BLINDFOLD (6 page)

`But haven't you heard from them since? Surely Connie's written?' She was Roly's wife, and Gideon had often eaten with the Frenches in the old farm cottage at the top of the south drive.

`Once. She said they were staying in a boarding house while they looked for somewhere else. There was no address and I haven't heard from her since.'

`I can hardly believe it,' Gideon said, shaking his head. Roly lived for this place, and that stallion was the apple of his eye. I would have sworn he'd have left his wife sooner than leave Sox. And it doesn't make sense either, does it? I mean, to leave suddenly after - what was it - fifteen years?'

`Nearly twenty-five,' Mary said.

`To leave his job and a tied cottage after twenty-five years, and in such a hurry that he doesn't even stop to find somewhere else to live first ... It's crazy! They must have fallen out.'

`That's what I thought,' Mary said, unhappily. `But Tom swore it was none of his doing, so what could I say? Anyway, now we've got Gerald. He lives in the village. Tom's decided to do up Roly's old cottage for summer letting, to bring in a bit of extra cash. He's just started work on it last week.' They stopped in front of the house. `Coffee?'

Gideon opted to see Sovereign first, while the light was still reasonable. He needed to take a good selection of photographs and do a couple of sketches, so that when he came to work on the portrait in his studio he could be sure he wouldn't miss any detail, however small.

As it transpired, it was a good thing he did see the horse first,

for while they were sitting in the big farmhouse kitchen, drinking coffee and eating Mary's home-made scones, Tom Collins made an unexpectedly early return.

They heard his Range Rover swish to a halt in the gravel yard and the door slam as he got out and came towards the house. Mary sat and stared at Gideon with an almost comical expression of dismay.

`It's all right, Mary. I'll take care of it,' he said quietly.

The door opened. Below average height, stocky and in his midforties, Tom Collins looked the archetypal farmer, dressed as he was in baggy corduroy trousers, tweed jacket and cap. He stopped short with a look of consternation.

'Gideon!'

`Well, don't sound so pleased to see me.'

`No, of course not. I mean, I am, it's just that ... Well, it's so unexpected.' He appeared to gather his wits. `If you'd let me know you were coming, I'd have arranged to be in.'

`Yes, I'm sorry,' Gideon said. `But I didn't really know myself. I was coming out this way anyway, to visit my sister, and I thought since I was so near, I'd drop in and see you both. And the "Golden Boy", of course.'

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mary relax. He'd really had no idea, when he first started painting portraits, how many lies he was going to have to tell in the interests of keeping his clients' commissions a secret from their partners. It was almost like being a spy at times. Coded messages over the phone; arranging times to ring when the spouse, parent or child would not be in; even once, in a desperate case for a friend, creeping around outbuildings while the family were at dinner, to take photographs of a horse in its stable.

`Have you seen the lad?'

`No, not yet. I'm afraid we've been chatting over coffee.'

`Oh, yes?' Collins slanted an uncharacteristically sour look at his wife. `Been telling you all her little problems, has she?'

Mary flushed darkly and Gideon glanced from her to Tom in shocked surprise. He'd never heard Tom talk of his wife in that way before. They had always been so close. Certainly, Tom was brusque by nature, but not deliberately unkind.

Gideon masked his bewilderment for Mary's sake. `We were talking about your plans for Sovereign, as a matter of fact. Should be a good season ahead.'

`Shouldn't it just?' Tom agreed, so warmly that Gideon could almost have believed he'd imagined the previous remark.

There was Mary, though, gathering up the plates and mugs with a bleak expression that said that the unpleasantness had been all too real. And, Gideon thought, not completely unexpected. She had looked deeply unhappy when her husband spoke but not surprised. It had the appearance of a problem with far deeper roots than just a marital tiff, and he was greatly saddened by it.

When Gideon finally took his leave of the Collinses after having duly admired not only Popsox but also Sovereign again, he decided he might as well live up to the story he'd told Tom and pay a call on his sister.

The telephone at Naomi's flat in Dorchester was answered by her flatmate who told Gideon that Naomi was out and not expected back until quite late.

