Deadfall (49 page)

The interior of the stone building struck cool after the warmth of the sun, and Linc, in his wet clothes, shivered. Or at least, he blamed it on the cold. The bell on the stone floor sounded much louder in here, even over the rumbling of the mill machinery, insisting that someone do something, fast, before the stones were ruined. Pausing for an instant to let his eyes adjust to the reduced light, Linc moved on into the mill. Fagan was nowhere to be seen; quite possibly he had gone up to one of the other floors.

He made his way cautiously across to the
business end of the structure, where the huge axle-tree passed through the wall from the wheel outside, hoping that Fagan wasn't lurking in the shadows or behind one of the massive supporting timbers. In spite of his brave words to Josie, he was by no means sure the man wouldn't take the chance to attack him again if it presented itself.

Passing the huge wooden gear wheels, Linc located the smaller metal wheel that operated the sluice and began to turn it, becoming aware of a number of sore muscles as he did so. Gradually the rushing of the water on the other side of the wall lessened and the whole mechanism slowed as the waterwheel was robbed of its power source.

Finally, thankfully, the frantic ringing of the bell died away into silence, and as it did so Linc heard the sound of a vehicle drawing up on the asphalt of the car park.

His spirits lifted. He wondered who'd come. Given the circumstances, Manston would be the most welcome, but almost anyone would be a plus because they could be sent for help.

Linc started back towards the door. Somewhere above him a board creaked and there was the sound of a foot scuffing on the wooden planking.

Fagan. Up on the stone floor.

A shadow showed in the square of light on the flags as Crispin appeared in the doorway ahead.

‘Nikki's come,' he announced.

‘Nikki! What's
she
doing here?' Linc's brain raced through all the possibilities and couldn't find any particularly comforting ones. He fervently wished he'd had time to share his suspicions about Nikki with Josie.

‘I don't know. I expect she wondered what was going on. Anyway it's great because we can send her for help while we tackle this Fagan character.'

‘Yeah, well, he's gone upstairs so there's not much we
can
do about him other than keep an eye on the stairs until help arrives. He can't go anywhere from up there.'

Crispin looked disappointed. ‘I suppose so, but it seems a bit tame after everything that's happened.'

‘Believe me, tame is good where this guy's concerned!' Linc assured him, as he emerged thankfully into the sunlight. ‘You really don't want to be tangling with him!'

Following, Crispin shrugged, resignedly. ‘Okay. If you say so.'

Nikki was coming through the gate from the car park. ‘What's going on? I was wondering where you guys had got to. Oh my God, Josie! Are you okay? What happened?'

Josie didn't have a chance to answer because a window was flung open on the upper floor of the mill, and Fagan bellowed, ‘Nikki! I need to talk to you. Now!'

Linc was watching his sister-in-law and could virtually see the blood drain from her face. Fagan's car was still there for all to see, but maybe she'd assumed he was lying low until the coast was clear. She recovered her composure with impressive speed, though, and by the time the others had transferred their attention from the window above, she was wearing an expression of total bewilderment.

‘
Terry?
What on earth are you doing here?' Her tone held a perfectly judged mixture of surprise and disbelief, and Linc felt she almost deserved a round
of applause. It was a virtuoso performance.

Fagan was nowhere near as impressed. ‘Cut the crap, you little bitch! You know damn' well why I'm here.'

At Linc's feet, Tiger began a low, rumbling growl.

‘Nikki?' It was Crispin this time, and the puzzlement in
his
face wasn't simulated. ‘What's going on? Who is this man?'

She turned to him, her eyes wide and anxious. ‘Terry Fagan. He's my fitness coach from the leisure centre but . . .'

At this point, she was interrupted by Tiger who, apparently finding the sight of his enemy leaning out of the casement too much to bear, got to his feet and shot into the mill building at top speed, emitting a throaty snarl as he went.

With an oath, Fagan instantly disappeared from view, and seconds later those below could hear all hell let loose as the foolhardy dog launched his attack.

‘Shit!' Crispin exclaimed, and tore after him.

