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  Seeing Gideon and the paramedics close by, the second man swiftly sobered up, and after receiving the news that Damien Daniels was, in fact, dead, produced a notebook and took down not only Gideon’s name but also those of the two ambulance men, while his colleague stood by, gingerly removing bramble prickles from his trouser leg.

  Shortly after, the paramedics – made redundant by the absence of life to preserve – took their leave and trudged off through the trees, down what seemed set to become a well-worn track. Hardly had their fluorescent jackets disappeared into the murky depths of the wood when two more men came into view, this time in plain clothes but somehow, Gideon thought, still just as obviously policemen. The foremost of these fell prey to the same arching bramble stem that had snared the first man, and swore, if anything, even more vehemently. It would have been funny if the circumstances had been different.

  Gideon watched as the newcomers exchanged a few low-voiced words with the two uniformed officers, who were quite clearly relaying the information they had gleaned from him. The elder of the plain-clothes men was fiftyish, with thinning grey hair, a grey suit and an almost avuncular look about him. The other was perhaps twenty years his junior, a dark-haired, unsmiling man in jeans, a tee shirt and a black leather jacket.

  It was this younger man who presently introduced himself to Gideon as Detective Sergeant Coogan and began by asking if he couldn’t tie the horses up somewhere.

  ‘Well, actually – no.’ Gideon explained his dilemma.

  ‘But presumably someone else could hold them,’ Coogan said. ‘I’m allergic to the bloody things.’ He called the uniform back. ‘You – Fletcher – come and look after these horses, would you?’

  Judging by his expression, Fletcher wasn’t too keen on the idea but Coogan wasn’t big on sympathy.

  ‘Oh, come on! How difficult can it be? They won’t eat you.’

  Fletcher took the horses’ reins from Gideon, regarding the two animals much as one might a couple of hungry lions, and trying to keep at arm’s length from them both.

  ‘Good. Now take them away, down the path, they’ve done enough damage as it is – trampling all over the crime scene!’ Coogan turned to Gideon. ‘Right, suppose you tell me what happened here.’

  Gideon sat staring into the plastic cup standing cradled between his hands on the tabletop before him. The liquid it contained was scalding hot, but that was all that could honestly be claimed for it. He had asked for coffee but the muddy-brown, machine-generated brew had little smell and even less taste.

  He was sitting, as he had been for the past three and a half hours, in an interview room at Chilminster police station. Fluorescent strip lights lit the small, windowless room, which had black vinyl on the floor, shiny cream paint on the walls, and one massive Victorian radiator that either didn’t work or hadn’t been turned on. The surface of the heavy wooden table at which he sat was defaced with inkstains, scratches and cigarette burns, and his chair was of red moulded plastic and was to comfort what Punch and Judy was to political correctness. High above the door, an extractor fan whirred constantly, producing a rattling vibration every six seconds.

  Apart from the visit from the cheerful young PC who had brought him the coffee, Gideon had been alone for the last three-quarters of an hour, and felt cold, depressed and utterly drained. In spite of the passage of time, a feeling of unreality dogged him. It was still difficult to accept that the cheerful, energetic man he’d ridden out with that morning had anything to do with the lifeless body he’d left behind him in the woods.

  His mind went back to the scene as it had been when he was led away: the area cordoned off by quantities of red and white striped tape, half a dozen men and women in stark white coveralls busily searching the track and surrounding forest with meticulous care, and a uniformed photographer documenting the tragedy from every angle. A helicopter scanned the neighbouring countryside for any sign of the gunman, backed up on the ground, Gideon knew, by four pairs of armed-response officers, and two dog handlers.

  All the while, Damien, lying face up as Gideon had left him, stared sightlessly into the cloudless blue sky.

  The door of the interview room opened and Gideon glanced up just in time to see a head withdraw as it closed once more.

  ‘Hey!’ he called, getting to his feet. ‘Hey. When can I go?’

