Bad Blood

ContentsCoverAlso by Lyndon Stacey from Severn HouseTitle PageCopyrightDedicationAcknowledgementsChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty-OneChapter Twenty-TwoChapter Twenty-Three Also by Lyndon Stacey from Severn HouseDaniel Whelan mysteriesNO GOING BACKNO HOLDS BARREDNOTHING BUT LIESNO SECOND CHANCESNovelsBAD BLOOD BAD BLOODLyndon Stacey This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. First world edition published in Great Britain and the USA in 2023by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.Trade paperback edition first published in Great Britain and the USA in 2023by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.This eBook edition first published in 2023 by Severn House,an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.severnhouse.comCopyright © Lyndon Stacey, 2023All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Lyndon Stacey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication DataA CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1060-9 (cased)ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1065-4 (e-book)This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.This eBook produced byPalimpsest Book Production Limited,Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland Dedicated to the memory of a little grey lurcher called Teazle, a gentle soul and the inspiration for “Mouse”. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTSThanks to Bradley Paris-Crofts, National Hunt jockey, for taking the time to answer my queries. It was much appreciated. ONEThe 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