Deadfall

by Lyndon Stacey

  She turned to him, her eyes wide and anxious. 'Terry Fagan. He's my fitness coach from the leisure centre but . . .'

  At this point, she was interrupted by Tiger who, apparently finding the sight of his enemy leaning out of the casement too much to bear, got to his feet and shot into the mill building at top speed, emitting a throaty snarl as he went.

  With an oath, Fagan instantly disappeared from view, and seconds later those below could hear all hell let loose as the foolhardy dog launched his attack.

  'Shit!' Crispin exclaimed, and tore after him.

  'Crispin! No!' Linc paused just long enough to tell the girls to stay where they were, then – spurred on by fear for his brother – he charged through the doorway, across the flagstone floor and up the wooden stairs, taking them three at a time and cursing all the way.

  When Crispin reached the top he paused. Peering past him, Linc could see why. Fagan had snatched up one of Saul's mill-bills and was standing no more than six feet away, wielding it with more energy than accuracy in an attempt to keep the dog at bay.

  Tiger, snarling his hatred with unflagging vehemence, was dodging the swinging implement without too much trouble but was, nevertheless, confined by this activity to the corner at the top of the stairs.

  It was something of a stand-off, Crispin and Linc being unable to proceed for the same reason as Tiger. The mill-bill consisted of eighteen inches of polished ash handle culminating in an eleven-inch, double-ended chisel, made of high-carbon steel. Weighing in at some three and a half pounds, it was designed to chip stone and consequently capable of inflicting horrific injuries if turned against flesh and bone.

  'What do we do now?' In the heat of the moment, Crispin reverted to the habit of childhood and instinctively looked to his older brother for guidance.

  Which was all very well, Linc thought wryly, if his older brother had had any ideas at all.

  But he hadn't.

  'Call your fucking dog off!' Fagan shouted, sweating freely as he continued his frenzied defence.

  Linc was by no means sure that Tiger would consent to being called off, and he had no intention of trying just at that moment because he had little confidence that either he or his brother would be as successful at dodging Fagan's swipes.

  'Call him off!'

  'Only if you put that thing down,' he yelled back.

  'Not fuckin' likely!'

  Linc looked thoughtfully past Fagan to the business end of the mill, then touched Crispin on the shoulder.

  'Stay here and keep him busy,' he said into his ear, and ran lightly back down the wooden stairs to the ground floor. At the base of the steps he almost ran into Nikki, who was on her way up.

  'Stay out of it!' he advised, but moved on without waiting to see if she did as he suggested.

  His first port of call was past the gearing to the end of the building where the sluice control was. Ignoring the aching weariness of his arm muscles, he released the hook that kept the small wheel securely anchored, and began to turn it as fast as he could. He was rewarded after a few revolutions by the sound of water beginning to pour on to the waterwheel from the millrace.

  Gradually at first, then swiftly gaining speed, the oaken axletree began to rotate, setting in motion the pit wheel, the great spur wheel and stone nut and, out of sight on the floor above, the crown wheel and the runner stone. Instantly the alarm bell was reactivated, but Linc hoped that even if Fagan noticed this, he would be too busy fending off Tiger to wonder what it portended. From the sound of it, the dog was still enthusiastically harrying him. Sandy's unwanted bequest had certainly earned his keep ten times over during the course of the afternoon.

  With a silent apology to the absent millwright for causing yet more damage to his freshly dressed stones, Linc moved across to where the rope end of the sack hoist trailed on the floor. Looking up, he could see the double trapdoors through which thousands of sacks had disappeared over the years, on their way to the bin floor and the start of the milling process. Hoping he could hang centrally enough to pass through the opening without hitting the sides, Linc wound his left arm round the rope and tugged on the cord that tightened the belt on the pulley two floors above. With no further ado, the sack hoist was operational and he began his unorthodox journey up through the mill.

  It took only a second or two to reach the low ceiling and, as he approached, Linc curled his right arm up over his head to take the brunt of the impact with the double trapdoors. The wooden edges slid past his shoulders, waist and legs, before dropping back into place with a thud. As soon as they did so, Linc relinquished his hold and dropped down on top of them. The moving rope briefly snagged his loose sleeve and then he was free and standing less than ten feet behind Fagan.

  The manoeuvre was one hundred per cent successful, as far as it went, but Linc was now faced with the problem of how to put his momentary advantage to the best use. There had been nothing on the ground floor that had instantly suggested itself to him as a weapon – at least, nothing that he had felt confident of transporting by way of the sack hoist – and now he had arrived on the stone floor, he found a similar dearth. True, there were two or three other mill-bills on the floor by the wall but he would have had to pass Fagan to reach them and that was inviting disaster.

