Deadfall (22 page)

‘If you ever want any help – I mean, if there's anything I can do – please let me know,' Sandy said. ‘I've got a lot of contacts. You get to know a hell of a lot of people in my line of work. I'd like to help.'

‘Thanks. I might take you up on that.' Linc was quite frankly surprised. Although good-natured, Sandy had always struck him as a fundamentally lazy person, who went through life taking the easy option wherever possible.

Sandy nodded, then put his arm round Ruth's shoulders and gave them a squeeze.

‘Still, the main thing is, she's getting better,' he said. ‘And I haven't heard of any raids lately, so perhaps the bastards have moved on. Let's talk about something else, shall we?'

Josie reappeared with plates full of goodies, and the evening progressed in the way of many impromptu outdoor get-togethers, into a lazy haze of food, wine, flickering patio lights and pleasant, rambling conversation, which no one would afterwards recall.

Sandy left just after midnight and Linc shortly after, walked to his car by Josie with her arm through his and her head on his shoulder. Whether it was the wine or not, Linc didn't know, but it seemed the most natural thing in the world to pull her close and kiss her goodnight in a fashion that had nothing in common with the polite, social kisses they had so far exchanged.

When he reluctantly drew away from her and got into the Land-Rover for the homeward journey, Linc felt as though a major piece of his world had just slotted into place.

‘Are you all right to drive?' she asked, putting a hand through the open window and touching his cheek.

‘Unless there was any hidden alcohol in that fruit punch,' he said. ‘I didn't have much wine, though to be honest I feel away with the fairies! It's your fault. If I drive off the road, I'll blame you!'

First thing Monday morning Linc received a visit from Rockley. He was in his office sifting through the day's mail when Mary showed the inspector in, offered coffee, and discreetly withdrew. Linc rose
from his chair, shook hands and waved the detective into the one opposite, which was the twin of his own and often occupied by Mary.

‘Mmm. Comfy chair,' Rockley commented as he settled into it.

‘Bad enough being stuck in here for hours. No sense being uncomfortable as well,' Linc observed, sitting back down. ‘What can I do for you?'

‘I just came to update you on our investigations, really,' he said, running his hands approvingly along the leather-upholstered armrests. ‘Where did you get these? I wouldn't mind one myself.'

‘You'd have to ask Mary. They were here when I took over. So, what have you found out?'

‘Nothing much,' the DI admitted. ‘The Greyhound Racing Board was very helpful, but none of the Barneys or Barnabys on their records fit the bill, as far as we can determine.'

‘And you came all the way out here to tell me that?'

‘Well, actually, the station's being honoured by a visit from some of the top brass this morning, and as it isn't absolutely essential that I be there, I thought I'd make myself scarce.'

‘Ah,' Linc said, amused. ‘So, what's your next step?'

‘Well, it would be a great help if you'd tell me where you got your information . . .'

‘Sorry.'

‘We can be discreet too, you know.'

‘I gave my word,' Linc stated firmly.

A light tap on the door, and Mary came in bearing a tray with two mugs of coffee and a plate of chocolate digestives.

Rockley sucked breath in through his teeth and shook his head.

‘Got to think of my waistline,' he protested, but thinking of it didn't appear to inhibit him for long. By the time the door had clicked shut behind Mary, he had helped himself to a biscuit and was dunking it in his coffee.

After a necessary pause, Rockley picked up where he'd left off. ‘Ah, but kids don't remember that kind of thing,' he said, watching Linc closely.

Linc checked his instinctive response. The man was clever.

‘I didn't say it was a child,' he responded mildly. ‘You'll have to try harder than that.'

‘Can't blame me for trying. So what about you? Any more threats?'

‘No. I said I'd tell you if there were.'

‘So you did.' Rockley helped himself to a second digestive. ‘But you have to admit you can be a little – how shall I put it? –
selective
with your reports.'

He offered the plate of biscuits but Linc shook his head.

‘Don't tell me you're watching your weight,' Rockley said disgustedly.

