Bad Blood

By Lyndon Stacey

Dark secrets are revealed when investigative journalist and horse expert Ben Copperfield is hired to find the long-lost heir of a dying millionaire in this gripping murder mystery.

When freelance journalist Ben Copperfield hands his business card to a woman whose runaway horse he's helped recapture, he couldn't possibly predict the events that are triggered by this simple gesture . . .

For the woman is the wife of none other than multi-millionaire horse owner and businessman Neville Manning. Manning has everything money could buy, but money can't solve his current problem. He's dying - and after the tragic death of his only child, there's no one he's willing to leave his business to. Manning has just one hope left: a grandchild, whose mother's name he doesn't even know. Ben has a reputation for solving impossible problems, and Manning's convinced he'll be able to track the child down.

With the odds stacked against him, Ben accepts the challenge and sets out to find this mystery grandchild. But little does he know that the trail to finding Manning's heir is paved with murder, intrigue and revenge . . . and it won't just be finding the heir to Manning's fortune that's the problem, it'll be keeping the child alive long enough to claim it.

With its mix of horses, dogs and fast-paced action, Bad Blood is a great choice for readers of Dick and Felix Francis, John Francome and Richard Laws, and is the perfect escape from day-to-day life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Severn House
• Release date: May 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9781448310654

Lyndon Stacey

Lyndon Stacey is an animal portrait artist by trade and lives in the Blackmore Vale in the West Country, where most of her novels are set. She is the author of several mysteries including Blindfold, Deadfall, Outside Chance, Six to One Against and Murder in Mind, as well as two previous Daniel Whelan mysteries.

Book preview

ONE

The grey horse appeared out of nowhere, in the middle of the road, wraithlike in the swirling mist.

‘Shit!’

Ben wrenched the Shogun’s steering wheel hard left and stamped wildly on the brakes.

The tyres squealed in protest and, with a bang, the driver’s side window was filled with the animal’s dappled pelt. Ben flinched instinctively and, a split second later, the 4x4 hit the grass verge and rode up on to it.

The horse half-reared and swung away, its shod hooves slipping perilously on the smooth tarmac of the country road and, breaking into a clattering gallop, was almost immediately swallowed up once more by the fog.

Ben was left with an impression that smacked of unreality. The light grey horse, haloed fleetingly in the vehicle’s lights, had presented an almost other-worldly quality, but there was nothing other-worldly about the dent he suspected it had put in his door.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

‘Shit!’ he said again, gazing into the opacity beyond the headlights.

It was a typical Dorset hill fog, forming quite suddenly as the temperature dropped with the coming of evening after a glorious, late spring day and, struggling to make out the road ahead, Ben had already been wishing he’d taken the longer, lowland route home, when the horse had appeared.

Now, putting the Shogun in reverse, he bumped back off the verge and drove cautiously in the animal’s wake; for the moment more worried about the loose horse than his vehicle. Careering down the road in the dense fog, it could surely only be a matter of time before it caused another accident, potentially fatal this time. It had been wearing a headcollar and had clearly escaped from somewhere, but where?

Just a few hundred yards further on, dropping down to a stretch of road bordered by hedges and one or two trees, the answer materialised out of the mist.

On the left, a Land Rover and trailer tilted crazily in the ditch; ahead of him a diminutive lady in jodhpurs and a Puffa jacket stood with arms outspread and, between her and Ben’s approaching vehicle, the grey horse, now stationary but by no means relaxed.

Ben stopped the Mitsubishi, put its hazard lights on and cautiously got out.

Almost in slow motion, the horse turned to face him.

From where Ben stood, just a few feet away, it looked enormous.

Powerful, well-defined muscles rippled as it moved, hooves ringing on the road, flanks heaving and whole body shaking with the violence of its heartbeat. Head high and trailing a length of rope from a leather headcollar, its eyes were rimmed with white and it wasn’t hard to see that it was just a breath away from complete panic.

You and me both, mate, Ben thought. His own heart thudded uncomfortably against his ribcage and his limbs felt as though they belonged to someone else. Slowing his breathing, he clenched his jaw to stop the fear from showing in his face, and spread his arms.

