BLINDFOLD

by Lyndon Stacey

  Gideon sat in the car - Pippa's - with his hands resting on top of the steering wheel and his eyes staring straight ahead into the blackness beyond the windscreen. It was raining still but the drumming on the roof was just background noise and hardly registered in his busy brain.

  From what Mary had told him, it was obvious that for some reason his suggesting a meeting had upset Tom, though for the life of him he couldn't see why. As far as he could remember, most of their conversation that day had been fairly mundane. Admittedly, Tom had seemed a bit put out to find that Gideon had been asking about Sox's behaviour. But why should that have bothered him so greatly? If Sox had been giving cause for concern it was more likely that he would have wanted to discuss it with Gideon.

  Tom had been agitated, Mary had said, and seemed reluctant to go to the cottage. But what would staying away have achieved in the long run? Avoidance could only have delayed the con

  frontation. After all, it was quite conceivable that Gideon, not finding him there, would have come to the farmhouse to look for him, unless ...

  Unless something happened to prevent him from doing so. With a fizz of actual, physical shock, Gideon realised the unwelcome course his thoughts were taking.

  Was it possible that the explosion at Roly French's cottage had not been an accident at all?

  Contacting Logan earlier in the week, Gideon had learned that it had borne all the hallmarks of a gas explosion but as far as he could see, that didn't preclude its having been rigged. And, unpalatable as it might be, he had to accept the fact that if it hadn't been an accident, then the fatal blast had quite conceivably been meant, not for Tom but for himself.

  Murder. Even thinking the word seemed ridiculous. It was something that happened in books and films, and on the news, not in rural Dorset to ordinary people.

  Gideon dragged his thoughts back on track. This was cold hard reality. There was no getting round the fact that if the explosion had indeed been set, then murder had been intended. But Tom hadn't left the farmhouse between receiving Gideon's message and his final journey to the cottage, so somebody else must have been involved.

  According to Mary, he'd left his meal unfinished and gone up to his study. Whom had he called?

  It was clear that even if he had set up the trap, Tom hadn't known what form it was to take or he wouldn't have walked into it himself. But why go there at all? Had his conscience stepped in at the last minute? When he left, he'd told Mary he loved her, something he hadn't done for a while. Were they the words of a man who knew he was heading for trouble? Perhaps Tom had gone to the cottage intending to warn Gideon who, unbeknownst to him, had been delayed by his run-in with the maniac in the white van.

  Considering what Gideon had discovered that afternoon, he had to consider the possibility that the third party - the one who had rigged the explosion - was none other than Milne's minder, Slade. Somehow he never seriously entertained the idea of Rosetti being responsible. Slade was the odd link in the chain; the one with the criminal background and necessary ruthlessness. But Gideon kept coming back to the same question. Where was the motive? There was no crime after all in selling shares in a horse and keeping it secret.

  Another thought forced its way in. If Slade or one of his associates had blown the cottage up then it stood to reason that it hadn't been them who ran him off the road earlier. It would have been pointless to set such an elaborate trap and then waylay the intended victim before he reached it.

  Who then had driven the van? Duke Shelley? Ironically, it if had been him, Gideon probably owed the man his life. That would make him spit if he knew!

  ' He laid his head on his arms and groaned in sheer frustration. It seemed the more he knew, the less he understood. Maybe he was reading far too much into the whole affair. Maybe the explosion had been no more than a tragic accident.

  One thing was for certain, though; his half-formed idea that Sean Rosetti was in some way defrauding Tom by using Popsox behind his back was obviously just as ridiculous as Pippa had thought it. If Sean part-owned the stallion and shared in the profits of his stud work, then any such motive was clearly redundant. Whatever was going on, Tom Collins had been in the very thick of it.

  His fruitless mental wranglings were interrupted by the urgent trilling of his phone. It was Logan returning his call.

  'Gideon. Hi, I can talk now. The official line is that the explosion at Gutter Lane was caused by a gas leak and triggered by Tom Collins turning a light switch on. The cottage had been unoccupied for some time but the gas was never disconnected.'

  `So where was the gas leaking from, do they know?'

