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right.’
    â€˜Did you think perhaps he’d been hit by a stray shot from there?’
    â€˜No. Not when I saw the wound.’
    â€˜You’re familiar with firearms, then, Mr Blake. Do you own one?’
    Gideon’s eyes narrowed.
    â€˜No, I don’t. But you don’t have to be an expert to know that wound wasn’t made by a shotgun. I should imagine most country people would know the difference between a shotgun and a rifle, and we were way out of range for a shotgun.’
    Another long look, a scribbled note, and the questions went on.
    How well did Gideon know the Daniels family?
    Not well. Only since he’d been working with the horse.
    How did he come to be doing that?
    He’d started working on Nero with his previous owners and Damien had wanted him to continue.
    Was he having a relationship with Damien’s sister?
    No, he was not.
    What about Damien’s wife, Beth, wasn’t it?
    No. Not with Beth, either.
    Was Gideon gay, perhaps?
    Gideon looked heavenwards. No, he had a girlfriend, but she wasn’t related, in any way, shape or form, to Damien Daniels.
    â€˜Mr Blake, we have a job to do,’ Coogan said then. ‘I appreciate that you’ve had an upsetting morning, and I’m sure you’d rather be anywhere but here, but if we can just keep this civilised, it’ll be easier all round.’
    The other officer cleared his throat.
    â€˜I’m sorry if some of our questions seem intrusive, but it’s important that we have a clear picture of the situation. Now, can I ask what your girlfriend’s name is and where she lives?’
    Gideon hesitated, unwilling to draw Eve into it, but he really didn’t see that he had any choice.
    â€˜Eve Kirkpatrick. She owns an art gallery in Wareham – the Arne Gallery,’ he added, anticipating the next question. ‘She lives in a big Georgian house, I could take you there but I don’t know the address.’
    â€˜Not with you, then?’
    â€˜No. I live near Blandford,’ he pointed out, with tenuous patience. They already knew that. He’d given his details at least six times that afternoon. He was getting tired of the double questioning. It was as if they were trying to catch him out.
    Coogan favoured him with another of his long looks and Gideon gave in.
    â€˜She likes to be near the sea, and she
has
to be near the gallery. We have a casual relationship.’
    There was a knock at the door and a head peered round.
    â€˜Have you got a minute?’ it asked, and Coogan nodded.
    â€˜Please wait here, Mr Blake. We’ll be back shortly.’
    They weren’t.
    Half an hour passed before Gideon saw Coogan again, and then he brought with him a different sidekick.
    This time it was clear that someone had dug out his file, for the questioning took on a new slant. Gideon had been involved in bringing a noted criminal to book, two years before, and although he couldn’t really see what bearing those events could have on Damien’s shooting, he went along with it, fervently hoping that he didn’t contradict anything he’d told the police at that time. For his part, what he’d told them then had been on a need-to-know basis, and there’d been a fair amount he hadn’t felt they needed to know.
    After another twenty minutes’ grilling, Coogan had got suddenly to his feet and gone out, taking his almost silent colleague with him.
    So Gideon was left alone once more, and after three-quarters of an hour he was beginning to think that even Coogan’s company would be preferable to the empty room and the constant muted, echoey voices he could hear through the door.
    The door wasn’t locked but his one foray into the world beyond it had resulted in a pleasant but firm request that he wait inside, and the cup of grim coffee. He’d been told that his presence was not compulsory, but supposed they could be fairly certain he wouldn’t try to