Cut Throat (29 page)

‘Well, that's not altogether surprising, is it? In the circumstances, I mean,' Annie remarked.

‘Why, exactly?' Ross was bewildered.

‘I should have thought that was pretty obvious,' she said, scanning his face. ‘Don't tell me nobody ever told you about Bill?'

Ross shook his head.

‘Well, isn't that bloody marvellous?' she demanded. ‘You of all people should have been told. You see, at your age, Bill Scott was a top-flight steeplechase jockey, much in demand. He was known for his almost ruthless determination. In fact, there were those who wouldn't have him ride their horses because they thought he'd give them too hard a race. I don't think he would have. He lived to win, but he's always had a genuine love for horses too.

‘Anyway, he was bold, “The Flying Scott”. Then, just as he was having the best season of his career and was well on the way to becoming Champion Jockey, it all fell apart.

‘He had a fall. No different from many others he'd had by all accounts, but something in him changed and he never rode the same way again. In fact, he didn't even finish the season, as I recall. He trailed in last on several rated horses and the owners began to look elsewhere. Loyalty is short-lived where that sort of thing's concerned. Everybody was very sorry for him, but nobody wants to be associated with a failure.'

‘Don't I know it?' Ross murmured. Now, Bill's vehement stand against his son's dreams of becoming a jockey made sense.

‘Yes, well, Bill has never forgiven himself. Feels he let everybody down. I don't think he's been on a racetrack since he retired. He drifted in and out of jobs with Maggie patiently in tow, until eight years ago when the Colonel offered him his present position. Bill grasped the chance with both hands. He'd reached a real low point and it was like a gift from heaven. A chance to regain his self-esteem and be part of a team that was really going places. And, all credit to him, he's done his job well.' Annie paused and looked apologetically at Ross. ‘And that's where you came in . . .'

He made an ironic face. ‘A Yank with a shaky reputation?'

‘Exactly.' She nodded. ‘He was against your coming and made no secret of it. He's convinced that history is about to repeat itself. Thinks you're him all over again. He's wrong, of course.'

Ross looked up. ‘You're so sure?'

Annie smiled. ‘Oh yes. You're so bloody proud, you'd fight to the death before you'd give in.'

He laughed, embarrassed. ‘Thanks . . . I think.' He looked at his watch and pushed back his chair. ‘Look, I've got to go. Thanks for telling me about Bill.'

‘It's about time you knew. Past time, if you ask me. But, Ross . . . try not to blame him. He's afraid that you're going down and will drag him down with you. We're all afraid of failing, you know. It's just we don't all define failure the same way.'

Ross paused. ‘I don't blame Bill,' he said wearily. ‘But fighting a war is hard enough without having partisans in the camp.'

‘He'll come round,' Annie said confidently. ‘He only wants the best for the yard. He just doesn't realise yet that you
are
the best.'

Thursday morning found Ross heavy-eyed and irritable after a disturbed night. A break in the weather was long overdue. The atmosphere was almost unbearably humid again, and horses and humans alike were tetchy and ill-humoured.

Simone trod on Danny's foot, causing him to hobble for the rest of the day, and Bishop bit Ross when he was saddling up. Bill was unremittingly morose, and Ross found that understanding the reasons behind the ex-jockey's attitude was of little or no help when it came to living with it.

The Colonel sent word at lunchtime that the two horses from O'Connell's yard would be arriving the next morning, which did nothing to sweeten Bill's mood.

‘Why you want to waste your time on a no-hoper like that brown horse, I really don't know,' he grumbled. ‘It's not as if you've sorted out the ones we've already got.'

Ross ignored him.

‘If you ask me, that animal will break somebody's leg on a wall before it's done,' Bill went on. ‘It's just asking for trouble.'

‘Well, you needn't worry. I won't ask you to ride it,' Ross said bluntly.

Bill stared hard at him, then coloured. ‘I've got better things to do with my time,' he muttered, and got up and left the room.

Maggie watched him go, then looked at Ross unhappily.

The American sighed. ‘Yeah, I know. I shouldn't have said it. I'm sorry.'

