Murder in Mind Page 13

  Matt caught himself shifting up to give the sheltie more room.

  ‘Why is it I sometimes get the feeling this dog plays the fiddle round here, and we all dance to her tune?’

  ‘That’s because she does,’ Kendra said, matter-of-factly. ‘I was going to help Mum tomorrow, but I could stay if you’re really worried. I’m sure she’d understand. You don’t think he’d try anything stupid, do you?’

  ‘I don’t really know. I’d be happier if he was ranting and banging doors. I’ve never known him quiet like this.’

  ‘I’ll give Mum a ring in the morning,’ she promised, then leaned towards him and kissed him gently behind the ear. ‘Now how about some us time?’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ Matt responded, then, with a glance at Taffy, added, ‘But do we have to OK it with Madam first?’

  7

  Matt liked Hereford racecourse; it was a friendly, country course where there was racing all year round. The squareish track was flat and suited horses with a turn of foot, which exactly described the two runners that Brewer was sending there on the day following Matt’s return from Sedgefield. Both Brewer and Leonard were attending the meeting, and Matt travelled to the course with the trainer, who informed him that his boss was not in the best frame of mind following Matt’s announcement about the sponsorship deal.

  ‘And he’s not happy that you’re riding Kandahar Prince again, either,’ Leonard finished.

  ‘Oh God! Not that again! I’ve been riding him for years and Plumpton was the first time he’s ever fallen with me. It’s not as if it was even his fault, poor sod! If Brewer had his way, I’d be wrapped up in cotton wool and only taken out when he had a runner, which would defeat the object anyway, because I wouldn’t be race fit.’

  ‘Of course you wouldn’t,’ Leonard agreed. ‘That’s what I’ve told him, God knows how many times! He can’t expect you to pass up the ride on a favourite, either, just to suit him – it’s ridiculous!’

  ‘He knows that, really,’ Matt said, as the trainer’s Volvo accelerated out of the motorway slip road. ‘He’s just too bloody controlling to let it go.’

  By the time they turned into the owners’ and trainers’ car park at the racecourse, large drops of rain had begun to splash onto the windscreen, and Leonard rooted amongst the clutter on the back seat to locate a large golf umbrella, under which they made their way to the racecourse buildings.

  Matt’s first ride of the day was on a horse of Doogie McKenzie’s – Tranter, a big angular chestnut with a long, honest head and ears that had a tendency to flop sideways. Doogie wasn’t in the habit of telling Matt how to ride his horses, unless there were very specific instructions, and, as he had two runners in the race, he greeted Matt when the jockeys entered the paddock and then left him, in favour of looking after the less experienced lad who was riding his other horse.

  Matt wasn’t bothered. He stood in the driving rain watching the runners circle, some with heads and tails low, some dancing sideways to try and turn their rumps to the wind, and thought that, even on a pig of a day like today, he would rather be doing his job than any other he could think of.

  ‘Ah, Matt. Lousy weather, isn’t it?’ a voice commented in his ear, and he turned to find Lord Kenning at his shoulder.

  ‘At least it’s not cold, sir,’ he replied, wondering what had prompted the man to approach him and trying to quell the distasteful images that Tara’s revelations now conjured up.

  ‘Just had a word with Doogie. He says the horse has been working well, so we should have quite a good chance here.’

  Matt’s brain changed gear. He hadn’t realised that the horse was Kenning’s. The ride had been arranged by his agent, and, with his mind on other things, for the first time in his career, Matt hadn’t done his usual pre-race research in the formbook. Not that he would have turned Tranter down – a ride was a ride, as long as the horse wasn’t a serial non-finisher – and he trusted Harper not to book him anything too dangerous.

  ‘He looks a useful sort, sir.’ It was the best that could honestly be said of the chestnut at first glance.

  ‘Yes, I think he is. He’s got a nice turn of foot, but he’ll stop if he sees the light too soon. Keep him handy, tuck him in until a furlong or two out, and then send him on. Got that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Matt eyed the horse doubtfully. Somehow he didn’t have the look of a sprinter but, in reality, it was difficult to tell, and Kenning was an experienced owner who wasn’t accustomed to having his judgement questioned. ‘Don’t think I’ve seen him around – have you had him long?’

