Murder in Mind Page 14

  Apparently at a loss, Deacon just stared at him, and Matt felt a little guilty for rocking the boat. After all, it wasn’t his boat to rock, when all was said and done.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s none of my business,’ he said then. ‘Must go. See you later.’

  He turned away and came face to face with the muscular bulk and gold earring of Niall Delafield himself. This time the white teeth weren’t in evidence.

  ‘Matt.’

  It was said with a slight nod, and it was all that was said, but Matt got the strong impression that Delafield had overheard some of the foregoing conversation and he wasn’t happy.

  ‘Niall,’ he said, similarly cool. ‘Must go, I’ve got a horse to ride.’

  ‘Yes, we’ve all got our jobs to do,’ Delafield said, turning his body just enough to let Matt pass.

  In the weighing room, Matt changed into Brewer’s purple, gold, and orange colours once again, hoping – for everyone’s sakes, not least his own – that he could coax a good run out of Tulip Time in the next race.

  Presently, weighed out, and sitting by his peg waiting for the call to the paddock, Matt found himself wondering how Kendra was faring with Jamie. Normally, the moratorium on using mobile phones until racing was over didn’t bother him over much. In fact, some days the peace was welcome, but today it was decidedly frustrating. He wondered if he could get Harry to call for him.

  ‘It’s still cats and friggin’ dogs out there,’ someone said disgustedly. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have a spare pair of goggles you’re not using, by any chance?’

  Matt looked up. Rollo Gallagher was standing in front of him, tucking his silks into his breeches.

  ‘Yeah, of course.’ Matt rooted in his kitbag and found an extra pair. ‘Have you seen Mikey lately?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s OK. The doc’s let him go, but he won’t be riding anymore this arvo. Razor’s picked up his ride in this one. Reckons he’ll make the running. Looks like it’ll start favourite, too, the jammy git.’

  ‘Jockeys, please!’ The call came from an official by the door, and, with a certain amount of grumbling about the weather, eighteen jockeys headed, in shuffling single file, out of the weighing room, through The Scales, and into the rain.

  Brewer was in the paddock watching with John Leonard as Tulip Time stalked round with ears back and head held low. Matt’s heart sank. Tulip Time – a head-shy horse – was never the easiest of customers, as he’d warned Jamie the previous week, but today he looked to be in a really foul mood, occasionally aiming a nip at his handler’s leg as they walked.

  ‘I hope you haven’t put your shirt on him,’ he joked, as he joined the two men. ‘He doesn’t look a happy bunny.’

  ‘I expect he’ll be all right when he gets going,’ Brewer said. ‘Apart from the favourite, there’s not much here that should trouble him.’

  Matt wished he shared the businessman’s confidence.

  ‘He’s got the ability, it’s the mindset that lets him down. He can be a real bugger when he’s in a mood.’

  ‘Well, it’s up to you to sweet-talk him then, isn’t it?’ Brewer suggested, and Matt could tell that he still hadn’t forgiven him for winning on Kandahar Prince.

  By the time the starter dropped his flag, the weather had improved a little, but, unfortunately, Tulip Time’s mood hadn’t. He jumped off willingly enough, though, and Matt was able to settle him on the heels of the favourite, where he kept him for the first mile, content to bide his time and hoping that the horse would run himself out of the sulks.

  As the field swept round the second to last bend, with four furlongs and three fences to go, Razor’s horse slowed a little and the rest of the runners began to bunch up, until there were two horses running outside Tulip Time and one on his inside.

  With hands and heels, Matt pushed his horse to move ahead of this first group of runners, knowing that, if he was to drop back, even as far as the flanks of the other horses, Tulip Time might be put off by the waving whips of their jockeys.

  The horse responded, pulling ahead of the others to take the next fence half a length clear and maintaining that lead all the way to the second last. As they turned into the final bend with just one fence left to jump, Tulip Time flicked his left ear back and, sneaking a look over his shoulder, Matt saw the favourite gaining ground on his outside, ridden hard by Razor. His own efforts to coax more speed from Tulip Time were rewarded by a flattening of his ears and much tail swishing. Clearly Brewer’s horse was running at his limit.

