Time to Pay Read Free

was, in fact, dead, produced a notebook and took down not only Gideon’s name but also those of thetwo ambulance men, while his colleague stood by, gingerly removing bramble prickles from his trouser leg.
    Shortly after, the paramedics – made redundant by the absence of life to preserve – took their leave and trudged off through the trees, down what seemed set to become a well-worn track. Hardly had their fluorescent jackets disappeared into the murky depths of the wood when two more men came into view, this time in plain clothes but somehow, Gideon thought, still just as obviously policemen. The foremost of these fell prey to the same arching bramble stem that had snared the first man, and swore, if anything, even more vehemently. It would have been funny if the circumstances had been different.
    Gideon watched as the newcomers exchanged a few low-voiced words with the two uniformed officers, who were quite clearly relaying the information they had gleaned from him. The elder of the plain-clothes men was fiftyish, with thinning grey hair, a grey suit and an almost avuncular look about him. The other was perhaps twenty years his junior, a dark-haired, unsmiling man in jeans, a tee shirt and a black leather jacket.
    It was this younger man who presently introduced himself to Gideon as Detective Sergeant Coogan and began by asking if he couldn’t tie the horses up somewhere.
    â€˜Well, actually – no.’ Gideon explained his dilemma.
    â€˜But presumably someone else could hold them,’ Coogan said. ‘I’m allergic to the bloody things.’ He called the uniform back. ‘You –Fletcher – come and look after these horses, would you?’
    Judging by his expression, Fletcher wasn’t too keen on the idea but Coogan wasn’t big on sympathy.
    â€˜Oh, come on! How difficult can it be? They won’t eat you.’
    Fletcher took the horses’ reins from Gideon, regarding the two animals much as one might a couple of hungry lions, and trying to keep at arm’s length from them both.
    â€˜Good. Now take them away, down the path, they’ve done enough damage as it is – trampling all over the crime scene!’ Coogan turned to Gideon. ‘Right, suppose you tell me what happened here.’
    Gideon sat staring into the plastic cup standing cradled between his hands on the tabletop before him. The liquid it contained was scalding hot, but that was all that could honestly be claimed for it. He had asked for coffee but the muddy-brown, machine-generated brew had little smell and even less taste.
    He was sitting, as he had been for the past three and a half hours, in an interview room at Chilminster police station. Fluorescent strip lights lit the small, windowless room, which had black vinyl on the floor, shiny cream paint on the walls, and one massive Victorian radiator that either didn’t work or hadn’t been turned on. The surface of the heavy wooden table at which he sat was defaced with inkstains, scratches and cigarette burns, and his chair was of red moulded plastic and was to comfort what Punch and Judy wasto political correctness. High above the door, an extractor fan whirred constantly, producing a rattling vibration every six seconds.
    Apart from the visit from the cheerful young PC who had brought him the coffee, Gideon had been alone for the last three-quarters of an hour, and felt cold, depressed and utterly drained. In spite of the passage of time, a feeling of unreality dogged him. It was still difficult to accept that the cheerful, energetic man he’d ridden out with that morning had anything to do with the lifeless body he’d left behind him in the woods.
    His mind went back to the scene as it had been when he was led away: the area cordoned off by quantities of red and white striped tape, half a dozen men and women in stark white coveralls busily searching the track and surrounding forest with meticulous care, and a