The Horse With My Name (21 page)

We waited until everyone else who was getting off was off, then stepped out, as close to
one
as we could manage, Elaine with her umbrella already up but angled down, and me close in behind her. The little of me that was still sticking out was hidden by the half-dozen shoe bags. She moved the umbrella a fraction to allow me to scan the rest of the platform and the departing train. I thought I caught a glimpse of Oil Paintings looking our way, but I
couldn’t be sure. I moved a fraction closer to Elaine, just to be safe.

We walked slowly until the train disappeared from sight, then dashed along the platform and up the steep incline to where the collector took our tickets. Elaine, catching the first Dublin train that morning, had been able to park on Botanic Avenue, almost directly across from the station. I drummed my fingers on the roof of her Rover (‘Dad’s) as she fumbled in her handbag for the keys, looked apologetically up at me, then smiled as she located them.

She drove with as much speed as the traffic would allow. On a clear road Belfast Central was only five minutes away, but it took us twice that. She tried to pick up the loose threads of my story again as we drove, but I was too agitated. I didn’t want to lose Jimmy the Chicken and Oil Paintings. I knew they were the key to it. Although I had no idea what
it
was. Elaine pulled up opposite Central Station, sitting on the brow of a hill overlooking the glass-fronted Waterfront concert hall to the right and the occasionally strife-torn Lower Ormeau Road to the left. There was a pedestrian exit just across the road, but our view of it was blocked by a red brick wall, erected to provide some shelter in the days of bombs and bullets and riots but never removed, although they’d had an entire month to do it.

We watched for several minutes. We recognised two or three passengers from the train scurrying into the fresh wind blowing off the mouth of the Lagan down below, but there was no sign of the terrible twosome.

I slapped the dashboard. ‘What am I thinking? They might swagger about at home, but a Dub accent can still get you knifed up here if you wander into the wrong area. They’re walking nowhere.’

She started the car again The taxi rank and station car park were at a lower level than the station, again hidden
from view to protect the cars from hijacking. We drove up to the right, then turned against the traffic and sped down a slip road which ran past Maysfield Leisure Centre and finished in a dead end beside the car park. The taxi rank was opposite, sitting in the shadow of the station and just a couple of yards from a covered moving stairway which took passengers up to the main station, and the steps which they had to negotiate by themselves to get back down. There was a queue of half a dozen passengers waiting at the rank, with two others already ensconced in the back of a black taxi, which moved off as we came to a halt.

‘They’re probably long gone,’ I said.

‘Give it a chance,’ Elaine said. ‘They might’ve stopped off for a pint. Hard men do that, don’t they?’

‘Aye,’ I snapped, ‘you’d know.’

She looked a little hurt. There was no need for it. She was only trying to help. Nevertheless, I let it sit.

‘As a matter of fact, I would know.’ She reached across me and opened the glove compartment. As she delved inside she said, ‘My dad used to be in the UDA.’

‘Sorry,’ I said, and smiled at the memory of it. ‘So was mine. He attended one of those rallies where you pledged your loyalty to the Queen and you got a balaclava and a stick in return.’

‘Oh – right,’ she said, nodding, ‘
that
generation. My granny told me about that. She didn’t think the balaclavas were knitted very well. Granda came home from work one day and she’d sewn a pom pom on to it. Nobody took him very seriously after that.’

I smiled. ‘You make me feel like I’m about seventy.’

‘Aren’t you?’

We returned our attention to the taxi rank. Still nothing happening. Without looking at her I said, ‘You’re far too well spoken for your dad to have been in the UDA.’

‘Well he was, for fifteen years.’

‘In what capacity?’

She cleared her throat. ‘Accountant.’

I snorted.

‘It was important. Remember, they only got Al Capone for tax evasion.’

‘You’re suggesting the UDA are gangsters? That’s shocking. Say that to their faces and you’ll be up to your oxters in concrete. In the best interests of the Queen, of course.’

She smiled, then turned from the glove compartment brandishing a small disposable camera.

‘Inch High Private Eye,’ I said. ‘You’ll get fuck all with that from here,’ I added knowledgeably, nodding across to the taxi rank.

‘I know,’ she said, and snapped me.

She wound it on. I said, ‘It really is titchy. Can I see?’

