Time to Pay (23 page)

Gideon had a feeling that ‘something in the City' Robin Tate might not be easy to find, for he didn't appear to be listed in the telephone directory. Although Wimborne St Giles wasn't a big place, it had its fair share of large houses, and any attempt to ask around would understandably arouse a certain amount of suspicion in the neighbourhood. Even supposing he did find himself on the Tates' doorstep, he thought it more likely that the door would be firmly closed in his face than that he would be invited in to chat, once he'd announced his reason for
calling. He dismissed the idea, with some vague notion of furthering his contact by means of Angie Bowen, at a later date.

That left Garth Stephenson, the teacher; the problem in his case being that Gideon only had a mobile number, and no idea of the location of the boarding school he taught at.

After much deliberation, he picked up the phone and keyed in a number he hadn't used for eighteen months or more.

The phone rang seven or eight times, during which period Gideon became increasingly tempted to replace the receiver and forget the idea, but, just before he did so, the dial tone was interrupted and a weary voice said, ‘Yeah. Logan here.'

‘Sorry. Did I wake you?' Gideon said, trying to remember what PC Mark Logan had told him in the past about shift patterns.

‘A chance'd be a fine thing. I'm on lates, and I've had the builders at home all day, knocking down a wall.' He paused. ‘Well, well, Gideon Blake! I wondered if I'd be hearing from you . . .'

‘You did?'

‘Your name's come up in conversation at the nick a time or two, lately. A little matter of murder, I believe, and you're involved. Now why doesn't that surprise me?'

‘It's not by choice, I can assure you,' Gideon told him.

‘So what can I do for you now? I presume this isn't a social call?'

‘I, er . . . wondered if you could trace a mobile phone number for me, if I asked nicely?'

‘That depends on whether it's pay monthly or pay as you go,' Logan said. ‘If it's pay as you go, and unregistered, it's virtually impossible.'

‘I've no idea.'

‘You want to know whose the phone is?'

‘No. I know his name, I need an address.'

‘Are you going to tell me
why
you want to know?'

‘Er . . . Not just yet,' Gideon admitted.

‘Then why the hell should I do it, huh?'

‘For old times' sake?'

‘That's crap! What I remember of
old times
was you giving me the runaround, and me having to dig you out of the mess you got yourself into!'

‘Yeah, did I ever thank you for that?'

There was an exasperated noise at the other end of the phone.

‘What's the number?'

Gideon gave it.

‘He's a schoolteacher – boarding school – but I don't know where.'

‘This wouldn't have anything to do with the Damien Daniels investigation, would it?'

‘Not as far as I know,' Gideon said, with questionable honesty.

‘I don't trust you, mister, but I should warn you. DI Rockley's on this one – you've met him, I expect?'

Gideon agreed that he had.

‘Well, you needn't think you can put one past him. If you know anything at all that you're not telling about the Daniels murder, you'd better fess up, cos he'll find out, sooner or later, and he won't be a happy man!'

‘I'll consider myself warned,' Gideon said, outwardly placid. ‘So, can you get the address for me?'

‘Buggered if I know why I should,' Logan muttered. ‘It might take a minute. I'll get back to you.' And he rang off before Gideon could thank him.

Half an hour later he was in the Land Rover and heading for a village on the outskirts of Chilminster.

Charlton Montague was tucked away in a tree-lined valley, with only its church spire visible until the road ducked under the tree canopy and revealed a couple of dozen stone-built cottages, three or four larger houses, a timbered and thatched pub, and a post office and general stores.

This much Gideon was able to see in the fading light, and he knew, from studying the map beforehand, that the road led only to the village, the school and a couple of farms beyond.

After driving through the village on one narrow road and back through it on another, he slotted the Land Rover into the one remaining space in the car park of the Goose and Ferret inn, and went inside. He'd seen the sign advertising Montague Park School on the far side of the settlement, the words painted in bold black letters on two glossy white boards which were fixed to the wrought-iron railings either side of an impressive gateway. The gates were closed and lighted windows in the lodge suggested that no-one would be allowed to pass through without authorisation. Gideon had decided his best bet lay in enquiring at the village pub.

