‘You go on, I’ll be with you in a minute,’ Gideon said, pretending to rub at a stubborn mark on Nero’s snaffle.
He’d just spotted Pippa’s mobile on the window sill and, as soon as she and Lloyd disappeared in the direction of the house, he left the bridle and picked up the phone.
Feeling faintly guilty, he scrolled through the menu, found Records, and Calls Received, and there it was: just a number – no name, because it presumably wasn’t among Pippa’s stored contacts – but it was, without doubt, the same as the number on the bottom of Damien’s list.
Gideon exited the menu, thoughtfully, and put the phone back where he’d found it. So it was Harriet’s number; where did that get him?
Exactly nowhere. However, the mystery continued to nag at him and that evening, having gone into the study for a session on the Skylark portrait, Gideon found himself picking up the list of numbers once more. In his mind, he heard Eve’s voice from the night before.
‘. . . if you wanted to be really nosy, you could always ring them.’
Well, why not?
With sudden decision, he carried the piece of paper out to the telephone in the hall and dialled the first of the numbers.
It rang no more than four times before a voice said, peremptorily, ‘Sam Bentley.’
Gideon’s mind went blank.
‘Sorry. Wrong number,’ he said, and the voice at the other end made a noise of exasperation and put the phone down.
Sam Bentley. S.B. The initials beside the number.
Damn! Gideon was annoyed with himself for not having thought out his approach. It was as if, in spite of having verified Lloyd’s number, he hadn’t really believed his theory until Sam Bentley answered his phone.
He needed a plan.
Leaving the list where it was, he went through to the sitting room, put another log on the fire and poured himself a glass of wine. Eve was getting him into bad habits, he thought, as he sat back on the sofa, to the delight of Zebedee, who immediately came and sat with his chin on Gideon’s thigh. Fondling the dog’s silky ears, he put his mind to the problem.
It was difficult to see what he could say, when he had absolutely no idea what the connection was between Damien and the six people on the list. Or five – if you discounted the one that had been crossed off. Were the five known to one another, or only to Damien? How old was the list? He’d been assuming it was recent, because of where they’d found it, but that wasn’t necessarily so.
Nero’s case file.
Gideon remembered Tilly saying that Damien had been intending to sell shares in the horse to help finance his keep and the expansion of the Puddlestone Farm yard. Well then – could it have been a list of prospective owners? Perhaps Damien had already rung them, which would explain why one was crossed out and the others ticked.
‘I bet that’s it!’ He spoke out loud, and Zebedee raised his head to look at him. ‘I think I’ve got it, Zeb,’ he said. ‘And you were no help at all.’
Zebedee wagged his tail happily.
Back in the hall, Gideon looked at the list. With the five ticked numbers and Damien himself, that would have been six; could the other have been the one against? It made as much sense as any previous theory.
With this in mind, he dialled the second number.
It rang, maybe seven or eight times, and then there was a click as an answerphone cut in, and through a certain amount of static a voice said, ‘You have reached the home of Robin and Vanessa Tate. I’m afraid neither of us are available to take your call at this time, but please don’t hang up. Leave a message after the tone and we promise to get back to you,’
Gideon put the receiver down and wrote Robin Tate on the pad, underneath Sam Bentley.
After this promising beginning, the third call was a bit of an anticlimax. In the first place, an automated voice informed him that the number had not been recognised and that he should check it and try again. He did so, with the same result, before it occurred to him that the number might just be a mobile one. Substituting oh-seven for the oh-one, he tried again, and this time was rewarded with a ringtone. Unfortunately that was as far as he got. The phone rang on for a short time and then the Orange answering service suggested he leave a message. Gideon declined.
The fourth number was answered by a woman’s voice simply saying, ‘Yes? Hello?’
Thinking fast, Gideon said, ‘Is that Lynette Turnbull?’
‘No. I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong number.’ The voice was middle class, with a hint of Essex.
‘Oh, sorry.’ Before she could hang up Gideon read out the number he’d just dialled. ‘Isn’t that you?’
