Cut Throat

by Lyndon Stacey

  ‘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 hor
ses and their equipment for the following day, Ross comfortably relegated the whole matter to the back of his mind.

  5

  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.’

  Normally the voice of the commentator merged into insignificance with the other background noises, but Ross was surprised into listening to this rather unflattering description of his recent history. The bell went for the start of his round and, all else forgotten, he set to work.

  King pulled out all the stops that afternoon and Ross rode him on a fluent, time-efficient line, turning tightly, but not so tightly as to interrupt his rhythm. As they turned to the last line of fences, Ross knew they had a chance. He pushed King for every ounce of effort, lifting him with hands and heels at each jump. They flew the triple bar, King’s toes just clicking on the top pole as they went over, and steadied for the upright to finish. The crowd cheered and clapped as horse and rider shot between the timing beacons to stop the clock. Ross patted King’s sleek bay neck as they pulled up and praised him quietly, his blood still racing with the familiar thrill of competition.

  ‘A lucky clear round there for Ross Wakelin on King’s Defender,’ the commentator remarked over the loudspeaker. ‘Mr Wakelin goes into the lead with a time of forty-two-point-eight-five seconds.’

  Ross stared at the commentary box, dumbfounded, as he rode past. What was lucky about it? King had jumped beautifully. He shook his head in bewilderment.

  Colonel Preston was waiting outside the collecting ring accompanied by a tall wiry man with a shock of red hair and piercing blue eyes that were almost hidden by low bushy brows.

  Ross jumped down and patted King again.

  ‘Ross, this is Robbie Fergusson,’ the Colonel announced.

  Ross had guessed as much. He held out his hand with a smile.

  ‘Hi. How d’you do? This is one hell of a horse, you know.’

  Fergusson’s clasp was strong and brief.

  ‘It’s the first time he’s been ridden properly for months,’ he said, somehow making the compliment sound more like a complaint. ‘That Douglas boy couldn’t ride a seaside donkey!’

  Ross didn’t feel it was his place to comment. From what he had seen and heard, there was little wrong with Douglas’ riding that wouldn’t be put right by a little more experience.

  ‘I’m not too good on donkeys myself,’ Ross admitted with a grin.

  Apparently humour wasn’t the Scotsman’s strong point. He fixed Ross with a bright blue gaze. ‘I’ll expect significant improvement from all my horses this summer,’ he told him. ‘I pay a fortune to keep them with the Colonel and lately I’ve seen sod-all in return. I’ve had a mind to give it all up.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ Ross promised soberly.

  Fergusson maintained his visual probe for a moment longer, then nodded and turned to the Colonel, effectively presenting his back to the American.

  ‘I hope you’re right about him,’ he remarked, not troubling to lower his voice.

  ‘Oh, I think so,’ the Colonel replied as they turned away, and Ross took a deep breath to quell rising irritation.

  Over King’s saddle he caught sight of Leo approaching, riding Clown who was now considerably quieter and flanked by Franklin and Peter Richmond.

  ‘They’re calling you for your other class,’ Leo told Ross as he jumped off the skewbald and held out the reins to the American. ‘I left Danny looking after the box.’

  ‘Lead King up and down for me, will you? I might need him again if we’ve won anything.’ Ross vaulted on to Clown’s back and turned towards the novice ring.

  ‘How’s he going, Ross?’ Peter asked excitedly as he hurried alongside.

  ‘Oh, fine,’ Ross lied cheerfully. ‘But you must remember it’s all very new to him and not expect too much.’

  C
lown’s class, though still novice, was somewhat more testing than his earlier, disastrous one had been and Ross didn’t hold out much hope of completing the course, but he could but try.

  The skewbald surprised them all. After an experimental buck as he began to canter, he settled down and actually started to concentrate on the job in hand. They left the ring with eight faults and a feeling of satisfaction on Ross’ part. What the horse felt he couldn’t say for sure, but Ross had a suspicion it was smugness.

  Peter was thrilled with Clown’s progress, showing a maturity of understanding far beyond his years. Together with Franklin, they made their way back to the main ring.

  ‘How many more to go?’ Ross asked one of the other riders.

  ‘This is the last and you’re still the fastest clear.’ Then as a pole dropped to the turf for four faults, ‘That’s it! You’ve done it! Well done!’

  Ross tightened the girth and mounted, accepting congratulations from his fellow competitors. He wondered what Fergusson would have to say about it. Probably not much. He rode into the ring to receive his rosette and prize and once again was aware of Stephen Douglas scowling at him from lower down the line. He didn’t let it bother him.

  When he left the ring after a lap of honour, the Colonel was waiting to congratulate him. Of the Scotsman there was no sign.

  ‘Want to ride King back to the box?’ Ross asked Peter.

  ‘Can I? Brilliant?’ Ross tossed him into the saddle where he looked tiny, like a toddler on a Harley-Davidson. Peter’s face was radiant. King’s Defender plodded good-naturedly, switching off like a pro after the job was done.

  Ross’ last classes of the day were for Black Bishop. He left the other three horses being settled for the journey home and took the big black to warm up.

  Both Bishop’s classes went well. The horse proved to have the perfect competitive temperament. Completely unruffled by the occasion, he jumped everything high and wide with intense concentration, never looking like hitting anything. Ross forgave him unreservedly for his recent bad-tempered behaviour and his own sore hand.