Deadfall

by Lyndon Stacey

  'So, what about your advert, Sherlock?' she asked then, brightly. 'Did you get much feedback?'

  'Very little,' he admitted. 'One woman who doesn't answer her phone and a warning to mind my own business.'

  Josie looked at him, sharply. 'Seriously? Someone warned you off?'

  Linc nodded. 'It doesn't help, though. They didn't give anything away.'

  'And you're going to leave it now, I hope?'

  'Well, I might have to, I'm not making a lot of progress. But there are a couple of things I want to look into first.'

  'I thought you'd got over that guilt trip thing. Remember what you said to me?'

  'Yeah, I am over it. But I can't just leave it if there's a chance I can uncover something.'

  Josie looked doubtful. 'Well, for goodness' sake, don't get yourself into trouble. One in hospital is bad enough.'

  Linc looked at his watch.

  'I think we'd better be turning back now. I've got a meeting with my father at half-past nine.'

  Josie was successfully diverted. 'You have to have an appointment to see your own father? That's archaic!'

  'He's a busy man,' Linc pointed out. 'And he's my boss – sort of. Anyway, it's not really an appointment. It's just the regular Monday morning briefing on the business of the week. This week we're de-sludging the millpond.'

  As they rode back he found himself telling her all about his plans for the mill and its produce.

  'How wonderful! I find watermills fascinating, and windmills too. They're so – well – elemental, I suppose. No electricity and you can see exactly how they work. I'd love to come and see it when it's up and going. Is it going to be open to the public?'

  Linc was amused. 'That's the plan, but you don't have to wait till then. Come and see it any time. It's a bit sad at the moment, of course, because we're in the middle of everything. But you're welcome if you want to see the transformation. Just give me a call.'

  Mill business took up all the morning and Linc was finishing a late sandwich lunch in his office in the old stables when his phone rang.

  It was the forester.

  'Sir, one of the new lads thinks he saw someone nosing around by the machine store. I'm on my way over there. Do you want me to call the police?'

  'No, that's all right, Jack. I was coming out to see you so I'll swing by there myself and meet you.'

  He rang off and, leaving Geoff Sykes to go and oversee operations at the mill, drove out of the yard, round the back of the house and out towards Home Farm, on the edge of which the machine store was situated. Jack Reagan, coming from Piecroft Copse, had only half the distance to travel and his four-wheel drive was already parked outside. Linc drove on and drew up in the yard alongside the huge corrugated-iron building that housed most of the estate's larger machinery, but Reagan was nowhere to be seen.

  At first it looked as though whoever had been seen there had gone. Linc walked right round the store, then selecting a key from a bunch that hung from his belt, he unlocked and opened the sliding door to check inside. All appeared to be quiet and nothing was obviously disturbed. He came out and refastened the padlock, turning round just in time to see two rough-looking men taking a close look at a digger that was parked on the other side of the yard. One, in his late-teens or early-twenties, wore torn denim jeans and a checked shirt, and was on the step of the machine, peering into the cab. The other was an older man, wearing a grubby blue boiler suit. Both had dark, greasy hair and stubble.

  'Good afternoon,' Linc called out, going towards them. 'Can I do something for you?'

  The older man looked him up and down and shook his head, apparently finding nothing threatening in Linc's lean five foot eleven, dressed as it was in jeans and an Aran sweater.

  'Nah, I don't think so,' he replied.

  'Then I think you'd better leave,' Linc told him. 'This is private property.'

  'We gotta right to roam,' the elder man retorted. 'It's the law.'

  'Not with one of our JCBs, you haven't.'

  'We wasn't gonna touch it. You can't prove we were.'

  'Probably not,' Linc agreed. 'But nevertheless, I think you should leave.'

  'Says who?'

  With a sinking heart Linc realised that the man was spoiling for a quarrel no matter what he said. He wondered where the hell Reagan had got to.

  'Come on, Dad,' the younger man said, tugging at the sleeve of the other man's boiler suit. 'Leave it.'

  Dad shook off the hand.

  'Says who?' he repeated coming closer.

  Linc could smell drink on his breath and guessed he'd spent lunchtime tanking up at the local pub.

  'I say so,' he observed. 'This is private land and, regardless of rights of way, when you interfere with estate property it becomes an offence.'

  'So, you're one of the la-di-dah Viscount's busy little drones? Scurrying round to do his bidding, earning yourself brownie points and a pat on the back, and making his fat purse even fatter.'

  'And what if I am?'

  'You make me sick! Tugging your forelock to that rich bastard in his palace!'

