Murder in Mind Page 16

  As soon as he was clear, his ears flicked forward once more and he would have run on, but Matt steadied him; he didn’t want him winning by too large a margin, or he’d be penalised by the handicapper. They passed the finishing post easing down but still three lengths ahead of Rollo’s horse, and Matt patted Woodcutter’s neck, telling him he was indeed a star.

  The lad came out, smiling, to lead the horse in, and, within a few strides, Doogie was there, too.

  ‘No need to ask how that felt,’ he commented, looking up at Matt. ‘You’re grinning like a Cheshire cat!’

  ‘Did you see the way he went past them?’ Matt demanded. ‘And he was hardly trying! I tell you, if you put any other jockey up on this boy, I swear I’ll never speak to you again!’

  Doogie shook his head.

  ‘It might not be up to me, Matt,’ he warned, and Matt remembered that the horse might well be sold.

  By the time he dismounted in the winner’s circle, Matt had made a decision.

  ‘Where’s this fella running next?’

  ‘He’s entered in the October Cup at Henfield,’ Doogie told him, mentioning one of the newest prestige races for novice chasers. ‘Why?’

  Matt undid the girth and slid the tiny saddle off into his arms.

  ‘If you can get hold of the owner, tell him you might have a buyer for him. I’ll speak to you later.’

  He walked away, knowing that Doogie was positively bristling with curiosity, but needing time to think before he took the next step.

  Time was one luxury that he didn’t have an abundance of that day. With a runner in every race, he was locked into a seemingly endless round of changing, weighing out, weighing in, speaking to owners and trainers, and riding.

  The big race of the day was third on the card and Matt was riding Charlie’s Temperance Bob, who, by virtue of their recent win at Worcester, was the clear favourite. The horse looked well, and, as Matt cantered him down to the start, he felt quietly confident. There was nothing in the field that should worry him, as long as he jumped cleanly, which he normally did.

  Matt planned to follow the format that had been proved to suit Bob before, tucking him in just behind the leaders and coming with a late run in the final couple of furlongs, but they had covered barely half of the scheduled two miles when he began to feel that something wasn’t right. Uncharacteristically, the horse felt lacklustre and clumsy; if he hadn’t known better, Matt would have said he was tired. He had to push him from a long way out, just to keep his position, and, when they rounded the final bend and the field fanned out, he showed no sign of wanting to take advantage of the gap that had opened up in front of him.

  After the last fence, the leading horses began the sprint to the line, led by Rollo on a rangy grey, and a gap of four or five lengths opened up in front of Matt’s horse. Glancing over his shoulder, Matt saw that there was a similar gap between Bob and the rest of the field, so he eased the pressure and they passed the post in a respectable but disappointing fourth place.

  John Leonard was waiting with the lead rein as Matt slowed up.

  ‘What happened there?’

  Matt shook his head.

  ‘I don’t know – he just had no spark. His jumping wasn’t too special, either. I didn’t see any point in pushing him.’

  ‘No, you did right.’ Leonard slapped Bob’s bay neck and glanced back at his flanks. ‘He doesn’t look particularly distressed – got a bit hot, but then it’s a warm day. I wonder what’s wrong with the old fella.’

  Matt shrugged, calling out congratulations as Rollo rode by.

  Back in the weighing room, he was stripping off Charlie Brewer’s colours, deep in thought about Woodcutter, when the jockey next to him leaned across and said, ‘Hey, Mojo! The Stipe wants you.’

  ‘Oh – sorry.’ Matt looked up and saw Chris Fairbrother waiting in the doorway, eyebrows raised.

  Matt’s session with the stewards was uncomfortable, to say the least. Not entirely surprised that they should want an explanation after such a poor show from a strong favourite, he expected that he and John Leonard would be asked a few questions about Temperance Bob’s fitness and health, but he wasn’t prepared for the accusatory slant the interrogation took, and he certainly wasn’t prepared to be handed a two-day suspension for failing to ride out the finish.

  As the door of the stewards’ room closed behind him, Matt looked across at the trainer in bewilderment.

  ‘What was that all about? How the hell can they justify giving me a suspension – I came fourth, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘Sshh!’ The trainer took his arm and steered him towards the stairs.

  ‘Well, what were they looking at? Any fool could see that horse wasn’t comfortable, even if they didn’t want to take my word for it.’ Matt was incensed, the effort of remaining calm and subordinate, in the face of what he felt to be gross injustice, now finding it’s outlet. ‘I used to think Fairbrother was one of the better Stipes, but he seems to have it in for me lately. That’s the second time in two days!’

