The Horse at the Gates (21 page)

‘State your business,’ ordered a voice from the tinny speaker.

Summoning all his courage, Danny pulled off the raincoat and lifted the sleeve of his t-shirt, exposing the
lions passant
tattoo to the camera that scrutinised him from above the gate. There was silence for several long moments, then the same voice said: ‘Wait.’

A couple of minutes had passed before the dog appeared, a German Shepherd, its paws slapping the gravel as it bounded towards the gates. It skidded to a stop just before the bars, its brown eyes locked on Danny, a low growl rumbling in its throat. Danny took a step back, despite the barrier between them. The dog, sensing his fear, bared its yellowed teeth silently. Not once did it bark. Danny, despite his nerves, was impressed. This was a well-trained animal, not like the snapping, vicious fighting dogs that strained at their owners’ leashes back on the Longhill. Suddenly, to Danny’s horror, the gates hummed and swung inwards.

‘Inside. Be quick about it.’

Danny froze as a man emerged from the thick bushes beside the gates. He looked a little younger than Danny, his fair hair cut short, a camouflaged jacket over jeans and green wellingtons. In his arms he cradled a black shotgun, a police-issue Mossberg if Danny wasn’t mistaken. The voice, bearing a slight West Country twang, was the voice on the intercom.

‘Don’t worry about Nelson, he won’t harm you as long as you do as you’re told. C’mon, let’s go. Bring the bike inside.’

Danny pulled his raincoat back on and wheeled the bike through the gates, keeping it between him and the loping Alsatian. The man whistled and Nelson darted away, back around the curve of the driveway. Danny followed him, past the huge rhododendron bushes, the well-kept lawns and open spaces where dead leaves had been raked into wet piles. The smell of wood smoke hung on the air and birds chirped noisily from the trees above. Around the walls, tall evergreens screened the estate from prying eyes.

The house loomed ahead. Danny thought it was amazing, like a footballer’s house, or a movie star’s. It had big double doors, a porch with white columns and a huge lantern overhead. It was old – no, period, Danny corrected himself – but it had been beautifully restored, the stonework and window frames painted a brilliant white, the walls a shade of soft green that blended in with the surrounding grounds. At a right angle to the house, two cars were parked in the shadows of a large car port, a white Bentley Continental and a more practical Nissan pickup. Even the car port construction matched the house, with some sort of accommodation above. Danny was impressed, and not a little intimidated. He continued across the drive, wheeling the bike towards the main door.

‘Not that way, round the back. And leave the bike.’

They skirted the side of the building, following a neatly-cut path through the cedars to the terrace at the rear. The tiles underfoot were limestone, the terrace dotted with flower pots and tubs of every shape and size. Garden furniture was stacked in neat piles and covered with green plastic tarpaulins, while tropical plants ringed the terrace like a Mediterranean hotel. A flight of wide steps led down to another terrace level that housed a large, empty swimming pool, dead leaves littering its tiled base. Further away, beyond a wooden perimeter fence, the ground sloped towards a shallow valley and the distant, sun-dappled Hertfordshire countryside. From the rear of the house there wasn’t a single dwelling as far as the eye could see and, overhead, white clouds drifted across a clear blue sky, chased by a gusting wind.

Danny was impressed by the house, the huge terrace, by the unrestricted view. There was a sense of security about the estate, as if the world had been shut out behind the high walls and was forbidden entry. For the first time in a long time, Danny felt safe.

‘Twenty-four acres, in case you’re wondering.’

He turned. A man beckoned him from an ornate wrought iron table, a big man, bald, tanned, his eyes shaded by designer sunglasses, his imposing bulk wrapped in a navy blue Barbour jacket. He didn’t get up as Danny approached, the remnants of a hearty breakfast scattered across the table in front of him. In his fist he held a large cigar, the smoke whipped away by the wind. Danny’s armed escort whispered in the man’s ear while Nelson settled down beside him, head between its paws, relaxed but watchful as Danny waited a few yards away.

‘Cheers, Joe,’ the man said in a harsh London accent. ‘Get rid of the bike, please. And that awful jacket.’

Danny quickly pulled his raincoat off and handed it to Joe, who trudged back around the side of the house.

‘Joe’s my sister’s boy. She’s fucking useless, heroin addict, but he’s a smart lad, looks after my interests. Ex-army, like you. Lost a lot of friends over in Afghanistan, all on the same chopper. One of the only survivors. Very sad that, don’t you think?’