‘Yes. That’s the number.’ The woman sounded puzzled. ‘But my name’s Tetley, not Turnbull.’
‘Oh. Is your husband there, by any chance?’
‘I’m divorced. He doesn’t live here any more. But my boyfriend’s here. Look, who are you and what do you want? Where did you get this number?’ She began to sound a little edgy.
‘It was given to me, in connection with a racehorse syndicate.’
‘Oh, and I suppose you think that’s funny, do you? Look, I don’t know what your game is, but if you don’t leave me alone I’ll—’
‘It’s all right,’ Gideon interposed soothingly. ‘I’m a old friend of Damien Daniels.’
‘Oh, is that right? Well, you’re no bloody friend of Adam’s then! Do you know what he said when he heard what’d happened to him? I’ll tell you: he said it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy! Now get off the fucking line before I report you for harassment!’
She hung up and Gideon replaced his receiver, glad that he’d had the foresight to withhold his number.
Unwittingly, in spite of her antagonism, she’d given him the name he’d been after, but her reaction to his mentioning Damien’s name had been interesting, to say the least. Not the attitude he’d have expected from someone whose husband had been contemplating a mutually beneficial business partnership, even if they were now divorced. Had something gone badly wrong?
This put a new complexion on Lloyd’s interest in the note.
Gideon rubbed his chin meditatively.
Everyone had said Damien had no enemies. He’d heard it time and time again at the reception, but it seemed this wasn’t strictly true. As fantastic as it might seem, this scrap of paper with its list of initials and telephone numbers could turn out to be important, after all. Was it even possible that it could have some bearing on the trainer’s murder?
Gideon had a strong suspicion that he should turn the list over to DI Rockley with no further ado, but there was Lloyd to consider. Personally, he owed the man nothing at all, but he was Pippa’s boyfriend, and Gideon owed her a hell of a lot.
It was a tricky situation.
Gideon found he was still staring at the list and, almost as a way of postponing a decision, he decided to ring the only number he hadn’t yet tried – the one that had been crossed through.
The phone rang twice, then there was a click and a taped voice said, ‘This is Norris Security Systems. The office is now closed. Please ring back during business hours: eight-thirty to five, weekdays, and Saturdays from nine till one. Alternatively, leave your name and number after the tone and we’ll get back to you at the earliest opportunity. Thank you.’
Gideon put the phone down, thoughtfully.
Julian Norris.
Crossed off the list, not because he didn’t want to buy shares in a racehorse, but because he was dead.
6
BY THE TIME Gideon got up the next morning, he’d decided on a plan of action. The first thing he did when he went downstairs was ring Puddlestone Farm, and ten o’clock found him parking the Land Rover in the stableyard.
There were three horses in the small holding paddock that flanked the lane to the gallops, mounted and circling calmly at the walk while their riders chatted. In the yard, three more horses stood waiting, tacked up and with blankets thrown over their saddles. Tilly was there, fitting p
rotective boots on the legs of a rangy dark brown gelding, aided by a short wiry grey-haired man whom Gideon didn’t know.
Tilly straightened up as Gideon drove in.
‘Hi. Comet’s ready for you,’ she called, as he stepped out of the Land Rover, carrying his crash cap. She indicated a big, well-made chestnut, on the far side of the yard. ‘He should be well up to your weight.’
‘I’ll pretend not to take offence at that remark,’ Gideon said.
Tilly laughed.
‘You know what I mean. By the way, this is Ivan, an old friend of Damien’s, who’s very kindly helping out while we’re short-handed.’
The wiry man glanced up at Gideon, pursed his lips and nodded.
‘Hi. Ivan . . .?’
‘Mundy,’ he supplied.
‘The jockey. I thought I recognised you! Pleased to meet you.’ Gideon held out his hand.
‘Ex-jockey,’ Ivan said, but he looked gratified.
‘Well, I think we’re about ready,’ Tilly said, pulling her helmet on. ‘It worked out just right, you calling like that,’ she added to Gideon. ‘Beth rode out with the second lot but then she had to go to the dentist, so we’d still have been one short if you hadn’t been coming over.’