She hesitated, then handed me the camera. I examined it carefully. Then rolled down the window and threw it out.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘Just following the instructions. Says
disposable
on the side. I have a predisposal to disposing of disposable cameras. If you get my drift.’

She had her hand on the door. ‘That cost me five ninety-nine.’

‘Leave it. I have full picture approval. It’s in the small print of our contract. Plus, I’m incredibly vain.’ She opened the door. ‘I’m serious. Leave it.’

‘It’s
my
camera. I’ve other pictures on it. If you’re that worried about it, I promise I won’t use yours.’

‘Well, then I can relax.’

She started to climb out. I put a hand on her arm and pulled her back in.

‘Great,’ she said flatly. ‘What’re you going to do, kill me?’

‘Ouch.’ She sat where she was. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘I really appreciate what you’re doing for me. The car’n all. But I’d just prefer not to have my picture taken right now. I don’t want you rushing into print before you have the full story.’

‘I won’t. I promise.’

I raised my eyebrows. She smiled. ‘I know. But I really won’t.’

She smiled, and always being the sucker, never the suckee, I sighed and relented. ‘Okay.’

She got out of the car and bent to retrieve the camera. As she did I caught sight of Jimmy the Chicken and Oil Paintings coming chatting and smiling down the steps. Elaine looked up as I hissed her name, then followed my eyes. She’d never seen either of them before, of course, but she could tell instantly. My bug eyes and white face gave it away.

She stood, clutching the camera, then walked towards the taxi rank.

I hissed again, but if she heard, she ignored me.
What the hell is she . . .?

Elaine joined the back of the taxi queue, directly behind Jimmy the Chicken and Oil Paintings. They smiled round at her. She smiled back, then examined her camera. Her brow furrowed. She looked through one side, then the other, then held it up to her ear. Jimmy the Chicken and Oil Paintings were watching her, smirking. They said something to her, she laughed, she looked at the camera again, she held it up to them, Jimmy took it off her, looked through the lens, then ran his fingers along the top of it and pointed at something. He handed it to Oil Paintings, who looked where Jimmy had pointed, then looked through the lens at Elaine, who smiled as he took her picture; he then ran the film on and handed it back to Elaine, again pointing
at something. She smiled expansively, said something else, both of my enemies then laughed; Jimmy put his arm round Oil Paintings, they both raised their thumbs and put on say-cheese smiles. Elaine took their picture. They all laughed together. Three taxis in succession pulled up. The first two were quickly filled; Oil Paintings opened the door of the third and tried to usher Elaine in; she shook her head and raised her hands. Jimmy the Chicken tried to insist, but she stood her ground, waved them into their taxi, then stood patiently waiting for the next one while they drove off, waving back at her.

The instant they turned up past Maysfield she ran back to the car and dived into the driver’s seat.

‘At least they weren’t vain,’ she grinned as she gunned the engine, then took off in pursuit of the black taxi. I shook my head and tutted. ‘Listen, mate,’ she said, ‘I have a photo of them and I know where they’re going. What do you have apart from
Most Wanted
tattooed on your forehead?’

‘I have . . . you,’ I said wearily. ‘A lunatic.’

‘It takes two to tango.’

‘So where
are
we going?’

‘Malone Road.’

‘Shit.’ I had a dread feeling about the Malone Road.

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Just follow.’

‘If we’re going to be partners, you better tell me what you mean by
shit
.’

I sighed. ‘We’re not partners. I don’t have to tell you anything.’

She indicated, then pulled in sharply. There was a blast of horns from behind. Elaine ignored it, content merely to glare across at me. ‘Do you want to get out of the car now?’

‘Be serious.’

‘I am bloody serious. I’m putting my neck on the line for you, the least you can do is show a little appreciation.’

‘I appreciate what you’re doing.’

‘More than that.’

‘I really appreciate what you’re doing.’

‘We’re losing them.’

‘Then drive.’

‘Then promise.’

‘Then promise what?’

‘To tell me what you’re doing, what you’re thinking.’

‘What’s the point? Don’t you have a home to go to? Won’t Daddy be worried about you?’

‘He’ll be worried about his car.’