The man waved Danny into a chair opposite and Danny eyed Nelson warily as he sat down on the cold metal seat. His thin body shivered in the wind.

‘I didn’t mean to disturb you like this, Mr Carver. I didn’t know where else to go.’

Raymond Carver, ex-chairman and founder of the English Freedom Movement, laid a reassuring hand on Danny’s arm. Danny looked down at the thick, well-manicured fingers that patted his goose-pimpled skin. His eyes travelled upwards, past the heavy gold Rolex, to the chunky gold necklace that nestled in the dark hair beneath his open neck shirt. He’d only ever seen the man once before, from a distance, at a rally in a field in Kent. Ray Carver was a big man in the flesh, a hard man, a street fighter in his younger days, a businessman, politician, self-made millionaire. Danny had never been more intimidated.

‘Don’t worry, Danny. Can I call you Danny?’

Danny nodded, searching the older man’s craggy face, his eyes impossible to read behind the gold-rimmed sunglasses. ‘Sure, Mr Carver.’

‘Let’s cut the formal bullshit, shall we? Ray or Raymond, whichever you like.’

‘Ok.’

Carver puffed several times on his cigar, studying the tip that glowed like a hot coal. ‘No-one knows you’re here, right Danny? You didn’t tell anyone you were coming? Anyone at all?’

‘Didn’t have a chance even if I wanted to, Mr – I mean, Ray. Some people in the village saw me though. I don’t think I was recognised.’

Carver leaned back in his chair, blue smoke swirling around his mouth. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about them. Many of us share the same ideals, if you understand my meaning. We live quietly, discreetly. Privacy is highly valued in Marshbrook.’

‘That’s good.’

Carver held out his hand. ‘I need your ID card. And your cell phone.’

‘I dumped them.’

‘You know they can track those things, don’t you? It’s the chip.’

Danny looked bemused. ‘Yeah, I – can they?’

‘Course. Where exactly?’

‘Where what?’

‘Where did you dump them? C’mon, quickly.’

So Danny explained. When he finished, Carver nodded several times, apparently satisfied. ‘How did you get here, son?’

‘I walked, mostly.’

Carver stared at him for a moment and then said: ‘Bullshit.’

‘I swear, Mr Carver. I followed the train lines for most of the way. Took a bus into Watford.’

Carver leaned forward, tapping the grey embers of his cigar into a large cut glass ashtray. ‘Police have got every transport hub covered across the whole country. Your picture’s everywhere: TV, news billboards, papers. It even flashed up on the Bentley’s console the other day.’

‘That’s why I cut my hair, let my beard grow. I was careful, Mr Carver. I stayed out of sight.’

‘Ray.’

‘Sorry. Ray.’

The older man balanced his cigar in the ashtray and dragged his chair closer to the table. He produced a small notepad and pen from his pocket, flipping it open to a blank page. ‘Alright, Danny. From the moment you decided to run I want to know what happened. Every route you took, people you saw, where you slept, ate, took a shit, everything. From the beginning.’

Danny told him, his thin arms wrapped around his body. He was freezing, the sharp breeze gusting across the terrace, cutting through his damp t-shirt and filthy dungarees. Carver seemed oblivious to his shivering, to the tremble in his voice, scribbling away on the pad as he recorded every detail of the escape.
He’s a careful man,
Danny told himself, knowing the interrogation was necessary. Because that’s what this was, an interrogation. Carver had asked the same questions several times, forcing Danny to repeat himself through chattering teeth. He willed himself to concentrate, focussing on his answers, recalling the details of his journey north. Carver referred to his notes constantly, his inquiries delivered in a quick-fire fashion.

‘The bloke on the bus, the driver. What was he wearing again?’

‘An earring,’ Danny chattered.

‘What else? You mentioned something else.’

‘Er, gloves. With no fingers. The weight-training ones.’

‘Colour?’

‘Black.’

Danny watched Ray mark a line of notes with another small tick. That was a good sign. If Ray felt safe then he’d be more inclined to help him, right? He had to be totally honest, one hundred per cent kosher. For thirty minutes Danny answered every one of Ray’s questions with as much speed and accuracy as he could muster. Eventually Carver said: ‘You’re sure that’s everything?’

‘Positive.’ Danny shivered violently, his arms tucked inside the bib of his dungarees. He was silent for a moment, then he said: ‘I didn’t do it, Ray. I didn’t know it was a bomb.’

Carver shrugged, shoving the notepad in his pocket. ‘No-one’s accusing you, Danny.’