‘Whoa, lad! Gently does it.’ His voice was steady, his nerve never less so.

The horse eyed him distrustfully. On its neck and flanks the mottled grey coat was dark with sweat, and an angry gash on its shoulder dripped scarlet.

Ben couldn’t be sure his own vehicle had been responsible for the wound, but neither could he rule it out. What he did know was that with a cruel and twisted sense of humour, fate had landed him here with the nightmares of his past and, unless he was prepared to jettison his pride, he was going to have to deal with it.

The woman, who was slim and fiftyish, greeted him with the kind of look an exhausted Channel swimmer might accord a lifeguard, and Ben was tempted to warn her not to expect too much; acting as a longstop, he might just manage, but he wasn’t about to get too close to her rampaging equine fugitive.

‘Thank God!’ she called, low voiced. ‘I didn’t know what to do first. We must stop him getting on to the main road. If we move slowly, do you think we could shush him down there?’ She pointed with one outstretched hand to a narrow side road, on her left, that bore a sign saying, ‘Farm and Cottages only’, adding ‘Hopefully, then, we can corner him somewhere.’

‘OK.’ Ben took a deep, steadying breath and took a cautious step towards the animal with arms held wide.

The horse was clearly not happy about this development, swinging its head to look first at the woman behind it and then back at Ben. It was standing with its back to the adjoining lane, which didn’t help their cause, and as Ben slowly advanced, instead of turning back towards its owner and the lane entrance as he had hoped it would, the grey shifted a few more steps in reverse, its front feet dragging on the road and head rising ever higher as it felt the trap closing in. It was perhaps ten feet from the turning and Ben took another slow step forward.

Suddenly, with no warning, the animal’s nerve broke and it took refuge once more in flight.

Whether it somehow recognised Ben as the weak link was unclear but, whatever the case, the path it chose was not the safety of the farm lane, but back along the road it had recently travelled, and its method of approach was to charge full pelt at the gap between the parked Mitsubishi and the hedge. The gap that Ben was currently trying to block.

Without conscious decision, Ben leapt to intercept it, his hands reaching for the swinging halter rope, his mind blank to everything but the need to prevent the animal’s potentially suicidal dash back down the fogbound road.

His fingers touched and grasped the soft cotton twist of the rope just an instant before the horse’s shoulder caught him a glancing blow, spinning him sideways to rebound off the front wing of the parked vehicle.

Some latent instinct from years gone by had bidden him keep hold of the rope, and this he continued to do, struggling to stay on his feet as the grey’s momentum kept it moving for several more frantic strides.

‘Hold on! Hold on!’ Ben half-heard the woman’s shriek behind him, but he was working on autopilot at that moment. Indeed, stumbling along level with the animal’s hindquarters and pistoning legs, had there been any time for cognisant thought, he would almost certainly have done the exact opposite.

By some miracle, the horse didn’t kick out, and after a few more paces gave in to the dragging weight on its headcollar and slowed up, turning to face Ben, eyes wild and nostrils flaring.

Ben could feel the animal’s fear as surely as if it had been transmitted down the taut lead rope to his hand, and was just as certain the horse was aware of his. He tried not to look at it towering above him, less than six feet away.

‘Oh, well done! I thought we’d lost him again.’ With this murmured praise, the woman was at his side, reaching for the lead rope, which Ben was only too ready to surrender, along with all responsibility for the animal.

Her attention now fully on the horse, the woman approached it, sliding quiet hands steadily up the rope with soothing words, and rubbing her hand over the damp fur of its neck with an assurance Ben envied. She took something from her pocket and after a moment the animal dipped its muzzle to take the titbit from her palm, some of the craziness leaving its eyes.

‘Steady fella. Steady. There’s a good boy.’ She fed him another titbit and he started to push her hand for more. ‘He’ll be OK now,’ she told Ben, adding, ‘Come on, you silly bugger!’ as she led the animal back past the stationary vehicle.

Assuming that she was speaking to the grey, Ben stepped back to let them past. The warm scent of horse sweat filled his nostrils, causing him to catch his breath sharply.

