The Horse Dancer (48 page)

‘No,’ said Thom. ‘You’re too tense. In fact, you standing there isn’t helping. Go and sit in the cab.’

‘I don’t—’

‘Sit in the cab. It’ll be quicker that way.’

His tone did not brook discussion. The horses already loaded in the lorry whickered anxiously, one pulling at a wisp of hay, then pushing its chestnut head over the partition to see what was happening outside. Sarah glanced back anxiously at the big bay horse on the end of Thom’s rope, then did as she was told.

She climbed into the passenger seat, then reached into her pocket, feeling for the credit card. ‘How much are you willing to pay for your passage?’ Thom had said, and she had stepped back from him, fearful that she had read him wrongly. ‘Let’s go back in the café for a minute.’

She had despised him then, seeing in him just another conman, another hustler, until he had taken the phone from his jacket. They had sat at the same table. Her muffin was still there in its plastic wrapper.

‘Clive? It’s Thom Kenneally. About those horses.’

She had sat silently across from him at the Formica table as he explained to this unknown man – whom he knew well enough to ask after his children – that there was a problem with his lorry. ‘I got to tell you, mate, I may have a few problems with the old insurance. The welders say there was a bolt gone in the partition, nothin’ I could have seen but a bit of a loophole for them. You know what I’m saying? And if that’s so, it’s going to bugger your chance of getting any money, and my insurance’ll go through the roof. Yes . . . Yes, it is, isn’t it? Now. This Diablo Blue of yours, I see from the papers he wasn’t in the Desert Orchid league, you know what I’m saying?’ He laughed. ‘He did, did he? Yes, I thought he wasn’t the best sort. I was wondering if you could do me a little favour. Let me sort you out with a bit of cash compensation and keep it out of the books. Would that be of any use to you now? Less hassle all round?’

He chatted on for another five minutes, assuring the unseen Clive of the quality of the repairs, that, yes, he’d be delighted to take the two horses on Friday. He hoped they’d worked together long enough, etc., etc. When he finally rang off, it took the determined smile a few seconds to fade from his lips. He placed his phone back in his jacket. ‘Okay, kiddo. You owe Mr Clive there three hundred and fifty smackers for his dead horse. If we head back to the cashpoint, you think that card will take the strain?’

‘I don’t understand . . .’

‘That’s the price of your horse’s new papers,’ he said. ‘God help me for getting involved, but that’s the price of your ticket.’

It had taken another ten drawn-out minutes, during which she chewed her remaining two nails down to the quick, before a dull thud of hooves and a thump told her the ramp had finally gone up. Then there was the sound of bolts being drawn, safety catches slid into place. The driver’s door opened, letting in a gulp of cold air, and Thom climbed into the cab. ‘Not so bad, was he, all things considered? The other two are great travellers. They’ll help him.’ He grinned. ‘You can breathe now.’

He started the engine. The lorry vibrated, its huge engine growling into life. Sarah reached for her seatbelt.

‘Did you leave Jackie the note?’ He adjusted his mirror.

‘And the cash. I told her I’d changed route and was going to Deal instead.’

‘That’s the girl. Ah, come on kiddo. Don’t look so tense. We’ve air-ride suspension on here – super smooth for the horses. They get a better ride than we do. I bet you he’ll be eating from his haynet before we’ve hit the end of the lane.’

She couldn’t tell him that it wasn’t Diablo Blue’s demeanour that frightened her. It was the thought of Customs officials looking too hard at his description. It was the thought of someone who knew about horses working out that Diablo Blue had grown a whole two inches in the three weeks since his travelling papers had been issued.

‘You sure about this?’ Thom asked. ‘It’s not too late to go back, you know. I’m sure if I spoke to your foster-family we could work something out.’

Good
, Papa had said.
Good.
The nurse had been certain of it. ‘I just want to go. Now,’ she added.

She glanced into the side mirror. Behind the stables, out of her view, the horse that was now Baucher lay under a tarpaulin, waiting for the local abattoir to take him away. The passports and travelling papers sat in a battered folder on the dashboard in front of her.

