The Horse at the Gates (44 page)

It had been four days since he’d fled Ray’s estate. He’d driven east that night, keeping to the country lanes until he’d found a small hotel outside the village of Flaunden, coasting quietly into the car park and coming to a halt where the shadows were deepest. It was too risky to travel the roads at night, the chances of a routine police stop, particularly in rural areas, all the more likely after midnight. So he’d slept fitfully behind the wheel, waking with a start at every call of a night bird or rustle in the undergrowth. When morning came he’d tuned into a news station, fearing the worst but hearing nothing. His name wasn’t mentioned, nor the deaths, or news of a manhunt. As he eased the car out into the lane and headed towards the M25 with the morning traffic, Danny kept his speed down and his eyes on the road ahead. The motorway took him past the sprawling relocation camp at Heathrow and Danny forgot his plight momentarily, making sure he followed the other drivers and stuck to the outside lane to avoid the stone-throwing kids behind the fences.

He passed two police cars idling in a lay-by just past West Byfleet, the powerful black vehicles squatting like fat insects as their on-board cameras scanned the licence plates of the heavy morning traffic. Danny’s heart was in his mouth as he cruised by at a steady sixty-two miles per hour, expecting the scream of sirens to cut through the voices on the radio, his rear view mirror filled with blue and red lights, the metallic commands ordering him to
Stop! Your vehicle is about to be disabled! Stop!
But nothing happened. As Ray had promised him, the car was clean.

The further he travelled, the more convinced he was that Tess hadn’t reported the deaths of her husband and Joe. It was also a fair bet that Tess didn’t know the details of the car, or even what colour it was. For all of his faults, Ray loved his wife and Danny felt certain he would’ve kept any incriminating details from her. In any case, Tess would be up to her neck in it too if the police came sniffing around. Instead, Danny imagined a night of frantic phone calls, begging loyal friends to clean up the mess, concocting some sort of cover story for Ray’s absence. He had a mental image of the fat bloke, Marcus, rolling Ray’s body in on top of Joe’s in that dark clearing, patting the ground with a shovel, wiping his hands as he led an inconsolable Tess back to the house. If that was the case, and Danny prayed it was, then he had a clear run down to the coast. Clean car, clean ID. He had a chance to start his life again.

Reaching the south London suburb of Battersea by mid-morning, Danny left the Vauxhall in a side street and reconnoitred the hostel. The derelict buildings opposite made a perfect observation post and Danny retrieved his supplies from the car and slipped quietly inside one of the houses after dark. It was on the second morning he saw his father, his heart beating loudly, his throat choking with emotion. He wanted to bang on the filthy glass, call out to him, but he had to be certain he wasn’t being watched before he made a move. The old man had shown no signs of random behaviour; a couple of laps around the nearby park and a thermos of tea on a bench overlooking the river was about the strength of it. That was typical of dad, a creature of habit, a man who liked routine. Danny was thankful for it.

For the last couple of days he’d trailed his father from a distance, making sure he wasn’t being observed by others, but it was difficult to tell. He was no expert in counter-surveillance, but he had to take a risk. He needed to see his dad, speak to him, before he left for good.

Danny watched his father emerge from the hostel just before nine, taking time to sweep the pavement outside the weathered front door. That was another of dad’s traits, hated mess wherever he was, always willing to help out. Danny studied him from across the street. It had only been a couple of months, but already the back seemed a little more curved, the skin a little paler, gathering in loose folds around his neck, the grey hair noticeably thinner. Stress, probably, and worry. His neat home gone, his son branded a mass murderer and still on the run. The guilt made Danny feel physically sick. He watched his dad push the broom wearily, sweep and tap, sweep and tap, his movements precise, the frequent stops to flex the arthritic fingers, the fat electronic tag around his ankle forcing a slight limp. Bastards.

Another hour passed before the old man re-emerged in a faded navy tracksuit and trainers, a small rucksack slung across his shoulders, a pale yellow scarf wrapped around his thin neck to combat the sharp December winds. Danny slipped on his quilted parka as he watched his dad head up the street towards the park. He left the house by the rear garden, squeezing through the side alley that was choked with broken furniture and stinking rubbish, and emerged into bright sunlight. He slapped the dirt from his clothes and stepped out onto the pavement, following his father from a safe distance. There was no rush. He knew where he was headed.

‘Oi! You!’ Danny glanced over his shoulder without breaking stride. ‘Yeah, you!’

