The pungent smell of singeing unguis (horse’s nail) was something akin to the smell of relief to Eric Smiley as he pressed the hot iron into Dobbin’s hoof. He had worked like a demon all morning, trying to impress Mr Trindle with his keenness to resume his old job.
Having expertly nailed on the shoe, the last of four, he was just filing the edges for a perfect fit when a shadow moved in to block the light from the doorway. Looking up, he paled at the sight of Sergeant Bloore with Constable Turner’s head in the frame, and both looking at him with a portentous scowl.
Mr Trindle, in the midst of plunging a freshly made horseshoe in the water tub, glanced up through the steam-laden smelly fog and pursed his lips at the sight of the two police officers. Throwing a sidelong glance Eric’s way – who was vigorously filing away at the horse’s hoof for all he was worth – he laid aside his tongs. “And to what do we owe the pleasure of a call from you two gents?”
Constable Turner beckoned Mr Trindle over and led him outside to the back of the yard.
Eric cocked an ear but couldn’t make out the exchange, just the low murmur of voices. His thoughts went into freefall. Had they come for him? Surely not now, just when he had got free of Alfie and was geared up to start again on a straight and righteous path.
Everything had gone off without a hitch the night before. And he couldn’t believe his luck when Alfie had let him go without so much as a murmur at just turned three in the morning. He had been on tenterhooks all night in case Alfie turned nasty when it came to a parting of the ways. But after wishing Alfie good luck, Eric had nervously pocketed his last pay packet and then walked away. And Alfie had let him do it. Just like that – no knife in the back, no dire warning to keep his mouth buttoned, not even a harsh word in fact. As Eric turned the corner and lost sight of Alfie, it was as if a monumental weight had been lifted from his shoulders. And he had fairly skipped the rest of the way home.
So, what could have happened in the intervening hours to bring the law to worry his sorry soul? What dreadful misfortune could have put a ruddy great hole in that respectable path he had set out on this very morning with such high hopes in his heart? Was it just possible that Ronnie Clarke had spilled the beans after all? Surely not, he was made of steel, according to Alfie. Perhaps he was worrying for nothing and their visit was down to something else entirely. That was probably it: another matter entirely.
But some persistent inner voice was telling him otherwise.
Please, God, not now.
Eric led Dobbin out into the yard to his waiting owner. He stood stroking the horse’s forelock, every now and then sneaking a glance towards the huddled men. With a forced smile, Eric finally handed the reins over to Dobbin’s master and turned about to go back inside.
“Eric.”
Eric’s stomach curled into a tight ball as he was stopped in his tracks.
The sound of Dobbin’s newly shod hooves clattering over the cobbles and out through the gate competed in Eric’s ears with the roaring thunder of wretched anticipation, which showed in his bleak expression as he dragged his feet towards the solemn group of three.