‘All alone?’ Roland asked somewhat unnecessarily.
Ross gestured round the otherwise empty room.
‘I thought it was your day off, old boy.’
‘It is.’ Ross wondered if the Colonel’s son had come hoping to find the place deserted.
Roland cleared a space by the old stone sink and rested his immaculate beige corduroys against it.
‘You had a successful show, I hear.’
‘Not bad.’
‘So, things are looking rosy on the showjumping front?’
‘Could be worse,’ Ross said, wishing he could see behind the mask he felt sure Roland wore. ‘How are things in antiques?’
‘Oh, fine, fine,’ Roland said, with the air of one delighted to be asked. ‘I didn’t realise you were interested.’
‘I’m not,’ he replied sweetly. ‘I’m just making conversation.’
Roland grinned. To Ross’ mind, the first truly spontaneous action he had seen from him.
‘What’s the dog’s name?’ he asked with the abrupt change of subject Ross was beginning to recognise as characteristic.
‘He doesn’t have one.’ Ross abandoned sponge and soap and began to reassemble the bridle he had been cleaning.
‘I’m surprised he didn’t bark at me last night.’
Ah, now we come to the real reason for your visit, Ross thought.
‘You obviously didn’t make any noise,’ he said.
‘My army training, I expect. Actually, I came to survey Father’s security arrangements.’
‘You live here,’ Ross observed. ‘You don’t have to account for your actions to me.’
Roland picked a dripping stirrup iron out of the sink and dried it absent-mindedly on a cloth. ‘That’s true,’ he agreed. ‘As a matter of fact, I was surprised to see you awake.’
‘I was hot. Got up to open the window,’ Ross lied unashamedly.
‘It is hot, isn’t it? Fancy a beer?’
Ross did and fetched two from the stable office. They drank companionably enough, exchanging platitudes. At times Ross felt as though he were being gently and subtly milked for views and opinions. He answered vaguely, and often with a question, amused to notice that Roland, for all his upper-class-idiot act, gave little or nothing away in return.
‘Lindsay isn’t here today?’ Roland asked presently.
‘No.’
‘I thought she was a frequent visitor, these days. Can’t seem to stay away.’
‘She comes to ride Gypsy.’
‘James seems a nice fellow. Jolly good sort.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Rich as Croesus, of course.’ Roland studied Ross under lazily drooping eyelids.
‘Bully for him,’ Ross murmured, aware that for some reason Roland was probing for a reaction. ‘I must get some more dog food,’ he said thoughtfully, with a switch of topic worthy of his companion.
Roland smiled faintly, crushing his beer can in one lean, brown hand. ‘Big appetites, dogs,’ he observed, sauntering out of the door.
Ross watched him leave with narrowed eyes and a slight shake of the head. He had never before met anybody so completely inscrutable.
Ross and Bill were just finishing evening stables when a silver Nissan sports car swept into the yard and Darcy Richmond eased himself smoothly out. Looking round, he caught sight of Ross by the tackroom door. ‘Sarah still here?’ he asked.
‘It’s her day off.’ He was surprised that Darcy hadn’t known that. After all, they had presumably been out together the previous evening. ‘I think she’s gone to London with her parents for the day. She said something about it to Maggie.’
Darcy looked briefly put out and then apparently remembered that she had mentioned the trip. He brightened. ‘I was going to suggest going for a drink. I suppose you wouldn’t like to come?’
Ross’ lips curved ironically. ‘I’d make a poor substitute.’
Darcy laughed. ‘Still, how about it? Just beer and a game of pool or something.’
‘Sure, why not?’ The Colonel had called at lunchtime to postpone the usual Monday evening ‘debriefing’ and Ross felt that anything would make a change from the endless procession of soap operas and quiz shows on the television. He arranged to meet Darcy at the end of the drive, around eight.
The pub that Darcy drove them to, later that evening, was genuinely ‘Olde Worlde’, its beams adorned with a bewildering number of horse brasses, corn dollies and long-defunct tools of obscure rural trades. It was dimly lit, slightly smoky, and peopled with a number of local farm workers as well as one or two romantic couples tucked cosily into pew seats in dark corners. It was Englishness at its most attractive; unselfconscious and largely uncontrived. The sort of look striven for by designers but never quite attained. It couldn’t be. It was the product of sheer age, evolved over centuries.
