Cut Throat (19 page)

‘Sure, Lindsay told me,' Ross agreed, cautiously. ‘And Bill was talking about it the other day. Were you around when it happened?'

‘No, I wasn't. I had a long weekend off work and went sailing. I went out on my boat on the Friday and didn't get back until the Monday afternoon. I wish I'd been here. My uncle was devastated. He really loved that horse.' Darcy shook his head, sadly. ‘They never did catch the bastard responsible. Uncle Frank just says it was a one-off. He can't believe anyone would do that sort of thing to get at him. He's so good-natured, sees the best in everyone, but he's trodden on a few toes in his time, I can tell you. When you're in business you can't help it. And now, I hear, someone is threatening Peter's horse.' He looked disgusted. ‘Honestly, how low can you go?'

Ross shook his head, not caring to speculate.

‘Tell me something, though,' Darcy said after a moment. ‘Why do you suppose whoever it was used real blood? Surely red paint or for that matter tomato ketchup would have done? I mean, where would anyone get that much blood? It's bizarre.'

‘Horses hate the smell of blood,' Ross explained. ‘To them it means death. As herd animals, they'd naturally run from it. Horses are animals of very primitive instincts, you know. That's why, when they first feel a man on their back, their natural reaction is to buck and then run. To them it's reminiscent of having a mountain lion drop on them from a tree. Of course, they don't think of it like that. They just react without knowing why.'

‘I see. So Clown would have wanted to run from the smell, but not been able to. No wonder the poor creature was in a state.' He took a long swallow of his beer and shook his head. ‘There must be some sick, sadistic bastard out there somewhere.'

Ross nodded. ‘You can say that again.'

Darcy laughed. ‘Not if I have too many more beers,' he said, and the conversation turned to more pleasant topics.

‘Am I keeping you from something?' Ross asked after a while, amusement in his eyes. His companion had glanced at his watch at least three times in the last ten minutes.

‘No, not at all,' Darcy exclaimed. ‘It's just that – well, to tell the truth, there's a big football match on TV tonight, England versus Argentina, a replay, and I've just remembered that I didn't set the video.'

‘Well, let's go then,' Ross said, getting up.

Darcy made a show of protest but gave in with only scant argument.

So much for my scintillating company, Ross thought, unoffended.

The journey was only six or seven miles and, far from hurrying, Darcy drove, if anything, more carefully than he had on the outward trip. Wary of traffic cops, Ross suspected.

Five minutes or so into the journey, Darcy's phone chirruped from the dashboard. He picked it up, glancing apologetically at Ross. He looked politely away out of the window and watched the roadside trees materialising in the powerful headlights and sliding swiftly past into oblivion.

‘What!'

Darcy applied the Nissan's brakes as though a yawning void had opened up before them. The car slid to a halt, slewing a little sideways in response to Darcy's one hand on the wheel.

‘When? How did it happen? Oh, God! . . . Yes, I'll be there right away. Oh, God!'

He replaced the phone with a shaking hand and sat back in his seat with apparently no thought of moving the car from its rather hazardous position, parked diagonally across the road. He looked blankly ahead.

Wherever he was going to be ‘right away', he was not in any hurry, Ross reflected.

‘Would you like me to drive?' he offered, after a moment.

‘What? No. Yes, perhaps you'd better.' Darcy seemed to have momentarily forgotten the American's presence. ‘Thanks.'

He turned to look at Ross with wide, shocked eyes. ‘Peter's been knocked down by a car,' he said in a tone that suggested he was finding it difficult to take the news in. ‘He's been rushed to hospital. They won't say how badly he's been hurt. Oh, God! It's all my fault . . .'

Ross got out of the car and went round to the driver's side. ‘Move over,' he said briskly. ‘You'll have to give me directions. Is it far?'

‘No. Only about ten minutes. Odstock, near Salisbury.'

‘Okay.' Ross put the seat back to accommodate his longer legs and they set off. He raced the silver car along the country lanes, enjoying its power and handling in spite of the occasion. He considered Darcy's earlier remark. ‘How can you say it's
your
fault?' he asked, bewildered. ‘You weren't there. You couldn't have stopped it.'

