BLINDFOLD (10 page)

`But nobody's used it since,' Tim pointed out. `The gate's locked now. It was probably just a shortcut.'

`To where?' she asked incredulously, but he had no answer. `You said several things had happened,' Gideon said, concentrating on known facts. `Anything other than the dog and the solicitors?'

`Well,' Tim looked uncomfortable, `somebody sent the RSPCA inspectors round, saying that we were ill-treating the animals. Then we had some of our fences cut, and we've had one or two notes.'

Naomi looked at him in consternation. `You didn't tell me! I thought this was the first.'

`I didn't want to worry you. It was some time ago, just after you first came. To be honest, I didn't take much notice of them until Sam was - until Sam died.'

`Could you get a trained guard dog?' Gideon suggested. `Or better still a flock of geese or guinea fowl? A friend of mine's got some and they make a hell of a racket when anyone comes round. I was thinking they'd be less easy to silence than a dog. I mean, if they've already poisoned one . . .'

`It's an idea,' Tim mused.

`I think it's a good idea,' Naomi said. `You've got to do something. Maybe we could get a security camera too.'

There was silence for a moment as the three of them were busy with their thoughts. In one of the nearby sheds a squirrel chattered noisily and was answered by the raucous squawk of a bird. Somewhere further off there was the sound of a helicopter starting up.

`Anyone want any more coffee?' Naomi asked, getting to her feet. `We haven't got much milk, unless you like powdered.' Tim said he would have half a cup and Gideon was in the act of declining when the drone of the helicopter swelled to a thudding, thundering roar, and the machine rose into view from behind the trees on the farm boundary. Almost brushing the topmost branches, it swooped across the open field and headed for the Sanctuary buildings where it hung in the sky like a giant white dragonfly, gazing down on them with its huge glass eyes. `Christ!' Tim exclaimed, leaping to his feet. `The animals!' Gideon sprang up beside him. `Quick!' he said to Naomi. `My camera! Inside pocket of my jacket!'

The helicopter drifted even closer and the windows of the office were vibrating so violently that Gideon seriously wondered if they would stand the shock. With shaking hands and wide, frightened eyes, Naomi handed him the tiny compact camera that had been a Christmas present from Giles. In seconds he was out through reception and into the open air.

Here, in addition to the incredible racket, the downdraught was wreaking havoc. Everything not firmly secured was rolling or flying away, a young conifer hedge was bent almost double and the corrugated-iron roof to what Gideon knew was the toolshed rippled along its length like a sheet of paper in a breeze.

Steadying himself, he pointed the camera and held the shutter down, thankful that it was the foolproof, auto-everything model and not his best, professional-quality one.

The helicopter was sensationally low. God only knew what terror the animals and birds in the shelters below were suffering. The noise and buffeting were awful.

It seemed a lifetime that the machine hovered there but it could in reality only have been a matter of half a minute or so. Gideon could see two figures through the darkened glass of the cockpit and after a moment one of them spotted him. He shook the pilot's arm and pointed, and almost immediately the helicopter dipped slightly in Gideon's direction and began to move.

There was no real danger that it would hit him, shielded as he was by surrounding buildings, but nevertheless he instinctively ducked into the shelter of a nearby wall, the motor drive on his camera still whirring inaudibly against the greater cacophony.

Seconds later the ordeal was over. The helicopter curved sharply away and droned off into the distance almost as quickly as it had come, leaving behind it a comparative silence that was broken only by the panic-stricken cries of the creatures in the cages below.

Gideon pushed himself away from the wall and looked at the camera in his hands. It had been a new film, now it had wound on right to the end. Twenty-four pictures of a helicopter hovering dangerously, illegally, low. Twenty-four pictures of a helicopter that must have identifying marks upon it.

Now they had some proof.

FIVE

WHEN GIDEON LEFT THE Sanctuary later that afternoon he took the incriminating roll of film straight to Chilminster police station to lodge a complaint, and returned to the Gatehouse by way of Blandford where he picked up the developed photos of Sovereign.