The promised pool table was conspicuous by its absence, a fact either that Darcy didn’t notice or for which he felt no need to apologise. Ross didn’t mind.
Franklin’s nephew was a pleasant companion. It was the first time Ross had really had a chance to speak to him. He looked pretty much as Franklin might have done twenty years ago, although Franklin was dark and Darcy fair, like Peter. Light hazel eyes looked out candidly from a face that was just beginning to thicken around the jawline.
Ross learned that Darcy worked in his uncle’s company in a position of some responsibility and that Richmond Senior had provided for him ever since his father – Franklin’s brother – had died in a car accident when Darcy was eleven.
‘My father wasn’t well off when he died,’ Darcy explained, carefully wiping the condensation off his beer glass with a forefinger. ‘His business partner absconded with their secretary and the contents of the bank account. My father was altogether too trusting.’ Darcy smiled sadly. ‘He was a very unlucky man, one way and another. Uncle Frank’s been great, though. He’s treated me like a son. The best schools, university, vocational training and a position in his company. My own father couldn’t have done more.’ Darcy paused, eyes glittering strangely in the half-light as he regarded his glass intently.
‘And you get on well with Peter?’ Ross remarked. He judged Darcy to be about his own age or maybe a year or two older, and wondered when Franklin’s wife had come upon the scene. Jealousy would have been understandable.
‘Yes.’ Darcy smiled warmly. ‘He’s a terrific kid. We’re very close.’ A distracted look came over his face and he glanced at the wall clock behind the bar. ‘He’s gone out tonight, I believe. A school friend’s birthday party. Local cinema and on to McDonald’s or somewhere, you know the sort of thing.’
Ross nodded.
‘Uncle Frank married Marsha when I was fifteen,’ Darcy continued, remembering. ‘She was some lady.’
Ross regarded his companion speculatively. ‘But they weren’t happy?’
‘Not for long. She was unfaithful, you know. Franklin was mad to think he could pin her down. She was like a butterfly, beautiful but flighty. She could never have settled for long.’
Ross digested this. Franklin hadn’t admitted in so many words that his wife had been unfaithful, though Ross had guessed it.
‘I suppose Peter will inherit the company in due course,’ he said. ‘It’s kind of a strange situation for you, I guess.’
‘It’s never seemed strange to me.’ Darcy shook his head, looking surprised. ‘Besides, I shan’t necessarily work for Richmond Finance for ever. I have it in mind to be independent one day.’
They drank in silence for a moment, then Darcy looked at Ross. ‘So, what’s the story of your life then?’
‘No story, really.’ The American shrugged. ‘Just a crazy ambition and one long battle against the odds.’
‘Uncle Frank says you could have been a lawyer. What changed your mind?’
‘A dislike of being pigeon-holed, perhaps?’ Ross suggested. ‘I really don’t know. I was probably a bit of a rebel. Everybody expected me to follow my dad into law, and
at that age you want to prove you can make your own choices. Horses were there. I loved them and, I guess, I loved the challenge, so I took it.’
‘Well, it seems to have been the right move. I know Uncle Frank thinks you’re a hot property.’ Darcy smiled, getting to his feet and reaching for Ross’ glass. ‘Another drink?’
Ross nodded and thanked him.
‘I don’t suppose he’ll find another Bellboy in a hurry, more’s the pity,’ Darcy said, returning a few moments later with the drinks. ‘In fact, he only got him after practically pinching him from under old Fergusson’s nose. He wasn’t best pleased, I can tell you. “I’ve a mind tae take ye tae court over the matter.”’ Darcy did a fair, if exaggerated, imitation of Fergusson’s Scottish tones. ‘Uncle Frank had him six years or so before he was killed. That was a crying shame. You’ve heard about it, of course?’
‘Sure, Lindsay told me,’ Ross agreed, cautiously. ‘And Bill was talking about it the other day. Were you around when it happened?’
