Deadfall (11 page)

Back at the lorry Linc saw Crispin for the first time that day. Boyishly handsome with brown eyes, a wide infectious grin and short brown hair that he'd recently taken to wearing softly spiky, he was enough like Linc for them to be recognisable as brothers, but took after his mother more than the paternal line.

‘I've got some incredible shots!' he exclaimed with enthusiasm. ‘I kept moving between the watersplash and that Lovers Leap fence and absolutely
everything
happened at those two jumps!'

‘What happened with that poor girl?' Linc asked.

‘I don't know.' Crispin hadn't ridden since their mother had died and wasn't in the least bit horsy. ‘The animal seemed to hesitate and then slip off the edge. Its front legs went down in the ditch and it somersaulted on top of her. It was gruesome! Nikki says she died on the way to hospital. I'm not
surprised. Honestly, Linc, I don't know why you do it. You must be mad! Especially with our family history.'

‘Oh, come on, Crispin. You're beginning to sound like Dad. You know as well as I do that accidents like that are pretty rare. By the way, you'll never guess who I've been talking to . . .' He told his brother about Hilary Lang and her exciting proposition.

‘So what does this mean? Are you chucking in the job to become a full-time eventer?' Crispin joked.

‘No. Even supposing I could afford to. Actually, I've been thinking about the money thing; it's not cheap, this eventing business, and I could really do with a lorry of my own. I can't keep borrowing the Hathaways'.'

‘Well, what about a sponsor?'

‘Mmm. Unfortunately it's not all that easy to drum up much interest in eventing. It's not exactly a sport that gets massive exposure.'

It was something he'd thought about quite a lot lately. Eventing was an extremely expensive sport, with relatively poor prize money – even at the very top – and offers of sponsorship were like gold dust. For a rider aiming for the national teams, it was impractical to have to rely on one horse, even if that horse was a dazzling talent, which Linc had to admit Noddy wasn't. Two horses, however, meant double the bills. Double the feed bill, two sets of shoes each time, more tack, more vet bills, entry fees, and livery fees. If only he could keep them at home that would be one less expense. Ah, well.

Linc didn't visit the Vicarage the following day.
Ruth and Josie had offered to see that Noddy had some gentle exercise to ease any stiffness in his muscles and Linc was able to give all his attention to estate business. When he'd got back from Talham the news on Abby had been indeterminate. Her condition was no worse but neither was it improving. The determined cheerfulness amongst the adult members of her family was heartbreaking. They had been thrilled with Noddy's blue rosette and Hilary Lang's interest, and pressed Linc to stay for a meal to give them the complete story of the day's events, which he did, skipping over the fatality at the drop fence. They didn't need any more bad news.

The whole atmosphere couldn't have been more different than on his return to Farthingscourt, where the subject was taboo and his father never asked how his day had been.

Sunday was largely uneventful, except for reports in the late afternoon of two men being seen taking too close an interest in the JCB that was parked out at Piecroft Copse. Linc went over to look but saw nothing suspicious. As a precaution he notified the police who promised to drive out that way a couple of times during the evening.

Routine work on the Sunday had given Linc a chance to rethink his strategy re the tack thieves, and in the evening he found the Jenkinses' telephone number in the directory and called to ask if they could remember the exact date the attempted robbery had taken place.

Because of having been away on the riding course, Mrs Jenkins was able to tell him straight
away and, after ringing off, Linc called Jack Reagan.

‘Jack, can you remember where the greyhound racing was on April the second?'

‘Second of April?' the forester repeated. ‘Swindon, I think.'

‘Did you go that night?'

‘Yeah. Lousy weather it was. Why?'

‘I don't suppose you'd still have the racecard, would you?' Linc asked, mentally crossing his fingers.

‘Probably,' Jack said slowly. ‘I make a note of the placings to study the form. What do you want it for?'

‘I'm looking for someone who was running a dog that night. Look, could I borrow it? I'll let you have it back.'

‘It doesn't give details, you know. Only names, and some of those are syndicates.'

