‘A stable lad died trying to save Betsy Thorne. She nearly got hit by a falling beam. Would have, if it hadn’t been for the dead lad knocking her clear. A couple of the stable lads have minor burns, apparently. They think the real target was the stable block itself. He was going for the horses.’ Ambrose looked apologetic. ‘Like Tony said: he’s going for what matters to his victims. So they have to live with the consequences of what they did to him.’
Carol’s face froze in a rigid mask.
‘What happened to the horses?’ Tony asked. It was the first thing that came to mind.
‘Two dead, the rest were either out in the fields or else rescued by the stable lads. They were incredibly brave, according to the officers on the ground.’
‘And they didn’t catch him? He just drove away on his quad bike,’ said Carol, exasperated and angry.
‘They found the quad bike in a wood nearby. Along with a trailer. From the tyre tracks, it looks like he was driving an SUV. West Midlands have already got details of the trailer-hire place, they’re hoping to find out what he’s driving. But it’s Saturday evening and there’s nobody there, so God knows when that’ll pay off.’
‘He wasn’t driving an SUV last night, was he?’ Tony asked. ‘One of your people told me one of the neighbours saw a Ford saloon in the driveway before the fire started.’
‘Yeah, we’ve backtracked on the traffic cameras and we think that’s what he was driving. No clear shots of him, though. And we lose him about a mile away from yours. He must have cut through side streets, away from the main roads.’
‘So he dumped that car and hired an SUV,’ Carol said. ‘Have you checked all the car-hire places in the area? He had to make the swap somewhere, and he wouldn’t have wanted to drive the Ford any longer than he had to. It was tainted, it had to go.’
Ambrose looked startled. ‘I don’t think we’ve done that yet,’ he said, sounding worried. So he should, Tony thought.
Carol fixed him with a cold blue stare. ‘You’re really not used to this scale of operation, are you, Sergeant? Not had much experience of coordinating manhunts down here in West Mercia? Struggling with first principles, are you?’
‘We only just found out about the SUV before I left the office,’ Ambrose said. ‘I expect it’s been actioned by now. But I don’t know, because I’ve not been there. We’re not incompetent, ma’am.’
‘No. I’m sure you’re not.’ Carol sighed. ‘Is it me, or does it seem to you that Micky’s got off very lightly in all of this? Compared to me, and Tony? And Chris, of course, who got what was meant for me.’
‘What’s your point?’ Tony said, butting in before Ambrose could say something she’d flay him for.
She blinked hard, screwing up her eyes. ‘She was his enabler for years. Old habits die hard. Isn’t that what you’re always telling us, Tony? What if this fire was just Vance throwing dust in our eyes? What if Terry Gates wasn’t Vance’s only helper on the outside?’
47
Even on a Saturday evening, Heathrow was still so busy that only the security staff paid any attention to the customers. Nobody wondered why a man with dark hair, brown eyes behind glasses, and a moustache might re- emerge from the men’s toilets with dark blond hair in a completely different style, bright blue eyes and no facial hair. For now, Patrick Gordon was back in his box, replaced by Mark Curran, company director from Notting Hill.
He’d left the SUV in the long-stay lot and within half an hour he was behind the wheel of another Ford, a silver Focus estate this time, Bruce Springsteen’s Greatest Hits blasting out of the speakers. Better days, indeed. Tonight he was going to sleep in his own bed, back in Vinton Woods. He might even take a day off tomorrow. Even the Lord rested on the seventh day. He had more acts of vengeance to perform, more spectacular deaths to orchestrate and deliver. Then it would be time to shake the dust of this old, tired country from his heels. He’d originally thought the Caribbean would fit the bill for his new life. But the Arab world was the crucible of change right now. A man of means could live very well in a city like Dubai or Jeddah. There were places in the Gulf where life was still cheap, where a man could exercise his appetites without interference, as long as the price was right. More importantly, these places had no extradition arrangements with the UK. And everyone spoke English. So he’d covered his bases and bought a property in each region.
Vance could almost feel the warmth on his skin. It was time he took what was rightfully his. He’d worked hard for his success. All those years of pretence, hiding his contempt for all the insignificant people he’d had to be nice to, acting like he was one of them. The common touch, that’s what they said he had. As if. The only common touch he’d wanted was the one where he got to slap them senseless.
Prison had almost been a relief. Of course he still had to present a facade to the authorities. But there were plenty of opportunities behind bars to strip off all the false faces and let people see the real Jacko Vance in the full rawness of his power. He loved that moment when so-called hard men realised he wasn’t the pushover they’d assumed; the way their eyes widened and their mouths tightened in fear when it dawned on them that they were dealing with someone who had no limits. Not in the way that they understood limits. Yes, prison had been the perfect place to hone his skills.
But now it was time to leave all that behind him and start a new life where he could focus on the good bits. As he drove through the dark he turned over to the radio news channel for the on-the-hour bulletin. The news of his attack on Micky’s stud should have hit the headlines by now. The headlines bypassed him in a blur of noise: Arab street protests, coalition cuts, prostitute murder in Bradfield. Then the item he was waiting for.
‘The racing stud farm of former TV star Micky Morgan was targeted in an arson attack this evening. A stable lad died in the inferno, while trying to rescue horses from the blazing stables. Two horses were also killed in the fire, which started in a hay barn. But prompt action by the stable staff meant the remaining fifteen thoroughbred racehorses were rescued. The building itself was extensively damaged. Police refused to comment on whether the attack was connected to the escape from prison this week of Ms Morgan’s ex-husband, the former athlete and TV presenter Jacko Vance. But a source close to Ms Morgan said, “We’ve been holding our breath, waiting for that evil man to strike out at Micky. To attack defenceless horses is as low as it gets.” More on this story in our next bulletin on the half-hour.’
Vance slammed his hand down on the steering wheel, making the car swerve, provoking a blare of the horn from behind. ‘Two horses and a stable lad?’ he shouted. ‘Two fucking horses and a poxy stable lad? All that risk, all that preparation for two fucking horses and a stable lad?’ It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough. It wasn’t even Micky who loved the horses, it was Betsy. He’d wanted the stables obliterated, Betsy’s second life destroyed, Micky impotent when it came to taking the pain away. The arsonist whose information he’d relied on had got it wrong. Either that or the greasy, greedy bastard had deliberately lied to him.