‘Okay.’ Thom swung the huge wheel round, and the lorry headed for the main road. ‘It’s the great big
bateau
for you, me and Mr Diablo Blue, then.’

 

 

 

Cowboy John sat down with his fourth plate of egg, bacon and fried bread and rubbed his hands. ‘Not bad,’ he said, tucking his napkin into his collar. ‘Not bad at all for motorway food.’

Mac had another swig of his coffee. ‘I don’t know how anyone could eat four breakfasts,’ he said, eyeing the depleted breakfast buffet.

‘I paid for it,’ John said. ‘Might as well get my money’s worth.’

Actually,
I
paid for it, Mac observed silently. But it was a relief to spend time with someone cheerful so he said nothing. Around them the breakfast room of the Tempest International hummed with travellers; salesmen locked into telephone conversations, stressed mothers shepherding small children around a cereal-splattered table as fathers disappeared behind newspapers. Occasionally a moon-faced Eastern European girl would approach and offer to top up their coffee, whereupon John would announce, Why, yes! Thank you!

He appeared rejuvenated this morning, his smile a little readier under the battered brown hat, his collar and cuffs neatly pressed. Mac, whose clothes always tended to look as if he had spent several days in them, felt perversely dishevelled in his company. He had risen before dawn and, unable to sleep and in the absence of anything more useful to do, had again walked the deserted seafront, watching the early-morning ferries come and go in the encroaching light, listening to the forlorn cries of the gulls wheeling overhead, and wondering, with a sick dread, where in the world Sarah might be.

He had returned shortly after eight o’clock, let himself into the room and found Natasha not on the chair by the window, as she had been when he’d left, but curled up on the other single bed. The room was still, with only the dull murmur of voices down the corridor breaking the silence. Her knees were drawn up to her chin, a curiously childlike position, her hair half covered her face, and she was frowning, even in sleep. On the desk, even at this hour, her phone flashed with silenced messages. He considered checking them, in case Sarah had decided to call, but the thought of her waking and finding him violating her privacy stopped him. Instead he showered, did his best to freshen up with the lather-free hotel soap, then made his way downstairs to breakfast, where Cowboy John had apparently been availing himself of the facilities for some time.

‘So what’s the plan today, chief?’ John wiped up a pool of egg with the corner of fried bread.

‘I haven’t a clue.’

‘Well . . . I been thinking and I’d lay money on its she’s round here somewhere. That girl ain’t never been nowhere, not as long as I’ve know her. She can’t swim the darn horse to France. So, the way I see it, she’ll either find somewhere to leave him and go to France on foot, in which case someone could hang out by the ticket office, or she’ll work out pretty quickly that she’s stuck, and stay around here while she thinks up what to do next.’

‘I can’t imagine her leaving the horse.’ Mac thought back to their abbreviated stay in Kent.

John grinned. ‘My thoughts precisely, my man. So she’s gotta get here and stay here likely as not. So let’s not call the cops just yet. All we gotta do is make sure we got all the bases covered. Ring round the stables, ask hotels to check for any kids signing in using Natasha’s credit card.’

Mac sank back in his chair. ‘You make it sound simple.’

‘Best plans usually are, and unless you got an alternative . . .’

Natasha appeared at the table. Her hair was damp and she seemed wary, as if she might be criticised for being the last up.

‘Here.’ Mac pulled out a chair. ‘You want some coffee?’

‘I didn’t mean to sleep late. You should have woken me.’

‘I thought you could do with the rest.’ He saw the faintest flash of something pass across her face, saw her try to hide it. How easily an innocent remark could be misconstrued when every conversation was loaded with history.

‘Your phone,’ she said, handing it to him. ‘You left it in your room. Your girlfriend’s been calling.’

‘Probably about a job I’d lined up for this morning . . .’ he began, but she had already left the table for the buffet.

John leant forward. ‘I been thinking something else.’

Mac was barely listening. She was standing by the bread basket, shaking her head as she spoke rapidly into her mobile.

‘We may be worrying too much.’

Mac turned back to the table.

‘Her old man. He trained that horse pretty good, better than any horse I’ve ever seen, and I been around horses a long time.’

‘So?’

‘She’s safe with him.’

