Cut Throat (31 page)

Roland was quick to notice. ‘Get dry. I'll make you some coffee,' he said briskly. ‘Move on. Put it behind you.'

Ross turned obediently, then stopped. There was one thing he had to know.

‘What were you doing in the yard?'

Roland spooned coffee into mugs. ‘I was watching the storm from the house. I saw torchlight and came to investigate. I found you.'

Ross changed into dry clothes and accepted coffee, which he found to be liberally laced with his own whisky. Hazily, he wondered where Roland had found it. He would have to be more careful, with
his
reputation; though hiding the bottle was even more likely to be seen as an admission of guilt.

He couldn't win.

The liquid restored him halfway to life, and halfway was all he cared to experience for the time being.

After a period of brooding silence, Roland drained his mug. Patting Ross sympathetically on the shoulder as he passed, he announced his intention of returning to the main house and his bed. ‘Have to get my beauty sleep, don't you know?'

Ross thanked him, but he was out of the door before it occurred to the American that that was the first time in the past hour or two that Roland had affected his upper-class-twit persona.

So, it
was
just a front. Lindsay was right. And one that had to be consciously maintained, too.

Hot on the heels of this discovery came the realisation that he hadn't been carrying a flashlight when he'd searched the yard. Therefore, either Roland had seen the light carried by whoever had attacked the dog – in which case he had certainly taken his time coming to investigate – or he was lying.

On the whole, Ross hoped it was the former. He had, admittedly, borne the appearance of someone who had rushed out in a hurry, hatless and wearing only shoes rather than boots in the torrential rain. But why so long? Ross must have been in the yard for a good ten minutes before he'd found the injured animal and
he
had seen no light.

Too depressed to think straight, he finished his coffee and fell into bed.

Midway through the next morning the O'Connell horses arrived.

The six-year-old grey with the deep chest and long, plain head went by the name of Saxon Blue. He stood at the top of the horsebox ramp with head upflung, gazing at his new surroundings, then strode steadily down into the yard. His companion, the brown gelding with the fence fetish, was known as Trooper Joe.

Ross watched them as they were safely installed in their new quarters; neighbouring boxes for reassurance as they had come together. After a certain amount of whinnying from them and the resident horses they seemed to settle.

With all the excitement generated by the arrival of the new horses, nobody appeared to notice the absence of the dog, which habitually kept to shady corners out of everybody's way. Ross was relieved. He didn't particularly want to talk about it just yet. In his experience, well-meaning sympathy was a bitch for re-opening wounds.

When the inevitable questions came, he had decided to let it be known that the dog had been hit by the haybarn door swinging in the wind. In fact, if it hadn't been for the fact that
he personally
had shut and bolted the door the previous evening when the storm was just starting, he might have considered that a plausible explanation himself. That fact and the telephone call he had received at breakfast time.

He missed the dog more than he would have expected. Theirs had not been a demonstrative relationship, indeed the animal had rarely even wagged its bushy tail, but it had always been around and Ross realised that he had made a habit of talking to it as he passed by.

Later in the day, Ross took some tack to the saddler's to be repaired and phoned Franklin from the car park.

Franklin greeted his call with pleasure swiftly followed by wariness.

‘Hello, Ross. Is anything wrong?'

He briefly related the events of the night before. ‘They didn't go after the horses,' he finished. ‘This was either payback for me, or getting rid of the dog before Mr X makes his next move.'

‘God, Ross. I'm sorry!' the businessman exclaimed, genuinely upset. ‘If I could only get my hands on this bastard! I'm not normally a violent man, but just this once! You didn't see anything, of course . . .'

‘No, nothing.' Ross thought fleetingly of Roland but stayed quiet. He had no real evidence against his boss's son, and besides that, he even liked the guy, in spite of his oddball affectations.

‘I suppose it's not possible Leo could have given McKinnon's men the slip?' he said after a moment. ‘I mean, this is just his style, isn't it? He never liked the dog and we all know what he thinks of me.'