He stopped, heart pounding in his chest. Coming up fast behind him was a local roughneck, wearing the black fatigues and high-visibility vest of a Civil Enforcement Officer. Danny sized the man up. He was in his forties, tall and powerfully-built, a shock of bright ginger hair spilling out beneath the band of his black baseball cap. He stopped a few inches away, looming over Danny, his face crimson with latent anger.

‘You deaf? When I say stop, you stop. Get me?’

‘Sorry, bruv.’

The enforcer studied Danny like an insect, the nostrils of his boxer’s nose flaring. Danny lowered his eyes, noticing the fingers that flexed around the handle of a thick black baton dangling from the enforcer’s belt. He was sure the man wouldn’t need much excuse to use it.

‘What were you doing down that alley?’ he demanded.

Danny thought quickly. If this idiot wasn’t satisfied with his answers, it could get ugly. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled, keeping his demeanour as casual as possible.

‘Taking a piss. Got caught short.’

‘A piss?’ echoed the enforcer, his nose wrinkling in disgust. ‘Do that at home, you dirty bastard.’ Suddenly the man frowned and took half a step back. ‘You’re not local, are you? Break out some ID.’

The false ID card was safely tucked inside the pocket of his jeans, the latex face piece and the rest of his gear hidden in the derelict house. Unless he absolutely had no choice, the only time he would use his new identity would be at the ferry port. What he didn’t need was a routine check, a street stop, a study of his ID picture, the details logged onto the system. He had to think quickly.

‘I don’t want any trouble, bruv. I’m in a bit of a hurry as it goes.’

‘Trouble? I never mentioned any trouble. Got a guilty conscience?’ His hand moved towards the radio on his shoulder.

‘Alright, I wasn’t having a piss,’ Danny confessed. He took a step closer, lowered his voice. ‘Look, between you and me, I was looking for wiring in them old houses back there. You know, strip out the copper and sell it, yeah?’

The enforcer’s hand still hovered near his radio. ‘That’s trespass and criminal damage. Name?’

Shit.
This was going from bad to worse. A car drove by, the occupants staring at them as they cruised past. Across the street, a group of women pushing a brood of wailing brats stopped their buggies to watch. He had to think fast.

‘You want the truth? I found a holdall, stashed under the floorboards in one of the rooms upstairs. You know what bearer bonds are?’

The enforcer growled. ‘Course I do.’

‘The holdall’s full of ’em. Each one’s got a value of five hundred quid. We could split the lot, fifty-fifty.’ Danny watched the enforcer’s eyes dart left and right, his mind clearly debating the offer. Council stooges like this one were paid a minimum wage for long hours. They didn’t even get free travel. In the distance, above the pale chimney stacks of the derelict power station, a police blimp drifted across the sky. ‘Well? What d’you think?’

The enforcer hesitated, glancing up and down the street. He saw the women across the road, watching, and drew his baton. ‘Lead the way,’ he ordered, jabbing Danny in the chest. They headed back towards the alleyway, clambering over the rubbish and into the rear garden.

‘Maybe it fell off a train or something,’ Danny ventured, pointing at the steep embankment. Beyond the wire fence a spur line carried commuter trains into the terminus at Victoria. He studied the enforcer carefully, how his eyes roamed the garden that was deep in shadow, overgrown with weeds and bordered by a sagging brick wall that was slowly crumbling under the weight of the railway embankment. The properties on either side were also derelict, silent and empty.

‘How’d it get in the house, then?’ the enforcer demanded, doubt in his voice.

Danny ducked past him, his legs swishing through the dewy grass. ‘Maybe someone found it, stashed it under the boards, who knows? Tell you what I do know – they’re worth a fortune to the right person. We could buy our way out to the colonies.’

‘Watch your language,’ warned the enforcer, following Danny up the narrow staircase.

‘You know what I mean. Relocation packages and residency permits cost money, bruv. New Zealand ain’t so bad, but Australia and Canada is where people are going. Trouble is, they charge the most. Still, it’ll be enough to get us out of earshot of them bloody minarets, eh?’

‘I told you, I don’t want to hear that sort of talk. I won’t warn you again.’ The enforcer stamped along the gloomy landing, his pace a little quicker, the floorboards creaking under his heavy black boots. The radio clipped to his shoulder hissed continuously, garbled voices trapped within the damp walls. Danny stopped at the threshold to a room and invited the enforcer inside.

‘This is it.’

