Cut Throat

by Lyndon Stacey

  ‘Here you are. This’ll steady your nerves and drown your sorrows, Yank,’ he said, offering it to Ross.

  Ross gritted his teeth, his knuckles white on the wheel.

  ‘Don’t push your luck, fella,’ he warned softly. ‘You’re flying very close to the flame.’

  Leo chuckled most of the way home.

  Ross lay awake for quite a while that night, once again regretting the mischance that had brought Leo down on him the night before. He had told Bill that the motorbike had a flat tyre, which explained the silence of his approach but not his early return. Ross felt that the whole episode and its consequences would have been more bearable if his search had yielded something useful. As it was, it looked as though it had all been for nothing.

  Even without the excuse of Lindsay’s missing pearls, he’d been tempted to search Leo’s room. Too many little things went missing around the yard. But if Leo was responsible, then he obviously knew where he could pass them on without delay. Ross had looked everywhere. In fact, if he hadn’t been so thorough, he would have been out of the danger zone before Leo had returned. He supposed he should be thankful he had not been caught actually going through the man’s pockets.

  Suddenly, as if someone had turned a light on in his mind, he remembered the business card he had found and glanced at dismissively, and its significance was all at once blindingly obvious.

  Clown had been soaked in ox blood. And where better to obtain a large quantity of blood than a slaughterhouse?

  What excuse one would give for wanting it was a debatable point but of little importance. What mattered was that somebody had got it. And it could surely be no coincidence that Leo was carrying the card of one ‘M. A. Kendall – Wholesale Butcher’ in his pocket.

  Had Leo, then, been the prowler Ross had challenged that night in the yard?

  Ross didn’t think so. His man had been tall and fairly broad, not of wiry build like the groom.

  Who then? Had there been two of them? And what of the other card? Anyone less likely to have used the services of a bespoke tailor than Leo, it would be hard to imagine.

  He sighed and turned over, trying to sleep. The problem would still, unfortunately, be there in the morning.

  The next day, Ross telephoned Edward McKinnon for the first time. He had ridden Fly out on his own and made the call from a lonely hilltop. A machine answered. Ross told it his name and said he would ring back later.

  The machine clicked and McKinnon cut in. ‘Ross? I’m here. What can I do for you?’

  As briefly as he could, he told McKinnon his suspicions about Leo’s thieving and of the consequent search of his room. He told him about the business card and also mentioned the prowler he had encountered the night before Clown was daubed with blood. He said he didn’t think his assailant had been Leo, but that the dog had chased someone else who could possibly have been.

  McKinnon had heard about the prowler from Richmond. ‘We checked on Leo Jackson when he was first employed by the Colonel,’ he told Ross. ‘At least, in so far as to establish his whereabouts at the time of the Bellboy incident. At that time he was working in a racing stable in Ireland. So if he was responsible for this second incident, then it was probably on the instruction of another party.’

  ‘From what you’ve told me about the extortionist,’ Ross said thoughtfully, ‘he doesn’t sound the sort of character to get involved with a two-bit sneak thief like Leo. I mean, Leo is so blatantly aggressive. There’s nothing subtle about him. It seems more likely to me that Leo stole that business card along with something else – a wallet, perhaps – from somebody’s pocket or car. Besides, I would swear he was as surprised as the rest of us at finding Clown in that state.’

  ‘Maybe.’ McKinnon paused, apparently to digest this information. ‘Yes, I think you’re probably right. Though I don’t see why he should have kept the card. Unless he just forgot that he had it. Anyway, I’ll put somebody on to this Kendall – see if we can get some kind of a description from him. After all, it can’t be every day that they have a customer asking for a couple of gallons of ox blood.’

  ‘And what about Peter’s accident? Has anything more turned up on that?’ Ross asked.

  ‘There was a message on Franklin’s answerphone yesterday,’ McKinnon said. ‘Remote callbox, as before. The caller advised Franklin to toe the line and said “It could have been worse.”’

  ‘So it wasn’t an accident?’

