Cut Throat

by Lyndon Stacey

  Ross looked up.

  ‘Yeah. Fine now, thanks.’

  ‘Anything I can do?’

  ‘I don’t suppose you know where I could find a garage with a tow truck, do you?’ Ross asked hopefully. Even if he’d still had his mobile phone, he would have had no idea who to ring.

  The car driver nodded. He could do better than that. There was a repair garage down in the valley. He knew the mechanic and would call in on his way by. With a final glance at the balanced Land-Rover he offered his opinion that Ross had been incredibly lucky and went cheerfully on his way, no doubt to describe the accident, with relish, to everybody he encountered during the day.

  Where are the press with their cameras snapping? Ross thought sardonically. They’ve missed this one. They’re slipping!

  In the next ten minutes or so, several more cars and two lorries came by, all either stopping or slowing to view the spectacle of the precariously perched vehicle.

  ‘It’s all under control,’ Ross told those that stopped. ‘Yes, I’m fine, thank you. Somebody’s on the way.’

  During a lull in the traffic, he climbed to his feet and wandered round to the back of the Land-Rover, wondering if it was carrying any rope with which a passing lorry might be persuaded to tow it back on to the road, if the recovery vehicle failed to materialise.

  The wind was howling across the ridge with unrelenting vigour and the Land-Rover rocked under its assault. Ross found a rope, although it had seen better days, and a number of other tools including a spade, presumably for digging oneself out of snowdrifts.

  ‘I’d say you were pretty lucky there,’ a voice remarked close behind him with a marked lack of originality.

  Ross jumped. He hadn’t heard a car approach. ‘There’s a tow truck on the way,’ he said, turning, hoping as he said it that it was true. ‘It’s all under control . . .’ His voice tailed off as he saw before him the navy uniform of one of Her Majesty’s finest.

  ‘Oh, Jeez!’ he groaned, recognising one of the officers from the week before.

  ‘Well, well,’ the policeman said with dawning recognition. ‘If it isn’t our American friend. For a moment there I didn’t recognise you, standing up.’

  ‘Very funny,’ Ross said, not laughing.

  ‘I must say, your parking hasn’t improved,’ his tormentor remarked, standing back to survey the vehicle. ‘Just what exactly happened? Did the wind blow you off course or were you trying to get the cork out of a bottle?’ He was clearly enjoying himself.

  ‘The wind,’ Ross pointed out, ‘is blowing the other way.’

  ‘Well, I think in view of your previous form we ought to just make sure you aren’t under the influence,’ the policeman said, and called over his shoulder, ‘Jim! When you’ve finished putting those cones out, bring the breath box, will you?’

  By the time the tow truck arrived, some five minutes later, Ross had had about enough of Police Sergeant Steve Deacon and his sidekick.

  After the negative breath test, the two had amused themselves by asking Ross numerous questions and requesting vehicle documents. These last he was able to produce. Franklin with his usual thoroughness had left them in the glove compartment and they were all, to the almost visible disappointment of the sergeant, up to date.

  ‘I’ll give the name and address of your insurer to the farmer who owns this particular fence,’ he said helpfully, as the Land-Rover was dragged back on to the road by the cheerful, round-faced mechanic in the tow truck. ‘And if I were you and I wanted to travel in the next couple of weeks, I’d take a bus. You’ll have to get used to it sooner or later anyway. See you in court.’

  With this parting shot he beckoned to his partner and headed for his car.

  ‘Bloody charming!’ the mechanic said, getting out of the truck and looking at the departing police car. ‘Know him, do you?’

  ‘We’ve met,’ Ross said dryly. ‘But I sure wish we hadn’t.’

  ‘Know what you bleeding mean!’ the mechanic agreed. Then, turning his attention to the Land-Rover, ‘Not hard to see what’s happened here.’

  Ross followed his gaze. If one discounted the four-foot length of barbed wire which decorated the front bumper, the vehicle looked little the worse for its adventure, except for the fact that while its nearside front wheel pointed slightly left, its offside companion was pointing determinedly in the opposite direction.

  ‘Looks like the track rod’s come off the joint, at a guess,’ the mechanic said placidly, rubbing his bristly chin with a grimy paw.

