Deadfall

by Lyndon Stacey

  'I don't know whether Judge really meant that, about the concrete. I mean, the stuff he showed me – the base for his new garage – wasn't deep enough. When I pushed him and he sat down in it, it only came up to his waist.'

  'Plenty of other places on a building site. With the site foreman on side, they could have put a body under the rubble in one of the foundation trenches and the lads would have topped it off with cement the following day, none the wiser.'

  'I guess so.' It was a deeply sobering thought. 'So what are you saying? That you want me to get Sandy to talk, is that it? What if he doesn't know anything? He could just be the . . . what do you call it . . . ?'

  'The fence?' Rockley supplied. 'No, I don't think so. If this was a small-scale operation then maybe. But we're almost certain that the saddles were shipped out to Ireland – which is of course where Judge Haulage would come in very useful. And besides, it was obvious that they had inside information. Where the stables were; whether they had security; even knowledge as to when the owners were going to be away. I think Sandy Wilkes was well aware what was going on, and who was involved. All we need is for him to agree to testify, and that's where you come in.'

  Linc looked long and hard at Rockley, then sighed.

  'Okay, I'll give it a go. When?'

  'ASAP. Now, preferably. Before he finds out what's happened from someone else.'

  Linc ran a hand through his wet hair.

  'Oh, God! What a day!'

  'I know. I'm sorry to have to ask you . . .'

  He didn't look particularly sorry, Linc thought. What he did look was grey and exhausted. All at once he remembered what Farquharson had told him, earlier that afternoon.

  'It's all right. I guess you've had a pig of a day, too. I gather there was a bit of bother in Bournemouth. Someone with a bomb?'

  'Said he had one in a shoebox. Waved it at us through the window. We cordoned the whole area off, evacuated the buildings, the works.'

  'But it wasn't a bomb?'

  'No. It was a pair of shoes.' Rockley rubbed his eyes. 'And, yes, I have had a pig of a day. I haven't been home for thirty-six hours and I'm running on caffeine. So what do you say? Will you do it?'

  Linc nodded, shedding the blanket and getting to his feet. 'Lead on, MacDuff.'

  It was generally agreed that Linc should drive the Morgan to Shaftesbury, to present an appearance of normality, but in spite of a vigorous mopping up and towelling down, the leather seats still felt decidedly damp, as, consequently, did Linc's trousers by the time he arrived at Sandy's unit.

  Parking next to the saddler's lorry, Linc could see a light through the high, narrow window of the office, and was forced to relinquish the faint hope that Sandy might be out. Outside the building, a man in overalls was halfway up a ladder, apparently doing something to the telephone wires. Linc greeted him briefly and went on in.

  It wasn't possible to be sure whether Judge had kept Sandy advised of his plans regarding Linc, but the saddler's reaction, when Linc knocked and entered the office, seemed to suggest that he hadn't.

  'Linc. You look a bit soggy! D'you fancy a cuppa?' he asked, showing no particular surprise at seeing him. Tiger bustled forward, his stumpy tail wagging ecstatically.

  'Thanks. Yes, I got caught in a cloudburst with the soft-top down. The Morgan's going to take ages to dry out.'

  'Oh, bad luck! Pull up a pew.' Sandy busied himself with the kettle and mugs.

  'Got trouble with your telephone?' Linc asked, waving a hand towards the window.

  'Well, I didn't think so, but apparently there's a fault on one of the lines and the guy said he needed to check all of them to locate it. I told him I didn't mind what he did as long as he didn't charge me for it. So . . . have you spoken to Al yet?'

  Even though it was what Linc had come to talk about, the swift change of direction caught him napping. He ducked his head, making a fuss of the dog.

  'Al?'

  Sandy turned, eyebrows raised, with a jar of coffee in one hand and a teaspoon in the other.

  'Yeah, Al Judge. About the sponsorship?'

  'As a matter of fact, yes, I have. I turned his offer down.' Sandy became very still.

  'Why would you do that? I thought you were desperate for a sponsor.'

  'Not that desperate,' Linc replied. 'Sandy, I know who Barnaby is.'

  'Barnaby? Oh, the Barnaby you were looking for. So, who is it?'

  'Come on, Sandy. Don't pretend you don't know. Barnaby Rudge – Judge. You almost told me yourself.'

  'Ah.' The saddler sighed, looking disappointed but not noticeably shamefaced. 'I told Al it wouldn't work. He had some stupid idea that once he had you on the payroll, so to speak, he could talk you round even if you found out. I told him he was wrong but he wouldn't listen.' He turned back to his coffee-making. 'So what're you going to do about it?'

  'I was hoping you'd have the answer to that one,' Linc said. 'I don't have any proof, only supposition. You, on the other hand, could give the police all the information they need.'

