Cut Throat (13 page)

He received Lindsay with open arms and swept her off her feet as one might a toddler, swinging her round in a full circle before putting her down. Lindsay hugged him.

‘When did you get back? It's been so long,' she said, her eyes shining. ‘How long has it been? Ten months? A year?'

‘Surely not?' Roland said in mock dismay. ‘Besides, you're forever on the telephone. I've got a few days off and drove up from London last night, if you want to know, but it's surely a case of when
you
got back. You're the one who's been careering around America.'

‘Ross,' Lindsay said, drawing away from Roland, ‘meet my absurd cousin Roland. Roland, this is Ross.'

The fashion plate held out a lean, tanned and perfectly manicured hand.

‘Delighted, dear boy,' he drawled, smiling amiably. ‘Delighted. Lindsay's told me so much about you.'

‘Don't believe a word of it.' Ross obliged with the expected response.

‘No?' Roland queried thoughtfully, one eyebrow raised. ‘A shame. I was quite impressed.'

Lindsay punched her cousin playfully on the arm. ‘Don't listen to him, Ross,' she advised. ‘He'll tie you in knots.'

‘You're probably right,' Ross agreed good-naturedly. ‘After all, English
is
only my second language.'

The Colonel laughed out loud. ‘Oh, I think the Yank can take care of himself, Lindsay,' he said. ‘I wouldn't be at all surprised if Roland has met his match at last.'

His son smiled politely.

When Ross telephoned Franklin Richmond later on his mobile, he seemed philosophical about the night-time intruder.

‘Thanks for doing what you did,' he said, ‘but be careful. I don't want anybody getting hurt over this. After all, I don't think for one moment that we could stop this madman getting to the horses if he put his mind to it. We couldn't maintain a guard indefinitely, twenty-four-seven, as they say. The thing is, if it
was
our man, I can't imagine what he was up to. I mean, I'm paying up as it is. Why do anything further and risk upsetting everything? It doesn't make sense. It's almost as though he wants more than just the money. As if he wants to keep me on edge.'

Ross went over this conversation in his mind on the way to Lea Farm that evening. He had immense admiration for Richmond's strength of character. He supposed a man who daily thought and dealt in millions became used to pressure. When he had told Ross that it was safe to call him on his private line at the office because the building was regularly checked for ‘bugs', Ross had revised his first, clichéd, impression of what top-flight financial consultancy involved.

‘You're quiet, Yank,' Leo remarked suddenly. ‘Thinking about blondie?'

Ross swallowed his irritation. He was damned if he'd give Leo the satisfaction of seeing his reaction. Poker-faced, he said blankly, ‘Who?'

‘Oh, very good, Yank,' Leo said. ‘Very good. “
Who?
”' he repeated, mimicking Ross.

Ross kept his eyes on the road ahead. He didn't know why Leo had chosen this moment to pick a quarrel, maybe it was just boredom, but he did know it had gone far enough.

‘You do know I have the power to fire you?' he remarked conversationally.

‘I was hired by Scott,' Leo stated, defiantly. ‘I'll answer to him.'

‘And he answers to me, if need be.'

Leo was silent for a moment, his face sullen. Then: ‘If you do, you'll regret it, Yank,' he promised softly.

‘I doubt it,' Ross said, swinging the lorry through the gates of Lea Farm in a slow, smooth curve.

The evening went well enough for the most part. Once the horses were unloaded and the rush was on, Leo seemed to put aside his animosity and concentrate on his work, as usual.

Ross' time passed in an endless stream of warming up, walking courses and competing, then changing mounts and starting all over again.

If anything, he found walking the courses the most tiring part of the business. Trudging round the arena, measuring the distances between fences, rehearsing the turns and assessing the viability of short-cuts was an integral part of the game, but with his troublesome leg it was exercise Ross could have happily done without.

He had a full lorry, Simone, Clown, Flo and Woody, and until Bill turned up in the Land-Rover, only Leo to assist him.

