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“Cossack covered all four mares today,” John Crawley, assistant stud manager at the Bank announced, dropping a sheaf of papers on Alan Blunt’s desk.
The thought of a million pounds in stud fees almost – but not quite – brought a smile to Blunt’s face, fractionally easing the pinched look of a ferret sucking a piss-soaked nettle that the man habitually wore.
“I think that merits a small celebration,” Blunt said, closing his laptop and walking over to his drinks’ cabinet, smoothing the creases out of his grey suit.
Crawley wondered idly whether the boost to the Bank’s coffers merited the third best scotch, or whether it would just be the sort of whisky that would chucked in coffee on a cold day in the Crawley household.
To Crawley’s surprise, Blunt poured two generous measures of his second-best scotch into cut glass tumblers and slid one over to him. Crawley sipped the amber liquid suspiciously. Blunt wasn’t above putting the cheap stuff into more expensive bottles. The whisky slid over his tongue like peaty woodsmoke, smooth with a hint of the fire beneath. On this occasion, Blunt hadn’t pulled one of his well-known stunts.
“Do you have anything planned for this weekend, John?”
“Nothing in particular,” Crawley said, regretting the ill-advised words as soon as they’d fallen from his lips.
The smile that appeared on Blunt’s face wouldn’t have looked out of place on a barracuda pretending to be benevolent. “Mrs Jones has had to visit her elderly mother – an unfortunate fall this morning. Nothing serious but naturally she’s shaken.”
“I can cover Tulip’s meetings on Monday,” Crawley volunteered, knowing it was a foregone conclusion but doing his best to appear magnanimous as he searched his memory of their shared diary, wondering what the fuck he’d let himself in for. As far as he could remember, there’d been nothing more taxing than meetings with feed suppliers, but if Blunt had broken out the good stuff, there had to be a sting in the tail.
The smile widened. “Thank you, John. And there’s just one minor engagement she had tomorrow that needs to be covered as well … Mrs Jones had kindly agreed to be one of the judges at tomorrow’s Horse and Hound Day.”
Crawley almost spat a mouthful of scotch across Blunt’s desk. “I am not fucking going to this year’s bloody dog and pony show! I needed six weeks of therapy after the last one. Camilla Faversham-Smythe sent me 18 emails complaining about darling Jocasta only getting bronze in the Best Turned Out Pony competition. Fucking kid can’t plait a mane and tail to save her bloody life but try telling that to mama dearest.”
“We can’t possibly let the gymkhana committee down,” Blunt said smoothly.
“Then you do the bloody judging.”
“Prior engagement” The words tripped out as airily and truthfully as a Cottingley fairy.
“You bastard,” Crawley said. “Triple time and 25% of Cossack’s next covering fee.”
“Double time and 10% percent.”
“Done.”
“You certainly have been.” Blunt raised his glass in salute.
Crawley drained the rest of his glass in one and held it out for a refill.
He was fucking well going to need it.
****
Saturday dawned with all the false, glitzy bonhomie of a investment banker doing his best to get laid on a Friday night in Soho.
Crawley’s hopes of dramatic thunderstorms were doomed to wither and die in the face of bright blue cloudless skies.
“Any chance of gale force winds?” he muttered hopefully, as his wife pulled back the bedroom curtains.
“Not a snowball in hell’s chance, sweetheart,” she told him with what he felt was entirely inappropriate amusement. “So sorry I can’t come with you to see the fun, but I can’t possibly miss my art class.”
“You can’t possibly miss your art class because you fancy the non-existent pants off the nubile male model.”
“He’s gay as a badger, darling.”
“He’s also half your age, but since when has that ever stopped you and your friends salivating unbecomingly over the male form?”
She waved a hand airily. “Boiled eggs for breakfast? I’ll even cut your toast into soldiers if you promise to be a brave boy.”
