Time to Pay (29 page)

Gideon shook his head, helplessly. ‘I don't know. Something just doesn't feel right here.'

‘Well, you're the only one who thinks so,' Eve exclaimed with a touch of impatience. ‘You say you're worried about Tilly and her family finding out about Damien – but who's going to tell them? Only you.' She punctuated the last word by prodding him in the chest with her forefinger, then eased out of his grasp and went across to her huge American-style fridge for butter and eggs.

Frowning, Gideon leaned on the marble worktop and thought about it.

‘You're right, of course,' he said eventually. ‘I've lost track of what's important. In fact, I'm not really sure how all this got started, any more.'

Eve broke eggs into a bowl.

‘OK, I think I was to blame for that,' she admitted. ‘I think I may have been the one who suggested you ring the numbers, but it was only an off-the-cuff remark. I didn't really expect you to do it, and I certainly never expected any of this to happen. Can you put some plates to warm?'

‘I think I had some vague idea that it might have something to do with the murder,' Gideon said, switching the oven on. ‘And, come to that, it still might. What if Tetley found out who was blackmailing him and decided to put a stop to it, once and for all?'

‘I suppose it's possible. But does the motive really matter? If the police are happy with the one they've got, why not leave it at that?'

‘Well, because of yesterday,' Gideon said. ‘
That
can't have been Tetley because he's locked up, so it must have been one of the others.'

The atmosphere at Puddlestone Farm was so much lighter when Gideon visited, later that morning, that the wisdom of Eve's logic was brought home to him. The arrest of Adam Tetley had clearly brought with it some form of closure and the grieving process had moved on a stage. Even Damien's mother seemed to have begun to adjust to her loss.

‘We're having the kitchen done,' Tilly told Gideon when he cocked an inquisitive eye at the three vans that were drawn up in front of the farmhouse. ‘It was all put in motion months ago, and they were due to start the week that – well, you know. So then, of course, it was put on hold indefinitely. Mummy didn't really seem interested until a few days ago, and then suddenly, she must have it, right now! I must say the fitters have been really good; I just hope someone somewhere hasn't been abandoned mid-job.'

‘It's good that she's taking an interest,' Gideon said. ‘Even if it's only to take her mind off things. It'll all help. So, where's this young horse of yours?'

‘Luigi,' Tilly said, leading the way into the yard. ‘He only arrived a couple of days ago. One of my owners bought him at a sale in Ireland, but he's got a real problem with having his hind feet touched. He panics and lashes out as soon as you get down below his hock. He caught Melanie the first evening and broke a bone in her hand.'

‘Oh dear. And how old is he?'

‘Just five.'

‘I wonder if he's got caught in wire at some point. Or it could be as simple as having fidgeted
as a baby and someone having walloped him for it. Let's have a look at him.'

Luigi turned out to be a light-framed brown gelding with an intense, slightly anxious air about him. He eyed Gideon and Tilly when they entered his stable but accepted a Polo mint, and made no fuss about being caught. He was watchful but calm as Gideon patted his glossy neck and ran a hand down his shoulder and front legs. However, as soon as Gideon moved to his hindquarters and his hand approached the horse's lower hind leg, Luigi stopped chewing his mint and became as taut as a bowstring.

Gideon straightened up with an effort.

‘There's no sense in pushing it. I can see how worried he is.'

‘What do you suggest we do?' Tilly asked. ‘We haven't even been able to pick his feet out properly yet. It's a real battle.'

‘There is something we could try. I saw it done at a demo once, and it's worked several times since . . . I shall need a
broom handle, without the head, a glove, some sawdust and some string.'

‘I think I can manage that. What kind of glove?'

‘Oh, anything'll do. But one you're not using every day, because this may take a while.'

Ten minutes later, with a riding glove stuffed full of sawdust and tied tightly to the end of the pole, Tilly and Gideon led Luigi into Puddlestone Farm's covered schooling area. Holding a long lead rein in one hand, Gideon used the other to guide the pole like an extended arm and gently stroke the gelding all over.