  Ross was thoughtful. ‘Does that happen often?’

  ‘Nah, not very. You’d spot it was loose on the MOT most likely.’

  Ross continued to gaze at the offending wheel. He had seen from the documents that the Land-Rover had been tested within the last month.

  ‘Would it be possible for someone to arrange for it to happen?’ he asked after a moment.

  ‘Bloody hell! That’s a bleeding question, that is!’ the mechanic said, looking curiously at Ross. ‘Who do you work for? The sodding Mafia? Yeah, I suppose it would. Very easy. All you’d have to do would be slacken off the nut on the steering rack joint – or take it right off. You could even drive round with it like that. No telling when it would finally come apart. Could be one mile, could be ten.’

  ‘Unless you hit a pothole . . .’ Ross said absentmindedly.

  ‘That would probably shake it loose,’ he agreed. ‘Bloody nasty if it happened in traffic.’

  ‘Or on a bloody hill,’ Ross suggested with amusement.

  ‘But you don’t seriously think somebody did it on purpose?’ the mechanic persisted, appearing not to notice the mickey-taking. ‘What did you do to him? Shag his soddin’ wife?’

  Ross shook his head. ‘Pay no attention to me, I’m paranoid,’ he said with a slight smile. ‘Can you fix it for me?’

  Seated in the tow truck, heading for the workshop, Ross’ mind was busy with several unpleasant but increasingly convincing suspicions. The police sergeant had unwittingly given his memory a prod when he’d checked the numberplate with the registration papers.

  The first three letters were DRH. ‘Damn Roland’s Hide’ Ross’ subconscious had immediately quoted, and in an instant, memories of the previous Tuesday evening came flooding back.

  DRH had been the registration of the Land-Rover that he’d followed through the diversion, and therefore was almost certainly the one that had stopped across the road, setting up the ambush. It would be stretching coincidence too far to believe that his near-calamitous accident in the same vehicle was just that: an accident.

  ‘It was Darcy’s idea,’ Franklin had said when he had offered the Land-Rover to Ross at the show. When it arrived Ross hadn’t looked twice at it. There were so many four-wheel-drive vehicles on Wiltshire’s roads, it just hadn’t occurred to him to look closely at this one.

  Was Darcy the Mr X they were looking for, or had somebody, possibly Leo, ‘borrowed’ the vehicle that Tuesday evening? And who then had loosened the nut on the steering rack?

  ‘I reckon you’re lucky old George Collins is bloody skint.’

  This somewhat cryptic utterance cut across Ross’ thoughts.

  ‘If that had been a new fence it would prob’ly have snapped when you hit it,’ the mechanic supplied obligingly. ‘Stretch ’em like bloody pianer wire they do these days. That old wire’s looser and got some give left in it. Bloody lucky.’

  At the garage, he showed Ross the tapered joint on which the steering track rod end sat.

  ‘When that comes apart, your chances of controlling the car are sod-all. One wheel goes one way and one the other. I tell yer, you were lucky you didn’t roll the bugger!’ He pointed with one blackened finger. ‘See here. It’s been greased to help it slide. The other one hasn’t been touched for donkey’s years. Looks like you were right, mate. Bloody stupid sort of joke to play!’

  ‘Bloody stupid,’ Ross agreed. ‘I’m sure he didn’t realise what he was doing.’

  ‘
I should bloody hope not,’ the man said, shaking his tousled head as he went to work on the Land-Rover. ‘Well, I suppose it’s your sodding funeral, but if it was me, I’d half bloody kill him!’

  ‘Mmm. I might just do that,’ Ross agreed. ‘I bloody might.’

  Finally catching on, the mechanic looked up and grinned good-naturedly.

  Having been assured that the Land-Rover was once more roadworthy, Ross settled his account, adding a generous percentage in true gratitude. He then resumed his journey, driving slowly in deference to the wind and the state of his nerves. Besides which, he had a lot on his mind.

  Working on the premise that Darcy Richmond was indeed the extortionist and conveniently leaving aside the matter of motive for the moment, he tried to fit together the pieces of the puzzle. He had no doubt that Franklin’s nephew had the brains to pull off the blackmail and he was in a position to do it, having access to the stableyard and the financial know-how needed to bank the proceeds without trace. But where then did Leo come in?