With time to take in the scene properly for the first time, it was clear to Ben that only the stout hawthorn hedge had prevented both the Land Rover and the two-horse trailer from tipping right over on to their sides.

Even as he looked at it, a series of sharp bangs emanated from the stricken trailer, and for the first time Ben became aware, with a sinking feeling, that there was another horse still trapped inside, and almost on that realisation, the whole unit started bouncing and rocking as the terrified animal started to throw its weight about.

‘It’s all right, Bounty, steady lad!’ the woman called out. Over her shoulder, as she led the grey horse away, she told Ben, ‘We need to get him out of there, ASAP. He’s going to hurt himself.’

Ben wasn’t at all sure he liked the ‘we’.

With a feeling of unhappy inevitability, he went back to the Mitsubishi, started it up once more and repositioned it more safely on the side of the road. A glance in the rear-view mirror showed him the whiskery grey face of his lurcher bitch peering at him enquiringly from behind the back seats.

‘Sorry, Mouse,’ he said. ‘Not my choice. Won’t be a minute.’

The dog had her own ideas about the usual length of Ben’s ‘minutes’ and disappeared from sight to curl up again with a gusty sigh.

Taking a warning triangle from the rear footwell, Ben placed it in the road, a good distance behind the parked vehicle, before going to join the woman once more.

She was tying the grey horse to a stout tree in the hedge, where it immediately set about stripping the leaves from the nearest branches, apparently having recovered from its blind panic of just a few moments before.

Ben kept his distance, nevertheless.

‘So, what actually happened?’ he asked, glancing round him. It seemed an odd place to have run off the road.

‘Some bloody idiot came out of that turning without stopping. He would’ve hit me if I hadn’t swerved, but then I went up on the grass and – well …’ She gestured at the result. ‘To top it all, the bastard didn’t even stop, just sailed on as if nothing had happened!’

‘Bastard!’ Ben agreed. ‘So, what now? You’ve called for help, I assume?’

‘Yes, but how long it’ll take to get here in this fog is anyone’s guess. The AA said an hour at least. They’ve been overrun with calls, apparently.’ She slapped the grey horse on the neck and turned towards Ben; a capable, middle-aged woman with greying blonde hair caught untidily into a ponytail, a determined jawline and attractive hazel eyes, with pale crow’s feet in the tanned skin. ‘I think he’ll be OK there for a few minutes but we really need to get Bounty out, before he injures himself. I managed to get Drifter out on my own, but Bounty’s leaning on the breast bar and I couldn’t get the catch undone on his side, but with the two of us … And then Drifter broke the fence post I tied him to and took off. It was a nightmare! Thank God you came along when you did! Look, I’ll just get something to lever the bar with and then maybe if I could push Bounty back, you’d be able to work the catch free.’

She had moved towards the Land Rover as she spoke, apparently taking Ben’s cooperation for granted and, when he hesitated, she turned to look at him over the bonnet of the vehicle, no doubt seeing in his lean, six-foot-one-inch frame, the answer to her problems.

‘I’m sorry but I can’t do it on my own,’ she stated with a direct look. ‘I’m just not strong enough. I’m Sarah, by the way. Sarah Manning.’

The name seemed familiar, as had her face, but he couldn’t place her.

‘Ben,’ he reciprocated.

Beyond her, the trailer began to rock alarmingly as the terrified horse renewed his assault on it.

‘Steady, Bounty!’ Sarah called out. ‘Look, Ben, go and talk to him, will you? See if you can calm him down? I’ll get the tyre iron from the back.’

She disappeared headfirst into the Land Rover and, reluctantly, Ben made his way alongside the trailer, slipping a little on the muddy verge and ducking under branches from the hedge. The noise of the trapped horse’s hooves hitting the trailer walls had become deafening and the metal skin reverberated under his touch. Before he even reached the personal door at the front corner, Ben was fighting a rising tide of panic.

He paused, head bowed and fists clenched, forcing himself to breathe deeply. He couldn’t just walk away and leave the woman to struggle alone, so one way or another, he had to master his fears.

‘Are you OK?’ Sarah had reappeared around the corner of the trailer and was looking concerned. ‘Drifter didn’t hurt you, did he?’

Ben straightened up and shook his head.

