Cut Throat (53 page)

‘Very funny,' Ross said, not laughing.

‘I must say, your parking hasn't improved,' his tormentor remarked, standing back to survey the vehicle. ‘Just what exactly happened? Did the wind blow you off course or were you trying to get the cork out of a bottle?' He was clearly enjoying himself.

‘The wind,' Ross pointed out, ‘is blowing the other way.'

‘Well, I think in view of your previous form we ought to just make sure you aren't under the influence,' the policeman said, and called over his shoulder, ‘Jim! When you've finished putting those cones out, bring the breath box, will you?'

By the time the tow truck arrived, some five minutes later, Ross had had about enough of Police Sergeant Steve Deacon and his sidekick.

After the negative breath test, the two had amused themselves by asking Ross numerous questions and requesting vehicle documents. These last he was able to produce. Franklin with his usual thoroughness had left them in the glove compartment and they were all, to the almost visible disappointment of the sergeant, up to date.

‘I'll give the name and address of your insurer to the farmer who owns this particular fence,' he said helpfully, as the Land-Rover was dragged back on to the road by the cheerful, round-faced mechanic in the tow truck. ‘And if I were you and I wanted to travel in the next couple of weeks, I'd take a bus. You'll have to get used to it sooner or later anyway. See you in court.'

With this parting shot he beckoned to his partner and headed for his car.

‘Bloody charming!' the mechanic said, getting out of the truck and looking at the departing police car. ‘Know him, do you?'

‘We've met,' Ross said dryly. ‘But I sure wish we hadn't.'

‘Know what you bleeding mean!' the mechanic agreed. Then, turning his attention to the Land-Rover, ‘Not hard to see what's happened here.'

Ross followed his gaze. If one discounted the four-foot length of barbed wire which decorated the front bumper, the vehicle looked little the worse for its adventure, except for the fact that while its nearside front wheel pointed slightly left, its offside companion was pointing determinedly in the opposite direction.

‘Looks like the track rod's come off the joint, at a guess,' the mechanic said placidly, rubbing his bristly chin with a grimy paw.

Ross was thoughtful. ‘Does that happen often?'

‘Nah, not very. You'd spot it was loose on the MOT most likely.'

Ross continued to gaze at the offending wheel. He had seen from the documents that the Land-Rover had been tested within the last month.

‘Would it be possible for someone to arrange for it to happen?' he asked after a moment.

‘Bloody hell! That's a bleeding question, that is!' the mechanic said, looking curiously at Ross. ‘Who do you work for? The sodding Mafia? Yeah, I suppose it would. Very easy. All you'd have to do would be slacken off the nut on the steering rack joint – or take it right off. You could even drive round with it like that. No telling when it would finally come apart. Could be one mile, could be ten.'

‘Unless you hit a pothole . . .' Ross said absentmindedly.

‘That would probably shake it loose,' he agreed. ‘Bloody nasty if it happened in traffic.'

‘Or on a bloody hill,' Ross suggested with amusement.

‘But you don't seriously think somebody did it on purpose?' the mechanic persisted, appearing not to notice the mickey-taking. ‘What did you do to him? Shag his soddin' wife?'

Ross shook his head. ‘Pay no attention to me, I'm paranoid,' he said with a slight smile. ‘Can you fix it for me?'

Seated in the tow truck, heading for the workshop, Ross' mind was busy with several unpleasant but increasingly convincing suspicions. The police sergeant had unwittingly given his memory a prod when he'd checked the numberplate with the registration papers.

The first three letters were DRH. ‘Damn Roland's Hide' Ross' subconscious had immediately quoted, and in an instant, memories of the previous Tuesday evening came flooding back.

DRH had been the registration of the Land-Rover that he'd followed through the diversion, and therefore was almost certainly the one that had stopped across the road, setting up the ambush. It would be stretching coincidence too far to believe that his near-calamitous accident in the same vehicle was just that: an accident.

‘It was Darcy's idea,' Franklin had said when he had offered the Land-Rover to Ross at the show. When it arrived Ross hadn't looked twice at it. There were so many four-wheel-drive vehicles on Wiltshire's roads, it just hadn't occurred to him to look closely at this one.

