Cut Throat (45 page)

‘He was determined to blame it on me anyway,' Ross pointed out. ‘There didn't seem any point in getting Danny into any more trouble. I'd already bawled him out.'

‘Oh, well. Bill will come around again,' the Colonel observed with the comfortable complacency of one who didn't have to work with him.

Ross didn't see any outsiders at all the next day, for which he was profoundly grateful. He had spent a long night tossing and turning, kept awake by a disturbing train of thought as much as by his knee.

He worked hard that day, trying to shut out the unwelcome suspicions that were nagging at him, but by the time evening stables were finished, he knew he was fighting a losing battle. He waited until Sarah cycled away down the lane and Danny and Bill headed for the cottage, and then let himself into the stable office and telephoned Franklin Richmond.

Franklin himself answered.

Aware that there was a risk, ringing him at home, Ross said hurriedly, ‘I can't talk now, but could we meet up later?'

‘I have some business calls to make but I could be free by half-past eight or nine. Is it important?'

‘It might be,' Ross said guardedly. ‘Same place as last time?'

‘Okay. Make it nine then, to be on the safe side, and if I'm not there, wait for me. I
will
come.'

Ross replaced the handset and sat looking at it, blindly. He hoped, beyond all hope, that he was not making a mistake. He felt, more than anything, like someone who has just completed the arrangements for a duel, although pistols at dawn might be preferable. He was not looking forward to the evening at all.

A sound from the tackroom sent Ross swiftly to the door. Roland stood there in the gloom, his pale-suited figure easily recognisable.

‘Looking for me?' Ross asked pleasantly.

‘As a matter of fact, yes,' Roland replied. ‘Thing is, I've been stood up and wondered if you'd care to come out for a drink this evening?'

Ross was greatly impressed with this barefaced lie, as he was ninety-nine per cent certain that Roland had been eavesdropping and ninety-eight per cent certain Roland knew that he knew.

‘I'm afraid I can't,' he said, in tones of deep regret. ‘I already have a date.'

‘And who is the lucky lady?'

Ross shook his head, grinning. ‘Oh, no, you don't. I've already lost one of my girlfriends to you. I think I'll keep this one to myself.'

Two hours later, under a sky that threatened rain, Ross set out for the Dovecote with an open map on the seat beside him in case he missed his way. Roland had driven him last time.

He supposed, looking doubtfully at the clouds, that he would soon have to think about trading-in the jeep for something more suited to the vagaries of the English climate. Something with a roof. Before he'd covered half a mile, however, all such mundane considerations had been driven from his mind by a discovery altogether more urgent.

He was being followed.

He might never have noticed the car if it hadn't been for the fact that in his preoccupation with wondering how Franklin was going to react to what he had to say, he'd missed his turning and had to double back.

As he back-tracked, a black hatchback passed him going in the other direction and a minute or two later, when he was held up by a tractor, the self-same car appeared behind him. Sure, it was two or three cars back but it was there.

Scanning his memory, Ross placed it. At the garage three days ago. A black hatchback and Roland. Just how often
had
he been followed? he wondered. And
why
?

His old suspicions came flooding back. With a surge of annoyance, Ross determined to lose Roland. The job would have to be done sooner rather than later, too, because the Dovecote was located in a quiet backwater with very little around it but farmland. Once in the vicinity, it would not take a genius to guess where he was going.

His opportunity came sooner than he'd expected. Coming to his missed turning, he swung into it only to be brought up short by a queue of traffic at a red light. Twenty yards or so of deserted roadworks blocked the road on the left-hand side and a steady stream of vehicles was coming through from the opposite direction.

When the lights changed and Ross' queue moved forward, he dawdled in the right lane, level with the green light, revving his engine and making out that he had trouble until the signal changed to red once again.

Then, leaving behind half a dozen hooting and honking motorists, no doubt calling him all the names under the sun, he accelerated down the single carriageway, swerving round a large oncoming lorry at the far end, and sped away down the road.