‘No. I just don't like them.'

‘Oh.' He looked as if the idea was unthinkable. ‘Then you've finally taken my advice and decided to leave things to us? No more snooping round the greyhound tracks?'

‘Well, I did go racing the other night,' Linc confessed. ‘In my capacity as a prospective owner. But I obviously didn't upset anyone, because there's been no comeback.'

‘You know,' Rockley said, thoughtfully dunking
his third biscuit in what remained of his coffee, ‘you're just as stubborn as your father.'

‘Let's leave my father out of it, shall we?' Linc suggested. ‘Do you need more coffee?'

‘Giving you a hard time, is he?'

Linc drained his own mug and sat back, saying nothing.

‘We've had no luck in tracing any of the youths who attacked you last week,' Rockley went on after a moment. ‘We sent an officer there on Saturday night in the hope of finding some of the same people out and about. But although one or two people remembered seeing a group of youngsters at around that time, none of them witnessed the assault, and none was able to put names to any of the faces.'

‘And who can blame them?' Linc remarked.

Rockley shrugged. ‘Yeah, I guess, but it makes my job nigh on impossible at times.'

He polished off a fourth digestive, dry, and with a long regretful look at the remainder, said he supposed he'd better be going, and stood up.

Linc saw him out, resisting an impulse to offer him the rest of the biscuits in a ‘doggy bag'.

After a morning spent in the office, dealing with general administration, Linc was glad to escape to the mill after lunch. His joy was tempered somewhat by his father's decision to accompany him; his mood hadn't noticeably improved overnight.

Long discussions with Saul, the millwright, a detailed inspection of the work in hand, and the news that the restoration was, so far, within schedule and budget, seemed to mollify him,
however, and by the end of the session Linc seemed to be back in his good books.

The millpond, now completely drained and scraped clear of silt and vegetation, looked vast and somehow degraded, a line on the stonework showing where the water normally reached. Work on shoring up its banks was well under way and Linc looked forward to the day when it could be refilled, and the ducks and swans return.

The renovation of the roof of the mill building was now well underway, with half of it under bright blue plastic sheeting and the other half sporting neat rows of tiles. The weather, to date, had been kind to them. Over three storeys up, four men in shorts, hard hats and not much else, moved easily across the timbers, apparently oblivious to the danger.

The millwright was only there part-time in an advisory capacity to oversee the work on the mill furniture and machinery, and he departed on other business when the inspection was over.

Linc and his father left shortly after; Linc driving back to the house to drop Sylvester off, then going on to South Lodge Farm to meet the insurance assessor. On the way back, after stopping for a cup of tea in the farmhouse with Phil and Cindy Sutton, he happened to see Jack Reagan tying up beans in the garden of his cottage, and drew to a halt alongside.

It had only just gone half-past four, and as he got out of the Land-Rover he smiled to himself, imagining the forester swearing under his breath at having been caught out knocking off early. Personally, he didn't mind the odd liberty being taken with working hours, especially among the long-serving staff, although he knew his father was
far less tolerant. ‘Give them five minutes – they'll take an hour,' he'd said once, when the subject arose. But Linc knew for a fact that Reagan often worked unpaid overtime to get a job finished, and was prepared to trust him.

The forester met him at the gate, wiping grubby hands on his jeans and looking slightly wary.

‘Sir?'

‘Hello, Jack. Your garden looks nice.'

‘Thank you.' He didn't try to justify his early finish, and Linc thought better of him for it.

‘I just wondered if you'd seen anything of Pepper since Friday night. Is he still hanging around the villages?'

‘I don't know, sir. I don't go out much of an evening these days, since the baby was born.'

Linc hesitated. How to mention what Nikki had seen without it sounding like an accusation? He put an undertone of disappointment in his voice. ‘Oh, you wouldn't know which pub he usually frequents, then? I'd like to keep an eye on him.'

Reagan pursed his lips. ‘I did see him in The Wheatsheaf at lunchtime a week or so ago, but when he saw me come in, he drank up and left.'