  There was no response, and he banged his fist on the table in frustration. He was beginning to feel more like a suspect than the innocent witness to a crime; a feeling reinforced by the fact that on arrival at the station he had had his hands swabbed and his clothes taken away.

  ‘Sorry, sir, it’s routine,’ he was told, and was left to change into a white all-in-one garment fashioned from some sort of papery fibre. It looked like the sort the CSI team had worn.

  He could call someone to get some clothes brought in if he wanted, he was told, so he’d called Graylings Priory where Giles Barrington-Carr, his friend and landlord, lived with his sister Pippa. Gideon knew Pippa was out drag hunting, but left a message with Giles’ answering service.

  He’d been taken to the interview room where, before long, Coogan and another plain-clothed officer joined him, and the questions began.

  Did Gideon often ride with Mr Daniels?

  This was the fifth time.

  Did they often take this particular route?

  Yes, they had the last three times, to accustom the horse to the sound of the guns. It was part of the therapy.

  Had Gideon noticed anyone in the wood that morning?

  Only a dog walker . . .

  Could Gideon describe the dog walker?

  To be honest, he’d been more interested in the dog – a rather handsome Rottweiler. As far as he could remember, the owner was female, middle-aged, plump and dark-haired; not your average sniper material.

  ‘And how many snipers do you know, Mr Blake?’ Without a flicker of humour.

  ‘OK, point taken,’ Gideon said wearily.

  Had Mr Daniels seemed his normal self that morning?

  Yes.

  Not worried about anything, or distracted?

  No. Full of plans for the future.

  Was Gideon aware of any trouble within Mr Daniels’ family – had he said anything about relationship problems?

  ‘Look,’ Gideon said with a touch of irritation. ‘I’m an animal psychologist, not a marriage-guidance counsellor! As far as I know, he was happy with his home life, but I couldn’t say for sure. I don’t – didn’t – know him that well. We mostly talked about the horse.’

  ‘Would you say Damien Daniels was hot-tempered? Confrontational?’

  ‘No. He’s – he was – very easy-going. He got on with most people.’

  ‘You say most people – who didn’t he get on with?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ Gideon said, exasperated. ‘I didn’t mean anyone in particular, but I expect there were people – nobody hits it off with absolutely everyone, do they?’

  ‘And what about you? Have you ever quarrelled with him?’

  ‘No. And before you ask – I didn’t quarrel with him this morning, and I didn’t shoot him.’

  He was the recipient of a long, calculating look, then Coogan changed tack.

  ‘When did you first realise that Mr Daniels had been shot?’

  Gideon had already related the events of the morning twice, but previous experience of police procedure had taught him that it did no good to kick against it, so he swallowed his impatience.

  ‘Not until the paramedic on the phone told me to turn him over. I hadn’t moved him before because I thought his neck was broken.’

  ‘And you say you didn’t hear the shot because of the noise from the guns next door.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did you think perhaps he’d been hit by a stray shot from there?’

  ‘No. Not when I saw the wound.’

  ‘You’re familiar with firearms, then, Mr Blake. Do you own one?’

  Gideon’s eyes narrowed.
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  ‘No, I don’t. But you don’t have to be an expert to know that wound wasn’t made by a shotgun. I should imagine most country people would know the difference between a shotgun and a rifle, and we were way out of range for a shotgun.’

  Another long look, a scribbled note, and the questions went on.

  How well did Gideon know the Daniels family?

  Not well. Only since he’d been working with the horse.

  How did he come to be doing that?

  He’d started working on Nero with his previous owners and Damien had wanted him to continue.

  Was he having a relationship with Damien’s sister?

  No, he was not.

  What about Damien’s wife, Beth, wasn’t it?

  No. Not with Beth, either.

  Was Gideon gay, perhaps?

  Gideon looked heavenwards. No, he had a girlfriend, but she wasn’t related, in any way, shape or form, to Damien Daniels.

