Time to Pay

by Lyndon Stacey

Gideon relaxed a fraction, but supposed he’d better check the Land Rover and the shed before he went back inside.

  Stepping over the low shrubs that bordered the path, he trod silently across the grass to the wicket gate, feeling the dew begin to soak the thin leather of his moccasins almost straight away. With his hand on the gate latch he became aware of a dim glow inside the Land Rover.

  Hefting the rubber-covered torch in his hand, Gideon carefully operated the latch and started to open the gate. As he did so, the door on the far side of the vehicle shut with a muffled thunk, and a male voice muttered, ‘Fucking hell!’ in tones of extreme frustration.

  In the Gatehouse, Zebedee began to bark once more and, beside Gideon, the gate hinge emitted a dry squeal as he eased it open.

  Instantly, the prowler took to his heels and sped away down the lane towards the road. Abandoning caution, Gideon tore after him.

  It was a hopeless effort. For one thing, the man in front had a five-or-six yard head start, and for another, he presumably wasn’t wearing moccasins.

  After only two or three strides, Gideon lost both of his, and from then on the outcome of the chase was never in doubt. He pulled up, hopping and swearing, just a few paces later, and switched the torch on. The feeble beam of light completely failed to reach the fugitive’s fast-retreating form, and Gideon glanced at the fading bulb with irritation.

  ‘Hell and bloody damnation!’ he said out loud, and making a mental note to renew the torch batteries, he began to retrace his steps, using the dim circle of light to locate his fallen shoes.

  Reshod, he gave the Land Rover and the shed a cursory examination and then headed for the house, where he found Eve waiting for him on the step, her hand still in Zebedee’s collar.

  ‘Badgers?’ she enquired wryly.

  ‘Well, maybe not.’

  ‘What happened? Are you OK?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine – except for a bruised foot. My moccasins came off when I tried to run after him. But the bastard’s slashed the canvas on the Land Rover.’

  ‘Oh, no, you’re kidding! Was he trying to steal it, d’you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. I rather got the impression he was looking inside it, but I can’t imagine what he hoped to find.’

  Eve shivered. ‘Well, if you’ve finished chasing burglars, shall we go inside? I’m freezing to death here.’

  ‘Why on earth didn’t you wait inside?’

  ‘Because I couldn’t see what was happening, and I thought you might need some help. D’you think it was the same person who broke in before?’

  Gideon followed her into the relative warmth of the hall and shut the door.

  ‘I don’t know. They had all evening to look around last time. Why would they come back?’

  ‘Well, to search the Land Rover, I suppose. It wasn’t here that night, was it? Because you’d driven over to the gallery.’

  ‘But what the hell did he think he was looking for? I don’t have much in the house, but I’ve got even less in the car.’

  He sat down and kicked the moccasins off, stretching his damp feet towards the Aga.

  ‘Doesn’t all this bother you?’ she asked. ‘You know, I wasn’t just shivering with the cold out there, I was really frightened!’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Gideon said, reaching out to rub her arm. ‘Well, obviously I’m not exactly overjoyed about it, but until I know who he is and what he’s looking for, there’s not a lot I can do. But at least he doesn’t seem too eager for a confrontation, that’s one thing.’

  ‘You’re a strange one, you know, mister? When I first met you I thought you were pretty much of a big softy, but now I’m not so sure. You’re so laid-back it’s untrue, but you’re soft like a polar bear is soft, and I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of one of those.’

  Gideon shrugged, embarrassed. ‘I’ll fight if I’m cornered, but basically, you got it right the first time.’

  The truth was that behind his habitually relaxed exterior, he was beginning to feel a faint stirring of unease. Damien’s death, and the manner of it, had shaken everyone up, and it was natural that it should take some time for things to settle down, especially while his murder remained unresolved. But now, it seemed, someone was taking an unhealthy interest in Gideon, and the feeling was not a pleasant one. What if, for some reason, the murderer was having second thoughts about letting him live?

  Admittedly, the intruder hadn’t been eager for a confrontation, but maybe that wasn’t his style. What possible defence was there against a long-range sniper’s bullet?

  The answer was as clear as it was chilling.

  None at all.

  7

  THE NEXT MORNING Gideon paid his rescheduled visit to the Radcliffe Trust stables.

