Deadfall (12 page)

He didn't sound particularly concerned and it occurred to Linc that he might not have been too devastated if ‘Dad'
had
socked him one.

‘Okay. No harm done. Better give a description of those two to the police. I'm not sure we've seen the last of them. And I want a man with a dog patrolling this area for at least a week. I don't want this place going up in smoke one night!'

‘No need for a description. That's Jim Pepper and his son. The old man used to work here but he was unreliable. Your father sacked him last year.'

‘I see. Can't say I blame him.'

‘Yeah, but you want to watch Pepper, he's mean,' Reagan warned him, somewhat unnecessarily. ‘I'll
get on to the police then. Oh, here's the racecard you wanted.'

Linc thanked him, taking the slim booklet and glancing briefly at it. There were twelve races listed, each contested by six dogs, but there didn't appear to be anyone with the surname Barnaby. There were, however, one or two initial Bs and a couple of the dogs seemed to be owned by syndicates.

‘Do you know any of these owners or trainers?' he asked Reagan. ‘I'm looking for someone who had a dog running that night, name of Barnaby or Barney.'

Reagan pursed his lips. ‘Doesn't ring any bells but then I don't know many of them. There's a bloke who might know, though. Local trainer called Sam Menzies. He's got dozens of dogs and goes all over the place. Might be worth asking him.'

‘Yes, he's listed here,' Linc said, looking through the names. ‘Thanks. I'll try him.'

After checking on progress at the mill, via mobile phone to Geoff Sykes, Linc returned to the office and the unending paperwork, but somehow, before long, found himself searching the internet for Sam Menzies, greyhound trainer.

He was in luck. Sam Menzies had his own website, extolling the virtues of his Warminsterbased training kennels. Linc printed off the details, wondering if he had time to pay the man a visit in what remained of that afternoon. He could always catch up on the paperwork in the evening . . .

A telephone call took the decision away from him. It was Rebecca Hathaway.

‘Hi,' Linc said, his casual tone hiding the cold
dread that had instantly gripped his heart.

Rebecca obviously anticipated his reaction for she quickly said, ‘It's all right. Nothing's happened. There's no change in Abby's condition. In fact, that's why I'm calling. The doctors can't say if she can hear us at all, but then they can't say she doesn't either. One of the nurses suggested we play her some of her favourite music or maybe a video of a movie or pop star she likes. Then I –
we
– thought perhaps if
you
were to come and talk to her . . . knowing how she feels about you. We wondered if something like that might give her the incentive to try and come back to us . . .' Her voice tailed off uncertainly. ‘I'd understand if you didn't feel comfortable with that, though.'

‘No. I don't have a problem with it, if you think it might do some good, but is it okay with everyone your end? I mean . . .'

‘You mean Josie? She's fine with it. She knows you now. Well enough to know that seducing impressionable teenagers isn't your style, anyway.'

‘I'll give it a go then,' Linc told her. ‘Seven o'clock okay?'

The hospital that Abby had been transferred to from Odstock was unlike any hospital Linc had ever been in. Coming from a blessedly healthy family, none of whom had ever had to endure a lengthy stay in a hospital of any kind, his limited experience of them had been of visiting the busy casualty departments of general hospitals. This private one was in a converted stately home and its reception area, where David Hathaway was waiting for Linc, made the hall at Farthingscourt look decidedly shabby.
Suddenly his own health insurance premium seemed better value.

It was the first time Linc had seen Abby's father since the night of the attack and he looked years older and immeasurably weary. In olive corduroys and a shirt that had obviously been slept in, he led the way to his daughter's room, explaining that although she seemed to have fought off the infection she showed no signs of returning consciousness.

‘The doctors have done all they can,' he said. ‘They've made her as comfortable as they can and all her vital signs are stable. It's as if it's down to Abby to decide to come back to us now.'

‘Can the doctors tell if there's any permanent damage?' Linc asked.

