'Oh. Do you think they'd mind me asking them a few questions?'
Josie stopped sweeping and looked at him. 'I don't suppose so, but what for? They've already spoken to the police.'
'I don't know, really. I just feel so frustrated that nothing seems to be happening. It doesn't look as though the police have turned anything up yet, or if they have, they're keeping it very quiet. Anyway, it can't do any harm, and it might just do some good, you never know.'
'Mmm, I suppose. I'll pop up to the house and get the number for you.'
When Linc visited Abby's friends in his lunch break they were happy to help but had little of any significance to tell him. The thieves had broken into their tackroom from the back, in the early hours of the morning. Out of sight of the house they had levered and broken several planks and then made off with three complete sets of tack and a number of fairly new winter rugs, including two straight off the horses' backs, leaving them unprotected and shivering in the cold night air.
'They hit the Jenkinses' place, just down the road, the same night,' Linc was told. 'They didn't get much there, though, 'cause Mrs Jenkins and two of the girls were away on a course – horses, tack and all.'
Given directions, Linc decided to call on the Jenkinses straight away and walked into their expensive-looking yard just as the farrier was leaving. The stables were built in a C-shape, separated from the house by a small turnout paddock, and had obviously been positioned so the horses were visible from the Jenkinses' home. Unfortunately this meant the tackroom door faced away from it, as did the open-fronted haystore next to it.
A slim, thirty-something woman in jeans and a guernsey, with blonde hair scraped back in a loose ponytail, was helping a teenage edition of herself saddle a breedy pony. Linc introduced himself and explained his mission.
'I see. Well, I'm afraid we can't be a lot of help,' the woman said, frowning slightly as she squinted into the April sunshine. 'Although we were broken into, there wasn't much to take. My two older daughters and myself were on a dressage course at Stockbridge and Cara had Dandy's tack in the house to clean while watching telly. She's not normally allowed to do that when I'm here but as luck would have it, it was fortunate that she did.'
'Do you know what time you were broken into? Did anyone see anything at all? Even the littlest detail might turn out to be important.'
'No, I'm sorry. The police were very thorough but they couldn't find anything. We think it was about one o'clock in the morning. Our neighbour heard a vehicle start up when she got up to let her dog out but didn't think anything of it until she heard what had happened. My husband was here with Cara and her brother but their bedrooms are at the front of the house and, as you see, it's a fair way off. We've actually got an alarm but somebody forgot to turn it on, it seems.'
Cara squirmed under her mother's accusing gaze and muttered something sulkily. It was obviously a sore point between them.
'Ah well, it was worth asking,' Linc said regretfully. 'It seems to be the same story everywhere.'
'Have you been robbed too?' Mrs Jenkins asked.
Linc told her about the Hathaways and Abby's plight, and her reaction was the usual mixture of shock and pity. She didn't know Abby well, she said, but as a mother she could imagine how Mrs Hathaway must feel.
Absent-mindedly, Linc promised to pass on her best wishes and took his leave, but instead of turning for home, he drove the Discovery a few yards down the road and pulled into a field gateway. He'd been watching Cara Jenkins as he was speaking to her mother, and could have sworn he'd surprised a flash of guilt in her eyes. It was so fleeting that he might have thought he'd imagined it, except that when she'd realised he was looking she'd flushed pink and ducked hastily down to tighten her pony's girth. He hadn't long to wait. Barely five minutes after he'd left the yard the gate opened and Cara rode out. For once, luck was on his side; she was alone. As she approached the Land-Rover he got out and stood waiting.
After the slightest of hesitations she walked the pony all the way up to him and pulled up, looking a little defiant and very unsure of herself.
'Have you got something you want to tell me, Cara?' Linc asked gently. 'You know something, don't you?'
'No! I can't tell you . . . Mother would kill me if she found out.'
'Is there something you didn't tell the police? Please, Cara. It's important.'
She fidgeted with her reins, unwilling to meet his eyes.
'I can't tell you,' she said again. 'It's not just me who'd get into trouble.'
'Do you know who did it?'
'No! It's not that . . .'
'Think of Abby Hathaway,' he said persuasively. 'She's about your age. She's in hospital now, in a coma. If you know something that could help catch these people, you must tell.'
Cara nudged her pony forward and Linc fell in alongside, half expecting her to push it into a trot and leave him behind. She didn't. Her face was twisted with the difficulty of her dilemma but finally she made up her mind.
'If I tell you, you can't tell anyone. Not a soul. Promise!'
