Deadfall

by Lyndon Stacey

He was sitting at his desk staring at paperwork that kept blurring on the page, and when Mary had finished what she was doing, she moved the papers and put a cup of coffee in front of him, suggesting that he recline his chair, shut his eyes and take it easy until he felt better.

  'The paperwork can wait and Geoff can manage perfectly well. He always does when you're riding at the weekend. I'll call you if there's a problem.'

  'Thanks. I might just do that.'

  As the door closed behind her he took a sip of his coffee, adjusted his chair slightly and leaned back against the headrest. He had no intention of sleeping; he just wanted to close his eyes for a moment to try and ease the heavy pounding in his skull. The showers had cleared away overnight and day had dawned bright and sunny, the light intensifying his discomfort. Scarcely aware that he was doing it, his hand located the edge of the curtain and twitched it half-across. The resulting shade was blessed . . .

  '. . . and when you are here you're half-asleep!'

  Somebody had come into the office. Linc fought his way up through the layers of sleep.

  'Lincoln!' Sharply.

  It was his father. Damn. Of all people it had to be him. Apart from the cut on his forehead, which had been closed with adhesive strips, he looked none the worse for the previous day's experience.

  'Are you listening to a word I'm saying?'

  Linc was never at his best when suddenly woken up. It was as if the part of his brain that controlled tolerance and tact was the last to start functioning.

  'Oh, for God's sake!' he groaned. 'What do you want?'

  It could have been worse; he could have said the first thing that came into his head, which was, Oh, sod off and leave me alone!

  'A little respect would be a start!' Viscount Tremayne obviously didn't appreciate his narrow escape. He drew back the curtain, flooding the office with sunlight, and Linc winced and turned his head away.

  His father frowned. 'Are you hung over?'

  'In a manner of speaking . . .'

  'Don't be flippant! Either you are or you aren't.'

  'I think someone spiked my drink last night,' he said, rubbing one hand wearily across his eyes. He had hoped to avoid the subject but it was plain he couldn't. He knew from experience that if his father were in interrogative mode, he would keep probing until he had the whole story, and any attempt to foil him would be regarded as proof of a guilty conscience.

  Linc found he was drifting again and concentrated with an effort. His father was regarding him searchingly.

  'When? Last night? Where?'

  'At the conservation do.'

  'At the party? Well, have you any idea by whom? Or why?'

  Linc shook his head. It had been occupying his mind all morning – or at least, that part of it in which he'd been able to marshal any sensible thought processes at all.

  At the police station, Manston had been on duty once again. He'd taken the incident very seriously and asked Crispin to furnish him with a full list of the partygoers by the end of the day. He also wanted to know the name of the doctor who had attended Linc at the Vicarage, and was interested to hear of Sandy's part in the drama.

  Crispin told Manston that Linc had left his cup of punch on the drinks table while he went off to talk to the volunteer group leader, and Manston immediately wanted details of everyone who had approached the table at that time. Crispin did his best, but as he couldn't fit names to the faces of those who'd been at the party, he wasn't much help.

  'Would your wife be able to help us?' Manston wanted to know.

  'Well, she might,' Crispin said doubtfully. 'She organised the whole thing, so she had more to do with them than I did, but she was here, there and everywhere, all evening.'

  'But you didn't leave the table at all?'

  'No. Yes – wait a minute – I did! Someone came to tell me my car alarm was going off, so I nipped out to the car park to switch it off,' he said. 'But I was gone less than two minutes.'

  'Plenty of time for someone to slip something in your brother's drink, though, if they'd been watching for an opportunity,' Manston pointed out.

  'Well, yes – I suppose so, but Nikki was around somewhere and Beverley had come over by then, too. My mother-in-law, Beverley Pike,' he added, seeing Manston's questioning look.

  As Linc could still not recall anything about the party or what followed, Manston had sent them on their way.

  But even if opportunity had been found, the question of motive remained. Who, at the party, could possibly have wanted to render Linc helpless? And to what end?

  'Linc! Good God, it's like trying to talk to a zombie! I asked you if you'd reported it.' The Viscount's patience, never his strongest point, was wearing dangerously thin.

  'I'm sorry. Yes, I did, and I've seen a doctor,' Linc told him. 'So now you know as much as I do. All in all, it was probably just a misguided prank.'

  'Is that what Rockley thinks?'

  'It was Manston, and he didn't precisely say,' Linc hedged. 'He said they'd look into it, but there were several gatecrashers there last night – mostly kids from the village – but it makes it very difficult to account for everyone.'

  'So you've had no more warning notes?'