The big man pushed past Danny as his eyes swivelled greedily around the empty bedroom. The filthy window started to rattle as a low rumble filled the room. ‘Where is it? Where’s the bag?’ he snarled, spinning around, the baton gripped in a tight fist.

The pistol was already in Danny’s hand. ‘Don’t move, bruv. Don’t make a sound.’

The enforcer paled at the sight of the gun but held his ground. He lowered the baton. ‘Just take it easy, mate,’ he soothed. ‘No one has to get hurt here.’

Danny’s mind spun wildly.
Now what?
‘You’re right, no one need get hurt. So just do as I say.’

‘Yeah, whatever. You’re the boss.’

Danny took a step back, his eyes scanning the room. This idiot had to be kept out of sight for at least twenty-four hours, maybe more. That would mean tying him up, gagging him. But how? What with? Fucking place was bare. Then he saw the man’s utility belt.

‘Give me those handcuffs,’ Danny ordered. He had to raise his voice, the sound of the approaching train reverberating around the walls.

‘What d’you want them for?’

‘I’m gonna handcuff myself and let you nick me, you fucking idiot. Just give ’em to me.’ The man didn’t seem scared, his tone casual, almost challenging, and that unnerved Danny. ‘Do it! Now!’ he snapped.

The enforcer’s hand went to his belt, eased the cuffs from their holder. ‘Just take it easy, alright mate?’

‘Stop telling me to take it easy.’ Danny held out his hand. The enforcer stepped forward. Outside, a commuter express thundered past the window, shaking the whole building. Danny reached for the cuffs and the enforcer let go. They clattered to the floorboards. ‘Idiot,’ Danny cursed and bent down to pick them up.

He saw the enforcer’s feet move, heard the swish of something slicing through the air. He twisted his head away just as the baton came down, crashing into Danny’s shoulder. Both men screamed, Danny in pain, the enforcer in a blind rage. Danny scrambled backwards as the enforcer raised the baton again, fury in his eyes.

The shot exploded in the confined space, the bullet punching through the enforcer’s neck in a mist of blood and matter. The big man staggered, eyes wide in terror, the baton clattering across the room. His hands reached for his throat, desperate to stem the blood that sprayed between his fingers. He dropped to his knees, spewing a mouthful of dark blood that painted his hands red, soaking the front of his uniform. Then he fell forward, his head thumping onto the floorboards. The panic was gone now, the mechanism of death consuming his body. His eyes bulged, his mouth opening and closing like a beached fish as he gasped his last, futile breaths. Then he lay still.

As the sound of the train receded, Danny turned away from the body and thrust the pistol back into the waistband of his trousers. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ he whispered. Then his stomach lurched and he threw up over the floorboards, retching until his guts were empty. He dragged himself against the wall and sat there for a moment, panting for breath, a cold sheen of sweat on his bloodless face. Another death on his hands. Jesus Christ, he was turning into a bloody serial killer, and people were going to be looking for this one very soon. As if to emphasise the point, the radio on the enforcer’s shoulder burst into life, the words and numbers meaningless to Danny. He leaned over and gingerly disconnected the battery from the unit. He had to move, and move fast.

Twenty minutes later he steered the Vauxhall through the gates of Battersea Park and left it next to a row of recycling bins. He strode along the treelined avenues, his parka zipped high against the cold, his shoulder throbbing painfully. Litter scraped and tumbled along the paths and the air was tinged with the scent of wood fires, signs of the growing number of homeless refugees camping in London’s parks. Everywhere groups of veiled women wandered the pathways, their children furiously pedalling small bikes or chasing squirrels between the horse chestnuts and weeping elms. In open spaces, dark-skinned men flew a multitude of kites, coloured sails swooping and soaring on the gusting winds. Danny kept his head down and trudged around the edge of the lake, forcing himself to walk slowly, to act casual, but fear stalked him through the park. This was a mistake, warned a voice inside him. He should go, leave now, never look back.
Run, Danny, run...

When he reached the embankment overlooking the Thames his dad was already seated on a park bench, munching on a sandwich as he watched the river drift by. Danny studied him from the shelter of a tree for a few moments, took one last look around, then set off across the open ground. His heart began to beat faster as he closed the distance, circling a muddy football pitch where a group of refugees played a boisterous game of soccer. There was a chorus of shouts and Danny saw the ball skimming across the grass towards him. He kicked it back, receiving a chorus of thanks in heavily-accented English.