Blood Substitute (17 page)

‘It does happen, Ingrid.'

‘Do they use security codes?'

‘I can't believe they operate without doing so.'

‘You think I'm being silly then.'

‘No, you're never silly.' He grinned. ‘What did that best-selling book say? Men need praise and women reassurance?'

‘OK, you gorgeous, gorgeous man, so what if Kennedy
has
been grabbed by someone and forced to lay a trap for us?'

‘I'm sure he hasn't but let's go and see what happens.'

By now it was one-forty. Expecting him to head straight for the park entrance I was surprised when Patrick seized my hand and hurried down the Bayswater Road for a hundred yards or so, turned sharp right and then left and very shortly we were in a narrow mews that had the unmistakable aroma of horses. It was a riding school and there were dozens of horses; some tacked up ready to ride, some with riders waiting to leave, some in looseboxes trying to bite those outside who got too close, others, not required, dozing. And soon, by dint of Patrick's warrant card, credit card and boundless charm we found ourselves with a heavyweight piebald cob that had hairy hooves the size of buckets and a grey arab that gazed around wildly, whinnying, as though trying to locate the nearest group of pyramids.

It is always much more comfortable to ride in the proper gear but at least we had safety helmets, insisted upon by Patrick as they acted as a disguise. He had also insisted on safety grounds that I ride the cob, possibly a mistake as the arab immediately settled down and the cob proved to be half a ton or so of mostly unstoppable muscle. We tacked ourselves on to the official ride – having made it clear that we were on official business and would not stay with it – until we were inside the park and then the others headed off in the direction of the Serpentine. Despite my best efforts to rein him in the cob and I had worked our way up the crocodile until were almost in front but I managed to persuade him to turn left, towards Speakers' Corner.

It was now five minutes past two. The cob thought we were going to be late as well, performed a massive buck as soon as his hooves touched soft ground and set off along the sand ride at a meaningful gallop. When I had succeeded in getting myself back into the saddle from halfway towards his ears I hauled him back to a canter and finally, the usual crowd of people milling around Speakers' Corner approaching at alarming speed the pair of us performed, foam-flecked, one of those ploughing stops usually seen only in old cowboy films. Quite a few people cheered and whooped, others hurried their families out of the danger zone.

Patrick trotted up on the grey, riding it one-handed on a long rein, the bastard, looking pained.

‘Would you like to swap?' he enquired heavily.

‘No, I think we've reached an understanding,' I panted.

‘I don't. I suggest that while I hack about gently here keeping a look-out for Kennedy, or anyone dodgy, you canter,
canter –
galloping isn't permitted – to the other end of this ride and then come back here. That'll take the steam out of him. Otherwise you're in real danger of having a fall.'

I refrained from retorting that this form of surreptitious undercover surveillance had not been
my
bloody idea, merely turned my mount and set off again. He immediately thought he was going home, of course, and, despite my best efforts, went into overdrive. Blinded by his long mane blowing into my face, the huge hooves flinging sand everywhere, I could not hold him. When we reached where we had entered the park he did not dash out into the traffic and kill us both but unexpectedly bore left on to a ride that ran parallel to a narrow road. I had got him back in hand a bit by now and was almost enjoying myself. We crossed the road – it appeared to be barred to ordinary traffic – and I released the brakes, just a little. Off he went again. Another quarter of a mile farther on I sensed that he had taken the edge off his energy and pulled him back to a walk. It was difficult to tell who was sweating the most, me or the horse.

I decided that Patrick was perfectly capable of looking out for Robert Kennedy for a short time – by this time I had almost convinced myself I had worried for nothing – and to deal with any possible trouble should it happen, while I too went for a little hack. For after all, he was armed and unlikely to be in personal danger in such a public place.