  ‘Mr Blake, we have a job to do,’ Coogan said then. ‘I appreciate that you’ve had an upsetting morning, and I’m sure you’d rather be anywhere but here, but if we can just keep this civilised, it’ll be easier all round.’

  The other officer cleared his throat.

  ‘I’m sorry if some of our questions seem intrusive, but it’s important that we have a clear picture of the situation. Now, can I ask what your girlfriend’s name is and where she lives?’

  Gideon hesitated, unwilling to draw Eve into it, but he really didn’t see that he had any choice.

  ‘Eve Kirkpatrick. She owns an art gallery in Wareham – the Arne Gallery,’ he added, anticipating the next question. ‘She lives in a big Georgian house, I could take you there but I don’t know the address.’

  ‘Not with you, then?’

  ‘No. I live near Blandford,’ he pointed out, with tenuous patience. They already knew that. He’d given his details at least six times that afternoon. He was getting tired of the double questioning. It was as if they were trying to catch him out.

  Coogan favoured him with another of his long looks and Gideon gave in.

  ‘She likes to be near the sea, and she has to be near the gallery. We have a casual relationship.’

  There was a knock at the door and a head peered round.

  ‘Have you got a minute?’ it asked, and Coogan nodded.

  ‘Please wait here, Mr Blake. We’ll be back shortly.’

  They weren’t.

  Half an hour passed before Gideon saw Coogan again, and then he brought with him a different sidekick.

  This time it was clear that someone had dug out his file, for the questioning took on a new slant. Gideon had been involved in bringing a noted criminal to book, two years before, and although he couldn’t really see what bearing those events could have on Damien’s shooting, he went along with it, fervently hoping that he didn’t contradict anything he’d told the police at that time. For his part, what he’d told them then had been on a need-to-know basis, and there’d been a fair amount he hadn’t felt they needed to know.

  After another twenty minutes’ grilling, Coogan had got suddenly to his feet and gone out, taking his almost silent colleague with him.

  So Gideon was left alone once more, and after three-quarters of an hour he was beginning to think that even Coogan’s company would be preferable to the empty room and the constant muted, echoey voices he could hear through the door.

  The door wasn’t locked but his one foray into the world beyond it had resulted in a pleasant but firm request that he wait inside, and the cup of grim coffee. He’d been told that his presence was not compulsory, but supposed they could be fairly certain he wouldn’t try to leave the building dressed – as he was – in what was basically a paper romper suit.

  The door opened once more and he glanced up.

  ‘Gideon Blake, isn’t it?’

  Not Coogan, this time, but his grey-suited senior colleague from earlier, and carrying what looked like a bundle of clothes.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘DI Rockley. I’m sorry you’ve been stuck in this dismal place all afternoon, but we didn’t have another room free. I expect you’ll be glad to have these,’ the man said, coming forward and placing them on the tabletop next to the coffee cup.

  He wrinkled his nose. ‘Tell you what. Why don’t I go and see if I can find something that’s at least drinkable, while you change? Won’t be a tick.’

  By the time he returned, some five minutes later, Gideon had stripped off the paper suit and replaced it with the corduroys, cotton shirt and leather jacket that Giles had supplied from Gideon’s own wardrobe. The difference, both physical and psychological, was immense.

  Rockley placed two white china cups of coffee on the table and next to them an unopened packet of milk chocolate digestives, which he’d carried wedged under his arm.

  ‘I expect you’d rather have a Big Mac or something, but I’m afraid this is all I’ve got. Came from my private stash,’ he admitted, with just a trace of undisguised regret. He had a been-there-and-seen-it-all kind of face, but without the overt cynicism this often engendered.

  For the first time, Gideon realised how hungry he was, and it seemed Rockley was too, for he wasted no time in opening the packet, following the Tear Here instruction on the wrapper.

  The inspector helped himself to two and pushed the packet towards Gideon.

  ‘They always put the pull strip about a third of the way down, so you have to eat at least four to stop them falling out, and seven or eight if you want to seal it again,’ he complained, his eyes twinkling under a pair of impressively bushy brows. ‘At least, that’s my excuse.’