‘Safe with who?’ Natasha sat down, a piece of toast clenched between her teeth.

‘The horse. John thinks she’s safe with him.’

Natasha put the toast on her plate. ‘So it’s like Champion the Wonder Horse? It’ll fight off attacking snakes? Warn of approaching Injuns?’

Cowboy John tipped his hat back and glared at her. He turned pointedly towards Mac. ‘I mean she can outrun things, situations she don’t like. And a lot of people are intimidated by horses. They’re goin’ to leave her alone, people who might otherwise feel quite happy approachin’ a little girl out by herself.’ He swigged his coffee. ‘In my eyes she’s a damn sight safer on that horse than she would be without him.’

Natasha drank some juice. ‘Or she could be thrown from it. Or fall under it. Or be attacked by someone who wants to steal it.’

John eyed her warily. ‘Boy, you’re a cheerful soul. I can see why you’re a lawyer.’

The young waitress was lingering by their table. Mac smiled and held up his mug. As she walked away, he caught Natasha’s eye on him. It was not a friendly look.

‘I think Mac would rather I’d been a waitress.’

‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means,’ she directed her comments to John, ‘that he was one of those men who used to say how much he liked smart women. Until “smart” came to mean “complicated” and “wised-up”, at which point he decided he liked twenty-two-year-old waitresses and models instead.’ She flushed.

‘Yo’ sayin’ there’s somethin’ wrong with that?’ John chuckled.

Mac took refuge in his coffee. ‘Perhaps I just found it easier to be around people who weren’t angry with me all the time.’

That had got her. He saw her colour, and felt curiously ashamed.

John rose stiffly from the table. ‘Well, you two lovebirds sure have reminded me why I stayed single. If you want to sort out a plan of action I’m goin’ to brush my teeth. I’ll be down and ready in five.’

They watched him saunter across the restaurant. Natasha chewed her toast. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, into her plate. ‘I shouldn’t have—’

‘Tash?’

She looked up at him.

‘Can we call a truce? Just till we find her? I find this all . . . a bit exhausting.’

There was just the faintest flash of anger. He could see it, an unspoken ‘Exhausting? You think this is my fault?’

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Like I said, I’m sorry.’

Across the dining room John had doffed his hat at the waitress. Mac watched his courtly bow. ‘Okay. What’s the plan? Because I haven’t got one.’

‘She can’t get far,’ Natasha said. ‘I vote we give her till . . . four o’clock? If we haven’t found her by then, okay, we call the cops.’

Natasha and Cowboy John sat on a bench outside the ticket office, their heads tucked low into their jackets in an attempt to shield themselves from the wind as the gulls shrieked above them. They had rung around most of the south of England that morning, from the two hotel rooms, and then, fidgety with cabin fever and anxiety, had come to meet Mac outdoors. Time had crept by, every hour with no sighting of Sarah adding to a growing unease. They sat outside the bleak Portakabin, watching the steady stream of foot passengers disembark from coaches, coming to buy tickets or simply to use the lavatories. Periodically, Ben would call up with some query, often from Richard, and she would shout the answer, her voice lifting against the sea breeze. Periodically Cowboy John stood, walked up and down the exposed stretch of tarmac and smoked impassively, occasionally lifting a slender hand to pin down his hat.

‘I don’t like this,’ he said, gazing out towards the sea. ‘This ain’t Sarah.’

She barely heard him. She was thinking about what Linda had said when she’d asked if Conor had stuck up for her at the previous night’s partners’ meeting. ‘He did try,’ she had said, in a voice that suggested he hadn’t tried very hard. ‘Funnily enough, it was Harrington who really stuck up for you. In a conference call. I . . . um . . . happened to be listening in. He said your strategy had been . . . innovative, that going when you did would make no difference to the case.’ She had seemed surprised that Natasha wasn’t more pleased by this news.

The morning in court had gone well. Richard had quizzed the family doctor, and Harrington had quizzed the forensic accountant, skewering Mr Persey’s claims of financial loss. He had been so shaken, Ben said, that Harrington claimed afterwards he would be surprised if they couldn’t reach some kind of deal the following day. Natasha told him that was great, trying to ignore the envy and loss it invoked in her.