“I knew there was a reason I married you…”
Two hours later, John Crawley walked the mile and a half from his home to the showground set on several acres of prime land on the edge of Newmarket that every year played host to the annual gymkhana and dog show organised by the unholy trinity of the Round Table, the Pony Club and the Women’s Institute. Singly they were formidable, combined they were unstoppable.
“John!”
Crawley turned to see a large woman with a Princess Anne hair-do (clearly created by someone with ambitions of getting an haute couture model to stride up a Paris catwalk with an hibernating opossum on their head) barrelling up to him wearing a tweed suit, sensible brogues and a set of pearls that were almost certainly worth a king’s ransom.
“Allegra, nice to see you.” Crawley submitted to a smacking kiss on each cheek. “How many virgins did you have to sacrifice to get this weather?”
“Only three, dear. I couldn’t find any more. So good of you to stand in for darling Tulip. I do hope her mother makes a speedy recovery.”
“So do I.” Some time in the next half an hour would be perfect.
Allegra Beaumont-Winterson fished a sheet of paper out of her pocket. “Your timetable. I’ll see you at lunchtime in the VIP tent. Your first judging session is at 11am. The Best Turned Out Pony. Do try not to reduce any of the little angels to tears this time.”
The Best Turned Out Pony was followed by the Bending Race, the Flag Race and the Sack Race, by which time there wouldn’t be a well-turned-out pony amongst the lot of them.
Crawley cast a longing look at the beer tent, but the discordant jangle of the nearby church bells reminded him that it was only nine o’clock in the morning. He settled for grabbing a strong coffee and a Danish pastry from the organisers’ tent instead.
“Hello, Mr Crawley! Did Cossack knock Mrs Whatsername up?”
Crawley looked down to find himself face to face with the pony-tailed kid from Brookland High School who’d flogged him the sketch of Cossack and Alex that now hung on the wall of his downstairs toilet.
“I believe she is expecting a happy event,” Crawley confirmed.
“Told you he wasn’t firing blanks, Jez!” the kid yelled to the boy who’d initiated the conversation about necrophilia in the animal kingdom.
Their visit to the stud had certainly broadened Crawley’s outlook on life and had also made him marginally less likely to change the subject next time his wife mentioned the possibility of him getting the snip.
“School outing?” Crawley asked, mustering all the good manners he could find.
“Nah, just a few of us come to ‘ave a nose. Mebbe I can flog a few more sketches...”
“I’m her agent,” Jez said.
Crawley left them to their hustling and continued his walk around the showground.
The next child to hail him was a golden-haired cherub in bunches who, according to his wife, who knew these things by virtue of her job as a child psychologist, would either grow up to be a fine art specialist or a private military contractor. The jury was currently out on which was the most likely career path. Crawley’s bet was on the latter. The kid was already frighteningly accurate with a shotgun.
“Hello, Tabby. How’s White Fred’s fetlock?”
“Dad says we don’t need the green screens yet,” the fake cherub told him. “Jolly nice of Tilly to let me borrow Alex today, Mr C. Shame about her fetlock, though. Daddy did suggest we could shoot her instead of White Fred!”
Tabitha Cavendish was the best friend of Blunt’s niece, Matilda, who was currently more into stable hands than horses, much to her uncle’s dismay. A botched dismount from the vaulting horse in gym class had left her with a sprained ankle, which gave her the perfect excuse to hang around the stables getting a bunch of adoring lads to wait on her hand, foot and finger while she sat on a haybale, bandaged ankle suitably elevated.
“Nice of her,” Crawley commented. “Alex could do with the exercise.” A good thrash around the gymkhana might keep the little horror from cosying up to Cossack all the time, although he had come in handy a few times when the Assassin had stubbornly refused to rise to the occasion, until Alex had presented his hindquarters in a suggestive manner and then delicately licked the scar on Cossack’s cheek. The grey stallion usually allowed himself nothing more than some gentle nuzzling by way of reciprocation before needing to seek solace elsewhere. As a result, the quarter’s profits were looking distinctly healthy.
