Cut Throat Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Copyright

  About the Author

  By the same Author

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Cut Throat

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Epub ISBN 9781409069171

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published by Arrow Books in 2003

  3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Copyright © Lyndon Stacey 2002

  The right of Lyndon Stacey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  First published by Hutchinson in 2002

  Arrow Books

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  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Papers used by Random House are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin

  Typeset by SX Composing DTP, Rayleigh, Essex

  Printed and bound in the United Kingdom by Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berkshire

  ISBN 0 09 942945 4

  About the Author

  Lyndon Stacey is the author of Cut Throat, Blindfold and Deadfall. She lives in the Blackmore Vale. Her fourth book, Outside Chance, will be published by Hutchinson in August 2005.

  ‘Great characters both human and equine . . . Offers the reader plenty of surprises’ Horse Magazine

  ‘Clears its fences neatly . . . wonderful’ Kirkus Reviews

  ‘Stacey is a highly original author . . . she certainly knows how to deliver an invigorating experience for the reader’ Good Book Guide

  By the same author

  Blindfold

  Deadfall

  For my mother, who always believed.

  And for my father and Bob Stembridge,

  who would have been so very pleased.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank Martin Peaty MRCVS, of The Barn Equine Surgery, Dorset, Mark Randle of the Wiltshire Police, and the staff at BSJA headquarters, Stoneleigh, for their patience in answering my many questions, and to make it clear that any inaccuracies are entirely my fault for not asking the right questions!

  Also, thanks to Sue and James at Hutchinson, and Dorothy, my agent, for their help and encouragement.

  And last, but by no means least, thanks go to Anthony McConnell and Brenda, my ‘Fairy Godmother’ who, between them, started the ball rolling.

  1

  Twelve hundred pounds of charging horseflesh hit the wooden railings chest high and somersaulted into the north stands. Faces, frozen with horror, moved in desperate slow motion to get out of the path of the crazed beast, and their screams were all that its helpless rider could hear. The slamming, sickening impact, the smell of horse sweat and newly painted wood and the taste of blood were all crowded out by those piercing, hysterical cries.

  He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Pain filled his chest. Panic rose, constricting his throat, and the animal’s flailing hooves threatened to decapitate him at any moment. Still they screamed. Why couldn’t they stop? The noise filled his mind, tore at his senses, on and on and on . . .

  ‘No!’

  Ross cried out, kicking at the bed covers that had twisted round his legs, and sat up gasping for breath. Sweat glistened on his face and arms, staining his grey tee-shirt, and his hair clung damply to his scalp.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat, waiting for the pounding of his heart to steady. His head throbbed heavily and his mouth tasted bad. The jeans he still wore bore testimony to his nocturnal ramble along the beach. Sand grated between his toes and he felt unwashed and very sick. Considering the amount of alcohol he had consumed, he was surprised he hadn’t fallen into the sea.

  The delicate state of his health was not improved by the loud buzz of the doorbell, a moment later.

  Ross groaned, head in hands. Perhaps whoever it was would go away.

  It buzzed again, the sound reverberating inside his head, and muttering darkly, he pushed himself to his feet.

  Stumbling across the room, he stubbed his toe on a chair leg and swore, as yet unfamiliar with the layout of his mother’s Florida beach house. Needing a peaceful refuge and knowing it to be empty, he had flown down from Georgia the previous day, when he had finally been forced to admit to himself what the rest of the world had long ago decided: that his career as a professional rider was over.

  The doorbell sounded a third time. Ross jerked the door open irritably and squinted against the sunlight.

  The slight, blonde female who stood on the doorstep surveyed him from head to toe with wide-spaced, blue-grey eyes. She tilted her shoulder-length bob to one side and pursed her lips.

  ‘My, you have had a bad night,’ she observed in aristocratic English tones.

  ‘I’ve been out jogging,’ Ross lied blandly. Lindsay Cresswell, friend and fellow rider, was someone he would normally have been pleased to see, but not today, and especially not in the condition he was in.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She sounded unconvinced. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’

  ‘Sure, if you want to join me for breakfast.’

  ‘I was thinking more of lunch,’ Lindsay said dryly. ‘It’s half-past twelve. That must have been some run!’

  Ross looked at his watch and grudgingly conceded the point. He stood back, allowing her to step past him and into the dim interior. Then he slammed the door irritably, immediately regretting it as his aching head protested.

  ‘You’ll have to wait while I freshen up,’ he mumbled mulishly. All he really wanted was to be left alone.

  Lindsay threw open the curtains to admit the sunlight of a glorious May day and righted an empty wine bottl
e that was lying on the coffee table.

