‘He said it sounded Irish. But no, he didn’t recognise it.’
Ross frowned. ‘Nothing to do with the IRA, I suppose. It’s just – I was thinking of Shergar . . .’
‘Nothing we can discover. And highly unlikely, I would think. Although Bellboy was well known within the showjumping world, the general public is far more keyed-in to racing. The impact on the media was short-lived.’
‘And he has no obvious enemies,’ the American mused. ‘Or if he had, you would have checked them all out by now.’
‘No, we don’t think so.’ McKinnon gave Ross a speculative, sideways look. ‘In general, Franklin Richmond is honest and fair, both in business and in his personal life. As a result he seems to be almost universally well liked.’
‘So,’ Ross said slowly, ‘I guess that makes it extortion. A demand for money. Pay up or we’ll do worse.’
McKinnon inclined his head, a faint smile playing about his lips. ‘Impressive, Mr Wakelin. Franklin said you were sharp.
‘Yes, a message was left exactly a week later, when the immediate brouhaha had died down. And again from a remote telephone kiosk, though not the same one. Richmond was to make regular, specified payments into a numbered account in the Cayman Islands or another of his horses would meet with a sticky end – the extortionist’s phrase, not mine,’ he added quickly. ‘The horses were not to change yards or be sold, and no third parties were to be involved. Most especially not the police.’
No wonder Franklin was edgy when he was told Sailor had been poisoned, Ross thought. He swallowed the last of his beer. ‘And now, I guess, we get to the reason why you’re telling me all this.’
McKinnon reverted to fingering the rim of his glass. ‘To be honest, as I said, it was Franklin’s idea, not mine. I wasn’t keen,’ he admitted. ‘I insisted that I meet you first. But now I have – well, I think it might be worth enlisting your help.’
Ross shook his head. ‘But I don’t!’ he stated unequivocally. ‘I’m a rider, not a private investigator, and the way things are panning out, I’m likely to have quite enough on my hands just doing that.’
‘That’s a shame,’ McKinnon observed calmly. ‘In spite of my reservations, I was beginning to think you might be of real help.’
‘Thanks,’ Ross said ironically, ‘but no thanks. Surely you’ve got manpower enough already?’
‘Men, yes. But no one who could be as close to all this as you are. You will be closer than anyone except Franklin himself. Look, I’m not asking you to change profession, merely to keep your eyes and ears open for anything that might seem out of place or unusual.’
‘You figure it’s someone in the Colonel’s yard, then. In effect you’re asking me to spy on the people I’m going to be working with?’
McKinnon shrugged. ‘We don’t know who it is. But it is logical to assume that there may be some connection between the yard and the extortionist. He seems aware of the horses’ every movement. But as far as spying goes – if you must use that word – you wouldn’t be troubled about it if you’d seen Bellboy as Franklin Richmond was forced to see him.’ He paused, his lip curling in distaste at the memory. ‘The police took photographs. It was horrific. Do you know how much blood a horse has?’
‘That size? About fifty – maybe fifty-five pints,’ Ross said absent-mindedly. ‘But what about the police? And the insurance company? What did they make of it?’
‘They investigated, of course. The insurance company had Franklin bring in a security firm to guard his remaining horses day and night. But after a couple of months they were convinced that it was a one-off. We obviously couldn’t tell them what was really going on. For one thing they would probably have withdrawn their cover in a flash. Most policies cover malicious damage but the expectation of it is not high. Insuring all Mr Richmond’s horses in such circumstances would almost certainly constitute too great a risk. After all, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how impossible it would be to guard just one competition horse every minute of the day without badly disrupting its training. Who knows where the danger might lie? Poison . . . a sniper in the woods . . . or a knife in the stable, as in this instance. There was one case, some years ago now, where one of Britain’s leading lady riders had half her horses poisoned by a madman or someone with a grudge. As far as I know, they never found out who was responsible.’
Ross was thoughtful. ‘If I agreed to report anything unusual, that’s all I would do – no snooping around or asking questions.’
