“We need to move him out of here sir,” the lad said over his shoulder. Grogan couldn’t tell if he was the one being addressed or the trainer, who’d reappeared also.

“What about him?” the trainer asked nodding to Viktor’s body sprawled in the entrance to the stable.

“What about him?” Grogan asked brusquely. He turned to the lad. “Just get on with it son. If the horse tramples all over the big daft bastard while he’s about it, maybe it’ll teach him a lesson.”

Between stable lad and trainer they managed to get a bridle onto the colt’s aristocratic head and led him out. The horse made a big production of needing to sniff at Viktor before he’d step over him then lifted each leg exaggeratedly high and bounced away across the yard alongside the lad, up on his toes and still blowing hard.

“This might be enough to put him off his game for the big race,” the trainer muttered as he hurried after them, not waiting for a response.

Because he had a bloody good idea what that response might be . . .

Grogan pulled out a large white handkerchief to clean his hands. “Nothing like making your excuses before you begin is there?” he said dryly.

The girl gave no reply. He looked over and found she’d picked up the fallen shotgun and was now aiming it in his direction with a certain degree of competence about her.

He carried on wiping his hands, apparently unconcerned. “Know what you’re about with one of those things do you?”

“I’ve fired a few in my time.”

He grunted. “Shooting into some water tank in a ballistics lab is not the same thing as into flesh and blood though, is it?”

“Hadn’t you heard?” she asked tightly, almost a taunt. “Killing people isn’t a problem for me.”

Grogan paused, staring at her. “I’ve met some killers in my time sweetheart,” he said. “But you’re not one of them.”

She smiled. “Want to put that to the test?”

No he didn’t. He tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket keeping his movements nice and slow and said instead, “Why did you come?”

“I wanted to talk to Brian Stubbs.”

“Like I told you, he’s not here,” Grogan said. “You want to talk? Fine, let’s talk.” He glanced down. “But I’m not standing around up to my knees in horse shit out here to do it, so either we go inside and sit down like two adults or you can sling your hook.”

And with that he turned and walked out of the stable, stepping over Viktor’s unconscious figure a lot less carefully than the colt had done.

It wasn’t until he’d made it unmolested across the yard that he felt the tension go out of his neck.

96

Inside the farmhouse was old-fashioned and slightly scruffy. Kelly took one look at the cluttered worktops, the overflowing sink and the soot stains above the ancient Rayburn and decided that the trainer probably lived alone.

The walls were largely covered with pictures of horses. Black and white shots of old victories going back forty years.

The kitchen itself was empty apart from a couple of ancient Labradors sleeping close to the front of the Rayburn. One dog raised its head when Kelly entered, gave a wide yawn and settled down again.

She moved quietly across the dull tiles, still clutching the shotgun. Only one door out of the room stood open and she could hear movement beyond. She hesitated just outside then stepped through quickly as if expecting an ambush.

The room was a small bare sitting room with French doors leading out onto a mown but otherwise bare garden. Kelly could see the post and rail fence bordering the driveway beyond. The room boasted a large boxy television set and a video recorder stacked with tapes labelled for old races. Racing papers formed decorative stacks at either side of a well-worn armchair.

Harry Grogan was standing at a sideboard on the far side of the room with his back to her, pouring a stiff Scotch on the rocks. He turned as she came in, lifting the bottle.

“Join me?”

Kelly shook her head.

“You can put that thing down,” Grogan said nodding to the shotgun. “I’ve said we’ll talk. I like to think I’m a man of my word. You’ll not get any more out of me that way.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Kelly let the twin muzzles droop until the only thing they menaced was the ugly floral pattern on the carpet which, she felt, probably had it coming.

“I have to hand it to you,” he said sipping the drink and watching her closely while he did so. “There’s not many people would have the guts to beard the lion in his den as it were.”

“I think you’ll find it’s the lionesses who do all the hunting.”

Grogan raised his glass in salute. “And the lion who gets to muscle in on the kill afterwards and take the best for himself without the work.”

Kelly sighed. “Shall we stop waving our dicks around here?” she said. “Because I think that’s one contest you’re always going to win.”

His face didn’t register anything but she thought she caught the faintest glimmer in his eyes. They were small and deep set, seeming to dominate within his shaven skull. She had the impression of a man who knew his own strength on many levels. And not just so he could crack open a man’s head with a shovel.

“I don’t know about that sweetheart,” he said at last. “You may not have a dick but you’ve certainly got balls.”

He moved round the armchair and sat down, ignoring the way she darted back as he approached.

“So,” he said, “you think I’ve put a price on your head for interfering in my business in some way, is that it?”

“More or less.”

Again there was no immediate reaction. He took another sip of whisky, swallowed and then let out a low chuckle.

“Care to share the joke?” Kelly asked, aware of a tart edge to her voice.

“The joke?” Grogan said. “The joke is sweetheart that I’m just a simple businessman—have been for years.”

“Businessman. Is that a euphemism?”

He smiled more fully now, the kind of smile she guessed was not supposed to be entirely reassuring. “One-hundred percent legit.”

“Doing what?”

“Corporate takeovers, property development, import/export—import mainly. I source goods overseas, bring them in, sell them on and make a profit. Same as a thousand other entrepreneurs—only probably a damn sight more successful than most of them. Even Customs have given up tearing apart every load looking for contraband.”