“There he is!” Tabby shrieked, her volume control set on extra loud, as usual, confirming Crawley’s view that the kid would end up in a warzone rather than an art gallery.
Crawley turned in time to see a horsebox bearing the Bank’s logo of a white stallion (rampant, naturally, but without the elongated cock) turn into the area reserved for show arrivals, already teeming with boxes, vans and Range Rovers.
Tabby hurtled off, while Crawley followed at a more sedate pace. He’d just deposited his cardboard coffee mug into a bin and was brushing pastry crumbs off his sweater when the stable hand lowered the ramp and led out Tilly’s doe-eyed Palomino pony. Tabby let out another shriek and threw her arms around Alex’s neck then took his lead rain. Alex pranced coquettishly and looked back over his shoulder, tossing his long cream mane.
The stable hand caught sight of Crawley and promptly blanched, dropping the second leading rein in his hand and looking like he was about to wet himself.
Crawley started to get a sinking feeling, knowing his already bad day was about to take an even more serious downturn as he heard the clatter of hooves a heartbeat before a second horse stalked down the ramp, all dangerous, predatory grey grace, with proud neck arched and moonlight mane and tail in sharp contrast to Alex’s warm honey tones. Dark, velvety nostrils flared as the Bank’s highest earning stallion sniffed the air and surveyed what he now claimed as his domain with large eyes cut from Arctic blue ice ringed with long, dark lashes.
The stable hand recovered and dived for the lead rein, not that he would have stood a cat in hell’s chance of restraining Cossack if the horse had decided to do anything other than simply stand there, looking around disdainfully.
“What the fuck are you doing bringing Cossack here?” Crawley hissed.
If the stable hand could have tugged his forelock and wrung his hands at the same time, he would have done. As it was, he carried on hanging onto the rein for dear life and trying to look suitably contrite at the same time, whereas all he actually succeeded in doing was wearing the look of a man desperately trying to hold back a wet fart.
“I didn’t exactly bring him, Mr Crawley...”
Crawley looked the stallion up and down, trying to gauge his mood and ventured an experimental pat. Cossack promptly blew snot onto his formerly clean trousers but didn’t bite his hand off, which Crawley counted as a good result. “Nope, definitely not an illusion. I think the evidence is against you, Tyrone. You do appear to have brought our highest earner on an unscheduled visit to a gymkhana.”
“He insisted on coming!” Tyrone declared, his voice rising by several octaves.
“He’s a horse, not your ten-year-old kid sister tagging along to the pictures.”
“He’s a fucking killer,” Tyrone muttered. “I’d rather me nadgers stayed in one piece, if you don’t mind, Mr Crawley. Our Debs says she’d like kids when she’s finished college. Can’t do that if the Assassin’s kicked me balls into the middle o’ Norfolk. I put Alex in the box and next thing I know, ‘e’s on is way in after ‘im. Weren’t nowt me and Chez could do about it!”
After quite probably the longest speech Crawley had ever heard from Tyrone Newall, the boy went back to looking shifty and scratching his arse. His mate Chez had probably already handed in his notice and legged it off to Wiltshire.
“Problem, John?” an amused voice asked.
Crawley turned around to see two women approaching. One stocky with short curly dark hair, a firm jaw and a cheerfully freckled face, the other slender, pretty and with a riot of wavy auburn hair and wide green eyes. Both were in their late 20s and ran a local riding school. Between them, Wilhemina – Bill – Robinson and her partner the Honourable Clarissa Carter had probably taught at least half of the little horrors who’d be gaily re-enacting the charge of the Light Brigade that afternoon.
“You could say that,” he admitted. “Cossack seems to have decided Alex needs a chaperone today.”
Bill let out a loud laugh. “Maybe someone told him Thunder would be here.”