Ducking under an almost impossibly low lintel, he opened the squeaky door and found himself in exactly the kind of bar that the outside had suggested it would be: black-beamed, with terracotta walls, horse brasses, inadequate lighting and a log fire. The pub was buzzing with conversation and laughter, and one or two people had to move aside to allow him to reach the bar itself, where he stood with his neck slightly bent to avoid the assortment of copper implements that lined the beam above.

After exchanging a few parting words with some customers at the other end of the bar, the barman, a ruddy-cheeked individual with a fringe of greying hair round a shiny bald pate, made his way along to Gideon, still smiling.

‘Gawd, you're a tall one!' he exclaimed. ‘Mind your head, won't you? I don't want a lawsuit on me hands!'

A couple of those closest to Gideon turned to look him up and down and he smiled in a friendly fashion.

‘So what'll it be?' the barman asked.

‘Got any good local ales?'

‘Yup. Stinking Ferret,' came the answer, with a twinkle. ‘Brewed specially for us, a couple of miles up the road. It's a hell of a lot better than it sounds!'

‘Well, I'll try anything once,' Gideon said bravely. ‘A pint, please.'

‘Not from around here, are you?' the barman observed as he drew the ale, unwittingly giving Gideon just the opening he had hoped for.

‘No. Been in Brisbane for a year or two.'

‘That's Australia, isn't it? Got a cousin lives in Perth,' the other man announced.

‘That's strange, because
I've
got a cousin who lives
here
,' Gideon said in tones of wonder, at the same time sending a prayer of thanks winging upwards that Perth was on the other side of the country from Brisbane.

‘Small world. Whereabouts?'

‘Right here; Charlton Montague.'

‘Oh? Who's that then? That'll be two eighty-five, please.' A tall glass of a slightly cloudy golden liquid was placed on the bar in front of Gideon.

‘His name's Garth Stephenson and he teaches at the school,' Gideon said, fishing in his pocket for some change. ‘At least, I'm told he does.'

‘Yeah, I know Garth; top bloke,' the barman said warmly. ‘He might be in later. Does he know you're here?'

‘Not yet. Thought I'd surprise him. Does he live in the village?'

‘No, up at the school.'

‘Thought his brother lived in South Africa.' A man to Gideon's left spoke up. ‘He was talking about going out to visit him later this year . . .'

‘That's his brother; I'm his cousin,' Gideon said. ‘Actually, more of a second cousin. I've been doing the family history and I turned up the connection. Now I'm back in England, I thought I'd come and look him up.'

‘Oh, so you've never met before? Ah! He will be surprised.'

Won't he just?
Gideon thought.

A cover story that he'd invented merely as a sure way to have Stephenson pointed out to him
began to assume a life of its own. Gideon had underestimated the community spirit of this small village. The teacher was evidently a popular chap, and everybody seemed to know him and take a personal interest in this unknown relative who had turned up out of the blue.

By the time Stephenson arrived at the Goose and Ferret, at a little past nine, Gideon had had to endure the best part of an hour of gentle interrogation about his business and what had taken him to Australia, and had waited, in dread, for someone to say that they, too, had spent time in Brisbane, and want to compare experiences. Long before the teacher appeared, he had created for himself a wife, two kids and a white-boarded house on the Pacific coast. He had also imparted a great deal of, quite frankly, dubious information about the Antipodean flora and fauna, and was in a state of trepidation lest the subject turn to politics. With every minute that passed he dug himself in deeper and, with every minute, the idea of him leaving without seeing his ‘cousin' became ever less conceivable.

The door squeaked open and the barman looked across, and then at Gideon, saying, with an air of high expectation, ‘Here he is . . .'

Gideon turned to see a well-built, blond-haired man of perhaps just under six feet ducking under the door frame.

‘Garth, lad! Over here!' the barman called out. ‘Someone to see you.'