‘Yeah, well, it's a start. If you could take it to work, I'll drop by and pick it up.'

Linc drove to the Vicarage just as the sun was rising the following morning, and found that even so Josie was at the stables before him.

Wearing jeans and a hooded fleece jacket, she had her long dark hair in a loose plait and wore no discernible make-up but still managed to look good. She greeted him with a friendly smile that was a million miles away from the coldness of their initial meeting.

‘I'm on stable duty today. Roo's having a lie-in.'

‘Hi. You haven't fed him, have you?' Linc asked.

‘No. Ruth said you'd be wanting to ride early. I – um, thought I might come with you, if that's okay?'

‘Yeah, fine. That'd be nice.' Linc was surprised how much the idea appealed to him.

Cromwell, the cobby grey that Josie and her mother shared, was a stout gentleman approaching middle age and, according to his rider, reminded her of a portly country squire in tweed and a yellow waistcoat.

‘And a pipe,' Linc suggested, joining in. ‘Don't forget his pipe.'

Josie laughed. ‘What about Noddy?'

Linc shrugged. ‘To be honest, I've never really thought about it. What do you think?'

‘Well, I see him as handsome but slightly foppish and indecisive, like the sort of character Hugh Grant plays.'

‘Oh, no!' Linc protested. ‘He's quite a strong character when you get to know him. More of a James Bond type.'

‘Roger Moore, then. Definitely upper-class. Not like Syrup and Treacle. Abby used to say they're like Punch and Judy, loud and vulgar.'

Her voice trailed away, and Linc guessed that she'd recognised her own accidental use of the past tense.

‘How is she this morning?' He knew their mother telephoned first thing every day.

‘No change,' Josie said. ‘It's like we're all in some sort of limbo; not knowing whether to be sad that there's no improvement or happy that she's no worse. She just lies there, day in and day out, with those machines bleeping and hissing, and sometimes the noise drives you mad and you just long for silence, but then you remember what silence would mean . . .' She paused, clearly distressed, and Linc
wished there were something he could say that would help. Realistically, there wasn't.

‘So, what about your advert, Sherlock?' she asked then, brightly. ‘Did you get much feedback?'

‘Very little,' he admitted. ‘One woman who doesn't answer her phone and a warning to mind my own business.'

Josie looked at him, sharply. ‘Seriously? Someone warned you off?'

Linc nodded. ‘It doesn't help, though. They didn't give anything away.'

‘And you're going to leave it now, I hope?'

‘Well, I might have to, I'm not making a lot of progress. But there are a couple of things I want to look into first.'

‘I thought you'd got over that guilt trip thing. Remember what you said to me?'

‘Yeah, I am over it. But I can't just leave it if there's a chance I can uncover something.'

Josie looked doubtful. ‘Well, for goodness' sake, don't get yourself into trouble. One in hospital is bad enough.'

Linc looked at his watch.

‘I think we'd better be turning back now. I've got a meeting with my father at half-past nine.'

Josie was successfully diverted. ‘You have to have an appointment to see your own father? That's archaic!'

‘He's a busy man,' Linc pointed out. ‘And he's my boss – sort of. Anyway, it's not really an appointment. It's just the regular Monday morning briefing on the business of the week. This week we're desludging the millpond.'

As they rode back he found himself telling her
all about his plans for the mill and its produce.

‘How wonderful! I find watermills fascinating, and windmills too. They're so – well – elemental, I suppose. No electricity and you can see exactly how they work. I'd love to come and see it when it's up and going. Is it going to be open to the public?'

Linc was amused. ‘That's the plan, but you don't have to wait till then. Come and see it any time. It's a bit sad at the moment, of course, because we're in the middle of everything. But you're welcome if you want to see the transformation. Just give me a call.'

Mill business took up all the morning and Linc was finishing a late sandwich lunch in his office in the old stables when his phone rang.

It was the forester.

‘Sir, one of the new lads thinks he saw someone nosing around by the machine store. I'm on my way over there. Do you want me to call the police?'

‘No, that's all right, Jack. I was coming out to see you so I'll swing by there myself and meet you.'