  'Not since the last one.' Linc was troubled by a twinge of guilt but ruthlessly smothered it. After all, it was technically true.

  His father was regarding him steadily, as if unsure whether to believe him, and Linc returned the look, trying not to imagine, as he had done in his childhood, that his father could see inside his head and would know he was lying.

  After what seemed an age, the Viscount shrugged and turned towards the door, saying, 'Well, you'd better take the afternoon off and sort yourself out. Get some sleep, you look as though you need it.'

  'I'll be okay . . .' Linc began, but his father turned and fixed him with a quelling eye.

  'I'm your employer and you'll do as you're told,' he said with finality.

  More or less banished to his room for the afternoon, like a school-aged kid, Linc nevertheless found the lure of a couple of hours of rest in a darkened room too much to resist and stretched out on his bed. His body had other ideas, however, and he slept for a full eight hours, only waking when his mobile phone trilled on the bedside table. It was Josie, concerned that she hadn't heard from him but relieved that he'd been resting.

  Monday found Linc still a little fragile but generally much improved, so he got up at his usual early hour and drove over to the Vicarage to ride Noddy. He arrived to find Ruth tidying away the mucking out tools, accompanied unusually by Hannah. He looked at his watch in surprise.

  'Am I late or are you early?' he asked, getting out of the car. He hadn't seen Ruth the previous morning and had dreaded the awkwardness of their meeting after the gruesome business of Saturday night, but it seemed she had other things on her mind.

  'No, I'm early. I fed them all at six, so you can ride if you want. We're all going to the hospital. Mum called – something's going on with Abby. They think she might be waking up!'

  'Really? That's brilliant! Go on then, you go. I'll finish up here.'

  'You don't mind?'

  'Don't be daft!'

  'Oh, thanks.' Already halfway across the yard, Ruth paused. 'Are you all right now? After the other night, I mean. That was horrible!'

  'We thought you were dead at first!' Hannah put in, with ghoulish relish. 'You looked like a corpse.'

  'Hannah!' Ruth exclaimed, crossly.

  'I felt like one,' Linc responded. 'But I'm much better today, thanks. Now go!'

  'We'll ring you if there's any news,' Ruth said, backing away and dragging her sister by the hand. 'Are you sure you don't mind?'

  Linc waved her on and went to get Noddy ready, trying to keep the leaping hope under control. Dreadful if it was yet another false alarm.

  By the time he'd ridden and rubbed Noddy down, there had still been no word and the first thrill of excitement had settled into a wary anticipation. What if the change in her condition signalled n
ot a return to consciousness but a deterioration? The effect it would have on the rest of the family didn't bear thinking about.

  It was nearly nine o'clock when Linc left the Vicarage, having done all he could, and he decided to head on to Shaftesbury to see Sandy. Making a slight detour, he called in at the excellent Post Office and general stores in Farthing St Thomas, where he bought a bottle of Scotch and a bacon roll. The first he stowed in the roomy glove compartment of the Discovery, the second he ate whilst he drove. In theory, it wouldn't have taken much longer to call back to his flat at Farthingscourt but in practice he'd have been lucky to get in and out without someone finding something that needed his urgent attention, and wanting to know where he was going and why.

  When he reached the industrial park, he found the forecourt to Sandy's unit already taken up with the saddler's own lorry and a white BMW that he vaguely remembered having seen there before. He searched his memory and came up with a mental picture of a tall, well-built man in a leather coat. Nobody he knew.

  He parked the Farthingscourt vehicle on the other side of the lorry from the BMW and started to get out, then hesitated. He'd walked in on Sandy's visitor last time; perhaps he'd give them a moment or two. So he sat in the warm sunshine watching a busy colony of house martins coming in relays to a series of mud nests, high under the metal overhang of the building, his mind returning to the puzzle of Saturday night. He couldn't see how it could have anything to do with the warnings he'd received, but if not it seemed completely pointless.

  Either way it had left a lot to chance. Given the state he'd been in, he might very possibly have driven off the road and into a handy tree, but it was just as likely he would do what in fact he did do – gradually lose consciousness and bump on to the verge, stalling the car in the process. The thought of what might have happened if he'd travelled that extra yard or two still made him go hot and cold. But that could never have been planned for

  And if he hadn't left the party early, what then? After all, whoever slipped him the Mickey Finn could have had no way of knowing how long he'd stay. Crispin had told Manston that Linc had left just a couple of minutes after drinking the punch, but he might have stayed there all evening for all anyone knew.

  Was the object to make him a laughing stock? Was one of the conservation group an ardent republican, who might gain satisfaction from putting one over on a member of the hated aristocracy? But surely such a person wouldn't have volunteered to work on the estate in the first place.