  The two horses, now battling side by side, were bearing down on the last fence and, as they drew steadily nearer to the dark mass of birch, Razor’s horse drew slightly ahead and the tip of his whip flicked upward just inches from Tulip Time’s face.

  Instantly, the horse’s rhythm faltered as he threw his head up, and the jolt of his shortened stride shook Matt, loosening his grip and making his teeth rattle.

  ‘Watch your whip!’ he shouted, but Razor apparently didn’t hear, because his horse drifted closer.

  Matt swore. With the last fence just yards distant, Tulip Time was running the rail and – unless he could pull him off it – would be squeezed into the white wing of the jump.

  ‘Give me some sodding room!’ he yelled furiously, and this time the other jockey responded, correcting his position and allowing Matt to do the same.

  Thundering towards the fence, Tulip Time’s muzzle was once more level with the toe of the other jockey’s boot and, unbelievably, when they were just three strides out, Razor’s whip flicked out again, stinging the animal across the nose.

  Instantly, Tulip Time threw his head up, hitting Matt in the face, and veered sharply to the right, meeting four feet six of stiff brush on completely the wrong stride.

  Dazed, Matt clung to a handful of mane, peering through watering eyes as the horse made a valiant attempt to clear the fence, landing with his hind legs in the top of the birch and kicking himself free. The effort left the horse almost at a standstill on the landing side – which, while it allowed Matt to regain his seat, also placed them firmly in the path of the rest of the field, following just a split second behind.

  There was no time to do anything more than gather up his reins before the others came, rising over the fence in a sweating, straining wave of horseflesh, the nearest landing so impossibly close that impact seemed a certainty.

  Someone swore, Tulip Time flinched, and then they were past, their pounding hooves showering Matt with wet mud and turf.

  As the other horses headed away towards the finishing line, herd instinct kicked in and Tulip Time pulled himself together and set off in pursuit.

  Matt, functioning mainly on autopilot, shifted his weight forward over the horse’s withers, grabbing a fresh handful of mane while he fought the whirling dizziness behind his eyes.

  ‘You all right, Mojo?’

  A hand rocked his shoulder gently and Matt turned his head, frowning as he focussed with some difficulty on Rollo’s familiar features.

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ he answered automatically.

  Tulip Time had slowed to a jog, and Matt realised that there were horses all around him, breathing hard after their exertions. At some point they must have passed the finishing post, but barely had Matt’s muzzy brain registered this fact when Tulip Time, following the general tide of movement, swung round on his haunches and headed back at a canter.

  Matt swayed drunkenly in the saddle, only his grip on the mane preventing him from being dumped unceremoniously on the turf. As he caught up with the other runners once more, Tulip Time slowed and a hand reached for his rein.

  ‘Are you okay, Matt?’ John Leonard was looking up at him with some concern. ‘Looks like he caught you in the face.’

  ‘Bloody Razor!’ Matt muttered. ‘Waving his fucking whip around!’

  Leonard led the horse off the track towards the unsaddling area.

  ‘Razor did that? Are you sure?’

  Matt put a hand up to his face and it
came away thinly streaked with blood.

  ‘No. The horse did it. But he threw his head up because Razor hit him in the face.’

  ‘It happens,’ the trainer said philosophically.

  ‘He did it on purpose.’

  Leonard glanced sharply at him, eyes narrowed.

  ‘That’s a hell of an allegation, Matt. Are you sure?’

  ‘Yep. Twice.’

  ‘So what do you want to do about it?’

  Matt didn’t know. He shook his head and then wished he hadn’t as his vision whirled like the inside of a snow dome.

  They entered the unsaddling area, where the horse came to a halt and Matt kicked his feet free of the stirrups and slid off, taking a quick step backward as his knees threatened to buckle.

  Leonard put out a hand to steady him.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  Brewer wasn’t anywhere to be seen, but Matt didn’t know if that was a good sign or not.