Darcy was silent for a moment. ‘It
is
my fault,' he reiterated. ‘Uncle Frank wasn't keen on Peter going. He has to be so careful, because of kidnappers. I persuaded him. Peter desperately wanted to go and I took his side. So it's all my fault.'

‘It was an accident,' Ross said, joining the main road and heading for Salisbury. ‘It was nobody's fault. You can't keep people wrapped up in cotton wool. You mustn't blame yourself.'

Franklin Richmond was pacing the bustling hospital corridors like a caged lion when Darcy and Ross arrived. He and his nephew embraced, clinging to each other momentarily for comfort.

‘How is he?' Darcy asked breathlessly. ‘Is he going to be all right?'

Franklin shrugged and shook his head. He had arrived, he explained, twenty minutes before, to be told that his son was in the operating theatre and he would have to wait to speak with the doctor. A nurse had assured him, however, that Peter was not on the critical list. A deeply furrowed brow in an ashen face was evidence of how distressed Franklin was.

Ross, feeling surplus to requirements at this moment of family crisis, wandered off and returned with two disposable cups of hot, sweet tea. Darcy accepted his gratefully but Franklin looked blankly at Ross as though he couldn't quite place him.

‘Drink this,' Ross urged. ‘It'll do you good. Ease the shakes.'

Franklin took the cup obediently and began to sip, his thoughts obviously elsewhere.

‘I don't take sugar,' he protested mildly, after a moment.

‘Tonight you do. It's good for shock.'

Franklin walked away and back again.

‘How did you come to be here?' he asked as he drew level with Ross once more.

‘I drove Darcy. We were out for a drink.'

Franklin walked away again, giving no sign of having heard. He drained the cup and put it on a windowsill.

A door opened and a nurse bustled out, holding a clipboard to her chest like a shield against emotional involvement. Franklin stepped forward. ‘Please, nurse . . . ?'

‘I'm sorry. The doctor will be with you shortly.' She smiled sympathetically, side-stepped and continued briskly on her way.

The doctor, when he did come, looked exhausted. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles as he explained to the Richmonds that Peter had suffered two broken legs and extensive bruising and was presently being prepared for surgery. The fractures appeared to be clean and should heal without complication. There was no sign of internal injury and he was conscious. His father could see him briefly if he wished.

In the event, both Franklin and Darcy followed the doctor through the door and Ross kicked his heels until they returned a bare two minutes later, then took his leave.

Franklin, reassured that his son was in no immediate danger, had progressed beyond anxiety to all-consuming fury.

‘I'll get him, Ross!' he promised. ‘I'll get the bastard who did this! They say it was a hit and run but someone must have seen him. It's a busy town, for God's sake!'

Hearing the raw emotion in Franklin's voice, Ross remembered what he'd said about living with fear. He had seemed then to have impenetrable armour, but it appeared he had an Achilles heel in Peter.

Ross restored the keys of the Nissan to Darcy, telephoned for a taxi and made his way home.

It was only as he paid the driver and walked down the gravel drive to the yard that it occurred to him that somebody else might also have recognised that Peter was Franklin's Achilles heel, and that thought made his blood run cold.

Not wanting to be overheard, Ross made an excuse to drive into the village just after breakfast the next morning and telephoned Franklin on his mobile from the side of a leafy lane. Having been prepared to leave a message, he was a little surprised to find him at his office as usual. Peter, he was told, was progressing satisfactorily although still very shocked and upset. The hospital couldn't say for sure how long he would have to stay in, possibly only ten days or so, maybe as much as a month.

‘
Both legs
, Ross,' Franklin said with anguish. ‘
Both legs
broken. He's only twelve and he's in so much pain.'

‘Poor kid.' It wasn't enough, but what could he say? Ross hesitated, reluctant to voice his suspicions. ‘Do we know exactly what happened yet?'