  Or was the intention more sinister still? Apparently, hounded by the garrulous group leader, he'd drunk less than half a cup of Nikki's punch before he left. If he'd drained the cup would he still be here to tell the tale? Manston was very keen to know what his blood tests revealed. Was the violence of Linc's reaction in keeping with the substance he'd consumed or was it an individual response, compounded by his not having eaten for several hours?

  The door of the unit opened, interrupting his thoughts, and an unfamiliar voice said testily, 'Well, if you'd just used your head, there wouldn't still be a problem!'

  From where Linc sat, he couldn't see the owner of the voice because Sandy's lorry was in the way. He could just see part of the open doorway if he craned his neck but didn't particularly want to be caught doing anything so bad-mannered.

  Still inside the unit, Sandy's reply was indistinct, but Linc had no problem hearing his visitor's response to it.

  'Oh, no! Don't try and shift the blame. You both fucked up! But you had a chance to put things right and you didn't – that's what pisses me off!'

  Sandy's voice came again, protesting, but the other man cut across him.

  'No. That's not good enough. I'm going now, and I don't want to hear from you unless it's good news.'

  After a moment a car door slammed and its engine roared into life. The white BMW backed out of its space and on a long fluent curve, accelerated out of the park.

  There was a crash from the unit and Linc looked back to find that Sandy had slammed the metal door shut. In fact, he did it with such force that it failed to catch and bounced open again. It was obviously not a good moment, and if he hadn't made a special journey to see the saddler, Linc would have thought twice about going in. As it was, he retrieved the Scotch from the glove compartment, shut and locked the Land-Rover and headed for the swinging door.

  Sandy had gone into his office, leaving the door ajar, so Linc knocked lightly on it and peered round.

  The saddler was sitting at his desk with a whisky bottle and empty tumbler in front of him and a stormy expression on his good-natured face. The bottle held only an inch or so more liquid.

  'Refill? Linc suggested, holding his bottle out with a smile.

  'What?' Sandy looked up, scowling.

  Linc put the Scotch on the desk in front of him. 'By way of a thank you for the other night. Looks like I was just in time, too.'

  Sandy's scowl dissolved into a beatific smile. 'There is a God!' he declared. 'Will you join me?'

  'Er, I'd prefer a coffee, if you've got some. I'm still feeling a little fragile.'

  'Sure.' Sandy emptied the first bottle into his glass, took a swig and stood up. 'You certainly learn your lessons the hard way. Sit.'

  'Actually, I hadn't been drinking,' Linc informed him, making use of the chair on his side of the desk. 'I think someone must have slipped me a Mickey at the party.'

  'Nice of them!' Sandy observed. 'You were well out of it when I found you, that's for sure! I tried to wake you but you were dead to the world, so I thought it was best to take you on to the Vicarage with me.'

  'In my car.'

  'Yeah, well, I didn't think you'd want it left there, and since you were already in the passenger seat, it seemed the simplest thing to do.'

  'I was?' Linc couldn't imagine why he might have changed seats; not easy in a Morgan, without getting out and walking round.

  'Yeah, I thought it was odd,' Sandy remarked. 'Thought perhaps someone else had been driving but there was no one around.'

  He looked at Linc as though he was expecting him to provide an answer to the puzzle but he had none to offer.

  'I'm sorry. Your guess is as good as mine.'

  'Oh, well, people do strange things when they're stoned,' Sandy observed placidly as he switched the kettle on and located a mug. He peered inside this and then tapped it upside down before spooning coffee granules into it.

  Linc decided it was probably better not to ask.

  'Got any idea who planned that little surprise then?' the saddler went on.

  'None at all. But I'd certainly like to come up with them in some lonely spot . . .'

  'I bet.' He found milk in a mini-refrigerator next to the microwave, and sniffed it cautiously. Linc began to think the whisky might have been the better option after all.

  There was a scratching at the door and when Sandy opened it, Tiger trotted in, tail waving happily. He made a beeline for Linc's feet and parked his brindle rump firmly on them.

  Sandy smiled. 'He's happy now. Al doesn't like dogs and Tiger tends to growl at people who give off the wrong vibes, so I had to shut him out.'

  There are dogs and dogs, Linc thought, sympathising with Sandy's late visitor on that point, at least. Nevertheless, old habits die hard, and he found himself fondling Tiger's ears as he talked.

  'He didn't sound a particularly happy bunny, as it was,' he commented. 'I'm sorry, I couldn't help overhearing. He wasn't exactly discreet when he left. Is it anything I can help you with? I feel I owe you.'