BLINDFOLD Page 9

  `Good girl,' he told her again.

  When Jenny Weatherfield put her head round the door a few minutes later, Gideon was sitting back on the sofa with Willow at his knee, her chin resting trustfully on his leg.

  `Oh!' she said, a little wistfully. `She used to sit like that with me but she's stopped doing it since . . .'

  `Your husband died?' Gideon hazarded.

  `Yes, that's right.' Ready tears sprang to her eyes. `Did Pippa tell you? I asked her not to. People always sympathise and it sets me off. It's too recent.'

  `I haven't spoken to Pippa,' Gideon said. `At least not about you.'

  Jenny frowned. `Then how ... ?'

  Gideon didn't really know. `A guess, I suppose. I think it's the root of the trouble with Willow, anyway.'

  `But she wasn't close to him. She's always been very much my dog. Wouldn't go to anyone else. Until now,' she added thoughtfully.

  `But you were close to him,' Gideon said gently. `Very close, weren't you? And it's hit you hard.'

  Jenny sat down, her eyes fixed firmly on Willow who looked back but made no effort to go to her. She nodded wordlessly. `This dog adores you,' Gideon told her. `You're her whole world. And suddenly you've changed. You act differently. From being her rock, you've become unsure, unhappy and indecisive. She doesn't know what to make of you any more. She's worried and you see that, so you make a big fuss of her because you're relying on her to get you through the bad time. Hugging her, perhaps crying at the same time. Needing her.' He paused and jenny nodded, tears again in her eyes.

  `She's totally lost. She feels insecure, and because she's anxious

  she becomes defensive. When you behave out of character, she growls. You're hurt; she's even more at sea, and so the downward spiral begins.'

  `Poor Willow!' Jenny exclaimed.

  `Yes, "poor Willow", but that's not what she needs to hear,' Gideon said. `What she really needs is the jenny she used to know. She needs to know where she is again; needs some direction. You must be matter-of-fact with her. If she growls, remember that it's in response to your mood. Ignore her or brush it off lightly. You have to be strong for her. Put on a show and one day you'll find it isn't a show at all. You can help each other through this but sympathy isn't what either of you need right now, however much you deserve it.'

  Jenny sat and looked at her dog, a mixture of doubt and hope showing on her gracefully ageing features. `I understand what you're saying,' she said. `But I don't know if I can do it.'

  `I think you can, for her sake,' Gideon told her. `But if I were you, I'd get out of this house for a bit. Go and stay with a friend. Place yourself in a situation where you've no choice but to put on a brave face. Each day it'll be a bit easier and if you're happier, Willow will be happier. Spirals work both ways, you know.'

  He got to his feet and reached for his jacket. `I'll ring next week and I don't want you to be here,' he said firmly.

  Jenny achieved a watery smile and followed him across to the door.

  `When you arrived I thought I'd made a big mistake,' she told him. `To be completely honest, if it hadn't been for Pippa, I probably wouldn't even have let you in. She said not to be put off by appearances and she was right, you have a gift.'

  She did, did she? Gideon thought, filing that bit of information away for future use. `I understand animals, that's all,' he protested, mildly embarrassed.

  `And people,' she added softly. `Thank you, Gideon. I'll let you know how we get on.'

  Willow had padded across to stand behind her, watching Gideon leave. Jenny put a hand down and the bitch backed off a pace or two.

  `Silly old girl,' she said lightly, and Willow looked up and waved her tail.

  `That's fine,' Gideon said. `Don't crowd her and she'll come back to you.'

  `I understand,' Jenny said, and he could see that she did. `Thank you so much.'

  Sunday's ride went well. Rachel was a bit nervous at first but soon picked up the threads of her past experience and looked quite at home on Cassie. She was very taken with the handsome black horse that Gideon was riding and asked Pippa about him.

  `Blackbird? He's a menace,' she said flatly. `He's the most devious horse I've ever had the misfortune to come across and he can be a sod to ride. You just can't trust him.'

  Rachel considered the black horse for a long moment. He was walking beside her own mount with an expression of beatific innocence upon his good-looking face. Butter, quite plainly, would not even become soft.

