Time to Pay

by Lyndon Stacey

  ‘Well, you needn’t think you can put one past him. If you know anything at all that you’re not telling about the Daniels murder, you’d better fess up, cos he’ll find out, sooner or later, and he won’t be a happy man!’

  ‘I’ll consider myself warned,’ Gideon said, outwardly placid. ‘So, can you get the address for me?’

  ‘Buggered if I know why I should,’ Logan muttered. ‘It might take a minute. I’ll get back to you.’ And he rang off before Gideon could thank him.

  Half an hour later he was in the Land Rover and heading for a village on the outskirts of Chilminster.

  Charlton Montague was tucked away in a tree-lined valley, with only its church spire visible until the road ducked under the tree canopy and revealed a couple of dozen stone-built cottages, three or four larger houses, a timbered and thatched pub, and a post office and general stores.

  This much Gideon was able to see in the fading light, and he knew, from studying the map beforehand, that the road led only to the village, the school and a couple of farms beyond.

  After driving through the village on one narrow road and back through it on another, he slotted the Land Rover into the one remaining space in the car park of the Goose and Ferret inn, and went inside. He’d seen the sign advertising Montague Park School on the far side of the settlement, the words painted in bold black letters on two glossy white boards which were fixed to the wrought-iron railings either side of an impressive gateway. The gates were closed and lighted windows in the lodge suggested that no-one would be allowed to pass through without authorisation. Gideon had decided his best bet lay in enquiring at the village pub.

  Ducking under an almost impossibly low lintel, he opened the squeaky door and found himself in exactly the kind of bar that the outside had suggested it would be: black-beamed, with terracotta walls, horse brasses, inadequate lighting and a log fire. The pub was buzzing with conversation and laughter, and one or two people had to move aside to allow him to reach the bar itself, where he stood with his neck slightly bent to avoid the assortment of copper implements that lined the beam above.

  After exchanging a few parting words with some customers at the other end of the bar, the barman, a ruddy-cheeked individual with a fringe of greying hair round a shiny bald pate, made his way along to Gideon, still smiling.

  ‘Gawd, you’re a tall one!’ he exclaimed. ‘Mind your head, won’t you? I don’t want a lawsuit on me hands!’

  A couple of those closest to Gideon turned to look him up and down and he smiled in a friendly fashion.

  ‘So what’ll it be?’ the barman asked.

  ‘Got any good local ales?’

  ‘Yup. Stinking Ferret,’ came the answer, with a twinkle. ‘Brewed specially for us, a couple of miles up the road. It’s a hell of a lot better than it sounds!’

  ‘Well, I’ll try anything once,’ Gideon said bravely. ‘A pint, please.’

  ‘Not from around here, are you?’ the barman observed as he drew the ale, unwittingly giving Gideon just the opening he had hoped for.

  ‘No. Been in Brisbane for a year or two.’

  ‘That’s Australia, isn’t it? Got a cousin lives in Perth,’ the other man announced.

  ‘That’s strange, because I’ve got a cousin who lives here,’ Gideon said in tones of wonder, at the same time sending a prayer of thanks winging upwards that Perth was on the other side of the country from Brisbane.

  ‘Small world. Whereabouts?’

  ‘Right here; Charlton Montague.’

  ‘Oh? Who’s that then? That’ll be two eighty-five, please.’ A tall glass of a slightly cloudy golden liquid was placed on the bar in front of Gideon.

  ‘His name’s Garth Stephenson and he teaches at the school,’ Gideon said, fishing in his pocket for some change. ‘At least, I’m told he does.’

  ‘Yeah, I know Garth; top bloke,’ the barman said warmly. ‘He might be in later. Does he know you’re here?’

  ‘Not yet. Thought I’d surprise him. Does he live in the village?’

  ‘No, up at the school.’

  ‘Thought his brother lived in South Africa.’ A man to Gideon’s left spoke up. ‘He was talking about going out to visit him later this year . . .’

  ‘That’s his brother; I’m his cousin,’ Gideon said. ‘Actually, more of a second cousin. I’ve been doing the family history and I turned up the connection. Now I’m back in England, I thought I’d come and look him up.’