  Rockley had agreed that in this situation it might be best to keep Sandy in ignorance of the day's events and encourage him to come forward of his own free will, but at first it didn't look as though the plan was going to work.

  'Me?' he exclaimed, swinging round. 'Why me? I admit I guessed that Judge was the Barnaby you were looking for, but surely you don't believe I was involved in the rest of it?'

  Linc said nothing, merely stared at the saddler, deeply disappointed.

  Sandy turned away, pouring boiling water and then milk in a silence that fairly buzzed with tension. Finally, he put a mug of coffee on the desk in front of Linc, sat down opposite him and said in a low, slightly unsteady voice, 'He'd kill me if I talked!'

  'With your testimony, he'd be put away,' Linc coaxed. 'He wouldn't be able to get at you.'

  Sandy shook his head. 'I can't.'

  'I don't think you have a choice, Sandy. If you knew what Judge was up to, you're already involved, whether you like it or not. Don't you see that this is your only way out? If you agree to testify, it'll count in your favour. We can't let Judge get away with this. Think of Abby . . .'

  Sandy looked directly at him, his good-natured, freckled face intensely troubled. 'That's just it though, Linc. Abby. I was there. I am involved!'

  Linc felt as though someone had kicked him in the stomach.

  'You were there?' he repeated stupidly.

  'I didn't hit her! That was Marty,' Sandy declared, caution thrown to the winds now in his desperation that Linc should believe him. 'I wouldn't have hit her. I was putting stuff in the van, I didn't even see her go by. I would never have hurt her, you've got to believe me!'

  'You left her there,' Linc stated flatly. 'On the floor of the tackroom.'

  'I wanted to ring for an ambulance but Marty said they'd trace the call. Linc, for God's sake, you know me. You know I'd never hurt anyone.'

  'I thought I did. But when I think how you sat in the kitchen at the Vicarage, just three days later, having lunch with her family . . . How could you do that? Little Toby was crying,' Linc remembered, shaking his head in disgust. 'And how could you lead Ruth on like that? Take her out, make her fall for you, after all you'd done? You're a complete bastard, do you know that?'

  Sandy flinched. 'I'm sorry. What can I say? I never meant for any of this to happen. I owed Al big-time for some stuff way back, and he called in the favour. At first he just wanted a bit of information; you know, who had stables away from the house, who'd got new tack, and what the security was like. I chat to people all the time, and get to know when they're going away or going to be out for an evening. Sometimes I'd get invited to parties or to bring my gear along to riding demos, and I'd see who was there and then give Al a ring and let him know.'

  Linc could hardly believe what he was hearing. 'So, while you were out socialising with these people, Marty was clearing out their tackrooms!'

  Sandy looked uncomfortable. 'The stuff's all insured. They just re
place it. The only people who lose out are the insurance companies, and they can afford it.'

  'Oh, yeah, the old excuse,' Linc said, nodding. 'And who has to fork out for the higher premiums, huh? You can't justify it, mate, so don't even try. Besides, it's not just the money. It really messes up people's lives, being burgled. Makes them feel they're not safe in their own homes.'

  Sandy offered no response to this, merely sat staring into his coffee, and after a moment Linc went on. 'I guess you did a nice trade, replacing their lost tack. Playing the Good Samaritan, generously delaying payment until the insurance money came through. Didn't you ever feel just the slightest bit hypocritical?'

  Sandy still had nothing to offer.

  'So when did you start helping Marty at the sharp end? Was it all getting a bit tame? Did you fancy a bit of an adrenalin rush?'

  'No, it wasn't like that! That night at the Vicarage – that was the first time. There was another bloke used to help Marty, but that night he couldn't make it and Al said I should go.' Sandy met Linc's contemptuous gaze at last. 'I didn't want to, but you don't know Al Judge. He's a real bastard – you don't cross him! I've seen him break a man's kneecaps with a cricket bat. I can still hear his screams. Nobody crosses old Barnaby and gets away with it.'

  Having had recent experience of the man, Linc could well believe that, but knowledge of Sandy's subsequent deception of the Hathaways effectively suppressed any sympathy he might have felt.

  'What happened to the tack that was stolen? The police didn't find anything here last time, but you must have kept some of it because you had my snaffle.'

  'Judge took care of that. Most of the saddles went to Ireland, hidden in his lorries, and then he'd bring stuff back, too. Some of it would end up here, some in other areas. But the smaller stuff, I got to keep. It was my cut. I'm always buying old tack from people, and from auctions. Quite often it's just a box of stuff, so it's easy to keep my books straight. I dismantle the bridles and sell the bits separately. Nobody recognises the smaller stuff – or at least they didn't until you turned up with that bit.'

  'Did you know that was mine when you sold it to me?' Linc was curious.

