Time to Pay

by Lyndon Stacey

  ‘He’s something in the City,’ Lloyd supplied. ‘They’ve got stacks of money. Live in a massive house out at Wimborne St Giles with acres of land.’

  ‘Is there anyone you don’t know?’ Pippa enquired.

  ‘A politician has to know his constituents,’ he declared grandly.

  ‘All right, then. How about Sam Bentley?’ Gideon asked, seizing the opportunity. He watched Lloyd closely.

  ‘Bentley? Mm . . . don’t think so,’ he said, appearing to consider the matter then shaking his head. ‘Why? Who is he?’

  ‘Just a name that came up in conversation with Tilly the other day. I think it was someone Damien knew but she didn’t.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well – no, me neither, sorry. Does he live round here?’

  ‘I’m not sure. That’s why I asked.’

  It wasn’t until the gathering began to break up, and Gideon and Pippa headed back to the lorry to take their weary horses home, that Gideon had the chance to ask her whether Lloyd had ever mentioned the list again.

  ‘No. I did ask him about it some time ago, but he said he couldn’t make head nor tail of it. I think he threw it away.’

  ‘It wasn’t anything to do with betting, after all, then?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Actually, thinking about Nero’s file, I was going to ask you if it says anything about feedstuffs in there. I’ve had him on the coarse mix I give my lot, but he seems to be getting very itchy and I wondered if he had a problem with one of the ingredients.’

  ‘OK, I’ll have a look,’ Gideon promised.

  It was past seven o’clock by the time Gideon had helped Pippa settle and feed the horses, and, just as they were finishing, Giles came out to the tack room with a tray of hot toddies.

  ‘I knew there was a reason I picked you for a friend, all those years ago,’ Gideon said, taking a glass and inhaling the boozy vapours appreciatively.

  ‘You picked me?’ Giles queried. ‘I was under the impression that I took pity on you and played the good Samaritan. If I’d had any idea that I’d still be saddled with you nearly twenty years down the line . . .’

  ‘If you ask me, you’re a couple of misfits who deserve one another,’ Pippa put in. ‘But what I can’t work out is what I’ve done to deserve being lumbered with the two of you!’

  ‘Well, if you become the second Mrs Lloyd-Ellis, you won’t have to worry about us misfits any more,’ Giles suggested lightly.

  Pippa’s face flushed red.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

  ‘Why’s it so ridiculous?’ her brother enquired.

  ‘Because we haven’t even discussed it and anyway, he’s not divorced yet.’

  ‘Whoops! Have I touched a nerve? I’m sorry, Pip.’

  ‘No, you didn’t. It’s not an issue – I mean, it’s between me and Lloyd.’

  Planting her glass back firmly on the tray, she brushed past Giles on her way to the door, saying over her shoulder, ‘I’m going in to soak in a long, hot bath.’

  A hot bath was exactly what Gideon had in mind when he finally got back to the Gatehouse, tired and somewhat achy. However, his wasn’t destined to be a long soak because, uncharacteristically, Eve had been busy in the kitchen.

  ‘I was beginning to think you’d decided to eat at the Priory and all my efforts would have been for nothing,’ she called out, as he closed the front door behind him and responded to Zebedee’s exuberant greeting.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that to you,’ Gideon protested. Cooking aromas wafted out of the kitchen and he recognised onion and lamb. ‘That smells wonderful, but I absolutely must have a bath first.’

  ‘You’ve got half a hour, and not a minute more!’ Eve warned.

  ‘Join me?’ Standing in the kitchen doorway, he took in a scene of chaotic domestic industry. The sink was piled high with bowls and utensils, the fridge door was half open, a bag of flour lay on its side and a bottle of milk stood, uncapped, on the Aga. ‘Or . . . maybe not.’

  She turned round incredulously, a smudge of grease on her chin. ‘What, with all that mud? Anyway, I can’t leave this, it’s at a crucial stage.’

  Closing the fridge door on the way, Gideon crossed to the range, moving the milk bottle from its warm surface to the table and recapping it.

  Eve was leafing through the pages of a recipe book with an air of distraction. Her hair lay down her back in a long black plait from which several strands had escaped, and she wore an apron over her ankle-length red dress.