  ‘Well, possibly not.’ McKinnon was cautious. ‘The thing is, it was widely reported – the papers, local TV, you know the sort of thing. Easy enough to claim responsibility after the event.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Hearing muffled hoofbeats, Ross cast a quick look around him. ‘Look, I’d better go now. Somebody’s coming. Shall I call back tomorrow and see what you’ve come up with?’

  ‘If you like, or I can let you know through Franklin.’ McKinnon sounded amused. ‘What happened to the man at the pub who didn’t want to get involved?’

  ‘I am involved, damn you! Just as you knew I would be. So don’t bother to say “I told you so”.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ McKinnon protested, the amusement very evident. ‘Well anyway, thanks for the information. But don’t stick your neck out, please. I’ve got people who are employed to take risks. If there is anything else you think we should look into, let one of them do it. It wouldn’t be so catastrophic if they got caught.’

  ‘What would you do if one of your people got caught snooping?’ Ross asked curiously.

  ‘Disown them,’ McKinnon said shortly. ‘But they know that. It’s one of the conditions of the job. We’ll pay for the best legal aid, but we won’t come forward ourselves. But that’s beside the point. They are trained not to get caught.’

  ‘Cyanide pills?’ Ross murmured, amused in his turn.

  ‘No, Mr Wakelin,’ McKinnon said heavily. ‘They fall on their swords.’

  There was a click as he disconnected and Ross smiled. The man was really quite human.

  His ride completed and Fly returned to his stable, Ross crossed the yard carrying the saddle and bridle to hear raised voices from the tackroom. In the doorway he all but collided with Darcy Richmond, who pushed past him with a muttered apology and made for his car. Ross watched him go, puzzled, then went on in.

  Leo was inside, half-heartedly soaping a bridle and wearing a self-satisfied smirk.

  ‘What now?’ Ross asked, heavily.

  ‘Now?’ Leo was all innocence.

  ‘You know what I mean. What have you said to upset Darcy?’

  Leo curled his lip. ‘Mind your own business, Yank.’

  ‘Anything you have to say, in this yard, to one of the owners or their family, is my business,’ Ross said forcefully. ‘And if you want to continue to work here, you had better remember that!’

  Leo continued to sneer. ‘He warned me to stay away from his girl,’ he said. ‘He needn’t have bothered. I don’t want the little mouse anyway. I prefer the other one – the classy blonde.’ He glanced sideways at Ross to gauge his reaction.

  ‘You wouldn’t know class if it kicked your butt,’ he said mildly, dumping his saddle down beside the one Leo was about to clean. ‘When you’ve finished that, you can do this one,’ he added with the air of one bestowing a great favour and turned away, heading for the cottage and a cool drink.

  Out of the corner of his eye he caught Leo’s black scowl and for once the satisfaction was all his.

  Ross had to go into Salisbury the next morning and rang McKinnon from the jeep when he got there.

  ‘I’m not going to leave my name and number, so you might as well pick up the damn’ phone if you’re listening,’ he told the answering machine.

  McKinnon picked it up.

  ‘And good morning to you too, Ross,’ he said politely. ‘I do love your particularly American brand of charm.’

  Ross smiled to himself. ‘What news?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, we tracked down Kendall the butcher and pa
id him a visit,’ McKinnon reported. ‘I think we gave him the fright of his life. He was convinced that we were from Public Health or MAFF and insisted that he had not and would never sell ox blood to anyone under any circumstances. However, when we offered a little – shall we say – financial inducement he remembered that he had had an enquiry but of course had refused to deal with the man. As far as he could remember it was a fairly young man, late-twenties to early-thirties he thought, dressed like a countryman and wearing a flat cap and sunglasses. He couldn’t remember what kind of car the man drove but what was interesting was that Kendall thought he might have been Irish. Which tells us . . . ?’ McKinnon finished.

  Ross thought for a moment.

  ‘Which tells us the ox-blood man is almost certainly our original Mr X, and that he is young. It also tells us what we already know: that he’s careful enough to cover his tracks even when he doesn’t expect us to be close behind.’ He paused. ‘What excuse did he give for wanting the blood?’ he asked curiously.

