Cut Throat Read Free Page A

one of two owners besides John Preston himself who kept horses in training at the Oakley Manor yard.
    â€˜Oh, Christ! It would be, wouldn’t it?’ Roger said heavily.
    Sarah stifled a sob. ‘I can’t believe it! He was so full of life this morning. We had the digger down here, clearing the ditches, and the youngsters were all racing round together. How could it have happened?’
    â€˜This field’s quite marshy, isn’t it?’ the vet commented thoughtfully, packing his stethoscope away.
    â€˜Yes. Why?’
    â€˜Are there any other horses still in here?’ he asked, ignoring the question.
    â€˜Yes . . .’
    â€˜Right. Well, I think we should get them back to the yard where we can keep an eye on them. Just as a precaution. Come on, I’ll give you a hand.’
    Even though they were wearing headcollars, the operation to catch the remaining four two-year-olds and persuade them to pass the body of their erstwhile companion took nearly a quarter of an hour. Halfway back to the yard the vet received another call-out on his mobile phone, handed his charge to Leo, and departed to patch up a pony that had got hung up in a barbed-wire fence.
    The remaining group were met in the yard by a wiry, taciturn little man who introduced himself to Ross as Bill Scott, stable manager, and suggested that the youngsters be put in the schooling area for the night. It seemed that Roger had given him the bad news on his way through the yard, and had promised to return first thing in the morning.
    â€˜Give them plenty of hay, Sarah,’ Scott instructed as she led the way to a gate in the corner of the yard.
    Ross let his two-year-old loose in the school along with the others, and turned back to the yard where Scott stood waiting.
    â€˜So, you’re Ross Wakelin. You’re late,’ he observed.
    â€˜I phoned from the airport,’ Ross said, surprised. ‘The flight was delayed.’
    â€˜Yes, I know.’ Scott’s tone implied that this was no excuse. ‘Well, I’ve got work to do so I’ll show you your room. The Colonel said to tell you he’d see you in the morning.’
    Ross wasn’t sorry. He had slept very little at the airport the previous night, and at that moment desired nothing more than a bite to eat and a bed to black out in. He certainly felt in no fit state to confront his future boss.
    Scott led the way across the yard to a door set between two stables. Automatic security floodlights came on at their approach and horses peered out at them, wisps of hay trailing from their muzzles.
    â€˜This used to be a coachhouse. The Colonel had it converted,’ Scott told him, opening the door to reveal a flight of wooden steps leading steeply upwards. ‘Now it’s two bedsits. Your room is on the left; the other belongs to Leo. Bathroom’s straight ahead. You’ll eat with me and the missus in the cottage. Dinner’s normally at seven-thirty but she’ll have saved you something, so come over when you’re ready.’
    Without further ado he turned and ambled away with that rolling, slightly bow-legged gait peculiar to seasoned horsemen. Ross wondered with momentary amusement if he would end up walking like that, given time.
    He found his room to be quaint and surprisingly comfortable. Long and low, it had cream-painted walls and masses of dark beams. The floor was of uneven boards liberally scattered with bright rugs, and against one wall sagged a huge sofa that had seen better days but was preserving its dignity under a striped horse blanket. A wood-effect electric fire promised warmth if needed, and entertainment came in the shape of three rather discoloured Stubbs prints and a portable TV. Seated smugly on top of this was a polished mahogany Buddha, a souvenir of some far-off land, and on top of the fire an ancient Bakelite-cased clock ticked loudly. At the far end of the room, underneath the sharply sloping