'Cara, I can't promise. Not if it's important. The police should know.'
She shook her head vehemently. 'No! Promise or I won't tell you.' She shortened her reins with the obvious intention of kicking the pony on.
Linc put out a hand and caught the rein.
'All right. I promise. Nobody will ever know you told me.' He hoped the qualification would escape her notice and it seemed to, for after a short pause she began to talk.
'I'm seeing this boy, see. I can't tell you his name,' she stated with another defiant look at Linc. 'Only Mum doesn't like him 'cause he comes from the council estate down the road. She says they're a rough lot, but Ricky's different, honestly he is.'
'So he came round while she was away?' Linc hazarded. 'Did your dad know?'
'Of course not,' Cara said scornfully. 'He'd have told Mum, wouldn't he?'
Linc agreed that he probably would.
'Well, I met him down at the stables that night and we were sitting in the hayshed on top of the hay, talking and stuff. Only it was cold and wet, so I fetched a couple of blankets from the tackroom.'
'And turned the alarm off,' Linc put in.
'Yeah, well, I would have turned it on again after, only these men came and I forgot.'
'The men who broke in? Did you see them?'
Cara shook her head. 'We were up on the hay – right at the top – when we heard them and we kept really quiet. I'd locked the door again and they forced it open, that's what we heard, and then they started arguing when they found there wasn't much tack in there. We couldn't hear it all but it sounded like one of them said, "What the fuck are we going to tell old Barnaby?" That's the word he used,' she said defensively, colouring a little. 'You want to know exactly, right?'
Linc hid a smile. 'Yes, please.'
'Well, and the other one mumbled something and then the first one says, "Well, he'll have to know, won't he?" And the second one says, "Are you gonna ring him then? He was running a dog tonight, so he'll either be out celebrating or in a shitty mood." '
'Running a dog?' Linc asked quickly. 'Are you sure that's what he said?'
'Yeah, 'cause they'd come out of the tackroom by then and were standing down in front of where we were. We were terrified they'd shine a torch round or something but they didn't.'
'And he called him Barnaby?'
'Barnaby . . . Barney . . . something like that.' Cara frowned, trying to remember.
'Did they say anything else?'
'No. They moved away. One of them looked in all the stables and then they disappeared. We didn't see them go, it all just went quiet. But we waited quite a long while after, just in case. Then Ricky went home, so we didn't do anything, honest!'
'It's all the same to me, kid. It's none of my business, is it?'
'But you won't tell anyone – you promised!' she pleaded.
Linc shook his head. 'No, I won't tell.'
Casual enquiries amongst
people he came into contact with during the rest of the day turned up no useful information concerning local greyhound racing venues until Geoff Sykes remembered that Reagan, the head forester, had spoken once or twice of having a bet on 'the dogs'.
'He's working on the other side of Home Wood today, isn't he?' Linc said. 'I might drive out that way later and have a word with him.'
It was nearly knocking-off time when he drove down the track beside Home Wood in search of Reagan, but the forester was still there, clearing ditches with the aid of an ageing JCB. He switched the machine off when he saw Linc and jumped down from the cab as it rattled to blessed silence.
'Evening, sir.' He wiped his broad hands on bottle-green estate overalls and waited for Linc to state his business. Six foot or so tall and stockily built, Reagan had black, tightly curling hair above weather-beaten features, and a fuzz of the same on all the visible parts of his body. He lived in a cottage on the estate with his wife and a new baby girl.
'Evening, Jack. How's it going?' After five months, Linc knew most of the estate workers by their first names and preferred to address them that way even though his father frowned upon the practice.
'All right, I think, sir. Should be finished tomorrow, I reckon.'
'And then you'll do Piecroft Copse?'
'That's right.'
As usual, Reagan was civil but unforthcoming and, as usual, he inspired in Linc an irritation far greater than his words merited. There was something about the manner of the man; a kind of barely stifled cockiness that suggested resentment of their relative positions.
After a brief discussion about the schedule for the next few days, Linc asked the forester where the nearest greyhound track was and if he knew of any local trainers.
Reagan looked surprised. 'Don't know about trainers, but I go to Ledworth or Poole. Poole's bigger of course but Ledworth's nearer. There's one at Swindon, too.'
'When's the next meeting, do you know?'
'Ledworth, tomorrow night.' Reagan was practically bristling with curiosity but apparently couldn't bring himself to ask a direct question.
Linc enjoyed not telling him.
'Thanks for that. By the way, how's the baby doing?'
'She's well.'
