Deadfall (25 page)

TROUBLE WAS THE
last thing on Linc's mind that evening as he dressed to go out. He had a table booked for eight-thirty at his favourite restaurant, and after dropping in on the conservation workers' shindig in Farthing St Thomas's church hall, he would be off to pick up Josie. There wasn't strictly any need for him to turn up at the party but he wanted to thank the volunteers personally for the hard work they were cheerfully putting in at the mill. He felt, too, that he owed it to Nikki at least to put in an appearance, after she had gone to the effort of organising the evening.

When he left the house just after half-past seven it seemed set fair to be a fine evening but by the time he got to Farthing St Thomas, just a couple of miles away, a strong breeze had sprung up, carrying with it a few spits of rain. Linc parked the Morgan and pulled the soft-top into place before going into the hall. Inside, the party was already underway. Balloons and streamers decorated the walls and ceiling, and in the kitchen area a trestle table
groaned under the weight of a huge buffet. As usual, Nikki had excelled herself.

Because most of the group was actually bunking down in the anteroom of the hall for the weekend, they had helped set everything up and consequently the drink was already flowing and spirits high. A local DJ had been hired and was operating from the tiny stage but, in common with most of the parties Linc had ever been to, people were much more inclined to chat than dance at this stage of the evening.

The conservation group consisted of between thirty and forty individuals of diverse ages and backgrounds who, it was impossible to think, would ever have found themselves socialising under any other circumstances. But as Linc moved among them it seemed that, having been thrown together, the eclectic group was interacting really well. As the alcohol consumption rose, releasing inhibitions, some of the younger volunteers began to take to the dance floor and amongst them there were a few faces that Linc felt he'd seen before, though he couldn't imagine where.

He moved across to the makeshift bar area where Crispin was helping Nikki dispense polystyrene cups full of fruit punch or beer. Bowls of nuts and crisps stood on every available surface, and in the kitchen behind the bar Linc could see Beverley arranging sprigs of parsley and twists of cucumber on the plates of sandwiches and sausage rolls. Typical of her to try and add a bit of spurious sophistication to what was a fairly rough and ready affair.

‘Is it my imagination or are there a few more here
than we started with?' Linc queried, in something only a couple of decibels lower than a yell. It seemed inconceivable that so few people could make so much noise.

Crispin nodded, leaning close to his brother's ear. ‘One or two of the youngsters from the village have found their way in but I've had a word and they've promised to behave. I feel a bit sorry for them, there's not a lot for them around here.'

‘Okay.' Linc made the thumbs up sign. It was easier than trying to make himself heard.

‘Hope you've got the hood up on that car of yours,' Crispin added, matching his actions to the words. ‘It's been raining quite hard.'

‘Yeah, she's all covered up.'

‘Have you tried Nikki's punch?' He proffered a cup.

‘Thanks.' Linc took it and sniffed appreciatively. ‘What's in it? Don't forget I'm driving.'

Crispin smiled, shook his head and gave him the thumbs up, which Linc took to mean it was fairly safe, but before he had the chance to take more than an experimental sip, his attention was claimed by the group co-ordinator who wanted a word with him and his signature on a form.

‘We need to go somewhere a bit quieter,' Linc said, leaning towards the man and indicating the doorway into the anteroom. He placed his drink on Crispin's table, close to the huge stainless steel punchbowl, pointed at it and yelled, ‘Back in a minute.'

Crispin grinned. ‘Yeah, maybe.'

It was, in fact, nearer fifteen minutes before he was able to get away from the man, by which time
the meaning of Crispin's obscure remark had been made very clear. The group leader, though pleasant enough, suffered from acute verbal diarrhoea and Linc had to resort to looking at his watch and exclaiming theatrically that he had to be somewhere else. Returning to the main hall, he edged round the dancers and paused beside his brother.

‘You could have warned me!' he bellowed, and Crispin laughed, then raised an eyebrow and nodded significantly. Linc looked over his shoulder and spotted the talkative man on the far side of the room, scanning the crowd as if searching for someone.