‘But he asked for it!' Danny burst out. ‘He's always needling you.'

‘Danny!' His mother tapped him on the shoulder as she rose to fetch more coffee. ‘Stay out of it.' She poured some for Ross and Sarah, and sat down again.

‘That Leo Jackson seems to have fallen on his feet,' she observed, with her usual flair for dismissing uncomfortable subjects.

‘Oh?' Ross was deliberately casual.

‘Yes, apparently he's got a room at the Six Bells, down in the village. You wouldn't have thought he could afford it, would you? He never seemed over-blessed with money, the way he dressed and such. And having no job now . . .'

‘Where did you hear this?'

‘My friend from bingo works in the kitchen there,' Maggie confided, pleased to have diverted Ross' attention from Bill's behaviour. ‘They're not cheap, you know. They've won awards and such. She says Leo isn't much liked but spends a lot in the bar and restaurant, so he's tolerated. She says he's not working, not regular anyway, so where does he get his money?'

Ross wondered if any of Leo's fellow guests were missing their valuables. Though, if that were his game, he couldn't hope to maintain it for long in one place. He shook his head, puzzled.

Later that afternoon, as Ross hosed Fly down after a long and frustrating session in the school, Franklin Richmond drove into the yard.

‘Hello, Ross. How's our juvenile delinquent coming along?'

Ross rolled his eyes heavenwards. ‘Don't ask.'

‘What do you think the problem is?' Franklin asked, seriously. ‘Lack of scope?'

‘Attitude,' Ross said bluntly. ‘He's got bags of ability but he just won't apply himself. He just doesn't give a damn.'

‘A lost cause?' the businessman asked resignedly.

‘Well, he might get better with age, but I wouldn't put money on it. I don't think you can give a horse a conscience. They either have one or they don't. This fella hasn't.'

Franklin sighed, following Ross as he led the disappointing animal inside.

‘What do you suggest, then?'

‘Personally, I wouldn't waste any more time and money on him,' Ross said. ‘He may improve, but he'll never have the temperament to make it to the top. I'm sorry, but you did ask.'

‘Oh, I know they can't all be winners,' Franklin said. ‘One Bellboy in a lifetime is more than most people get.'

Mention of the unfortunate horse brought the less savoury aspect of their association back abruptly to Ross.

‘Leo is staying in the village,' he told Franklin. ‘At the Six Bells.'

Franklin assumed an expression of exasperation. ‘There's no getting ahead of you, is there? That was
my
bit of news. How did you find out?'

‘Oh, I have my spies, too.' Ross grinned and told him about Maggie's friend.

‘They always say you can't keep anything secret in a village,' Richmond said, amused. ‘They probably know more about him than we do. Anyway, McKinnon has a man camped practically on the doorstep, watching his every move, so Leo shouldn't bother you again. Or at least, if he does, we'll catch him at it.'

Ross still felt guilty at causing so much extra trouble and said so.

‘As I said before, I see it as a way of protecting my investment. And really, as insurance premiums go, it's chicken feed. So don't give it another thought.'

Ross thanked him again and asked after Peter.

‘He's much improved, thank you. The doctor thinks he'll be fit to come home in a week or so. He's been allowed out of bed but can't use crutches yet because of the torn muscles in his shoulder. He's cheerful, though, surprisingly.'

‘He's a brave kid,' Ross said, admiringly. ‘Tell him I'll have some more videos for him soon. Danny's been busy making a kind of documentary for him about life in the yard, too. It's not quite finished yet.'

‘He'll love that.'

They had wandered out to Franklin's car and here they paused.

‘I've set up the payments again, Ross,' he confessed.

‘Sure, I understand.' Ross couldn't blame him.

‘So we appear to have reached a stalemate with Mr X, don't we?' Franklin observed. ‘Unless he makes a move, we haven't a hope of tracking him down. But he won't make one unless I provoke him by not paying, and after what happened to Peter, I can't bring myself to do that. Which is, of course, what blackmail is all about.' He sighed, looking tired. ‘McKinnon agrees the decision must be mine. I think he'd like me to take the chance, but then he hasn't got so much to lose.'