‘No, I’m fine.’

‘I’m sorry! I know it’s a big ask but we really have to get him out of there. He’s going to kick his legs to bits!’

Without further ado, she moved past Ben, opened the small door in the metal panelling and ducked inside, clearly expecting him to follow.

Even though he knew the door was for human access to an empty compartment in front of the horses, Ben hesitated, seeing in his mind’s eye the T-shaped arrangement of centre partition and breast bars which was all that would be keeping the frightened animal at bay. His subconscious was churning with memories of another time, another horsebox, and a tragedy that had changed his life for ever.

‘Ben?’

With Sarah’s presence Bounty had quietened considerably. The frenzied kicking had ceased and, taking a deep breath, Ben stepped up into the open doorway, bending low to pass through.

Inside, the air was fuggy with the hot breath and sweat of the terrified animal. The forward compartment was cramped with two half-eaten hay nets, a rolled-up blanket and other assorted gear. As Ben stood up, spreading his feet to get his balance on the sharply sloping floor, he found himself almost face to face with a huge, dark bay horse that filled its allotted space behind the breast bar to capacity.

Sarah was holding the animal’s headcollar, stroking its long nose and murmuring reassurance. The horse was shuddering from head to splayed-out hooves, and Ben could see the whites of its anxious eyes as it looked from side to side and back over its shoulder. Feeling an echoing tremor begin in his own body, Ben swallowed hard, trying to concentrate on taking stock of the situation.

Without taking her eyes off the horse or varying the low soothing tone she was using, Sarah spoke to Ben.

‘Can you see the peg that’s holding the breast bar in place? Look – there, where it meets the central partition. It should slide out but it’s jammed. I can’t shift it.’

Ben looked. The rear section of the trailer was divided by a padded central partition to enable two horses to stand side by side. The rectangular panels sandwiched a steel bar that ran at chest height, joining central uprights at the front and rear. To complete the compartments, sturdy hinged bars were fastened fore and aft, providing both containment and support for the equine passengers.

With the trailer at its present angle, the bay horse had little choice but to lean heavily on the breast bar and central partition, its legs braced forward on the rubber-matted floor. The idea of backing it out up the steep incline to the rear ramp was clearly a non-starter, even if the trailer had been stable enough in its current position to support the change of weight, which was by no means certain.

‘We’ll have to let the front ramp down again,’ Sarah continued. ‘That’s how I got Drifter out, but Bounty practically went ballistic when he saw the open air the first time, so we must be sure you can get the bolts undone first. It’s a bugger. Timing will be everything.’

Ben nodded. With his heart thudding somewhere in the region of his throat and threatening to suffocate him, he stepped up to the central column and, keeping his head averted from the horse, laid his hands on the all-important bolt. For a moment, as the warm, sweaty smell of the animal threatened to overwhelm him, he wavered, but necessity and a measure of stubborn pride kept him there, fighting the chequerboard flashes of blackness that pushed at the back of his eyes.

Breathe, he told himself. This is not the time to black out. Breathe deeply and slowly. Concentrate on that; in, out; one, two, three, four …

Still counting steadily in his head, he assessed the situation. Because the horse’s weight was pressing against the central partition, the point of contact between that and the breast bar was under severe strain. Unless that could be eased, he had no hope of releasing the peg. Ben braced his feet against the outside skin of the trailer and put his shoulder against the central upright, trying to ignore the proximity of the damp neck of the animal. Almost immediately he felt the peg loosen slightly in its slot.

In the same instant, the bay horse, perhaps feeling the movement itself, lurched forward against the bar, tightening it once more.

‘It’s all right – steady! Steady, boy!’ Sarah cried, but Bounty was thoroughly upset and reacting instinctively. Bringing his hind legs under him, he threw his head up and attempted to rear. There was a resounding crash as his head hit the padded roof of the trailer with sickening force and the whole vehicle rocked violently.

Ben fell back against the side of the trailer, every sense screaming at him to get out. In a flashback he saw the whole thing tipping and the weight of the horse crashing down on him, pinning him to the wall that had become the floor. He felt his lungs contract, unable to breathe, and saw again the still, white face of his twin at his side. Now, in desperation, he gritted his teeth and threw his head back against the trailer wall, using the shock and pain of the impact to banish the memories.