At first the horse sidled away, distrustful of the broom handle alongside him, but gradually he relaxed and stood still, appearing to enjoy the sensation of the glove rubbing his satiny coat. This peaceful status quo lasted right up to the point when Gideon ventured to slide the false hand over the animal's hock joint and on down the leg.

Luigi exploded.

He lashed out with the leg that had been touched, and then leapt in the air and kicked out with both hind feet together before plunging forward and circling Gideon, who loosely held the end of the rein and waited for him to calm down.

When he slowed to a halt and faced Gideon warily, Gideon moved closer, spoke calmly to him and began the process again. The result was more or less the same, as it was the third, fourth and fifth times, but on the sixth attempt, although Luigi snatched his foot up, he didn't kick out.

Gideon rested the pole down and patted the horse's sweaty neck, murmuring words of praise. After a moment, he tried again. Once more the foot was lifted but not kicked, and he decided to end the session there.

‘That's a really clever idea!' Tilly said, coming forward from her viewing position by the wall.

‘Yeah, well, as I said, I can't claim the credit for it, but it's worked every time so far. I think, because there's no danger, you relax and the horse picks up on that. After a while he realises that nothing terrible is actually happening and the only one getting worked up is himself, and then
he
starts to relax as well.'

‘It's not rocket science, is it? So why didn't I think of it, instead of getting stressed and making the animal ten times worse?'

‘Like most things, it's easy when you know how,' Gideon said, rubbing Luigi behind the ears. The brown horse was totally relaxed now, his head low and eyes half closed.

Tilly watched him, smiling.

‘There you go again, making my highly strung racehorses look like beach donkeys,' she said. ‘I haven't seen him look so chilled-out since he got here.'

‘I expect you need them to be a bit fired up to run their best, so maybe it's a good thing you don't have this effect on them.'

‘Come on. Let's put the lad away and go and have a coffee. I've got quite cold standing watching. Are you OK?' she added, as Gideon went to pick up the glove pole and found that his muscles had stiffened again.

‘Yeah. Just took some unaccustomed exercise yesterday, and I'm paying for it this morning,' he said, glad that he'd taken the time to call in at the Gatehouse and change into a cream-coloured long-sleeved tee shirt. This, whilst not an immensely practical colour for working with horses, effectively disguised the bandages on his wrists.

‘Come into the cottage,' Tilly said as she and Gideon headed out of the yard. ‘Mum's kitchen is in complete chaos with the builders. But mind your head, people were smaller when this place was built!'

Gideon did indeed have to duck to get under
the stone lintel in the cottage doorway. There was no hall, the front door leading straight into the lounge, where the beamed ceiling was also too low to allow him to straighten up.

‘Oh, dear. You'd better come into the kitchen and sit down,' Tilly said, laughing. ‘Dad has that problem, too.'

Damien's widow, Beth, was emptying the dishwasher when they went in, and she looked up with a smile.

‘The kettle's on; I saw you coming,' she said.

Gideon thought she looked pale.

‘Where's Freddy today?' he asked, to make conversation.

‘Out somewhere with his granddad. He loves the farm. He's going to hate it when he has to go to school.'

‘Freddy's going to have a little brother,' Tilly announced, taking a jar of instant coffee from the cupboard.

‘You're pregnant, Beth? Congratulations!' Gideon said. ‘I bet he's excited about that.'

‘He keeps asking when we're going to get the baby,' Beth replied. ‘As if we just have to pop out to the shops and buy one. I wish!'

‘The other day he asked if you could get two, didn't he?' Tilly said, and Beth nodded, smiling.

‘Buy one get one free at Mothercare,' Gideon suggested. ‘Or a free baby coupon for every ten pounds spent at the supermarket.'

They all laughed, and no mention was made of the tragedy of a child who would never know his father, and a father who'd died unaware.

As they chatted over coffee, Gideon's eye was
caught by three photographs on the middle shelf of the pine dresser opposite him. One was of a boy jumping a breedy pony over a white gate; the second, of a group of fifteen or twenty young men posing for the camera in front of a stately home – some kind of team photo, Gideon supposed; and the third was of a much younger Damien, standing with his arm round a fair-haired boy of perhaps fifteen or sixteen, with a wayward fringe and a shy smile.