He finally got home just after six, with a Chinese take-away tucked under his arm, and found Rachel curled up asleep on the couch, arms hugging her knees and long lashes dark against her creamy skin. The fire was a faintly glowing mound of embers and a book lay open on the floor where it had fallen.

Gideon smiled and put a hand out to gently shake her shoulder. With an inarticulate cry Rachel sat up and lashed out at him, catching him a stinging blow across the face.

`Whoa, Rachel! Steady on! It's me,' he exclaimed, catching the swinging arm before it could do any more damage. `I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. Who did you think I was?'

For a moment she stared at him with wide, anxious eyes and then, remembering, she subsided, looking horrified at what she'd done.

`I'm so sorry!' she said in anguished tones. `I must have been dreaming or something. Did I hurt you?'

Gideon let go of her wrist and rubbed his face. 'I daresay I'll recover,' he said with a quirky smile. `It's probably only concussion.'

Rachel managed a faint smile in return.

`Really, I'm fine,' he asserted. `It was my fault for making you jump. Anyway, let's forget it, shall we? Come on, I've got some Chinese. You do like Chinese, I hope?'

`I love it.' She relaxed a notch or two, got up and followed him into the kitchen. `I'm sorry about the fire, it's almost out. Shall I stoke it up a bit?'

`I'll do it in a minute. Come and have this while it's hot.' After they had eaten, Gideon settled down at his drawing board in the small front room that he used as a studio. Small it might be but the light was perfect - when there was any, of course. Now he worked under an angle-poise lamp, using the photographs and sketches of Sovereign to rough out an outline in charcoal for the portrait he was to do.

Progress was slow.

The time it took to do a complete portrait from rough sketch to finished, ready to frame product varied from subject to subject but averaged about two weeks. He rarely worked on it every day. It was more likely to be between five and eight periods of three or four hours - longer sessions producing counter-productive tension. A fortnight was normally enough, even accounting for off days such as today, and in fact he found the self-discipline needed to sit down and get on with it came more easily under pressure.

Fundamentally, he never really thought of himself as an artist. It was a useful and occasionally lucrative gift, not a calling. He certainly didn't feel compelled to reach for his sketchpad every time he had a moment to spare, as some artists did. Finishing a really good portrait was very satisfying but the process of setting up and making a start required a mammoth effort almost every time and, with his mind on the day's events, this time was no exception.

Maybe making countless cups of coffee that one didn't really want, much less need, was a normal consequence of working from home, he mused twenty minutes later as he spooned instant powder into two mugs. At this rate Rachel would be a caffeine addict too by the time she left.

Now there was a person who could apply herself to her work wholeheartedly and to the exclusion of all else. He decided that his own inability must be a character defect, but the thought didn't bother him unduly.

Coffee distributed and back at his drawing board, Gideon picked up his charcoal pencil and bent over the paper. In the living room Rachel was sitting on the sofa in front of the fire, cup of coffee at her elbow, cat on lap, and colour charts and swatches of material all around her as she happily planned the next stage of the transformation of the spare room. She had a compact disc of classical music playing with the volume turned well up and Gideon had left the door ajar so he could hear it too. Another distraction, he supposed, but sometimes, when the creative juices weren't flowing, the silence could become deafening and he often had music playing when he worked.

Once again he found thoughts of the day intruding.

His session with the Chilminster police had been less than completely satisfactory. Apparently there had been another complaint about the low-flying helicopter from a motorist who had been driving past the Sanctuary at the time, though the police had not held out much hope of tracing the culprit until the advent of Gideon with his film.

He knew it was unlikely that the prints would be masterpieces. With a compact camera, taking snaps of a white helicopter against a pale blue sky with the winter sun slanting into the lens was about as far from the ideal as possible, but the constable to whom he'd initially spoken had seemed confident that the images could be enhanced.

The constable, a PC Logan, was listening with what appeared to be a great deal of interest as Gideon related a summary of the troubles Tim had encountered at Hermitage Farm, when the scene changed abruptly. A passing sergeant paused to listen and almost before Gideon was aware of what was happening, he had dismissed Logan and taken his place.