For what seemed an age, pandemonium reigned as the animal thrashed about, his hooves striking the floor and walls with deafening force, and huge powerful chest surging against the breast bar until it seemed impossible that it could hold. The trailer rocked and shuddered. In the confined space the noise was unbelievable.

‘Steady, Bounty! Steady, boy!’ Sarah was forced to stand back out of the reach of the steel-shod hooves, but she still held the lead rope and kept repeating her plea until finally, mercifully, the horse began to quieten, its neck and body lathered with sweat, eyes white-rimmed and hysterical. Ben could see the scarlet lining of its nostrils as they flared in time with its heaving sides. Bounty lifted his head, opened his mouth and gave voice to his distress in a long, piercing neigh that was almost immediately answered by his companion on the outside. The sound spurred him to further activity and he tossed his head and began to paw at the floor once more.

‘It’s OK. All right. Good boy. We’ll get you out,’ Sarah said shakily, her face chalk-white.

With a flash of inspiration, Ben stripped his jacket off and held it out to Sarah.

‘Here, tie this over his eyes.’

‘Oh, good idea! You’re taller. Can you do it if I pull his head down?’

There was no time for excuses. Ben stepped closer, reaching up to position the leather garment over the horse’s head and tying the sleeves under its jaw. He could feel the horse’s hot breath on his face as he struggled to knot the thick material. Bounty tossed his head a time or two, but finally it was secure and, almost instantly, he became calmer.

‘Brilliant! Good thinking,’ Sarah exclaimed, low voiced. ‘Now we need to move fast. Hand me that lunge line and then go and let the ramp down.’

Ben was only too thankful to obey; passing her the looped canvas line and almost falling out of the doorway in his haste to leave the trailer.

Stepping over the towbar to reach the side nearest the road, he climbed on to the bodywork to reach the top of the front ramp, which sloped away from him. Battling gravity, it took a hefty tug to get it started, but then with well-oiled ease, the ramp swung out and down, providing a drawbridge, albeit steep, from the tipped-up trailer to the road. Inside, he could see Sarah, still murmuring reassurance as Bounty felt the fresh air on his face and swung his blindfolded head instinctively towards the opening.

Ben didn’t need Sarah to tell him what he had to do next. Without giving himself time to think, he clambered up the abnormally steep, slatted ramp and back into the gloomy interior.

Inside, Bounty was fretting again, in spite of the blindfold.

‘Hurry, Ben, the coat’s slipping.’ Sarah’s voice was sharp with the strain.

Keeping his eyes averted from the horse, Ben took up position with his shoulder to the upright again, trying to ignore the animal’s hot snorting breaths ruffling his hair. Bracing his feet against the front wall of the trailer, he put everything he had into the effort, fighting against the horse’s own weight pushing from the other side. One by one he slid the bolts clear and lifted the peg clear of its socket.

‘OK, it’s free,’ he gasped, and almost before the words had left his mouth, the central partition swung sideways, the front bar burst open and the horse was moving.

Knocked back and sideways, Sarah cannoned into Ben and they both fell back against the wall.

In the next instant, the trailer darkened as the horse’s massive bulk filled the doorway, its hooves stomping thunderously on the hollow floor. Losing its footing on the slope, for one heart-stopping moment it seemed as though it would go right down, wedged in the narrow opening, but then it recovered and with a lurch was over the rise and out, the makeshift blindfold now flapping uselessly over one ear.

‘Quick! Grab the line!’ Sarah shouted as she scrambled in the animal’s wake. ‘Come on, Ben, help me!’

Regaining his balance, Ben stumbled after her, grabbing the end of the snaking canvas line as it whipped past his feet. Moments later, the horse reached the end of it and he swore lustily as the jerk on the line almost pulled his arms from their sockets. Towed, half-running and half-leaping, down the ramp, Ben saw Sarah ahead of him, also holding the line, leaning back and using her bodyweight to try and slow the fleeing animal. As his feet found the tarmac, he did the same.