  Gideon took two, and thanked him, grateful to be talking to someone human. Coogan had all the warmth and character of the speaking clock.

  ‘Now, I realise you’ve had a pig of a day and you’ve probably been through all this at least half a dozen times already, but could you bear with me and go through it just once more?’

  Sighing, Gideon nodded. He felt deeply, unutterably weary but one more time wasn’t going to make a lot of difference, and the coffee and biscuits had bought Rockley quite a chunk of credit.

  ‘Thank you.’ Rockley looked genuinely grateful. ‘And then we’ll see about getting you home – or to wherever you want to go.’

  2

  THE POLICE RANGE Rover dropped Gideon at the end of the driveway to Puddlestone Farm Stables. It had given him a lift on its way to follow up a report of stolen farm machinery some miles further on. The young PC at the wheel had been quite prepared to take him right up to the front door. He wasn’t in any hurry, he said, but Gideon had preferred to walk, needing the time to organise his thoughts.

  After the long hours of inactivity it felt good to be on the move again, stretching the kinks out of his legs and getting some fresh air into his lungs, and yet, given the choice, he would rather be going almost anywhere than to the farm, to face the unimaginable grief of Damien’s family.

  What on earth was he going to say to them if they wanted him to describe exactly what had happened? How do you tell a family that their loved one has been shot by a trained marksman; that when he’d fallen from his horse he’d broken his neck, and that the last time you saw him, he’d been lying in the mud with a hole over his heart and a gory mess where his back should have been?

  It had in all likelihood been a soft-nosed bullet, Rockley had told him when he’d asked. Specially modified to disintegrate upon entering the body, thus leaving the trademark small entry wound and large exit. Only the back protector had prevented the carnage being immediately obvious.

  Gideon shook his head, pushing the memory away. For Damien’s family, shooting probably conjured up the kind of sanitised image it had for him – until that morning. At least they would be spared the appalling reality.

  At the end of the drive he hesitated and then turned into the stableyard, telling himself he was checking that the two horses had got back safely, but knowing he was only delaying the moment. The horses
would have been back and settled long ago; he’d been assured of that.

  It was half past five – nearly feeding time – but the usually busy yard was quiet. The door to the tack room was closed, as was the door to the cottage adjoining the yard, which the four Puddlestone stable lads shared. Heads appeared over many of the stable doors as Gideon walked through, and the tabby cat that lived in the hay store strolled out to greet him, but there didn’t seem to be anyone about until a slim girl, with dyed-blonde hair scraped back in a ponytail, came out of one of the boxes carrying an empty haynet and a muck sack. She half-stopped when she saw him, and Gideon recognised her as one of the ‘lads’, the mainstay of any racing yard.

  ‘Hi,’ Gideon said, because he patently had to say something. ‘Anything I can do to help?’

  The girl shook her head in silence and walked by, casting him a reproachful look from swollen eyes, as if he was somehow to blame for not having been shot instead. He knew from his previous visits that the staff were fiercely loyal to the yard and Gideon suspected that, even though he’d been married, at least two of the three female ‘lads’ had fancied themselves in love with their dashingly handsome boss.

  The girl disappeared into the hay store, pulling the door shut behind her with a gesture of finality and, after visiting the two horses, Gideon turned his steps reluctantly towards the grey stone farmhouse. This stood out of sight across the lane from the yard, with Damien’s tiny cottage tucked against its flank, like a duckling against the mother duck.

  Gideon’s old dark green Land Rover stood where he’d left it that morning, next to the Daniels’ more modern vehicles in front of the pretty walled garden, and he’d have given a lot to be able simply to get in it and drive away. He was little more than a stranger to most of the family, but having been with Damien when he died, he couldn’t just leave without seeing them.

  He knocked on the door and stood looking down at the worn stone of the step. The old house had doubtless weathered the tragedies of many families, but it was hard to imagine one as cruel and senseless as this.