Time to Pay (3 page)

Gideon's eyes narrowed.

‘No, I don't. But you don't have to be an expert to know that wound wasn't made by a shotgun. I should imagine most country people would know the difference between a shotgun and a rifle, and we were way out of range for a shotgun.'

Another long look, a scribbled note, and the questions went on.

How well did Gideon know the Daniels family?

Not well. Only since he'd been working with the horse.

How did he come to be doing that?

He'd started working on Nero with his previous owners and Damien had wanted him to continue.

Was he having a relationship with Damien's sister?

No, he was not.

What about Damien's wife, Beth, wasn't it?

No. Not with Beth, either.

Was Gideon gay, perhaps?

Gideon looked heavenwards. No, he had a girlfriend, but she wasn't related, in any way, shape or form, to Damien Daniels.

‘Mr Blake, we have a job to do,' Coogan said then. ‘I appreciate that you've had an upsetting morning, and I'm sure you'd rather be anywhere but here, but if we can just keep this civilised, it'll be easier all round.'

The other officer cleared his throat.

‘I'm sorry if some of our questions seem intrusive, but it's important that we have a clear picture of the situation. Now, can I ask what your girlfriend's name is and where she lives?'

Gideon hesitated, unwilling to draw Eve into it, but he really didn't see that he had any choice.

‘Eve Kirkpatrick. She owns an art gallery in Wareham – the Arne Gallery,' he added, anticipating the next question. ‘She lives in a big Georgian house, I could take you there but I don't know the address.'

‘Not with you, then?'

‘No. I live near Blandford,' he pointed out, with tenuous patience. They already knew that. He'd given his details at least six times that afternoon. He was getting tired of the double questioning. It was as if they were trying to catch him out.

Coogan favoured him with another of his long looks and Gideon gave in.

‘She likes to be near the sea, and she
has
to be near the gallery. We have a casual relationship.'

There was a knock at the door and a head peered round.

‘Have you got a minute?' it asked, and Coogan nodded.

‘Please wait here, Mr Blake. We'll be back shortly.'

They weren't.

Half an hour passed before Gideon saw Coogan again, and then he brought with him a different sidekick.

This time it was clear that someone had dug out his file, for the questioning took on a new slant. Gideon had been involved in bringing a noted criminal to book, two years before, and although he couldn't really see what bearing those events could have on Damien's shooting, he went along with it, fervently hoping that he didn't contradict anything he'd told the police at that time. For his part, what he'd told them then had been on a need-to-know basis, and there'd been a fair amount he hadn't felt they needed to know.

After another twenty minutes' grilling, Coogan had got suddenly to his feet and gone out, taking his almost silent colleague with him.

So Gideon was left alone once more, and after three-quarters of an hour he was beginning to think that even Coogan's company would be preferable to the empty room and the constant muted, echoey voices he could hear through the door.

The door wasn't locked but his one foray into the world beyond it had resulted in a pleasant but firm request that he wait inside, and the cup of grim coffee. He'd been told that his presence was not compulsory, but supposed they could be fairly certain he wouldn't try to leave the building
dressed – as he was – in what was basically a paper romper suit.

The door opened once more and he glanced up.

‘Gideon Blake, isn't it?'

Not Coogan, this time, but his grey-suited senior colleague from earlier, and carrying what looked like a bundle of clothes.

‘That's right.'

‘DI Rockley. I'm sorry you've been stuck in this dismal place all afternoon, but we didn't have another room free. I expect you'll be glad to have these,' the man said, coming forward and placing them on the tabletop next to the coffee cup.

He wrinkled his nose. ‘Tell you what. Why don't I go and see if I can find something that's at least drinkable, while you change? Won't be a tick.'

By the time he returned, some five minutes later, Gideon had stripped off the paper suit and replaced it with the corduroys, cotton shirt and leather jacket that Giles had supplied from Gideon's own wardrobe. The difference, both physical and psychological, was immense.

