BLINDFOLD Read online

  Gideon gazed contemplatively at the subsiding froth on his shandy. The description might be of some use if he had any idea where to start looking for the man. It was not, of course, certain that the person looking for a remote farm with a large barn was the same one who'd ordered Gideon's kidnap, but it was a sizeable coincidence, if not.

  Back on the Norton, some ten minutes later, Gideon found himself debating the wisdom of taking his fledgling detective work any further.

  On a purely emotional level he was furious that he should have been manipulated entirely against his will by a bunch of complete strangers and then told to forget it ever happened. Common sense, on the other hand, dictated firmly that he should swallow his wounded pride, be glad he had come out of it relatively unscathed, and let well enough alone.

  In the end he convinced himself that just taking a look at the three farms was unlikely to land him in any further trouble. The bad guys were almost certainly long gone, and the most he would find would be evidence of their passing, in the shape of a few hoofpnnts and maybe a tyre-track or two if the frozen ground had yielded any.

  In the event, there were no tyre-tracks. At the second farm he tried, he found the door to the barn at the end of the yard had

  been forced and the trodden earth floor inside bore evidence of recent disturbance.

  It was strange, seeing the interior of the barn for real. Unconsciously he had built up an impression of what it was like, and what instantly struck him was the size of the place. Even though he'd been told its approximate dimensions, he'd imagined the barn so much bigger. The area the stallion had been running in was bounded on three sides by wooden walls sitting on a metre or so of brickwork, and on the other by the rails of three, square livestock pens.

  Gideon wandered into the centre of the open area and crouched to inspect the hoofprints.

  The imprints were fairly small for a seventeen-hand horse, indicating that it was probably a well-bred animal, but they had no other distinguishing features except for the absence of shoes. A young horse, perhaps, not yet broken to ride?

  Here and there he could make out his own boot prints. He could see where he had stood and allowed the horse to come to him. Custer's last stand, he thought wryly. And it could so easily have been just that.

  In spite of the very real fear though, the episode had given him a kind of buzz. He found himself able to relate to most horses on one level or another, mainly by way of mutual interpretation of body language, but just occasionally he came across one that was exceptional. He had described it to Pippa once as like tuning in a radio. Sometimes, no matter how you turn the dial, no matter which way the aerial is pointing, reception is poor, a series of crackles and half-heard words that you have to guess at. Then, another time, feeling your way through the frequencies, you hit it right and the signal comes through sharp and crystal clear. It was rare in Gideon's experience but this was such a horse, and the memory stirred excitement in his veins.

  He wondered if the blindfold had played any part in clearing a path to the animal's consciousness. Perhaps, like blinkers on a racehorse, it had ruled out distractions and allowed him to concentrate his mind fully on the stallion.

  He realised he was still crouching, making patterns in the dirt with his finger, and straightened up to turn his attention to the railed pens.

  One of these bore evidence of recent occupancy in the shape of more hoofpnnts and two or three scattered and trampled piles of dung. Frowning, Gideon bent once more to inspect the prints. These presumably belonged to the mare that the Guv'nor and his pals had brought along to receive the services of the stallion. Her hooves too were unshod - not unusual in a broodmare that isn't being ridden at all - but what was surprising was the size. They were far bigger than the stallion's and much rounder.

  As it was unlikely that the mare was going to be very much taller than seventeen hands, which is near the top of the scale for horses, size-wise, it looked as though she was a good deal heavier than he was; less well-bred, more of a weight-carrier. She certainly wasn't a thoroughbred.

  But why steal a stallion, and probably a valuable one at that, and then breed it to a mare of a completely different sort?

  Gideon took a final look round the barn, finding nothing but an empty cigarette packet of a common brand, which was unlikely to prove useful. With a sense of having reached a dead end, he let himself back out of the heavy wooden doors.

  The rest of the outbuildings held no surprises and the house, which was locked, looked as though it hadn't been lived in for years. It seemed as though Mr Wilkins' many clients had not been tempted by this particular farm.

  The blurb had described it as an attractive period property in need of some refurbishment, with a good range of outbuildings that offered development potential for a variety of uses.

  You're so right, Mr Wilkins! Gideon thought as he kicked the Norton back to life.

  THREE

  THE NEXT DAY HAD little to recommend it. Gideon woke to cloudy skies that drizzled icy-cold rain and had his breakfast disturbed by the long arm of the law knocking on his front door.

  The two policemen stayed for the best part of two hours, asking questions, peering at the front door, noting the layout of the hall and getting Gideon to show them just where each of the players in the drama had been throughout. They inspected the lane outside the Gatehouse for suspect tyre-marks, then asked him to relate his movements during the day preceding his abduction. They enquired again if he didn't think he might have known one or both of his attackers, and wanted to know precisely where and how he'd been released.

  On this last point there was much shaking of heads. If he'd reported the incident immediately, he was told, an inspection of the release site would quite possibly have yielded much of interest, but as things stood, with all the traffic that regularly used the lane to the quarry, any evidence would probably have been destroyed. Gideon produced the handcuffs and watched with amusement as they were carefully removed from his palm on the end of a pen, deposited in a polythene bag and labelled.