  'Dad, come on. You're not doing no good.' The son was beginning to get agitated. He put his hand out again but his father lashed out, catching him in the chest and sending him staggering backwards. This time he stayed back, plainly giving up.

  The older man advanced to within a foot or so of Linc, who restrained an impulse to look round for Reagan.

  'You can tell the la-di-dah Viscount,' the man said, wagging a stumpy finger under Linc's nose. 'You can tell him I didn't need his fucking job!'

  'In fact you're doing just fine without it,' Linc said, but his irony was lost on the man.

  'Too bloody right!'

  'I expect there's a good living to be had by stealing farm machinery.'

  'Dad! We should go!'

  The older man's eyes narrowed. 'Who are you?' he asked, suspicious at last.

  'I'm the la-di-dah Viscount's son,' Linc told him. 'And, by the way, our machines are all fitted with tracking devices. So if they go walkabout, we know exactly where they've gone.'

  For a moment he thought the man was going to take a swing at him but then he stepped back a pace or two, hatred twisting his features. 'You fucking bastard! You're scum, the lot of you!'

  'You all right, sir?' Suddenly, far too late, Reagan was walking towards him. 'What's going on here?'

  The boiler-suited man turned and stomped away from Linc, saying as he passed the forester, 'Go lick his boots, why don't you?' His son hurried after him.

  Reagan came right up. 'Sir?'

  Linc heaved a sigh of relief.

  'I could have done with you earlier. Where were you?'

  'Sorry, Mr Tremayne. There didn't seem to be anyone about when I got here, so I went and had a look round the fields over the back.'

  He didn't sound particularly concerned and it occurred to Linc that he might not have been too devastated if 'Dad' had socked him one.

  'Okay. No harm done. Better give a description of those two to the police. I'm not sure we've seen the last of them. And I want a man with a dog patrolling this area for at least a week. I don't want this place going up in smoke one night!'

  'No need for a description. That's Jim Pepper and his son. The old man used to work here but he was unreliable. Your father sacked him last year.'

  'I see. Can't say I blame him.'

  'Yeah, but you want to watch Pepper, he's mean,' Reagan warned him, somewhat unnecessarily. 'I'll get on to the police then. Oh, here's the racecard you wanted.'

  Linc thanked him, taking the slim booklet and glancing briefly at it. There were twelve races listed, each contested by six dogs, but there didn't appear to be anyone with the surname Barnaby. There were, however, one or two initial Bs and a couple of the dogs seemed to be owned by syndicates.

  'Do you know any of these owners or trainers?' he asked Reagan. 'I'm looking for someone who had a dog running that night, name of Barnaby or Barney.'

  Reagan pursed his lips
. 'Doesn't ring any bells but then I don't know many of them. There's a bloke who might know, though. Local trainer called Sam Menzies. He's got dozens of dogs and goes all over the place. Might be worth asking him.'

  'Yes, he's listed here,' Linc said, looking through the names. 'Thanks. I'll try him.'

  After checking on progress at the mill, via mobile phone to Geoff Sykes, Linc returned to the office and the unending paperwork, but somehow, before long, found himself searching the internet for Sam Menzies, greyhound trainer.

  He was in luck. Sam Menzies had his own website, extolling the virtues of his Warminster-based training kennels. Linc printed off the details, wondering if he had time to pay the man a visit in what remained of that afternoon. He could always catch up on the paperwork in the evening . . .

  A telephone call took the decision away from him. It was Rebecca Hathaway.

  'Hi,' Linc said, his casual tone hiding the cold dread that had instantly gripped his heart.

  Rebecca obviously anticipated his reaction for she quickly said, 'It's all right. Nothing's happened. There's no change in Abby's condition. In fact, that's why I'm calling. The doctors can't say if she can hear us at all, but then they can't say she doesn't either. One of the nurses suggested we play her some of her favourite music or maybe a video of a movie or pop star she likes. Then I – we – thought perhaps if you were to come and talk to her . . . knowing how she feels about you. We wondered if something like that might give her the incentive to try and come back to us . . .' Her voice tailed off uncertainly. 'I'd understand if you didn't feel comfortable with that, though.'

  'No. I don't have a problem with it, if you think it might do some good, but is it okay with everyone your end? I mean . . .'

  'You mean Josie? She's fine with it. She knows you now. Well enough to know that seducing impressionable teenagers isn't your style, anyway.'

  'I'll give it a go then,' Linc told her. 'Seven o'clock okay?'