  Pippa followed the direction of her gaze.

  `Oh, don't be misled by that look,' she advised. `He's probably planning something dastardly behind that saintly mask. Besides, our friend the witchdoctor there always sends horses to sleep. I don't know what it is, but put him on any horse and no matter how unruly it's been, within minutes it's walking like a seaside donkey.'

  `It's a trade secret,' Gideon informed Rachel conspiratorially. `You have to belong to the SSHW.'

  She frowned. `What does that stand for?'

  `Don't listen to him,' Pippa said, exasperated. `He's having you on. He'll tell you it's the Secret Society of Horse Whisperers, but there's no such thing.'

  Gideon pretended to be hurt. `Well, if you'd heard of it, it wouldn't be very secret, would it?' he reasoned.

  Pippa looked heavenwards.

  Monday morning brought a call from the garage in Blandford to say that the Mini could be picked up that afternoon. Both Gideon and Rachel needed to shop so they decided to travel in on the Norton, with Rachel driving the Mini back.

  Once in Blandford they agreed to go their separate ways, meeting up again at a teashop before picking up the car. Gideon needed some art supplies, to call in once again at the police station, and to do a major grocery shop, which he arranged for Rachel to pick up in the Mini. What she needed she didn't say and, as it was none of his business, Gideon didn't enquire.

  He arrived at the appointed teashop ahead of her and ordered cappuccinos and cream cakes for them both. He was a firm believer in healthy eating but an equally firm advocate of the value of what he called soul food, his theory being that if something was really enjoyable, then the satisfaction derived from eating it cancelled out any harm it might do in terms of cholesterol or calories.

  His session with the Blandford police had been singularly unsatisfactory. He'd called them on Friday morning to report his findings about Joey, which had been received, if not with warmth and gratitude, then at least with interest. Today, however, his reception could at best have been described as tepid.

  There were, he was told, seven Joseph Fletchers in the Chilminster area; three of whom were pensioners, two of school age, one out of the country and the last five foot four, bespectacled and a hairdresser. Gideon had laughed at this, which hadn't improved the warmth of his welcome, but the idea of his Joey as a hairdresser, with hairpins in his mouth and a towel over his shoulder, was hilarious.

  They had also drawn a blank with the van. It wasn't registered, as Gideon had dared to hope, to Joey's partner-in-crime Curly, but to a bona-fide heating engineer called Ray Barratt. Barratt was unhelpfully away on a fortnight's honeymoon at present, but had apparently been described by those who knew him as skinny, dark-haired and quietly spoken, none of which could have applied to Curly. Nobody seemed to know where his van was, except that it might have gone in for a refit.

  The coffee and cakes arrived, and taking one cup, he stirred the froth into the liquid, hoping Rachel wouldn't be too long.

  She wasn't. By the time Gideon's coffee had cooled to remotely drinkable she appeared, laden down with shiny bags and looking very pleased with herself. She slid into the seat opposite him, depositing her purchases upon the floor beside her where they promptly subsided and slid across the tiles.

  `Here,' Gideon said, holding out his hand. `Put them over this side between my chair and the wall.'

  When the bags were safely stowed, Rachel heaved a sigh of pure pleasure. `Oh, I love shopping!' she said. `It just gives you such a high.
It's great!'

  Gideon made a face. `Whereas I spend the whole time thinking of all the other things I could be doing. The quicker it's over and done with, the better I like it.'

  `Isn't that just typically male?' Rachel exclaimed, shaking her head in exasperation. `All I can say is, it's no wonder most single men have nothing edible in their larders and a wardrobe full of jeans and tee-shirts!'

  `Ouch!' Gideon said, laughing. `A cruel indictment against the male of the species.'

  `But true, nonetheless,' Rachel pointed out.

  Gideon had to acknowledge defeat. `The defence has no further comment,' he said stiffly. `But it wishes to go on record as saying that it regrets buying Miss Shelley that huge and extremely expensive cream cake.'

  `Oh, a poor loser!' Rachel said giggling. `I wouldn't have thought it of you.'