In his mirror he could see the lorry still moving forward and beyond it two cars – one of them the black hatchback – who had tried to follow him and had now met it head on.

Ross allowed himself a moment of smugness. With any luck Roland would be held up for quite a while, as it was unlikely that the lorry driver would be willing to reverse. It had been
his
green light, after all.

All the same, Ross took a couple of diversionary turnings before resuming his journey. The way Roland drove, it was quite possible he could still have overtaken the slower jeep.

Back en route, Ross checked his watch.
Damn Roland!
What with his initial mistake and his subsequent detours, he was going to be late meeting Franklin. He put his foot down.

About two miles from the pub, as he turned into the lane that would lead past it, he was held up again by a Land-Rover that pulled out of a gateway directly into his path, causing him to brake hard. He leaned on the horn, his patience already stretched. The driver waved a careless hand in apology.

‘Okay, but shift your butt!' Ross muttered under his breath. He looked at his watch again. Five past nine. The Land-Rover was in no hurry.

DRH. Damn Roland's Hide, Ross thought, reading the numberplate out of habit.

Suddenly, as if remembering an urgent appointment, the Land-Rover picked up speed substantially and disappeared round a bend in the road.

Ross shook his head in disbelief. They were all out tonight! Following, he found himself brought up short by a diversion sign flanked by two orange and white traffic cones. He pulled up.

The suggested route was a left fork that looked to be little more than a glorified farm track. In the distance he could see the roof of the Land-Rover just as it disappeared behind a stand of trees.

According to the map it was just a roundabout way of getting to the same place, taking in a small wood and a handful of farm buildings on the way. He was going to be very late indeed. Ross shifted gear and started down the lane.

It was very rough. Dried mud and stones littered it, and through the cracks in its tarmac, grass had begun to grow. Over the sound of the jeep's engine, Ross could hear the drone of a motorbike behind him. The lane was probably seeing more traffic in this one night than it had in the past ten years.

Turning into the gloom of the stretch that was flanked by the copse, Ross swore. Skewed across the road, with its nose buried in the hedge on the right-hand side, was the Land-Rover he had been following. Just to Ross' side of it was an open gateway leading into the wood. It almost looked as though the vehicle had tried to make the turn and missed.

From his viewpoint, Ross couldn't see whether anyone was still inside the Land-Rover but as there was a complete absence of anyone outside the vehicle, looking at the results of their handiwork, he had to assume that the driver was still inside and possibly hurt.

He switched the jeep's engine off, slid out and went to investigate.

The Land-Rover's engine was still running but from his angle of approach he couldn't see anyone at the wheel. Thinking it was possible the driver had fallen sideways on to the passenger seat, he approached the window and looked in.

Not a soul.

There was the slightest whisper of sound behind him and then a stunning blow to the base of his neck sent Ross sprawling against the side of the Land-Rover. His hands were grasped and pulled roughly behind his back, and he was pushed sideways until he was face-down on the bonnet with his nose pressed to the engine-warmed metal. What little he could see from that position was whirling crazily and he closed his eyes, feeling nauseous.

His captor reached into the vehicle and switched off the ignition. The absence of vibration was an improvement. Through the fog in his brain, he heard another engine approaching. The motorbike.

Any hopes of assistance that might have been forming in Ross' woolly consciousness were dashed as the man behind him spoke.

‘Get that bike out of sight. Move the jeep, then give me a hand before somebody comes,' the voice commanded in broad Irish tones.

Ross felt he should try and see what was going on but his attempt to raise his head was rewarded by a sturdy push back towards the bonnet. His face connected painfully with the metal and his damaged ribs complained sharply as they were forced against the angle of the wing. Cravenly, he abandoned the idea.

He heard the jeep being moved, and after a moment or two the motorbike man came over and Ross' hands were tied, none too gently, behind his back. Then he was pulled upright, turned round and propelled through the open gateway into the wood. Behind him he heard the Land-Rover start up again, move – presumably out of the hedge and back to the side of the road – and stop.