  `As far as we've been able to determine, it came from a ruptured pipe in the sitting room. It appears that someone had broken in and tried to make off with a gas fire.'

  `What, by wrenching it away from the wall?' Gideon didn't attempt to hide his scepticism.

  `It would appear so.'

  `And when do they think this happened? How long would it take for that much gas to build up?'

  `It would depend on the size of the rupture. An hour or so ... or a few days. It's difficult to tell with the kind of damage this explosion caused.'

  `I wonder why there was a light on upstairs if Tom had only just got there?'

  `Whoever broke in probably left it on. It's not that unusual. Some thieves turn everything on: lights, bath taps, television. You count yourself lucky if they don't trash the place and spread filth on the walls,' Logan told him. `I don't think the light is significant.'

  Gideon had his own ideas about that. By leaving the upstairs light on, Slade, if it had been him, had ensured that Gideon would not just turn and walk away. Which was what he almost certainly would have done if he'd found the cottage in darkness and with no vehicle parked outside. Slade appeared to have prepared for everything, except the strength of Tom's conscience.

  `Well, you certainly seem to lead a charmed life, Gideon Blake,' Logan went on. `I suppose I don't need to tell you that if you'd been just a few moments earlier it would have been you face down in the front garden! Looks like the guy who smashed your bike up did you a favour after all.'

  `Yeah, but not Tom. It's like tossing a coin,' he said. `Somebody wins, somebody loses. Life or death. It's a sobering thought.'

  `Mm. I see it again and again.'

  `So that's the official line. What's the unofficial one?' Gideon asked after a moment. `What do you, personally, think?'

  'Ah, but I am an official,' Logan countered irritatingly.

  `When it suits you.' `My prerogative.'

  `But what do you really think? Do you believe it was an accident?' Gideon persisted. `Come on. I know you don't just follow blindly.'

  `Can you give me a compelling reason why I shouldn't believe it?' Logan said slowly. `What have you found out?'

  Gideon hesitated. After all, what had he found out? All he could do at the moment was muddy the waters, and he felt it only fair to Mary not to cast any suspicion on Tom until he knew more. She had enough to deal with.

  `Nothing definite,' he said at last.

  `Yeah, well, trust works both ways, mate. You might remember that.' A faint click and Logan had disconnected, leaving Gideon feeling slightly unsettled. He liked Logan and wished he could discuss his thoughts and suspicions with him, but he couldn't let his instincts blind him to the fact that Logan was first and foremost a police officer and would be bound most strongly by the demands of duty.

  Clearly, the best thing for everybody would be to get to the bottom of the riddle as soon as possible, and with that in mind, Gideon started the car and headed for Redbarn Farm Hospital and Sean Rosetti.

  THIRTEEN

  REDBARN FARMHOUSE WAS AGLOW with light as Gideon drove up. He hurried through the rain to the porch and the bell was promptly answered by Sean's wife Cathy, two springer spaniels and a hairy terrier of unimaginable parentage.

  'Gideon!' she exclaimed. `My goodness, you're soaking! Come on in. Isn't it a foul night? If you want Sean I'm afraid yo
u've missed him. He's at rugby practice - lovely, I should think, in this weather.'

  `Oh, well, never mind. It's not urgent.'

  `Is there any message? Look, come through to the kitchen. I've got dinner on the go and it'll be boiling over in a minute.' She turned to lead the way as she spoke, adding, `Don't trip over the dogs!'

  `Sean won't be back for a while, I'm afraid,' Cathy continued, as they emerged into the warmth and brightness of the kitchen. `He usually goes on for a beer or two with the lads afterwards. Eddie's here though, if it's a veterinary problem. He's down at the stables at the moment, checking on a patient, but he'll be in later. These are his dogs.'

  `No, no problem really,' Gideon assured her. `There was just something I wanted to check with Sean but it was more in the way of a social call, really.'

  `Well, I've just this minute made a pot of tea, so sit down and make yourself comfortable. Here, let me take that wet coat,' she said as he took off the navy blue stockman's coat, revealing shirt and jacket beneath. `You look very smart. Where've you been?'

  `It was Tom Collins' funeral today.'