‘You had lunch there?' Linc probed.

‘Yes. I was working over that way, and Lynne had gone to visit her mother.'

He looked and sounded slightly resentful at being questioned, and Linc couldn't really blame him.

‘Is the food good there? I was thinking of taking a friend out for a meal.'

‘Their steak and ale pie is the best I've ever had,' the forester said, relaxing. ‘Er, Lynne's just put the kettle on. Would you like a cup of tea?'

Having recently consumed two cups at South Lodge Farm, Linc declined and could almost see the shutters come down on Reagan's face once more. He explained, but it seemed the damage was done; the forester's overture of friendship had been, in his eyes at least, rebuffed, and Linc had the feeling that it would be a long time before it was offered again.

As he got back into the car he was conscious of a faint disappointment. He had hoped Reagan would come clean about his meeting with Pepper, but he obviously hadn't. Nikki had seen them leave The Wheatsheaf together and yet Reagan claimed that Pepper left the pub as soon as he arrived. It was understandable, Linc supposed, that the forester should be wary of admitting that they'd talked but it made Linc even more suspicious of what they had talked about.

He shrugged off the negative thoughts and looked forward to his evening. He and Josie had spoken on the phone earlier in the day and arranged to go out for a meal, dropping in to see Abby on the way. But first, Linc had another appointment. He'd called Barney Weston earlier in the day to say that he'd decided to take him up on the offer of one of the Green Baize saplings and the trainer had suggested he come over and choose which one he wanted.

Linc was surprised at the degree of excited anticipation he felt at the prospect, which had, after all, started out as a whim. Apart from Rockley, he had told no one about his venture into ownership, and decided to keep it that way for the time being.

One was black and one fawn, both male, and
according to Barney they were equally well put-together from the running point of view. In the end, Linc went on instinct for the fawn one, backing it up with the knowledge that Abby seemed drawn to feisty animals, and of the two, this seemed slightly more forward.

‘I had a name in mind,' he told Barney. ‘Are they already named or can I choose?'

‘No. I usually register the names just before they start their trials.'

‘So, are there any rules, or can I choose what I like?'

‘There are rules, of course, but the most difficult thing is finding something not already in use. It's best to have several choices. What had you in mind?'

He noted Linc's suggestions, promising to submit them in the near future, and after refusing yet another cup of tea, Linc drove back towards the Vicarage to pick up Josie.

For all the doctors' enthusiasm, Abby didn't look any different to Linc than on his last visit. If anything, he thought, her face seemed a little thinner, the dark circles under her eyes more pronounced. There had been no movement from her for a couple of days now and there was no sign that she was aware of their presence, but even so he felt an irrational sense of guilt that he was there with Josie. After ten minutes or so, he told her he would wait downstairs, and after leaning forward to whisper a few rallying words in Abby's ear, dropped a kiss on her brow and left the room. As he shut the door he saw Josie lift her sister's hand to her lips,
and the expression in her eyes made his throat ache in sympathy.

Business took Linc into Blandford the next morning and, having lost her car to her mother for the morning, Nikki begged a lift.

‘Crispin won't lend me his,' she complained as she settled into the leather upholstery of the Morgan, recently returned from the restorers.

‘I'm not surprised,' Linc commented with amusement. Crispin's second-hand Porsche was the apple of his eye and, devoted though he was to his wife, it didn't blind him to the fact that her driving was somewhat erratic at the best of times, and downright awful at others. It was not unknown for her passenger to have to grab the wheel if she happened to be distracted by something or someone at the side of the road. She tended to drive where she was looking, instead of the other way round.

Among other things, Linc's business in Blandford involved a meeting with his bank manager about further funding for the mill project, which was completed in half the time he'd expected. He had just emerged on to the high street and was regretting having told Nikki he'd meet her in an hour and a half when he was hailed by a friendly voice. He turned to see a corpulent, suited man in his late-fifties, and recognised Mike Farquharson, his father's wine merchant.

‘Hello, Mike. How are you?'