In the end, it was easier than they expected. Once in the open, Bounty’s ambition seemed to be focussed largely on finding his mate. After his initial surge forward, he yielded to the drag on the line and came to a halt, shaking his head to try and dislodge the jacket, which still hung lopsidedly over one eye.

‘Good boy. Good lad. Steady, Bounty,’ Sarah called.

Bounty responded with a loud neigh that shook his whole body, and was answered by an excited whinny from Drifter, tied to his tree, a few yards away.

Moving with care, Sarah worked her way, hand over hand, along the lunge line to Bounty’s head and removed the jacket, talking quietly to him all the while.

‘He’ll be fine, now,’ she told Ben. ‘He’s normally the sensible one, believe it or not! You can have your jacket back.’

Ben retrieved the garment she held out and put it back on, hoping she wouldn’t ask him to hold one of the horses while they waited for help to arrive; he’d about reached his limits for one evening. Glancing back down the road he could see the lights of a waiting car behind the Mitsubishi. The driver flashed several times on full beam and Ben put a hand up to acknowledge their presence.

‘Shall I let him come by?’ he asked Sarah. ‘Have you called anyone besides the AA?’

‘Just Max. I’m hoping he’ll bring the other horsebox. It’s only ten miles or so, he shouldn’t be long, now.’

‘Is that your husband?’

‘No, Max Crowther. He works for my husband. A kind of PA. I told him not to worry Neville. There wasn’t anything he could do.’

Ah, now Ben placed her. Sarah Manning; third wife of millionaire businessman, Neville Manning. He’d never actually met her before, but her photo appeared regularly in the social pages of county glossies alongside her husband, supporting this or that charity and being ‘seen’ in all the right places. She was also, in her own right, a very successful dressage rider, and had even been tipped for the national team a couple of years ago.

A second car had joined the one waiting behind the stationary 4x4 by the time Ben returned to it and, after apologising to the drivers, he moved the warning triangle but left the Mitsubishi’s hazard lights flashing to alert any further traffic. As he walked round the vehicle, he noticed, for the first time, sizeable dents in both the driver’s door and the front wing.

‘I saw you looking at your car,’ Sarah said, when Ben rejoined her. She was busy checking Bounty over for cuts and scrapes. ‘Is there a problem? I hope it wasn’t Drifter.’

Ben admitted that it had been.

‘Oh, God, I’m sorry! But these guys are both insured, so it should be covered,’ she told him. ‘But you? Are you sure you’re OK? Your jeans …’

Ben cast a rueful glance at the torn flap of denim at his hip.

‘I think I’ll survive.’

‘I could murder my daughter!’ Sarah said grimly. ‘She should have been with me but she wanted to go on to some party or other with her friends after the show, and I let her talk me round. If she’d been here, at least she could have held Drifter.’

There didn’t seem to be anything to say in reply, so instead, Ben asked if they’d had a good day at the show.

‘Not bad. We weren’t placed, but Bounty was a lot more settled than last time and for once in his life he didn’t break out of counter-canter. There’s hope for him yet.’ She glanced at Ben. ‘Sorry, I’m probably talking gobbledy-gook.’

‘No, that’s all right. I do have a vestige of knowledge about dressage. I was actually at the same show. I’m doing a profile of Camilla Blackwell for a magazine feature.’

‘Oh! You work for a magazine?’

‘I’m freelance.’

‘So, what’s sweet Camilla Blackwell done to merit a feature?’ Sarah asked wryly.

‘Oh, you know the sort of thing. Promising young rider, heading for the big time. It’s going to be one of a series.’ Ben understood the irony in her tone. Writing a series of articles on up-and-coming young dressage stars for a well-known national equestrian publication was the kind of bread-and-butter work on which his livelihood depended. Normally such jobs were fairly enjoyable, but Camilla had turned out to be a spoiled brat who liked nothing better than to home in on any sore spot and poke it with a sharp stick at every opportunity. Unfortunately, it hadn’t taken her long to discover Ben’s Achilles heel.

‘So, Ben …?’ The query broke in on his thoughts.

‘Copperfield.’

‘Ben Copperfield. How do I know that name?’

‘You might have heard of Mikey Copperfield, the jockey; he’s my brother.’