Magpie and I (I had just noticed his name in small brass letters on the front of the saddle) breezed along at a fast walk, both of us taking deep breaths and enjoying a sunny afternoon. At last I could gaze about and enjoy my surroundings. People sunbathed, walked dogs, children rode their bikes or kicked footballs. Over the muted roar of traffic I could hear the clippety-clop of a lot of other horses in the distance, probably the Household Cavalry.

This was not the first time it had happened to me; taking to the saddle while on a job
and
being carted off by my mount. Perhaps Patrick had remembered the occasion too: he and another, new, member of D12, Steve, had been watching a suspect while pretending to be fencing contractors and taking, if I remember correctly, almost the whole of one day to get a single post in place. My job had been to ride around the village and keep an eye on the inhabitants of the house, a large country mansion. Warwick, the horse, iron of will and mouth, had followed the usual route of the riding school instead and scorched up a hill, performing an historic emergency stop when he saw the fencing men right on his path. I had landed very safely on Steve who, probably still all colours of the rainbow, had left MI5 shortly afterwards and gone to live with an American divorcée who had four children. It must be said that he did not have a well-developed sense of humour. Patrick and he could never have worked together. On the same assignment Steve had been reprimanded for disobeying orders and had then taken a swing at his boss, whom I knew he found absolutely infuriating, the pair of them then fighting like tom cats in the middle of the village green.

I was jerked out of this pleasant reverie when I became aware of a big, black 4×4 with tinted windows purring along slowly in the same direction as me, keeping level. Somehow, I knew that I was being watched. I didn't like it. Nudging the cob into a trot I rode off in front but the car speeded up and again cruised along just a few yards over to my right. Then, all at once, while it was still moving, three men jumped out and made straight for me. Without really thinking I swung my mount round, cut in behind the vehicle, crossed the road again and, urging him on, tore off down a ride I knew to be Rotten Row.

Another road ran by this as well and all too soon the vehicle was back. It then speeded up, turned hard left, crashed through low railings and stopped twenty yards in front of me, blocking my path. The cob immediately veered left on to the grass, almost unseating me again, and we galloped off through the trees. Above the thunder of hooves I could hear that the car was following me.

I really endeavoured to take charge of this animal now and, lying right on his neck, guided him through a copse, the leaves on the lower branches brushing my back. I was aware of men shouting; a woman screamed. I headed Magpie away from people, across the middle of the park. Trees had been felled in places, the trunks still on the ground and, leaving it too late to ride around one of them, all I could do was cling on tight and pray. Magpie soared over it like a stag, obviously extremely happy as he did the same with an unoccupied seat a few paces farther on.

The car was still following, swerving around the obstacles. In front of me were acres and acres of grass crossed by a few paths with nowhere to hide, Marble Arch toy-sized in the distance. There were too many people to avoid. My heart leapt into my mouth for a moment when I thought a man would try to head off the horse, perhaps thinking I was being bolted with. But after running for a few steps he halted and was left behind.

Magpie was tiring and slowed. I heard the car accelerate and, out of the corner of my eye, saw it begin to draw level. They were going to risk crashing right into the horse, killing it even, to get hold of me. This made me boil with rage and for the first time I really urged him on.

There was a crash as the car hit something and it veered away. Then it came back and was right behind us. Desperately, I reined Magpie hard left and as I did so it felt as though he bucked again followed by a loud clang and the sound of breaking glass. The vehicle drew back.

There were far more people here and, unless I changed course completely, there would be serious injuries as, obviously, those in the car did not care a damn. It was going to have to be, I realized, one of those situations where the pilot steers his doomed plane away from residential areas.

As it was I steered towards a man riding a grey horse who was approaching at the gallop, careful at the last moment as he pulled up and took aim not to ride between him and the car. Too involved with manoeuvring my heavy mount without knocking anyone over, people scattering in all directions, I did not see what happened, only hearing shots and finding out moments later that Patrick had taken out its windscreen and then two of the tyres.

They fled on foot, having shot him off the horse.

