Cut Throat (9 page)

Bill grunted. ‘Shooting him'd be kinder, poor sod! Old Trenchard keeps him chained up day and night. He oughtn't to have a dog, that man. Now, let's have a look at that hand.'

Ross obediently held out his left hand.

Bill unwound the handkerchief Ross had hastily wrapped around it and hissed through his teeth. He looked up under his brows at the American. ‘You'd best let Maggie have a look at that. It might need stitching. She used to be a nurse, patched me up when I was still racing.'

With the wound deftly bathed and dressed, Ross abandoned plans to school Clown, taking him out instead for exercise on the roads. Sarah, back from the dentist, came with him on Cragside. He had fed the dog on scraps from the cottage kitchen before setting out and now it trotted at a discreet distance from Clown's heels as if it had been doing so all its life.

Ross called in at the farm on his way past and discovered ‘Old Trenchard' mending a fence in his back garden.

‘Brought the bugger back, have yer?' he grunted. ‘Thought it might have got run under this time. More trouble than it's worth.'

‘I'll take him off your hands if you don't want him,' Ross offered.

Trenchard straightened up from his hammering. ‘Well now, I don't know about that. Cost a fortune, German Shepherds do.'

‘Then I'm surprised you don't take more care of him,' Ross observed. ‘I'll give you fifty pounds for him.'

Trenchard rubbed his chin with a grubby paw. ‘Well now, he's worth a lot more . . .'

‘Not to me, he's not.' Ross turned away.

‘Cash?' Trenchard said hurriedly.

‘Cash,' Ross agreed, taking his wallet from his back pocket.

By the time Ross had eaten lunch and taken Flowergirl into the arena for a schooling session his hand was swollen and throbbing. If it hadn't been for the fact that there was a big show the next day, he would have passed up the exuberant little mare in favour of a quieter ride, but she had been having trouble with spread fences and he wanted to get her sorted out if he could.

The day was humid and windless, and at the end of an hour both horse and rider were weary and damp with sweat. Flo was a rewarding pupil, though, and Ross was well content with her progress as he turned her loose and watched her roll in the sand.

‘Nice work.'

Ross turned to see Franklin Richmond leaning on the gate. For once, Bill Scott wasn't beside him.

‘Thank you, sir.'

‘Oh, please, Ross! Not “sir”. Call me Franklin. “Sir” makes me feel like a schoolmaster.'

‘Okay.' Ross came to stand with his back to the gate, leaning on it.

For a moment there was silence.

‘Are you still mad at me for Thursday?' Franklin asked.

‘No, not really. McKinnon explained your reasons.' He paused, fiddling with the bridle, hunting for a way to say what he wanted to. ‘Look, I appreciate the difficulty you're in and I'd like to help, but I don't see what good I can possibly do . . .'

‘And you came over here to ride horses, not get involved in somebody else's problems? It's okay, I understand.' Franklin held up a hand to forestall Ross' protest. ‘I'd feel the same way, I'm sure. But – well – I thought it couldn't do any harm, your knowing. We've come to a dead end and you might just stumble on to something. By the way, what have you done to your hand?'

‘Oh, it's nothing. Just Bishop getting antsy about me touching his legs.' Ross watched Flo mooching round the arena. ‘You seem very cool about this blackmail thing.' He squinted sideways through the sunshine at Richmond. ‘I'd be tearing my hair out.'

‘I did at first,' Franklin Richmond told him with a resigned smile. ‘But it's been nearly eight months now. You can only live in fear so long. Then the threat becomes part of your life. Normal. Until something like the other night happens, and then you start jumping at shadows again.'

Or in my case, something like Ginger, Ross thought, wryly.

‘How long can you sustain the payments?' he asked. ‘Isn't this ruining you?'

‘No. I'm in no danger of bankruptcy just yet, but I've had to tighten my belt quite a few holes. Whoever it is has gauged it about right.'

‘Not enough to starve the golden goose?' Ross mused.

‘That's about it.'

‘But surely this guy doesn't imagine you're going to go on paying him forever? He must know you'll try to catch him.'

