Free Deadfall by Lyndon Stacey Page B

asked quickly. ‘Are you sure that’s what he said?’
    â€˜Yeah, ’cause they’d come out of the tackroom by then and were standing down in front of where we were. We were terrified they’d shine a torch round or something but they didn’t.’
    â€˜And he called him Barnaby?’
    â€˜Barnaby . . . Barney . . . something like that.’ Cara frowned, trying to remember.
    â€˜Did they say anything else?’
    â€˜No. They moved away. One of them looked in all the stables and then they disappeared. We didn’t see them go, it all just went quiet. But we waited quite a long while after, just in case. Then Ricky went home, so we didn’t do anything, honest!’
    â€˜It’s all the same to me, kid. It’s none of my business, is it?’
    â€˜But you won’t tell anyone – you promised!’ she pleaded.
    Linc shook his head. ‘No, I won’t tell.’
    Casual enquiries amongst people he came into contact with during the rest of the day turned up no useful information concerning local greyhound racing venues until Geoff Sykes remembered that Reagan, the head forester, had spoken once or twice of having a bet on ‘the dogs’.
    â€˜He’s working on the other side of Home Woodtoday, isn’t he?’ Linc said. ‘I might drive out that way later and have a word with him.’
    It was nearly knocking-off time when he drove down the track beside Home Wood in search of Reagan, but the forester was still there, clearing ditches with the aid of an ageing JCB. He switched the machine off when he saw Linc and jumped down from the cab as it rattled to blessed silence.
    â€˜Evening, sir.’ He wiped his broad hands on bottle-green estate overalls and waited for Linc to state his business. Six foot or so tall and stockily built, Reagan had black, tightly curling hair above weather-beaten features, and a fuzz of the same on all the visible parts of his body. He lived in a cottage on the estate with his wife and a new baby girl.
    â€˜Evening, Jack. How’s it going?’ After five months, Linc knew most of the estate workers by their first names and preferred to address them that way even though his father frowned upon the practice.
    â€˜All right, I think, sir. Should be finished tomorrow, I reckon.’
    â€˜And then you’ll do Piecroft Copse?’
    â€˜That’s right.’
    As usual, Reagan was civil but unforthcoming and, as usual, he inspired in Linc an irritation far greater than his words merited. There was something about the manner of the man; a kind of barely stifled cockiness that suggested resentment of their relative positions.
    After a brief discussion about the schedule for the next few days, Linc asked the forester where the nearest greyhound track was and if he knew of any local trainers.
    Reagan looked surprised. ‘Don’t know about trainers, but I go to Ledworth or Poole. Poole’s bigger of course but Ledworth’s nearer. There’s one at Swindon, too.’
    â€˜When’s the next meeting, do you know?’
    â€˜Ledworth, tomorrow night.’ Reagan was practically bristling with curiosity but apparently couldn’t bring himself to ask a direct question.
    Linc enjoyed not telling him.
    â€˜Thanks for that. By the way, how’s the baby doing?’
    â€˜She’s well.’
    â€˜And your wife – Lynne, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Mrs Reagan’s fine, thank you.’
    His tone clearly said that his private life was his own, so Linc left it at that.
    When he visited the greyhound track at Ledworth it was just waking up in preparation for the evening’s sport. The stadium was located on the edge of an out-of-town business park, and from the approach road the sloping roof of the stands looked like another warehouse or workshop unit. There was a vast, unfinished car parking area, as yet sparsely occupied, in which Linc left the