‘Damien and Marcus,' Tilly said, seeing his interest.

‘I wondered if it was. Doesn't Marcus look like Freddy?'

‘Freddy's the image of him,' she agreed. ‘That was taken the day before he went off to the Olympics training camp. He was terribly nervous but determined to go through with it. Damien kept telling him he'd be OK, and I think he'd have done anything to earn his big brother's respect. I don't think Damien ever really forgave himself when . . . well, you know.'

‘He looks very young.'

‘Actually, he was almost eighteen, though I admit he doesn't look it. He never had half the confidence that Damien had; he was much more sensitive. If only we'd known just
how
sensitive . . .'

‘And the group picture?' Gideon asked.

‘Taken at the camp. They held it at Ponsonby Castle; lovely place. And the one on the end is Marcus, competing at the Junior Championships.'

‘How did he get into pentathlon? It's not a sport you hear of every day, is it? In fact, usually not from one Olympics to the next.'

‘No. His school was very much into it,' Tilly said. ‘You know how some schools are into rowing or rugby? Well, his was into pentathlon. In fact, they said three out of the four Olympic team members were old boys of his school, that year. Marcus could already ride and he was a very good runner and swimmer; no doubt the masters were rubbing their hands in glee when he came along. He really was very good; tipped for the team. But to be honest, I always wondered if he had enough competitive spirit to make the very top. I guess we'll never know.'

Gideon would have liked to hear more about Marcus, as it had been him that both Bentley and Stephenson had mentioned, but he had no wish to delve into what had to be very painful memories for Tilly.

Beth changed the subject, asking about their progress with Luigi, and the moment passed.

By the time Gideon drove away from Puddlestone Farm, he was in two minds about whether to ring Angie Bowen and excuse himself from helping out with her farrier-phobic horse. His head was aching fiercely once again and he felt dog-tired, but he hated to let her down.

Maybe the horse would behave itself and the whole business would be over in half an hour or so, he thought with little optimism, as he painfully hauled the Land Rover's steering wheel round to send the vehicle in the direction of the Radcliffe Trust stables. Power-assisted steering had never seemed like such a good idea as it did now.

At first it appeared that he might be in luck.
The chestnut mare offered no objections to the farrier paring her hooves and tidying them up with the rasp in readiness to fit the shoes. She even stood quietly while the man tapped her feet with the hammer.

Angie looked pleased.

‘Seems pretty quiet,' the farrier grunted, fishing a glowing shoe from the white-hot heart of the mobile forge in the back of his van, and doing a little preparatory shaping on the anvil.

From that point onward, things went sharply downhill. From the moment the farrier approached with the hot shoe the mare began to look anxious, but the problem came when he pressed the metal to her hoof. With a sizzle, a cloud of acrid smoke began to billow through and around his arms and the chestnut stood straight up on her hind legs, pulling her foreleg free of the farrier's grasp and almost ripping the lead rein out of Gideon's hands.

The farrier swore and dodged out from under the flailing hooves, and the horse touched down and rose again, her eyes white-rimmed and fearful. She repeated the action three or four times more in quick succession, rising a little less high each time, until Gideon was able to step forward and put his hand on her neck, soothing her with his voice.

The chestnut threw up her head but after a tense, twitchy moment, she stood still, nostrils flaring.

‘Sorry, mate,' Gideon said quietly to the farrier, who retrieved the shoe with a pair of tongs and threw it back into the forge. ‘Caught me napping.'

‘Couldn't have stopped her, anyway,' the man said. ‘They wanna stand up – they stand up.'

‘Should think she must have got burned at some time, accidentally,' Angie said. ‘Never had one react quite that badly before.'

‘What d'you wanna do?' the farrier asked.

‘Gideon?'

Gideon wanted nothing so much as to take a good, strong painkiller and lie down in a darkened room. The violence of the chestnut's protest had done his shoulders and headache no favours at all.