  ‘Bought him in the summer. Came from Grant’s yard, up in Perth.’

  That would explain it.

  The bell sounded, signalling time for the jockeys to mount, and Matt excused himself from Kenning’s presence and walked across to Tranter. The horse was being walked round by Doogie’s travelling head lad, a man Matt knew well from his days riding for the yard. With practised ease, he flipped the waterproof sheet back onto the chestnut’s rump and swiftly legged Matt up into the dry saddle.

  ‘All right, Matt?’

  ‘Yeah, fine thanks, Pete.’ Matt’s feet found the stirrups. ‘So what about this boy? Kenning reckons he needs to be covered up.’

  Pete twisted to look up at him, his face registering the equivalent of a shrug.

  ‘I wouldn’t know. He’s been working OK, but he hasn’t shown anything special. This is his first run for us.’

  After a couple of circuits of the paddock, the horses were led out onto the track and, with a slap on the neck, Pete let Tranter go. The horse accelerated willingly enough into a long-striding canter, head down into the wind and rain, and they made their way to the two-mile start.

  Out on the course, the rain became even heavier and, driven by an ever-strengthening wind, was soon lashing horizontally across the course. After what seemed like an interminable time circling in front of one of the hurdles, getting wetter and wetter, the runners were called through to the steeplechase course and the race got underway.

  Bearing Lord Kenning’s advice in mind, Matt slotted Tranter into third or fourth place on the rails and prepared to bide his time. The horse didn’t give him the feel of an animal that was raring to get to the head of the field, rather, he felt content to hack round with the masses, jumping efficiently and with care. He’d make a super hunter when he’d finished his track career, Matt thought, squinting behind his goggles as mud from the leaders’ hooves hit him in the face and chest.

  Passing the stands and the winning post for the first time, the field swung round the second bend and away towards the open ditch and the water. Tranter cleared both with no fuss and soldiered on, though Matt winced in sympathy as he saw Mikey Copperfield’s horse go down heavily in a tangle of legs. Five fences and three bends later, they were approaching the last with less than two furlongs to go and the chestnut was still holding his position steadily, although Matt had moved him off the rails, aware that several runners were ranging up on the outside.

  Tranter flew the last with his best jump of the race, and, as the field spread out in the final charge to the line, Matt pulled a fresh pair of goggles into place, switched his whip, eased the horse out to the left, and waited for the promised surge as the chestnut saw daylight.

  It didn’t come.

  With the leader a length and a half ahead and three or four other contenders picking up speed around him, Matt sat down and rode hard for the finishing post, but to no avail; Tranter plugged on gamely, but could do no better than sixth place.

  Matt patted the steaming chestnut neck and let him slow down gradually. The animal didn’t feel especially tired; in fact, he felt as though he could have gone round again with no problem. In sixth place, he had finished with more than half the field behind him, but Matt was frustrated, feeling that, if he’d followed his instincts and taken the running on from maybe half a circuit out, he might very well have managed, if not to win, then at least to have improved his positi
on by three or four places.

  Pete came out onto the track to meet him as he trotted the horse back towards the stands.

  ‘Looks like the trip was a bit short for him,’ he said, as he reached for the chestnut’s rein.

  ‘Yeah, I’d say he was an out-and-out stayer,’ Matt agreed. ‘Well done, Bully!’ he called, as the winner rode by.

  In the unsaddling area, Doogie came to meet him as he undid Tranter’s girths and slid the saddle off.

  ‘Left it a bit late there, Matt,’ he said, slanting a look at him from under his bushy white brows. ‘Not like you to get it wrong. Kenning’s not happy.’

  ‘Well, that’s rich! It was him who told me the horse needed to be covered up.’

  ‘Are you sure? He told me he was happy to leave it in your hands.’

  Matt stared at the trainer, thinking back. Was it possible that he could have misunderstood Kenning’s instructions? Surely not, he’d been quite specific – cover him up for a late run.

  ‘Perhaps we got our wires crossed,’ he suggested. It went against the grain not to fight his corner, but over the years he had learned that, at certain times, and with certain people, it was better to give in gracefully, even if justice hadn’t been served.