The horses jumped well but without the spark of brilliance needed to win classes against stiff opposition. Apart from a fourth for Simone in a speed class, Ross was out of the money all evening, so when both Woody and Flo qualified for the jump-off in the big class of the night he was determined that at least one of them should be placed.

One thing that especially caught the American's eye at Lea Farm that evening was the appearance of Stephen Douglas, pale and grim-faced, striving to control an extremely powerful dark chestnut, whose sole ambition seemed to be to proceed as fast as possible in whatever direction he happened to be headed.

Douglas had tried to combat the animal's natural inclination with a bewildering array of gadgets which were quite plainly never intended to be used simultaneously. The horse, far from being subdued by the multitude of straps and curbs, fought all the harder.

Ross shook his head in wonderment.

‘That boy hasn't a hope of holding him,' Bill said, coming alongside. ‘He's just too much horse. Should have been gelded years ago but some pop star owns him and won't hear of it. I ask you, who'd want to breed a foal with that temperament? He's a failed racehorse, you know. Mr Richmond told me about him. Used to run away going down to the start and wouldn't go in the starting stalls when he got there. Useless animal. Might as well be shot.'

‘That's kinda hard,' Ross said. ‘You gotta admire his spirit, don't you?'

Bill snorted and walked away.

While Ross warmed up Flo in the collecting ring, he watched Douglas trying to qualify the chestnut for the same jump-off.

From the start it was clear to even the most uninformed observer that if any of the fences were left standing at the end of the round, it would be due more to luck than judgement. The chestnut stallion proceeded in a series of short, jarring leaps with his head tied down until it nearly touched his chest, and had no chance of seeing, let alone clearing, the fences. Douglas looked desperately unhappy as he fought to stay in control and they left the ring with all but three fences down and both horse and rider perspiring freely.

Ross was first to go in the jump-off on Flowergirl, and although the fences were somewhat bigger than the little mare was used to, she jumped a cracking round, only dropping a pole at the very last. Ross patted her dark, sweating neck as he rode out into the collecting ring where Leo was walking Woody round quietly. He changed horses and warmed the big gelding up again in the whirling mass of horses that inhabited the small area where the practice fence had been set up.

In due course his number was called and Ross turned Woody towards the ring entrance. Leo patted the horse as it passed and said, ‘Go for it!'

Ross blinked, surprised at his uncharacteristic enthusiasm.

Woody was a grand old horse, at sixteen finding the biggest spreads a little beyond him but still pulling like a train. Ross entered the ring keeping him on a tight rein. He circled, the bell went and he was away.

The first four fences were fairly simple, then he had to take a pull to collect the veteran for a double of planks and push on for the triple bar that followed. Woody responded gamely and the red-and-white poles flashed by a good six inches beneath his neatly tucked-up hooves.

‘Steady, steady,' Ross murmured as they swung round the bottom of the arena, kicking tanbark up against the wooden boards, and turned into the last line of jumps.

Woody wouldn't be steadied. He plunged forward, flying the first and, adjusting his strategy, Ross drove him on to take the next on a long stride. His heart was singing. He could win this!

The old horse bunched his hindquarters and leapt high and wide but his momentum tipped him forward on landing and he stumbled, ploughing a furrow in the loose footing with his nose. Ross sat back to assist his recovery and with a sickening jolt the girth snapped.

The American hadn't a hope of saving himself. As the saddle slipped beneath him he saw the tanbark rushing up to meet him, tucked his chin in and rolled like a steeplechase jockey.

Horse and rider came to their feet unharmed but on Ross' part, at least, annoyed and disappointed. The saddle lay tumbled in the tan at his feet and he scooped it up and trudged towards the exit to a smattering of sympathetic applause. Woody had been captured near the exit barrier and stood watching his approach with anxious eyes.

‘That was number twenty-one, Ross Wakelin and Woodsmoke,' the commentator reported. ‘It can happen to the best of us, but a shame that, he was well up on the clock. Next we have number three-three-oh, Mr S. Harding on his own Gregory.'

Ross left the bright lights behind him as he walked out into the dusk, leading the big gelding.