  It was the day Angie Bowen was to play host to the Trust’s directors, and she came hurrying out of the office as Gideon parked the Land Rover and got stiffly out. He thought she looked tense.

  ‘Hello, Gideon. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yeah. I went and rode work with Tilly Daniels yesterday, and I’m not as fit as I thought I was,’ he said ruefully. ‘But don’t worry, I’m fully functional – just a little creaky!’

  ‘Oh, good. But they’re not here yet. I’m sorry. They told me half past ten. I think everything’s ready . . .’

  ‘Hey, it’ll be fine,’ Gideon said. ‘They can’t fail to be pleased with what you’re doing here.’

  She gave him a brief, nervous smile. ‘I thought we’d start with Ping Pong, the new lad who arrived on Monday. He came from a jumping yard up north. I don’t know much about his history but he’s very nervous and I wondered whether you could do a join-up session with him? Would you mind? I know you don’t really like an audience.’

  ‘But I’ll do it for you, my dear,’ he said, assuming an expression of martyrdom.

  ‘You’re daft, you know that? Oh ’eck! Here they come.’

  Gideon turned to see a gleaming dark blue Daimler nose into the yard. It pulled up next to his own dusty vehicle, with its taped-up slashed canvas, and two men got out: one tall and lean with wire-rimmed spectacles, and the other a good eight inches shorter and rather overweight. They were both attired in cavalry twills and tweed jackets; immaculate to the toes of their polished brown shoes. The effect was rather as though they had visited a Bond Street tailor and asked to be kitted out for a visit to the country.

  Angie stepped forward to perform the introductions.

  ‘Colonel Havering, Dr Camberwell; Gideon Blake. Gideon’s our behaviourist.’

  Handshakes were exchanged and comments made about the lovely spring weather, and then their tour of the facilities got under way. The new stable block was inspected and the benefits of the proposed covered school discussed, and then they met the horses currently in residence.

  The two men took an intelligent interest in everything they were told, and Gideon rapidly revised his first impression of them. When they had seen everything else, he slipped a headcollar onto the new grey gelding and led it into the boarded round pen.

  Unclipping the rope, Gideon let the horse loose and it immediately shied away from him and went to stand on the other side of the circle, eyeing him warily. Stepping towards its hindquarters and flicking the loose end of the lead rope, Gideon clicked his tongue and sent the animal plunging into a canter round the outside of the pen. Out of the corner of his eye, Gideon saw Angie and the two men settling themselves into the seats on the viewing platform and, trusting her to explain the procedure to them, turned his full attention onto the horse.

  Ping Pong was an exemplary pupil, displaying all the behavioural patterns that illustrated the join-up technique perfectly. After an initial period of sending the horse away from him, Gideon took the pressure off and let him slow a little. Instantly Ping Pong lowered his head and started to make chewing and licking actions, plainly indicating his willingness to submit. At this cue Gideon turned away, dropping a shoulder and bowing his head: an invitation to the horse to come into
the centre, to follow him and accept his leadership. Within moments, the grey was standing next to him and, after rubbing its forehead reassuringly, Gideon moved away, confident that Ping Pong would be right behind.

  He was.

  Gideon wandered this way and that in the round pen, with the grey horse following like a devoted puppy, and then stopped and clipped the rope on once more. The whole episode had taken less than ten minutes.

  The directors, it seemed, were impressed.

  ‘I have to say, I’ve never seen anything like that in my life!’ Colonel Havering exclaimed, as Gideon emerged from the pen with Ping Pong in tow.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t claim it’s anything new. There are dozens of people using this method now.’

  ‘But Angela would have us believe you’re somewhat exceptional,’ the colonel said. ‘She says you have a real gift.’

  Gideon wasn’t sure how to reply to this.

  ‘That’s kind of her. I suppose I’ve always had an instinct for it,’ he said. ‘But she’s the one who puts in all the hard work to back it up.’

  Excusing himself on the pretext of needing to return the horse to its box, Gideon made his getaway and, by the time he’d settled Ping Pong, the two men had taken their leave and swished quietly away in the Daimler.

  ‘I think that went well. You were brilliant, and this fellow was an absolute star,’ Angie declared, coming into the grey’s stable as Gideon rubbed him down with a cactus cloth. ‘Have you got time for a celebratory coffee?’

