The Price Of Horses

Chapter 3

3

An hour later, after he had been out to his favourite diner for a big fry-up and a mug of tea, Luke began to organize himself for the night to come. He took items from the shelves and laid them out on his bed in reverse order of requirement: packing straw, soft cloths, lock pickers, a small torch, flat-bladed knives, a small screwdriver, a coiled nylon rope, a balaclava and a pair of supple leather gloves. He checked the items thoroughly, almost reverentially. His life might depend on some of them.

He put on a light showerproof zip-up jacket with elasticated cuffs, then rehearsed swinging his frameless rucksack on to his back with a ten-kilo weight inside and snapping the waistband strap closed. The movement required perfect balance. He couldn't risk damage to items in the rucksack, but he might have to leave in a hurry.

With great care, he placed his gear in the rucksack, the small items in the side pockets and the rest in the body of the bag. Finally he took a pair of surgical gloves, folded one inside the other, then put them in his inside jacket pocket. He checked to make sure he had not forgotten anything—then, clad in the perfect disguise of hard hat and overalls, left by the rusting fire escape. A workman checking the state of the building was not likely to arouse much curiosity.

By six o'clock he was driving his old Renault Estate through an area of darkened yards and warehouses in a rundown industrial sector by a disused railway siding. He could hear the constant wail of police sirens through his open driver's window. They filled him, as always, with a toxic mix of dread and detestation.

Most of the businesses on the industrial estate had either moved or gone bust in the recession, giving the area the appearance of an abandoned wasteland. He pulled up outside Tam's yard and stared at the fancy carved sign above the double gates:

T McBRIDE

ANTIQUES DEALER & FURNITURE RESTORER

The sign was no more than a front. Very little dealing and no restoration work at all had ever occurred in the place. It was like the whole of Tam's life—a facade, behind which lay a world of trickery and deception. He wondered what would be left in the dealer’s character when all the subterfuge had been removed. Nothing perhaps. Silence. A black hole.

Luke sat a moment, beset by fresh doubts. He had the disconcerting feeling that it would be a very long time before he came that way again, if ever. Would he be caught tonight for the first time and get five years in jail? Would he be killed? But his curiosity got the better of him again. He took out his mobile and stared at it as if it was an unexploded bomb, then he tapped in Tam's number and announced his presence.

The gates opened remotely, and Luke drove into the yard. He pulled past a range of disused outbuildings and stopped by a shabby door marked OFFICE. The place looked even more derelict than the last time he visited, designed to support Tam's claim, should the Revenue guys start pressuring him, that he had given up the antiques trade and was getting used to retirement.

Nothing much had changed in Tam's office, either. There was a scattering of the usual antiques dotted about—odd items of porcelain, glassware, bronzes and silver—that gave the impression of a film set that could be packed up and disappeared in minutes. Anything of real value was kept elsewhere, in a location known only to the cunning dealer himself.

Tam, at fifty-five, was a thickset, tough-looking Scot with a mass of greying curly hair and florid features. He sat at his desk, a stack of out-of-date invoices at his elbow, held down by a damaged pseudo-Greek bust.

“Spring Heeled Luke,” Tam grinned, "my lucky charm! Glad ye could find time to drop by.”

Something wasn't right, Luke could sense it. He was picking up a bad vibe. "Ain't gonna be lucky tonight, Tam. Bad omens—gavvers everywhere."

"The po-liss, eh?" Tam emphasised the first syllable. His grin slipped slyly sideways. "And who, I'm wondering, would they be after?" He fixed Luke with a questioning glance.

Luke was used to the Scotsman's attempts at unsettling humour. But he was not going to be fazed. "Dunno, Tam. Some tricky dealer like you mebbe."

The Scotsman laughed. "That's more like it. If ye canna conjure a joke, ye's unfit for purpose." He watched Luke pacing restlessly around the room. "It's the past that's vexing ye still, is it, laddie?" The Scotsman fashioned a look of feigned sympathy.

Luke shrugged. "What if it is?" But it wasn't the past that was unsettling him. It was more like a premonition. Was he losing his nerve, or was he developing second sight? But now Tam had mentioned it, images of the lying police officer Nigel Hirst rushed into his mind. Hirst with his sneers and his talk of "filthy gyppos."

Tam poured his companion a mug of coffee. "Whisht. Clear your head. Ye canna live wi' ghaists at your elbow."

