Dead Run Ch2

Dead Run

Chapter Two

Eddie Woo, a Hong Kong Chinese, was one of Walton's bigger and less desirable clients. He owned the Golden Dragon Casino in Edgbaston and his dealings were also the dealings of some pretty heavy customers. Walton knew the risks of dealing with men like Woo but Woo owed him a favour and today Walton would collect.

Tom had acted for Eddie's nephew after a particularly vicious stabbing the year before – and got the young man off. If the Crown Prosecuting Service hadn't been greedy, they could have nailed him for GBH or malicious wounding, but they had insisted on going for Attempted Murder and Eddie Woo and his friends had certainly spared no expense. They had put up the money for Walton's choice of Queen's Counsel barrister and unlimited time for Walton to prepare the case and brief the QC. In the end, the jury had failed to convict the young gangster, who had then been spirited back to Hong Kong.

Woo had said at the time, that he was in Walton's debt and to call on him whenever he needed a favour.

So, now it was time to call it in. As the clock in the BMW clicked over to ten o'clock, Tom nosed the car past the security guard at the gate of the Casino car park, which was empty except for a Mercedes sports car. He had stopped and was just reaching to get his jacket from the back seat, when his door was suddenly opened from outside.

"Mr Walton, how nice to see you." There, holding the door open, was Eddie Woo; for all the world a respectable businessman whose Chinese appearance had been diluted by his mother's English blood. "Our paths don't cross as often as they should, you know.” He was of a similar age to Walton and wore an immaculately tailored suit that coped easily with his short, stocky build. As they shook hands, the solicitor noticed that the little finger of Woo's right hand was missing, and that there was a snake tattoo, just peeping out below the crisp white shirt cuff.

"Please come inside, Mr Walton. I have some tea if you would like it, or something stronger, if you prefer."

Woo led the way up a fire-escape at the back of the building and through the door at the top. Inside, Walton found himself on a balcony that overlooked the whole of the casino. The room, electrified at night by the sounds and smells of gambling, was, by day, stale and dirty, lit only by grey autumn light filtering through smoke-stained windows. The air was oppressive, redolent of last night's cigarettes and spilled booze. Below him, at the nearer end of the main room, gaming-machines, normally a kaleidoscope of cascading light and frantic sound, waited, inert, on a raised stage, while spread out from there to the opposite wall were gaming tables cloaked in dustsheets.

Once again, Woo ushered his guest up a flight of stairs and then through a plain white-painted door into a large office. There, men and girls, all Chinese, worked at desks. Walton noted with surprise that each desk was dominated by a computer.

"Yes," Woo smiled. "Even Chinese gambling dens have succumbed to the IT revolution, Mr Walton. Do not forget that the Far East is still responsible for over half the computers sold world-wide." He opened the door to his own office. "After you," he said.

The two men sat in deep, black-leather chairs, making polite conversation while a demurely dressed young woman served them tea in incredibly delicate handle-less cups. Even when she had left, carefully closing the door behind her, Woo seemed content to allow the meeting to progress as though it was mere courtesy that had brought Walton to his office. If he was curious, it did not show.

Eventually, the solicitor put his cup down and leant forward.

"Mr Woo, you once said that I could call on you for a favour. I don't know if you remember?"

Woo also leant forward, as if to share a great secret. "My nephew was very lucky to avoid going to prison. I am in your debt, and it would be a great pleasure to be of service to you, Mr Walton." He sat back again, clasped his hands together on his knees and waited.

"Thank you. In that case there is a proposition I would like you to consider."

Woo inclined his head, as though in agreement, and waited.

"It involves a substantial amount of money, and I would propose that it should bring with it a fee of, say, twenty percent." He paused again, but got no assistance, so continued. "A client of mine would like to cash a bank draft, in the sum of about two hundred and sixty thousand pounds. It would not be convenient to do this through the normal channels, and my client wondered if you might be able to make some alternative arrangement."

Woo nodded again. "I could certainly be interested in your proposal. The figure you mention is not a problem, but twenty percent is very generous for such a simple task. I take it your client is anxious for the transaction to be," he hesitated, seeking the right word, "anonymous?"

Walton agreed.

"Are you able to vouch for this client, Mr Walton?"

Walton assured the man that he was.

"I might well be able to let him open an account here, at the Golden Dragon. Normally there would be a delay while funds were cleared. Would that present a problem?"