I sighed. Fair point. We were both keeping an eye on the black taxi, now at traffic lights halfway up the Ormeau Road, waiting to turn right into Donegall Pass. We knew they were going to Malone Road, and I’d a fair idea which house. But it would be helpful to be sure. The lights changed, the taxi moved forward.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Just follow them.’

‘Tell me.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘If you absolutely bloody insist, the woman who runs the Horse Whisperer lives on the Malone Road. Somehow they’ve managed to track her down.’

‘Okay.’

She indicated, but suddenly inspired, I put a hand on the wheel. ‘One thing.’

‘What?’

‘Will you let me drive?’

‘What’s wrong with my driving?’

‘Nothing, I . . . just like to feel in control.’

‘We’re going to lose them.’

‘Not if I’m driving.’

She blew air out of her cheeks. ‘Bloody
men
.’

‘Think of the story. Concentrate on that. Front page. By Elaine Taylor.’

‘
Patricia
Taylor.’

‘Exactly. Let me drive.’

She slapped the wheel in exasperation. ‘Okay.
Okay!
You bloody drive. Just don’t try anything funny.’

I gave her a pained ‘Like what?’ as she opened her door and scooted around the back.

I locked my own door, then slipped into the driver’s seat, pulling the door she’d left open for me shut. She pulled at the passenger door, once, twice, then knocked on the window. Her face appeared at it, followed by a misty little circle as she said urgently, ‘It’s locked.’

I reached across and she stood back to let me open it, but instead I rolled down the window a fraction. ‘Sucker,’ I said.

I closed the window again, locked my own door, then indicated and pulled out. There was something that sounded suspiciously like a kick against the passenger door panel as I moved off, but I didn’t stop.

Fifty yards up the road I checked the mirror to make sure she was far enough back, then pulled in. I grabbed hold of the shopping bags full of her precious shoes. I moved across to the passenger door, opened it, then set them carefully down on the pavement. I glanced back. She was running.

The door was closed and I was back out in the traffic again before she got anywhere near. When I checked the mirror again she was standing in the midst of her bags, angrily giving me the finger.

I had stolen her car, but I preferred to think of it as saving her life.

22

I spent an hour and a half watching the house from the safety of Patricia Elaine Taylor’s father’s car, during which a pleasant early evening had begun to slip into autumnal night. There was a crispness to the air and a half-moon in the sky. There was the possibility of frost. There was a high pressure area building up over the Azores, and Mallen Head was expecting a force nine gale. You can listen to too much weather on the radio. I searched the dial for news but kept managing to miss it; I heard the weather. Again and again. And again.

For the first hour I saw no movement, then halfway through the second the merest glimpse of Oil Paintings as he pulled the curtains in the front lounge. A dull light appeared around the edges of the window. I took a deep breath, nearly choked on one of the barley sugars I had liberated from a bag in the glove compartment, then got out of the car and followed the perimeter wall around to the back of the house. It was low enough to peer over. Satisfied that nobody was watching, I pulled myself up and over and hurried across the grounds. I skirted the tennis court and swimming pool, then headed for the stables. The door was
slightly open and I could see that the interior was lit by a single low-wattage bulb. There was movement within, but it was horse movement. I slipped inside and walked slowly past the half-dozen stalls, making clicking sounds to the horses within, checking to see if by any chance any of them was Dan the Man. Of course, none of them were. Or all of them were. They were brown horses in a bad light. I hadn’t a clue. I moved out of the stables, and towards the house.

I entered from the rear, shinning up a pipe and making a dive for a half-open window.

In truth it wasn’t the most dangerous leap. There was a sloping and overgrown grass bank behind me to break my fall, if required. But I held on to the ledge and dragged myself in. I lowered myself down on to a carpet and knelt there for several minutes.

As my eyes grew accustomed to the dark, and with the faint assistance of the handily placed moon, I realised that I was standing in what must once have been Mandy’s room. There were framed photographs of her on the wall, stretching from when she was not much more than a toddler to her later teenage years. There were four factors common to them all. A riding helmet. A horse. A rosette. And her proud mother. There was make-up on a dressing table and a poster of Frankie Dettori pinned to the door of a wardrobe. There were clothes in the wardrobe, and underwear in the dresser. I was thinking about the nature of sexual fantasy and the bizarre paths along which it can lead you when I was suddenly stopped in my tracks by a low, agonised groan from below. The sort that sends a chill through your bones.