Deadfall (13 page)

Happily unaware that his determined running down of the opposition was doing him no good in the eyes of his visitor, Menzies took Linc on an extensive tour of his facilities, missing no opportunity of comparing his kennels with those of his smaller rival. The dogs were wide-awake and expectant; Menzies explaining that they were due to be fed in twenty minutes or so. They all looked well cared for and happy, and Linc had no doubt that the trainer knew what he was about; he just couldn't like the man.

He took his leave a quarter of an hour or so later, promising to let Menzies know what he decided but already sure in his own mind that Redshaw Kennels wouldn't be receiving his custom.

Halfway down the drive he was forced to step on to the verge as a pick-up truck with oversized wheels and darkened windows swept by. Two horns and a row of lights decorated the roof of the cab and Linc took an instant dislike to its unseen driver.

Partly because Menzies had tried so hard to put him off, and partly because of the chance that the name Cara Jenkins had overheard might have been ‘Barney' instead of ‘Barnaby', Linc thrust the thought of waiting estate business to the back of his mind and drove as fast as he dared to Wincanton. His borrowed racecard had helpfully furnished him with the telephone number of
Weston's Greyhounds
, in the form of a small advertisement, and a call had ascertained that its owner would be in and happy to see him.

Barney Weston couldn't have been more different from Sam Menzies. A neat, softly spoken thirty-something, he greeted Linc and showed him round his kennels, welcoming his interest but never once trying to push him into a decision. Linc had once again posed as a prospective owner and was impressed that Weston made it clear that greyhound ownership should not be undertaken lightly.

‘You have to remember that your puppy won't race until fifteen months at the earliest and, even barring injury, will retire at four or five,' he warned, before showing Linc a litter of puppies in what he called his maternity wing. ‘Therefore he'll probably have six or seven years or more in retirement. Rescue centres are full of unwanted, retired or injured greyhounds.'

Linc assured him that
his
dog, should he get one, would be cared for to the end of its natural.

The maternity wing, housing the nursing bitch and her five leggy, lean pups, was a cosy room well away from the main kennel area, where mother and babies could enjoy a little peace. Linc was fascinated by them. They were like nothing he'd seen before. Even his father's wolfhounds had been more conventionally puppy-looking than these were.

Leaving the puppies behind Barney took Linc to see the food preparation room.

‘What do you feed your dogs?' Linc asked with interest, looking round at the clinically clean, stainless steel bowls and a gas cooker with what looked like a huge jam-making saucepan on top. He sniffed appreciatively. ‘It smells good.'

Barney grinned. ‘Beef chunks, natural gluten-free biscuit, seaweed and a vitamin supplement. I buy frozen beef and cook it up every day.'

‘Do they have anything special when they're racing?'

‘Pasta,' the trainer said. ‘Chock full of carbohydrates for energy.'

He completed the tour, speaking to each dog as he passed its kennel, his fondness for all of them showing on his face. He told his visitor of his plans for a room with heat lamps, and, further in the future, a swimming pool to assist with fitness and recuperation. As they left the kennel area, Linc found the idea of greyhound ownership had well and truly taken root.

‘So if I were to buy a dog, would you be willing to train it for me?' he asked, as Barney made him a much-needed cup of tea in the cramped kitchen of his cottage. It seemed the animals' accommodation had priority in this household. There had been no
mention of a Mrs Weston, and the house had all the hallmarks of a bachelor pad.

‘I'd love to.'

‘I spoke to Sam Menzies earlier and he mentioned a litter by a dog called Green Baize – if I have that right.'

‘Green Baize is a super dog,' Weston agreed. ‘His first season's pups are starting to win already. They won't be cheap but then it costs just as much to keep a slow dog in training as it does a champion. It's worth making that initial outlay.'

Linc nodded. It was the same with horses.

‘But actually, I can offer you an even better deal. I've got a couple of saplings – young, unraced dogs – that you might be interested in. They're also by Green Baize, out of my own bitch. I was going to keep them for myself but if you'd let me train it I might be prepared to sell you one. To be honest, I could do with the cash.'

‘That sounds very interesting. I'll bear that in mind.'