‘Just keep your eyes and ears open,’ McKinnon agreed, taking care not to exhibit any sign of triumph. He took a sip of his wine.
‘So, do I get to know who the others are?’ Ross asked casually.
McKinnon looked sharply at the American over the rim of his glass. He took another slow sip. ‘Others?’
‘Oh, come on! You must have other people working on this thing.’
‘Of course,’ McKinnon agreed. ‘But to date we’ve made no significant progress. It’s a tricky business. A question asked in the wrong place could make matters very much worse. It’s not like investigating a fait accompli. We lacked the inside angle. Until now, that is.’
‘But you’re not going to tell me who the others are?’
‘It’s better that I don’t,’ McKinnon said, shaking his head judiciously. ‘What you don’t know, you can’t give away, accidentally or otherwise.’
‘Jeez! I’m not going to be tortured, am I?’ Ross exclaimed in mock alarm.
McKinnon wisely decided to ignore that. He handed Ross a slip of paper. ‘If you need to contact me, you can ring that number,’ he said patiently. ‘It’s my private line, not the main office. Keep it somewhere safe. Better still, learn and destroy it.’
‘Real undercover stuff,’ Ross said, amused. ‘Shall I swallow it? Or shall I burn it and flush the ashes down the john?’
‘I really don’t care if you make a bloody omelette with it,’ McKinnon said, his careful control slipping for a moment. He was rewarded by an appreciative grin from the American. ‘So you will help?’
Ross sighed, still unconvinced. ‘I guess so,’ he said at last. ‘Just eyes and ears, though, nothing more.’
McKinnon nodded. ‘That’s all we ask.’
Ross got to his feet and the Englishman followed suit, extending his hand. His clasp was, as Ross would have expected, cool and firm.
‘Thank you for your time,’ he said in his courteous way.
‘A pleasure,’ Ross returned ironically. ‘Besides, there was nothing on TV.’
Ross had little opportunity to think over what McKinnon had told him, for that weekend saw his first show in England. It was a big agricultural show not far from Basingstoke and the horses had been entered before Stephen Douglas had left the yard. The Colonel had consulted Ross and Bill and decided to let the entries stand.
Leo had spent Friday afternoon washing and polishing the Oakley Manor horsebox, and by seven o’clock the following morning the three competing horses were loaded and the box was rocking gently down the gravel drive to the road.
Ross drove, glad of the distraction. To keep them clean, he wore leather chaps over his white breeches and behind him in the cab hung his black jacket, brushed and sheathed in polythene.
For perhaps the first time since he started riding in shows, twelve years before, he was nervous. So many people were going to be watching him closely, assessing his ability not only to ride but also to compete, and there were a hundred and one things that could go wrong.
And that’s if I’m lucky, he thought wryly.
His stomach had tied itself into knots and he had had to force himself to eat a reasonable breakfast, knowing he would need the energy later. A supportive team would have been a great plus, but Ross had the uneasy feeling that neither Leo nor Bill would be too devastated if he made a fool of himself. At present, Leo sat beside him in unfriendly silence.
‘What’s the time?’ Ross asked as they slowly began to gain speed on the main road, ears attuned to the muffled thuds in
the back as the horses shifted to maintain balance, and one eye on the video monitor that allowed him to see in black and white miniature how they were travelling.
‘Haven’t you got a watch?’ Leo returned cockily.
‘Sure, but I can’t find it . . .’ Ross’ voice tailed off and he glanced sideways at Leo, who wore what could only be described as a smirk.
‘Have you got it?’ he demanded.
‘What would I want with your watch, Yank? I’ve got one of my own.’ He pushed up his sleeve to reveal an extremely expensive-looking timepiece.
Ross wasn’t sure what to think. He had taken the watch off while he washed the stable stains from Cragside’s pale grey coat and could have sworn he’d put it on the shelf above the sink in the tackroom but it wasn’t there when he went back. It hadn’t occurred to him before that anyone might have taken it, but now . . .