Was Darcy the Mr X they were looking for, or had somebody, possibly Leo, ‘borrowed' the vehicle that Tuesday evening? And
who
then had loosened the nut on the steering rack?

‘I reckon you're lucky old George Collins is bloody skint.'

This somewhat cryptic utterance cut across Ross' thoughts.

‘If that had been a new fence it would prob'ly have snapped when you hit it,' the mechanic supplied obligingly. ‘Stretch 'em like bloody pianer wire they do these days. That old wire's looser and got some give left in it. Bloody lucky.'

At the garage, he showed Ross the tapered joint on which the steering track rod end sat.

‘When that comes apart, your chances of controlling the car are sod-all. One wheel goes one way and one the other. I tell yer, you were lucky you didn't roll the bugger!' He pointed with one blackened finger. ‘See here. It's been greased to help it slide. The other one hasn't been touched for donkey's years. Looks like you were right, mate. Bloody stupid sort of joke to play!'

‘Bloody stupid,' Ross agreed. ‘I'm sure he didn't realise what he was doing.'

‘I should bloody hope not,' the man said, shaking his tousled head as he went to work on the Land-Rover. ‘Well, I suppose it's your sodding funeral, but if it was me, I'd half bloody kill him!'

‘Mmm. I might just do that,' Ross agreed. ‘I bloody might.'

Finally catching on, the mechanic looked up and grinned good-naturedly.

Having been assured that the Land-Rover was once more roadworthy, Ross settled his account, adding a generous percentage in true gratitude. He then resumed his journey, driving slowly in deference to the wind and the state of his nerves. Besides which, he had a lot on his mind.

Working on the premise that Darcy Richmond was indeed the extortionist and conveniently leaving aside the matter of motive for the moment, he tried to fit together the pieces of the puzzle. He had no doubt that Franklin's nephew had the brains to pull off the blackmail and he was in a position to do it, having access to the stableyard and the financial know-how needed to bank the proceeds without trace. But where then did Leo come in?

He, in Ross' opinion, was strictly minor league, criminal by inclination rather than by design. Perhaps, as he himself had suggested to Franklin, Leo had stumbled on to Darcy's trail by stealing his wallet and finding the business card. This would have led him to the connection with Clown, if no further, and given him at least enough leverage to threaten to expose Darcy if he wasn't cut in. In effect, blackmailing the blackmailer. It was quite possible he still didn't know the whole of it.

Ross remembered the day Darcy had turned up at the yard with a black eye. Perhaps the two men had come to blows when Leo faced him with what he had guessed. Ross had had proof enough himself of Leo's propensity for violence.

If Darcy was indeed their Mr X, it would explain how he had managed to stay one step ahead of McKinnon's men all the time. It had been a clever move to bug the telephone outside Franklin's house, thereby directing suspicion towards an outside listener, when all he would need to do would be pick up an extension, casually question his uncle or glance through his papers when he was not at home.

Although Darcy had his own pad, Ross knew he still had a room at his uncle's home. It was not to be supposed that Franklin would leave details of his business with McKinnon lying around for casual eyes to see, but neither would he have expected Darcy actively to seek it. Besides, McKinnon had worked for Richmond Finance before. It would be a natural progression for Darcy to suppose that his uncle would use the company in this other matter.

Why had McKinnon eliminated Darcy from his enquiries? Ross wondered. He supposed it was because of a lack of perceptible motive and the existence of an apparently watertight alibi for the night of the Bellboy incident.

Darcy himself had told Ross he was away sailing that weekend. He was sure McKinnon would have checked that Darcy had indeed taken his boat out, but what if he had moored again elsewhere and slipped back to Oakley Manor to slaughter the horse? Almost impossible to trace. And if Darcy
were
their man, it would account for Leo's knowing that McKinnon's men were watching him.

Ross sighed. He hoped, for Franklin's sake, that he was wrong but the more he thought about it, the more probable it all seemed.