  Regarding her affectionately, Gideon completed his circuit of the kitchen, leaning to kiss her cheek as he passed.

  The combination of a hot bath, excellent meal, and a crackling log fire was sufficient to reduce Gideon to a state of drowsy torpor, and his eyelids were drooping as he sat on the comfortably scruffy leather sofa with Eve’s head resting in his lap. He’d undone her inefficient plait and now her hair lay in a silky riot around her face and over his knee.

  Eve’s day, however, had been less demanding than Gideon’s, and her mind was still active.

  ‘Those names you were trying out on Lloyd – were they from that list you’ve been puzzling over?’ she asked suddenly, dragging him back from the brink of sleep.

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘So I take it he doesn’t know you’ve deciphered it.’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Why haven’t you told him?’

  ‘Because I wanted to find out what it was all about first. And because I wanted to see whether he worked it out, himself.’

  ‘And do you think he has?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He told Pippa he hadn’t.’

  ‘But you don’t believe him?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Gideon said again.

  There was a long pause while he stroked her hair, listening to the gentle hiss and spit of the cedar log on the fire and watching the flickering glow play on her olive skin.

  ‘Have you tried putting the names into an Internet search engine?’ Eve asked suddenly.

  ‘No. It may have escaped your notice, but I don’t have a computer.’

  ‘Oh, no, I forgot. You’re still in the Middle Ages, aren’t you? Well, I’ve got my laptop in the car, we could use that.’

  ‘In the car? That’s a bit chancy, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, it’s locked in the boot, of course.’ She sat up. ‘I’ll go and get it.’

  Gideon groaned. ‘Must you? Surely it won’t work, anyway – without an Internet connection?’

  Eve stood up, laughing down at him. ‘I was wrong. You’re not medieval; you’re prehistoric. It’s a wireless connection. Or I can use my mobile phone. Won’t be a minute . . .’

  By the time she returned, Gideon had resigned himself to the fact that he wasn’t going to be allowed to doze comfortably on the sofa for the rest of the evening, and had put the kettle on for a restorative cup of coffee.

  ‘Where’s this list, then?’ Eve called from the sitting room.

  ‘In the ring binder on the bookshelf. You’ll find it tucked in the last pocket.’

  Gideon finished making the drinks and took them through to where Eve sat, intent on the small screen in front of her. He sat down beside her and picked up the discarded binder, remembering his promise to look up Nero’s feeding history.

  He found the information printed on a sheet of A4 and, tucked behind it in the same plastic sleeve, another torn sheet, on which a feed order had been scribbled in Damien’s slightly disjointed handwriting. One corner of this sheet was turned back, as if it had been hastily pushed into the pocket, revealing what looked like the very dark photocopy on the reverse.

  With mild curiosity, Gideon drew the sheet out and looked more closely. It was indeed a photocopy, but very underexposed and indistinct, so that much of it was illegible. It appeared to be an image of a page from a book, showing the splayed edges of the other pages at one side and the central fold at the other. What little could be read was handwritten, but the script, a beautiful copperplate, was clearly not Damien’s
.

  Gideon lifted it and leaned nearer to the light, concentrating hard. From the partial phrases he could make out, he quickly recognised it as a page from someone’s diary or journal but much of it was illegible.

  ‘. . . that Major Clemence is a bastard. I was running as fast as I could . . . ’ he read, and then, further down, ‘. . . I’d leave, but I promised Damien and I don’t want to let . . .’ Another obscure section. ‘. . . tonight, the others were teasing me but I need . . .’

  Feeling almost guilty, Gideon read on, peering closer as the words became even less distinct. There was a gap in the script, a short line that might have been a date, and then the writing continued, but this time more slanted and far less clear, as if the writer was working fast and under some emotion.

  ‘. . . Oh God, this is a nightmare! I still can’t believe . . .’

  ‘. . . keep thinking I’ll wake up – God, I wish I could! What the hell am I . . .’

  ‘. . . didn’t have a chance to speak to them. I don’t think I could have faced . . .’

  ‘. . . every time I close my eyes I hear that terrible . . .’