  ‘Fine,’ she said brightly, sitting on the luxurious cream leather sofa and picking up a magazine.

  Ross slammed the bathroom door for good measure.

  Ten minutes later he emerged, having showered and changed, his dark brown hair towelled dry and combed back.

  ‘That’s better, you look almost human,’ Lindsay said, coming through from the kitchen and handing him a cup of steaming coffee.

  His temper in some part restored, Ross surveyed her with affection. Her thick, naturally blonde hair framed a face with almost classical bone structure and flawless, lightly tanned skin.

  They had met on the show circuit some eight months before and had quickly struck up an easy companionship. She was in America for a year on a working holiday as nanny-cum-groom for a friend with a young family, and the knowledge that when she returned to England she was expected to become officially engaged to James, her childhood sweetheart, had provided the relaxed atmosphere in which their friendship had grown.

  At first the existence of this distant relationship hadn’t worried Ross; lately it had begun to prey on his mind.

  ‘I guess you didn’t come all this way just for coffee,’ he said, collapsing on to the immaculate upholstery.

  ‘No, I have a proposition for you.’ She sat opposite him and took a sip from her cup.

  ‘Oh?’ His tone offered no encouragement.

  ‘I was talking to my uncle about you.’

  ‘I bet he was just fascinated.’

  ‘As a matter of fact he was. Interested, anyway. You remember I told you he has a small showjumping yard back in England? Well, two weeks ago he lost his rider.’

  ‘Kinda careless of him,’ Ross observed.

  ‘Ha-ha,’ she said with a brief, humourless smile. ‘No, the young lad he had riding for him wasn’t up to the job and apparently there was a big bust-up between him and one of the other owners in the yard, which ended in the rider being thrown out. So now they’re stuck, and I suggested you.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ Ross laughed mirthlessly. ‘And they’re so short of riders in England that he’ll jump at the chance of taking on an unknown from the States – especially one who comes complete with a reputation for unreliability.’

  Lindsay ignored the sarcasm. ‘It’s mid-season. Most of the riders worth their salt already have enough on their plates. I mean, it’s one thing to take on an extra horse or two, but not a whole yardful. He’s got an ex-jockey exercising them at the moment but if he doesn’t find someone soon, the other owners will take their horses elsewhere. But, understandably, Uncle John is very particular.’

  ‘Like I said,’ Ross murmured.

  ‘Anyway, I suggested you and he’s willing to give it a try.’

  Ross frowned. ‘Why in hell would he? He doesn’t know me from Adam!’

  ‘No. But I do,’ she said patiently, ‘and he trusts me. Well? What do you think?’

  Ross was silent for a moment. ‘I think your uncle should look someplace else,’ he said then, avoiding her hopeful eyes. ‘I’m through with that game. I’m sorry, you’ve had a wasted journey.’

  ‘What do you mean? You can’t just give up – it’s your life! Horses are in your blood. That’s what you told me, remember?’

  ‘Well, I was wrong. I’ve changed my mind, and now I’ve quit. Finished. Okay?’ Ross put his cup down on the table and stood up, his lithe six foot two frame towering over her briefly before he walked away towards the window.

  ‘No, it’s not okay!’ Lindsay exclaimed incredulously. ‘You can’t let them win, just like that. It’s like admitting they’re right to doubt your nerve!’

  ‘Maybe they are.’ Ross watched the waves lazily lapping the sand of the deserted beach.

  ‘My God, you are feeling sorry for yourself, aren’t you?’ She rose to her feet, banging her cup down hard on the tabletop. ‘All washed up at twenty-seven. Well, don’t let me interrupt your self-pity. Why don’t you have another bottle of wine? Or two!’ She picked up her bag and whisked out of the room.

  Ross stayed motionless, sighing as he heard the door slam and her footsteps recede down the gravel path. He was disgusted with himself, but most of all he was conscious of having lost Lindsay’s respect, and that hurt. She, of all people, deserved better treatment. Throughout his long hospitalisation and convalescence following the accident, she had been one of his most frequent visitors, and one of the few to continue to support him as his attempted comeback fell apart around him.

  He looked across at the open liquor cabinet but made no move towards it. Before the previous night’s binge, he had never used alcohol to drown his sorrows and the way he felt this morning didn’t encourage him to change his habits. He ran his fingers through his hair and groaned, wondering if his mother kept any antidote to the poison she stored in such quantity.

  The doorbell buzzed again. Crossing to the door, he opened it a crack and peered through.

  ‘My car keys,’ Lindsay said huffily.

  Ross obligingly fetched them but kept them enclosed in his hand.

  ‘Stay and eat?’ he suggested sheepishly.