`I know where she is, though,' the girl added helpfully. `She's gone to see Tim at the Sanctuary. You could get her on her mobile. I'm sure she'd love to see you.,

Gideon thanked her and rang off, wondering who `Tim at the Sanctuary' was. One way to find out.

Naomi answered her mobile after half a dozen rings. `Jack? Is that you?'

`No, Sis, it's not. Sorry to disappoint you.' 'Gideon! Gosh, is it my birthday or something?'

`I thought you'd stopped having birthdays,' he countered. `You said you were stopping at twenty-nine.,

'So I did. Well, in that case, to what do I owe the honour?' `I was in the area and I thought I'd come and see you.'

`Oh, that'd be nice.'

`Yes, well, it might, if I knew where you were,' he said dryly. `Your flatmate said you were at a sanctuary or something. Don't tell me you've gone all religious on me?'

Naomi laughed. `No. Listen, I'll give you directions. It's rather out in the sticks. Where are you coming from?'

Directions duly given and followed, Gideon found himself, some fifteen minutes later, rolling to a halt in front of a gate bearing the legend Hermitage Farm Wildlife Sanctuary. Two or three miles off the main road, down a lane that cut through farmland and passed only two other properties, the Sanctuary was, as his sister had said, fairly remote. The gate stood open and beyond it a grassy gravel lane wound away invitingly between two huge hawthorn hedges that were in sore need of being cut and laid.

The lane led to a farmyard with a multitude of rambling Victorian buildings in various stages of renovation. To Gideon's left, as he drove up, a line of six old brick stables faced a number of newer, wooden structures, forming a corridor which led to what looked like an aviary. Standing back a little from the yard was a farmhouse partly encased in scaffolding. In front of it was a paved area on which stood a mobile home and beside this, directly ahead of him, was a range of whitewashed outbuildings, one of which boasted two steps up to a newly painted door and a sign that read Reception and Surgery. To the right of this again stood a large black barn and a field gate.

Gideon parked the Mercedes beside a Volvo estate and a bright yellow sportscar that was presumably his sister's. She'd always liked bright colours.

Going up the steps, he let himself into a room with creampainted walls, a beamed ceiling, three chairs and a table with a bell on it. He rang the bell.

Almost immediately an inner door opened and his sister Naomi leaned round it. `Hi, Big Bruv! You found us then?' She came forward and hugged him warmly. `It's lovely to see you.'

Tall and lithe, with dark-lashed blue eyes and a long, shaggy blonde mane of hair, Gideon's sister Naomi was a dancer, currently `resting' while she recovered from a tendon operation. They had been very close as youngsters, with a father who was more often away than at home and an artistic mother who, although sweetness itself, seemed sometimes to be in a world of her own.

Now brother and sister were grown up, they saw each other no more than two or three times a year but continued to be close, staying in touch by phone and letter. Side by side, it was obvious to all who saw them that they were brother and sister, Naomi having the identical, if slightly more delicate, straight nose, wide mouth and firm chin that her brother had.

`So who's Jack?' Gideon said, returning the hug and mentally digesting the possible significance of her use of the word `us'. Had Little Sis found herself a man, then? `And, come to that, who's Tim?'

Jack is my agent,' Naomi said, stepping back and looking up at her brother, `and Tim you're about to meet. He's ... well ... he's a very good friend. Whatever have you done to your face?' she asked, frowning suddenly and putting up a hand to gently touch the bruise on his forehead.

`I walked into an open door,' Gideon said again.

`Oh, yes? And who was behind it?' Naomi enquired with a depth of perception that was typical of her. He'd never been able to pull the wool over her eyes. She scanned her brother's carefully impassive face, her wide blue eyes troubled, then a look of resignation settled on her. `Okay. So you're not going to tell me. Just do me a favour and be careful, all right?'

Gideon nodded obediently.

`Come on then, I'll introduce you to Tim.'

She whisked away with characteristic energy and Gideon followed her through to the room beyond, glad to have got off so lightly. He had no wish to burden his sister with the tale of his abduction. She would only worry.

The room in which he found himself was immediately recognisable as a surgery, with tiled floor, a table, cupboards, equipment trolleys and several multi-position overhead lights.