Rockley placed two white china cups of coffee on the table and next to them an unopened packet of milk chocolate digestives, which he'd carried wedged under his arm.

‘I expect you'd rather have a Big Mac or something, but I'm afraid this is all I've got. Came from my private stash,' he admitted, with just a trace of undisguised regret. He had a been-there-and-seen-it-all kind of face, but without the overt cynicism this often engendered.

For the first time, Gideon realised how hungry he was, and it seemed Rockley was too, for he wasted no time in opening the packet, following the
Tear Here
instruction on the wrapper.

The inspector helped himself to two and pushed the packet towards Gideon.

‘They always put the pull strip about a third of the way down, so you have to eat at least four to stop them falling out, and seven or eight if you want to seal it again,' he complained, his eyes twinkling under a pair of impressively bushy brows. ‘At least, that's my excuse.'

Gideon took two, and thanked him, grateful to be talking to someone human. Coogan had all the warmth and character of the speaking clock.

‘Now, I realise you've had a pig of a day and you've probably been through all this at least half a dozen times already, but could you bear with me and go through it just once more?'

Sighing, Gideon nodded. He felt deeply, unutterably weary but one more time wasn't going to make a lot of difference, and the coffee and biscuits had bought Rockley quite a chunk of credit.

‘Thank you.' Rockley looked genuinely grateful. ‘And then we'll see about getting you home – or to wherever you want to go.'

THE POLICE RANGE
Rover dropped Gideon at the end of the driveway to Puddlestone Farm Stables. It had given him a lift on its way to follow up a report of stolen farm machinery some miles further on. The young PC at the wheel had been quite prepared to take him right up to the front door. He wasn't in any hurry, he said, but Gideon had preferred to walk, needing the time to organise his thoughts.

After the long hours of inactivity it felt good to be on the move again, stretching the kinks out of his legs and getting some fresh air into his lungs, and yet, given the choice, he would rather be going almost anywhere than to the farm, to face the unimaginable grief of Damien's family.

What on earth was he going to say to them if they wanted him to describe exactly what had happened? How do you tell a family that their loved one has been shot by a trained marksman; that when he'd fallen from his horse he'd broken his neck, and that the last time you saw
him, he'd been lying in the mud with a hole over his heart and a gory mess where his back should have been?

It had in all likelihood been a soft-nosed bullet, Rockley had told him when he'd asked. Specially modified to disintegrate upon entering the body, thus leaving the trademark small entry wound and large exit. Only the back protector had prevented the carnage being immediately obvious.

Gideon shook his head, pushing the memory away. For Damien's family, shooting probably conjured up the kind of sanitised image it had for him – until that morning. At least they would be spared the appalling reality.

At the end of the drive he hesitated and then turned into the stableyard, telling himself he was checking that the two horses had got back safely, but knowing he was only delaying the moment. The horses would have been back and settled long ago; he'd been assured of that.

It was half past five – nearly feeding time – but the usually busy yard was quiet. The door to the tack room was closed, as was the door to the cottage adjoining the yard, which the four Puddlestone stable lads shared. Heads appeared over many of the stable doors as Gideon walked through, and the tabby cat that lived in the hay store strolled out to greet him, but there didn't seem to be anyone about until a slim girl, with dyed-blonde hair scraped back in a ponytail, came out of one of the boxes carrying an empty haynet and a muck sack. She half-stopped when she saw him, and Gideon recognised her as one of the ‘lads', the mainstay of any racing yard.

‘Hi,' Gideon said, because he patently had to say something. ‘Anything I can do to help?'

The girl shook her head in silence and walked by, casting him a reproachful look from swollen eyes, as if he was somehow to blame for not having been shot instead. He knew from his previous visits that the staff were fiercely loyal to the yard and Gideon suspected that, even though he'd been married, at least two of the three female ‘lads' had fancied themselves in love with their dashingly handsome boss.

