“I didn’t give him the chance,” Kelly said, acidic. “But his wife was with him. Maybe that cramped his style a little.”

Grogan chuckled again. “Doesn’t normally stop him. Not from what I hear.”

Her tartness only increased. “Well I gather she’s not in a position to say much considering he practically picked her from a catalogue.”

The chuckle became an outright laugh. “That what he told you?”

Kelly didn’t get the joke. “No—she did.”

That seemed to sober him. “Did she now,” he murmured. He seemed distracted for a moment then fixed her with a focused eye. “If I tell you I’ll look into this, sweetheart will you let me do that without going on the rampage—at least until after my horse has run his big race this weekend?”

Kelly hesitated a moment and almost regretfully shook her head. “I could be dead or arrested by then.”

He gave a long sigh. “Let me reach out to a few people—people who owe me favours,” he said. “You got a cell number I can reach you on?”

“Yes—if you give it back to me.”

He humphed out a breath and put the drink down on the arm of the chair long enough to delve in a pocket for the phone she’d taken from McCarron’s house as well as the Vauxhall’s keys. He shook his head a little as he did so, as if he couldn’t believe he was going to all this trouble over her. Kelly had a hard time believing it herself.

There was an awkward pause. Then the silence between them was broken by the sound of a car engine revving hard as it approached along the driveway.

Kelly glanced out of the French door in time to see a Mercedes braking hard at the entrance to the yard. She glimpsed the driver and her heart leapt into her throat and lodged there.

“Ah about time. That’ll be Dmitry,” Grogan said with satisfaction. “He’ll take care of you.”

99

Dmitry barged through the farmhouse kitchen and into the small sitting room, fast and aggressive. The trainer warned him the girl had the shotgun on his boss but threats were not the same as actions.

He knew from his own painful experience that she was not to be underestimated. Maybe if Kelly Jacks had shot her last victim he would have used more caution but she hadn’t. Besides, if there was a certain amount of . . . collateral damage during the struggle, Dmitry reckoned he could probably live with that.

Better than facing the awkward questions that would undoubtedly arise if she and Grogan had a chance to talk.

So he hit the door with his shoulder and kept on coming, aiming to knock aside anyone standing within the arc of its swing or startle her into immobility for those vital few seconds.

Harry Grogan sat alone in the trainer’s old armchair, a glass of whisky in his right hand. Despite the violence of Dmitry’s arrival he seemed unsurprised by it, lifting the glass without a tremble.

“She’s gone,” he said not even turning his head.

Dmitry straightened out of his pounce, saw at once that the French windows were standing open.

“I will go after her,” he said striding forwards.

“No you won’t,” Grogan said. “She’s no problem to us—for the moment. We got other things to deal with that are . . . more pressing.”

Dmitry paused as much at the tone as the words. He scanned around carefully and noted the position of the shotgun only a metre or so away behind the door. He stepped back almost casually to lean against the wall where the gun was within easy reach.

“What is it?” he asked roughly.

Grogan finished savouring his sip and relaxed his arm again. Only then did he look at Dmitry for the first time since he’d entered the room.

“Somebody has been taking my name in vain, Dmitry,” he said. “You wouldn’t know anything about that would you?”

Dmitry kept his face still even as his mind began to race. What had Kelly Jacks told Grogan? What did she know for certain and what might she have guessed?

“Who?” He tried not to hold his breath.

Grogan gave him a long cold stare. “That’s what I’m trying to find out,” he said at last. “Any ideas?”

Dmitry frowned. He knew he should come up with a convincing scapegoat but could not bring himself to do so. Myshka, he knew, would berate him for not being ruthless enough. For not standing on the heads of others to reach the top of the pile. He shook his head.

Grogan nodded as if that was the answer he’d expected. He levered himself out of the armchair, leaving the whisky glass balanced on the racing papers alongside and headed for the door. As he passed Dmitry, he clapped a hand on the younger man’s shoulder.

“I had to give old Viktor a little tap on the head—he seemed just a bit too keen to shut young Kelly up before she’d had a chance to talk to me,” he said, nothing in his face or voice to betray his emotions on the subject. “Sort him out would you? There’s a good lad.”

He didn’t wait for Dmitry’s agreement. But when he reached the door he stopped, turned back. “And where the hell has Stubbsy got to?”

100

Brian Stubbs sat in a police cell and alternately cursed and sweated.

“Harry’s going to kill me,” he muttered under his breath.

It was not the kind of thing Stubbs would normally ever say out loud—not if there was the remotest chance of being overheard anyway. In the past Harry Grogan had been fairly forgiving of his vet’s little foibles but this time he might just draw the line.

Oh Grogan had bailed him out of trouble before, saved his licence a time or two by parachuting in some high-priced silk to argue in his favour.

Without self-flattery, Stubbs knew this was solely because he was a bloody good horse doctor.

The best veterinary surgeons in the country tended to naturally gravitate towards the racing centres of Newmarket or the rolling Downs out past the Chiltern Hills west of London. That’s where the real money was to be made.

Brian Stubbs had once counted among the best of them.

But his father had been a drinker. His mother too, now that he thought back. All too soon the odd glass of wine with dinner had become a bottle for breakfast.

And now it had landed him in the biggest mess of his life. He wasn’t just looking at a temporary ban this time. He was looking at prison.

Sitting on the edge of the thin bed Stubbs rocked forwards and buried his unshaven face in his hands. It didn’t help.

He could still see the old woman on the bonnet, the way her shock had turned into one giant flinch, eyes screwed tight shut, just before she hit the windscreen. It seemed to be permanently imprinted, hard-wired into his brain even with his own eyes closed.