nicholas Ashe.
The man holding Chico came round to the back of the trailer and half dragged, half carried Chico into the left hand stall.
'You make a noise, laddie,' he said, putting his head round to my side of the central partition, 'and I'll hit your friend here. On the eyes, laddie, and the mouth. You try and get help by shouting, laddie, and your friend won't have much face to speak of. Get it?'
I thought of Mason in Tunbridge Wells. A vegetable, and blind.
I said nothing at all.
'I'm travelling in here with your friend, all the way,' he said. 'Just remember that, laddie.'
The second man closed the ramp, shutting out the sunlight, creating instant night. Where many trailers were open at the top at the back, this one was not.
Numb, I suppose, is how I felt.
The engine of the Land Rover started, and the trailer moved, backing out of the parking slot. The motion was enough to rock me against the trailer's side, enough to show I wasn't going very far standing up.
My eyes slowly adjusted to a darkness which wasn't totally black owing to various points where the ramp fitted less closely than others against the back of the trailer. In the end I could see clearly, as if it mattered, the variations that had been done to turn an ordinary trailer into an escape-proof transport. The extra piece at the back, closing the gap usually left open for air, and the extra piece inside, lengthways, raising the central partition from head height to the roof.
Basically, it was still a box built to withstand the weight and kicks of horses. I sat helplessly on the floor, which was bare of everything except muddy dust, and thought absolutely murderous thoughts.
After all that unpredictable travelling around I had agreed to go with Lucas and had stupidly left my car in plain vulnerable view all day. They must have picked me up at the Jockey Club, I thought. Either yesterday, or this morning. Yesterday, I thought, there had been no room in the car park, and I'd left my car in the street and got a ticket…
I hadn't been to my flat. I hadn't been back to Aynsford. I hadn't been to the Cavendish, or to any routine place.
I had, in the end, gone to the Jockey Club.
I sat and cursed and thought about Trevor Deansgate.
The journey lasted for well over an hour: a hot, jolting, depressing time which I spent mostly in consciously not wondering what lay at the end of it. After a while I could hear Chico talking, through the partition, though not the words. The flat, heavy, Glaswegian voice made shorter replies, rumbling like thunder.
A couple of pros from Glasgow, Jacksy had said. The one in with Chico, I thought, was certainly that. Not an average bashing mindless thug, but a hard man with brain power; and so much the worse.
Eventually the jolting stopped, and there were noises of the trailer being unhitched from the coupling: the Land Rover drove away, and in the sudden quiet I could hear Chico plainly.
'What's happening?' he said, and sounded still groggy.
'You'll find out soon enough, laddie.'
'Where's Sid?' he said.
'Be quiet, laddie.'
There was no sound of a blow, but Chico was quiet. The man who had raised the ramp came and lowered it, and six-thirty, Wednesday evening, flooded into the trailer.
'Out,' he said.
He was backing away from the trailer as I got to my feet, and he held a pitchfork at the ready, the sharp tines pointing my way.
From deep in the trailer I looked out and saw where we were. The trailer itself, disconnected from the Land Rover, was inside a building, and the building was the indoor riding school on Peter Rammileese's farm.
Timber-lined walls, windows in the roof, open because of the heat. No way that anyone could see in, casually, from outside.
'Out,' he said again, jerking the fork.
'Do what he says, laddie,' said the threatening voice of the man with Chico. 'At once.'
I did what he said.
Walked down the ramp onto the quiet tan-coloured riding-school floor. 'Over there.' He jerked the fork. 'Against the wall.' His voice was rougher, the accent stronger, than the man with Chico. For sheer bullying power, there wasn't much to choose.
I walked, feeling that my feet didn't belong to me.
'Back to the wall. Face this way.'
I turned with my shoulders lightly touching the wood. Behind the man with the pitchfork, standing where from in the trailer I hadn't been able to see him, was Peter Rammileese. His face bore a nasty mixture of satisfaction, sneer, and anticipation, quite unlike the careful intentness of the two Scots. He had driven the Land Rover, I supposed; out of my sight.