  Fagan knew he was there. The noise of the trapdoors closing had made him turn his head for a fraction of a second, and now he edged sideways to keep Linc in his peripheral vision whilst he continued to swing at the dog.

  As he looked round for inspiration, Linc caught sight of a cluster of paint pots, brushes, rags and bottles of turpentine that the workmen had left against the wall. Three smaller paintbrushes had been left standing in a jam jar of cloudy liquid, presumably for someone else to clean, and moving swiftly Linc scooped it up, tossing the brushes aside. Stepping forward, he shouted Fagan's name and as the big man turned, threw the turpentine in his face.

  Not all the liquid left the jam jar but what did slosh out could not have been better aimed, hitting Fagan across the bridge of his nose. Immediately, the arm wielding the mill-bill dropped and his other hand clutched at his face as the spirit stung his eyes.

  Tiger took advantage of the moment by leaping forward and fastening his teeth on the haft of the weapon, which was slipping from Fagan's fingers, and Crispin moved from the stairwell to Linc's side.

  'That was brilliant!' he exclaimed. 'What now?'

  Swearing blue murder, Fagan had backed up to the wooden tun, under which the millstones ground dryly on and the little bouncing bell jingled its rhythmic warning. Here he stood hunched over, rubbing at his painful eyes with the heels of both palms.

  Tiger, deciding that an unmanned mill-bill wasn't worthy of his attentions, dropped it and turned to seek out enemy number one, at which point Linc took a firm hold of his collar and commanded him to sit. To his surprise, the dog did as he was told, contenting himself with addressing a low, menacing growl to Fagan. Linc picked up the mill-bill and rested it on a ledge.

  'Now I think we should hear what Mr Fagan has to say for himself,' he suggested.

  In response to this, Fagan directed a stream of obscenity in his direction, and Linc shook his head, sighing.

  'Oh, well. I suppose we'll have to leave it to the police, unless . . .' He winked at Crispin. 'Have you got your cigarette lighter on you?'

  Crispin had never smoked, but he caught on, instantly.

  'Mmm, somewhere,' he said making a pretence of searching his pockets.

  Fagan straightened up and squinted through watering eyes.

  'You wouldn't . . .' he said thickly, but his tone was tinged with doubt. His shirtfront was soaked in turps.

  'You can't believe anything he says, he's a criminal!' Nikki stepped forward from the stairwell, where she'd been standing half-hidden. 'He'll try and blame me. The police are after him in London for assault. He'd say anything to cover himself.'

  Linc turned to his sister-in-law with raised eyebrows.

  'Oh? Is that what you put in
the reference you gave him for his job at the Silver Pine?'

  'Reference?' Nikki hedged unconvincingly, recognising too late the trap she'd made for herself.

  'Oh, come on, Nikki, you told me yourself. An old friend, up from London, looking for a job . . . You know, if you're going to lie, it pays to remember what you've said before. So what is he to you? Friend, lover, or just a tool to use in your vicious schemes and then discard?'

  'Linc, that's enough!' Crispin protested, stepping forward. 'How dare you speak to her like that? Have you lost your mind? Nikki's got nothing to do with this.'

  'I wish that were true, Cris, I really do,' Linc said sadly. 'But I'm afraid she may well have everything to do with it. Ask her why she didn't pass on the message to Josie about Pierre cancelling the meeting.'

  Crispin frowned. 'Well, I expect she forgot. It's not surprising, she's been incredibly busy.'

  'Of course I forgot. Why else wouldn't I tell her?' Nikki put in.

  'Because you saw your chance to arrange another of your little accidents,' Linc countered. 'Like the one at Coopers Down when Noddy fell with me. That was very clever. I'd probably never have found out if you hadn't left the pot of Vaseline in the pocket of your coat.'

  'What are you talking about?' Crispin demanded.

  'Nikki knows, don't you, Nikki? About the chilli powder that half-blinded Noddy, so he couldn't see the jumps.'

  'You're mad! Why would I want to harm you?'

  'Because I'm in line for the one thing you want more than any other: a title. And if I were not around to succeed to it, it would be Crispin's and yours. You've always been fascinated by the story of St John and how the title passed to his brother when he died young. Was that what gave you the idea? Or was it when I was attacked, and you realised how easily the title could have been yours?'

  'That's ridiculous!' Crispin exclaimed. 'You can't really think Nikki's trying to – kill you?' He hesitated over the word, as if it was awkward to enunciate. 'Besides, I told you, I can't even remember for sure who was wearing that coat at Coopers Down. It could have been me or Beverley. It's not much to base an accusation on, is it?'

  'No,' Linc agreed. 'Not on its own. But, you see, that's not all, by a long way.'

  At this point Fagan, who was still troubled with his eyes, apparently lost patience with the maddening tinkle of the alarm bell and, with a curse, ripped it from its position and threw it across the mill.