  McKinnon laughed. ‘Our friend, Mr X as you call him, is nothing if not inventive. He said he was a member of a Civil War re-enactment group. Said they wanted to do Marston Moor and it had to be as realistic as possible. You know how fanatical some of these groups are. Kendall said the man was very enthusiastic, wanted to tell him all about the group. I gather he had quite a job to get rid of him. He certainly plays his part well.’

  ‘Would’ve served him right if Kendall had wanted to join,’ Ross observed. ‘He certainly covers his tracks.’

  ‘If he didn’t, we would have caught him by now,’ McKinnon assured him. ‘We had already tried all the local slaughterhouses and butchers. This one was in Buckinghamshire.’

  ‘Sure,’ Ross said, placatingly. ‘No offence meant. Any other news?’

  ‘We de-bugged Richmond’s house again.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We found a rather clumsy device, on the phone-lines outside. Suspiciously clumsy, I’d say.’

  ‘You mean, he wanted it found,’ Ross said. ‘So again, that presupposes that he knew you’d be looking?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he did,’ McKinnon said. ‘He must know Franklin would have somebody working to catch him. We have always accepted that. He knows, and he’s quite confident that we aren’t going to uncover him. We made another complete search of the house, in case that one was a decoy, but we didn’t find anything else.’

  ‘But, clumsy or not, that bug could have told Mr X where Peter was going to be last Monday, right?’

  ‘It could,’ McKinnon said slowly, ‘though I’m still not one hundred per cent sure that that was anything but an accident. It just doesn’t feel right to me.’

  ‘Well, you’re the expert,’ Ross conceded. ‘Look, I better go. There’s a guy with a notebook coming and I haven’t bought a ticket yet.’

  ‘Yes, okay. But look, Ross, be careful will you? We’ve been delving into Leo’s murky past, and we discovered that in Ireland, about six weeks before he arrived here, a racing stable lad called Lewis Roach was involved in a pub brawl and half-killed another lad with a broken bottle. The thing is that although everybody seemed to agree that Lewis was the guilty party, nobody was too keen to testify. It seems that Lewis was known to have some pretty rough friends. He disappeared soon after and they haven’t seen him since. I gather they’re not exactly pining for him. I faxed a picture to the racing stables and they immediately identified our Leo Jackson as their Lewis Roach. At least, they were ninety-five per cent sure. Apparently he had a beard and moustache when they had the pleasure of his company.’

  ‘But what about his references? The Colonel said they were good.’

  ‘Yes. It would seem that there was indeed a Leo Jackson who left just before our Leo – they’re a wandering bunch, these stable lads, Lewis Roach was apparently a Londoner. And so it would seem likely that when Colonel Preston requested references for Leo Jackson, the head lad was happy to tell him that Jackson was a good worker and a fine upstanding citizen. Anyway, I just thought you should know. It’s up to you what you do about him. Obviously you can’t mention me, but watch yourself. This is not a man to rub up the wrong way!’

  Ross laughed shortly. ‘With Leo, I don’t think there’s a right way,’ he observed grimly. ‘But thanks for the warning. He’s pretty much outstayed his welcome anyway.’

  The Oakley Manor horses attended two shows at the weekend and performed very well. There were no disasters; Bishop won the Foxhunter class and Flo was a good second in a Grade-C class, while Simone continued to defeat all-comers in the various speed classes she entered. Even Ginger did nothing to disgrace herself or Ross.

  On a more personal level the weekend was not so harmonious.

  Leo exerted himself to reach new heights of insolence and awkwardness, so that even the Colonel, who kept himself comfortably distant from most of the nitty-gritty of yard business, became aware of it.

  Leo was constantly rude to Ross, deliberately ‘misunderstood’ instructions and was found to be missing for large portions of the two days. Before the weekend was very far advanced Ross had decided enough was enough; he would give Leo his marching orders at the end of the week if things didn’t improve significantly.

  Fortunately, he had Danny to help him in the meantime and on the second day Lindsay as well, who had transported Gypsy to the show with them, although she spent much of the day with her parents and James, who also attended.

  After Ross’ Foxhunter success on Bishop, she’d brought her family across to meet him as he left the ring after the prize-giving. The moment had been a trifle awkward.