  ‘Didn’t you look at his form?’ Doogie asked, sponging the chestnut’s heaving flanks. ‘He’s a stayer. Normally a front runner.’

  Matt shook his head guiltily.

  ‘Sorry, Doogie. I’ve been kind of caught up in this business with Jamie.’

  ‘Hm.’ The trainer turned to him, water dripping from the sponge. ‘Look Matt, I’m sorry for the lad – as sorry as anyone – but make sure he doesn’t drag your career down with his. I read that bit in the paper the other day and, I can tell you, it makes me uneasy. Owners want to be sure their jockey is concentrating 100 per cent on the matter in hand.’

  ‘And you know I do,’ Matt stated.

  ‘Ah yes, I know. But you’re laying yourself open to criticism. When owners are paying nearly twenty grand a year just to keep their horses in training, it’s so much easier to question the jockey’s concentration or commitment than accept that the horse had an off day or just plain isn’t good enough, and you’re giving them just the fuel they need.’

  The first person Matt bumped into as he headed back to the weighing room was Josh Harper, his agent.

  ‘Ah, Matt. I was looking for you.’ Harper, an ex-jockey himself, was short, growing stout, and hailed from Glasgow. ‘I’ve got you a ride in the last. The doc has stood Copperfield down after that fall, so I had a word with Fliss Truman and she’s happy to put you up on Mr Blue Shoes. He’s got a good each-way chance.’

  ‘Thanks. Listen, Josh, did you go chasing that ride on Tranter, or did Doogie come to you?’

  ‘Neither. Kenning rang me yesterday and asked for you, specifically. Said it was the animal’s first run for Doogie and he trusted you to get a feel for the horse. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Just wondered. I don’t suppose he’ll ask for me again. Apparently he’s just bent Doogie’s ear about me not concentrating on the job.’

  ‘Awkward sod! I’ve dealt with him before. He treats me like I’ve just crawled out from under a stone. I shouldn’t worry. We can do without him, although, having said that, I think you’re riding a couple more for him at the weekend.’

  ‘Or not,’ Matt observed.

  ‘Yeah, maybe, but I expect he’s just letting off a bit of steam to cover up the fact that he’s bought a very ordinary horse.’ He paused, looking over Matt’s shoulder. ‘Ah, looks like someone else wants you …’

  The someone else turned out to be Casey McKeegan, and Matt cursed inwardly. All he wanted at that moment was to get showered and changed, check on Mikey in the medical room, and concentrate on riding Charlie Brewer’s horse in the next race.

  Something of Matt’s irritation must have shown in his face, for, as he turned to meet Casey, her expression became all at once defensive.

  ‘I know you’re busy, you don’t have to say it. I just thought you’d want to know. I’ve done a little info gathering on our friend Lord Kenning.’

  ‘Oh – right.’ Casting a hasty look around, Matt steered Casey to a quieter spot. ‘What’ve you found?’

  ‘OK: age, sixty-three; born in Esher, Surrey; father Brigadier Kenning; mother the society “It Girl” of the day. Our Kenning did the usual stuff for a toff – public school, Cambridge etc, and then, not surprisingly I guess, on to officer training at Sandhurst. Seems he wasn’t cut out for army life, though – he must have been a big disappointment to the Brigadier – because he only made lieutenant. Married late, no children, on the boards of a couple of companies and one or two charities, including one his father set up to help ex-servicemen reintegrate into civilian life. All very worthy and rumours of possible honours in the offing, so he’d be wanting to keep his nose clean, wouldn’t he? Anyway, I had a dig around in the archives and found a couple of photos of him where he was pictured with a car, and both times they were Jags; not silver ones – but both of them the current year’s registration, so I’d say he changes his motor fairly regularly, wouldn’t you? Also – and this is the good bit – guess what his middle name is …’

  ‘Um … Moses?’

  ‘Maurice!’ she said triumphantly. ‘Close enough, wouldn’t you say? Maurice – Mosie. And I asked our senior editor if he ever remembered any talk about Kenning and Sophie Bradford, and he basically told me that, if I wanted a long and glittering career in journalism, I should leave that particular rumour well alone. Which I think points to his lordship doing some pretty heavy leaning, don’t you?’