The solicitor said that time really was 'of the essence'.

"Under normal circumstances, I would have to decline then," Woo said.

Walton waited, watching his man's face closely, hardly daring to breathe. If Woo didn't play ball, the whole scheme might fall down.

After a very long pause, in which both men carefully weighed each other up, Woo continued. "However, in your case, I am sure we could make an exception."

Walton breathed again.

"When would you like to introduce this client of yours?"


"Certainly. My colleagues and I would be most interested to meet him."

The mention of Eddie Woo's colleagues made the hair stand up on Walton's neck. He knew the sort of men they were and hoped he had not just made a big mistake.

Woo continued. "You do understand, Mr Walton that this is a favour I am doing for you, personally. I regret that, if your client's bank draft is not honoured, for any reason, my colleagues will be very displeased." He looked enquiringly at the solicitor then rose to his feet and extended his hand. In it, he held an embossed business card.

"If you would ask your client to make his draft out to me personally, rather than the casino, that would be sufficient."

Walton read the strange Chinese name on the card and looked up.

The gangster smiled. "Eddie Woo is so much easier to pronounce, don't you think? Perhaps your client would like to play a little blackjack or chemin-de-fer. If he were a very lucky man, I can see that he might leave with winnings of, as you say, two hundred and sixty thousand pounds - less of course my twenty percent!" Woo smiled at his little joke.

"Indeed." Walton stood up. "Well thank you, Mr Woo. I am sure my client will be lucky tonight." He turned back from the door, "Oh, and by the way, my client is not only very lucky, he's a 'she'!"


Walton knew he had cut it fine for getting to the bank by eleven thirty. The bank draft was the next thing. Grab the what you can and disappear, Jenny had said. That was OK as far as it went, but you couldn't just walk into Lloyds or Barclays and draw out tens of thousands of pounds in cash, not just like that. Apart from anything else, they wouldn't have that much just lying around.

Mr Lewis kept him waiting. He always did.

"Hello, Tom. Come in, come in. Sorry to have kept you, but I fitted you in as best I could. Has something urgent come up?” Lewis was a likeable, elderly man, a bank manager of the old school.

Walton thought that, indeed, his request might be considered urgent. He explained succinctly that he was involved with a client who had 'offshore interests', and who needed to transfer a substantial amount of money, today. He went on to say that this was a client of the utmost importance to the firm, who would be investing a 'very substantial' amount of money through Walton & Co over the coming months.

Lewis made cautiously approving noises and went on to outline a number of ways of making the transfer. As Walton had expected, one of the suggestions involved a bank draft made out from the current account in favour of the client. The same amount would be transferred that day from the Client Account to cover the draft.

"How much are we looking at, Tom"

The solicitor replied directly with the figure he had calculated during the first half hour of his morning at the office. "Two hundred and sixty thousand."

Lewis was obviously surprised by the amount involved. Picking up the phone, he called for files and statements. When they arrived, he flicked through the papers quickly but thoroughly and in total silence.

Walton could feel the sweat running down his spine, though the room had become very cold.

The bank manager closed the files and put them carefully to one side. His watery eyes looked levelly from behind half-moon glasses. He took off the glasses and wiped them carefully with a huge coloured handkerchief. All that time, his gaze never left the lawyer's face.

He put the glasses back on.

"I am not at all happy about what you are trying to do, here, Tom," the older man said. "As I see it there will be almost no funds left in the Client Account, once you have made this transaction."

Walton nodded. "I know that, but there are sufficient for you to make out such a bank-draft." It was not a question, more an incontrovertible statement

"Indeed that is true, but I must record my concern about this. I take it you are anticipating the receipt of this amount of money from your client, and if so I would urge you most strongly to wait till your client's monies are cleared." The bank manager was adamant.

Walton leaned forward, speaking very clearly. "Mr Lewis, I fully understand your concerns, but I would respectfully submit that I am in a better position to judge these matters, than you are. I do not propose to jeopardise my relationship with this client, and would ask again: are there sufficient funds to cover a bank-draft for two hundred and sixty thousand, today?"

"Yes, Tom, there are."

"Then you will prepare one immediately?"

"I may need to seek guidance on this," the banker prevaricated.