  ‘Careful! You’re beginning to sound a bit like Jamie,’ Leonard warned. ‘Seriously, Matt, just let it go. You get runs of bad luck in racing – you should know that.’

  Matt took a deep breath and sighed, consciously trying to relax.

  ‘Sorry, John. It’s just – well, I thought the stewards saw it my way. They seemed to, from what they were saying, especially that tall guy.’

  ‘I must say, I thought so too, but there you are. I’ve got no problems with the way you rode him and I’m sure the boss won’t have, either.’

  They’d reached the bottom of the stairs now and the trainer paused.

  ‘Right, I’d better go and see how Ron’s getting on with Parsley Pete. See you in the paddock.’

  Matt lifted a hand and went on through The Scales to the weighing room, where a sudden hush fell over the group nearest the door.

  He paused, looking at each in turn, amongst them Razor, Mikey, Rollo and Bully.

  ‘OK. Who’s going to tell me what I’ve walked in on?’

  ‘It’s nothing –’

  ‘It’s my fault –’

  Rollo and Mikey spoke together and stopped together, then Rollo started again.

  ‘Razor was just giving us the benefit of his explanation for your horse’s poor show,’ he told Matt.

  ‘Oh yes?’ Matt asked, softly. ‘And would he care to share it with me?’

  ‘I was just telling the lads that I had a phone call the other evening …’

  ‘What sort of phone call?’ Matt asked, although he was pretty sure what was coming.

  ‘Someone who knew I was riding the favourite in the last on Thursday,’ Razor put in. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t really have to; they were all familiar with the concept of being offered money to lose, even if it hadn’t happened to them.

  ‘And?’ Matt prompted.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think you need me to spell it out, do you?’

  Suddenly Matt found that no one cared to meet his eye, and the anger the stewards had induced rose again. Perhaps reading the signs, Rollo put a restraining hand on his arm, but Matt shook it off.

  ‘You bastard!’ he exclaimed. ‘I rode that horse to win, but it wasn’t his day. End of story.’

  Razor lifted his brows.

  ‘Whew! Not so cool, Eskimo Joe,’ he muttered, but Matt affected not to hear him.

  Back at his own peg and trying to get his fury under control, he was approached sheepishly by Mikey. He dug deep and produced a smile for the youngster.

  ‘Hiyah, kid.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Matt. It was my fault before.’

  Matt rummaged in his kitbag for a clean pair of gloves.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, me and Rollo were wondering what the stewards wanted you for and I said, if you’d eased down on Temperance Bob, there must have been a good reason, and Razor comes by and says, maybe someone offered you a good reason. But I knew you hadn’
t – I mean, you wouldn’t …’

  Matt smiled and shook his head.

  ‘No, I wouldn’t. Don’t worry about it, Mikey.’

  The day that had started so promisingly continued on its relentless downhill slide.

  Matt’s fourth and fifth rides of the day turned in uninspiring performances, both finishing out of the money, and his sixth and final ride folded up on landing after the final flight of hurdles, dumping him in the path of a field of fourteen, who were all, at that point, behind him.

  Sitting up when he was sure that the coast was clear, Matt undid the strap on his crash hat and used his whip to vent his frustration on the hoof-torn turf beside him.

  ‘You all right?’ a voice called, and he looked across to where an ambulance car waited, engine idling, a medic poised to come to his aid if necessary.

  He nodded and waved a hand.

  ‘D’you want a lift?’

  ‘Thanks.’ Matt got to his feet wearily, the action pinpointing one or two areas that would be sore later. It was only a few hundred yards back to the stands, but it had been a long day, and he wasn’t about to turn down anything that would make life easier.

  The weighing room, after the last race, was comparatively empty. A handful of jockeys were just leaving as Matt went in, most of them acknowledging him with a nod or a word as they passed. He crossed to his peg and sat down heavily on the bench beneath it, wishing he was already showered and changed, and that someone else was driving him home.

  ‘Matt?’ It was Jim Steady, his valet.

  ‘Hi, Jim.’

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks. Just feeling a bit sorry for myself, that’s all.’

  ‘A kid outside asked me to give you this,’ the valet said, holding out a piece of folded, lined notepaper, such as might have been torn from a spiral-bound pad. It had his name pencilled on the outside and was stuck down with Sellotape.

  Matt took the paper and unfolded it. It was written in capital letters with a pencil, and suggested that, if he met the sender in the Paddock Bar in half an hour’s time, he might find out something about a certain set of credit cards. It was unsigned.