‘Oh, yes, he knows. And to help us along he lays shoals of red herrings and laughs as we run round trying to net them.'

‘He knows about McKinnon?' Ross asked sharply.

‘Oh, I shouldn't think so. At least, not specifically. Although I haven't told the police, he must know I'd hire someone. But he gives no sign that he knows who, and usually he likes to show off what he's learned about my actions. He's left several messages on my answerphone, all of them from call boxes and seldom the same one twice. “Good to see Woodsmoke going so well”; “Had a puncture today, did you, Richmond?” That sort of thing. I feel like nothing I do is private, but McKinnon doesn't think I'm being followed. At least, not all the time. This guy is playing with me. He's got me on his hook and he's enjoying watching me wriggle.'

‘You think it's someone you know personally, then?'

‘I suppose so.' Richmond ran his fingers through his greying hair. ‘It smacks of personal spite. But I can't conceive who would do such a thing and in such a way. It's frightening to think someone hates me that much.'

Flo came back to the gate, nuzzling at Ross' sleeve. She tried an experimental nip and he pushed her away, slapping her on the rump as she went.

‘Your marriage . . . ?' Ross let the implied question tail off, wondering if it would be considered impertinent. After all, he hardly knew the man.

‘Over,' Richmond said, shortly but without rancour.

‘Divorce?'

‘Yes.'

‘Does she hold a grudge?'

‘Marsha? She wouldn't even know how to spell it. She certainly couldn't put together anything like this. Besides, the courts made sure she'd never lack for money.' Richmond spoke without bitterness but in the tone of one who has learned his lesson the hard way.

Ross slipped the bridle reins round Flo's neck and opened the gate to lead her into the yard.

‘Does she have a boyfriend?' he asked.

‘Dozens.' Richmond shook his head at Ross' enquiring glance. ‘No, nothing there, I wouldn't have thought. All lightweights. Flotsam and jetsam; pretty boys attracted by her sweet face and the even sweeter smell of her money.'

‘You don't think very highly of your ex-wife,' Ross observed.

‘I married for all the wrong reasons. She was very beautiful. It gave me a buzz to turn up at social functions with a blonde bombshell on my arm. But in between the parties – well, you know the saying. “Marry in haste . . .”'

Ross laughed. ‘I think my father would sympathise.'

‘Yes, I'm not the first and I won't be the last. I don't regret it though, it brought me Peter.' Richmond's eyes shone with fatherly pride. ‘He makes up for everything.'

‘And your wife . . . ?' Ross hesitated again. ‘There was no trouble over custody or anything?'

Richmond glanced at him, amused. ‘McKinnon said you were a born investigator and I can see what he meant. You've asked me almost exactly the same questions he did when I first approached him.'

‘I'm sorry. I guess it's in my blood. My father's a lawyer.'

‘Don't be sorry. If you don't ask, you don't find out. You'll find I'm not easily offended, and if I am, I'll tell you so. In answer to your question: no, Marsha's mercenary instincts are far stronger than her maternal ones. Peter visits her about once a month and she never gives me the impression that parting from him is any great wrench. A small boy would cramp her style pretty much, I imagine.' He paused, then changed track as Bill appeared in the tackroom doorway. ‘Well, I have to be going. I'll see you at the show tomorrow. I'm bringing Peter along to see Clown's debut. He's very excited.'

With a wave of his hand and a nod to the stable manager, Richmond turned away and headed for his car.

Ross walked Flowergirl on across the yard.

‘You had a long talk with Mr Richmond,' Bill observed as the American passed.

‘Didn't I, though?' Ross agreed, with no intention of satisfying the little man's curiosity.

Bill scowled.

‘He's coming to see Clown tomorrow and bringing Peter,' Ross said, relenting a little.

That didn't please Bill either. He was of the opinion that the skewbald was not ready to appear in public, but the unfortunate hitch in Butterworth's career had left an empty space in the horsebox and Clown's entry had gone in with the others to cover just such an eventuality.