  `I'm renowned for it,' he told her seriously, but she was getting used to his teasing and turned her attention instead to the eclair.

  He thought how much she had come out of herself in the few days he'd known her, and supposed her deafness must make it difficult for her in her first dealings with strangers. It was a shame she allowed her fear of pity to rule her life, though. In reality it was more of a handicap than her deafness, making her appear offhand and unfriendly. Nothing could be further from the truth. When she got past that first hurdle she revealed a warm and generous nature. And for himself, he found her intense way of watching him as he spoke quite appealing.

  Coffee and cakes consumed, he paid the bill and they gathered up their collective purchases and made their way out into the cold once more. Rachel was ahead of Gideon and just turning to say something, when suddenly her face froze into an expression of shock.

  `What is it?' he asked, and when she didn't answer, he turned to follow the direction of her gaze. The pavement was relatively empty. Nobody was looking their way in particular. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

  He turned back. Rachel was as white as a sheet, her eyes huge. `What's the matter?'

  She dragged her fascinated gaze away from the street. `I thought I saw somebody,' she said in a small voice. `It doesn't matter. Please, can we go now?'

  `Who?'

  `Please,' she repeated, starting to move. `Let's just go home.' She would say nothing more and so Gideon led the way to the garage to pick up her car, telling her about the groceries to be collected from the supermarket, as they went.

  As the mechanic at the garage explained what they had done to the Mini and produced the bill, Rachel gave the distinct impression that her attention was somewhere else entirely. The repair bill was very reasonable, to Gideon's mind, but he felt they could have added another two or three noughts and Rachel would still have thanked them and handed her credit card over with the same slightly dazed expression.

  Every few moments she looked over her shoulder to where the big double doors stood open to the yard and from thence to the street. Her apprehension was so contagious that Gideon found himself glancing that way too, though he'd no idea who he was looking for.

  When she slid behind the wheel of the Mini he reminded her about the groceries but as she drove away he still wasn't sure whether she had taken the information on board.

  As Gideon thanked the mechanic once more and made his own way out on foot, he heard a voice in the yard calling out, `Okay, mate. See yer later,' and rounded the big sliding doors just as a blue-overalled figure came the other way. They collided in the doorway and over the shorter man's head Gideon caught sight of another man in a boiler suit waving and disappearing round the corner into the street. Medium height, heavy build, very little hair and a big plaster across his nose.

  Curly?

  `Sorry, mate,' the mechanic muttered, moving to one side, but Gideon caught hold of his arm to detain him.

  `That man,' he said. `The one you were talking to. Does he live round here?'

  `Nah, Chilminster. What's it to you, anyway?'

  `Oh, I ... er ... owe him some money,' Gideon improvised hastily. `But I've lost his address.'

  The mechanic laughed shortly. `If you owe Curly money, he'll find you, believe me.'

  `Well, to be honest, it's Joey I wanted to see,' Gideon admitted, roughening his voice a degree or two, and adding, `We used to be mates.' He thanked providence that he was wearing his jeans and leather biker's jacket.

  The mechanic looked him up and down doubtfully a time or two but Gideon could see that his mentioning Joey had tipped the scales in his favour.

  `If you're Joey's mate, how come you don't know where he lives?'

  `Christ! What are you, his bloody minder? I used to know him in Liverpool, if you must know, but forget it, I'll find him myself.' He turned and started to walk away.

  `They've got a bodyshop. Big Ellie's, it's called, just off Church Road in Chilminster,' the mechanic called after him.

  Gideon smiled to himself and, without turning, raised a hand in thanks.

  Chilminster wasn't more than fourteen miles away, and in view of his earlier reception, Gideon decided to verify this latest information himself, before running to the police with it. Rachel should be safely on her way home by now, so he thought he might just as well go right away. Another argument for going immediately was that if Curly and the Blandford mechanic were mates then Gideon might well come up in conversation over a pint, and he had far rather that Joey and Co. were not warned of a possible visit.

  Arriving in Chilminster some twenty minutes later, Gideon propped the Norton on its stand just outside the Post Office at the end of Church Road, went in and bought some stamps to justify its being there, and then went in search of Big Ellie's, helmet in hand.