She frowned. ‘I don’t think that was it. But I have to say, I can think of more deserving subjects for a feature than that little charmer!’

‘Having spent a day in her company, I tend to agree, but it’s not my decision to make,’ Ben said mildly, turning his head at the sound of an approaching large vehicle. ‘That sounds like your horsebox, now.’

It was indeed the horsebox; a big, sleek lorry, followed fairly closely by a police Range Rover and a paramedic’s car, with an AA van bringing up the rear. Suddenly the short stretch of road began to feel very crowded.

‘Oh great!’ Sarah muttered. ‘I suppose the AA must have notified the police. Just what we need.’

After having assured one of the police officers that he had not in fact been a witness to the accident, but had merely stopped to help, Ben answered one or two questions and went on his way, glad his continued participation was not necessary. With Sarah Manning he left his business card by way of contact details for insurance purposes.

A glance at his watch as he settled behind the wheel of the Mitsubishi showed him that he was already over an hour later than he had told his girlfriend he would be. They had made plans to eat out and see a film. With a sinking heart he realised it was probably going to be too late for that now. She wouldn’t be happy. He pinged off a quick message, apologising, and started the engine.

‘Buggered up again, haven’t I, Mouse?’ he commented to the tousled grey head in the rear-view mirror. The dog stretched, yawned and settled down once more, uninterested in her master’s domestic difficulties, just as long as they didn’t affect her comfort.

TWO

Ben’s rented home, Dairy Cottage, was one of a small development of former farm buildings gathered around a central courtyard in rural North Dorset.

As he swung the Mitsubishi in a practised curve into his allotted double parking space, the first thing he noticed was the absence of another vehicle. He’d been expecting to find his girlfriend Lisa’s beloved cream-coloured VW Beetle parked untidily in front of the cottage but the area was empty. Perhaps she’d been called in for an extra shift at work, he thought, as he switched the engine off. Her job escorting wealthy tourists around the sights of the South of England was subject to occasional last-minute rescheduling. If that was the case, it would let him off the hook, nicely.

Letting himself into the cottage with Mouse at his heels, Ben tossed his keys into a bowl on the hall table and went through to the kitchen to make himself a restorative cup of coffee. Whilst sorry that Lisa wasn’t there to meet him, he was nevertheless quite glad he didn’t have to go out again. It had been a long day, even without the drama of the past hour or so, and the chosen film had been more to Lisa’s taste than his.

He filled the kettle, let Mouse out through the dining-room French windows into the tiny walled garden at the back to answer the call of nature, visited the bathroom himself, and then went along to the octagonal, high-ceilinged sitting room to light the wood-burner.

Presently, with a mug of coffee and three slices of melted cheese and pickle on toast, Ben settled down on one of the dark leather sofas with a sigh and prepared to relax. Moments later, Mouse tiptoed in, jumped lightly on to the other end of the sofa and curled round with a small sigh of her own.

For Ben, at least, relaxation proved elusive. One reason for this was Lisa’s behaviour, which – now he had leisure to think about it – he felt was uncharacteristic. It was not so much her absence that bothered him, but her lack of communication. She hadn’t acknowledged his message. Normally, when there was a last-minute change of plans, she would leave a note or message him, explaining and apologising. Her silence was faintly worrying, and after a few moments he fished out his mobile phone and sent another message of his own.

This done, he sipped his coffee and tried, without noticeable success, to prevent his mind from dwelling on its other preoccupation. It had been nearly twenty years since the accident that had killed his twin brother. Almost two decades since he and Alan had bunked off school and stowed away in the back of their father’s horsebox on the way to a show, but it seemed it was destined to haunt him for the rest of his days.

Ben knew it was partly his own fault. If he had chosen some other line of work, it was probable that the memory would have faded more by now, the wound be less raw; but the almost daily proximity of horses acted like a stiff brush, constantly rubbing the sore. Although he’d grown up around horses, in his family’s high-end dealer’s yard, and never seriously considered any other line of work, since the accident he had loved and feared horses in almost equal measures. It was as if they exercised an irresistible attraction for him, rather like a ghost hunter’s obsession with