Cut Throat (27 page)

According to O'Connell he had once been a steeplechase jockey of quite remarkable talent, and if it hadn't been for an equally remarkable run of bad luck he would surely have been Champion Jockey several times over in the late-seventies.

The Colonel allowed himself to be outwardly impressed by the Irishman's history but at one point, when Ross caught his eye, smiled and winked surreptitiously.

Even if one did believe all O'Connell said, Ross couldn't see that knowing a good horse was any guarantee you were selling one.

Whatever the case, the Irishman seemed good-natured and was highly amusing. One glance at Bill, however, showed that
he
didn't consider him so, at all. He was trailing behind the others, looking distinctly sour.

The yard was on the shabby side of average, with grass sprouting through cracks in the concrete underfoot. Most of the stable doors had dropped on their hinges and been chewed along the top by countless equine teeth, and the sprawling manure heap by the gate would have kept Kew Gardens in compost for the foreseeable future. Stable cats abounded, as presumably did mice, and several Jack Russell terriers followed the four of them around.

However, the occupants of these doubtful premises shone in their deep, peaty beds like diamonds in a coal cellar, radiating health and contentment.

Several of these gems were already saddled, and when the visitors had completed their tour of the yard, the horses were taken, one at a time, to a jumping ring behind the stables for Ross to try their paces.

Of these five horses two showed not more than average scope over the schooling fences, two were promising, and one did its best to scrape Ross off on the perimeter fence and declined to leave the ground at all. Of the two promising youngsters, one was regretfully discounted as not being quite up to Ross' weight, but the other, a big, deep-chested grey, was felt to be a definite possibility.

‘What's the story on the brown gelding?' Ross enquired of O'Connell. Its unreasonable behaviour had aroused his interest.

‘Well, you see, it's like this . . .' the Irishman began.

‘The real story,' Ross cut in quickly. ‘Straight up.'

Briefly, O'Connell affected hurt, then gave in.

‘Straight up? All right then. To tell you the truth, I don't know. He came to me with two others, halfbrothers they were, the lot of 'em. The others jumped like stags, but him? Well, you found out for yourself. In the open, over hedges and the like, he's a grand little fella. But give him a wall alongside and you can say a fond fare-thee-well to the skin on your knees.' He shook his red head sadly. ‘I almost sold him twice, but back he came like a bad penny.'

‘Well, it was good of you to warn me,' Ross said with heavy sarcasm.

‘I keep hoping he'll maybe take a shine to someone and behave hisself,' O'Connell explained sheepishly. ‘I could see you could take care of yourself by the way you rode the others.'

Ross raised a disbelieving eyebrow at this and drew the Colonel to one side for a moment to make a suggestion. His employer nodded a time or two, then turned to O'Connell.

‘We'll take the grey, subject to vetting,' he announced. ‘And we'll take the brown gelding for half what you're asking and after fourteen days' trial.'

‘Ah, you drive a hard bargain,' O'Connell complained, peevishly.

‘Take it or leave it,' the Colonel offered. ‘For my part, I think he's probably a waste of time anyway.'

‘Well now, let's not be too hasty,' O'Connell suggested. ‘He's a valuable horse but let nobody say I'm not a fair man. Add a hundred guineas and we've got a deal.'

The Colonel beat him down to seventy-five and they shook hands on it.

‘I hope you know what you're doing,' Bill muttered from behind Ross, who ignored him. He didn't give a damn what Bill Scott thought any more.

O'Connell walked the Colonel back to the Land-Rover and then turned to say goodbye to Ross and Bill.

‘Nice to be meeting you, Ross. And good luck to you.' He turned to Bill then and as they shook hands a light of recognition dawned in his face.

‘Scott . . .
Bill
Scott!' he said on a note of discovery. ‘Of course! I knew the name was familiar.'

He glanced at Ross. ‘This fella was the brightest young talent on the steeplechasing circuit when I made my debut as an amateur. I used to copy the way he rode a finish. “The Flying Scott” we called him. Rode like there was no tomorrow. We were all convinced he'd be Champion Jockey one day and he would've been too if it hadn't been for that accident . . . How're you doing now, Bill? It's grand to see you.'