David shook his head. ‘Before she caught the infection there was a fair amount of brain activity, but since . . .' He sighed heavily. ‘I've spent hours in the hospital chapel begging God to bring her back to us, but to no avail. Then Becky had the idea of asking you to come. I wasn't sure at first, but I think it's worth a try. If the love of her family can't do it then perhaps Abby's hormones can. Maybe this is the answer I've been praying for. After all, I believe Our Lord is an infinitely practical being.'

They had stopped outside a brass-handled, panelled door that bore Abby's name and the number eleven. Her father turned to Linc and managed half a smile.

‘See what you can do, Linc. But, please, don't feel bad if nothing comes of it.'

‘Okay.' He nodded, hesitating with his hand on the doorknob. The Reverend David Hathaway was one of the non-riding members of the family and, as
such, Linc had had little opportunity to get to know him. ‘I never encouraged her, you know,' he said quietly.

‘I know,' the older man replied. Then as Linc opened the door, ‘But encourage her now, will you?'

Rebecca got up from the bedside as Linc went in and came forward to greet him warmly. ‘Thank you for coming, Linc. I'll leave you alone with her. David and I will be downstairs having a cup of coffee.'

Linc spent a good half an hour beside the still, pale figure in the bed. At first it was hard to see beyond the myriad of tubes and wires that connected her to monitors, drips and other equipment at her side, but then as he sat down and took Abby's thin hand in his, he found the regular mechanical sounds faded into the background.

Someone had brushed her dark hair but it lay looking lank and lifeless on the pillow around her head, and her long lashes provided a stark contrast to the pallor of her skin. It was frightening to think that she had neither woken nor moved since Linc had found her in the tackroom ten days before.

He started talking, as much to comfort himself as for her sake. He told her all about the Andover and Talham events, detailing the rounds of each horse he had ridden, dwelling especially long on his experience with Dee Ellis's crazy horse, Steamer. He told the silent girl how much he was missing having her grooming for him and ended by telling her about Hilary Lang's exciting invitation and
asking her if she might possibly find time to be his groom on the coaching weekend.

As he finally wound to a close, he sat back and watched her for a few moments. There was no discernible change in her face and when he gently squeezed her hand there was no answering squeeze of her fingers. He hadn't really expected that there would be, but now and again you did hear of such things happening.

With something bordering on guilt he wondered if his own negative expectations had prevented the message getting through, but didn't know what he could have done about it. It was a bit like religion; you either believed or you didn't. No amount of wanting to could provide a substitute.

‘Come on, Abby,' he said suddenly. ‘What's happened to the stubborn little wretch we know and love? You're not going to let this beat you, are you?'

She didn't stir. Only the monotonous bleep of the heart monitor and the slight rise and fall of her chest showed that life remained.

With a heavy sigh Linc got to his feet and, after kissing her lightly on the forehead, turned and left the room.

‘
SHE MOVED! ABBY'S
moved her fingers!'

It was half-past seven and Linc had just arrived to ride Noddy before work. Ruth yelled the wonderful news at him as soon as he opened the Discovery's door.

‘She has? That's great! When?'

‘Mum phoned a couple of minutes ago. She'd been sitting with her most of the night and was just getting up to go and have some breakfast. She says she squeezed Abby's hand and said, “Back soon, darling,” and her fingers twitched!' Ruth's face was radiant. ‘It wasn't much but the doctors say it's a very good sign. Mum could hardly talk for crying and we've all been laughing and crying, too. Even Hannah!'

‘Oh, Ruth, that's wonderful!' Linc stepped out on to the gravel.

‘Mum says she's going to give you a big hug when she sees you!'

‘Me?' Linc was startled. ‘It's got nothing to do
with me! There wasn't even a whisper of movement when I was there.'

‘Maybe it was something you said that started her thinking,' Ruth suggested, reluctant to relinquish the romantic idea.

Linc shook his head firmly. ‘Much as I would love to think I'd helped, I really can't take any credit. I'm sure it was just a coincidence. Let's just hope she goes on from here.'

‘Oh, she will now, I'm sure of it,' Ruth declared happily, and Linc hadn't the heart to point out that there was still an awfully long way to go.