'And your wife – Lynne, isn't it?'
'Mrs Reagan's fine, thank you.'
His tone clearly said that his private life was his own, so Linc left it at that.
When he visited the greyhound track at Ledworth it was just waking up in preparation for the evening's sport. The stadium was located on the edge of an out-of-town business park, and from the approach road the sloping roof of the stands looked like another warehouse or workshop unit. There was a vast, unfinished car parking area, as yet sparsely occupied, in which Linc left the Discovery, trudging across the puddled gravel to the turnstiles.
In the ticket office a fifty-something woman with improbably red hair and even redder nails was counting change into a cash tray. She looked up with a measure of suspicion as Linc approached, dropping the remainder of the bagged change into the till and closing the drawer with a snap.
'We're not open yet.'
'I know,' Linc told her, with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. 'I wanted to come before it got too busy because I'm looking for someone and I wondered if anyone here could help me.'
The heavily mascara'd eyes looked him up and down a time or two and apparently saw nothing threatening.
'Who'd you want?'
'Chap named Barnaby. I'm not sure if he's an owner or a trainer but the fella I was talking to at Poole the other night said to ask for him.'
'Barnaby who? Or is it Mr Barnaby?'
'I'm not sure. He just said Barnaby. I should have got more details but we'd just had a big win and I wasn't really thinking straight.' He fervently hoped she wouldn't press him for more information on his fictitious good fortune. In future, he would make a point of doing more thorough groundwork.
'And he's running dogs here tonight?'
Linc made a face. 'That's just it, I don't know. Pretty hopeless, isn't it?'
The woman's expression agreed with him. 'What d'you want him for?'
'I was told he might have a dog for sale.' He'd anticipated that question.
'Plenty of dogs for sale, luv,' the red-head told him. 'A dozen or so in here, for that matter.' She held up a glossy booklet depicting a running dog and bearing the title Ledworth Greyhound Stadium. She slipped a slimmer, typed section out of the centre to show him. 'Tonight's races. Gives the names of the owners and trainers, too.'
'Oh. Could I have a copy?'
'Two pounds fifty,' she stated uncompromisingly. 'You know, I'm not the best one to ask really. I get to know the punters doing this job; don't see much of the racing.'
Linc fished in his trouser pocket for loose change. 'Is there anyone else I could talk to, d'you think?'
'You can come back later, when we're open, but I can't let you in now, luv – sorry.'
Linc turned as footsteps sounded behind him. A leather-jacketed man was coming across from the car park. He looked hard at Linc then turned to the woman.
'Everything all right, Lily?' From his accent he was a Londoner.
'Yeah, I'm all right, luv. This gentleman is looking for someone, that's all. Here,' she said to Linc, 'Marty's the fella you want to ask. Works on the traps and knows everyone, don'tcha, luv?'
'That's right. Who you looking for?' Around forty, Marty had short dark hair, an earring and a hard, uncompromising expression.
'Someone called Barnaby. Friend of mine told me to look him up. Said he was well-known around the dog tracks . . .'
Without appearing to give the matter any thought, Marty pursed his lips and shook his head. 'Not this one. Who wants to know anyway?'
'I do,' Linc said equally unhelpfully.
Marty's face hardened still further. 'So what d'you want him for – this Barnaby chap?'
'If you don't know him, it won't interest you, will it?' Linc replied. He waved the schedule at Lily. 'Thanks for your help. I might try some of these numbers.'
As he walked back to the Land-Rover he fancied he could feel Marty's eyes boring into his back and a surreptitious glance as he turned to get in showed the man was indeed still watching him. Linc supposed the race card with its list of owners and trainers might be of some use but aside from that, his visit had patently been a waste of time. He hadn't time on this occasion to wait and attend the meeting itself, and even if he had, he couldn't see that he'd have a hope in hell of finding the elusive Barnaby in a sea of owners, trainers and spectators. He would just have to try another approach.
Between riding Noddy and estate work, Linc hadn't yet had a chance to look at the day's mail and a depressing mound of it awaited his attention when he returned to Farthingscourt. Rapidly sorting it into three piles for business, personal and bin, he found a brown manilla envelope from the Post Office and opened that first. Inside, two further envelopes were addressed to his box number: one a reply from another victim of the thieves, and the second a folded sheet of newspaper.
Puzzled, Linc spread it out on his desk. It was a complete page from the Sun and he saw immediately that a number of words had been picked out with a neon-yellow highlighter pen. From top left, working across and down, they spelt out a message.
Deadfall Page 7