Franklin sounded doubtful. ‘It would certainly have been the night for it,' he allowed. ‘But that's assuming Leo knew he was being watched, and unless McKinnon's men have been very careless, there's no way he could have. Those men are professionals, Ross. I can't see an amateur like Leo catching them out.'

‘It does sound unlikely,' he agreed. ‘The thing is, I had a phone call this morning. Somebody wanted me to know that what happened to the dog was no accident.'

‘They called
you
?' Franklin was surprised and not a little alarmed. ‘Oh, God, Ross! I'm sorry! I feel responsible for all this. After all, I got you into it.'

‘No way!' he protested. ‘It's as much my fight as yours now. This guy has made it personal.'

‘No use asking if the voice rang any bells with you, I suppose?'

‘'Fraid not. And he wasn't so helpful as to give me his name. I wouldn't have described it as an Irish accent, though. It was kinda muffled. Hard to hear what the guy said at all.'

‘And the dog?' Franklin asked. ‘Have you heard from Roger yet?'

‘I called him this morning but he still couldn't say one way or the other. He made it through the night but it's still touch and go. Roger didn't sound too hopeful.'

Cutting through Franklin's sympathy with the excuse that the mobile phone's battery was low, Ross said goodbye and switched off, sitting for a moment in thought.

‘Be careful,' Franklin had said as he disconnected. Ross
would
be careful. Had to be, if he wanted to get through this with his career intact.

Oakley Manor and the horses had become his life now; became more so with every day that passed. The trouble was that if his mystery caller was to be believed, his life might be the price he had to pay.

Somehow, somebody had found out that he was trying to help Franklin. ‘Your dog is dead, Yank,' the harsh, indistinct voice had told him that morning. ‘And if you don't learn to mind your own business, you could be next!'

The big show of the weekend was on the Sunday and when Darcy Richmond arrived late Saturday morning with the intention of taking Sarah out to lunch, Ross gave her the afternoon off. Delighted, she hurried off to change.

‘She's a good kid,' Ross told Franklin's nephew as he took him to see the two new horses. ‘She works her socks off here.'

‘She loves her job, I know that,' Darcy told the American. ‘She never stops talking about it.' He smiled, showing that he didn't mind. ‘Well, sometimes she does,' he amended, with a cheeky wink.

Ross smiled in return, thinking again what a strange pair Darcy and Sarah made.

Having duly admired the new arrivals, they made their way out into the sunshine once more.

‘Jeez! What've you been up to?' Ross asked, seeing Darcy's face properly for the first time. His left eye bore signs of a fading bruise of quite impressive proportions.

‘I could ask the same of you,' Darcy laughed, looking at Ross' grazed cheekbone, legacy of his encounter with Leo. ‘Although Uncle Frank told me about that.' He put his fingers up to touch his own marked face. ‘You ought to have seen it a couple of days ago. I'd like to say I got it fighting for a lady's honour but the sad truth is that I ran into a friend's racket, playing squash.'

‘Ouch!' Ross said as Sarah emerged from the cottage, washed and changed. ‘Now, don't forget. Back by six to help get the lorry ready.'

Barely had Darcy's silver Nissan swept out of the yard than something much heavier was heard approaching. There was the sound of rapid braking as the two vehicles passed in the long driveway, and then shortly after, a massive, gleaming new horsebox nosed into the yard, dwarfing the older one in the way a touring coach would dwarf a minibus.

Danny and Bill appeared from the tackroom and came to stand by Ross as he stared in awe.

‘Wicked!' Danny breathed, slipping into schoolboy lingo. His father favoured him with a withering glance, but secretly Ross couldn't agree more.

Hot on the heels of this shining monster came Franklin's Merc, which disgorged not only Franklin himself but Colonel Preston and his son also.

‘I had to see your faces!' Franklin said as the horsebox engine shuddered to silence. ‘Isn't she a beauty?'

A man in logoed overalls jumped down from the cab. ‘Mornin', Gov'nor,' he said to Franklin, adding somewhat unnecessarily, ‘Here she is, then.'