  ‘. . . again today and I was terrified they would want . . .’

  ‘. . . can they be? I’m so scared. I still want to tell the truth. Gary wants . . .’

  At this point the script disappeared completely, infuriatingly, into the encroaching photographic gloom, with only the odd word surfacing. Gideon was forced to abandon his attempts to decipher it. He read it through again with mounting frustration. It was like a half-heard conversation, or someone mumbling and refusing to repeat themselves.

  ‘Found Robin Tate,’ Eve said suddenly, breaking in on his thoughts. ‘Member of the Modern Pentathlon team at the Dubai Olympics. We were just talking about that this afternoon, weren’t we? Pentathlon, I mean. Strange, isn’t it? This morning I hadn’t a clue what it was and now here it is again.’

  Gideon frowned, trying to remember where else the subject had cropped up recently, but the answer eluded him.

  ‘Ah,’ Eve went on. ‘Adam Tetley – that was the guy’s name, wasn’t it? The one they’re questioning. He’s here, too.’

  ‘Who else? Any of the others?’

  ‘No . . . Adam Tetley, Robin Tate, Timothy Landless, and Philip Proctor. The reserve was Ian Duncan, and Stuart Wells competed as an individual. The team coach was Harry Saddler. That’s all the names mentioned.’

  ‘Oh, just for a moment, I thought we might be onto something, but I suppose that would have been too easy. Not that it would have explained why Damien should have their names written in code. Talk about a riddle! You know, I don’t think I’m cut out to be a detective. Maybe I should just give the paper to Rockley, after all, and have done with it.’

  ‘And what about Lloyd and Pippa?’

  Gideon sighed. ‘Yeah, I know . . .’

  There was silence for a moment, and a log spat and whined on the fire as a pocket of sap heated up and exploded. Eve’s fingers tapped the keyboard and Gideon’s gaze fell on the photocopy once more. He held it out to her.

  ‘What d’you make of this? It was in the folder.’

  Her brows drew down in concentration as she scanned the sheet in her hand before exclaiming, ‘Oh, isn’t that annoying! If there was only just a little bit more. It’s like finding a treasure map with the X missing! It looks like someone’s diary, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I thought. Whoever it is sounds pretty desperate, don’t they?’

  ‘Didn’t you say Damien’s brother committed suicide? Perhaps it was his.’

  Gideon took the paper back and looked at it again.

  ‘You know, you might just have something there. But why would Damien photocopy it if he had the original? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘No idea.’ Eve shrugged, her attention back on the screen.

  ‘I’ve got Sam Bentley here,’ she announced presently.

  ‘Pentathlon again?’

  ‘Nope. Owner-manager of an extremely prestigious health club, by the look of it. Bentleys of Bath. Spas, mud baths, saunas, every kind of massage known to man, and then some, spray-on tanning, toning tables, seaweed therapy, whatever that is, body-wraps, reiki healing, aromatherapy, acupuncture, shiatsu – good God, the list is endless! We’ve got pictures, too. Shiny tiles, mosaics, gold-plated taps, fluffy gold-coloured towels by the dozen and carpet pile so deep you could get lost in it. This is seriously opulent. The website’s huge, too. It even gives sample itineraries and menus, and you wouldn’t want to go there to lose weight, I can tell you, although it says you can . . . About the only thing it doesn’t tell you is the price.’

  ‘If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.’ Gideon leaned over her shoulder to take a look. ‘What makes you so sure it’s the right Sam Bentley?’

  ‘Well, it’s the same contact number,’ she said on a note of triumph.

  ‘Well, well. Maybe I should go and pay Mr Bentley a visit,’ Gideon mused.

  ‘I think I should come too.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of booking in,’ he said, with amusement. ‘It’s a bit beyond my touch, to say nothing of it not being exactly my scene. I was thinking more of laying siege to the reception area until he agrees to see me. Maybe a message containing the words Damien Daniels might do the trick. Any luck with the other names?’

  ‘Well, Lloyd turns up all over the place, of course. He has his own political website; he’s on the Countryside Alliance one, and the drag hounds one. I can’t find anything on Garth Stephenson – at least not one that was likely to be ours – but Julian Norris is there under Norris Security, and I’ve also found an account of his death in the archives of a regional paper.’