Far from looking as though the pleasure was mutual, Bill murmured something unintelligible and stared at his feet.

Declan O'Connell appeared not to notice. He managed to recall several occasions when the two of them had raced side by side, and various thrilling incidents they had shared. Bill had obviously either forgotten them or wished to be allowed to, for he edged inexorably towards the Land-Rover, and as soon as was politely possible, if not a little before, took his leave of the Irishman.

On the way back, Ross pondered Bill's obvious reluctance to talk to his fellow ex-jockey, and after they had dropped the Colonel at his front door said conversationally, ‘You didn't tell me you'd ridden in the Grand National.'

‘It had nothing to do with you,' Bill said in a tone that discouraged further comment.

Ross ignored the warning signals. Bill had never spared
his
feelings and he saw no reason to be charitable in return.

‘Why
did
you stop racing?' he persisted. ‘Was it because of the accident he spoke of?'

‘Mind your own bloody business!' Bill snarled. ‘And keep your nose out of mine.'

‘I take it you don't want to talk,' Ross observed mildly.

Bill didn't bother to answer.

At the yard, Ross was met with the information that Franklin had rung back and rescheduled their meal for half-an-hour later. Quite frankly, he was relieved, as there was still a fair amount of preparation to be done for the following day's show.

At half-past seven, when Ross had to forsake the yard for a bath and a change of clothes, Sarah and Danny were still going strong, Sarah quietly flapping because she was expecting Darcy Richmond to arrive within the hour to take her out for a drink and she wanted time to change.

Just after eight, scrubbed and more presentably dressed, Ross climbed into the jeep and set off, written directions in hand, for a country pub called the Dovecote, a gourmet's delight apparently, hidden deep in the Wiltshire countryside.

Barely a mile up the road, he cursed and slammed on the brakes. He had forgotten the one thing Franklin had asked him to bring – Clown's trophy and rosette from the Three Counties, for Peter. He'd put them in his room ready to take, and then walked out without them.

Cursing, he backed down the road and into a field gateway to turn, then headed at top speed back to the yard.

Leaving the engine running and the dog in the back, he raced through the door and took the stairs two at a time. His door was unlocked, and making a mental note to remember to lock it on the way out, Ross pushed it open and strode in.

A noise and a half-seen movement on the periphery of his vision caused him to turn his head but the action was never completed. Something hit him hard just above his left ear and he was out cold before he hit the floor.

Ross had been knocked out several times before and it was a breeze. It was the coming round that was tiresome.

This time, hearing returned first, but for a few moments the sounds were muffled and confused. He became aware that he was lying on something soft and thought he must be in bed.

Was it morning already? he wondered muzzily. What day was it?

He heard a movement to his right and opened his eyes, turning towards it.

Shades of colour swam about, making no sense at all. He blinked. Somebody was approaching. Memory returned and alarm bells rang. He blinked again and struggled to focus, feeling desperately vulnerable. The figure, slightly clearer now, came closer. Ross felt he ought to try and move.

‘I should lie still if I were you, old boy,' an unmistakable voice advised him. ‘You don't look at all the thing.'

Ross closed his eyes and opened them slowly.

That was better. His vision was ninety-five per cent but with it came a crashing headache. He groaned and closed his eyes again. He was lying on the big settee in his bedsit. For some reason that he couldn't be bothered to wrestle with, Roland was there and he was holding . . .

Ross' eyes snapped open and he sat up. The room swam briefly then steadied. Roland was holding the smug-faced, mahogany Buddha which Ross had recently taken to using as a doorstop.

‘Found this on the floor at the top of the stairs,' Roland said, noticing the direction of the American's gaze. ‘The archetypal blunt instrument.'

Ross regarded it with disfavour. ‘I never did like that thing,' he said with feeling. His head had cleared now and the worst of the pain subsided, leaving in its place a dull ache.