‘No, I wasn’t. I had a long weekend off work and went sailing. I went out on my boat on the Friday and didn’t get back until the Monday afternoon. I wish I’d been here. My uncle was devastated. He really loved that horse.’ Darcy shook his head, sadly. ‘They never did catch the bastard responsible. Uncle Frank just says it was a one-off. He can’t believe anyone would do that sort of thing to get at him. He’s so good-natured, sees the best in everyone, but he’s trodden on a few toes in his time, I can tell you. When you’re in business you can’t help it. And now, I hear, someone is threatening Peter’s horse.’ He looked disgusted. ‘Honestly, how low can you go?’
Ross shook his head, not caring to speculate.
‘Tell me something, though,’ Darcy said after a moment. ‘Why do you suppose whoever it was used real blood? Surely red paint or for that matter tomato ketchup would have done? I mean, where would anyone get that much blood? It’s bizarre.’
‘Horses hate the smell of blood,’ Ross explained. ‘To them it means death. As herd animals, they’d naturally run from it. Horses are animals of very primitive instincts, you know. That’s why, when they first feel a man on their back, their natural reaction is to buck and then run. To them it’s reminiscent of having a mountain lion drop on them from a tree. Of course, they don’t think of it like that. They just react without knowing why.’
‘I see. So Clown would have wanted to run from the smell, but not been able to. No wonder the poor creature was in a state.’ He took a long swallow of his beer and shook his head. ‘There must be some sick, sadistic bastard out there somewhere.’
Ross nodded. ‘You can say that again.’
Darcy laughed. ‘Not if I have too many more beers,’ he said, and the conversation turned to more pleasant topics.
‘Am I keeping you from something?’ Ross asked after a while, amusement in his eyes. His companion had glanced at his watch at least three times in the last ten minutes.
‘No, not at all,’ Darcy exclaimed. ‘It’s just that – well, to tell the truth, there’s a big football match on TV tonight, England versus Argentina, a replay, and I’ve just remembered that I didn’t set the video.’
‘Well, let’s go then,’ Ross said, getting up.
Darcy made a show of protest but gave in with only scant argument.
So much for my scintillating company, Ross thought, unoffended.
The journey was only six or seven miles and, far from hurrying, Darcy drove, if anything, more carefully than he had on the outward trip. Wary of traffic cops, Ross suspected.
Five minutes or so into the journey, Darcy’s phone chirruped from the dashboard. He picked it up, glancing apologetically at Ross. He looked politely away out of the window and watched the roadside trees materialising in the powerful headlights and sliding swiftly past into oblivion.
‘What!’
Darcy applied the Nissan’s brakes as though a yawning void had opened up before them. The car slid to a halt, slewing a little sideways in response to Darcy’s one hand on the wheel.
‘When? How did it happen? Oh, God! . . . Yes, I’ll be there right away. Oh, God!’
He replaced the phone with a shaking hand and sat back in his seat with apparently no thought of moving the car from its rather hazardous position, parked diagonally across the road. He looked blankly ahead.
Wherever he was going to be ‘right away’, he was not in any hurry, Ross reflected.
‘Would you like me to drive?’ he offered, after a moment.
‘What? No. Yes, perhaps you’d better.’ Darcy seemed to have momentarily forgotten the American’s presence. ‘Thanks.’
He turned to look at Ross with wide, shocked eyes. ‘Peter’s been knocked down by a car,’ he said in a tone that suggested he was finding it difficult to take the news in. ‘He’s been rushed to hospital. They won’t say how badly he’s been hurt. Oh, God! It’s all my fault . . .’
Ross got out of the car and went round to the driver’s side. ‘Move over,’ he said briskly. ‘You’ll have to give me directions. Is it far?’
‘No. Only about ten minutes. Odstock, near Salisbury.’
‘Okay.’ Ross put the seat back to accommodate his longer legs and they set off. He raced the silver car along the country lanes, enjoying its power and handling in spite of the occasion. He considered Darcy’s earlier remark. ‘How can you say it’s your fault?’ he asked, bewildered. ‘You weren’t there. You couldn’t have stopped it.’
Darcy was silent for a moment. ‘It is my fault,’ he reiterated. ‘Uncle Frank wasn’t keen on Peter going. He has to be so careful, because of kidnappers. I persuaded him. Peter desperately wanted to go and I took his side. So it’s all my fault.’