  `Oh, of course! Sorry. Sean was upset that he couldn't make it but he had an emergency op to do. Thoroughbred mare with a twisted gut. It was touch and go for a while but she seems to have come through it quite well.' Cathy took his coat back out to the hall, her voice echoing as she disappeared.

  `Do sit down,' she said again, coming back in and taking two mugs from a rack. `How did it go? The funeral, I mean. They're obviously never pleasant but if it runs smoothly, that's something.'

  Gideon sat down. `It went well, I think. Mary was very brave and so were the kids. There was a good turnout and she laid on such a spread that it took ages to get rid of everybody.'

  `It was a dreadful business, wasn't it?' Cathy put a mug of tea in front of him then resumed her interrupted task of chopping carrots and adding them to the contents of a large saucepan that bubbled on the hob. `I've never met Mary but I know Sean's very fond of her. And Anthony's been over a couple of times. Sean plays rugby with him. He's a nice lad. Very grown-up and sensible. It's such a shame.'

  Gideon was just agreeing with her when the door opened and Daisy skipped in. She stopped short when she saw him at the table.

  Cathy swung round with a carrot in one hand and a knife in the other.

  `Hello, Daisy Doolittle, where have you been? Look who's come to visit.'

  `I'm having a baby sister, Giddy,' Daisy announced proudly, forgetting her shyness and stepping up to Gideon's knee. She

  looked into his face, her huge eyes earnest. `She's going to be called Starlight.'

  Gideon choked, trying not to laugh. `Well, that's . . . er . . . unusual.'

  `That's the name of the pony in the book I've been reading her,' Cathy said, smiling. `I think she'd rather I had a foal than a baby, at the moment.'

  `Is it a girl?'

  `They think so., It was a bit difficult to see. To be honest, I don't mind which. I think Sean'd like a boy, though. He says he'd like a rugby team. I told him he'd better look elsewhere, then, because I've no intention of turning into a broodmare.'

  `The way it's going, it looks as though he'd better start reading up on netball,' Gideon remarked.

  Sean still hadn't returned when Gideon left Redbarn Farm, some three-quarters of an hour later, and if anything he felt even less enthusiasm for his self-imposed task than he had when he arrived. The warmth and happiness of the family atmosphere at the farm was a rare and beautiful thing in this day and age, and the thought of doing anything to upset it was abhorrent to him.

  Useless to tell himself that any trouble was of Sean's making and not his. Drinking coffee and enjoying the company of the vet's family while doubts about Rosetti's honesty loomed large in his mind, he'd felt like a traitor. He could only hope that the business of the part-share of Sox, the connection with Slade, and Joey's information about a `Spaniard' were just a coincidence, and that the vet would have some simple, innocent explanation.

  By the time he stopped Pippa's car in the Priory stableyard it was gone eight o'clock and Gideon hoped, belatedly, that Pippa had had no need of it herself.

  The yard was deserted. Giles' four-by-four was out and the horses had all been fed and were contentedly munching hay in their boxes. He let himself into the house by way of the back door and the old washhouse, and made his way to the kitchen.

  At first he thought that this too was deserted, although the light was on, but then he spotted Pippa, kneeling in the corner by Fanny's basket.

  `Hi,' he said, going over. Then, when she didn't reply, `Is something the matter?'

  Pippa turned and he could see she was cradling one of Fanny's puppies in her arms. It lay unmoving, and a glance at its limp form was enough to tell Gideon it would never move. It was dead.

  What caught and held his attention, though, were Pippa's tearfilled eyes. The shock was like a physical blow. He'd never seen her cry before. It was a bit like seeing a parent cry for the first time. Pippa was always such a fiercely practical person, with apparently no time for sentimentality. Adversity made her determined; injustice made her angry; and grief she had in the past greeted philosophically. She was tougher than her brother by far and, although younger, had taken all the day-to-day decisions of life on herself, in the absence of their parents. Gideon had thought he knew her pretty well and this was out of character.

  `Oh, Gideon,' she said in a voice that shook. `Poor little puppy!' Fanny licked her hand and nuzzled the small lifeless body, puzzled.