If it had indeed been Leo, then it seemed that that one act of revenge had satisfied the groom, at least for the time being, for when they reached the showground he became a model of efficiency. He unloaded and tacked up the horses as they were needed, folding and tidying rugs and leg protectors ready for reuse, and even warmed up King while Ross walked the course.
Once in the saddle, Ross’ nerves evaporated. This was his job. He knew exactly what had to be done and he would do it. Lifted by Ross’ confidence, King’s Defender took his first class easily and added a fourth place later in the day.
Cragside, the Colonel’s big, solid grey, jumped a slow but careful clear in both his classes but lost to far faster animals, and Simone rounded the day off with a first and a third in her speed classes.
Colonel Preston had arrived shortly after ten o’clock, driven by Masters, and watched the proceedings with every appearance of satisfaction. Even Bill Scott looked a little less sour as the day wore on.
The Colonel appeared in the horsebox park as the horses were being loaded for the return journey.
‘All well?’ he asked.
‘Sure.’ Ross heaved up the spring-loaded ramp with Leo’s help and secured it in place. ‘Simone’s nicked the inside of her knee somehow but it’s nothing much. I’m pleased with them – they all did well.’
The Colonel nodded. ‘You didn’t do so badly yourself,’ he said. ‘For a Yank.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Ross smiled, well satisfied.
The next day the ground began to crumble under his feet.
4
It was Monday, officially the yard’s day off. Leo and Sarah were free to do what they pleased and Bill looked after the horses with help from a local farmer’s daughter, mucking out and feeding, then turning the resting horses out to grass to relax for the day. Bill’s rest day was supposed to be Tuesday, but according to Sarah, he seldom took it.
Ross rose later than normal, but out of habit went down to the yard to help, unable to remain idle. The day stretched ahead of him uninvitingly, and over breakfast he voiced his intention to ride some of the horses that had missed out on exercise the day before. He wondered aloud whether Bill fancied joining him but the older man muttered something about having work to do and disappeared into the stable office, shutting the door firmly behind him. Shaking his head, Ross turned to collect the first saddle and bridle.
After working Bishop in the arena for an hour, he saddled Ginger and set off to explore the countryside, thankful to be free for once from Sarah’s nervous awkwardness and Leo’s sullen presence.
He made his way down the lane behind the Manor and past some farm cottages. When a heavily built German Shepherd came leaping and snarling to the end of its chain as he passed, Ross instinctively tightened his grip on Ginger, remembering her sudden panic with Sarah. But nothing seemed further from her mind today. She remained docile, almost lazy, her long ears flopping back and forth with the movement of her stride. This was how she normally behaved. Even when jumping she was scarcely more animated, clicking her toes over each fence, often bringing a light pole down as she skimmed over.
Ross relaxed and turned his attention to the beauty of the Wiltshire countryside. It was early summer and the leaves still looked fresh and new. Birds sang and the sun was warm. After the vast unchanging tracts of land in parts of his native America, impressive as they were, England’s leafy lanes, copses and green fields enchanted Ross. They seemed somehow intimate; they narrowed life down to more manageable proportions. Lindsay had often said that America made her feel insignificant, like looking up into the night sky. With a surprising twinge of loneliness, Ross realised how much he was missing her and wondered how soon she would return to England. She still had three months of the planned year to run, but had mentioned the possibility of cutting her visit short.
As he rode down a narrow bridleway and into the shelter of a valley the sun became quite hot and flies began to buzz around both horse and rider. Ross broke a whippy branch from a willow tree and used it to fan his face. Ginger swished her tail and shook her head.
‘The flies bothering you too, girl?’ he asked, and leaned forward to flick the leafy branch round her ears.
She stopped dead, her body taut and quivering.
‘What the . . . ?’ Ross laughed. ‘Come on, girl. Stop messing me about.’
Ross didn’t normally carry a whip out hacking, he didn’t find it necessary, but now he wished he had one. In spite of his urging her with legs and voice, the chestnut mare refused to budge. Exasperated, he stung her with the twig in his hand.
With a high-pitched squeal the mare bolted.
