The Colonel smiled in return.
‘Touché,’ he said.
3
The days took on a certain pattern. As Ross settled into the rhythm of the yard he voluntarily took on the care of two of the horses.
His two, the bouncy mare Flowergirl that he had ridden on his first morning, and Black Bishop, a big German-bred novice who was owned by Robbie Fergusson, were stabled in two of the larger loose boxes that opened directly on to the yard – Flo because she fretted if she could not see the outside world and Bishop because of his sheer size.
Early-morning feeding and mucking out were followed by breakfast in the Scotts’ cottage, over which the timetable for the day was discussed and set. Then such horses as were not being schooled that day were taken out for exercise along the roads and in the neighbouring fields and woods. Afterwards they were rubbed down and the next batch started. Leo proved to be a capable rider but with little finesse, and Sarah rode with sensitivity but lacked confidence, so Ross had to plan their rides with care. Occasionally Bill Scott would join them, but more often he chose to stay behind.
When Ross schooled any of the horses in the sand arena behind the stables, Scott would lean on the gate and watch, but he seldom commented.
After feeding the horses and themselves at midday, the whole process would begin again, until eventually each horse that was in training had had either riding-out exercise, or a schooling session, or both. All the horses then had to be strapped – the horseman’s term for a complete and thorough grooming – which took at least half an hour per animal. Tack had to be cleaned, beds replenished with straw or wood-shavings and then the horses fed for a third time before the human population of the yard was free for the evening.
They made a good working team, each pulling their weight, but in between times, where there should have been companionship and a growing camaraderie, they remained just four separate people. Bill Scott was always civil but not disposed to be friendly. Sarah reddened and became tongue-tied if Ross spoke to her at all, and Leo ignored him unless spoken to directly.
Towards the end of his first week, Ross was busy working a big grey horse called Woodsmoke in the arena when he noticed that Franklin Richmond had come to watch with Bill. He completed his intended workout and then reined in and let the horse stretch his neck on the way back to the gate.
‘He’s working well, Ross.’ Franklin patted the horse as Ross dismounted, clearly pleased. ‘I’d say things are looking up, wouldn’t you, Bill?’ he asked, turning to the stable manager.
‘Maybe,’ he replied without enthusiasm. ‘But schooling’s one thing, competing’s quite another.’
‘Ah well, with your support he’s halfway there,’ Franklin observed warmly.
Bill looked at him suspiciously as he reached to take the horse’s reins.
‘That was a double-edged remark, if ever I heard one,’ Ross said with amusement, as Woody was led away towards the stables. ‘What is it with that guy? It can’t be anything I’ve said or done ’cos he’s been acting like that from day one.’
‘No, it’s just Bill,’ Franklin said, shaking his head. ‘The horses and the success of the yard mean everything to him, and after the fiasco with poor Stephen Douglas, I suppose it’ll take a while to convince him that you’re equal to the job. I shouldn’t let it worry you.’
‘If you say so.’ Ross was unconvinced.
‘Actually,’ Franklin went on, as they walked towards his car, ‘the one you’ve got to watch – though I shouldn’t say it – is old Fergusson. He can be a mean devil, that one, if you get on the wrong side of him. I don’t know why he has horses, really. Must be some kind of unfulfilled personal ambition. He used to ride as a youngster, I believe.’
‘And why do you have horses?’ Ross asked, interested. ‘It’s obviously not for the money.’
‘That’s for sure!’ Franklin laughed. ‘No. It’s because I love them, and because I love the whole bright colourful circus of showjumping and shows.’
‘It doesn’t look so glamorous from this side,’ Ross remarked with a rueful grin.
‘That’s why I’m paying and you’re doing,’ Franklin pointed out with an answering smile.
The afternoon ride that day was a disaster.
Ross was riding one of Franklin’s horses, which was young, unpredictable and went by the name of Fly – short, apparently, for Barfly. Leo had been allocated Simone, an excitable mare whose speciality was speed classes. Sarah brought up the rear on Red Queen, a generally biddable chestnut mare nicknamed Ginger that, like Black Bishop and King’s Defender, belonged to Robbie Fergusson. Fergusson himself, Ross had discovered, was an international chess player of some standing, which explained the names.
Ross was trying unsuccessfully to get the energetic Fly to stop spooking at imaginary horrors in the hedges and pay attention to him, and because of this was unaware of trouble brewing behind him.
Eventually, glancing back to check on the others, he could see at once that Sarah was unhappy. Ginger was jogging restlessly, making evil faces at Simone, and Leo’s innocent expression wasn’t entirely convincing to Ross’ eyes.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked, reining Fly in and dropping back. ‘Sarah?’
She turned a predictable pink and mumbled a negative.
Ross stifled his exasperation. There was no point in asking him, but Ross could make a fair guess that, bored with the steady pace that was being set, Leo was bent on having a little sport with Sarah. Whatever he was doing was clearly upsetting the chestnut mare and he was obviously revelling in Sarah’s growing nervousness.
‘There’s no need to ride on top of one another,’ Ross observed testily. ‘Move Simone over and give Ginger some space. Come on, give Sarah a break!’
Leo did as he was told with no appearance of resentment but Ross was not fooled. Leo had not so far been openly insolent but Ross often had the feeling, as now, that offensive gestures were being made – even if only metaphorically – at his back. Was it something in his own character, he wondered, that provoked such a reaction in his workmates?