  He, in Ross’ opinion, was strictly minor league, criminal by inclination rather than by design. Perhaps, as he himself had suggested to Franklin, Leo had stumbled on to Darcy’s trail by stealing his wallet and finding the business card. This would have led him to the connection with Clown, if no further, and given him at least enough leverage to threaten to expose Darcy if he wasn’t cut in. In effect, blackmailing the blackmailer. It was quite possible he still didn’t know the whole of it.

  Ross remembered the day Darcy had turned up at the yard with a black eye. Perhaps the two men had come to blows when Leo faced him with what he had guessed. Ross had had proof enough himself of Leo’s propensity for violence.

  If Darcy was indeed their Mr X, it would explain how he had managed to stay one step ahead of McKinnon’s men all the time. It had been a clever move to bug the telephone outside Franklin’s house, thereby directing suspicion towards an outside listener, when all he would need to do would be pick up an extension, casually question his uncle or glance through his papers when he was not at home.

  Although Darcy had his own pad, Ross knew he still had a room at his uncle’s home. It was not to be supposed that Franklin would leave details of his business with McKinnon lying around for casual eyes to see, but neither would he have expected Darcy actively to seek it. Besides, McKinnon had worked for Richmond Finance before. It would be a natural progression for Darcy to suppose that his uncle would use the company in this other matter.

  Why had McKinnon eliminated Darcy from his enquiries? Ross wondered. He supposed it was because of a lack of perceptible motive and the existence of an apparently watertight alibi for the night of the Bellboy incident.

  Darcy himself had told Ross he was away sailing that weekend. He was sure McKinnon would have checked that Darcy had indeed taken his boat out, but what if he had moored again elsewhere and slipped back to Oakley Manor to slaughter the horse? Almost impossible to trace. And if Darcy were their man, it would account for Leo’s knowing that McKinnon’s men were watching him.

  Ross sighed. He hoped, for Franklin’s sake, that he was wrong but the more he thought about it, the more probable it all seemed.

  Ross had his own ideas as to the reason behind Darcy’s campaign against his uncle but one fact stubbornly refused to fit the overall picture. Darcy had apparently been prepared to risk Peter’s life to gain his ends.

  However consummate an actor Darcy might be, Ross felt sure he had never faked his devotion to the boy. It was there for all to see, whenever they were together. It was, even for cousins, an unusually strong bond and he clearly resented anyone who threatened to replace him in the boy’s affections.

  Maybe that was why he had ‘lost’ Danny’s videotape that had contained footage of Ross riding the bucking stallion. Too young to fully understand the bad feeling surrounding Ross, Peter already regarded the American with a certain amount of juvenile hero worship, as the Colonel had pointed out, and seeing him ride the rogue horse could have done nothing but enhance that image.

  So, taking this possessive devotion into account, how could Darcy possibly contemplate harming the boy?

  For a few moments, Ross was fully occupied manoeuvring the Land-Rover through the traffic to the bootmaker’s shop. The boots tried for fit, approved and paid for, he began the homeward journey.

  Now that he had the skeleton of a solution to build on, Ross found that many of the remaining pieces slotted quite easily into place.

  He remembered the evening they had gone out for a drink, ostensibly on a whim. It now seemed more likely that Darcy had engineered the whole thing. It had been about a week after Ross had confronted the prowler in the yard. Perhaps, even then, Darcy had been sizing him up as possible trouble. Or perhaps Ross had merely been his alibi for the time of Peter’s accident.

  That innocuous evening at the pub had thrown up several significant facts in hindsight. The undisguised warmth and admiration in Darcy’s eyes when he had spoken of Franklin’s ex-wife had set Ross thinking, and remembering how easily he had mimicked Fergusson’s Scottish accent, it was plain that assuming an Irish one would be no problem to him.

  It wasn’t possible to be sure exactly who had done what, and at whose instigation, but Ross was beginning to see that Darcy had been extremely adept at harnessing the hostility of others for his own ends.