For a moment Tam seemed to be genuinely sympathetic. How much did he know of the past, Luke wondered? Did he know who had started the trailer fire? Did he know why? But he was aware if he asked him the slippery Scot would insult him with denials.

He sat on the only other chair in the room and drank the offered coffee. He disliked the stuff, preferring tea like most gypsy travellers, but decided to avoid further friction. He needed to relax, or the task ahead of him might prove to be his last.

Tam's Volvo Estate moved slowly through the quiet suburban streets of a small county town forty miles to the north of London. Could be anywhere, Luke thought. Anonymous dormitory England.

His restlessness and anxiety had left him at last. He could no longer hear police sirens, which always reminded him of the tragedy in his life and its unsatisfactory conclusion. He felt calm, his innate curiosity beginning to stir as he wondered about the shape of the night that lay ahead of him.

"What's so special about this job?" He didn't expect an entirely honest reply.

Tam smiled. "I was hoping ye'd get round to showing an interest. We're paying a call on a rich ex-con. He's a top guy. Speciality's antique smuggling. Likes to get hold o' stuff that's still rare. Guess it makes him feel special. Some call him eccentric. Others just say he's a twisted sense o' humour. By common consent he's a bit of a psycho. Lives on his own. Hates people."

"Sounds like you."

The Scotsman laughed. "That's the spirit, laddie! Takes one to know one!"

"What's he got?"

Tam was grinning widely now. "Treasures, my friend! Vases. Seal stones. Bronzes. Jewellery. Stuff from Egypt. A load o' loot from museums in Iraq." He paused for dramatic effect. "But they're not what we're after now."

Luke was intrigued. He realized Tam had him well and truly hooked. "What then? I can't get a Turner landscape into my backpack!"

"Whisht! We're after Ming ch'i, laddie. Spirit objects—embodiments o' spirit."

"You sound like a goddamn sales catalogue!"

Tam elaborated. "T'ang tomb figures to me and ye. He's a cabinet full. But we just want the horses."

"Why the horses?" Luke asked in puzzlement.

"My client believes in 'em. He's a horsey guy. He thinks they'll bring him good luck."

"He's a superstitious fella."

"Guess he is."

"He got a name?"

Tam shook his head. "Just ye bother about the horses, laddie!"

That subject was evidently closed. "So what's the deal?"

"C.O.D. And that's up to ye."

"I need an advance. And that's down to you!"

Tam feigned exasperation. "Whisht, laddie! Ye'll be paid."

"Ten percent tonight, Tam. We agreed. How do I know I'll see another penny? I'm taking the risk here, y'know!"

"Dinna fret. Ye'll be able to retire to Skeggy on this. Trust me."

"Stuff Skeggy! You should've got a career as a stand-up!"

They drove on in silence for five minutes. Luke's mind was focused, and he needed answers.

"What's the get-in?"

Tam turned the Volvo on to a leafy minor road. "Gable end wall. On'y bit that isna watched. Ye've done harder."

"One guy? Only one? You sure?"

Tam showed signs of impatience. Luke was unable to tell if they were genuine or for effect.

"Give me some credit, laddie! The guy sleeps alone in the first floor back. Not even a paid-for escort. He has his London associates round but only at weekends. Most rooms are unused."

Luke's mind flooded with doubt. "How d'you know all this?"

"I ken the body who installed the security."

"How come? A long way out o' your field, ain't it?"

"I bought his gambling debts. Small stuff really. But now, unofficially, he works for me."

That was as much as Luke could get out of the Scotsman. He would have to be content or call it off.

The Volvo entered a village main street. Expensive properties, a few newly built but most older, lined both sides of the road. All were in darkness. The car clock showed 1.45 a.m. Tam drove more slowly, checking his mirrors, glancing keenly out of the windows. Luke leaned forward, attentive.

"I've changed my mind, Tam. There'll be cameras everywhere round here. Every brick's a gold bar! It's too much risk."

"Risk?" Tam exclaimed. "What about me? I'm a businessman!" His tone softened. "Don't ye worry, laddie, our guy has no cameras on the end wall, on'y front and back."

The Volvo pulled into a field lane and stopped in the cover of trees. Its headlights were doused. As if synchronized, the full moon slid free from a bank of cumulus.

Tam pointed to a large detached property that stood at the far side of a small paddock. "That's the one."

A minute later, Luke's shadowy figure left the car.