Cut Throat (23 page)

McKinnon laughed. ‘Our friend, Mr X as you call him, is nothing if not inventive. He said he was a member of a Civil War re-enactment group. Said they wanted to do Marston Moor and it had to be as realistic as possible. You know how fanatical some of these groups are. Kendall said the man was very enthusiastic, wanted to tell him all about the group. I gather he had quite a job to get rid of him. He certainly plays his part well.'

‘Would've served him right if Kendall had wanted to join,' Ross observed. ‘He certainly covers his tracks.'

‘If he didn't, we would have caught him by now,' McKinnon assured him. ‘We had already tried all the local slaughterhouses and butchers. This one was in Buckinghamshire.'

‘Sure,' Ross said, placatingly. ‘No offence meant. Any other news?'

‘We de-bugged Richmond's house again.'

‘And?'

‘We found a rather clumsy device, on the phone-lines outside. Suspiciously clumsy, I'd say.'

‘You mean, he wanted it found,' Ross said. ‘So again, that presupposes that he knew you'd be looking?'

‘Oh, I'm sure he did,' McKinnon said. ‘He must know Franklin would have somebody working to catch him. We have always accepted that. He knows, and he's quite confident that we aren't going to uncover him. We made another complete search of the house, in case that one was a decoy, but we didn't find anything else.'

‘But, clumsy or not, that bug could have told Mr X where Peter was going to be last Monday, right?'

‘It could,' McKinnon said slowly, ‘though I'm still not one hundred per cent sure that that was anything but an accident. It just doesn't feel right to me.'

‘Well, you're the expert,' Ross conceded. ‘Look, I better go. There's a guy with a notebook coming and I haven't bought a ticket yet.'

‘Yes, okay. But look, Ross, be careful will you? We've been delving into Leo's murky past, and we discovered that in Ireland, about six weeks before he arrived here, a racing stable lad called Lewis Roach was involved in a pub brawl and half-killed another lad with a broken bottle. The thing is that although everybody seemed to agree that Lewis was the guilty party, nobody was too keen to testify. It seems that Lewis was known to have some pretty rough friends. He disappeared soon after and they haven't seen him since. I gather they're not exactly pining for him. I faxed a picture to the racing stables and they immediately identified our Leo Jackson as their Lewis Roach. At least, they were ninety-five per cent sure. Apparently he had a beard and moustache when they had the pleasure of his company.'

‘But what about his references? The Colonel said they were good.'

‘Yes. It would seem that there was indeed a Leo Jackson who left just before our Leo – they're a wandering bunch, these stable lads, Lewis Roach was apparently a Londoner. And so it would seem likely that when Colonel Preston requested references for Leo Jackson, the head lad was happy to tell him that Jackson was a good worker and a fine upstanding citizen. Anyway, I just thought you should know. It's up to you what you do about him. Obviously you can't mention me, but watch yourself. This is not a man to rub up the wrong way!'

Ross laughed shortly. ‘With Leo, I don't think there's a right way,' he observed grimly. ‘But thanks for the warning. He's pretty much outstayed his welcome anyway.'

The Oakley Manor horses attended two shows at the weekend and performed very well. There were no disasters; Bishop won the Foxhunter class and Flo was a good second in a Grade-C class, while Simone continued to defeat all-comers in the various speed classes she entered. Even Ginger did nothing to disgrace herself or Ross.

On a more personal level the weekend was not so harmonious.

Leo exerted himself to reach new heights of insolence and awkwardness, so that even the Colonel, who kept himself comfortably distant from most of the nitty-gritty of yard business, became aware of it.

Leo was constantly rude to Ross, deliberately ‘misunderstood' instructions and was found to be missing for large portions of the two days. Before the weekend was very far advanced Ross had decided enough was enough; he would give Leo his marching orders at the end of the week if things didn't improve significantly.

Fortunately, he had Danny to help him in the meantime and on the second day Lindsay as well, who had transported Gypsy to the show with them, although she spent much of the day with her parents and James, who also attended.

After Ross' Foxhunter success on Bishop, she'd brought her family across to meet him as he left the ring after the prize-giving. The moment had been a trifle awkward.