  Lindsay ran forward and hugged him, eyes shining, as he dismounted. ‘Ross! That was wonderful! I’m so pleased for you!’

  Ross, blissfully unaware of her approaching family and caught up in the exhilaration of his win, swept her up off her feet and swung her round.

  ‘We did it, Princess! Did you see him? Wasn’t he great?’ he demanded with uncharacteristic fervour. Then he kissed her soundly on the cheek and restored her to her feet.

  ‘This, I take it, is Mr Wakelin,’ observed Lady Cresswell coolly, appearing at Lindsay’s shoulder. She extended a beautifully manicured hand to Ross with the expression of one obliged to acknowledge a shamefully poor relation. Lindsay flushed unhappily and out of the corner of his eye, as he turned to Lady Cresswell, Ross saw James come forward to put a proprietorial arm around her shoulders.

  Ross removed his crash cap, ran his fingers through his flattened hair and with his most charming smile said, ‘A pleasure to meet you, ma’am.’

  Lindsay’s mother glanced sharply at him as if suspecting mockery, but encountering only unassumed friendliness, inclined her head regally. She was an attractive woman, well into middle age but with a figure many twenty-year-olds would have killed for, and a largely unlined face that was spoiled only by the ‘holier than thou’ expression it wore.

  ‘Jolly well done!’ Lindsay’s father spoke from behind his wife; a position which Ross suspected he habitually occupied. ‘Have you qualified for something big?’

  ‘No, not even the area finals,’ Ross admitted. ‘And it’s too late to qualify this year, but it’s a start.’

  James added his congratulations and gradually the gathering broke up, but not before Lindsay’s father had kindly invited the American to share the family picnic, for which he earned a brief but decidedly hostile glare from his wife.

  ‘Don’t be silly, George. Mr Wakelin hasn’t got time to sit around with us, he’s far too busy,’ she said smoothly, with a tight smile at Ross which dared him to disagree.

  He almost wished he had got time to spare, just to see Her Ladyship’s expression when he accepted, but unfortunately Danny was at that very moment fetching his next ride from the lorry. He declined politely and Lindsay and her family drifted away.

  As Ross loosened Bishop’s girth he wondered at the instant antipathy displayed by Lindsay’s mother. Did she imagine that he posed a threat to her daughter’s
marriage to James Roberts and his sizeable fortune? Or was it just that she looked down on everyone outside her own social circle? In which case, his being American was probably the last straw.

  He smiled inwardly. Lindsay’s spontaneous display of affection could hardly have been more poorly timed, but as far as he was concerned she was welcome to repeat it whenever she liked.

  11

  The following Monday was the hottest day of the summer so far. The heat rolled across the countryside in heavy waves soon after dawn and settled in a smothering blanket on the dehydrated land. There had been no rain for several weeks and the grass was scorched brown and dusty. Ross had risen extra early and exercised the two horses in most need of it, riding one and leading the other, before the first feeding. As the morning wore on he pottered round the semi-deserted yard doing the odd jobs that got shelved on busier days.

  He thought over Franklin Richmond’s problem as he worked but got no further forward. His mind was like a dog chasing its tail; no matter how hard he tried, he always ended up back at the beginning.

  Who hated Richmond enough that he or she, not content with steadily bleeding money from him, wanted to see him suffering real fear at the same time? Enough to do actual harm to his twelve-year-old son.

  He gave up.

  After all, if Franklin himself could think of nobody who bore him any particular grudge, then how on earth could Ross hope to, when he had only known the man a few short weeks?

  Shortly after noon, Leo strolled into the yard having returned from heaven knew where on his motorbike. He was dressed, like Ross, in cut-off denims and a tee-shirt. He sauntered across the gravel and helped himself to a beer from the office fridge.

  For perhaps half-an-hour he followed Ross around the yard, propping himself in doorways, watching as the American worked. He was silent, which was unusual for him, and Ross felt no inclination to make conversation. Leo’s presence was vaguely annoying in itself, as doubtless it was intended to be, but he was careful not to let his irritation show.