Tom knew that there was no room for negotiation in that office today. If he let this man have his way, he would lose the money and the only chance he had of escape. For once, the case he was arguing was not for the freedom of someone else, it was for himself. He stood up. "Mr Lewis, I am the sole signatory to Walton & Company's bank accounts. There is sufficient money to cover the transaction. I am not asking you if you think it is a good idea. I am asking you to issue the bank-draft. Now, will you do it, or do I have to move my accounts to another bank that will?" He leant forward, fingertips pressing down on the bank manager's desk.

Lewis was affronted by Walton's stance. He needed to cover his own back, as well as looking after the interests of his customer.

"If I am to authorise this, I shall need your instructions in writing."

"Then you shall have them," Walton answered bluntly. He withdrew a cheque book from his brief case and wrote out a cheque in favour of the bank for the full amount. Passing it across the desk, he said, "My instructions, in writing. Now, do I get the bank-draft?"

The old man sighed. "Very well, Mr Walton. What name will you want on this draft?"

Not trusting himself to say any more, Walton handed over Woo's embossed card.

"I see. Two hundred and sixty thousand pounds in favour of Mr Chi Deong Wu. That is Mister, is it?" His pen paused over the paper.


"What time will you want to collect it?"

Walton said as soon as possible.

"I can have it ready by two o'clock. If you will come back then, it will be waiting for you at the counter." He rose solemnly and walked round the desk to hold the door open. They shook hands formally and that was that.


The soberly dressed solicitor sat in the nearby MacDonald’s, incongruously sucking a thick milk shake. The hands of his watch crept towards two o'clock. He had occupied himself during most of lunchtime by visiting the travel agent round the corner from his office and buying an air ticket to Geneva but now he just waited for those watch-hands.


By half past two, he was in the BMW threading through the city traffic. On the passenger seat, beside him, lay his pigskin briefcase. In the briefcase lay his future: one bank draft for two hundred and sixty thousand pounds, plus fourteen hundred pounds in cash from his personal account and one air ticket.

Jenny Lindt sprang to the door, the moment the bell chimed.

"Well?" she asked, impatient for news.

"Well?" she repeated as he closed the door behind him. "Are we going or not? What's happening?"

Walton put the briefcase on the floor, leaned back against the door and took a breath. "Wait till you see this." He crouched on the floor and popped the catches on case. Jenny stood looking down. With a flourish, he withdrew the bank draft and handed it to her.

"Who the hell's Chi Deong Wu!" she cried.


Back in his office that afternoon, Walton went through the motions of seeing clients, dictating notes, making appointments for the coming days. He worked with the door open, alert for the sounds of the unexpected. Within an hour of sitting down at his desk, he had decided that, however many days it would take Dorothy Brown to call in the authorities, another day of sitting here was more than his nerves would be able to stand.

By six o'clock, the office was quiet. Mary had been the last to leave, making sure, as usual, that she had all the letters for posting.

"Goodnight, Mr Walton, see you in the morning."

Walton took his empty coffee cup to the kitchen and put it in the dishwasher. Returning through the deserted building, he took his jacket from the coat-stand in the corner of his room, gathered up the briefcase, and switched out the lights. He stood for a moment, in the doorway of his office. The room was darker now, illuminated only by the light that squeezed past his silhouette from the hallway outside. The big desk, the leather swivel chair, the deep, beige carpet.

Surely, he had lost everything, now. Angela, the boys, the house and now the practice. Pillar of society today, down and out tomorrow. He took a deep breath. No, not everything. Didn't he have a bank cheque for nearly three hundred grand in his hand? "Shit! I'll be the best off damn busker in New Street Station." The wry smile was hidden as he shut the door behind him.

Tomorrow, he hoped, would start as usual. If he failed to appear by nine, alarm bells would ring in Dorothy's suspicious mind, but by the end of the day, he planned to be a long way away.


Mr Woo rose gallantly from a deep, buttoned club armchair as Tom Walton and Jenny Lindt were shown into his private room at the Golden Dragon. The Art Nouveau clock on the mantelpiece showed that it was nearly midnight and the busy noises of the casino outside were suddenly cut off as the padded leather door swung silently shut behind the two guests. Jenny was impressed by the Edwardian splendour of the room, which was furnished like a library, with a reading desk in one corner and antique oak bookshelves, bowed slightly from years of supporting weighty leather bound books, along the wall opposite.