His first thought on seeing Roland casually holding the Buddha had been one of suspicion but common sense quickly intervened; after all, if Roland had just attacked him from behind the door, he would hardly carry him to the sofa and wait around for him to recover consciousness, would he?
Or would he?

Ross wasn't sure. He looked at his watch and was surprised to find that only twenty minutes had passed since he had originally set out for his meeting with Franklin Richmond.

‘I don't think you can have been unconscious for long,' Roland said, divining his thoughts.

‘I don't suppose you saw anyone leaving?' Ross asked without much hope.

Roland shook his head. ‘'Fraid not, old chap. I came down to the yard – looking for you, as a matter of fact – and saw your jeep outside with the engine running. I stopped for a chat with Darcy, who'd just come to pick Sarah up, only she wasn't ready. When you didn't appear, I came on up. I seem to be making a habit of picking up the pieces, metaphorically speaking,' he added thoughtfully.

‘And you didn't see anybody?'

‘Not a soul. Turned the jeep engine off, though,' he added, with the air of a child expecting to be praised for its initiative.

‘Thank you,' Ross said wearily.

‘Not at all, old boy. Least I could do.'

‘I must say you're taking this all very calmly,' Ross observed. ‘Everyday occurrence in the antiques trade, is it?'

Roland's grey eyes narrowed momentarily. ‘Military family. In the army myself, y'know. Besides, you're not exactly a gibbering wreck, yourself.'

‘I haven't the energy.' Ross looked round the room. ‘Well, it would seem I disturbed a burglar. I can't imagine what they thought I had worth stealing.'

‘A burglar?' Roland was on his way to the bathroom. He returned with a towel, dripping water. ‘Here, this may help. A burglar, you say? In broad daylight?'

‘What else?' Ross held the blissfully cold wad to his head, watching Roland closely all the while.

He shrugged. ‘You're probably right, old boy. Thing is, are you going to call the police? Ought to really, you know.'

Ross groaned. ‘No, I don't think so. I couldn't face them right now. By the way, what was it you wanted me for?'

Roland looked momentarily lost. ‘Oh, nothing that can't wait. Don't you think you ought to see a doctor?'

‘Probably, but I guess I'll survive. I'm already late for a dinner date.' Cautiously, he stood up. His vision fragmented then cleared.

‘You'd better let me drive you,' Roland said, regarding him with a judicious eye. ‘Are you going like that?'

Water had run down Ross' neck and soaked his cotton shirt.

‘It'll dry.' He took a comb from his pocket and, discarding the soggy towel, gingerly tidied his hair. His scalp was sore but the skin seemed unbroken. He thanked providence for a thick skull.

Even though he was not sure he entirely believed Roland's version of events, he accepted his offer of a lift with gratitude. His head still felt muzzy, and after all, if the Colonel's son
had
been his assailant – for whatever reason – and had wanted to do him lasting harm, he had had ample opportunity.

When they reached the yard, Sarah was just leaving with Darcy. She waved and Ross felt strangely as though time had stood still for the last half-hour or so. He put the jeep back in its parking space behind the cottage while Roland went to fetch his own car.

The Colonel's son drove his white Aston Martin at speed with casual brilliance and a fine disregard for other road users. Ross gritted his teeth and almost wished he had elected to drive himself after all. All the same, Roland deposited him safely in the car park of the Dovecote barely ten minutes later than the appointed time.

Ross thanked him and said he would call a taxi for the return journey.

He'd been undecided as to whether to mention the attack to Richmond, as he couldn't see what connection it could possibly have with Franklin's problems, but in the event, the decision was taken from him.

Franklin took in Ross' slight pallor and still damp shirt and instantly wanted to know what had happened. Ross told him the whole story, backtracking to Leo's departure and including Lindsay's fall.

‘Is she all right?' Franklin asked, concerned.

Ross nodded. ‘I rang earlier. She's a bit bruised but otherwise okay. She was lucky.'

‘And you think it was Leo?'