Thunder, Bill’s impressive black stallion, was a frequent visitor to the stud, along with his mistress, as Bill – an accomplished horse behavioural specialist – had taken on the job of ensuring the stable hands knew how to handle the more unruly horses that passed through the stud. She was one of the few people to have established a ‘you don’t fuck with me and I won’t fuck with you’ relationship with the Assassin.
Cossack whickered a greeting and Bill tossed him a carrot that the horse caught deftly, showing his strong teeth. One crunch and it was gone. Tyrone paled at the thought of his fingers getting the same treatment.
“Bet your insurers are charging a pretty penny for this guest appearance,” Bill said, running her hand down Cossack’s shoulder.
Crawley groaned. They were so screwed.
Clarissa shot him a sympathetic look. “Do you want us to stay with him. John? We’re not judging today. Too many conflicts of interest.”
Crawley grasped the suggestion like a drowning man seizing an unexpected rope. “I’ll love you both forever…”
“You’re not our type, but we appreciate the sentiment,” Bill said, taking Cossack’s lead rein in one hand and winding the leather around her fingers. “We’ll be fine. No one’s going to try anything on in the middle of the gymkhana.”
“And the place is stiff with undercover cops,” Clarissa said quietly. “So he’ll be as safe here as anywhere.” In response to Crawley’s puzzled look, she confided, “Trotters thinks the gang behind the pony thefts might be here to pick out some targets.”
Trotters – aka Chief Constable Frederick Trotteville – had a personal interest in the spate of pony thefts that had plagued East Anglia for the past six months. His daughter’s beloved Shetland, Skewball, had been snatched from their field the previous month, and she was still inconsolable.
Crawley shot Bill a pleading look. “If anything happens to that fiend in horse form, I’m a dead man walking.”
“Stop worrying, John, it’ll be fine. Tabby, get Alex tacked up. You’ve got time to do some practice runs for the Flag Race.”
The hapless Tyrone promptly scurried into the horsebox to get Alex’s tack, doing his best to stay out of reach of Cossack’s hooves. The boy clearly wasn’t a total idiot, but he was definitely what was known in the area as NFN. Normal for Norfolk.
The site was filling up rapidly with contestants, stall holders and what looked like half of Newmarket. The other half had sensibly faked a prior engagement. Like Tulip bloody Jones and her no doubt fit as a fiddle mother. The air was soon redolent with sickly sweet smell of candyfloss (future toddler vomit, as Crawley always thought of it) mixed with the slightly more appealing smell of fried onions. The local Scout pack ran a hot dog stall every year and usually found themselves under siege from slavering dog show contestants (an occasionally the dogs got some scraps, too). As Crawley walked past, something small and fluffy was doing its best to clamber on top of a Rottie in the hope of grabbing a bread roll while a greyhound ran interference for them.
“Morning, John. I didn’t realise we were going to be treated to a guest appearance by the Assassin.” The speaker was a good-looking man in his very early 40s, dressed casually in a moth-eaten cashmere sweater over a pair of scruffy dark jeans. Frederick Algernon Trotteville, the youngest Chief Constable in the country. At his heels trotted a black Scottish terrier.
“Neither did I,” Crawley said morosely. “Hello, Freddy. I was sorry to hear about Skewball. Lizzie must be devastated.” The two men shook hands warmly. “Is Bets with you?”
Freddy Trotteville shook his head. “She doesn’t want to leave Lizzie by herself, and Lizzie couldn’t bear to come.”
“Bill said you’ve got a few of your lot around here.”
Trotteville nodded. “If the thefts are being done to order, this makes sense as a hunting ground. It’s not hard to find out where most of the ponies are stabled. Same principle as art thefts and casing museums and galleries for the good stuff.”
“It’s the fucking buyers I hate, as well,” Crawley said. “They must know perfectly well that the ponies are nicked. Same with dog theft.”
“Sooner the CED is online the better.” The Chief Constable was talking about the government’s new online equine database.