‘So you weren't tempted to go with Sam then?' Weston asked after a moment. ‘He's very successful.'

‘Yes. So he told me,' Linc said.

Weston laughed. ‘I take it you didn't tell him you were coming here.'

‘You
were
mentioned.'

‘I can imagine what was said. No, it's all right,' he said, shaking his head. ‘Sam and I will never see eye to eye. We're on different planets. You see, he's in it for the money, and I'm in it for the dogs. I'll probably never be as successful as the Sam Menzies of this world but I'll be content, and you can't ask for more than that, can you?'

By the time Linc left the Weston establishment, ten minutes later, he was a fair way towards deciding to invest in one of the Green Baize saplings Barney Weston had offered. The possibility of his being the mastermind behind the tack thefts hadn't survived beyond two minutes of Linc's meeting him.

When Linc arrived to ride Noddy just after eight on Thursday morning, he was surprised to find Ruth chatting to Sandy, who was sitting on the bonnet of a battered MG. Noddy was already saddled and waiting, as was Ruth's own horse, Magic; each with a blanket thrown over to keep their backs warm in the chill of the spring morning.

‘Hi there,' Linc said, sliding out of the Discovery. ‘What brings you here?'

‘Sandy's found you another half-cheek snaffle,' Ruth said, her creamy complexion tinged with a pink that indicated that this wasn't the only reason for his visit.

‘Good of you to bring it over,' Linc told the saddler.

‘Made a good excuse to come and chat up a beautiful lady,' Sandy told him frankly. ‘And you know me – I'm not one to miss an opportunity like that!'

‘I thought that might be it,' Linc said, laughing. ‘Well, I'm on a tight schedule, so I shall have to get going. Are you coming, Ruth? Or have you had second thoughts?'

‘Oh, no. Magic comes first,' she said. ‘Itinerant tradesmen are two a penny!'

Mounted and clattering down the road, Linc enquired after Abby, in whom there had apparently been no further change, and they chatted about everyday matters for a few minutes before he voiced a query that had been on his mind for a day or two.

‘Do you think, if I asked your sister out, that she would accept or slap my face?'

‘Aha!' Ruth said, smiling. ‘I wondered how long it would be before you overcame your preconceptions about models.'

‘I don't think I was the only one with preconceptions, but was it that obvious?' Linc asked ruefully.

‘In a word, yes! But I don't blame either of you, really.'

‘Thank you. That said, do I take it that I've got a chance?'

‘Better than evens, I'd say.'

‘Great. My next problem will be where to take her. I've not done much socialising since I've been back. Got any ideas?'

‘Well, Sandy was telling me about a pub in Shaftesbury that has live music on Friday and Saturday nights. In fact, he's taking me there tomorrow night,' she added, the pinkness again in evidence. ‘If you can wait till Saturday, I'll scout it out for you. Josie loves live bands.'

Linc's workload at Farthingscourt was eased a little by the return from holiday of his father's secretary, Mary Poe. She sought Linc out, shortly after, with the information that, for a trial period, she was to split her services between the Viscount, in the morning, and Linc in the afternoon. Within a
couple of days, he was wondering how he had ever managed without her.

‘Clive – your predecessor – had his own secretary,' Mary informed Linc as she returned his filing system to some sort of order. Fiftyish and invariably attired in the kind of tweed skirt and twin-set that first came to fashion around the time of her birth, she had a neat figure and wore her honey-blonde hair short. Living in the cosy stable cottage, as she had for the last twenty-five years, she had been heard to comment that Farthingscourt had been more faithful to her than any man. She steadfastly refused to discuss her private life and it was generally held that she had been badly let down in her youth and had never trusted again.

‘Well, I didn't want to admit defeat, but it was rapidly getting to the point where I was going to have to ask for help,' he confessed.

Mary shook her head and tutted in exasperation.

‘You're just as stubborn as your father,' she said. ‘You've taken on far more duties than Clive ever did, and he's let you get on with it. I think he was waiting for you to buckle under the strain, but you didn't, so I guess Round One goes to you. That should please you,' she added.