  ‘Just try and get rid of me without! So you think Laurel and Hardy went away happy?’

  Angie laughed. ‘They only needed the bowler hats, didn’t they? Yes, they seemed very upbeat. It’s the Trust’s tenth anniversary later in the year, and they’re talking about trying to get some TV coverage, which would be good.’

  They left Ping Pong munching on a net of hay, and headed for the staffroom and the promised cup of coffee, but halfway there they were interrupted as another vehicle entered the yard.

  ‘No, no. Go away. I want my coffee,’ Angie muttered as they turned to meet the newcomer.

  A monstrous four-by-four pulled up, and a slim woman with short dark hair and a Mediterranean tan jumped down from the driver’s seat.

  ‘Hello, Vanessa,’ Angie said, with what Gideon judged to be a genuine smile of welcome. ‘Did you have a nice holiday?’

  ‘Yes, too short, though. Morocco was divine.’ Her dark brown eyes flickered over Gideon with interest.

  ‘Oh, this is Gideon Blake,’ Angie told her. ‘Gideon; Vanessa Tate. Vanessa’s had two horses off us.’

  ‘Hi,’ he said, stepping forward to shake her hand briefly.

  ‘Hi. And now I’d like a third, if you’ve got anything suitable,’ Vanessa announced, turning to Angie once more.

  ‘We might have,’ Angie said. ‘But do you think you could possibly wait five minutes while we grab a cup of coffee? Gideon and I have been entertaining the charity’s top brass. In fact, if you’ve got time, why don’t you come and have a cuppa with us?’

  Vanessa looked at her watch. ‘Well, OK. I’ve got an appointment at two o’clock, but that still gives me a couple of hours. Thanks.’

  In the staffroom they surprised a young lad and a girl who were sitting close together on one of the orange-covered, boxy sofas. They moved apart instantly, as if an electric charge had passed between them, and the boy, who had lank dark hair and teenage skin, pushed a hand through his fringe in a gesture of self-consciousness.

  ‘Ah, Warren. Conniston’s tack needs cleaning,’ Angie said briskly. ‘And make sure you oil that new noseband, it’s horribly stiff. Julie, could you go and catch Pinto and Twiggy?’

  ‘Yeah, um . . . where shall I put them?’ Julie was blonde with dark roots, a sulky pout and a nose stud.

  ‘Any of the spare boxes. They won’t be in for long.’

  The two youngsters left the room together, and broke into audible giggles as the door swung to behind them.

  ‘I don’t know what she sees in him,’ Angie remarked as they disappeared. ‘Must be pheromones, I suppose. Coffee or tea?’

  Vanessa Tate, it transpired, had a daughter of fifteen, and the two women disappeared into the tiny kitchen area to discuss the vagaries of the lovelorn teenager while Angie prepared the drinks.

  Gideon was glad to be temporarily excluded from the conversation; it gave him a chance to decide how best to take advantage of this completely unheralded good fortune. There was no real doubt in his mind that this was the Vanessa Tate whose telephone-answering machine he’d listened to, three days before. And if there had been any doubt, it would have been stilled moments later, when Vanessa carried her coffee over to the sofa and sat down, saying, ‘Robin’s determined that Poppy should go to boarding school in September, but any mention of it brings on a strop of gigantic proportions!’

  She gave Gideon a friendly smile.

  ‘Do you have any children, Gideon?’

  ‘No, just a dog and a cat,’ he responded. ‘So, what sort of horse are you looking for?’

  ‘An eventer – or at least, a potential one. The two I had from here last year are coming on terrifically well.’

  ‘Three’s a lot to cope with, or does your husband ride, too?’

  ‘I’ve actually got five,’ she said. ‘All at different stages of their careers. No, Robin doesn’t often ride any more, but I have a girl to help me.’

  ‘How sad, to give up like that,’ Angie put in. ‘When he used to ride such a lot.’

  ‘Yes, but to be honest, I think he only really rode because it was necessary for the pentathlon. He always preferred the shooting and the fencing. And now he’s got his motorbikes. Fifteen of them, at the last count!’

  ‘Ah, I can identify with that,’ Gideon said warmly. ‘I’ve just put down a deposit on a new bike myself.’

  ‘Really? I never saw you as a biker,’ Angie commented.