  `They wore gloves,' he pointed out. He had already told them once.

  `Can't be too careful, sir,' he was informed.

  Gideon was tired of it all after the first twenty minutes and heartily regretted having notified them at all.

  They had come, as he had requested, in plain clothes and an unmarked car, just in case the Guv'nor or one of his thugs were watching the place, but Gideon didn't seriously believe they were. He supposed he would soon find out if they had been though, for the thorough way the two officers quartered the ground outside signalled their business as clearly as if they had come with blue lights flashing and sirens wailing.

  When eventually they left him in peace, he couldn't see that anything whatsoever had been gained from their visit. In fact, quite the opposite. After supplying numerous cups of coffee, he had run out of milk.

  The policemen, it seemed, had departed still under the impression that Gideon knew more than he was letting on, and their manner clearly indicated that although they would naturally do their best, they wouldn't be able to make much progress until he came clean.

  He'd intended to spend the day adding to a small collection of pictures he was assembling for an exhibition, but his session with the police left him feeling unsettled and he abandoned the idea.

  It didn't seem worth putting his wet weather gear on and getting the bike out just for the sake of going to the village for a bottle of milk, and ten minutes later he found himself trudging instead in the other direction, along the lane towards the Priory.

  Both Giles and his sister were out when Gideon reached the house but three of the stables were empty so he sat on the stool in the tack room to wait and, sure enough, Pippa soon returned, clattering into the stableyard riding one horse and leading two more.

  `Oh, good,' she called as she saw him. `Another pair of hands. Can you take Sebastian for me? He will keep making horrible faces at Griffin - who's terrified of him - and if he does it
just as I'm getting off, I shall probably end up in an undignified heap!'

  Gideon obligingly took the lead rein and removed the bay gelding from the vicinity of the beefy-looking chestnut that Pippa was waiting to dismount.

  `Why take them together if they have such a personality clash?' he enquired curiously.

  `Well, I wouldn't have done if I'd known,' Pippa said with a trace of indignation, `but they're both perfect gentlemen normally. You just can't tell.' Then, slanting a teasing look at Gideon, `Well, perhaps you could. IT have to employ you as my consultant equine psychologist. You can interview them all and find out their personal likes and dislikes before I take them on.'

  Gideon treated this idea with the contempt it deserved. He was well aware that Pippa understood, more than most, the limits that there necessarily were to communicating with horses. Words, for a start, didn't come into it.

  `Have you come to ride Cassie?' she enquired over her shoulder as she tied one of her charges to the hitching rail.

  `Well, not precisely,' Gideon admitted, `but if she needs exercise ...

  '

  `I was going to lead her out from Skylark but it would do her more good to be ridden.'

  `Okay then. Glad to be of service.' Gideon bowed.

  `What did you come for, really?' Pippa asked, an hour and a half later, after they had come back from their ride, and settled all the horses with feeds and nets of hay. `Only, Giles will be out 'til quite late, I should think. He's gone to Surrey to see a man about some ostriches.' She grimaced. `It's his latest money-spinning idea. I'm just keeping everything crossed that they peck him or something, and put him off. I mean, ostriches, for heavensakes! You can imagine what the horses would think of them! They'd go ballistic!'

  `I thought you liked birds,' Gideon said provocatively. They'd forsaken the yard for the warmth of the Priory kitchen, and Pippa was heating up soup and French bread.

  She cast him a withering glance over her shoulder. `There are birds and birds,' she stated heavily. `But ostriches? I mean, one minute he's concerned about everything being in keeping with the character of the place and then he's thinking of importing birds from Africa or wherever they come from!'

  `Yeah, Africa,' Gideon agreed. `Still, it could be worse. It could be crocodiles or something.'

  `Don't you dare suggest it!' Pippa warned, swinging round and brandishing the bread knife.

  Gideon held up his hands, laughing.

  `So what did you come for? You still haven't said.' `Well, actually, I've run out of milk.'

  `So what's wrong with the Post Office? Have they run out too?' `Er, no,' Gideon admitted. `But they've never yet offered me lunch, and I didn't like to ask them if I could borrow their car tomorrow.'

  He ducked as the last two hard-crusted inches of the French stick whistled past his ear.

  Afternoon, the following day, found Gideon in possession of the borrowed wheels and on the road to Dorchester. The vehicle was Giles' four-wheel-drive Mercedes, which compared to the Norton for comfort rather as an armchair would to a milking stool.

  Gideon had had cars of his own over the years but when the most recent of these had finally coughed its last just four months ago, he'd taken to borrowing from Giles and Pippa on the odd occasion when a motorbike just wouldn't do, and the habit had stuck. Today was just such an occasion. He was to do the preparatory work for a portrait commission and the combined bulk of his camera, sketchpad and portfolio was more than the Norton's topbox could accommodate.

  This afternoon he was headed for a small village just beyond Dorchester, and a heavy-horse stud called Winterbourne Shires. The stud was owned and run by one Tom Collins, in whose family heavy horses had plodded since time immemorial.

  Gideon had known the Collinses, Tom and his wife Mary, for several years now. They had met when one of Tom's horses had been severely traumatised following a road accident, and a mutual acquaintance had recommended Gideon.

