Time to Pay
Authors: Lyndon Stacey
Contents
Damien Daniels has been murdered; shot through the chest by an unseen marksman. It looks like a professional job but there are no clues as to who pulled the trigger.
The only witness to the shooting, Gideon Blake, is unable to provide any information that would help the police. However, a cryptic list he later discovers hidden amongst the dead man's possessions warns of a dark and terrible conspiracy.
Disturbed by his findings, Gideon soon finds himself drawn deeper into the mystery, one that he must solve before the marksman targets his next victim . . .
Lyndon Stacey is the bestselling author of
Cut Throat
,
Blindfold
,
Deadfall
and
Outside Chance
. She lives in the Blackmore Vale.
Cut Throat
Blindfold
Deadfall
Outside Chance
Lyndon Stacey
To Patsy, Ray and Howard, for friendship, good
food and long evenings of enjoyable discussion.
With thanks to the usual suspects. Also Tina Parham at Wiltshire Ambulance Service Emergency Operations Centre, and to Dave Baker of Hotline Electric Fences for answering some very unusual questions without demur.
THE NIGHT BREEZE
whispered through the trees and around the weathered stone of the tower, sending a handful of dead leaves skittering playfully along the base of the wall. It rippled through the white cotton shirt of the young man high on the ledge, evaporating the perspiration on his skin, and ruffling his fine blond hair.
The youth stood like a statue, his jaw set and eyes fixed in mesmeric fascination on the jumble of stones below. It was quiet now, almost peaceful; the voices that had driven him here â mercilessly tormenting him â had died away, but there was no going back.
He stepped forward, the grit under his shoe sounding loud in the silence. The wind had dropped. It was as though the night was waiting.
A shadow raced across the parkland as the moon slid behind a streamer of cloud. When it emerged again the ledge was empty and the fickle wind rose once more, carrying with it the memory of a thin, high scream.
GIDEON DIDN'T HEAR
the shot that killed Damien Daniels. In fact, despite the sporadic gunfire from the clay-pigeon shooters in the field beyond the wood, it didn't immediately occur to him that Damien
had
been shot.
They had been discussing Damien's horse; Gideon being, among other things, an animal behaviourist and Nero being a horse as troubled as he was talented.
One moment they were riding down the grassy woodland track congratulating themselves on the encouraging progress the horse had made over the past few weeks; the next, both animals had jumped forward, accelerating like a pair of drag racers. Gideon grabbed at his reins, rapidly shortening them to bring his horse under control, and was surprised to see Damien's riderless horse shoot past him.
Instinctively soothing his own mount, he twisted in the saddle and looked back.
Damien was lying unmoving, tumbled on the soft, hoof-pitted turf of the track.
This in itself wouldn't have been remarkable, if the man hadn't, until just a few years before, been one of the leading jump-jockeys in the UK. Now, at thirty-eight, he had given up his competitive career and was busy building a considerable reputation as a National Hunt trainer, but he was still, without a doubt, one of the best horsemen that Gideon had ever worked with. The horse's startled leap might have been expected to cause problems for a novice, but it seemed inconceivable that it should have unseated someone as experienced as Damien.
After his initial rush forward, Nero only moved half a dozen steps further before turning to look back at his rider, eyes and nostrils wide, his face reflecting the bewilderment that Gideon was feeling.
âDamien? You all right, mate?' he called, though as soon as the words had left his mouth he could see that he wasn't. He appeared to have fallen awkwardly, landing on his head and one shoulder, and now lay more or less face down with his neck twisted at an unnatural angle.
Gideon went cold with shock.
âOh, shit!'
He swung his leg over his horse's neck and slid off, leading the animal to the side of the track where, with shaking hands, he looped the reins over a sapling before hurrying to Damien's side.
What could be seen of his face, between the crash cap and the ground, was smudged with dirt; the one visible eye half open but its gaze fixed.
âOh, God!' Gideon breathed. âDamien! Can you hear me?'
He didn't really expect an answer and he didn't get one. Kneeling down, he placed two trembling fingers against the man's neck, feeling for a pulse. He tried several positions without success, watching the back of Damien's navy bomber jacket for any perceptible rise and fall, as he did so.
There was none.
âCome on, Damien. This is stupid.' Gideon couldn't get his head round what had happened.
In any other circumstances the obvious course of action would be to begin resuscitation, but first-aid training had drummed into him the cardinal rule that you must never move anyone with a suspected neck injury. Here, it was a case of damned if you do â damned if you don't, Gideon thought desperately.
Fighting against panic and the growing conviction that it was too late to help, he took his mobile phone from its pouch on his belt and keyed in three nines.
âEmergency services,' a female voice said, after a blessedly short space of time. âWhich service do you require?'
âAmbulance. Quickly! It's a riding accident and I think he's got a broken neck. I can't find a pulse.'