  The hospital that Abby had been transferred to from Odstock was unlike any hospital Linc had ever been in. Coming from a blessedly healthy family, none of whom had ever had to endure a lengthy stay in a hospital of any kind, his limited experience of them had been of visiting the busy casualty departments of general hospitals. This private one was in a converted stately home and its reception area, where David Hathaway was waiting for Linc, made the hall at Farthingscourt look decidedly shabby. Suddenly his own health insurance premium seemed better value.

  It was the first time Linc had seen Abby's father since the night of the attack and he looked years older and immeasurably weary. In olive corduroys and a shirt that had obviously been slept in, he led the way to his daughter's room, explaining that although she seemed to have fought off the infection she showed no signs of returning consciousness.

  'The doctors have done all they can,' he said. 'They've made her as comfortable as they can and all her vital signs are stable. It's as if it's down to Abby to decide to come back to us now.'

  'Can the doctors tell if there's any permanent damage?' Linc asked.

  David shook his head. 'Before she caught the infection there was a fair amount of brain activity, but since . . .' He sighed heavily. 'I've spent hours in the hospital chapel begging God to bring her back to us, but to no avail. Then Becky had the idea of asking you to come. I wasn't sure at first, but I think it's worth a try. If the love of her family can't do it then perhaps Abby's hormones can. Maybe this is the answer I've been praying for. After all, I believe Our Lord is an infinitely practical being.'

  They had stopped outside a brass-handled, panelled door that bore Abby's name and the number eleven. Her father turned to Linc and managed half a smile.

  'See what you can do, Linc. But, please, don't feel bad if nothing comes of it.'

  'Okay.' He nodded, hesitating with his hand on the doorknob. The Reverend David Hathaway was one of the non-riding members of the family and, as such, Linc had had little opportunity to get to know him. 'I never encouraged her, you know,' he said quietly.

  'I know,' the older man replied. Then as Linc opened the door, 'But encourage her now, will you?'

  Rebecca got up from the bedside as Linc went in and came forward to greet him warmly. 'Thank you for coming, Linc. I'll leave you alone with her. David and I will be downstairs having a cup of coffee.'

  Linc spent a good half an hour beside the still, pale figure in the bed. At first it was hard to see beyond the myriad of tubes and wires that connected her to monitors, drips and other equipment at her side, but then as he sat down and took Abby's thin hand in his, he found the regular mechanical sounds faded into the background.

  Someone had brushed her dark hair but it lay looking lank and lifeless on the pillow around her head, and her long lashes provided a stark contrast to the pallor of her skin. It was frightening to think that she had neither woken nor moved since Linc had found her in the tackroom ten days before.

  He started talking, as much to comfort himself as for her sake. He told her all about the Andover and Talham events, detailing the rounds of each horse he had ridden, dwelling especially long on his experience with Dee Ellis's crazy horse, Steamer. He told the silent girl how much he was missing having her grooming for him and ended by telling her about Hilary Lang's exciting invitation and asking her if she might possibly find time to be his groom on the coaching weekend.

  As he finally wound to a close, he sat back and watched her for a few moments. There was no discernible change in her face and when he gently squeezed her hand there was no answering squeeze of her fingers. He hadn't really expected that there would be, but now and again you did hear of such things happening.

  With something bordering on guilt he wondered if his own negative expectations had prevented the message getting through, but didn't know what he could have done about it. It was a bit like religion; you either believed or you didn't. No amount of wanting to could provide a substitute.

  'Come on, Abby,' he said suddenly. 'What's happened to the stubborn little wretch we know and love? You're not going to let this beat you, are you?'

  She didn't stir. Only the monotonous bleep of the heart monitor and the slight rise and fall of her chest showed that life remained.

  With a heavy sigh Linc got to his feet and, after kissing her lightly on the forehead, turned and left the room.

  FIVE

  'SHE MOVED! ABBY'S MOVED her fingers!' It was half-past seven and Linc had just arrived to ride Noddy before work. Ruth yelled the wonderful news at him as soon as he opened the Discovery's door.

  'She has? That's great! When?'

  'Mum phoned a couple of minutes ago. She'd been sitting with her most of the night and was just getting up to go and have some breakfast. She says she squeezed Abby's hand and said, "Back soon, darling," and her fingers twitched!' Ruth's face was radiant. 'It wasn't much but the doctors say it's a very good sign. Mum could hardly talk for crying and we've all been laughing and crying, too. Even Hannah!'

  'Oh, Ruth, that's wonderful!' Linc stepped out on to the gravel.

  'Mum says she's going to give you a big hug when she sees you!'

  'Me?' Linc was startled. 'It's got nothing to do with me! There wasn't even a whisper of movement when I was there.'

  'Maybe it was something you said that started her thinking,' Ruth suggested, reluctant to relinquish the romantic idea.