  ‘Dyed in the wool,’ he assured her. ‘Only been without for a couple of years since I was eighteen.’

  ‘Like Robin,’ Vanessa agreed. ‘You should meet up.’

  ‘You know, I can’t help thinking I’ve heard the name Robin Tate somewhere recently,’ Gideon said, injecting a note of thoughtfulness into his voice. ‘He wasn’t a friend of Damien Daniels, was he?’

  Vanessa shook her head. ‘Not unless it was before I knew him. Wasn’t that a dreadful thing? Have they caught anyone yet?’

  ‘Not that I know of. Robin Tate – would it have been something about a racing syndicate?’

  ‘No, I think it must definitely have been another Robin Tate. My Robin’s got no interest in racing whatsoever.’

  ‘What about Sam Bentley? Do you know him?’ That was the name he fancied had struck a chord with the PE teacher.

  Vanessa shook her head again, but with no apparent disquiet. ‘No. Sorry. We know a Sam Potter, but not Bentley.’

  ‘Sam Potter? Is that Ian and Sarah’s boy?’ Angie enquired. ‘How is Sarah these days? I heard she was rather ill. Breast cancer, wasn’t it? How’s she getting on?’

  The conversation moved on and, in due course, Angie took her visitor out to look at the two horses Julie had brought in, and Gideon went thoughtfully on his way, to spend the afternoon clearing a space in his shed-cum-garage for the new motorbike.

  ‘What on earth’s that?’ Pippa asked.

  Arriving for Giles’ dinner party, Gideon and Eve had ridden the bike up the drive right behind Pippa in her brother’s four-wheel-drive Mercedes, and had now stopped beside it in the yard.

  ‘It’s a motorcycle,’ Gideon said, helpfully.

  ‘I can see that, but whose?’

  ‘Mine. Picked it up this afternoon and we’ve just been out for a ride round.’

  Eve took her helmet off and shook out her long hair. At the dealer’s she’d calmly kitted herself out in almost a thousand pounds’ worth of clothing and boots, and now looked like one of the more decent adverts in the bike magazines.

>   ‘It’s brilliant! I’m tempted to get one myself,’ she said, balancing her helmet on the seat and unzipping her fringed leather jacket.

  ‘D’you like it?’ Gideon asked Pippa, looking proudly at the black and chrome cruiser.

  ‘Lovely,’ Pippa said tightly. ‘I thought you’d got over that stage when you crashed the last one.’

  ‘One doesn’t just get over motorbikes,’ he told her. ‘It would be like telling you to get over horses. Can’t be done. And anyway, I didn’t just crash it, if you remember. I had a little help!’

  ‘Wow! I thought I heard a bike.’ Giles had emerged from the back door. ‘Don’t tell me – a Harley?’

  ‘No, actually it’s a Triumph,’ Gideon said. ‘I couldn’t afford a Harley, and besides, I’d rather buy British.’

  ‘It’s beautiful. You kept quiet about that, didn’t you?’

  ‘I’ve only just got it. It was a spur of the moment thing that’s been coming on for the last eighteen months. I sold a couple of paintings at the gallery and decided to go for it.’

  ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you lot to admire Gideon’s new toy while it’s still in one piece, and go check on supper,’ Pippa said. ‘It should be ready in about half an hour.’

  ‘Oh, dear. Someone’s not happy,’ Eve observed as the door closed behind Pippa.

  ‘We had a cousin who was killed in a bike accident when she was about sixteen. She idolised him,’ Giles explained. ‘But she’ll get used to the idea again, don’t worry. I think she just thought that when Gideon had the Land Rover, he’d forget about bikes. I didn’t.’

  Apart from Lloyd unwarily mentioning it and earning himself a frosty look from Pippa, the subject of the motorcycle was left severely alone over supper, the conversation dwelling for some time on Gideon’s projected initiation into drag hunting, the coming Saturday.

  This topic was as unwelcome to Gideon as the other had been to Pippa. Barely a day had gone by when he hadn’t regretted having risen to Lloyd’s challenge. It wasn’t that he was anxious about the riding side of it – although he was by no means sure how Blackbird would behave in such an inflammatory atmosphere – more that he was aware that he’d be venturing onto Lloyd’s territory, where Lloyd, as Master of the Tarrant and Stour Drag Hounds, would be in charge. The thought rankled.