  ‘Yeah, give me a minute,’ he said, but his reply was interrupted by the announcement of a Stewards’ Enquiry.

  ‘There you go – looks like you’ll be able to have your say,’ the trainer observed. ‘But I’d take it easy, if I were you …’

  He didn’t enlarge on the comment, but Matt understood. The weighing-room community was, by and large, a close-knit one, and any jockey considering making an accusation of foul play should be pretty sure of his facts.

  He slid the saddle off Tulip Time’s sweaty back and laid the girth over the seat to carry it in.

  ‘You all right with that?’ Leonard asked.

  Matt nodded. His head was clearing now and his legs regaining their strength, but, even so, he was glad to reach the weighing room and collapse onto the bench by his peg. A glance in the mirror on his way through had shown him a pale face with a darkening bruise on the bridge of his nose, but there was little blood in evidence, and, with no ride in the next, he felt confident that he’d be fit for his last two outings of the day.

  ‘Matthew Shepherd and Geoffrey Hislop?’ a voice called from the doorway. ‘Upstairs, please. The stewards would like to see you.’

  Matt looked up and raised a hand, recognising Chris Fairbrother, the Stipendiary Steward or ‘Stipe’, as the jockeys termed these particular officials. As Stipes went, Chris Fairbrother was generally liked, regarded by the jockeys as being reasonable and even-handed.

  Following Fairbrother, Matt and Razor ascended the stairs to the stewards’ room, where they were both left waiting outside like naughty schoolchildren outside the headmaster’s office. Razor didn’t volunteer any conversation, much less an apology, so Matt kept his thoughts to himself too, and, in due course, Fairbrother reappeared and invited them to step inside.

  Inside the room, the three stewards were sat in a row behind a table. Opposite them was a large television screen upon which a replay of the relevant portion of the race was presently shown.

  After everyone had been introduced, it was announced that they were there to look into possible interference between Razor’s horse and Matt’s on the last bend and the approach to the last fence. Over the next few minutes, they all watched the action on the screen from various angles and then Matt was asked to give his account of the incident, which he did, carefully keeping his anger hidden.

  Next, Razor was asked for his view and obliged with wide-eyed innocence, saying he had carried his whip in his right hand because his horse had been showing a tendency to hang right and that he had had no idea that Tulip Time would react so violently to his actions.

  ‘Bull!’ Matt said explosively, in spite of his resolve to stay calm. ‘With respect, sir, I’ve warned the lads, more than once, that Tulip Time is head shy and ultra-sensitive to whips.’

  ‘Mr Shepherd! I must ask you to wait your turn,’ Fairbrother cut in. ‘You have already spoken; please let Mr Hislop have his say.’

  ‘I honestly didn’t know, sir,’ Razor declared, with a convincing expression of earnest apology. ‘I thought I was doing the right thing, trying to keep my horse straight.’

  ‘And what do you say to Mr Shepherd’s assertion that you actually hit his horse shortly before the last fence? We all saw how it swerved …’

  ‘I’d be very surprised if I did, sir,’ Razor said, still with that guileless expression.

  Matt longed to wipe it off his face. He risked another interruption.

  ‘Sir, I shouted to him – twice – to watch his whip, but he didn’t take any notice.’

  ‘I didn’t hear you,’ Razor said. ‘What are you saying? That I did it on purpose?’

  That’s exactly what I’m saying, Matt wanted to say, but he gritted his teeth against the temptation.

  A few moments later they were asked to leave the room whilst the stewards came to their decision.

  As the door closed behind them, Razor shook his head, pityingly.

  ‘You haven’t got a chance, you know.’

  Matt ignored him.

  When they were called back, a few minutes later, it was to be told that the decision of the stewards was that, if interference had indeed taken place, it had been of an accidental nature. The Stipendiary Steward added that, as it was impossible to prove that Matt’s horse would have beaten the favourite, the placings would remain unaltered and no further action would be taken.

  Silently fuming, Matt joined Razor in thanking the stewards, and they filed out.