Lindsay ran forward and hugged him, eyes shining, as he dismounted. ‘Ross! That was wonderful! I'm so
pleased
for you!'

Ross, blissfully unaware of her approaching family and caught up in the exhilaration of his win, swept her up off her feet and swung her round.

‘We did it, Princess! Did you see him? Wasn't he great?' he demanded with uncharacteristic fervour. Then he kissed her soundly on the cheek and restored her to her feet.

‘This, I take it, is Mr Wakelin,' observed Lady Cresswell coolly, appearing at Lindsay's shoulder. She extended a beautifully manicured hand to Ross with the expression of one obliged to acknowledge a shamefully poor relation. Lindsay flushed unhappily and out of the corner of his eye, as he turned to Lady Cresswell, Ross saw James come forward to put a proprietorial arm around her shoulders.

Ross removed his crash cap, ran his fingers through his flattened hair and with his most charming smile said, ‘A pleasure to meet you, ma'am.'

Lindsay's mother glanced sharply at him as if suspecting mockery, but encountering only unassumed friendliness, inclined her head regally. She was an attractive woman, well into middle age but with a figure many twenty-year-olds would have killed for, and a largely unlined face that was spoiled only by the ‘holier than thou' expression it wore.

‘Jolly well done!' Lindsay's father spoke from behind his wife; a position which Ross suspected he habitually occupied. ‘Have you qualified for something big?'

‘No, not even the area finals,' Ross admitted. ‘And it's too late to qualify this year, but it's a start.'

James added his congratulations and gradually the gathering broke up, but not before Lindsay's father had kindly invited the American to share the family picnic, for which he earned a brief but decidedly hostile glare from his wife.

‘Don't be silly, George. Mr Wakelin hasn't got time to sit around with us, he's far too busy,' she said smoothly, with a tight smile at Ross which dared him to disagree.

He almost wished he had got time to spare, just to see Her Ladyship's expression when he accepted, but unfortunately Danny was at that very moment fetching his next ride from the lorry. He declined politely and Lindsay and her family drifted away.

As Ross loosened Bishop's girth he wondered at the instant antipathy displayed by Lindsay's mother. Did she imagine that he posed a threat to her daughter's marriage to James Roberts and his sizeable fortune? Or was it just that she looked down on everyone outside her own social circle? In which case, his being American was probably the last straw.

He smiled inwardly. Lindsay's spontaneous display of affection could hardly have been more poorly timed, but as far as he was concerned she was welcome to repeat it whenever she liked.

The following Monday was the hottest day of the summer so far. The heat rolled across the countryside in heavy waves soon after dawn and settled in a smothering blanket on the dehydrated land. There had been no rain for several weeks and the grass was scorched brown and dusty. Ross had risen extra early and exercised the two horses in most need of it, riding one and leading the other, before the first feeding. As the morning wore on he pottered round the semi-deserted yard doing the odd jobs that got shelved on busier days.

He thought over Franklin Richmond's problem as he worked but got no further forward. His mind was like a dog chasing its tail; no matter how hard he tried, he always ended up back at the beginning.

Who hated Richmond enough that he or she, not content with steadily bleeding money from him, wanted to see him suffering real fear at the same time? Enough to do actual harm to his twelve-year-old son.

He gave up.

After all, if Franklin himself could think of nobody who bore him any particular grudge, then how on earth could Ross hope to, when he had only known the man a few short weeks?

Shortly after noon, Leo strolled into the yard having returned from heaven knew where on his motorbike. He was dressed, like Ross, in cut-off denims and a tee-shirt. He sauntered across the gravel and helped himself to a beer from the office fridge.

For perhaps half-an-hour he followed Ross around the yard, propping himself in doorways, watching as the American worked. He was silent, which was unusual for him, and Ross felt no inclination to make conversation. Leo's presence was vaguely annoying in itself, as doubtless it was intended to be, but he was careful not to let his irritation show.