Under his blanket, the chestnut gelding wore a general-purpose saddle that looked as though it had seen better days, but was, nonetheless, more inviting to Gideon than the postage-stamp-sized racing saddles the others wore.
He led Comet across to the stone mounting block and swung aboard, lengthening the stirrups to suit his long legs as the horse moved forward.
‘I’d put them a hole or two shorter than your normal,’ Tilly advised. ‘It’ll make it easier for you to get the weight off his back on the gallops.’
They clattered out of the yard and joined the three from the holding paddock in the lane, with Tilly and one of the lads taking the lead, and Gideon and Ivan bringing up the rear.
After displaying an initial tendency to jog, the chestnut settled into a long-striding walk; one ear forward and one to the side, where Ivan’s mount jigged and sidled with suppressed energy.
The ex-jockey seemed disinclined to talk, but Gideon was quite happy immersed in the atmosphere of the morning. The temperature had dropped overnight and Dorset lay cocooned in a low-lying mist, which lent the rolling hills and valleys a mystical quality, bushes and small trees appearing adrift in a milky sea.
‘Worse than this earlier,’ Ivan said suddenly, as they approached the gateway that led onto the gallops. ‘Couldn’t see a bloody thing. Good job there’s no rabbit burrers in this field.’
‘There are rabbits about, though,’ Gideon said. The evidence had been plain to see ever since they left the yard; scattered piles of round pellet-like droppings abounded on the grassy verges and banks.
‘Gotta man takes care of the gallops, haven’t they? Lives up in the cottage in the woods. Gotta couple of ferrets to keep the rabbits down; looks after the sheep, fills in any holes that appear and picks up flints and such that the horses might tread on.’
‘Does he live on his own?’
‘Bit of a hermit, by all accounts,’ Ivan said, nodding.
They filed through the gate onto the sheep-cropped turf, and at once all the horses’ heads came up, ears sharply pricked in anticipation, plumes of steam hanging in brief clouds around their muzzles. As if it were contagious, Gideon felt an answering thrill of excitement fizz through his own veins.
At the front, a tall grey started to plunge its head towards the ground, trying to weaken its rider’s grip, and Tilly called out, ‘Circle him, Gavin. Keep in behind the others until you’re ready to go. I don’t want you getting carted! Girths, please, everyone.’
She swung round to come alongside Gideon, who was pulling the chestnut’s girth one hole tighter.
‘We’ll go first, Gideon, then I can watch the others work. Keep Comet’s nose level with Mojo’s flank, if you can. We’ll go steady along the bottom of the valley until we get just past that clump of bushes, then swing uphill and let them stretch out a little. Three-quarter speed will be quite fast enough, but don’t worry if you can’t hold him; he’ll be blowing pretty much by the time he reaches the top. OK?’
‘Fine,’ Gideon confirmed.
‘Right, you lot,’ she called to the others. ‘Come on my whistle. Ivan’s in charge, OK?’
She clicked her tongue at her mount and they were off, trotting at first, then easing into a canter. Keeping Comet’s bobbing head roughly in line with Mojo’s powerful quarters, Gideon leant forward over the chestnut’s withers and revelled in the sensation of latent power.
As they approached the bushes, Tilly glanced back.
‘OK?’
‘Fine.’
‘Right, sit tight!’
Gideon had the fleeting impression of a figure standing in the lee of the bushes, but a split second later his concentration was fully on his riding as the two horses rounded the corner and surged forward up the hill, their heads lowering as they met the rising ground.
The misty valley fell away behind them as they powered diagonally across the slope of the twenty-acre field towards its boundary and then followed the post and rails to the summit, the speed of their passage snapping the fabric of Gideon’s jacket and whipping tears to his eyes. For the time being, reality was the rhythm of thudding hooves, short snorting breaths, and the blur of the rails racing past.
At the top of the hill, the two horses swung away from the fence in perfect accord to run along the crest, both slowing appreciably now, and Tilly threw Gideon a look over her shoulder.
‘OK? Keep him going until we get to the clump of trees up ahead.’