  `What happened?' Gideon asked, crouching down beside her and putting out a finger to rub the dead pup's soft head. `Was this the small one?'

  Pippa nodded. `He seemed all right this morning. A little quiet perhaps, but then he was always fairly quiet. I remember thinking I ought to get them all checked over by the vet but I didn't have time today.' She sniffed, her eyes filling with tears again. `I should have made time.'

  Gideon put an arm round her shoulders.

  `You know it wouldn't have made any difference, love,' he said gently. `There was obviously something not quite right with this little fellow. He was never going to make old bones, whatever you'd done. You mustn't blame yourself.'

  Pippa looked up at him. `Did you know then? Could you tell?'

  Gideon shook his head, half-amused. `No. Of course I didn't know. Who do you think I am? Doris Stokes? I just meant that he wasn't doing as well as the others. There was no spark about him. You saw that.' He gave her shoulders a shake. `Now, would you like me to take him out in the garden and bury him?'

  `It's raining.'

  `No reason you can't have a burial in the rain. Went to one this morning, come to that.' Incredible that it had only been that morning. It seemed days ago, already.

  `Oh, Gideon, I'm sorry, I forgot! You must be feeling dreary enough as it is, without me being such an idiot!'

  `Don't be daft. I don't mind. Anyway, it's nice to see there's a soft and sentimental centre to that tough, practical shell.'

  Fifteen minutes later and considerably wetter, Gideon and Pippa shrugged off coats and wellies in the washhouse.

  `You don't really think I'm tough, do you?' she asked, almost anxiously.

  `As old boots,' Gideon joked. `No. Perhaps I should have said business-like.'

  `I know I made a fuss about the pups not being pedigree, but I love them just the same.'

  `I know you do. I was teasing,' he assured her.

  They went back into the kitchen where Mrs Morecambe had appeared and was rattling pots and pans in a busy manner.

  `Are you staying for a meal, Gideon? This silly child hasn't eaten yet, so busy she was, mooning over what couldn't be altered.' `I'm sure Gideon would love to stay. I've never yet known him turn down the offer of a meal,' Pippa said with a sidelong glance. Gideon acknowledged the truth of this and within minutes Mrs Morecambe had magically produced hot soup, warm bread, sausage rolls, ham, pickles and flapjacks.

  As they ate, Pippa told
him that Rachel and Giles had gone to see a film together, which caused him to raise an eyebrow, speculatively.

  `You don't mind, though, do you?'

  `Mind?' Gideon queried. `No. I should think they'd be safe enough there.'

  `No, I mean they seem to be seeing quite a bit of each other and, well, she is pretty.'

  Gideon stared at her, tragically. `You don't mean ... ? Oh, no! You don't think Giles is being unfaithful to me?'

  Pippa treated his play-acting with the contempt it deserved. She rolled her eyes heavenwards and then helped herself to a flapjack.

  `So what are you saying? You think Giles is serious?' Gideon asked after a moment.

  `I'm not sure. Would you mind very much?'

  He bit into another sausage roll. `I think she'd be good for him,' he said. `But I'd miss having her around. What's that song called? "I've Grown Accustomed to Her Face". Perhaps I should put up a fight. What d'you think? I'd hate to have to cook for myself again!'

  `I don't think you're in any imminent danger. At the moment, I think she regards Giles in the light of a big brother. You're her all-conquering hero.'

  `What a weird feeling! I've never been a hero before,' Gideon said thoughtfully.

  `Oh, I don't know. You've always been mine.'

  Gideon laughed. `Yeah, right! So how did your date go last night?'

  `My date? Actually it was better than a date. I had a meeting with a course designer. Giles has offered to build me a crosscountry course here on the estate. Isn't that brilliant?'

  The telephone rang, saving Gideon the necessity of responding, and Pippa jumped up to answer it.

  `Oh, heavens! I expect that's Stephanie. Stephanie Wainman - you remember her. I told her to ring tonight because I knew I'd be seeing you. She wants to know if you'll come and sort out her horse. What shall I say?'

  `What horse? The one you sold her?'

  `No. That stallion I told you about, Whitewings. He's getting out of hand, apparently. What shall I say?'