She studied the man in evening dress who had stood up for her. The face above the Edwardian-style wing-collar was clearly oriental, and she could have been interested in his muscular body, had it not been for the brutality that she sensed beneath the veneer.

She held out her hand to take his and forced herself not to flinch as she discovered under her own cool hand, the deformity of his missing finger.

"Jenny, may I introduce Mr Eddie Woo." Walton looked at the casino owner and said "I hope it will be all right if my client is simply known as Jenny?"

Woo agreed and, having offered them each a drink, got straight down to business.

"You have the bank draft, Jenny?” He asked.

Walton extracted a wallet from the inside pocket of his dark grey lounge suit and passed Jenny the wholly insignificant looking slip of paper, on which his future lay. With a composure that he could not help admiring, she simply took it from his fingers and passed it across to Woo, as though it meant less than nothing to her.

Walton was delighted with the transformation the young woman had worked since he had first told her of their intended visit to The Golden Dragon. Gone was the eyebrow stud, and the group of gold hoops from her ear, replaced by a simple, if fake, pearl necklace and long silver earrings. Like a snake changing its skin, she had wriggled out of her jeans and sweater and slithered into this long, black dress that reached to the ground. The picture was completed when she moved, for then a slash up the side of the dress exposed one long bare leg to half way up her thigh. He thought, as these two chameleons exchanged the bank draft, how similar they were in many ways. Beneath the elegance were two people hardened by years on the streets.

Woo studied the draft closely. "It is drawn on your company's account, Mr Walton." He said, by way of a question.

"Of course. Jenny is one of my clients," he replied.

"Then accept my apologies if I expressed my concerns this morning about its being honoured. I had not expected it to be your cheque."

Walton acknowledged the apology, hoping fervently, that Woo's oriental attitude to honour would not prove to be misplaced. At least not while he, Walton, was still in England.

The suave businessman pocketed the bank draft and led the way to the door. "I will arrange for you to have access to chips to the value of two hundred and eight thousand pounds. Perhaps you would like to play a hand of blackjack, or some roulette, Jenny. Give me a chance to win back some of my money?"

Jenny looked at Walton.

"Why not!” he answered for her.

In all her years, Jenny had never been treated so like royalty. Walton showed her round the tables, explaining the rules of games she had only ever heard of before in James Bond films. She tried her hand at roulette, and lost two hundred pounds - more, she thought, than the entire contents of her secret coffee jar. She watched him, knowing that he was enjoying showing her off to the denizens of the wealthy. It did not anger her that he should take a proprietorial delight in her young body. Men had done this all her adult life, treated her as a possession to be enjoyed, in much the same way as they would enjoy a sport scar or a gram of cocaine. It was all she'd had when she started; her body and her wits and she had used them ruthlessly in the long climb from the gutters.

Now it was her turn to enjoy. As the night passed, she drank a lot of champagne, gambled and even flirted with Woo, when he joined them, allowing him to touch her bare arm and occasionally making contact with his powerful body until Walton's delight evaporated. He regained possession of her, taking her hand in his and turning to the Chinese. "Perhaps we should collect our money, now, Woo."

Eddie Woo appeared to ignore the snub, though he did not ignore the word 'our'. He said nothing, but his mind focused on it, analysing the meaning. If Walton was part of this illicit deal then Woo was suddenly concerned about the security of the bank draft.

"Of course, Jenny," he said, turning to the girl. "Your money! Please come with me."

At the cashier's desk, where money and chips changed hands through a rotating gate in an armoured glass window, Woo leaned forward and spoke into the microphone that connected him with the Chinese girl at the till. "Cash these," he said rudely, placing Jenny's chips on the turntable. "And there are two packets for me, as well." He turned his smile back on as he looked across to where Jenny stood. She took hold of Walton's arm, feeling again the animal ferocity of Woo's character that she had allowed the champagne to mask from her.

He brought her two large, plain brown paper bags. She looked inside one and saw it contained perhaps a couple of dozen sealed transparent envelopes, such as a bank uses. She reached in and pulled one of them up towards the mouth of the bag so she could read the printed label on its side. It certified that the envelope contained five thousand pounds. She passed the other paper bag to Walton and they each counted the number of envelopes.

"Twenty-one," she said.