‘Crispin! No!' Linc paused just long enough to tell the girls to stay where they were, then – spurred on by fear for his brother – he charged through the doorway, across the flagstone floor and up the wooden stairs, taking them three at a time and cursing all the way.

When Crispin reached the top he paused. Peering past him, Linc could see why. Fagan had snatched up one of Saul's mill-bills and was standing no more than six feet away, wielding it with more energy than accuracy in an attempt to keep the dog at bay.

Tiger, snarling his hatred with unflagging
vehemence, was dodging the swinging implement without too much trouble but was, nevertheless, confined by this activity to the corner at the top of the stairs.

It was something of a stand-off, Crispin and Linc being unable to proceed for the same reason as Tiger. The mill-bill consisted of eighteen inches of polished ash handle culminating in an eleven-inch, double-ended chisel, made of high-carbon steel. Weighing in at some three and a half pounds, it was designed to chip stone and consequently capable of inflicting horrific injuries if turned against flesh and bone.

‘What do we do now?' In the heat of the moment, Crispin reverted to the habit of childhood and instinctively looked to his older brother for guidance.

Which was all very well, Linc thought wryly, if his older brother had had any ideas at all.

But he hadn't.

‘Call your fucking dog off!' Fagan shouted, sweating freely as he continued his frenzied defence.

Linc was by no means sure that Tiger would consent to being called off, and he had no intention of trying just at that moment because he had little confidence that either he or his brother would be as successful at dodging Fagan's swipes.

‘Call him off!'

‘Only if you put that thing down,' he yelled back.

‘Not fuckin' likely!'

Linc looked thoughtfully past Fagan to the business end of the mill, then touched Crispin on the shoulder.

‘Stay here and keep him busy,' he said into his
ear, and ran lightly back down the wooden stairs to the ground floor. At the base of the steps he almost ran into Nikki, who was on her way up.

‘Stay out of it!' he advised, but moved on without waiting to see if she did as he suggested.

His first port of call was past the gearing to the end of the building where the sluice control was. Ignoring the aching weariness of his arm muscles, he released the hook that kept the small wheel securely anchored, and began to turn it as fast as he could. He was rewarded after a few revolutions by the sound of water beginning to pour on to the waterwheel from the millrace.

Gradually at first, then swiftly gaining speed, the oaken axle-tree began to rotate, setting in motion the pit wheel, the great spur wheel and stone nut and, out of sight on the floor above, the crown wheel and the runner stone. Instantly the alarm bell was reactivated, but Linc hoped that even if Fagan noticed this, he would be too busy fending off Tiger to wonder what it portended. From the sound of it, the dog was still enthusiastically harrying him. Sandy's unwanted bequest had certainly earned his keep ten times over during the course of the afternoon.

With a silent apology to the absent millwright for causing yet more damage to his freshly dressed stones, Linc moved across to where the rope end of the sack hoist trailed on the floor. Looking up, he could see the double trapdoors through which thousands of sacks had disappeared over the years, on their way to the bin floor and the start of the milling process. Hoping he could hang centrally enough to pass through the opening without hitting
the sides, Linc wound his left arm round the rope and tugged on the cord that tightened the belt on the pulley two floors above. With no further ado, the sack hoist was operational and he began his unorthodox journey up through the mill.

It took only a second or two to reach the low ceiling and, as he approached, Linc curled his right arm up over his head to take the brunt of the impact with the double trapdoors. The wooden edges slid past his shoulders, waist and legs, before dropping back into place with a thud. As soon as they did so, Linc relinquished his hold and dropped down on top of them. The moving rope briefly snagged his loose sleeve and then he was free and standing less than ten feet behind Fagan.

The manoeuvre was one hundred per cent successful, as far as it went, but Linc was now faced with the problem of how to put his momentary advantage to the best use. There had been nothing on the ground floor that had instantly suggested itself to him as a weapon – at least, nothing that he had felt confident of transporting by way of the sack hoist – and now he had arrived on the stone floor, he found a similar dearth. True, there were two or three other mill-bills on the floor by the wall but he would have had to pass Fagan to reach them and that was inviting disaster.

Fagan knew he was there. The noise of the trapdoors closing had made him turn his head for a fraction of a second, and now he edged sideways to keep Linc in his peripheral vision whilst he continued to swing at the dog.