When they eventually slowed to a trot and circled to a walk, she glanced at him again.
‘How was that?’
‘Incredible!’ Gideon shook his head. ‘Absolutely amazing! Wow!’
Tilly laughed.
‘You did really well. I wish some of my lot followed instructions like that.’
‘Well, actually I think most of that was down to this fella,’ Gideon admitted. ‘He was a perfect gentleman.’
‘Ah, “the Gideon factor”,’ Tilly said.
‘Sorry?’
‘It’s what Pippa calls it. Didn’t you know? “The Gideon factor”. Comet’s not always that well behaved.’
‘It’s probably my great weight,’ Gideon joked. ‘By the way, when we passed those bushes down in the valley, I thought I saw someone standing watching, did you?’
‘Oh, that was probably Reuben; he nearly always watches the horses being exercised.’
‘Reuben?’
‘Yes. He lives in an old charcoal burner’s hut on the edge of the copse, and looks after the gallops for us. I don’t know how old he is – could be anything from fifty to seventy – but he’s been there since before I was born. Just turned up one day, apparently.’
‘Oh, yes, Ivan mentioned him. Lives on his own, he said.’
‘Yes. Well, he’s got an old collie dog but he’s a bit of a recluse, really. Dad takes him a box of groceries once a week and picks up a list for the next week. That’s his wage. We don’t pay him, as such. Nobody can remember his other name – if we ever knew it, which I doubt. I shouldn’t imagine he exists on any electoral roll, because that old hut only appears on the map as a ruin, and I don’t suppose he’s been off the farm for the last twenty years or more. We don’t often see him, he kind of blends into nature, but I think he watches the horses, most days. Melanie and Sue say he gives them the creeps but he doesn’t bother me, and Damien used to visit him regularly when he was growing up.’
‘It’s kind of comforting to think that you can still slip through the net in this day and age,’ Gideon said.
‘Absolutely. I agree.’
They drew up, facing down into the valley, and Gideon could see they’d travelled through a rough U-shape, ending up almost level with the horses that still circled below. Tilly took a teacher’s whistle from her jacket pocket
and blew strongly, and after a few moments two of the riders detached from the others and started along the valley bottom.
Well before they reached the bushes, the horses were travelling at a fierce pace, first one then the other getting its nose in front.
Tilly groaned out loud.
‘No, no, no, Gavin!’ she said, even though they were too far away to hear. ‘Keep hold of him. Hands down, you idiot! Oh, for Pete’s sake!’
This last cry of despair came as the rider on the grey finally lost his struggle for control, just before the bushes, and his horse shot past his training partner and away up the hill, gaining lengths in no time at all. Left behind, the other horse fought unsuccessfully for its head then suddenly jinked right, tipping its rider over its shoulder, and galloped in pursuit of its stable companion, leaving the girl sitting on the turf.
‘Oh bugger!’ Tilly said. ‘Poor old Melanie. She’s brilliant in the yard, but she needs bloody superglue on her saddle. And that bloody Gavin . . . !’
‘That bloody Gavin’ came thundering towards them along the brow of the hill, still travelling strongly and looking as though he might well go straight past without stopping. The loose horse followed in his wake.
‘Hands down; sit down; turn him in a circle!’ Tilly shouted, and eventually the grey slowed to a shambling trot.
‘Shall I try and catch the other one?’ Gideon offered, his eyes on the approaching animal.
‘You can try, but she can be a bit of a devil. It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve had to ride home and let her follow on behind.’
She sounded stressed and Gideon felt sorry for her.
The bay mare cantered towards them, eyes and nostrils wide with excitement. One stirrup lay across her saddle and she’d trodden on her reins, leaving the broken ends to trail in the grass. Fifteen or twenty yards away she came uncertainly to a halt, anxiously eyeing the waiting group and, without a word, Gideon slipped off Comet and handed his reins to Tilly.
Keeping his head and body inclined at forty-five degrees from the loose horse he walked quietly to within ten feet or so, and slightly out to one side.
She was tense; watching him. Head high and eyes wary.
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