‘The people on my estate, they were hunting me like a dog.’

‘Every one of them a fucking Judas,’ Carver spat. ‘Forget them. You can’t go back there, anyway.’

‘Mind your blood pressure, Raymond,’ giggled a voice from the French doors. Danny saw an older woman step out onto the terrace and waddle towards them, her silver hair cut fashionably short, a heavy parka wrapped around her voluminous frame. Like Ray she was well-tanned, her ready smile dazzlingly white.

‘There she is, ear-wigging again,’ Carver chuckled. ‘Danny, this is my wife, Tess.’

‘Mrs Carver,’ trembled Danny.

‘Tess will do just fine,’ she smiled. In her hand she held a black puffer jacket, the other shading her eyes from the bright sunlight. Her wrists were heavy with bangles that chimed musically as she moved.

‘Where’s your sunnies?’ Carver frowned. ‘All that squinting will make your lines worse.’

She turned towards Danny and pulled a face. ‘He’s such a flatterer, isn’t he? Here, you must be freezing.’ Danny almost snatched the jacket from her outstretched hand and tugged it on over his t-shirt. He sat back down, tucking his chin deep inside its warm folds. He felt Tess’s eyes on him.

‘Well, it’s nice to meet you, Danny,’ she said. She held out her hand and Danny grasped it, mumbling an embarrassed greeting. ‘Love the new look, by the way.’

Danny ran his hand across his stubbly head. ‘I didn’t really–’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll tidy that up for you. Used to cut hair for a living years ago. That’s how I met Ray. Course, he had some back then.’ She gave her husband’s head an affectionate rub.

‘Any news?’ Carver asked his wife.

Her smile disappeared and she nodded gravely, as if announcing the death of a sick relative. ‘It’s all about Cairo now. The French came in with a deal sweetener late last night, something to do with future power station construction. Media are all over it.’

Carver snorted loudly, clamping his teeth around the soggy end of his cigar and firing it up with a gold lighter. ‘And so it begins,’ he growled, coaxing the burning tip with pursed lips.

‘We’re not done yet, Raymond.’

Carver looked at his wife, smiled, and took her hand in his, kissing it gently. ‘Ever the optimist, that’s my Tess.’ He cocked his head toward Danny. ‘What about our guest?’

‘Item number three on the BBC, five on Sky. Cairo’s knocked him off the top slot.’

‘That’s good. What else?’

‘Joe’s taken the pickup, gone to have a look around the village and beyond for any unusual traffic and suchlike.’

‘I want him to take a trip into Watford, check for any activity around the hospital. Danny got off a bus there,’ he explained. ‘The law will be all over that place if they’ve got a sniff.’

Tess pulled a cell from her pocket. ‘I’ll ring him now.’

Carver shook his head. ‘Not on the phone, love. From now on, no phones, no texts or tweets, nothing. Mundane, everyday stuff only.’ He turned to Danny, exhaling a thick waft of smoke. ‘Ok, son, you’ll stay here for now, but keep out of sight. Tess’ll tidy you up, sort your hair out. Keep the beard, though. Later on we’ll talk about the next step.’ Carver reached out and patted Danny on the arm. ‘You’re among friends now.’

‘That’s right,’ echoed Tess, ‘you’re quite safe here.’ She brightened suddenly, tucking her hands beneath her armpits and stamping her fur-booted feet. ‘God, it’s freezing. I’m going to run upstairs, sort out some clothes for our guest.’

‘Good girl.’

Tess leaned over her husband, planted a wet kiss on his head and waddled back to the house before disappearing inside. Danny thought he could still hear her bangles even after the door had closed.

Carver stubbed out the cigar in the ashtray then glanced at his Rolex. ‘Come on, I’ll show you to your digs.’ He got to his feet, hitching the waistband of his jeans up beneath the bulge of his belly. He pointed to Danny’s feet. ‘Kick those things off before you come in the house, son.’

Danny slipped his filthy trainers off and padded after Carver through the French doors, delighting in the unexpected warmth of the floor tiles, then marvelling at the size and the hi-tech, marble opulence of the kitchen. He followed Carver through a huge reception room where every wall, every shelf and sideboard seemed to have some reference to historical England, from the medieval paintings and antique maps that littered the walls to the ornate bookshelves crammed with gold-leafed, leather-bound volumes. In the wide entrance hall, a gleaming suit of armour silently guarded the main door, the symbolic shield with its three lions
passant
clamped between its metal gauntlets. Carver rapped the shield with his knuckles as he passed.