"And twenty," he replied

"Two hundred and five thousand pounds in used fifties," agreed Woo. "The balance, give or take your losses, Jenny, is here." He handed her a wad of loose bank notes. "I am sorry you were not as lucky at the tables as Mr Walton here said you would be." He looked straight at the solicitor and continued, "I hope you remain lucky, Mr Walton. Now, if that concludes our business, allow me to call for your car. I think it would be unwise for you to walk further than you need with your," he hesitated, "winnings."

Woo held out his hand for the keys to the BMW and passed them to a doorman, before turning to stand behind Jenny to help her on with her jacket. She could feel his breath on her cheek as he said quietly, "It has been a real pleasure, Jenny. While you may not intend that we meet again, I should look forward to such a meeting with intense anticipation."

She swung round, coolly. "I think there is little chance of that happening, Mr Woo." Walton buttoned his overcoat, and waited for the car.

No-one shook hands as the two of them left Woo standing behind the rotating door of his casino and walked into the cold night. As soon as they were in the car, Walton pressed the button on his door and, from all round the car, came the reassuring sound of the central locking thumping home. He passed his paper bag to Jenny and leaned across to kiss her cheek. "You were wonderful," he said. "I love you."

She smiled at him. "You mean you want to screw me," she replied.

He looked mischievous. "I always want to screw you, but I do love you."

She decided that making love would be OK and, as she thought about it, she felt her body decide it would be OK too. She reached across and kissed him hungrily. "Where?" she said.

"My place."

"Mine's nearer," she murmured and he nodded.

"Your place."

As the BMW rolled out into the empty streets, neither Walton, nor Jenny noticed a car detach itself from the others in the car park and settle in, a discreet distance behind them

All that night, and until Walton left for work next morning, the driver of the inconspicuous car waited and watched. Woo would not let them out of his sight until the bank draft had been safely cleared.


The sun was trying to make its mark on an otherwise grey autumn day as the BMW swung into the car park. It stopped between the two white lines. The words 'Mr T.J. Walton' showed on the painted board just in front of the bonnet.

The lawyer carefully locked the door and, jacket hanging by a crooked finger over his shoulder, crossed to the glass front door of his offices.

"Mr Walton," the receptionist called to him as he crossed the wide foyer. He changed course, weaving between a rubber plant and potted shrub to arrive at her desk.

"That Sergeant Burbidge is here to see you again, Mr Walton. He’s in the waiting room."

Walton's mind raced. There meeting wasn’t supposed to be till the afternoon. He could think of only one reason why DS Burbidge should be here to see him at quarter to nine in the morning.

"Thank you,” he said. He braced himself and entered the waiting room.

"Good morning, Sergeant, You wanted to see me?"

"Mr Walton," Burbidge made no attempt to shake hands. "We tried to contact you at your flat last night, but you did not go home, I believe." He stopped, waiting as though he had asked a question.

Walton had learned very early on that most convictions come from defendants hurrying to fill policemen's pregnant pauses. He waited until the silence had become too heavy. “Won’t you come into my office,” he said at last. “I’ve asked Dorothy to get some documents sorted out for you to look at." He led them up the stairs and gestured the way into his room. He waited while the two detectives seated themselves in front of his desk.

"I'd better get Dorothy to join us, don't you think?"

Not waiting, for an answer, he went out into the corridor.

Detective Sergeant Burbidge smiled towards his colleague. Now he would get even with the smart-ass lawyer.

Walton stopped at Mary's office. "Get the two gentlemen in my office a cup of coffee, will you, Mary," he asked, leaning round her door. "I'll be with them directly."

Back in the corridor, he walked on.

"Good morning, Dorothy," he called as he passed the accounts clerks open door. "I wonder if you could go to my office? I'll join you there in a moment." He walked on.

"Good morning, Gerald” he said as he passed his young assistant's door.

"Goodbye, Sergeant Burbidge," he muttered as he went through the emergency exit at the end of the corridor and down the fire-escape at the side of the building.

Temple Street was always busy at rush hour. In two minutes Tom Walton, criminal lawyer, was lost from sight.

Walton felt a mixture of exhilaration and fear as he worked his way into the bustling crowd. He had to admit that his heart was fairly banging against his ribs. The West Midlands Police had been over the line well ahead of the start gun, he thought as he strode past the old Magistrates Court. He saw Appleby, from Withers and Pook, crossing the road towards the new County Court. The elderly solicitor's clerk raised his perfectly rolled umbrella in salute and came over to him.