  ‘Told you.’ Razor was full of smug satisfaction. ‘No hard feelings, eh?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Matt agreed, then leaned close as he passed. ‘But, if you ever do anything like that again, I’ll take you apart piece by miserable piece, and be damned to the stewards!’

  He had the brief gratification of seeing Razor’s self-satisfied expression falter, but, in truth, as soon as the words had left his lips, he regretted them. Falling out with the other jockey wasn’t going to achieve anything useful, no matter how much support he could count on from the other lads in the weighing room. He couldn’t imagine Razor ever being a friend, but he had an idea he’d make an uncomfortable enemy.

  8

  Sitting in the weighing room chewing on an oat bar during the next race, Matt began to ponder the stewards’ verdict. Why, he wondered, hadn’t they asked for a third or fourth point of view? It was possible one or two of the following jockeys might have seen something, and surely they would have testified to the fact that he’d warned them all about Tulip Time’s whip phobia?

  Not for the first time, Matt found himself wishing that the whole business of racecourse stewarding could be overhauled. While he felt that, on the whole, they did a very good job, he knew he wasn’t alone in the opinion that sometimes the interests of racing might better be served by a panel of professional adjudicators from within the industry.

  The rules stated that the placings should remain the same unless there was very little room for doubt that the horse suffering the interference would have won. It was also the case that the further from the winning post the incident took place, the less likely it was that the result would be overturned, but sometimes Matt felt that the letter of the law was adhered to in the face of justice and good sense. However, there was nothing that could be done to change the decision, so he resolved to put it behind him and get on with the business of the day.

  His final two rides that afternoon turned in workmanlike but uninspiring performances, both finishing just outside the places, and Matt returned wearily to the weighing room to change into his everyday clothes.

  Emerging presently, the first person he saw was Harry Leonard, who waved him over.

  ‘Hiyah. Ouch! That looks sore.’

  Gingerly, Matt touched his bruised nose.

  ‘It is, a bit, but I don’t think it’s broken.’

  ‘Dad told me how it happened. Any luck with the stewards?’

  ‘No. Razor came the innocent. Where is your dad?’

  ‘Still at the stables, I think. Look, I was hoping I’d catch you. See tha
t guy over there by the steps – the one with the black leather jacket? That’s Darren Wallis. He’s the son of Ron Wallis, the bookie, but he’s also one of Sophie Bradford’s exes; they were inseparable for a time a while ago. I think he was the one she was flirting with at the party. Don’t know if it’s any help, but I thought you might want to know, if you’re still doing your sleuthing bit.’

  Matt sighed.

  ‘Thanks. Yeah, I am – in the teeth of opposition. Not that I’m making much headway, though.’

  He looked in the direction Harry was indicating, and saw a fairly heavily built man of around thirty, talking to a willowy blonde girl who was leaning close and laughing. It didn’t look to be the most propitious moment to approach him on the subject of an ex-girlfriend, but it seemed too good a chance to miss, so Matt took a deep breath and strolled over.

  ‘Darren Wallis?’

  The beefy man broke off his conversation and frowned at Matt.

  ‘Yeah, who wants to know?’ he asked, obviously not recognising Matt in his everyday clothes.

  ‘Matt Shepherd. Sorry to interrupt …’

  Wallis’s expression cleared a little.

  ‘The jockey? Oh, right – hi. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Matt Shepherd?’ the blonde broke in, doing something coquettish with her eyes. ‘My friend thinks you’re hot! I couldn’t have your autograph, could I?’ She fumbled in an impractically small handbag and produced a pen and an address book.

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ Matt reached for the book. ‘To … ?’

  ‘Lucy. With love …’

  ‘So what can I do for you?’ Wallis repeated.

  ‘Er … In private, perhaps?’ Matt suggested, handing the address book back.

  Wallis’s brows drew down.

  ‘I suppose so. Listen, Lucy – run along for a moment, would you?’

  The blonde made a moue but did as she was told, stalking away on four-inch stilettos, one hand repositioning the strip of fabric that did duty as a skirt.

  Watching her, Wallis sighed.

  ‘Nice totty, but not the brightest button in the box. Now, what’s this all about?’