Naomi stepped to one side. `Tim, this is my huge brother, Gideon. Gideon, Tim Reynolds who owns the Sanctuary.' `Pleased to meet you.' A slim, wiry man came forward with a diffident smile and hand outstretched; bearded and bespectacled and totally unlike any boyfriend Naomi had ever introduced to her brother before, which admittedly wasn't many. Usually boyfriends came and went in his sister's life without ever lasting long enough to meet her family.

But boyfriend he undoubtedly was, for as Gideon shook his hand, Naomi linked her arm through his and said proudly, `Tim's a wizard vet, Gideon. He can practically bring back the dead!'

Gideon's eyebrows shot up. `This I must see.'

Tim laughed. `I'm afraid your sister is rather easily impressed. The first time we met was when she brought me a rabbit she'd found lying at the side of the road. I admit it did look pretty far gone, but it was either just stunned or playing dead because no sooner had I touched it than the bloody thing leapt up and started haying round the room. No one was more surprised than I was, I can tell you! But what about you?' he went on. 'Naomi tells me you're a horse whisperer or some such thing.'

`No. Nothing so fanciful,' Gideon said, shaking his head. `I suppose you could call it animal psychology, but I've had no training. I guess I have an empathy with animals, that's all.'

`Oh, no! It's a lot more than that!' Naomi protested. `Lord preserve me from false modesty. If I didn't sell myself better than you two I'd never be in work! He's practically telepathic,' she added, turning to Tim once more. `I've seen him stop a charging Dobermann in its tracks without a word. It was amazing!'

`Body language,' Gideon said to the vet. `It's ninety percent of, the battle. People can believe what they want to believe but there's nothing supernatural about it.'

`But he does it with people too,' Naomi persisted. `You can't lie to him, he always knows.'

`You're a hopeless liar anyway; you always go red,' Gideon said, keen to change the subject. He could see Tim looking faintly sceptical and had no wish to engage in a debate about his talent or lack of it.

Generally the vets he had dealt with had been open-minded, or at the very least took the view that he could do little harm by his methods. Some had been very interested and a few even called him in themselves when they suspected they were going to have trouble with an animal.

A minority, though, saw him as some kind of threat. A poor reflection perhaps on their own failure to solve a problem. Gideon just kept his head down and did whatever he could to help, whenever he was asked.

He spent what was left of the afternoon and all the evening at Hermitage Farm. Tim seemed disposed to be friendly in spite of what he might privately feel about Naomi's claims for her brother, and showed Gideon round the Sanctuary with justifiable pride.

He had only been in operation about three months and said he wasn't making any effort to advertise the Sanctuary's existence until the conversion of the farm buildings had been completed. Even so, there were already over two dozen needy animals and birds in residence. At the moment he was living in a mobile home while the builders finished making the farmhouse habitable.

Gideon learned that Tim Reynolds had been a vet in a small animal practice for several years before a distant aunt had bequeathed him the farm and enough capital to turn a childhood dream into reality.

`Apparently my great-aunt moved out when the army moved in during the Second World War, and she never came back. Nobody knew where she was, although it's thought she might have gone abroad to escape the bombing. Anyway, the place has been empty ever since. She died five years ago leaving no will and her executors finally tracked me down last summer as her closest living relation.' Tim shook his head in wonderment. `I didn't even know she existed! I still have to pinch myself occasionally to make sure I'm not dreaming. And to top it all, along comes a glamorous assistant to help out and give moral support.'

Naomi laughed. `Don't try to pretend you didn't plan it. I know damn' well you paid that rabbit to lure me in. Just before we let him go I bribed him with a lettuce leaf and he confessed `I'm found out!' Tim exclaimed tragically. `You can never trust a bunny.'

Gideon joined in the laughter, deciding that, atypical or not, his sister's latest conquest was by far her best choice yet.

When he finally left the Sanctuary it was past eleven o'clock and sleet had begun to fall, whipped into a stinging misery by a keening wind. The weather made driving difficult and it was nearly midnight before he got back to Blandford. As he approached the turning to Tarrant Grayling he passed a Mini parked untidily on the verge, and a couple of hundred yards further on his headlights picked out the outline of a woman walking with her head down, hunched against the sleet.