Bill came hurrying up.

‘What the hell happened there?'

‘Girth snapped,' Ross said shortly.

‘Bad luck,' he commiserated.

Ross said nothing. He hadn't had time to inspect the broken girth closely but he had an idea that luck had little or nothing to do with it.

Ross was more than usually thoughtful as he drove home that night. The girth, when examined, was found to be sound. What
had
given way were the leather straps that the girth buckled on to. These, three on each side, were sewn on to two strips of canvas webbing that passed over, and were fastened to, the main inner structure or tree of the saddle. What made the incident odd was that to prevent this very failure, one strap was always sewn on to one piece of webbing and the other two on to the second. Both lots of stitching had apparently given way at the same time.

This suggested two possibilities: either the person in charge of Woodsmoke, and therefore his tack, was guilty of extreme negligence in not noticing that the stitching was badly worn; or, worse, somebody had deliberately cut or frayed the stitching just before Ross was due to ride.

In spite of his immediate suspicion, Ross instinctively shied away from this second notion, though it had to be said that the first was highly unlikely. Bill looked after Woody and it was unthinkable that someone with his almost obsessive attention to detail would miss such an obviously dangerous sign of wear. Unless, of course, he chose to.

Ross dismissed this idea. Too many people rode Woody in the course of a week for this to be a viable form of sabotage. Which meant that the damage was recent, and in view of their discord on the way to the show, suspicion fell heavily on one person.

Ross braked gently at some traffic lights and rolled his head from side to side, trying to ease a stiffening neck. He looked across at Leo.

The groom was looking away from him, out of the side window. The red light reflected on the hard line of his jaw and haloed his black hair. Even from that angle his expression was unfriendly.

Bill had gone on ahead and when they reached the yard was waiting with rugs and stables ready for the returning horses, feeds in mangers and haynets hung. Even so, it was close to an hour before they retired to the cottage for a late supper. Ross' neck had stiffened still further, and he was glad to follow Maggie's suggestion that he soak in a hot bath for a while. When he eventually reached his bed, sleep came swift and deep.

Around dawn the dog woke him, standing at the door and whining. Ross murmured heartlessly that he would have to wait, turned over and was instantly asleep once more.

Sleep was tenacious in its grip on him and he was only just emerging from under the duvet when he heard the chorus of whinnies and banging that habitually greeted Sarah's arrival in the yard. He pulled his jeans on and padded on bare feet out into the bathroom he shared with Leo. Cold water restored some form of semi-intelligent consciousness and he was on his way back to his room when he heard the scream.

He was down the stairs and out of the door before its echoes had died away, and Leo was right behind him. He sprinted across the yard, heedless of the sharp stones under his unprotected feet. Bill appeared from the direction of the cottage, hopping as he pulled on his boots. Ross burst through the doorway into the covered section and staggered as Sarah collided with him, on her way out at top speed.

‘Hold up! Steady now. What is it?' he demanded, grasping her arms.

The girl raised wide, frightened eyes to his. ‘It . . . it's Clown!' she sobbed. ‘Oh, God, it's happened again!'

Ross pushed her away, his blood suddenly running cold. ‘No. Please, no,' he begged under his breath as he raced along the corridor to Clown's stable.

The skewbald stood in the corner of his box, head up and eyes rolling wildly, his whole body trembling with violent muscular spasms. What stopped Ross in his tracks, however, was the blood. Clown's white throat was drenched with it; it was smeared and splattered all over his gaily marked coat and in places it had splashed and run down the whitewashed brick walls of his stable. It seemed inconceivable that a horse could have lost so much blood and still be standing.

‘Jesus!' Leo had caught up and was peering over Ross' shoulder.

‘Go and call the vet,' Ross urged. ‘Quickly!'

For once Leo obeyed instantly and without question, collecting the office key from Bill as he passed him in the corridor.

Ross unhooked Clown's headcollar from its place outside the door and advanced slowly into the stable, murmuring soothing nonsense to the distressed animal all the while. Clown backed further into his corner, his rump bunching as he hit the wall.