‘It was an accident,’ Ross said, joining the main road and heading for Salisbury. ‘It was nobody’s fault. You can’t keep people wrapped up in cotton wool. You mustn’t blame yourself.’
Franklin Richmond was pacing the bustling hospital corridors like a caged lion when Darcy and Ross arrived. He and his nephew embraced, clinging to each other momentarily for comfort.
‘How is he?’ Darcy asked breathlessly. ‘Is he going to be all right?’
Franklin shrugged and shook his head. He had arrived, he explained, twenty minutes before, to be told that his son was in the operating theatre and he would have to wait to speak with the doctor. A nurse had assured him, however, that Peter was not on the critical list. A deeply furrowed brow in an ashen face was evidence of how distressed Franklin was.
Ross, feeling surplus to requirements at this moment of family crisis, wandered off and returned with two disposable cups of hot, sweet tea. Darcy accepted his gratefully but Franklin looked blankly at Ross as though he couldn’t quite place him.
‘Drink this,’ Ross urged. ‘It’ll do you good. Ease the shakes.’
Franklin took the cup obediently and began to sip, his thoughts obviously elsewhere.
‘I don’t take sugar,’ he protested mildly, after a moment.
‘Tonight you do. It’s good for shock.’
Franklin walked away and back again.
‘How did you come to be here?’ he asked as he drew level with Ross once more.
‘I drove Darcy. We were out for a drink.’
Franklin walked away again, giving no sign of having heard. He drained the cup and put it on a windowsill.
A door opened and a nurse bustled out, holding a clipboard to her chest like a shield against emotional involvement. Franklin stepped forward. ‘Please, nurse . . . ?’
‘I’m sorry. The doctor will be with you shortly.’ She smiled sympathetically, side-stepped and continued briskly on her way.
The doctor, when he did come, looked exhausted. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles as he explained to the Richmonds that Peter had suffered two broken legs and extensive bruising and was presently being prepared for surgery. The fractures appeared to be clean and should heal without complication. There was no sign of internal injury and he wa
s conscious. His father could see him briefly if he wished.
In the event, both Franklin and Darcy followed the doctor through the door and Ross kicked his heels until they returned a bare two minutes later, then took his leave.
Franklin, reassured that his son was in no immediate danger, had progressed beyond anxiety to all-consuming fury.
‘I’ll get him, Ross!’ he promised. ‘I’ll get the bastard who did this! They say it was a hit and run but someone must have seen him. It’s a busy town, for God’s sake!’
Hearing the raw emotion in Franklin’s voice, Ross remembered what he’d said about living with fear. He had seemed then to have impenetrable armour, but it appeared he had an Achilles heel in Peter.
Ross restored the keys of the Nissan to Darcy, telephoned for a taxi and made his way home.
It was only as he paid the driver and walked down the gravel drive to the yard that it occurred to him that somebody else might also have recognised that Peter was Franklin’s Achilles heel, and that thought made his blood run cold.
Not wanting to be overheard, Ross made an excuse to drive into the village just after breakfast the next morning and telephoned Franklin on his mobile from the side of a leafy lane. Having been prepared to leave a message, he was a little surprised to find him at his office as usual. Peter, he was told, was progressing satisfactorily although still very shocked and upset. The hospital couldn’t say for sure how long he would have to stay in, possibly only ten days or so, maybe as much as a month.
‘Both legs, Ross,’ Franklin said with anguish. ‘Both legs broken. He’s only twelve and he’s in so much pain.’
‘Poor kid.’ It wasn’t enough, but what could he say? Ross hesitated, reluctant to voice his suspicions. ‘Do we know exactly what happened yet?’
‘Yes, I spoke to Amanda Medway, the mother of the birthday boy, last night at the hospital. She came on after she had seen the other children home. They’d been to see the film and were crossing the road on one of those automatic crossings . . . you know, the ones with the traffic lights and bleepers? Apparently Peter dropped his pullover as he was going across and stopped to pick it up. She says he was only a fraction behind the others and the lights were still red, but the car came from nowhere, accelerating, she said, with no intention of stopping. The driver can’t have been looking where he was going. The police think it was probably joyriders. Peter didn’t stand a chance.’
Cut Throat Page 14