Linc found that it did, immensely.

‘Oh, by the way,' Mary said, after a moment. ‘Your father wants to know what's been going on between you and Jim Pepper. Apparently he's been heard making threats against you when he's had a few too many of an evening.'

‘I found him sizing up the JCB over in the machine yard, the other day. He shot his mouth off before he realised who I was,' Linc told her. ‘I think
he's more mouth than trousers, but I tipped off the police all the same.'

‘Sylvest— that is, your father had trouble with him a year ago,' Mary said. ‘He got quite nasty. I wouldn't take Pepper too lightly, if I were you.'

Asking Josie out had, in the event, proved easy.

On Friday Abby moved her fingers again and Linc arrived at the Vicarage on the Saturday morning to find the mood there light-hearted. Rebecca Hathaway was home and invited him into the kitchen where Ruth was giving a glowing report of her evening out with Sandy.

Linc walked in just in time to hear Josie exclaim, ‘Ooh, you jammy cow! That sounds brilliant!'

‘What does?' he asked.

‘Sandy took Roo to a pub in Shaftesbury last night to hear a live band,' Josie told him. ‘Sort of Irish folk slash rock, if there is such a thing.'

‘Sounds dire!' Hannah put in, but apart from earning a frown from her mother, she was ignored.

‘They're playing there again tonight,' Ruth said casually.

‘Why don't you go then?' Linc suggested to Josie, as if the idea had only just occurred to him. ‘I'll take you, if you like? I love live music. I'll even treat you to a meal.'

Josie had thanked him and accepted, and the only hitch in the arrangement had been that, due to the venue's popularity, the dining facilities were completely booked up. They decided to eat nearby and relocate to the pub later.

In the continued absence of the Morgan, Linc picked Josie up in the Discovery and they got to
Shaftesbury just before sunset that evening, twenty minutes or so early for their booking at the restaurant. The weather was unseasonably warm and although a light breeze rippled the silky fabric of Josie's hipster skirt, in the golden glow of the late sun she needed no more than a cardigan, and Linc carried his jacket over his arm. They filled the intervening time with a stroll along Park Walk; a broad paved area at the top end of the town, beside the abbey walls. The view from this point was magnificent, the ground falling away sharply toward the meadows in the bottom of the valley.

Just out of sight to their left, as they stood looking across to the Dorset hills in the distance, was the famous Gold Hill, a steep cobbled roadway that had once been used in a memorable bread commercial. Flanked on one side by a variety of tiny cottages, each half-a-door or more lower than its neighbour, and on the other by twenty feet or so of buttressed stone wall, holding back the hill, it was a glimpse of Old England and tourists flocked to see it in their droves.

Their chosen restaurant was family-run and unpretentious, and the food was wonderful. Linc and Josie swapped potted versions of their life stories over the meal, and the wine seemed to have a mellowing effect on Josie. She relaxed and her body language became less wary and defensive. Candles burned in wall-sconces, the soft light gleaming on her loosely knotted hair and accentuating the size and darkness of her eyes. Her combination of flawless skin, regular features and a certain unconscious grace left Linc in no doubt as to why she had become so sought after in the
modelling world. He couldn't believe he had ever thought Ruth the more attractive.

‘I don't think I'd better have any more wine tonight,' she confided as they left for the short walk to the pub, ‘or you might have to carry me back to the Land-Rover.'

‘No, I'd just prop you against a wall and leave you to sober up,' he joked.

‘You beast!' she exclaimed, punching his arm. ‘I believe you would too!'

‘Well, I'm a sportsman. I have to look after my back. Can't just go lugging drunken damsels all over the place.'

Josie laughed and made no complaint when he tucked her hand under his arm.

They could hear the music long before they reached the pub, and several other latecomers were making their way toward the sound. As they joined the short queue to go in, Linc heard someone call out, and turned to scan the road they had just crossed.

‘What's the matter?' Josie was watching him.

‘I could have sworn I heard someone call my name,' he said. ‘Silly really, because I can't imagine who would.'

‘Sign of a guilty conscience, perhaps,' Josie suggested as they moved slowly forward into the pub doorway.