Stephenson made his way through the throng, which parted before him and then closed round, as a number of people jostled for a view. He
glanced at the group by the bar, looking puzzled and slightly embarrassed.

‘What's going on, Pete?'

The barman indicated Gideon.

‘Betcha don't know who this is . . .'

Stephenson glanced at him again, shaking his head in bewilderment, and Gideon felt sorry for him. Everyone in the vicinity had gone quiet, listening. Heartily wishing he'd thought of a different cover story, he stuck out his hand with a smile.

‘Hi. My name's Geoff Blaketon; I'm the second cousin you didn't know you had.'

‘He's been in Australia,' the barman put in helpfully.

‘My cousin? I don't understand . . .' Stephenson shook his hand, nonetheless.

‘Second cousin,' Gideon said. ‘On your mother's side. It's a bit complicated. Can I get you a drink? Then I'll try to explain.'

‘OK.' Stephenson gave him a long look while they waited for Pete, the barman, to draw the pints, and then said curiously, ‘Would that be my Auntie Rita's branch of the family?'

‘That's right.' Gideon paid and handed him his drink. ‘Look, those people are just leaving; let's grab that table.'

A couple of minutes later, installed at a small table near the door, he took a long draught of his ale and wondered how on earth to broach his real identity and reason for coming. The door opened and two more people came in, accompanied by a hefty whoosh of cold air, but Gideon didn't mind. For his purposes, the location couldn't have been
better – well away from the friendly nosiness of the group by the bar.

He was in the process of formulating his opening sentence when Stephenson beat him to it, saying abruptly, ‘So what do you
really
want, Mr Blaketon? Or is that even your real name?'

‘No, it isn't,' Gideon confessed with relief. ‘How did you know?'

‘I haven't got an Auntie Rita.'

‘Oh. I fell for that one, didn't I? My name's Blake, Gideon Blake.'

Stephenson looked a little wary.

‘As in the Gideon that rang me, out of the blue, the other night?'

‘That's right.'

‘So what do you want with me? I told you I didn't know Damien Daniels.'

‘But you said you knew his brother . . . How?'

‘
Who are you
?' Stephenson asked suspiciously.

‘I told you. I'm a friend of the family – just trying to sort something out for Damien's sister. She found this list of names among his things and wanted to know if it was anything important; I said I'd help.'

‘And what have you found out?'

‘Enough to know that it
is
important. That's why I came back to you.'

‘Why haven't you taken it to the police? Why didn't she?'

‘Do you think she should?' Gideon queried.

‘Oh, God, I don't know! I don't know anything any more – I'm just sick of it! It was all so bloody long ago, I'm not sure it even matters now.'

‘If it doesn't matter, tell me about it,' Gideon urged.

Stephenson took a long swallow of his beer and then shook his head.

‘It's not just me, is it? It's not my decision to make.'

Gideon could have groaned aloud with frustration.

‘You know Adam Tetley's been taken in for questioning over Damien's murder?' he said, instead.

‘Yes. I saw it on the news. Do they think he did it?'

‘I've no idea – do you?'

‘How should I know? I haven't seen him for donkey's years. But I suppose they must have some reason to arrest him.'

‘His name is on the list,' Gideon told him.

‘What the hell's that got to do with it? So's mine, apparently. What are you implying?'

Gideon leaned forward over the table.

‘Look, I'm not implying anything. I'm just trying to find out what in God's name this is all about and it would save a hell of a lot of time if someone would just talk to me! So what about it, huh?'

For a moment he thought Stephenson was going to do just that, but then his gaze dropped.

‘I can't,' he said. ‘If it was just me . . .'

‘Who are you protecting? The other people on the list? Tell me, please.'

‘I'm sorry.' Stephenson shook his head. ‘I can't.'

Although it didn't exactly keep him awake, the infuriating riddle of the list occupied Gideon's mind throughout the rest of that evening, and he
woke up thinking about it in the morning. To try and make some sense of it, he wrote the six names and phone numbers down on a fresh notepad, leaving a gap under each to fill in what he'd found out about them, including their addresses and which of the other names they had admitted to knowing.