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  After a few moments, the door opened to reveal Damien’s sister, for which Gideon was grateful. As Damien’s assistant trainer, Matilda – or Tilly – Daniels was the family member he knew best. There was a strong family resemblance, Tilly having her brother’s height, fair good looks and ready smile, though at the moment the smile was understandably absent and her grey-blue eyes were reddened with weeping.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, miserably, then stepped back into the hallway. ‘Come in.’

  ‘Look, I don’t want to intrude . . .’

  ‘No, please. It must have been awful for you, too. Are you all right?’

  She sounded genuinely concerned and Gideon was touched.

  ‘I’m all right – apart from the shock. I’m sorry I couldn’t come before, I’ve been at the police station all afternoon.’

  ‘I know. They said. I opened the door and there were two policemen standing there. When they told me, I couldn’t take it in at first; it didn’t seem real, you know? They were very kind, but then they started asking questions. It was as if they thought we knew something about it – about why it happened . . .’

  Gideon looked at her with compassion, remembering some of the things Coogan had asked him.

  ‘I suppose they have to,’ he said. Rockley had told him that around ninety per cent of murders were committed by the victim’s family or close friends. However unsympathetic it might appear, it obviously made sense for the police to start their enquiries there. ‘Oh God, Tilly, I’m just so sorry . . .’

  Tilly shook her head. ‘No, there was nothing you could have done – they told us that. I just don’t understand—’ Her voice broke.

  Gideon stepped towards her instinctively and suddenly she was in his arms, sobbing hard into his shirtfront. He rubbed her back, helplessly trying to give comfort. At thirty-five, she was, surprisingly, still single and it was probably at times like this that it mattered the most.

  ‘I don’t understand, either. It all seems crazy,’ he said.

  ‘But how can this have happened?’ she asked between sobs. ‘I just can’t believe it.’

  ‘I know,’ he agreed. ‘I know.’

  Over her shoulder, he saw his reflection in a mirror on the wall. Thick, weather-bleached, dark blond hair, grey-green eyes and fairly symmetrical features; it seemed somehow strange that the shocking events of the morning had left no visible sign on the face that looked back at him.

  Tilly pulled back, wiping her nose on a handkerchief she was clutching, and then looked searchingly into his eyes. ‘Did he . . . I mean – was it quick? He didn’t suffer, did he?’

  Under that intense gaze, Gideon was glad to be able to answer with complete honesty. ‘No. It was instantaneous. He couldn’t have felt a thing.’

  Her eyes scanned his face for a moment longer, then she put her hand on his arm and said, ‘Thank you. We’d better go in; they’ll wonder where I’ve got to. Oh, and Gideon . . . Mum’s not coping too well. She’s . . . well, you’ll see; I just wanted to warn you. There’s a policewoman here, too. She’s a liaison officer or something. Anyway, she’s just here to help, apparently – if we need anything. She’s very nice.’

  The room they entered was the only room of the house that Gideon had been in before. It was the kitchen, and was, like many farmhouse kitchens, the hub of day-to-day life, a function reflected by its comfortably chaotic, lived-in look. A hotch-potch of units, old and new, a Rayburn and a huge Belfast sink; it was the kind of shabby-aged look that the editors of glossy magazines loved. Here he’d sat, just that morning, discussing Nero’s progress and drinking Damien’s over-strong tea from one of the stoneware mugs that were stored on hooks under the shelves of the big, cream-painted dresser.

  Now all the family were present, with the exception of Damien’s father, Hamish, who Gideon knew was away for the day at a farm sale. Damien’s wife Beth was there, petite and dark, with Freddy, the couple’s three-year-old son, sitting on her knee. She looked up briefly as Gideon came in, but then her gaze dropped to the coffee cup she held, her large brown eyes swimming with tears and her hands visibly shaking. Freddy, fair like the rest of the family, snuggled close, burying his face in the soft wool of his mother’s jumper, aware of the atmosphere but nowhere near to comprehending the scale of the tragedy.

  A uniformed Asian WPC sat next to Damien’s mother. Barbara Daniels was a trim sixty-something with mid-length, greying blonde hair and skin that bore the evidence of a lifetime spent outdoors. Always fiercely proud of her children, Gideon had expected her to be the worst affected, but in spite of Tilly’s warning, she seemed surprisingly calm and composed. The reason for this soon became clear.