In four months, it would be compulsory for all ponies and horses to be microchipped in a move intended to improve animal welfare, but like all government initiatives, it would be slow to get off the ground and with no obligation on vets to check chips and only a £200 fine for non-compliance, it would barely scratch the surface of the problems of theft, abuse and neglect.
“And in the meantime, the bastards will get their hands on as many ponies as they can and break a lot of hearts in the process.”
Trotteville nodded. “I’d like to herd the lot of them into a secure field and let your murderous sperm factory loose on them.”
“In his defence, the inquest recorded an open verdict on the vet in the doping scandal.”
“In his defence, the bastard had it coming to him,” Trotteville said quietly. “Doping was probably the least of his crimes. Off the record, naturally.”
“Do me a favour, Freddy, and ask your lot to keep an eye on Cossack. He’s not meant to be here and Blunt will string me up by my cock if anything happens to him.”
“Consider it done, but I don’t fancy any bugger’s chances if they try anything on with him.”
With a slightly lighter heart, Crawley grabbed another coffee and went off to just the Best Turned Out Pony competition.
Forty-five minutes later, he’d dispensed words of wisdom on the subject of plaited manes and tails, the merits of polished hooves and the best beeswax to use on tack, pinned a red rosette onto Rose Gold, a short, Thelwellesque bay Shetland that made Cossack look placid and tractable. Dido Jenkins stood at her side, as spick and span as her chubby mount, beaming from ear to ear while her proud parents insisted on a photo call. Silver and bronze rosettes were handed out and Crawley counted it as a win that none of the little darlings had turned on the waterworks.
To his surprise, the rest of the day turned out to be almost pleasant. There was only one injury, and that took place during the relay race over jumps when a larger, heavier pony ridden by a boy who’d never been introduced to the use of the words fair play in the same sentence did its best to shoulder charge Alex two jumps from the finishing line.
Tabby shot the boy a mouthful of best stableyard language and Alex executed a perfect handbrake turn to hop into and out of the Pigpen jump (complete with a large inflatable pig, rumoured to have been bought from Ann Summers in Cambridge). The other pony and its rider went full tilt through the pen after Alex without bothering to attempt the jump. In the resulting shambles, the other rider was thrown clear, landing on his wrist. The snap was clearly audible over the cheers of the crowd, as was the whicker of satisfaction from Cossack. The pony promptly scarpered, kicking its heels and prancing around the ring
“Serves you right, Neil,” Bill Robinson declared briskly. “If you’re going to try to take someone off at the knees, at least make sure you do it properly. Shame about your wrist. Green screens, please!”
The crowd erupted in hoots of laughter as the St John’s Ambulance volunteers extricated the unfortunate Neil from the wreckage of the Pig Pen. Luckily for him, the inflatable pig had survived the encounter.
Cossack behaved impeccably, although Crawley did almost succumb to a panic attack when he saw the stallion giving a ride to two squealing toddlers, while Alex looked on, all cheerful, doe-eyed devotion with a side order mischief bubbling under the surface.
The Palomino romped to victory with the fastest time in the obstacle race, his trademark speed, agility and good luck proving an unbeatable combination. He also led the Flag race team to a comfortable win.
Chloe, the pig-tailed young artist from Brookland, did a roaring trade in pet portraits, with Jez steadily upping the price throughout the day. From what Crawley noticed on several occasions, one of her best customers seemed to be the chief constable.
Judging duties finally over for the day, Crawley made his way to the VIP refreshment tent where he found several of his fellow judges propping up the bar and downing industrial strength gins. The highs and lows of the day were recapped, with Neil’s encounter with the inflatable pig taking the gold rosette, and as usual, the gathering quickly showed all the usual hallmarks of turning into a long session. Crawley made his excuses after two hasty drinks, saying he needed to rescue Bill Robinson from Cossack.
The competitors’ parking area was mostly empty as Crawley arrived. He could see Cossack allowing Tyrone to lead him into the horsebox and then close up the rear doors.