As he looked round for inspiration, Linc caught sight of a cluster of paint pots, brushes, rags and
bottles of turpentine that the workmen had left against the wall. Three smaller paintbrushes had been left standing in a jam jar of cloudy liquid, presumably for someone else to clean, and moving swiftly Linc scooped it up, tossing the brushes aside. Stepping forward, he shouted Fagan's name and as the big man turned, threw the turpentine in his face.

Not all the liquid left the jam jar but what did slosh out could not have been better aimed, hitting Fagan across the bridge of his nose. Immediately, the arm wielding the mill-bill dropped and his other hand clutched at his face as the spirit stung his eyes.

Tiger took advantage of the moment by leaping forward and fastening his teeth on the haft of the weapon, which was slipping from Fagan's fingers, and Crispin moved from the stairwell to Linc's side.

‘That was brilliant!' he exclaimed. ‘What now?'

Swearing blue murder, Fagan had backed up to the wooden tun, under which the millstones ground dryly on and the little bouncing bell jingled its rhythmic warning. Here he stood hunched over, rubbing at his painful eyes with the heels of both palms.

Tiger, deciding that an unmanned mill-bill wasn't worthy of his attentions, dropped it and turned to seek out enemy number one, at which point Linc took a firm hold of his collar and commanded him to sit. To his surprise, the dog did as he was told, contenting himself with addressing a low, menacing growl to Fagan. Linc picked up the mill-bill and rested it on a ledge.

‘Now I think we should hear what Mr Fagan has to say for himself,' he suggested.

In response to this, Fagan directed a stream of obscenity in his direction, and Linc shook his head, sighing.

‘Oh, well. I suppose we'll have to leave it to the police, unless . . .' He winked at Crispin. ‘Have you got your cigarette lighter on you?'

Crispin had never smoked, but he caught on, instantly.

‘Mmm, somewhere,' he said making a pretence of searching his pockets.

Fagan straightened up and squinted through watering eyes.

‘You wouldn't . . .' he said thickly, but his tone was tinged with doubt. His shirtfront was soaked in turps.

‘You can't believe anything he says, he's a criminal!' Nikki stepped forward from the stairwell, where she'd been standing half-hidden. ‘He'll try and blame me. The police are after him in London for assault. He'd say anything to cover himself.'

Linc turned to his sister-in-law with raised eyebrows.

‘Oh? Is that what you put in the reference you gave him for his job at the Silver Pine?'

‘Reference?' Nikki hedged unconvincingly, recognising too late the trap she'd made for herself.

‘Oh, come on, Nikki, you told me yourself. An old friend, up from London, looking for a job . . . You know, if you're going to lie, it pays to remember what you've said before. So what is he to you? Friend, lover, or just a tool to use in your vicious schemes and then discard?'

‘Linc, that's enough!' Crispin protested, stepping forward. ‘How dare you speak to her like that? Have
you lost your mind? Nikki's got nothing to do with this.'

‘I wish that were true, Cris, I really do,' Linc said sadly. ‘But I'm afraid she may well have everything to do with it. Ask her why she didn't pass on the message to Josie about Pierre cancelling the meeting.'

Crispin frowned. ‘Well, I expect she forgot. It's not surprising, she's been incredibly busy.'

‘Of course I forgot. Why else wouldn't I tell her?' Nikki put in.

‘Because you saw your chance to arrange another of your little
accidents
,' Linc countered. ‘Like the one at Coopers Down when Noddy fell with me. That was very clever. I'd probably never have found out if you hadn't left the pot of Vaseline in the pocket of your coat.'

‘What are you talking about?' Crispin demanded.

‘Nikki knows, don't you, Nikki? About the chilli powder that half-blinded Noddy, so he couldn't see the jumps.'

‘You're mad! Why would I want to harm you?'

‘Because I'm in line for the one thing you want more than any other: a title. And if I were not around to succeed to it, it would be Crispin's and yours. You've always been fascinated by the story of St John and how the title passed to his brother when he died young. Was that what gave you the idea? Or was it when I was attacked, and you realised how easily the title could have been yours?'