That afternoon Linc travelled to the north of the county to meet the owners of a working watermill. His architect and builder were waiting in the car park when he arrived and together they were taken on a fascinating guided tour of the mill house and adjacent bakery and tearooms.

The mill was magnificent, and Linc was fired with even greater enthusiasm for the Farthingscourt project. He stood for several long minutes watching the water slide from the smooth surface of the millpond, gathering speed down the head race to fall in a silver stream into the metal buckets of the huge overshot wheel.

In contrast, with the stream diverted away from the wheel and the pond empty, the mill at Farthingscourt was at the moment a sad, lifeless affair, awkward and inelegant, like a ship in dry dock, and he longed for the day when it would start milling once again.

After spending a couple of informative hours discussing marketing and ways of maximising
efficiency, he left the mill, and with no set appointments or meetings for the rest of the day, turned the Discovery towards Warminster and Sam Menzies' greyhound training kennels.

The map he had printed from the website proved relatively simple to follow and in twenty minutes or so, Linc saw the glossy, white-painted sign that announced
Redshaw Training Kennels
to the passing world. Mindful of the warning-off he'd received, he drove past slowly and stopped about fifty yards further on, in the car park of a pine furniture showroom. In common with all the estate vehicles, the Discovery bore the Farthingscourt name and logo in yellow on its dark green paintwork, and although he had no intention of allowing himself to become paranoid, it seemed sensible not to advertise his investigation unnecessarily. Having had a quick look round the pine shop and bought a letter rack he didn't really want, he left the Land-Rover in the car park and walked back along the road to the kennels.

These were reached via a long gravel track with trees on one side and an open field on the other. An unimaginative square bungalow sat at the end with a cluster of outbuildings and wire-netted pens to one side. The doorbell beside the blue front door summoned a dark-haired, middle-aged individual who probably hadn't seen his feet for many years, and three snuffling pug dogs that yapped at Linc from the safety of the doorway.

‘Sam Menzies?'

‘Yes.' The trainer scratched his ample stomach through a cotton shirt whose seams and buttons defied all the known laws of physics. He looked his
visitor up and down through rather puffy eyes and waited.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Menzies. My name's Lincoln. I'm interested in buying a greyhound, and I'm told you're the man to ask.'

‘I might be.' Menzies looked marginally more animated, and the pugs, evidently deciding that Linc didn't constitute a threat, waddled down the step and began to sniff round his feet. ‘How much do you want to spend?'

‘I've no idea,' Linc said honestly. ‘But I want a decent animal. One with a good pedigree and a realistic chance of winning.'

‘Puppy or in training?'

‘You tell me.'

‘Well, I know of a lovely Green Baize litter just born a week or two ago,' the trainer told him, looking all at once much more enthusiastic. ‘Green Baize was a champion in his day and the bitch was the top money-winning bitch of her age group last year. You could look a lot longer and do a lot worse.'

‘That sounds interesting.' Originally conceived as a cover story, the idea was quickly taking root in his mind. ‘How much would I have to pay?'

Menzies wasn't sure, but the sum he guessed at was an eye opener for Linc.

‘Come and have a look at my dogs, Mr Lincoln,' the trainer suggested quickly, perhaps sensing that his prospective customer was having second thoughts. Pulling the door shut behind him, he hitched his flannel trousers up a reluctant inch or two, came down the steps and set off for the kennels with Linc and the three pugs in his wake.

‘Fellow I was talking to at Ledworth a few weeks ago suggested I look up a chap called Barnaby,' Linc said as they reached the outbuildings. ‘Not sure if he's an owner or a trainer but I was told he might have a dog for sale.'

They had halted in front of a metal door, for which Menzies produced a key from one of his pockets.

‘Don't think I know anyone called Barnaby,' he said, shaking his head. ‘I know a Barney. Barney Weston. But I wouldn't go to him for a dog. He's small fry. Wouldn't know a good running dog from a mongrel if he didn't see its papers!'

‘It could have been Barney, I suppose. Is he local?'

‘Wincanton way, I think. But I wouldn't go to him,' the trainer reiterated. ‘He's not been training long. You want someone with experience, being new to it yourself.'