Drawing on his seemingly limitless reserves of inner strength, Franklin shrugged and smiled. ‘I suppose we'll win through in the end,' he said. ‘We have to, really. It'll work out one way or the other. Then we'll wonder what all this soul-searching was for.

‘Well, I was on my way to see John,' he continued. ‘So I'd better get on. I'll have a word with him about Barfly, too, though I can't sell him at the moment, even if I decide to. That's one of the blackmailer's stipulations. Any horse I try to sell will be killed or crippled. He's a real charmer, isn't he?'

Ross watched him go, wishing he could be of more help.

The yard was quiet. Danny and Sarah had ridden out on Simone and Gypsy, and Bill had gone out in the Land-Rover without saying where. Ross headed for the tackroom. He fancied a cold beer.

In the twilight of the stable office Roland sat with his immaculately shod feet up on the desk, a beer in one hand and the other gently pulling the dog's ears as it lay quietly beside him. He smiled pleasantly as Ross stopped short.

‘Boo!' he said softly.

Ross hadn't seen the Colonel's son since the evening he'd been attacked in his room; almost a week ago now.

‘Hi,' he said. ‘Long time no see.'

‘I was called away,' Roland said in reply to the veiled question. ‘Business.'

‘Oh?' Ross queried, ironically. ‘A Hepplewhite in distress? A Chippendale in peril?' He helped himself to a beer and opened it. ‘Do you have crises in the antiques business?'

‘You'd be surprised. A rare piece comes on to the market and it's an unholy scramble to get to it first. No end of dealing and double-dealing involved.'

‘You really love your work,' Ross observed with interest.

‘Oh, I do,' Roland agreed with a gleam of sardonic amusement. ‘It's a lot more exciting than you might imagine.'

‘I can see I'm in the wrong career.'

‘How's your head?' Roland enquired solicitously, choosing to ignore the sarcasm. ‘Any after-effects?'

‘No. No problems,' Ross said. ‘Look, did you tell anyone about that business?'

‘No. Did you want me to, old boy? Whom should I tell?'

Ross shook his head, exasperated. ‘Nobody.
I
didn't bother. It didn't seem worth making a fuss.'

‘Quite agree,' Roland said approvingly. ‘Can't abide fuss myself.'

They were interrupted by the sound of hooves in the yard and Ross went out to meet the returning riders. Roland followed him, the dog at his heels. It occurred to Ross that the dog was very much at home with the Colonel's son and he wondered which of them it would protect if forced to make a choice. It was a sobering thought.

‘I'm thinking of buying a horse myself,' Roland remarked conversationally, as they stood watching the youngsters unsaddle.

Ross turned, astounded.

‘
You
are?'

‘Yes, why not?' Roland enquired. ‘Thought if I bought a showjumper, you could ride it for me.'

Ross raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you serious?'

Roland looked hurt. ‘Oh, always, my boy. Always.'

Later that evening the weather finally broke. Storm clouds gathered from late afternoon onwards, darkness fell before time, and at about ten o'clock the heavens opened. Half an hour later, as Ross and Bill finished their late rounds, the first rolls of thunder could be heard in the distance.

Back in his room, Ross lay on his bed and watched the storm through the open window, enjoying the sound of the long-awaited rain pounding the cobbles below and the wonderful drop in humidity that accompanied it.

As the storm drew closer, the dog got up and padded to the window. He cocked his head on one side, listening, and then produced a deep, rumbling growl.

Ross laughed. ‘You can't chase the storm away, fella,' he teased. ‘It's bigger than you.'

The dog tipped his head to the other side and whined, gazing intently into the darkness, then turned and padded across the room to the door. There, he looked back at Ross and whined once more.

‘Oh, not now, you crazy mutt. You'll drown,' Ross told him.

The dog whined again, running to the window and back to the door.

Ross sighed and got to his feet. ‘I guess a guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do,' he said. ‘But you needn't think you're coming back up here, soaking wet and with muddy paws.'