Ross had his own ideas as to the reason behind Darcy's campaign against his uncle but one fact stubbornly refused to fit the overall picture. Darcy had apparently been prepared to risk Peter's life to gain his ends.

However consummate an actor Darcy might be, Ross felt sure he had never faked his devotion to the boy. It was there for all to see, whenever they were together. It was, even for cousins, an unusually strong bond and he clearly resented anyone who threatened to replace him in the boy's affections.

Maybe that was why he had ‘lost' Danny's videotape that had contained footage of Ross riding the bucking stallion. Too young to fully understand the bad feeling surrounding Ross, Peter already regarded the American with a certain amount of juvenile hero worship, as the Colonel had pointed out, and seeing him ride the rogue horse could have done nothing but enhance that image.

So, taking this possessive devotion into account, how could Darcy possibly contemplate harming the boy?

For a few moments, Ross was fully occupied manoeuvring the Land-Rover through the traffic to the bootmaker's shop. The boots tried for fit, approved and paid for, he began the homeward journey.

Now that he had the skeleton of a solution to build on, Ross found that many of the remaining pieces slotted quite easily into place.

He remembered the evening they had gone out for a drink, ostensibly on a whim. It now seemed more likely that Darcy had engineered the whole thing. It had been about a week after Ross had confronted the prowler in the yard. Perhaps, even then, Darcy had been sizing him up as possible trouble. Or perhaps Ross had merely been his alibi for the time of Peter's accident.

That innocuous evening at the pub had thrown up several significant facts in hindsight. The undisguised warmth and admiration in Darcy's eyes when he had spoken of Franklin's ex-wife had set Ross thinking, and remembering how easily he had mimicked Fergusson's Scottish accent, it was plain that assuming an Irish one would be no problem to him.

It wasn't possible to be sure exactly who had done what, and at whose instigation, but Ross was beginning to see that Darcy had been extremely adept at harnessing the hostility of others for his own ends.

This said, he was willing to bet that Leo had engineered most of the physical ‘accidents'. Things like the rope between the trees and the attack on the dog bore the ex-groom's hallmark of spite. Leo it had been, too, who had worked on Ginger's neurosis while he was at the yard, bringing her to breaking point and finally beyond, with tragic, not to mention painful, consequences.

It was easier to accept Leo's part in it than Darcy's. Leo had never pretended friendship but Ross had liked Darcy and now experienced a sense of betrayal. They would never have been bosom-buddies but he had seemed easy-going and good-natured and Ross had considered him a friend.

If he was right, then it seemed likely that Sarah had been taken in too. Ross had always thought them an ill-matched pair but what better cover for Darcy making visits to the yard than to see her? He imagined that she would have needed very little encouragement to keep him up to date with the business of the yard, either. The horses were her passion.

Using Leo as a willing tool, Darcy had tried again and again to weaken Ross' position in the yard. It was quite possible he had manipulated Harry Douglas in some way too. When, in spite of everything, the Colonel and Franklin had stood by Ross, it was no wonder Darcy should have decided that the time had come to get rid of him once and for all.

It was no wonder, but it was no excuse.

Ross felt bitterly angry. He felt anger for himself; for Franklin, who had shown his nephew nothing but kindness; for Peter, Ginger and the dog, all of whom were totally innocent victims; and for the Colonel and Lindsay and all the other members of the Oakley Manor team who had suffered because of Ross' disgrace.

Driving back to the yard, with only the howling wind for company, Ross began to plot Darcy Richmond's downfall.

Back at the stables, the wind showed no sign of abating. It was a nerve-shredding, relentless shriek. Leaves and branches littered the gravel and somewhere a door was banging. Anything that wasn't tied down was rolling around or pinned against the first upright it had fetched up against. The horses were shifting uneasily in their stables, upset by the noise and transmitting their tension to one another.

Ross put the Richmond Land-Rover in the shed in place of the other, which he parked in the yard. Bill appeared, grumbling about the weather, and together they did the midday rounds; feeding, filling water buckets and tidying stables. All the while, Ross was engrossed with the problem of what had to be done and how to do it.