‘Yes, I spoke to Amanda Medway, the mother of the birthday boy, last night at the hospital. She came on after she had seen the other children home. They'd been to see the film and were crossing the road on one of those automatic crossings . . . you know, the ones with the traffic lights and bleepers? Apparently Peter dropped his pullover as he was going across and stopped to pick it up. She says he was only a fraction behind the others and the lights were still red, but the car came from nowhere, accelerating, she said, with no intention of stopping. The driver can't have been looking where he was going. The police think it was probably joyriders. Peter didn't stand a chance.'

‘Accelerating, you say?'

‘Yes, I think that's what she said,' Richmond replied slowly. ‘Yes, she did, because she said none of them had heard it approaching and then suddenly it was there . . .' He paused, his voice trailing off. ‘Why do you ask? You're not thinking . . . ?'

‘I honestly don't know,' Ross said, unhappily. ‘But I think you'll have to consider it. Your Mr X must know how much Peter means to you and we've made it more difficult for him to get at the horses. What if he's trying a change of tactics?'

‘But, Ross!' Franklin was clearly devastated. ‘Peter could have been killed! Surely he'd know the police would have to be involved if there were any suspicion of foul play? Besides, if Peter
had
died I would never have paid him another penny. I would have hunted him down. If he knows me, he would have known that. If it
was
him he took a terrible risk. Ross, you don't seriously think . . . ?'

‘I don't know. I've thought all round it. It just seems too much of a coincidence, you making a stand over payments and this happening. But I agree, he would have been taking one hell of a risk. Perhaps he felt he had nothing to lose. Has he left any messages since last night?'

‘I don't know. I haven't been home. Oh, God, Ross! This is getting out of hand. I never thought . . . I mean, horses are one thing, but this? Surely not?'

Ross was silent. He really didn't know what to say. But the more he thought about Peter's accident, the less likely it seemed to him that that was what it was.

‘I'll have to pay.' Franklin's voice deepened with defeat. ‘I won't risk my son. Nothing's worth that.'

‘Don't give in yet,' Ross said impulsively. ‘If somebody can keep an eye on him, Peter is surely in the safest possible place for the time being. That should give us two clear weeks to flush this bastard out. What d'you say?'

Richmond sounded tired. ‘What can we do in two weeks? It's been months.'

Ross wished he knew.

‘We'll call his bluff,' he said. ‘Take the fight to him. Force him to make a mistake.'

‘If it
was
him last night, he's already made his biggest mistake,' Franklin said, anger overcoming despondency. ‘I'll get on to McKinnon. See what he says.'

‘Do the police have anything on the car?'

‘Only that it was stolen. Taken from a pub car park. They found it half an hour or so after the – after it hit Peter. It was on its roof in a field just outside Salisbury, blazing merrily. They're satisfied that it was joyriders. They don't expect to catch the culprits.'

‘Who knew that Peter was going on the trip? Darcy said it was a last-minute decision.'

‘Poor Darcy. He's very cut up over this,' Richmond said. ‘He's convinced he persuaded me to let Peter go, but to tell the truth, I probably would've given in anyway. Either way, if you're right and it
wasn't
an accident, it wouldn't have made any difference, would it? I mean, they would just have chosen another time and place.' He paused, thinking. ‘I don't know who else could have known about the outing, except perhaps the parents of the other children. Oh, this is crazy, Ross! If someone hates me this much, you'd think I'd know about it! It just doesn't make any sense.'

It made some kind of sense to someone, Ross thought, but to whom?

‘I really wish I could help,' he said. ‘I suppose McKinnon has checked your telephones?'

‘He does it every few weeks,' Franklin confirmed. ‘He's about due to do it again now.'

‘See if he'll do it right away, like this morning,' Ross advised. ‘I can't see how else anyone could have known about Peter's outing, unless they were watching the house. And . . . er . . . do you have smoke alarms?'

‘Some.' Franklin was appalled. ‘You don't think . . . ?'

‘I don't know what to think,' Ross admitted. ‘But we'd be stupid to take any chances. The battlefield has been extended. You've got to try and second-guess the bastard.'