âRight; I'm transferring you through to someone who'll take your details. Please hold the line . . .'
There was a faint click and another woman said in a broad Scottish accent, âAmbulance Emergency. What is the address of your emergency?'
When she'd pinpointed Gideon's location, the
operator asked for a brief description of what had happened, and Damien's condition.
âYou must hurry, please!' Gideon said, as he finished.
âOK, Gideon, try and keep calm. The ambulance is already on its way. Stay on the line. I'm going to hand you over to a paramedic who'll talk you through what you should do for the casualty.'
Before Gideon could thank her, she'd gone and a masculine voice said, âHello Gideon, I'm Rick. Now, what's the condition of the patient?'
Gideon was still kneeling beside Damien. He described the way he looked, and felt for a pulse again with the same negative result as before.
âAnd he's not breathing?' the paramedic asked, when Gideon told him. âRight; well, we need to get him breathing again. Don't worry, I'll talk you through it.'
âI know how, but he's face down and I can't move him if his neck's broken . . .'
âI'm sorry, but I'm afraid we don't have any option. It's crucial that we restore heart and lung function and we can't afford to wait for the ambulance to reach you. Exactly how is he lying?'
Following the step-by-step instructions of the calm voice on the phone, Gideon began to turn the injured man with gentle hands, breaking into a sweat as he strove to do so without causing further damage. As he carefully lowered Damien's body onto its back, the blue jacket fell open, revealing a small red-rimmed hole in the centre of his white tee shirt. Gideon recoiled in shock.
âOh, Christ!' he said faintly, staring in horrified fascination; struggling to take it in.
He'd fallen off his horse for God's sake!
He felt bile rising and swallowed hard.
On the ground by his knee, his mobile phone emitted a short burst of tinny vocals and he reached for it, noticing, with a fresh surge of distaste, that he had blood on his hand. Where had that come from? Wiping his fingers in the grass, he picked the handset up.
âYes, I'm here.'
âHow are we doing?' the voice enquired, calmly.
âI think he's been shot,' Gideon heard himself say, quite composedly, the words stating what his mind refused to admit. He
couldn't
have been shot â ordinary people don't just get shot for no reason. It was a Sunday morning in Somerset, not a war zone.
âWhere?' the paramedic asked.
In the woods.
The inappropriate humour caught Gideon unawares, and he was glad he hadn't spoken aloud. With an effort, he dragged his eyes away from the obscenity of that neat, round hole. He knew the trainer had been wearing a back protector; presumably that had prevented the wound being visible from behind. A cautious investigation revealed that blood had soaked his shirt. Under the Kevlar shield, Damien's back was a mass of torn flesh.
âGideon?'
âYes?' He swallowed hard.
âDid you say he's been shot?'
âYes. In the chest. He's dead.' Gideon's whole body had started to shake, and he clenched his
jaw, trying to stay in control. How could he be dead? They'd been talking. Even now, his face looked peaceful, bronzed, healthy; as if he was just sleeping.
âAre you sure?'
âYes.' Gideon checked the sarcastic retort that rose to his lips. After all, the man was just doing his job. He couldn't see the awful finality of the hole in Damien's chest and the irreparable chaos of his back.
âRight. I'll inform the police. Don't touch anything else. I suggest you vacate the area, as a precaution. You have to consider the possibility of danger to yourself.' There was a pause, during which a fresh burst of gunfire broke out in the adjacent field, then the voice came again, full of urgency. âGideon, are you all right?'
âYes. They're shooting clays. I'm not in any danger.'
âBut your friend has been shot,' the paramedic reminded him.
Incredibly, Gideon, still grappling with the enormity of the first discovery, hadn't even considered the possibility that he might also be a target. This had been no accidental shooting. Shot from the clay shooters' guns would have dispersed harmlessly long before it reached the track through the woods and Damien's wound clearly hadn't been made by lead shot, but a bullet. Someone must have lain in wait. Was Gideon even now being watched? Were the gun's sights now lined up on
his
chest? He looked swiftly round.
Nothing.
The broad grassy ride stretched away for perhaps a hundred yards in either direction, edged in places by sprawling brambles and flanked by conifers in dense, regimented rows. Above the branches of dark green needles the sky was blue and, a few feet away, roused by the April sunshine, an early bumblebee buzzed around a clump of pale yellow primroses.
Was that movement in the trees?
He stared, his heart thudding heavily, but could see nothing more than branches stirring in the breeze.
How far away had the gunman been?
He had no idea.
It was an intensely unnerving sensation. He wondered if there would be any brief realisation before all form of awareness was snatched away, or would everything just cease. The concept was beyond his imagining.
âGideon? Are you still there?'
âYeah. I'm OK.' He pulled himself together. âI think if he was going to take a shot at me, he'd have done it by now.'