When a horse is hell-bent on running there is little any rider, however strong, can do to stop it. Ginger was no exception. Catching him unprepared, she ripped the reins through his fingers and ran. The bottom of the valley was reached in no time and she floundered in the boggy stream that ran through it, almost pitching Ross over her head. He threw his weight back and she leapt clear of the soft ground, heading at top speed for a copse halfway up the valley side. Ross searched ahead desperately for a gap in the trees large enough to admit a horse and rider at speed, and found none. Ginger showed no sign of stopping.
Ross contemplated baling out, but thoughts of several thousand pounds’ worth of showjumper charging riderless through the countryside and his own aversion to walking home kept him in the saddle. He abandoned attempts to slow the mare, throwing all his weight on to one rein instead, in an effort to turn her. Gradually she came round, and without slackening speed tore down the valley side again, through two gorse bushes without seeming to see them, and plunged into the bog once more.
At this point, lower down the valley, the bog was deeper and wider and as her forefeet sank into the mud, her momentum carried her body up and over to land heavily on her back. Ross was catapulted clear, hitting the soft ground with his shoulder and rolling to his feet, the reins, from long practice, still gripped firmly in his left hand.
Ginger regained her feet swiftly and lunged clear of the marshy ground, dragging Ross with her for a few feet before stopping. Her ears were flicking back and forth in agitation and her whole body was coated with a mixture of foaming sweat and peaty mud. Her lungs worked like bellows driving air through scarlet-lined nostrils, and she shook with the violence of her heartbeats.
‘Steady, girl. Easy does it.’ Ross kept his voice low and steady, trying to convey a calmness he was far from feeling.
Ginger stared past him with white-rimmed eyes, her attention apparently focused on some terror he could not comprehend. Then, suddenly, she heaved a shuddering sigh and was quiet.
Ross stepped closer and patted her. She seemed relaxed now and very tired.
He automatically straightened the saddle and picked bits of moss out of her muddy mane, then leaned weakly against her neck with his eyes closed and began to shake uncontrollably.
Ross suffered no physical ill effects as a result of his fall and neither, as far as he could tell, did the mare.
The yard was deserted when he returned and he was able to clean up Ginger and her tack, as well as changing
his own grass-stained clothing, before Bill appeared to do the midday feeds. He apparently noticed nothing amiss and Ross did not mention the incident, feeling that admitting the mare had bolted with him would do little to enhance the stable manager’s already doubtful opinion of him. He would make sure, though, that Sarah didn’t ride the mare out again.
That night the nightmares returned with a vengeance.
Tuesday dawned clear and sunny. Ross trudged downstairs and out into the yard feeling as though he hadn’t slept for a week. He paused at the water trough halfway to the stables and sloshed ice-cold water over his head, gasping as it ran down his back, inside his shirt. He knew he would have to ride Ginger again, later, but worked mechanically through the usual tasks, trying not to dwell on the fact until gradually his natural resilience began to reassert itself.
After breakfast he rode Flowergirl out in the fields with the others and survived a spirited attempt to buck him off when he gave her a pipe-opening gallop. He rode back to the yard still buoyed up by the exhilaration of their headlong charge and half-believing he had imagined his fears of the day before. If only he could get the picture of Ginger’s wild, unfocused stare out of his mind . . .
He passed the brown mare’s reins to Sarah and went to get a beer from the refrigerator in the stable office next to the tackroom. When he returned, Bill was leading Ginger out into the sunshine. The mare was due for a schooling session as she was entered in an evening show the following day, and Ross wasn’t sure whether to be pleased that he was riding her within the confines of the arena or unhappy that Bill would almost certainly be watching him.
Once aboard, any apprehension he may have had vanished. She was just a horse, like many others he had ridden; no more or less dangerous than King or Bishop. It was just an unfortunate coincidence that she was a chestnut mare, as Vixen had been. Vixen had had a brain tumour; a once-in-a-lifetime chance. Ginger was just a little moody, as redheads often are.
The schooling session went smoothly. Ginger did all that was asked of her obediently, if not exactly eagerly. Bill seemed pleased, which was unusual for him.
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