At least, first appearances gave every impression of it: Patrick flat on the ground rolling about holding his left shoulder, his teeth bared in a rictus of agony. I dismounted, almost toppled off, my legs like jelly, and only succeeded in staying upright by grabbing a big handful of Magpie's mane and leaning on him for a few moments. Someone had caught the grey and I rudely threw my reins to them to hold as well, vaguely aware of two policeman approaching at a run.

By the time I reached Patrick he was sitting up, still holding his shoulder, swearing. I could not see any blood.

‘Are you OK?' he asked tautly.

‘Fine,' I said. ‘Were you hit?'

‘No, bloody well baled out when they took a pot at me … my foot stuck in the stirrup iron and … the horse caught me with a hoof as it spun round.'

‘Is anything broken?'

‘God knows.'

Fortunately, an X-ray showed that he was just very badly bruised.

It was discovered when the 4×4 was taken away for examination that it had stolen number plates. Until the investigating officers spoke to me it was assumed that the smashed nearside headlights and dented wing had been due to the vehicle hitting a tree. No, that was Magpie's rear iron-shod hooves, I told them, feeling ridiculously proud of him. He did a lot of film work, I had been informed when we returned the horses; costume dramas and things like that, and loved every minute of it. He hated cars coming too close to him though.

F
9 was resolutely stonewalling all enquiries and would only confirm that there had been no meeting that Kennedy had attended before telling Greenway that he would walk across the park. This still meant it was likely that Greenway had not been talking to him at all. But whoever he had conversed with knew about Patrick and me and that we were in London. I suddenly realized the scale of the organization we were up against.

‘There has to be a mole,' I said later that evening. ‘Insider information.'

‘Or they got the info from Kennedy himself,' Patrick answered soberly.

It did not bear thinking about.

I had forgotten until a few minutes previously that James Carrick was likely to turn up at any moment but Patrick hadn't and had rung the DCI's mobile number to ask him to meet us at our hotel where we had returned in order to await developments. Whatever happened, Carrick now had to be told the truth. The last thing I was expecting was for him to put a completely new slant on the affair.

‘We thought there was going to be a breakthrough and that's why you were asked to be here,' Patrick explained when Carrick had a fortifying single malt in his hand.

‘It hasn't happened?' James asked.

‘No. Do you want the bad or the good news first?'

‘In that order, if you wouldn't mind,' the DCI replied stoically.

‘It would appear that your father's been grabbed by serious criminals. He's an undercover cop.'

James smiled gently. ‘I know.'

‘You know!' Patrick and I exclaimed together.

‘There was an email in my inbox at work this morning – in Gaelic so I didn't question the authenticity. He gave hardly any details and said he'd knock my block off if I told anyone. But what's gone wrong?'

Recovering from the surprise, Patrick gave him a résumé of what had happened since.

‘And it's gospel that he had attended no meeting?' Carrick asked.

‘Gospel. Apparently F9 personnel don't do meetings – not when they're on a case. Which is logical when you think about it.'

‘So either he lied or someone else was doing the talking.'

‘It has to be borne in mind that he might have been forced to reveal what he knew – he might have mentioned Ingrid and me.'

‘For some reason I have a feeling that hasn't happened. Anyway, if it has it would have served no purpose to bring you into it – far easier to have said any names, false names if he was under duress. For after all, the man had as good as told you to away and boil your heads.' The last phrase was pronounced ‘awa an' bile ya heids', a sign perhaps that circumstances were making Carrick hark back to his Scottish roots.

‘That's true,' Patrick conceded.

‘There's no indication that he'd changed his mind.'

‘Are you saying that he set us up deliberately?'

‘It would certainly have upped his cred with that particular criminal empire.'

It occurred to me that James, predictably on a high, found this all rather amusing.

‘He could well have been driving the car,' Carrick added. ‘I'm sure he knows you can take care of yourselves. He might have decided to abort whatever they intended to do if he thought you were in real danger.'

‘Bloody hell,' Patrick whispered. ‘So it
is
his case after all.'