  The bodyshop was, as the mechanic had said, just off Church Road. It stood at the end of a short alley, behind a row of dilapidated red-brick houses that were due for demolition, according to a graffiti-covered sign.

  Gideon edged cautiously along the alley, pausing at the point where it opened on to the forecourt of the garage. He didn't have to worry about being heard. On the other side of the high wall to his left, what sounded like a JCB was working industriously. He could have approached on the footplate of a steam engine and nobody in the building ahead would have been any the wiser.

  There were a few cars parked on the forty feet or so of tarmac in front of the aircraft hangar-like structure but little other cover. The idea of marching openly up to the building and asking if Curly was there didn't appeal greatly to Gideon, but equally unattractive was the thought of being caught sneaking up for a closer look. His initial plan had been to watch from an unseen vantage point in the hope of seeing either Joey or Curly moving about the place. Unfortunately, the way the garage was situated, this wasn't going to be possible.

  He could, of course, retreat to the end of the alley and wait to see who left at the end of the day, but the prospect of kicking his heels for what might be the best part of two hours didn't exactly fill him with joy either. And quite apart from the fact that it was bitterly cold and beginning to rain, it would also by that time be dark and almost impossible to make out faces.

  Gideon was just considering the possibility of withdrawing and approaching the building from another side altogether, when the decision was taken out of his hands.

  `Lost our motorbike, have we?' a rough voice hissed in his ear, and before he could respond, hands grasped his collar and the back of his jacket, pulling him away from the wall and then slamming him back into it with sickening force.

  The impact drove every ounce of breath from Gideon's body and when the unseen hands released him he dropped to his knees, gasping and leaning against the rough brickwork for support. Damn that JCB! he thought sourly. A few feet away his helmet rolled in a slow arc and came to a halt against the wall.

  Showing a marked lack of human kindness, his assailant followed up his initial assault with a kick which flattened Gideon against the wall once more, before turning him and hauling him roughly to his feet by the front of his jacket. A little air found its way pai
nfully into his lungs.

  `We knew you was coming, see,' the voice informed him triumphantly, and he didn't need the evidence of his eyes to tell him that it was Curly who had jumped him. `I bin watching you all the way down the road.'

  `Well, bully for you,' Gideon said a little thickly. The side of his head had connected, rather too firmly for comfort, with the brickwork and he was having trouble thinking straight. As before, flippancy cut in first, and as before, it wasn't appreciated. This time though, there was no Joey to keep a rein on Curly's temper. `Still got the smart mouth on yer, haven't cha?' he snarled, his breath foul in Gideon's face. `Well, I can shut that for yer!' Gideon saw coming the backhanded blow that accompanied the words but could do little to avoid it. It rattled his teeth and made his ears ring but because of the restraining hand on his jacket, he stayed on his feet. He blinked a time or two to restore focus and returned Curly's gloating look with a more or less steady one of his own. He was rewarded by a glimmer of disappointment in the pale eyes.

  `What now?' he asked, running his tongue over a split lip and chalking up a mental IOU to Curly's account. Breathing was becoming easier and with the return of strength came confidence. Behind the wall, and aeons too late, the racket from the machinery rattled away into silence. Voices sounded briefly then moved off. A coffee break perhaps, or maybe even packing up for the day.

  `Well?' Gideon persisted.

  `Shut up!' Curly seemed to sense that the advantage he'd gained through surprise was ebbing away. Gideon had the edge over him in both height and reach. He put his hand into the pocket of his boiler suit and withdrew a hefty spanner in an attempt to redress the balance.

  Gideon smiled faintly. `That should do it,' he observed approvingly. In fact, the presence of a weapon, especially so clumsy a one, made his task that much easier. He'd done a little karate at university and one of the first things he'd learned about self-defence was that if your assailant picks up a weapon you can be ninety-nine percent sure that he's intending to use it, and can then concentrate your defence in that one area. A man with open hands is a far trickier proposition, with the possibility of attack from hands, feet, or both.