He watched the reception committee move closer to study the vehicle and cleared his throat. ‘I don't norm'ly work on Saturdays as a rule,' he informed them meaningfully. ‘But the Gov'nor 'ere, 'e said as how 'e wanted it this weekend and there weren't no one else, so 'ere I am.'

Franklin good-naturedly took the hint and fished out a note which he passed to the driver, advising him to buy himself a beer.

The driver blinked at the note before coming to his senses and slipping it into a trouser pocket. Forget the beer, his expression had said for a moment, I'll put in an offer for the brewery! He murmured his appreciation and, having collected Franklin's signature on the delivery documents, departed in a company van, driven by a colleague.

A good half-hour of delighted discovery followed, as the assembled group embarked on a tour of inspection. The lorry held five horses in comfort, six at a push, with storage space for equipment and fodder, and had both rear and side ramps.

Another advantage it held over its predecessor was the living quarters. A kitchen, complete with hob, microwave, washing machine and dryer, tucked neatly into a corner of the sitting-cum-dining area which also boasted a stereo and television, and whose soft chairs converted to narrow beds if need be. It even had a toilet, washbasin and shower cubicle.

Ross found himself grinning from ear to ear at the prospect of such luxury.

‘I'll be moving out of my room upstairs,' he joked. ‘This is unbelievable! I had no idea you were thinking of something like this. It must have cost . . .'

‘Enough to buy a small house,' Franklin admitted. ‘But worth every penny. It was a joint investment, you know. John put a substantial amount forward and even our Scottish friend was persuaded to part with a penny or two. We're moving into the big league now, my lad.'

‘Talking of Robbie Fergusson,' the Colonel said to Ross, ‘he's hoping to come and watch his horses again tomorrow, so you'd better put on a good show.'

‘I'll do my best,' Ross promised, wondering if the Scotsman's presence at the show owed anything to the adverse publicity he had recently been receiving. Ross was sure that it wouldn't have gone unnoticed.

Before Franklin departed for lunch with the Colonel, he managed to draw Ross aside for a moment on the pretext of having a look at one of the horses.

‘McKinnon's men have nothing to report on Leo,' he said quietly. ‘He certainly neither left by the front door nor took his motorbike. They say it's possible he could have left by the back door and made his way across the fields under cover of the storm, but that would mean that he knows he's being watched and McKinnon can't see how that's possible. I'm afraid we're no further forward.'

Sunday dawned dry and bright but with a much fresher feel than in the recent past. Gone was the awful dragging heat of the last few weeks. The sky was a clear blue, the sun warm and a light breeze began to evaporate the worst of the surface water, leaving the turf soft and springy.

As the Oakley Manor team parked their new acquisition proudly amongst the first arrivals at the showground, Ross experienced the buzz the start of a show always gave him.

This was probably the biggest show, in terms of prestige, he had so far attended in England. In the shining new lorry, Bishop, Woodsmoke, Ginger, Flowergirl and Simone waited with barely controlled impatience for the action to start.

Everyone except Sarah was attending the show. She preferred to remain in the yard where she felt under less pressure. Sally, the farmer's daughter, usually came in to help when she was on her own.

On this occasion, Danny and Bill had accompanied Ross in the horsebox, Bill sharing the driving at the Colonel's suggestion, to leave Ross fresh for riding.

He accepted this arrangement gladly, although he was a little concerned that Colonel Preston was having doubts about his fitness, and made a mental note to try and minimise his limp when his employer was around.

The Colonel himself was to arrive later in the morning in the Jaguar, and there had been talk of Franklin obtaining permission to bring Peter out of hospital for the afternoon. It seemed Ross would have quite a crowd of interested onlookers, with Robbie Fergusson also promising to be there.

As a matter of fact, it was Ginger who produced the best result of the morning, winning her Grade-C class with a neat and obedient double clear round. Ross should have been elated but somehow could feel no enthusiasm for her performance. She seemed to lack any spark of enjoyment. Unfortunately, Fergusson had not arrived by that time and so missed his mare's finest hour.