  As Tilly offered their visitor a seat and a cup of coffee, her mother looked up with a smile and said brightly, ‘Ah, Gideon, isn’t it? I’m afraid Damien’s still at school, but he won’t be long. In fact, I ought to see about getting his tea . . .’

  There was a moment’s awkward silence, during which her daughter and daughter-in-law exchanged anxious glances, and then she continued, waving a hand at the policewoman, ‘Oh, this is Yvonne something-or-other – she’s been very kind, haven’t you dear?’ She paused, looking uncertainly at the other woman, as if wondering to herself just why she was there.

  The young WPC smiled, then looked at Gideon and shrugged slightly, clearly at a loss.

  She wasn’t the only one. Gideon didn’t know how to respond so he greeted Barbara with a smile, said ‘Hi,’ and was thankful when Tilly, coming across with his coffee, said quietly to him, ‘The doctor’s on his way. She’s been like this ever since she heard.’

  ‘Oh, God!’ Beth said, suddenly bursting into tears. ‘I can’t believe this is happening – it’s a nightmare! I just can’t believe it. He only went for a ride, for God’s sake! How can he be dead?’

  Within the curl of her arm, Freddy’s tears flowed in sympathy. Beth hugged him tighter and kissed the top of his head. ‘If he’d had a riding accident, it would’ve been one thing – but this . . . It just doesn’t make sense. How could anyone be that careless?’

  Gideon had been wondering how much the family had been told, but Beth’s words clearly indicated that, as yet, they knew comparatively little.

  ‘Don’t cry, dear,’ Barbara said, stretching a hand across the table towards her daughter-in-law. ‘Damien and Marcus will be back soon; they’ll sort it out.’

  ‘Oh, Mum!’ Tilly pleaded. ‘Please don’t do this – I can’t bear it!’

  ‘Who’s Marcus?’ the WPC asked Tilly, quietly.

  But it was Barbara who answered, her face shining with pride. ‘He’s my youngest. He’s going to the Olympics.’

  The policewoman raised her eyebrows at Tilly, who shook her head slightly and mouthed ‘No,’ a look of desperation in her eyes.

  Beth began to sob even harder and Freddy, frightened by what he didn’t understand, wriggled out of her grasp and ran to Tilly.

  Through the kitchen window, Gideon saw a newish saloon car pull up, followed immediately by Hamish Daniels’ four-wheel drive.

  Putting his coffee mug down, he turned to Tilly. ‘I think the doctor’s here. Tell you what, Freddy – would you like to come and ride Laddie? He could do with some exercise, he’s getting big and fat like you!’

  Freddy’s face brightened. ‘I not big and fat!’ he responded indignantly, but nevertheless let go of Tilly’s hand and toddled across to offer his small fist to Gideon.

  Damien’s sister mouthed ‘Thank you,’ over his head.

  More than three-quarters of an hour passed before the doctor emerged from the farmhouse and went on his way. While he was waiting, Gideon had – with the doubtful benefit of Freddy’s help – caught, brushed and saddled Laddie, the Daniels’ elderly Welsh pony, and then led him several times round the paddock behind the stableyard, with the youngster perched on his back.

  Never nursery-nurse material, by the time Hamish appeared to relieve him of his charge, Gideon was heartily glad to hand the boy over and, judgi
ng by the cry of glee with which Freddy greeted his grandfather, the feeling was reciprocated.

  Hamish was a big, heavily built man, only an inch or two short of Gideon’s six foot four, and had blue eyes and a mop of curly greying-blond hair that, according to Damien, were a legacy from a Scandinavian mother. He swung his grandson off the back of the pony and round onto his own back, where the child clung happily.

  ‘Gideon, thank you,’ he said in his soft, deep voice. ‘The doctor’s given Barbara a sedative and she’s asleep now, thank goodness. He says she’ll probably sleep through till tomorrow morning. I just hope she’s better when she wakes up. He says it’s a reaction to the shock, but he can’t – or won’t – say how soon she’s likely to get over it.’

  Gideon ran the stirrups up on the pony’s saddle and they started to walk back to the stables, Freddy still riding piggyback on his grandfather.