  ‘Oh, so you’ve never met before? Ah! He will be surprised.’

  Won’t he just? Gideon thought.

  A cover story that he’d invented merely as a sure way to have Stephenson pointed out to him began to assume a life of its own. Gideon had underestimated the community spirit of this small village. The teacher was evidently a popular chap, and everybody seemed to know him and take a personal interest in this unknown relative who had turned up out of the blue.

  By the time Stephenson arrived at the Goose and Ferret, at a little past nine, Gideon had had to endure the best part of an hour of gentle interrogation about his business and what had taken him to Australia, and had waited, in dread, for someone to say that they, too, had spent time in Brisbane, and want to compare experiences. Long before the teacher appeared, he had created for himself a wife, two kids and a white-boarded house on the Pacific coast. He had also imparted a great deal of, quite frankly, dubious information about the Antipodean flora and fauna, and was in a state of trepidation lest the subject turn to politics. With every minute that passed he dug himself in deeper and, with every minute, the idea of him leaving without seeing his ‘cousin’ became ever less conceivable.

  The door squeaked open and the barman looked across, and then at Gideon, saying, with an air of high expectation, ‘Here he is . . .’

  Gideon turned to see a well-built, blond-haired man of perhaps just under six feet ducking under the door frame.

  ‘Garth, lad! Over here!’ the barman called out. ‘Someone to see you.’

  Stephenson made his way through the throng, which parted before him and then closed round, as a number of people jostled for a view. He glanced at the group by the bar, looking puzzled and slightly embarrassed.

  ‘What’s going on, Pete?’

  The barman indicated Gideon.

  ‘Betcha don’t know who this is . . .’

  Stephenson glanced at him again, shaking his head in bewilderment, and Gideon felt sorry for him. Everyone in the vicinity had gone quiet, listening. Heartily wishing he’d thought of a different cover story, he stuck out his hand with a smile.

  ‘Hi. My name’s Geoff Blaketon; I’m the second cousin you didn’t know you had.’

  ‘He’s been in Australia,’ the barman put in helpfully.

  ‘My cousin? I don’t understand . . .’ Stephenson shook his hand, nonetheless.

  ‘Second cousin,’ Gideon said. ‘On your mother’s side. It’s a bit complicated. Can I get you a drink? Then I’ll try to explain.’

  ‘OK.’ Stephenson gave him a long look while they waited for Pete, the barman, to draw the pints, and then said curiously, ‘Would that be my Auntie Rita’s branch of the family?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Gideon paid and handed him his drink. ‘Look, those people are just leaving; let’s grab that table.’

  A couple of minutes later, installed at a small table near the door, he took a long draught of his ale and wondered how on earth to broach his real identity and reason for coming. The door opened and two more people came in, accompanied by a hefty whoosh of cold air, but Gideon didn’t mind. For his purposes, the location couldn’t have been better – well away from the friendly nosiness of the group by the bar.

  He was in the process of formulating his opening sentence when Stephenson beat him to it, saying abruptly, ‘So what do you really want, Mr Blaketon? Or is that even your real name?’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ Gideon confessed with relief. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I haven’t got an Auntie Rita.’

 
‘Oh. I fell for that one, didn’t I? My name’s Blake, Gideon Blake.’

  Stephenson looked a little wary.

  ‘As in the Gideon that rang me, out of the blue, the other night?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So what do you want with me? I told you I didn’t know Damien Daniels.’

  ‘But you said you knew his brother . . . How?’

  ‘Who are you?’ Stephenson asked suspiciously.

  ‘I told you. I’m a friend of the family – just trying to sort something out for Damien’s sister. She found this list of names among his things and wanted to know if it was anything important; I said I’d help.’

  ‘And what have you found out?’

  ‘Enough to know that it is important. That’s why I came back to you.’

  ‘Why haven’t you taken it to the police? Why didn’t she?’

  ‘Do you think she should?’ Gideon queried.

  ‘Oh, God, I don’t know! I don’t know anything any more – I’m just sick of it! It was all so bloody long ago, I’m not sure it even matters now.’