He rang off and, leaving Geoff Sykes to go and oversee operations at the mill, drove out of the yard, round the back of the house and out towards Home Farm, on the edge of which the machine store was situated. Jack Reagan, coming from Piecroft Copse, had only half the distance to travel and his four-wheel drive was already parked outside. Linc drove on and drew up in the yard alongside the huge corrugated-iron building that housed most of the estate's larger machinery, but Reagan was nowhere to be seen.

At first it looked as though whoever had been seen there had gone. Linc walked right round the
store, then selecting a key from a bunch that hung from his belt, he unlocked and opened the sliding door to check inside. All appeared to be quiet and nothing was obviously disturbed. He came out and refastened the padlock, turning round just in time to see two rough-looking men taking a close look at a digger that was parked on the other side of the yard. One, in his late-teens or early-twenties, wore torn denim jeans and a checked shirt, and was on the step of the machine, peering into the cab. The other was an older man, wearing a grubby blue boiler suit. Both had dark, greasy hair and stubble.

‘Good afternoon,' Linc called out, going towards them. ‘Can I do something for you?'

The older man looked him up and down and shook his head, apparently finding nothing threatening in Linc's lean five foot eleven, dressed as it was in jeans and an Aran sweater.

‘Nah, I don't think so,' he replied.

‘Then I think you'd better leave,' Linc told him. ‘This is private property.'

‘We gotta right to roam,' the elder man retorted. ‘It's the law.'

‘Not with one of our JCBs, you haven't.'

‘We wasn't gonna touch it. You can't prove we were.'

‘Probably not,' Linc agreed. ‘But nevertheless, I think you should leave.'

‘Says who?'

With a sinking heart Linc realised that the man was spoiling for a quarrel no matter what he said. He wondered where the hell Reagan had got to.

‘Come on, Dad,' the younger man said, tugging at the sleeve of the other man's boiler suit. ‘Leave it.'

Dad shook off the hand.

‘Says who?' he repeated coming closer.

Linc could smell drink on his breath and guessed he'd spent lunchtime tanking up at the local pub.

‘
I
say so,' he observed. ‘This is private land and, regardless of rights of way, when you interfere with estate property it becomes an offence.'

‘So, you're one of the la-di-dah Viscount's busy little drones? Scurrying round to do his bidding, earning yourself brownie points and a pat on the back, and making his fat purse even fatter.'

‘And what if I am?'

‘You make me sick! Tugging your forelock to that rich bastard in his palace!'

‘Dad, come on. You're not doing no good.' The son was beginning to get agitated. He put his hand out again but his father lashed out, catching him in the chest and sending him staggering backwards. This time he stayed back, plainly giving up.

The older man advanced to within a foot or so of Linc, who restrained an impulse to look round for Reagan.

‘You can tell the la-di-dah Viscount,' the man said, wagging a stumpy finger under Linc's nose. ‘You can tell him I didn't need his fucking job!'

‘In fact you're doing just fine without it,' Linc said, but his irony was lost on the man.

‘Too bloody right!'

‘I expect there's a good living to be had by stealing farm machinery.'

‘Dad! We should go!'

The older man's eyes narrowed. ‘Who
are
you?' he asked, suspicious at last.

‘I'm the la-di-dah Viscount's son,' Linc told him.
‘And, by the way, our machines are all fitted with tracking devices. So if they go walkabout, we know exactly where they've gone.'

For a moment he thought the man was going to take a swing at him but then he stepped back a pace or two, hatred twisting his features. ‘You fucking bastard! You're scum, the lot of you!'

‘You all right, sir?' Suddenly, far too late, Reagan was walking towards him. ‘What's going on here?'

The boiler-suited man turned and stomped away from Linc, saying as he passed the forester, ‘Go lick his boots, why don't you?' His son hurried after him.

Reagan came right up. ‘Sir?'

Linc heaved a sigh of relief.

‘I could have done with you earlier. Where were you?'

‘Sorry, Mr Tremayne. There didn't seem to be anyone about when I got here, so I went and had a look round the fields over the back.'