  Hamish himself was an indifferent rider, and devoted his time to running the eight hundred acres or so of Puddlestone Farm. Gideon knew it was farmed organically and produced – amongst other arable crops – all the hay for the horses, besides supporting a large and much acclaimed herd of Aberdeen Angus cattle.

  In the yard, the boy wriggled to get down and then sat playing contentedly with a handful of pebbles and a water bucket, while Gideon took care of the pony.

  Hamish turned to Gideon, and the strain of remaining in control was obvious.

  ‘The girls don’t seem very clear about what’s happened,’ he said quietly. ‘And the WPC isn’t saying much, even if she knows. I gather you were with Damien . . .’

  Gideon sighed. ‘Yes, I was. It was all over in the blink of an eye. One moment we were riding through the wood – the next, Nero jumped forward and Damien fell backwards over his rump. I had no idea he’d been shot, at that point. I mean it’s the last thing you’d think of, isn’t it?’

  ‘Tilly and Beth seem to think it was someone out rabbiting – an accidental shot, or something. It seems the police were a bit vague about it.’ Hamish was watching him closely, and Gideon could see his scepticism.

  He hesitated, unsure as to how much he should say, but then, he hadn’t specifically been told not to talk to the family, and surely they had a right to know.

  ‘It wasn’t a shotgun,’ he said. ‘And it wasn’t an accident. I’m afraid whoever it was knew exactly what they were doing. It can’t have been an easy shot.’

  Hamish frowned and shook his head. ‘But – I don’t understand. Why would anyone want Damien dead? He’s so popular. Everybody likes him.’ He paused, putting a hand to his eyes as he lost the battle with his emotions. ‘I’m sorry . . . It’s just – I don’t think I can cope with all this again. After Marcus . . . it’s too much . . .’ His shoulders began to shake.

  ‘It’s all right . . .’ Gideon tailed off, feeling painfully inadequate. He’d never done much more than pass the time of day with the man before now, and was at a loss to know how to comfort him. After all, what can you say to a father who’s just lost his son? Surely, nothing would ever again be completely all right for Hamish or any of the family.

  Because of the manner of his death, Damien Daniels’ body would not be released for burial until the investigation was over, which only added to the trauma for his family. The jockey turned trainer had been a well-known and popular figure, and for a few days the media coverage was intense. When Gideon phoned Puddlestone Farmhouse the next day, Tilly told him despairingly that they had been besieged by reporters and photographers to the point where the police had had to be called to move them on, and one officer had remained to stand guard at the end of the drive for a few hours.

  As a result of the publicity, the family was soon flooded with letters and cards of condolence from Damien’s many friends and fans. In response to repeated enquiries as to the date of the funeral, they decided to hold, in the meantime, a service of commemoration. Instead of flowers, it was requested that donations should be sent to the Radcliffe Trust, a charity that reschooled ex-racehorses for a life away from the track. As a trainer, it was a cause that Damien had enthusiastically supported.

  In the ten days between his murder and the memorial service, the police appeared to make little progress towards finding Damien’s killer. Their enquiries had been thorough; Gideon had himself been questioned twice more and he knew, from contact with Damien’s family, that they too had had several sessions with Rockley and his men. The inspector had appeared on the television news, two nights running, appealing for information, and from media reports Gideon knew that roadside checks and house-to-house enquiries had been carried out in the vicinity of the crime. If these had thrown up any useful information, the police were keeping it strictly to themselves.

  Gideon’s friends, Giles and Pippa, had known the Daniels family since childhood, and Pippa had even dated Damien a time or two, so Gideon hadn’t enjoyed the task of breaking the news to them on his return from Puddlestone Farm at the end of that first dreadful day. Pippa had just returned from a long day’s drag hunting, tired but still buoyed up with the exhilaration of the chase. When Gideon arrived with his tale of tragedy, she and her boyfriend, Lloyd, had been drinking soup in the Priory kitchen, bootless but still wearing their mud-spattered clothes. He’d spared them the gritty details, but even so they had reacted with deep shock.

  ‘Oh, God!’ Lloyd had exclaimed. ‘That’s why there were so many police cars about on the road. The meet was only about ten miles away,’ he added, for Gideon’s benefit. ‘My mare pulled up stiff at the end of the first line, and I walked her back along the road to get my second horse. There was a chopper going round and round, too.’