Of course, Gerald had spoken to Appleby yesterday, while Walton was at the bank. He couldn't just ignore the old boy and valuable minutes were wasted listening to the latest proposals from his adversary in the matter of Wilkins and Wilkins, a no messier than usual divorce. Walton found himself weighing up whether to accept Appleby's proposals so as to get rid of him, or to reject what was obviously a poor deal for Mrs Wilkins. Interestingly, and with a certain sense of regained pride, he took the time to dismiss the terms and make a counter offer.

How long would he have before Burbidge noticed he had exchanged a corrupt solicitor for a cup of instant coffee? A mellow cup of coffee and a bitter policeman! Walton suspected that the old adage "hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," had not weighed Detective Sergeant Burbidge adequately in the balance. He knew that the wily old copper would dearly like this lawyer's head on a pole outside … outside where? The Bullring, the Rotunda. Birmingham had no really satisfactory equivalent to the Tower of London. He jumped back onto the pavement as a turban-headed taxi driver swerved round him, swearing volubly. A British Rail Transport policeman looked up from his place in the entrance to New Street Station to see what had happened.

Walton grinned sheepishly at him and walked into the foyer.

While he had not expected to be this early, nor with the hue and cry so hot, he had intended to come here this morning. Although the station was teeming with businessmen, he felt conspicuous enquiring about train times to London and buying a ticket that included Underground travel to Heathrow Airport. He paid with plastic. This had two benefits; it preserved his cash, and, more satisfyingly, it would join yesterday's purchase of the air ticket to Geneva on a Visa account that he sincerely hoped he would never have to pay.

He turned from the ticket booth and walked along the concourse to a television screen, which declared that his train was running twelve minutes late. He rightly distrusted these mendacious, hi-tech devices, suspecting that they would probably break down under cross-examination, admitting that they were habitual liars, if not actually part of a government cover-up.

However, whichever way you looked at it, the 9.23, London train would certainly not arrive before 9.23, and probably would be at least twelve minutes late. Would he be safer down on the platform in one of the tatty, spartan waiting rooms, or up here in the concourse? Having no way of knowing, being a newcomer to evasion, though not, he had to admit, to deception, he opted for the station cafe. If your heart was pounding and your throat was dry, you might as well pour some coffee down it.

The fugitive found himself an insignificant corner table, deep inside the cafe and off to the right. As it happened, a previous traveller, breakfasting at this same table had left behind a copy of the Sun newspaper. Walton became actively engrossed in it, confirming his long held prejudice that it was a superficial rag, which concerned itself with tittle-tattle and gossip. Why, here in front of his very eyes was a scandalous article about a very famous businessman who had received thousands of pounds of legal-aid for defending a hopeless case of fraud. How had he never managed to squeeze that sort of money out of the legal-aid panel for his attendances in the courts, defending villains with much more plausible cases? Indignant, he looked up accusingly as a voice behind the paper spoke.

"Excuse me, is anyone sitting here?" A young black woman was standing opposite him. From her shoulder bag, ethnic skirt and Doc Maarten boots, he guessed she might have been a student.

"No." He folded the paper. "No, I was just off, anyway."

She put her plastic cup down on the table and got a Tupperware tub and a teaspoon out of her bag. Walton looked at his watch. Five minutes to go; he stood up, hesitating. He dearly wanted to talk to this interloper. To warn her against so much that he had taken for granted when he had been a young Law student, in those far off days of the seventies. "Forgive me," he waited while she spooned something vegetarian into her mouth. "You're not studying Law, are you?"

She smiled a big easy smile and shook her head, hurrying to swallow her food. "Who me, no way!" she grinned, "History. Lawyers and politicians are all the same. No integrity, man."

"Oh," was all he could come up with in reply to the youngster's perspicacity. No need to enlighten this student. "Well I must be off. Good luck with your studies." She waved her teaspoon at him, nodding her head vigorously up and down, unable to speak through another mouthful of breakfast.

The London train, when it came was too full for privacy. Walton sat at a window seat, ignoring his neighbour, staring out at Birmingham as it unrolled past his window. He watched the electrification cables as they swooped from one overhead gantry to the next. What was the significance, he asked himself, of a life size black metal cut-out horse, galloping at the side of the track?


Chapter 3