Cut Throat (6 page)

‘Why should I want to talk to you at all?' Ross demanded. ‘I don't know who the hell you are . . . Oh, sure, I know you told me your name,' he said, waving his hand as McKinnon offered his card once more. ‘But I mean
who
are you?
What
are you?'

‘Of course. Forgive me. I run a company that specialises in industrial security, safeguarding everything from buildings to information. Industrial espionage is big business these days, you know.'

Ross had never really thought about it.

‘And?'

‘And also, on a smaller scale, and mostly for existing clients, we perform a private investigative service. All strictly above board, no spying or anything of that sort.'

‘Of course not,' Ross murmured.

McKinnon looked at him sharply.

‘Okay,' Ross said, sighing, ‘so you work for Franklin Richmond. Why would you want to talk to me? I only just met the guy.'

‘Exactly,' McKinnon said with some satisfaction. ‘Look, why don't we go inside? I'm getting a crick in my neck standing here . . .'

Ross hesitated and McKinnon held out a tiny, flip-top mobile phone. ‘Would you be happier if you checked with Franklin?'

‘No, it's all right. I've come all this way. Tell you what – you buy me a beer and I'll give you ten minutes to get my attention. If not, I'm outta here. Is it a deal?'

‘Thank you,' the older man said, inclining his head graciously and stepping back to let Ross open the door.

Five minutes later, at a quiet corner table, the American faced McKinnon over a half-pint of what seemed to pass for beer in England.

‘Okay. The clock's running.'

McKinnon ran his forefinger slowly around the rim of his wineglass, apparently deep in thought.

‘If I told you that my company is investigating the killing of a horse called Bellboy, would that get your attention?' he asked at last.

Ross' eyes narrowed. ‘It might,' he acknowledged cautiously.

McKinnon took a deep breath as if preparing for the plunge.

‘What I'm about to tell you is in the strictest confidence.' He paused and looked calculatingly at Ross, as if trying to assess the risk. Apparently he had an honest face for McKinnon continued. ‘It's something only two or three people know and it's imperative that it goes no further.'

‘Basically – it's a secret,' Ross put in, amused. He looked at his watch pointedly.

‘It's not our policy to enlist outside help but Franklin was keen that you should know. You seem to have made quite an impression on him.'

‘But how can
I
help? The horse was killed nearly a year ago. Hasn't the trail gone a little cold?'

‘It might have, if that was all there was to it,' McKinnon agreed. ‘Look, I need to fill you in on a little background information. Will you give me the time?'

‘Okay.' Ross was interested in spite of himself. ‘Shoot.'

‘Franklin Richmond, as you may know, is a successful and extremely wealthy businessman. He inherited a small but thriving financial consultancy and has built it up to international proportions. In common with many other wealthy men, he indulges a passion for horses. Racehorses at first, but more recently showjumpers. In fact, he devotes every spare minute that he has, outside business and family commitments, to his horses. I'm told his interest in them borders on the obsessive. You'd probably know more about that than me.'

‘I doubt it. I've only met the man twice.'

‘Of course, I was forgetting. Well, anyway, you can imagine how he felt when at approximately eleven o'clock one Sunday evening last October he received a phone call telling him that Bellboy, his internationally successful jumper and personal favourite, was at that moment breathing his last.'

‘That's really sick!' Ross said, disgust showing in his face. He remembered how
he
had felt when at fifteen he had found his pet dog dead at the side of a quiet road. Filled with useless anger, the injustice of it had haunted him for weeks. How much worse to know that somebody had intentionally killed the animal you cared for.

‘So what did he do?'

‘First he called the yard and then the vet, but by the time anybody got to the horse it was already too late. They found him lying in the straw with his throat cut.'

‘But it had only just happened?'

‘Within the last hour.' McKinnon nodded. ‘Bill Scott did his rounds at ten o'clock as usual. He checked every horse and all was quiet.'

‘So, what then? Did you trace the call?'