  This said, he was willing to bet that Leo had engineered most of the physical ‘accidents’. Things like the rope between the trees and the attack on the dog bore the ex-groom’s hallmark of spite. Leo it had been, too, who had worked on Ginger’s neurosis while he was at the yard, bringing her to breaking point and finally beyond, with tragic, not to mention painful, consequences.

  It was easier to accept Leo’s part in it than Darcy’s. Leo had never pretended friendship but Ross had liked Darcy and now experienced a sense of betrayal. They would never have been bosom-buddies but he had seemed easy-going and good-natured and Ross had considered him a friend.

  If he was right, then it seemed likely that Sarah had been taken in too. Ross had always thought them an ill-matched pair but what better cover for Darcy making visits to the yard than to see her? He imagined that she would have needed very little encouragement to keep him up to date with the business of the yard, either. The horses were her passion.

  Using Leo as a willing tool, Darcy had tried again and again to weaken Ross’ position in the yard. It was quite possible he had manipulated Harry Douglas in some way too. When, in spite of everything, the Colonel and Franklin had stood by Ross, it was no wonder Darcy should have decided that the time had come to get rid of him once and for all.

  It was no wonder, but it was no excuse.

  Ross felt bitterly angry. He felt anger for himself; for Franklin, who had shown his nephew nothing but kindness; for Peter, Ginger and the dog, all of whom were totally innocent victims; and for the Colonel and Lindsay and all the other members of the Oakley Manor team who had suffered because of Ross’ disgrace.

  Driving back to the yard, with only the howling wind for company, Ross began to plot Darcy Richmond’s downfall.

  Back at the stables, the wind showed no sign of abating. It was a nerve-shredding, relentless shriek. Leaves and branches littered the gravel and somewhere a door was banging. Anything that wasn’t tied down was rolling around or pinned against the first upright it had fetched up against. The horses were shifting uneasily in their stables, upset by the noise and transmitting their tension to one another.

  Ross put the Richmond Land-Rover in the shed in place of the other, which he parked in the yard. Bill appeared, grumbling about the weather, and together they did the midday rounds; feeding, filling water buckets and tidying stables. All the while, Ross was engrossed with the problem of what had to be done and how to do it.

  He ate a light meal, for which he had little appetite, with Bill, Maggie and the two boys. During lunch, the wind seemed to drop a little and shortly afterwards Masters collected the eager youngsters to take them
on their promised visit to the motor museum. If the loving care lavished on the Preston Jaguar was anything to go by, the excursion would be no great hardship for Masters either.

  As the big car swept sleekly out of sight, Ross made his way over to the tackroom. For an hour or more he cleaned tack dirtied at the show, his mind busy with the conclusions it had reached that morning, going over and over the evidence, wanting to be quite sure he was right. Finally, reluctantly, he turned his steps towards the house. He needed to use a telephone and he dared not use the one in the stable office. To be overheard at this stage would foul everything up.

  The oak trees behind the house tossed and strained in the fitful wind, their towering bulk looking slightly menacing, and the broad sweep of gravel opposite the imposing front door was strewn with twigs and greenery. The wind was rising again, from a different direction now, the brief lull apparently over.

  Ross wished he could postpone his plans for the afternoon but the circumstances would never again be so ripe for exploitation. It had to be today. If, that was, McKinnon and Franklin agreed.

  In the absence of Masters, the Colonel opened the door himself. His enquiring expression faded to one of resignation as he saw Ross. He stood back and waved the American past and into the study where a pack of assorted dogs greeted him with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

  ‘What a day,’ the Colonel observed moodily, following him in. ‘Bloody wind! I hate it! Can’t relax with that noise going on.’

  Ross turned to face him and the Colonel’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘I . . . um . . . have something to tell you,’ Ross said, feeling that as statements went, it was a fair candidate for understatement of the year. ‘But first, I need to use your phone.’

  The Colonel waved a hand towards his desk. ‘Help yourself,’ he offered, interest sharp in his face.

  ‘Thanks,’ Ross said, and went to work.

  22

  Two hours, a glass of sherry and a cup of coffee later, Ross sat back in one of the Colonel’s armchairs and watched his employer’s face as he mentally digested what he’d heard.