  ‘Oh? What does it say?’

  ‘It’s only short. Here, it’s easier if you look.’ She pushed the laptop towards him.

  ‘Local Businessman Killed in Car Crash’ was the unimaginative headline, and it continued,‘Respected local businessman Julian Norris, founder of Norris Security Systems based in Sturminster Newton, died on Friday night when his Vauxhall estate car left the road and hit a wall in Winterbourne Whitechurch. It is believed that Mr Norris, who was thirty-nine and married with two young children, died at the scene when the stone wall collapsed, crushing the vehicle. The reason for the crash is not yet clear, but no other vehicle was involved and police would like to hear from anyone who witnessed the accident. The family request that donations be sent to . . .’

  Gideon read it through again, then looked up.

  ‘That’s odd.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Well, Tilly said Julian crashed on his way home from their place – Puddlestone Farm – and it says here that Julian Norris lived at Stur. So what was he doing in Winterbourne Whitechurch? It’s not exactly en route.’

  ‘It says his business was based at Sturminster Newton; it doesn’t say he actually lived there,’ Eve pointed out.

  ‘That’s true. I’ll have to ask Tilly. Anything else?’

  ‘Not on Robin Tate, but Vanessa Tate’s mentioned a couple of times in three-day-eventing news and results. Adam Tetley’s mentioned again, too. Did you know he used to have horses in training with Damien?’

  ‘Well, yes, actually I did,’ Gideon confessed apologetically. ‘Tilly told me the other day. They had some trouble. He didn’t pay his training fees and eventually it turned out he’d bought the horses with company money and couldn’t pay it back. Needless to say, he lost his job, and I gather his wife sent him packing, too.’

  ‘Why does that make him a suspect? Surely he couldn’t blame Damien for that. It was patently his own fault.’

  ‘Well, apparently it was Damien that dropped him in it, in the end, by contacting his boss, but I agree, it seems a bit hard. Unless there’s more to it than meets the eye. It all happened five or six years ago.’

  ‘You didn’t say anything about that, this afternoon.’

  ‘No. I don’t want Lloyd to know I’ve figured out the list.’
/>
  ‘But you mentioned Sam Bentley,’ she reminded him.

  ‘I know. I took a chance, and I wanted to see his reaction, but there wasn’t one, really, was there?’

  ‘You know, if you told Lloyd about the names, he might be able to clear up the whole mystery, had you thought of that?’

  ‘Well, yes, obviously. But . . .’

  ‘But you’re not going to.’

  ‘Maybe. But not just yet.’

  Eve tipped her head on one side and looked at him.

  ‘Are you sure this is about protecting Pippa?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gideon said, surprised. ‘What else?’

  Eve watched him for a few more lingering moments, then pursed her lips and shook her head.

  ‘I don’t know. Ignore me. Well, we’re finished here. Let’s get to bed, huh?’

  9

  BENTLEYS OF BATH was, in fact, on the outskirts of Bath, rather than in the city centre. The business was housed in a huge, purpose-built complex, which was a clever mix of old and modern styling, and stood, the website had stated, in sixteen acres of its own landscaped grounds. The name was inscribed on a large polished bronze plaque, to the right of the smoked-glass double front doors.

  Gideon had taken advantage of a bright, cloudless morning to give his new motorcycle an outing and, as the deep, burbling note of the powerful engine died away and he took his helmet off, he caught sight of a couple of curious faces at one of the downstairs windows. Even as he glanced at them, they were hastily withdrawn, and he unzipped his leather jacket with a private smile. Visitors to Bentleys were probably not in the habit of turning up on two wheels.

  Through the front doors, which opened silently at his approach, he found himself in a sumptuous reception area, carpeted in gold and furnished in bronzed metal and golden-veined marble. Two tall, well-built men stood, one on either side of the doors, but the smart brown and gold uniform did nothing to disguise their function. Something about the look in the eye and the set of the jaw proclaimed them as security; probably ex-army, Gideon decided, and as he advanced across the acres of carpet, he fancied he could feel their eyes boring suspiciously into his back.