As Ross rubbed the sweat and sand out of Flo's coat with a wisp of twisted hay, he pondered his conversation with Richmond. Whatever McKinnon's alleged opinion of him as an investigator, he thought it highly unlikely his supposed aptitude would be put to the test.

With far more immediate concerns to attend to, such as preparing four horses and their equipment for the following day, Ross comfortably relegated the whole matter to the back of his mind.

When Ross and Leo set off for the South Midlands show at six-thirty that Sunday morning, they took with them an extra pair of hands in the person of Danny Scott, Bill's fifteen-year-old son. Ross had met him fleetingly the previous weekend, but during the week the boy lived with his aunt in order to be nearer his school in Salisbury.

Danny was a slim youth, a little taller than his father, with dark hair and a thin, intense face. Horses were his passion and before they had left the winding Wiltshire lanes behind them, Ross had discovered that the boy had a burning ambition to follow in his father's footsteps and become a steeplechase jockey. Unfortunately it seemed that Bill was equally as determined that he shouldn't.

Chatting to the lad helped pass the time a lot faster than travelling alone with the unresponsive Leo, and took Ross' mind off the impending challenge. This was by far the biggest of his first three shows in England and he knew his performance here would be closely watched.

They arrived at the showground soon after eight o'clock and the sun was already promising discomfort in the hours to come. Leo swung into action with his usual sullen efficiency, helped more willingly by Danny, who proved to be every bit as capable.

Clown came out of the horsebox looking like a kid at Disneyland: bright, eager eyes darting every which way at once. Ross tacked the horse up, sprang into the saddle while Clown was still wondering how to react, and rode off to a quiet corner of the field to try and work the kinks out of him in private.

By the time he was called for his first class, Clown had settled far better than Ross had dared to hope, but after crossing the showground to the outside ring where he was due to jump, the horse's eyes were almost starting from his head. There was as yet no sign of Franklin Richmond and his son, for which Ross was grateful, as the skewbald charged into the ring and then stopped dead, seemingly rooted to the spot by the sight of the announcer's caravan.

The round, when Ross finally managed to get Clown's attention, was patchy. While he concentrated, Clown jumped very well, but every corner was taken with his brown and white face turned rigidly to the outside, staring goggle-eyed at all the sights of the showground. Subsequently, he missed seeing many of the fences altogether and a fair few poles adorned the turf when they left the ring.

There was little time for reflection as Leo was waiting with Flowergirl, and they exchanged mounts in the collecting ring so Ross could ready the little mare for her first class.

The day wore on.

The Colonel arrived mid-morning, just in time to see Flowergirl win her novice class, after which Ross changed back on to Clown and rode him to and fro round the showground, hoping to familiarise him with all the sights and sounds. A few people smiled to see the showy skewbald but Ross saw nobody he knew except Stephen Douglas, by whom he was studiously ignored. For a fleeting moment he found himself missing all the friends he had had on the circuit in the States but only until he reminded himself how fair-weather many of them had turned out to be. Not many had cared to risk being associated with a failure.

Around midday, when the bigger classes began in the main ring, Ross jumped an immaculate round on King's Defender and followed it with an unlucky four faults for a fence down on Flo, who jumped brilliantly round a more difficult course than she was used to. When he returned to the ring on King for the jump-off against the clock, the competition was warming up well. Two horses had already gone clear and the time to beat was fairly tight. Since Ross' earlier round, the commentary team had changed and the new voice behind the microphone sounded smooth, practised and extremely professional.

When his number was called, Ross rode King into the ring at a steady canter. The horse champed excitedly at his bit, snatching at Ross' hands, and pints of froth cascaded from his open mouth. The height of the jumps had been increased since the first round and in particular the second to last fence, a triple bar, looked huge. As Ross circled the ring to settle his mount, the public address system crackled into life.

‘Next to jump we have number three five six, Ross Wakelin on Mr R. Fergusson's King's Defender. Ross has recently come over from America where he had a particularly disastrous last season, and has taken over the ride on this horse from one of our own young riders.'