  Tiger stood up and voiced his displeasure.

  'Oi, you! Stand still!' Linc told Fagan, who held up one hand and squinted at him through red-rimmed and weeping eyes.

  'What else then?' Crispin asked, ignoring this outburst.

  'Okay. What about the business with Jim Pepper? Someone sent that note and I'm pretty sure it wasn't Reagan, so who was it?'

  'Oh, and you'd sooner believe that arsey forester than one of your own family?' Crispin was really bitter now and, remembering his own feelings earlier in the day, Linc couldn't blame him. 'Any number of people could have found out about the meeting – you said so yourself. Anyone who had access to the office. Anyway, you're forgetting, it was Nikki who turned up to help you out.'

  'Only after I'd got hold of Pepper,' Linc said relentlessly. He hated what he was having to do to his brother but it was too late to turn back now. 'And of course she'd somehow managed to walk off with my mobile that morning, leaving me without any means of calling for help . . .'

  'No. You're twisting everything! So she picked up your mobile by mistake . . . so what? It's easily done. She took the trouble of finding you to give it back, didn't she? That's why she happened to be there when you got hold of Pepper. Reagan was the one who didn't turn up on time, as I remember. This is all supposition. None of it proves someone was actually trying to kill you. I mean, a scuffle with a middle-aged ex-employee is hardly the same as setting a hitman on somebody. Pepper was never likely to have killed you, was he?'

  'He had a crowbar,' Linc pointed out. 'And what about the party? Somebody drugged me. And no one had a better opportunity than Nikki.'

  Crispin looked helplessly from Linc to his wife, and back again.

  'Cris, you don't believe him, do you?' Nikki asked softly, and with reluctant admiration, Linc could see that she'd managed to produce real tears to plead her cause.

  There was a moment's pause, where the only sound was the monotonous rumble of the millstones.

  'Of course not.' Crispin had no defence against those beseeching eyes, and her case was helped by his eagerness to trust her. 'But I still don't understand what's going on, Niks. Why did Fagan attack Linc and Josie? And why should Linc lie about all this? I thought you were friends . . .'

  Nikki bit her lip, lowering her eyes. 'I – I think it's because I wouldn't sleep with him,' she announced.

  EIGHTEEN

  NIKKI'S WORDS PRODUCED A moment's stunned silence.

  'What?' Crispin and Linc spoke simultaneously, outraged and incredulous.

  'When?' Crispin added.

  'He came on to me several times,' she said, avoiding eye contact with him. 'But the first time was in the hall, after the dinner party. As soon as you and Josie went out he was all over me.'

  'Oh, no, you don't, my girl!' Linc cut in. 'It was the other way round, as I remember. And you were half-cut anyway.'

  'I didn't know what I was doing. You knew I'd had too much to drink and you took advantage of me. I'm nowhere near as strong as you.'

  The cunningly added inference that Linc had used his superior strength to force his attentions on her fired Crispin up. He turned and blazed a look of pure scorn at his brother. 'You bastard . . .' he began.

  Linc had had enough. 'Oh, spare me the drama. Can't you see the woman's playing you for a fool? Why don't you ask yourself where Fagan comes into the equation? Personal trainer, my arse! If I was you, I'd want to get that baby paternity-tested when it arrives!' It was cruel, he knew, but his brother's stubborn refusal to accept any slur on Nikki's integrity was as exasperating as it was commendable.

  His words stopped Crispin in his tracks. Brows drawn together, he scanned Linc's face intently, as if searching for some sign that he hadn't meant what he'd said, then turned to his wife and intercepted a look of pure poison directed at Linc.

  'Nikki?'

  'Crispin . . .' she began, softening her expression, but Fagan cut in.

  'You're having a baby?'

  'Shut up, Terry! It's got nothing to do with you,' Nikki said, moving closer to Crispin.

  'How do you know that?' Fagan asked, clearly no longer content merely to look on. 'How can you possibly know?'

  The significance of his question was not lost on Crispin.

  'He's your lover.' He said each word slowly and deliberately, his face reflecting more disgust than pain. 'How long?'

  'Crispin! You don't believe him?'

  'How long?' This time he addressed Fagan, who responded with a sneer.

  'Since way before she met you, pretty boy,' he taunted. 'We've been laughing at you!' He took a step forward but was brought up short by a rattling snarl from Tiger. Making a conciliatory gesture, Fagan stepped back.

  Linc put a steadying hand on his brother's shoulder. Crispin was as tight as sprung steel and Linc felt him take a deep breath before saying to Nikki in carefully controlled tones, 'And the other? The things Linc said – were they true, too? Did you put the drug in his drink?'

  'Cris, I told you, Linc's bitter because I rejected him. He's just trying to get back at me . . .'