‘Oh, Lord!' he groaned. He turned his back, hoping he hadn't been seen, and picked up his cup of punch. He would have had difficulty in saying what had gone into the reddish liquid; fruit juice, certainly, and at least one source of alcohol, but there were undertones of something else that he couldn't identify, too. He became aware of Nikki watching him anxiously and smiled at her. ‘That's great!' he mouthed. ‘What's in it?'

‘Secret recipe,' she told him, beaming happily. ‘My dad used to make it. How long can you stay?'

Linc looked at his watch and then held one hand up, fingers spread to signify five minutes.

Nikki's mother had come out of the kitchen now and was standing beside her, regarding Linc with a look that could have curdled milk. He wondered if she was ever going to forgive and forget and then, in progression, decided that he really didn't care, just as long as she soon went back to Surrey and remained there.

After a couple more minutes, he wearied of
battling against the noise to try and make conversation with Crispin, and seeing the volunteer leader heading his way, took a last swig of the boozy, fruity concoction, put the cup down, waved and made for the door.

The air outside was wonderfully cool after the crowded hall, and even the light drizzle felt refreshing. He headed for the Morgan, gratefully leaving the noise behind him and reflecting that he was getting too old for discos. Across the car park, a man sat at the wheel of a car. Thinking he looked vaguely familiar, Linc raised a hand in greeting. The other man responded by rudely turning his head away.

‘Suit yourself,' Linc muttered under his breath.

Lowering himself into his car, he slammed the door, shaking the raindrops off the fabric roof. For a moment he just sat, feeling all of a sudden weary and a little light-headed. He wondered if he'd hit his head when he fell off Hobo that morning, but didn't think he had.

‘Food. That's what I need,' he told himself firmly, and turned the key in the ignition. What with riding at the hunter trial that morning and the drama of his father's accident – if accident it had been – he hadn't had much time for eating, and by late-afternoon, when he had begun to feel really hungry, his dinner date with Josie was only an hour or two away.

He reversed out of the parking space, giving himself a shock as he nearly scraped a neighbouring vehicle.

That wasn't like him; he prided himself on being a good driver. He hoped the rude man hadn't
noticed. With extra care he swung the Morgan round and headed for the exit, where he stopped for a moment, trying to remember which way he needed to go.

Josie. That was it. He was on his way to pick Josie up. All in all, he thought it might be an idea to beg a cup of sweet coffee at the Vicarage before they set out. It seemed his blood sugar was pretty low. He felt decidedly muzzy.

The car stalled, and he blinked and shook his head to clear it. He was getting nowhere fast. Taking a deep breath, he started the engine once more and drove out into the lane. In spite of the light rain, a gleam of evening sunlight was slanting through the trees, flashing intermittently into his eyes with a hypnotic effect. He reached into the glove shelf for his sunglasses and put them on.

That was better.

Soothing.

He closed his eyes for a moment against the growing turmoil in his head; too befuddled even to wonder what was causing it.

The strident blare of a car horn made him jump and his eyes snapped open as the vehicle swished by. Over-reacting, he steered left and the Morgan bumped up on to the verge for a few yards, scraping its undercarriage, before regaining the road.

His vision was a swirling pattern of light and dark, breathing was an effort and his stomach felt ghastly.

Home.

Farthingscourt.

He knew that was where he should go, but try as he might he couldn't keep his eyes open. He put his foot on the brake as a sensation of overwhelming
drowsiness came over him and he began to slide into a bottomless, dark pit.

A bell was chiming.

Each strike of the clapper sent a red-hot pain through Linc's skull.

He groaned and someone spoke, but it sounded distant and distorted, like a voice underwater. He couldn't make out any words and couldn't be bothered to try.

He felt suddenly urgently sick and retched, the effort pulling his head towards his knees. Instantly, hands grasped him and his world turned upside down. Blackness closed in once more.

Running water; a stream or a fountain.

Linc forced his eyes to open a millimetre or so. The water was white and swirling. It filled his vision, sparkling with reflected light. It was blinding; it hurt. He shut his eyes.

Nausea rose and he retched dryly. His stomach was empty, except for the burning, and that wouldn't budge.