  The horse, not a shire but a top-class showiumper who had competed at the Olympics and on several successful national teams, had sustained horrific injuries when the horsebox he was travelling in had been involved in a motorway pile-up, one foggy autumn morning. The vet called to the scene had been inclined to put the horse down there and then, but the Collinses worshipped the horse and were not prepared to give up without a fight.

  They pointed out to the vet that besides being a stallion with an ongoing career at stud, Popsox was the current darling of Britain's horsy public and there would be a national outcry if any effort was seen to have been spared. The vet saw the force of this argument. He had no wish to be cast as the villain of the piece; labelled forever as the man who shot the nation's favourite.

  After extensive surgery by their own vet, and two months of dedicated nursing by the Collins family, the horse had made a fair recovery, although he would never again be completely sound, which spelled the end of his competitive career.

  What had worried his owners, however, was his mental state. The once bright and energetic horse seemed to have lost all zest for life. He stood at the back of his stable with his head low and ears back, not even coming forward when somebody came to his door. He was reluctant to leave the security of his box to exercise, and loud noises made him break out in a sweat.

  Sedation could obviously not be considered as a long-term solution and the vet had said there was nothing more he could do, as there were no longer any physical symptoms for him to treat. He could offer no assurances as to whether Sox would ever regain his confidence.

  Gideon first saw him four months after the accident, at which point there had been no improvement in his mental condition at all and Tom Collins was at his wits' end. Gideon found the case fascinating. The horse was totally withdrawn and for the first few days he could make little progress. There was no spark, except when something alarmed him and then he exhibited fear bordering on panic.

  After studying the horse closely, Gideon decided that in common with all herding or pack animals, what the horse needed was leadership. Ignore the fact that, as a stallion, this horse had hitherto assumed that role himself, the accident had robbed Sox of all his confidence and he needed the security of a strong personality to follow. The tendency so far had been to shield and reassure him in his distress. A natural enough instinct, but Gideon sensed that this had in fact only reinforced his anxiety. He felt sure that the way forward was through discipline and bonding. Sox needed, above all, to rediscover his place in the world.

  Gideon had spent the best part of a month at the stud, working daily with the stallion, and by the end of it the horse had started his journey back to normality. It might be many months before he would stop jumping at sudden noises - maybe he never would - but he was coming up to his half-door and looking out, and although he wasn't yet fit enough for stud work, he was once again taking an interest in the mares.

  That had been three years ago and Gideon had visited two or three times since, gaining great satisfaction from seeing the stallion gradually growing in stature until he was once more the vital, shining star he had been in the prime of his career.

  It had given him great delight too to see the visiting mares, one or two of whom already had Sox's sons or daughters at foot, coming to be mated again last year. The showy stallion had not been forgotten by his fans, and there was no shortage of people who wanted to breed a potential Olympic mount for themselves.

  It was especially nice, Gideon thought, as he swung the Mercedes through the arched gateway on this cloudy February day, that Sox so often passed on his own distinctive colouring to his offspring. His coat was a bright coppery chestnut and he sported a broad white blaze on his face and four brilliant white, knee-length socks; hence the name. Only time would tell whether any of the youngsters would also inherit the phenomenal jumping ability that had made their sire famous.

  Mary Collins came hurrying out of the house almost before the vehicle had come to a halt. Short and well-rounded, with a sort of faded prettiness, she held out both h
ands as Gideon got out of the Mercedes, and kissed him fondly on the cheek.

  'Gideon. How lovely to see you again! My goodness, whatever have you done to your face?'

  `Hello, Mary. The old story. Walked into an open door. It looks worse than it is.'

  Concern furrowed her brow for a moment and then she recalled her reason for contacting him. `Listen, I'm sorry to call you at such short notice, did you mind dreadfully? The thing is, it's our wedding anniversary next month and I couldn't think what on earth to get Tom. Then suddenly I remembered your paintings and I thought that'd be just the thing. You know how proud he is of Sovereign.'

  `He's a lovely horse,' Gideon said as she finally paused for breath. Sovereign was Tom Collins' top prize-winning shire stallion. `And, no, of course I didn't mind.'

  `That's sweet of you. Now will you have a cup of coffee first or do you want to get on? Tom's away looking at some youngstock up Bristol way. I don't expect he'll be back before dark, so I'm on my own here except for Gerald.'

  `Gerald? I don't know Gerald, do I? Where's Roly? With Tom?' Roly French was the Collinses' stud groom, and Gideon had come to know him pretty well when he'd stayed at the stud to work with Sox.

  `No.' Mary sounded surprised. `Of course, you wouldn't know, would you? Roly left us last year, very suddenly. I was away at the

  time visiting my sister, and when I got back he was gone.'

  `Gone where?' Gideon asked, puzzled. They turned and started to walk towards the house.

  `Well, that's what's so odd about it; he didn't say exactly. Down to the coast somewhere, to be closer to Connie's mother, so Tom said, but he didn't seem to want to talk about it at the time. In fact, I accused him of falling out with Roly, which didn't go down too well, I can tell you! I was just so surprised.'