This, much older, officer was far more inclined to treat the incident of the helicopter, which he admitted was extremely reckless, as quite separate from any other harassment which Mr Reynolds might have suffered: `whether real or imagined', he had added unnecessarily. He thought it would be proved to be a gungho young pilot showing off to a friend, and although it should be punished, such behaviour should not be confused with anything of a more personal nature. He added that, in the unlikely event of the helicopter being Milne's, a quiet word would doubtless put things right.

Gideon left the station feeling decidedly put out. The officer, one Sergeant Greening, had taken charge of the roll of film, issuing Gideon with a receipt and an assurance that it would be returned to him in due course.

`We often find that pictures taken in the heat of the moment don't come up to much,' he warned dismissively. `If the subject is moving they tend to be rather fuzzy and indistinct and there's often a degree of camera shake.'

`Well, I took twenty-four shots so I'm sure there's at least one decent one amongst them. But if your guys can't make anything of them, I know a chap who certainly can,' Gideon told him, his patience wearing thin. He had begun to wish, in fact, that he had taken the film to the specialist first. Time had seemed of the essence but now he wasn't so sure. He found he'd had quite enough of being patronised.

He had reported his efforts to Tim and Naomi on his mobile before setting off for home, and Tim had thanked him for trying but sounded resigned to there being no real result. It seemed he'd had dealings with Sergeant Greening before. He also reported that one of his patients, an injured peregrine falcon, had suffered a heart attack and died shortly after Gideon had left.

All in all, he felt it had been an odd sort of day, and it had left him with a strangely restless feeling. So much seemed unsatisfactory. His second brush with Joey had revived his sense of grievance about the way he'd been used on the night of the abduction, and he was conscious of a strong protective instinct towards his sister regarding the troubles at Hermitage Farm.

He came out of his reverie to find half a cup of cold coffee on the table beside him, and on his drawing board an expensive piece of paper covered in sketches of helicopters and a rather good caricature of Sergeant Greening. With disgust he clicked the angle-poise off and decided to go to bed.

Friday was a good day for Gideon work-wise. With what he felt was commendable self-discipline, he had completed a detailed charcoal study of Tom Collins' horse and started sketching in the background. So when, on Saturday morning, he received a call from a lady who was having trouble with her dog, he could abandon the picture with a completely clear conscience in order to respond to what he felt was a genuine and fairly desperate cry for help.

Rachel had gone out, Pippa having called to invite her up to the Priory for lunch and to see Fanny's puppies. She had also suggested that the three of them ride on Sunday if the weather was kind, a plan which Rachel seemed very keen on.

It was another cold, clear day, superb for biking, and after a fairly hassle-free run, Gideon slowed down to ride carefully through the pretty, golden-stone villages below Bath, following the extensive instructions he had taken down over the telephone. He finally propped the bike on its stand outside a beautiful, agesold cottage that stood next door to an equally ancient mill.

It was real picture postcard stuff. Had it been May there would have been roses flowering over the door and probably ducks from the nearby stream waddling past the gate.

Gideon had to bow his head to get into the porch, and the lady who presently answered the jangly bell focused first on his jacket front and then in succession on the loosely tied neckerchief and his battered face.

`My goodness!' she said, taking in the sizeable figure that was almost totally blocking the light from her doorway. Somewhere in the background a dog was barking furiously.

`Mrs Weatherfield?' Gideon enquired, hiding his amusement. `I'm Gideon Blake.'

`Yes, I'm sorry,' the lady said, collecting her wits. `I do beg your pardon. I don't quite know what I was expecting . . .'

`But I'm not it?' he supplied with a twinkle.

`Well, no,' Mrs Weatherfield admitted. `But where are my manners? Please, do come in. And it's jenny.' She stepped back to let him past; a slim, neat, fiftyish lady with salt-and-pepper hair, and a world of trouble in her eyes.

' Inside, the cottage was exactly as the outside had suggested it would be; chintz, dark beams and whitewashed walls. The room they entered was dominated by an impressive inglenook fireplace and lit by three tiny leaded lights that were about waist-high to Gideon. Head bent to avoid the beams, he divested himself of his leather jacket, which was taken from him and placed, along with his helmet, on a dark oak chair in a corner.