  Matt agreed that it did, and he also had to admit, if only to himself, that Ms McKeegan was turning out to be a far more useful contact than he’d expected.

  In the event, Brewer’s horse proved as big a disappointment as Kenning’s had done, trailing home near the back of the field. Matt was at a loss to understand it, unless it was just a combination of the weather and a fast pace. The horse was young and had pulled early on, but hitting a hurdle or two seemed to knock the stuffing out of him.

  ‘He’ll maybe improve with a run or two under his belt,’ he told the businessman, who had come round to the unsaddling area intent on a postmortem. Brewer grunted, regarding the horse as if he’d delivered a personal insult, and Matt as if he’d engineered the defeat on purpose.

  The rain didn’t bother Kandahar Prince in the next, where he made up for his recent fall by winning by three lengths, a fact which didn’t improve Brewer’s mood at all.

  Making his way back to the weighing room after the presentation, Matt found Kendra’s brother, Deacon, walking alongside him. He seemed more animated than usual.

  ‘Is that all you get?’ he asked, gesturing to the cut-glass ashtray Matt had received as winning jockey.

  ‘Yeah, useful if you don’t smoke, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s pathetic! I thought it’d be a cup or something. It’s almost an insult.’

  ‘Depends on the race,’ Matt said. ‘It goes from the sublime to the ridiculous. I’ve got a couple of huge silver cups and a bowl at home, but sometimes it’s just a book token. Actually, I preferred the book token, at least it was useful and didn’t have to be dusted.’

  ‘Can’t you get Kendra to do that?’ Deacon said, with the blithe disregard of a sibling.

  ‘We share,’ Matt told him. ‘I didn’t know you were coming today. Did you come up with your dad?’ It was rare for Deacon to attend a race meeting.

  ‘Yeah, and my shadow’s here somewhere, too.’

  ‘Your shadow?’

  ‘Niall bleeding Delafield. I’ve shaken him off at the moment, because I went down to the stables with John. Niall won’t go near the horses – he’s allergic – but no doubt he’ll soon catch up.’

  ‘Does he follow you everywhere?’

  ‘Pretty much – when I leave the house,’ Deacon said moodily.

  Matt glanced
at him, thoughtfully. He was unclear as to exactly what role Delafield fulfilled. Did Brewer imagine Deacon was in particular danger of being kidnapped? If that was the case – why him and not his sisters? Was it because Deacon was the son and heir? But any potential kidnapper who’d taken the time to study the businessman would know that he was just as passionately devoted to his daughters. Matt had spoken to Kendra about it once, but she seemed almost as much in the dark as he was.

  ‘I think Daddy’s had some threats, or something,’ she’d said vaguely. ‘He took Deke out of uni suddenly, halfway through his course, and then went abroad with him. It was just after that that Delafield turned up.’

  ‘Well, I’m surprised your brother puts up with it. A lad of his age wants a bit of freedom, not to feel that his every move is being watched and reported back to his father.’

  ‘Mm, I suppose so. But Deke’s very sweet-natured, you know. He does flare up occasionally, but, on the whole, I think he’s too lazy to rebel.’

  Now, coming to a halt outside the weighing room, Matt turned to Deacon.

  ‘So why d’you put up with it?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know …’ He looked a little uncomfortable. ‘I don’t have much choice, really.’

  ‘Of course you do! You’re what – nineteen? Nearly twenty? Old enough to take charge of your own life, surely?’

  ‘Yeah – I guess Dad’s just worried about me. Anyway, Niall’s OK most of the time; he’s a pretty cool bloke, really. He used to be in the army – special forces. And it’s a bit like being a rock star – having a bodyguard.’

  Matt shrugged.

  ‘Well, it’s your life. Look, I must go, and I’m afraid you can’t come in here. It’s jockeys and officials only.’

  He started to turn away, but Deacon put out a hand to stop him.

  ‘You think I’m scared to move out – I’m not, you know. It’s just different in a family like ours. Dad’s made a lot of money, but he’s probably trodden on a few toes along the way – people that might want to get back at him.’

  ‘But he doesn’t have a bodyguard following him around all day,’ Matt pointed out.