He seemed to be bent over. Something hard was pressing against his chest but when he tried to move, to ease the discomfort, his muscles refused to obey.

He groaned once more, the sound barely audible, and was rewarded by the return of the nightmarish, echoey voices. The unseen hands pulled him upright but his head lolled forward out of his control, until another gentle hand lifted his chin.

Upright wasn't good. What little he could see
under his half-closed eyelids tilted and swam, and the voices faded once more.

Crispin was sitting beside Linc's bed.

Actually it was somebody else's bed, not his. The ceiling was lower in his own bedroom and slanted down to meet the wall. This one was much higher; was it Crispin's room, perhaps? Linc couldn't recall what the upstairs rooms were like in the North Lodge cottage.

He rolled his eyes to bring his brother into view once more. He was looking away, towards the window, apparently lost in thought. It appeared to be daylight outside.

‘Hey, Bro,' Linc said. At least, that was his intention. In reality, all he made was a whisper and the discovery that his throat was very sore.

It was enough to get Crispin's attention.

‘Linc! Wow, finally! I thought you were going to sleep for a week. How d'you feel? No. Scrap that. Silly question.'

‘Very silly,' Linc croaked. He glanced up at the ceiling again. ‘Where am I?'

‘Er, I think it's Abby's room,' Crispin told him. ‘I think that's what they said.'

Linc frowned. ‘The Vicarage?'

‘Yeah, of course. My God! You
were
out of it, weren't you? Sandy brought you here.'

Sandy?
Why
Sandy
of all people? Linc tried to make sense of it but couldn't. The effort made his head pound.

‘What time is it?'

Crispin put his hands behind his neck and arched his back, stretching the muscles. ‘Nearly nine
o'clock. I've been here for ages. Ever since you stopped throwing up in the kitchen sink – about one o'clock, I think that was.'

Linc frowned again. ‘I don't remember that.'

‘Then you're the lucky one!' his brother said with feeling. ‘
I
shan't forget it in a hurry, I can tell you. It was grim!'

‘The kitchen sink?' Linc's lip curled in distaste.

‘'Fraid so. We didn't have time to get you any further.'

‘We?'

‘Me, Sandy, and the doctor . . .'

‘Doctor Small?'

‘No. The doctor on call. Can't remember his name. Came from miles away. Apparently Josie called him when she called me, soon after Sandy brought you in, but he didn't get here until nearly midnight.'

‘Oh, God! Josie?'

‘Yeah. You're certainly putting that relationship to the test! She's quite a girl, though! And her sister, Ruth. You'll be relieved to know that the parents were out, at the hospital, I gather.'

Linc was silent for a moment, horrified at the picture Crispin was painting. He became aware that his brother was regarding him oddly.

‘The doctor asked us if you could have taken anything – you know, drugs and stuff. He thought it might be an overdose at first. We said absolutely not.' He paused awkwardly. ‘You didn't, did you?'

‘You have to ask?' Linc was momentarily hurt but then reason reasserted itself. What with university and then his moving away, he and Crispin hadn't
seen a lot of each other as adults until five months ago. Could Linc really blame him for a moment's doubt? How well did they actually know one another?

‘No. That's what we said,' Crispin said, looking relieved. ‘I'm not sure he believed us, though. He took a blood sample and was making noises about carting you off to hospital at one point. I think he was in a bit of a panic because he hadn't got here sooner. Not that it was his fault, poor bloke. He was on the other side of the county, and as far as he knew you were just drunk.'

Linc was feeling a little better now. He manoeuvred himself up into a sitting position, which made the muscles in his arms, shoulders and stomach feel as though he'd just put them through a stiff workout. After spinning a time or two, his head settled to a heavy ache, and he felt as weak as a cat. Somewhere along the line, someone had changed him into a pair of pyjama bottoms.

Crispin watched the discovery, and grinned. ‘Don't worry, I did that. So what
did
happen to you? You seemed okay when you left the party.'

Linc tried to think back, but all that came to him was an assortment of muddled images. He vaguely recalled riding Hobo at a hunter trial, and his father in bed with his head bandaged. When had that been?