“All safely stowed,” Bill Robinson commented. “Happy now, John?”
“I’ll be happier when he’s back in his stable. And even happier is Blunt never finds out about this.”
“Bad luck,” Clarissa laughed. “The whole thing’s already all over social media.”
Crawley groaned. “You couldn’t have just let me stay in blissful ignorance a while longer, could you?”
The horsebox backed out and drove across the field to the gate, bouncing over the grass faster than Crawley approved off. Tyrone was normally one of their most careful drivers, which is why Blunt trusted him with Cossack on his rare away trips. The van pulled out onto the road, cutting up an oncoming vehicle. A horn blared as Crawley let out a string of rude words that would have had the Brookland kids cackling like hyenas.
“John!” Bill’s voice was urgent, more than a few rude words justified. “Look!”
“Shit!” Crawley could see a body lying on the ground in the grass where the horsebox had been.
He legged it across the field, a cold lump of ice forming in the pit of his stomach. Tyrone was sprawled in the short grass, blood oozing from the side of his head. A quick examination established that he was still breathing, which was a relief.
“’Rissa, call an ambulance then get hold of Freddy Trotteville.” Bill vaulted onto Thunder’s back and held her hand down to Crawley.
He grabbed her arm and took a leg up from Clarissa, settling behind Bill and gripping the horse’s smooth flanks with his knees, all too conscious of how long it had been since he’d last ridden without a saddle.
Thunder took off at a speed that left Crawley clinging to Bill’s waist. Bill cut the corner of the field, with Thunder taking a low fence in his stride and the black stallion moved smoothly into a fast gallop. In the distance, they saw the horsebox take a right turn at the crossroads and Bill quickly urged her horse across the road and into the trees, taking a wide path through the forestry plantation. She was trying to intercept the stolen horsebox by taking a shortcut.
Even with the added burden, Thunder was fast and agile, taking all obstacles in his stride as they closed the distance to where Bill hoped they would intercept the thieves, although what the hell she intended to do at that point, Crawley had no bloody idea.
Bill lay close to Thunder’s neck with Crawley pressed against her back as they passed uncomfortably close to overhanging branches as the black horse cantered across the soft ground that lay between them and the road. Rounding a dense thicket of undergrowth at a frankly unhealthy speed, Crawley suddenly caught sight of the horsebox pulled up in a layby at the side of the road. Hope flared in his chest before he realised that the thieving bastards had probably already transferred Alex and Cossack into alternative transport …
As they drew closer, Crawley saw a man squatting by the side of the horsebox, his trousers around his ankles.
Behind the horsebox, another man stood warily, a shotgun held under his arm.
Fuck. Crawley hadn’t been expecting guns.
The thief heard the beat of Thunder’s hooves and without warning, promptly swung the shotgun to his shoulder and fired.
In the same instant, Thunder – ever responsive to Bill’s commands – swerved to the right, narrowly avoiding the trunk of a spreading oak tree.
The horsebox rocked violently.
The side door opened, and a pig-tailed figure jumped out of the side door to the living compartment and promptly pulled a sack over the head of the squatting man.
The rear doors burst open, slamming the man with the shotgun sideways. The gun went off again and the man with the sack over his head screamed as pellets took him in the bare arse.
Cossack and Alex hurtled out of the horsebox as a third man jumped down from the cab, armed with what looked to be a semi-automatic pistol. Heavy duty armoury for a bunch of pony thieves, but Crawley knew that the animals were valuable commodities and this lot appeared to be playing for keeps.
The grey stallion powered forwards, putting himself between the Palomino pony and the gunman.
Thunder came to a halt in a spray of earth and leaves. Crawley slipped off his back, wondering what the fuck he could do as he looked around for a weapon. The best he could come up with was a chunk of wood, but it was better than nothing.
Bill urged Thunder on and the horse reared, neighing loudly.
The man made the mistake of turning to see what the threat was.