‘Yes. A phone box on a lonely stretch of road near Blandford. Not a chance of anyone having seen anything at that time of night, and the telephone had been wiped clean. Not a single print.'

‘Sick but clever,' Ross observed.

‘If he hadn't been, we would have caught him by now,' McKinnon assured him stiffly.

‘Sure. Sorry.' Ross paused. ‘Wasn't there some stuff a few years back where other horses were being attacked with knives? I don't know if it's still going on.'

‘It is, I'm sorry to say,' McKinnon said with distaste. ‘But I'm told that in the main the motive for those attacks is sexual perversion and in consequence it is nearly always mares that are attacked. Also, although those poor animals are often badly maimed, they are not usually killed outright.'

‘And you're absolutely sure Richmond didn't do it himself for the insurance?'

‘You've met him. What do you think?'

‘I'd say no. But I'm no detective,' Ross pointed out.

‘Well, I'd stake my life on it,' McKinnon stated firmly, then added a little sheepishly, ‘besides, we checked. His alibi was watertight. Admittedly he could have employed a third party, but in reality the sums involved would be as chicken-feed to a man like Franklin.'

Ross half-smiled at this flawed avowal of trust. He supposed a lack of faith came with the job.

‘Obviously he didn't recognise the voice?'

‘He said it sounded Irish. But no, he didn't recognise it.'

Ross frowned. ‘Nothing to do with the IRA, I suppose. It's just – I was thinking of Shergar . . .'

‘Nothing we can discover. And highly unlikely, I would think. Although Bellboy was well known within the showjumping world, the general public is far more keyed-in to racing. The impact on the media was short-lived.'

‘And he has no obvious enemies,' the American mused. ‘Or if he had, you would have checked them all out by now.'

‘No, we don't think so.' McKinnon gave Ross a speculative, sideways look. ‘In general, Franklin Richmond is honest and fair, both in business and in his personal life. As a result he seems to be almost universally well liked.'

‘So,' Ross said slowly, ‘I guess that makes it extortion. A demand for money. Pay up or we'll do worse.'

McKinnon inclined his head, a faint smile playing about his lips. ‘Impressive, Mr Wakelin. Franklin said you were sharp.

‘Yes, a message was left exactly a week later, when the immediate brouhaha had died down. And again from a remote telephone kiosk, though not the same one. Richmond was to make regular, specified payments into a numbered account in the Cayman Islands or another of his horses would meet with a sticky end – the extortionist's phrase, not mine,' he added quickly. ‘The horses were not to change yards or be sold, and no third parties were to be involved. Most especially not the police.'

No wonder Franklin was edgy when he was told Sailor had been poisoned, Ross thought. He swallowed the last of his beer. ‘And now, I guess, we get to the reason why you're telling me all this.'

McKinnon reverted to fingering the rim of his glass. ‘To be honest, as I said, it was Franklin's idea, not mine. I wasn't keen,' he admitted. ‘I insisted that I meet you first. But now I have – well, I think it might be worth enlisting your help.'

Ross shook his head. ‘But
I
don't!' he stated unequivocally. ‘I'm a rider, not a private investigator, and the way things are panning out, I'm likely to have quite enough on my hands just doing that.'

‘That's a shame,' McKinnon observed calmly. ‘In spite of my reservations, I was beginning to think you might be of real help.'

‘Thanks,' Ross said ironically, ‘but no thanks. Surely you've got manpower enough already?'

‘Men, yes. But no one who could be as close to all this as you are. You will be closer than anyone except Franklin himself. Look, I'm not asking you to change profession, merely to keep your eyes and ears open for anything that might seem out of place or unusual.'

‘You figure it's someone in the Colonel's yard, then. In effect you're asking me to spy on the people I'm going to be working with?'

McKinnon shrugged. ‘We don't know who it is. But it is logical to assume that there may be some connection between the yard and the extortionist. He seems aware of the horses' every movement. But as far as spying goes – if you must use that word – you wouldn't be troubled about it if you'd seen Bellboy as Franklin Richmond was forced to see him.' He paused, his lip curling in distaste at the memory. ‘The police took photographs. It was horrific. Do you know how much blood a horse has?'