  'Yeah. I guessed it was 'cos it's a fairly unusual one. I wouldn't normally sell back to the same person but I didn't have another one, and how was I to know you'd recognise it? Sod's law, that was!'

  'A chance in a million,' Linc agreed. 'And like a fool, I didn't believe you could have had any knowledge of it. I trusted you, like everyone else did. You know, you had such a good thing going here . . . loyal customers, a terrific reputation. You're a bloody fool to throw that away.'

  'It was hard slog, and I was making peanuts,' Sandy complained. 'It's all right for people like you. You've never had to go without.'

  'Oh, yeah. I'm rolling in it. That's why I'm looking for a sponsor. And, of course, while I was away my father sent me a big fat cheque every week – I don't think! Get real, Sandy! You can't make those kinds of generalisations. Sure, some people have money to burn, but did it ever occur to you that they might have worked bloody hard to get it? The world doesn't owe you a living, you know.'

  Sandy went back to staring at his mug.

  'So what now? Are you going to tell the coppers?'

  'They already know,' Linc told him, and felt no compunction at seeing the look of despair that settled on the saddler's face. 'They've already picked up Judge and Marty Lucas. I talked Rockley into giving you a chance to do the right thing and turn yourself in, but that was before I realised what a gutless sod you are.'

  He got wearily to his feet. 'Oh, and by the way, don't bother trying to change your story now. There's a guy up a ladder out there who's had an extremely sensitive microphone and recording equipment pointed this way for the last twenty minutes. Thanks for the coffee.'

  He left the office and at the outer door of the unit, passed Rockley and one of his men coming the other way.

  'Did you get that?'

  'Yes. That should wrap that little business up nicely,' the detective observed with satisfaction. 'Thanks for your help.'

  Linc was sitting in the Morgan a couple of minutes later when Rockley brought Sandy out, trailed by the other officer with, on the end of a rope lead, the jaunty figure of Tiger. The little procession halted level with the car and Linc looked up at them enquiringly.

  It was, surprisingly, Sandy who spoke.

  'Linc, I'm sorry, I know what you think of me, but I need a really big favour. It's Tiger. I can't leave him here and I don't know who else to ask . . .'

  Linc groaned. 'Oh, God! I don't want him. What normally happens to dogs when you take their owners in?' he asked Rockley.

  'It depends. If there are no relatives, we get them signed over to the dogs' home.'

  Linc looked reluctantly at the dog who wagged his stumpy tail and grinned back trustingly. He liked dogs, but between his father's two wolfhounds and Geoff Sykes's labradors he didn't go short of canine company and, just at the moment, having one of his own wasn't high on his wish-list. Even if it had been, he reflected, eyeing Tiger's ugly-attractive brindle face with some distaste, this definitely wouldn't be the dog he would choose.

  'Please, Linc . . .' Sandy pleaded. 'Whatever else I've done, I did save your life that night, remember?'

  Linc looked away, then back at Tiger, who looked a little uncertain, as if sensing the enormity of the moment.

  'Oh, give the bugger here!' he said suddenly, opening the car door. With very little encouragement, Tiger climbed in and Linc looped the end of the rope round the handbrake, which caused Rockley to frown.

  'I shall pretend I didn't see that,' he decided.

  'Well, it was that or the gear lever,' Linc joked. Then as Sandy was about to be led away, 'Tell me. That night – do you know who doctored my drink?'

  Sandy shook his head. 'No. I honestly knew nothing about it.'

  'So it wasn't Judge's doing?'

  'No, he said not. But when he found out that I'd helped you, he went ballistic! You should thank your lucky stars it wasn't Marty or Scott who found you!'

  'Oh, I do,' Linc assured him.

  It was well into the evening before Linc finally made it home, and Farthingscourt was quiet. Nobody appeared, demanding to know where he'd been, for which he was grateful – he'd had quite enough of answering questions for one day. It was strange to think, though, that his life-or-death drama had been played out in such a relatively short time that no one who wasn't directly involved had any inkling that anything out of the ordinary had happened.

  Still unsure as to what he was going to do with Tiger, and unwilling to imbue him with any delusions of permanency, Linc installed him in the office for the night. He was a dog who stubbornly resisted any form of reasoning and Linc had a feeling that once admitted to his flat, Tiger would quickly make himself at home and be extremely difficult to evict. With this in mind, he piled a couple of old horse blankets in the corner of the office, put down a bowl of water, and left him crunching happily on a double handful of the wolfhounds' dry mix.

  Mentally and physically exhausted, Linc slept long and deeply, waking to find his room flooded with daylight, and wishing, as he did every morning, that Josie were beside him. This time, however, as he recalled the events of the previous day, he could allow himself to hope that the longing would soon be reality.

  A more complete recall of the previous day brought another, more immediately pressing matter to mind.

  Tiger.