Cossack wheeled around and let fly with his hind legs.
The gun flew from the man’s hand. A second kick resulted in an audible crack as the erstwhile gunman found himself on the receiving end of two highly polished and extremely deadly hooves.
Crawley winced,
The man with the shotgun pellets up his arse then suffered injury to insult as Alex launched an equally brutal kick at the flabby white globes covered with a unappealing mix of blood and shit. The man pitched forward and found his hands grabbed and shoved up his back by Chloe, helped by the boy called Jez who’d just jumped out of the horsebox, a long plastic cable tie in his hands which he promptly used to secure the man’s wrists.
A groan from behind the horsebox alerted them to the fact that the thief who’d had the shotgun was still conscious.
His recovery was short lived. A kick from Cossack jerked his head to one side and the man lay still.
Crawley stood there, the lump of wood cradled in his hands, stunned by the sudden and unexpected burst of violence at the end of an otherwise uneventful day.
Bill dismounted and put her hand on his shoulder. “Breathe, John. I think it’s all over.”
“I fucking hope so.”
Chloe from Brooklands stared down at the sobbing bloke with the sack over his head. “Do you think we scared the crap out of him>” she asked innocently.
“Something did,” Bill said, looking at the brown mess smeared on the man’s thighs.
“That was the stuff me nan takes to keep ‘er regular,” Jez supplied.
“You fed him laxatives?” Crawley asked, pulling his phone out of his pocket to call the police and an ambulance, in that order.
“In his coffee. Then we stowed away in the van.”
“How did you know they were going to steal Alex?”
“Obvious,” Chloe said, in the sort of voice that indicated she thought he was terminally hard of thinking. “He’d won the most rosettes. Plus one of ‘em was following him around most of the afternoon.” She nodded at Cossack. “He knew something was up. Wouldn’t let Alex out of his sight.”
“Reckon they’re gay for each other,” Jez added.
The way Cossack was standing next to Alex, protectively nuzzling the pony’s neck made it hard to refute the suggestion, so Crawley didn’t bother to try.
Alex, all huge brown eyes and perky expression, was positively vibrating with excitement.
The man with the sack over his head groaned loudly.
Alex gave a flick of one hind hoof and the man promptly shut up.
“Did we win the sack race?” Chloe asked.
Cossack whickered softly and ruffled Alex’s mane with his nose.
“You can take that as a yes,” Crawley said.
****
John Crawley flopped down in his favourite chair and gratefully accepted the very large gin and tonic his wife handed him.
“Eventful day, by the sound of it.”
“I am never, ever going to a fucking dog and pony show again,” he declared, downing a third of the drink in one satisfying, tow-curling gulp.
Chief Constable Frederick Trotteville took a more moderate mouthful of the drink he’d been handed and said, “Come off it, John, you enjoyed every minute of it.”
“Fuck off, Freddy.”
“The Assassin lived up to his name.”
“In his defence, they both had guns.”
“I certainly won’t be sending flowers. The good thing is that we got enough info out of the third one to recover 15 ponies and 35 dogs, all being kept on a farm outside Bury St Edmonds. Including Skewball.”
“Did he say ‘if it hadn’t have been for those pesky kids’?”
“Sadly not, but I gave him every opportunity.”
****
The news reports the following day headlined with the story of two plucky schoolkids and an equally plucky pony cracking a theft ring that had plagued East Anglia for six months.
Chloe and Jez happily posed for photos for the reporters, their arms around Alex’s neck as mischief danced in the pony’s brown eyes, partially hidden behind the long cowlick of his golden fringe.
His murderous grey minder stood to one side, staring balefully at anyone who came too close to the Palomino pony.
After the destruction of three expensive cameras, one fractured arm and a suspected ruptured testicle the reporters stopped trying to get photos of Cossack.
When the Bank’s insurers complained about the property damage and personal injury claims, Crawley told them acerbically that it could have been worse.
It could have been a lot worse.