Before the midday feeding, Ross remembered he had to change the dressing on a gash Flowergirl had sustained in the horsebox the previous day. It was a superficial tread wound low on the inside of her near hind, probably caused by overbalancing on a bend. Ross tied the mare up and crouched in the straw beside her, thankful as he did so that it wasn't Bishop he had to treat. He had removed the soiled bandage and dressing, and was inspecting the wound, when a shadow fell across him.

‘Get out of my light,' Ross said irritably, looking up to see Leo silhouetted in the doorway, hand cupped round a cigarette he was in the act of lighting. ‘And put that damned thing out!'

Leo said pleasantly, ‘You put it out,' and tossed the lighted match into the dry straw directly behind Flo.

With an oath, Ross pounced on the spot where he'd seen it fall, ignoring the brown mare's indignant leap forward.

The match was nowhere to be seen.

Hoping against hope that it had gone out as it fell, Ross scrambled to his feet and stamped furiously on all the straw in the vicinity. He was rewarded by a tiny wisp of smoke curling upward to extinction.

Leo moved away, chuckling, but Ross ignored him. First things first. Taking no chances, he scooped up the affected bedding and tossed it out on to the cobbles. Grabbing a water bucket, he doused the straw thoroughly. He had once been a witness to a stable fire in the States and once was one time too many.

Flo eyed him nervously from the depths of her box, straining to turn round but restricted by her headcollar rope. Unaware of the danger that had threatened, she regarded Ross' actions with astonishment.

To be on the safe side, he tipped the remaining water into the stable before untying the mare and shutting the door. Her dressing would have to wait. He had other, more pressing business to attend to and he was good and mad.

Leo was not in the yard or the tackroom and Ross finally tracked him down to the haybarn, where he was lounging on the unopened bales, beer can in one hand and cigarette in the other.

Without a word, Ross strode forward, plucked the glowing time bomb from his fingers and ground it out beneath his heel.

Leo laughed.

‘Get out!' Ross hissed. ‘Get the hell out of this yard and don't ever come back!'

‘Why, Yank, don't get so excited. It isn't good for you,' Leo advised, wagging a finger in Ross' face as he slid off the bales to stand in front of him.

‘That's where you're wrong,' he said, accompanying the last word with a punch that had many weeks of frustration behind it. Leo staggered back and sat down abruptly. ‘It's
you
it's not good for,' Ross finished with immense satisfaction. ‘Now get up, get your gear and get your stinking carcass out of my sight!'

Leo climbed to his feet, wiping blood from a split lip, and with an expression that would have frightened a gargoyle, pushed past Ross and trudged out into the bright sunlight.

Ross followed him closely, intending to see him off the premises before he could do any more damage, but Leo had other ideas.

With no warning, he shot through the doorway to the covered stables, and with a muttered oath, Ross darted after him. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness he saw Leo sprint away down the corridor and slip out of sight.

Ross slowed down warily. Leo was in the toolstore. Instinct screamed at him to go back out into the yard and find help but his conscience said, just as forcefully, that to leave Leo wandering around the stables in his present frame of mind was not an option. He had already shown that he had matches on him.

His heart thumping, Ross looked round for something with which to arm himself. For the first time since coming to Oakley Manor he regretted the almost fanatical neatness of Bill Scott's regime. The corridor was clear and uncluttered from end to end. In desperation Ross lifted down the leather headcollar and rope that hung outside the nearest stable door. A muscle tightened in his jaw as he stepped cautiously forward.

The toolstore was an open-fronted recess between the central two stables in the row. Ross stopped just short of the opening, palms wet and mouth dry.

A fly buzzed and settled, walking aimlessly across the windowpane on the far side of the passageway. One of the horses began to scrape at the floor impatiently, seeing Ross and expecting its food. Ross steeled himself and hitched an eye round the corner.

The shiny double tines of a pitchfork lanced out of the opening within inches of his face and buried themselves with considerable force in the wood of the window frame.

The first thing Ross had learned about fighting from his days on his uncle's ranch in Indiana was that attack is very much the best form of defence. The second was that there is no better time than right away. He swung his handful of leather, rope and metal as hard as he could round the brickwork at head height. He was rewarded by a grunt of pain, and ducked under the quivering pitchfork handle to follow up his advantage.