The girl disappeared into the hay store, pulling the door shut behind her with a gesture of finality and, after visiting the two horses, Gideon turned his steps reluctantly towards the grey stone farmhouse. This stood out of sight across the lane from the yard, with Damien's tiny cottage tucked against its flank, like a duckling against the mother duck.

Gideon's old dark green Land Rover stood where he'd left it that morning, next to the Daniels' more modern vehicles in front of the pretty walled garden, and he'd have given a lot to be able simply to get in it and drive away. He was little more than a stranger to most of the family, but having been with Damien when he died, he couldn't just leave without seeing them.

He knocked on the door and stood looking down at the worn stone of the step. The old house had doubtless weathered the tragedies of many families, but it was hard to imagine one as cruel and senseless as this.

After a few moments, the door opened to reveal Damien's sister, for which Gideon was grateful.
As Damien's assistant trainer, Matilda – or Tilly – Daniels was the family member he knew best. There was a strong family resemblance, Tilly having her brother's height, fair good looks and ready smile, though at the moment the smile was understandably absent and her grey-blue eyes were reddened with weeping.

‘Hi,' she said, miserably, then stepped back into the hallway. ‘Come in.'

‘Look, I don't want to intrude . . .'

‘No, please. It must have been awful for you, too. Are you all right?'

She sounded genuinely concerned and Gideon was touched.

‘I'm all right – apart from the shock. I'm sorry I couldn't come before, I've been at the police station all afternoon.'

‘I know. They said. I opened the door and there were two policemen standing there. When they told me, I couldn't take it in at first; it didn't seem real, you know? They were very kind, but then they started asking questions. It was as if they thought we knew something about it – about why it happened . . .'

Gideon looked at her with compassion, remembering some of the things Coogan had asked him.

‘I suppose they have to,' he said. Rockley had told him that around ninety per cent of murders were committed by the victim's family or close friends. However unsympathetic it might appear, it obviously made sense for the police to start their enquiries there. ‘Oh God, Tilly, I'm just so sorry . . .'

Tilly shook her head. ‘No, there was nothing
you could have done – they told us that. I just don't understand—' Her voice broke.

Gideon stepped towards her instinctively and suddenly she was in his arms, sobbing hard into his shirtfront. He rubbed her back, helplessly trying to give comfort. At thirty-five, she was, surprisingly, still single and it was probably at times like this that it mattered the most.

‘I don't understand, either. It all seems crazy,' he said.

‘But how can this have happened?' she asked between sobs. ‘I just can't believe it.'

‘I know,' he agreed. ‘I know.'

Over her shoulder, he saw his reflection in a mirror on the wall. Thick, weather-bleached, dark blond hair, grey-green eyes and fairly symmetrical features; it seemed somehow strange that the shocking events of the morning had left no visible sign on the face that looked back at him.

Tilly pulled back, wiping her nose on a handkerchief she was clutching, and then looked searchingly into his eyes. ‘Did he . . . I mean – was it quick? He didn't suffer, did he?'

Under that intense gaze, Gideon was glad to be able to answer with complete honesty. ‘No. It was instantaneous. He couldn't have felt a thing.'

Her eyes scanned his face for a moment longer, then she put her hand on his arm and said, ‘Thank you. We'd better go in; they'll wonder where I've got to. Oh, and Gideon . . . Mum's not coping too well. She's . . . well, you'll see; I just wanted to warn you. There's a policewoman here, too. She's a liaison officer or something. Anyway, she's
just here to help, apparently – if we need anything. She's very nice.'

The room they entered was the only room of the house that Gideon had been in before. It was the kitchen, and was, like many farmhouse kitchens, the hub of day-to-day life, a function reflected by its comfortably chaotic, lived-in look. A hotch-potch of units, old and new, a Rayburn and a huge Belfast sink; it was the kind of shabby-aged look that the editors of glossy magazines loved. Here he'd sat, just that morning, discussing Nero's progress and drinking Damien's over-strong tea from one of the stoneware mugs that were stored on hooks under the shelves of the big, cream-painted dresser.