  ‘I shouldn’t have thought you’d feel like food,’ she remarked, avoiding his gaze.

  Ross considered this.

  ‘Guess you’re right,’ he agreed, holding the keys out obediently.

  Suddenly, Lindsay smiled.

  ‘Thanks, I’d love to stay.’

  He could never say for sure just how the decision was made, but the following week found Ross alighting on to the tarmac at Heathrow after a flight from Miami that had been delayed by a bomb hoax and endless security checks.

  Lindsay had painted a very tempting picture of life in her uncle’s small Wiltshire yard, although Ross nursed no illusions that it would be a bed of roses. But when the alcohol-induced depression wore off and his natural resilience edged back, the challenge of a completely new start began to exercise a strong attraction. He was honest enough to admit, if only to himself, that no small part of its allure lay in the knowledge that Lindsay stabled her own horse in the yard and would sooner or later return to her home just three miles away.

  He phoned the Colonel before taking an airport bus to Woking, from where a train connection delivered him safely to Salisbury, albeit some seven hours late. Here he was met by a neatly dressed man of fifty or so, who announced that he had been sent to collect Ross and led the way to a gleaming, dove-grey Jaguar.

  He learned that his driver went by the name of Masters and that he worked for Colonel Preston – Lindsay’s Uncle John – but not a lot else. Ross settled back wearily in the sumptuous leather-covered seats and in the fading light of the early evening marvelled, as he had done on the train, at the constantly changing scenery. Houses, woods, fields and moorland, all within the space of a few miles. In the States, you would have to travel for days to see such varied terrain.

  It was nearly dark when Masters turned the Jaguar off the road and on to a gravel drive set between two huge limes, the car’s headlights picking out a sign that announced Oakley Manor.

  ‘I’ll take you straight to the yard,’ he told Ross, breaking a long silence. ‘The Colonel won’t be able to see you at the moment. You were expected earlier and he’s had to go out.’

  ‘Yeah, well, nothing I could do about it,’ Ross said. ‘I spent most of the night at Miami airport.’

  Masters shrugged non-committally.

  The car swept between two single-storey buildings into a well-lit yard and the middle of a crisis.

  No sooner had they rolled to a halt than a stocky young female burst out of a nearby doorway at a run. She checked in obvious disappointment as Ross climbed out of the Jaguar.

  ‘Oh, I thought you were the vet!’ she wailed. ‘I called him ages ago. What am I going to do? Sailor’s dying, I’m sure he is!’

  ‘Okay. Slow down. What’s the problem here?’ Ross asked, his fatigue instantly forgotten.

  There was a moment’s hesitation as the
girl stared at him. ‘Oh, you’re the new rider, of course. It’s Sailor – one of the two-year-olds in the bottom field – I think he’s got colic. Bill’s out, and when I went down to check on them after dinner, Sailor was thrashing about on the ground, covered in sweat and kind of drooling at the mouth. I tried to get him up, but I couldn’t get near him. It was awful!’

  ‘Is anyone with the horse now?’

  ‘Yes, Leo’s down there but he can’t get him up either. Oh, thank God!’ she exclaimed as a Range Rover rapidly decelerated into the yard and stopped beside the Jag. ‘Here’s Rober.’

  The occupant of the Range Rover, a youngish man with a friendly face and a shock of curly hair, leaned across and opened the passenger door. ‘Where’s the patient?’ he asked without preamble.

  ‘Bottom field,’ the stocky girl told him.

  ‘Okay, Sarah, jump in. We’ll go down in this. Is Bill there?’

  ‘No, he’s not here. He’s gone to a tack auction with the Colonel. They should have been back by now. Oh, God! It would happen tonight.’

  As the girl climbed in next to the yet, Ross slipped, uninvited, into the back seat and slammed the door hastily as the vehicle lurched forward. Nobody queried his right to be there and Masters, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, watched his departure with a resigned shake of his head.

  They crossed the yard, swung left and bumped perhaps two hundred yards down a grassy track, with Sarah repeating her tale to the vet as they went. The track ended at a metal field gate, where the three of them scrambled out, leaving the Range Rover’s headlights on to illuminate the area beyond. A few strides took them to where the stricken horse lay, convulsing weakly.

  A lean, wiry figure rose to its feet at their approach and Ross could just make out the aquiline features of a young man with close-cropped dark hair and a glint of gold in one ear. Leo, he presumed.

  ‘Hi,’ Roger said. ‘How is he now?’

  ‘Quieter. He’s stopped thrashing about.’

  ‘Hmm, that’s not necessarily a good sign,’ the vet said as he put his bag down and knelt at the horse’s head. ‘How long has he been like this?’