  ‘Yes, I noticed that,’ Pippa remembered. ‘Oh, God! Poor Damien! And poor Tilly! I can’t believe it. It just doesn’t make sense.’

  Gideon had a question.

  ‘Who’s Marcus? Both Barbara and Hamish spoke of Marcus, but Tilly obviously didn’t want to talk about him.’

  ‘Marcus! Oh, my God, I’d forgotten Marcus,’ Pippa said instantly. ‘He was Damien’s younger brother. He committed suicide about ten or twelve years ago. It was awful! He was on a training course, trying out for the Olympic Pentathlon team, and threw himself off the top of a building. He was only seventeen and everyone thought he was happy. The family were absolutely devastated. And now this has happened. Oh God, it’s so unfair! Poor Barbara, poor Tilly.’

  This conversation was running through Gideon’s mind as he waited for Giles to pick him up on the morning of the commemoration service.

  Pippa and her older brother lived in the rambling stone priory that Giles had inherited after the untimely death of their parents some years before, and Gideon had been living in the gatehouse, largely rent-free, for the past couple of years. He shared the sixteenth-century lodge with an Abyssinian cat called Elsa and a two-year-old brindle mongrel that answered – when it suited him – to the name of Zebedee.

  Gideon stared out of the stone-mullioned, diamond-paned window at the strip of garden in front, his unfocused gaze fixed on the sprinkling of daffodils that nodded under the brown-leaved beech hedge. After several dull, wet days, the sun was shining again and the grass was sorely in need of cutting, but, at that moment, nothing was further from his mind.

  Why Damien? If there was one thing this tragedy had shown above everything, it was just how universally liked the trainer had been. Tributes had been made, both publicly and privately, on TV, in the newspapers and by letter, and the recurring theme was of his generosity, helpfulness and good humour. Nobody seemed to have a bad word to say about him.

  Nevertheless, somebody somewhere had had a falling-out with him: one that had resulted in that person hiding in the woods and shooting Damien as he rode by. That was some quarrel.

  The roof of Giles’ Mercedes four-by-four slid into view along the top of the hedge and Gideon shook off the unprofitable thoughts and reached for his navy wool jacket.

  Inside the vehicle, he found not only Giles but also Pippa.

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sp; ‘Hi. No Lloyd today, then?’ he asked, surprised. Pippa had been seeing boyfriend and would-be Member of Parliament, Henry Lloyd-Ellis, for the last two months, and he seemed to be forever at the Priory. Gideon had assumed they would go to the service together.

  Pippa shook her head, looking neat and unusually elegant in a black trouser suit, with a velvet-trimmed hat on her short, light brown curls.

  ‘He’s hoping to catch us up later. He’s got some last-minute campaign business to take care of before this countryside march on Saturday. He’ll be gutted if he misses the service – he and Damien go way back.’

  Gideon settled himself in the front seat, feeling that there was very little that couldn’t be postponed for an hour or so to attend the commemoration of a friend, even urgent political business, but he held his tongue.

  He’d known Pippa for almost as long as he’d known her brother, having spent a number of holidays at Graylings Priory when he and Giles were at school together. After leaving university he’d lost touch with Pippa until a chance meeting had thrown them together again, and they picked up their brother-and-sister relationship as if the intervening ten years had never been. It was only lately that things had become a little strained – since around the time Pippa had started dating Lloyd, in fact. Normally very even-tempered, she had begun to be moody and unpredictable, until even Giles – who wasn’t known for his intuition – had noticed the change in her.

  ‘You look very nice, Pips,’ Gideon said, turning to survey her through the gap in the front seats. Not conventionally pretty, she had the kind of classic bone structure that would stand her in good stead in years to come, when her more sweet-faced contemporaries had gone to seed.

  ‘She still scrubs up quite nicely, doesn’t she?’ Giles observed as they set off.

  ‘Yes – considering my age,’ she agreed acidly. At thirty-three she was three years younger than the other two, and eight years younger than the absent Lloyd.

  Gideon wondered if this was an oblique reference to his own current relationship with an older woman, but dismissed the thought; Pippa had never made any comment about Eve’s age before – at least not in his hearing.