  ‘If it doesn’t matter, tell me about it,’ Gideon urged.

  Stephenson took a long swallow of his beer and then shook his head.

  ‘It’s not just me, is it? It’s not my decision to make.’

  Gideon could have groaned aloud with frustration.

  ‘You know Adam Tetley’s been taken in for questioning over Damien’s murder?’ he said, instead.

  ‘Yes. I saw it on the news. Do they think he did it?’

  ‘I’ve no idea – do you?’

  ‘How should I know? I haven’t seen him for donkey’s years. But I suppose they must have some reason to arrest him.’

  ‘His name is on the list,’ Gideon told him.

  ‘What the hell’s that got to do with it? So’s mine, apparently. What are you implying?’

  Gideon leaned forward over the table.

  ‘Look, I’m not implying anything. I’m just trying to find out what in God’s name this is all about and it would save a hell of a lot of time if someone would just talk to me! So what about it, huh?’

  For a moment he thought Stephenson was going to do just that, but then his gaze dropped.

  ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘If it was just me . . .’

  ‘Who are you protecting? The other people on the list? Tell me, please.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Stephenson shook his head. ‘I can’t.’

  Although it didn’t exactly keep him awake, the infuriating riddle of the list occupied Gideon’s mind throughout the rest of that evening, and he woke up thinking about it in the morning. To try and make some sense of it, he wrote the six names and phone numbers down on a fresh notepad, leaving a gap under each to fill in what he’d found out about them, including their addresses and which of the other names they had admitted to knowing.

  He ate his breakfast with this notepad propped against the marmalade jar, but couldn’t really have claimed that it helped clear his mind much. The strange thing was that although it was Damien who’d made the list, at least three of the people on it had apparently never met him. So if the names weren’t friends, or partners in some business venture . . .

  The telephone rang, interrupting his fruitless mental wranglings, and he went out to the hall to answer it.

  ‘Gideon? It’s Tilly.’ There was an undercurrent of excitement in her voice.

  ‘Hello, Tilly.’

  ‘Have you heard about Adam Tetley?’

  ‘I heard he’d been taken in. Any news on that?’

  ‘Ah, you obviously haven’t seen the papers.’

  ‘I don’t get a paper, I read Giles’.’

  ‘Well, Rockley phoned yesterday. They let him go but now they’ve rearrested him and charged him. Gideon, they found the gun!’

  ‘What? Where?’

  ‘In a locker at a sports club. Rockley said they found the key when they were searching Adam’s house, and eventually – don’t ask me how – traced it to this sports club. The gun was in a kit locker, in a case.’

  ‘Good God! That was careless!’

  ‘Well, the locker wasn’t held under his own name, of course. Rockley says he imagines Adam was going to get rid of the gun when the heat died down.’

  ‘Well, that’s a result. And a relief for you, I imagine?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so . . .’

  ‘You don’t sound too sure.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m still finding it hard to believe that he’d actually do such a thing. I mean, why, after all this time?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Gideon said. ‘Perhaps he’s been harbouring a grudge ever since it happened, building on it all the time. Maybe it just took some other little thing to spark it off. What does Rockley say?’

  ‘Pretty much what you just said, actually. You’re probably right. I suppose it’s just difficult to take in when it’s someone you know.’

  ‘Well, hopefully it’ll all be over soon, and you’ll be able to put it behind you and move on.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘It sounds silly, but I almost feel guilty about wanting to move on. As if I’m sweeping him under the carpet and pretending all this didn’t happen.’

  ‘I know how it feels, but getting on with your life doesn’t mean you’ve put him out of your mind, Tilly. What you need to do now is concentrate on becoming one of the top trainers in the country. That would be the best memorial of all. I’m looking forward to seeing you on TV being interviewed by Clare Balding as the winning trainer of the National or the Cheltenham Gold Cup.’

  ‘Oh, I wish!’ Tilly laughed. ‘Actually, that reminds me of my other reason for ringing; I wondered how Nero was doing, and whether we could have a go at that join-up thing, sometime soon?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. We could do it today, if you like. I shall be going up there in half an hour or so, if you’re free?’