This unproductive train of thought was broken into by a sudden clatter of hooves on the tarmac surface of the lane and a fleeting glimpse of Sarah’s terrified face as Ginger torpedoed by and disappeared round the bend ahead. Fly nearly turned himself inside out in his efforts to emulate the chestnut’s rapid departure and when Ross did calm him sufficiently to follow Ginger, progress was only made sideways in stiff-legged, jarring leaps.
Ross darted a venomous look at Leo and surprised an expression of unholy glee on the other man’s face.
Rounding the bend he was met by Sarah, unhorsed and in tears but on her feet. Ahead, the road forked.
‘Ginger?’ he shouted at the unfortunate girl.
Sarah pointed right.
Ross steered Fly off the slippery road surface and on to the verge before putting him into a canter. Half a mile further on, he met Ginger coming back. Pulling up, he braced himself to try and catch her flying reins as she careered past, but at the sight of her stable companion she slithered to a halt and waited, head high and sides heaving.
Steadying his own excited mount, Ross edged alongside the chestnut and took her rein. The mare jerked back from the contact, eyes wild, and then a great shudder shook her frame and she drooped visibly, becoming tractable again.
Progress back to the yard was necessarily slow. Sarah could not be persuaded to remount Ginger and she was not really competent enough to ride either Fly or Simone. When questioned, neither she nor Leo seemed able to give any sensible explanation of what had caused the mare’s sudden flight. Ross kept his temper only with difficulty.
Later in the day, recalling the expression on Leo’s face when Ginger had bolted, Ross decided to search out Sarah and uncover the truth of the matter.
He found her in the haybarn but she was not alone.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Leo whirled about at the sound of Ro
ss’ voice, removing his hands from their position on the wall to either side of Sarah and holding them out, palms upward, in a gesture of innocence.
‘Me? I was just having a friendly chat with the little lady,’ he said, smiling sweetly. ‘Ain’t that so?’ he added over his shoulder to Sarah, who cast him a frightened glance and, without looking at Ross, bolted past him and out of the door.
‘Women!’ Leo said, with pursed lips and an exaggerated shrug. ‘You never know what they’re going to do next.’ He laughed and made to move past Ross but a firm hand on his shoulder detained him.
‘You can be pretty sure what I’m going to do next, if ever I catch you messing with her again,’ Ross promised softly.
For a moment Leo’s face became taut with anger and his dark eyes narrowed. Then he laughed.
‘Take it easy, Yank. I don’t want the little mouse, you have her. She’s probably more your type.’ He twisted away from Ross’ grip and went out into the yard, whistling cheerfully.
Ross was eating a solitary meal that evening when the telephone rang in the cottage. Bill had taken Maggie to a nearby village for a bingo night, something he apparently did every Thursday.
After a moment’s hesitation Ross answered it.
‘Ross, it’s Franklin. Are you free tonight?’
‘As in . . . ?’
‘As in free to come and see a couple of horses with me? An old dealer friend rang me and said he had a couple I might like to look at.’
‘Tonight?’
‘Well, he said to come soon, and I’m tied up for a couple of days now.’
‘Sure, but the thing is, I’m not sure Bill can make it. He’s taken Maggie to bingo and I gather he has to pick her up again in a couple of hours.’
‘Well, it’s just a preliminary look. We won’t be making any decisions tonight. You can borrow the Land-Rover, I imagine?’
‘Yeah, I guess so. Where do I have to get to?’
‘It’s a place near Blandford but it’s not easy to find. Best thing would be if I met you on the way and we went on together.’
‘Sure, that’s fine. Where and when?’
‘Right. Go to Salisbury, take the Blandford road, and I’ll meet you at the Dog and Crook – it’s a pub about fifteen miles along on the right-hand side. Eight-thirty all right?’
‘Sure.’ Ross looked at his watch. ‘I’ll be there.’
The Dog and Crook was a big square whitewashed building, standing on a high point of the lonely road. Window boxes stuffed with geraniums did their best to liven up the plain walls and carefully tended bedding surrounded the gravel car park.
There was no sign of Franklin’s white Mercedes when Ross pulled up at 8.26, so he switched off the Land-Rover’s engine and sat watching the activity behind the lighted windows of the pub.
Bill Scott had been a bit put out when told of Franklin’s call. As Ross had thought, Bill was committed to picking Maggie up at half past ten, and as there was no guarantee that they would be back from seeing the horses by then, he agreed with rather bad grace that Ross had better take the yard’s Land-Rover and go on his own. Although he had no wish to make his relationship with the stable manager any worse than it was, Ross could not help but be glad that he wasn’t coming.
‘Ross Wakelin?’ A cultured voice spoke through the open window of the Land-Rover, right next to Ross’ ear.
He turned his head and came face to face with a complete stranger.
‘Who wants to know?’
The man straightened up and fished in an inner pocket. In the fading light, Ross could see exquisite tailoring, a fiftyish fine-boned face and neatly cut, steel-grey hair.
‘My name is Edward McKinnon.’ The man offered him a business card. ‘Franklin Richmond asked me to meet you here.’
Ross glanced at the card but didn’t take it.
‘Where is Franklin?’ he asked, bewildered. ‘We were supposed to be looking at some horses.’
‘Ah, yes. The horses. A little subterfuge, I’m afraid. I’m sorry about that.’ McKinnon withdrew the card, unabashed. ‘Shall we talk out here, or would you like to go inside?’
‘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 h
ow 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?’
Cut Throat Page 4