After a few strides Ross stumbled, still muzzy, and his shirt collar was grasped by whoever was behind. An arm came over his shoulder and a shiny, six-inch blade flashed in front of his face.

‘Would you be knowing what this is, mister?' a soft voice enquired.

Ross did know, only too well. He nodded.

‘Well, if you do as you're told then maybe I won't stick it in you,' the voice informed him generously. ‘Now walk, and don't even think of trying anything.'

The copse, which consisted of thickets of overgrown hazel coppice interspersed with larger beech trees, was at that time of the evening growing rapidly more gloomy, and conditions didn't improve the further they went. Ross found it increasingly difficult to avoid stumbling over brambles and looping roots. He just hoped that his captor wouldn't mistake such mishaps for ‘trying anything'.

As his head cleared, the significance of that Irish accent had become all too depressingly clear.

When they had gone perhaps a hundred yards, Irish grasped Ross' collar again, swung him round, and with a foot hooked deftly behind his knee, dumped him unceremoniously at the foot of a youngish beech tree.

Ross eased himself sideways so that he was no longer lying on a root and looked up for the first time at the mysterious Mr X.

The man who stood before him, the deadly blade held so casually in his hand, was of medium height and build, and wore jeans, a tee-shirt and a black balaclava.

Ross blinked and looked again. The balaclava was still there. For a moment, in spite of the gravity of the situation, he found it amusing. It seemed so melodramatic. This was a Wiltshire wood, for Chrissakes, not exactly a terrorist blackspot!

‘What's so funny?' The other man had caught up. Unmistakably familiar tones.

Ross looked beyond Irish. Lean, wiry form and again a balaclava. He needn't have bothered.

‘Hi, Leo,' Ross said conversationally.

‘You fool!' the first balaclava said contemptuously. ‘I told you to keep your bloody mouth shut!'

‘I don't care. I want the Yank to know who's doing this to him.' Leo pulled his balaclava off and stepped closer. ‘I've got a score to settle with this bastard. I want him to know, and I want him to shit himself with fear!'

Ross looked back at Irish. ‘You certainly mix with the low-life,' he observed.

There was a flurry of movement as Irish was shoved to one side, and Ross' heart missed a beat as he found himself looking down the barrel of a gun.

Suddenly the melodrama didn't seem so amusing. Everything inside him seemed to freeze. He stopped breathing. For the sake of his pride he hoped the terror he felt wasn't reflected on his face.

Long years of concealing his emotions from the telepathy of horses came to his rescue. Ross made himself relax, forced his fascinated gaze away from the deadly black hole, and looked up at Irish.

‘Is this part of your plan?' he asked, in a voice that sounded a thousand times steadier than he felt. ‘Who's in charge here anyway?'

Irish put out a hand and tipped the gun barrel down.

‘Put that damned thing away, for God's sake. If you want him to beg you're wasting your time, you should know that by now. And you're wasting
my
time, so get a grip on yourself and let's get it over with.'

Leo glared at Ross for one more long moment and then glared at Irish for good measure.

‘One day . . .' he promised, before turning away. Neither Ross nor Irish felt any need to ask him to enlarge on it.

Ross closed his eyes, and clenched his fists and jaw to stop them from trembling. He should have learned by now not to antagonise Leo. You don't tease a mad dog.

Irish had also turned away now but any thoughts Ross might have had of rushing him were effectively quelled by the thought of Leo's gun. That and the obvious drawbacks entailed in trying to rush anyone from a sitting position with his hands tied behind his back.

One consideration alone cheered him, although
cheered
was probably pitching it a little too strong – Irish evidenty craved anonymity, which suggested he had no intention at present of permanently removing Ross from circulation. Just what he
did
intend Ross preferred not to contemplate. It possibly also suggested that without the balaclava he was somebody Ross would recognise. On the other hand, it could just be insurance against future recognition.