‘That size? About fifty – maybe fifty-five pints,' Ross said absent-mindedly. ‘But what about the police? And the insurance company? What did they make of it?'

‘They investigated, of course. The insurance company had Franklin bring in a security firm to guard his remaining horses day and night. But after a couple of months they were convinced that it was a one-off. We obviously couldn't tell them what was really going on. For one thing they would probably have withdrawn their cover in a flash. Most policies cover malicious damage but the expectation of it is not high. Insuring all Mr Richmond's horses in such circumstances would almost certainly constitute too great a risk. After all, I'm sure I don't need to tell you how impossible it would be to guard just one competition horse every minute of the day without badly disrupting its training. Who knows where the danger might lie? Poison . . . a sniper in the woods . . . or a knife in the stable, as in this instance. There was one case, some years ago now, where one of Britain's leading lady riders had half her horses poisoned by a madman or someone with a grudge. As far as I know, they never found out who was responsible.'

Ross was thoughtful. ‘If I agreed to report anything unusual, that's all I would do – no snooping around or asking questions.'

‘Just keep your eyes and ears open,' McKinnon agreed, taking care not to exhibit any sign of triumph. He took a sip of his wine.

‘So, do I get to know who the others are?' Ross asked casually.

McKinnon looked sharply at the American over the rim of his glass. He took another slow sip. ‘Others?'

‘Oh, come on! You must have other people working on this thing.'

‘Of course,' McKinnon agreed. ‘But to date we've made no significant progress. It's a tricky business. A question asked in the wrong place could make matters very much worse. It's not like investigating a
fait accompli
. We lacked the inside angle. Until now, that is.'

‘But you're not going to tell me who the others are?'

‘It's better that I don't,' McKinnon said, shaking his head judiciously. ‘What you don't know, you can't give away, accidentally or otherwise.'

‘Jeez! I'm not going to be tortured, am I?' Ross exclaimed in mock alarm.

McKinnon wisely decided to ignore that. He handed Ross a slip of paper. ‘If you need to contact me, you can ring that number,' he said patiently. ‘It's my private line, not the main office. Keep it somewhere safe. Better still, learn and destroy it.'

‘Real undercover stuff,' Ross said, amused. ‘Shall I swallow it? Or shall I burn it and flush the ashes down the john?'

‘I really don't care if you make a bloody omelette with it,' McKinnon said, his careful control slipping for a moment. He was rewarded by an appreciative grin from the American. ‘So you will help?'

Ross sighed, still unconvinced. ‘I guess so,' he said at last. ‘Just eyes and ears, though, nothing more.'

McKinnon nodded. ‘That's all we ask.'

Ross got to his feet and the Englishman followed suit, extending his hand. His clasp was, as Ross would have expected, cool and firm.

‘Thank you for your time,' he said in his courteous way.

‘A pleasure,' Ross returned ironically. ‘Besides, there was nothing on TV.'

Ross had little opportunity to think over what McKinnon had told him, for that weekend saw his first show in England. It was a big agricultural show not far from Basingstoke and the horses had been entered before Stephen Douglas had left the yard. The Colonel had consulted Ross and Bill and decided to let the entries stand.

Leo had spent Friday afternoon washing and polishing the Oakley Manor horsebox, and by seven o'clock the following morning the three competing horses were loaded and the box was rocking gently down the gravel drive to the road.

Ross drove, glad of the distraction. To keep them clean, he wore leather chaps over his white breeches and behind him in the cab hung his black jacket, brushed and sheathed in polythene.

For perhaps the first time since he started riding in shows, twelve years before, he was nervous. So many people were going to be watching him closely, assessing his ability not only to ride but also to compete, and there were a hundred and one things that could go wrong.

And that's if I'm lucky, he thought wryly.