  ‘That’d be great. I’ll be about an hour, I expect. Ivan’ll take the last lot out for me. I’ve decided to offer him a permanent job. He’s going to be my head lad-cum-assistant trainer. It’ll only be part-time, but he seems quite chuffed about it and I think I can learn a lot from him.’

  ‘That’s a brilliant idea. There’ll be no stopping you now. OK; I’ll see you later.’

  Gideon put the phone down thoughtfully.

  So it had been Tetley. He’d had the motive, the skill, presumably no verifiable alibi, and now the weapon had been found. Gideon tried to imagine the kind of festering resentment that would lead to a man hiding in the undergrowth and shooting another man dead with no warning whatsoever. He found he couldn’t. He thought that, even if his had been the sort of temperament that could get that bitter and resentful, he would gain more satisfaction from facing the subject of his grievance and making sure he knew what he was dying for. But who was he to try and understand the mindset of a murderer?

  The join-up session went really well. Tilly grasped the concept instinctively and Nero was very cooperative, with the result that Gideon suggested that he might soon be able to return to Puddlestone Farm and go back into training.

  ‘You’ve done a brilliant job with him. He’s like a different horse!’ Tilly declared as they returned to the yard with Pippa.

  ‘Oh, no! You’ve discovered my secret!’ Gideon joked. ‘I’d better go and fetch the real Nero.’

  ‘Don’t bother. I’ll take this one,’ Tilly said, laughing. She loosened Nero’s girth, then looked round as a muddy Range Rover swept into the yard. ‘Oh, here’s Lloyd.’

  Pippa’s boyfriend had been in the yard when Gideon arrived, but left shortly after, saying he’d leave the ‘horse shrink’ to his work. The words were said lightly, and Gideon couldn’t be sure whether there was any real spite behind them. Now he smiled cheerfully and asked how they’d got on with the horse.

  ‘Fine.’ It was Pippa who answered. ‘You should have stayed to watch.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’re here now, anyway,’ Tilly told him. ‘I’v
e got something to ask you all. One of our horses is running at Towcester in a couple of weeks’ time and his owner has hired a box for the day. Anyway, she said would I like to bring some guests along. So what d’you think? It’s a really nice course.’

  ‘What? All of us?’ Pippa asked, holding Nero as Tilly slid the saddle off.

  ‘Yes, as many as you like. She’s a sweet little lady, quite elderly, and she hasn’t got very much in the way of family. She said it would be much nicer to have a crowd. Her words, not mine!’

  ‘Well, it depends on the crowd,’ Gideon observed. ‘I mean, do you think she’s ready for Giles?’

  Ignoring him, Pippa said she’d love to go but she’d have to check her diary.

  ‘I used to keep a diary when I was a kid,’ Gideon said, seizing the opportunity to bring the subject up. ‘My sister did, too. My mother encouraged it, she said it would be improving; I never did understand why.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had a sister,’ Tilly said.

  ‘I don’t see a lot of her. She’s a dancer, and she’s married to a vet who runs a wildlife sanctuary – not far from you, actually. Hermitage Farm.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’ve seen the sign.’

  ‘So, did anyone in your family keep a diary?’ Gideon asked her, careful to keep his tone casual.

  ‘I didn’t – it was never my thing – but Marcus used to. He was a solitary child, in some ways, and very sensitive. As far as I know, he stopped when he was about twelve. He had a sleepover and one of his friends pinched his diary and took it to school. You can imagine the humiliation!’

  ‘Some friend!’ Gideon remarked.

  ‘I used to keep a diary, too,’ Pippa said. ‘I wrote down all my teenage angst in it, as I remember. Horrendous; but I suppose that’s what you do when you’re that age and you think no-one understands how you’re feeling.’

  Which was exactly what Marcus had done, Gideon guessed. Away from home and feeling isolated and under stress, would it be so surprising if he had returned to the habit of childhood and kept a journal? He thought not.

  Eve was waiting for Gideon when he returned wearily to the Gatehouse after an afternoon spent schooling the horses over the cross-country course at Home Farm with Pippa and Lloyd.