  ‘Who gave you this?’ he asked. ‘A kid, you say?’

  ‘Yes. Young lad, about twelve or thirteen. He said someone told him to make sure you got it. He was gone before I could ask him who.’

  ‘He probably didn’t know. Thanks, anyway.’

  The valet hesitated.

  ‘Not bad news, I hope …’

  ‘No. Nothing like that.’ Matt wasn’t about to satisfy his curiosity. A wonderfully efficient valet he might be, but he provided the service for dozens of jockeys during a normal week, and Matt placed no great reliance upon his discretion.

  The Paddock Bar was all but deserted when Matt walked in. At the end of the bar, a red-faced man in a suit but no tie was deep in contemplation of his spirit glass, and in one corner a middle-aged couple sat holding hands. Two of the young staff, dressed in black with short white aprons, were collecting glasses and wiping tables, while another was doing something with the till and a wayward roll of paper.

  Matt walked across to the bar and, finding himself suddenly thirsty, ordered a black coffee. He sat on one of the stools and angled himself slightly towards the red-faced man, who glanced at him disinterestedly and then returned his attention to the half-inch or so of brownish liquid he was hoarding. Matt was relieved, he’d been hoping the man wasn’t his contact.

  The coffee arrived and, as Matt felt in his pockets for some change, a familiar voice spoke in his ear.

  ‘That’ll be disgusting; it’s the end of the day, so they won’t have made fresh. I’d send it back.’

  Casey.

  Matt took a sip. She was right, it was horribly strong. He made a face and pushed the cup back towards the young man, who’d apparently caught the gist of Casey’s comment and was scowling at her.

  Unabashed, she climbed onto the stool next to Matt.

  ‘Maybe I’ll have tea instead,’ he suggested, then turned to Casey, who seemed to have done something different with her hair. It suited her. She looked older and a little more sophisticated. ‘Was it you who sent me that note?’

  A calculating look came into her eyes.

  ‘It might have been …’ she said slowly.

  ‘But it wasn’t,’ Matt decided. ‘Not quite quick enough, Ms McKeegan. And no, I’m not going to discuss it with you now. If you’re a good girl and make yourself scarce, I might just tell you about it afterwards.’

  ‘Don’t you dare patronise me!’ she returned hotly.

  He grinned.

  ‘I knew you’d rise to that.’

  ‘Oh, but –’

  ‘No buts. I’m here to meet someone, and, if they see I’m not alone, they’ll more than likely shy away.’

  ‘I’ll sit in the corner.’

  ‘Out,’ Matt said firmly.

  ‘But I wanted to see you …’

  ‘OK, but later. Please, Casey. This could be important.’

  Looking slightly sulky, Casey slid off the stool and headed for the door.

  Whatever the author of the note had been going to tell him, he or she had obviously had second thoughts. Matt waited half an hour before giving up, and left the bar staff trying to convince the red-faced man that he should also go home.

  ‘But there’s no one there,’ Matt heard the man say in mournful tones as the door closed behind him. ‘My wife left me. She says I drink too much …’

  Outside, the sun was sinking fast behind the autumnal trees that Matt had so admired when he’d cantered Woodcutter to the start.

  Woodcutter! Damn! He’d meant to catch up with Doogie before he left. Too late now. Glancing around, he was surprised and not a little relieved to note that Casey was nowhere to be seen. Presumably she’d given up waiting and gone to wherever she called home, which was precisely what he intended to do.

  Where did Casey live? he found himself wondering, as he left the racecourse behind and headed across the owners’ and trainers’ car park in the gathering dusk. He imagined a town-centre flat close to the pubs and clubs, though, at her age, she could just as possibly still live with her family, he thought, realising he knew absolutely nothing about her.

  He looked ahead and, just for a moment, couldn’t see the MR2 amongst the twenty or thirty cars that remained but, as he walked on, it came into view on the far side of a dirty white transit van that hadn’t been there when he’d parked.

  Taking the keys from his pocket, Matt operated the remote button, walked between the two vehicles and bent to open the door.

  He fumbled and stopped short; it was as if the handle had just disappeared.

  Closer inspection revealed that it had. Some kind soul had filled the recess with what looked like Polyfilla.

  Matt turned his eyes heavenward and groaned, ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’

  In that first instant, annoyance and disbelief filled his mind to such a degree that he didn’t pause to wonder why someone should have chosen his car to vandalise and, even when the sliding door of the van behind him opened, he didn’t immediately apprehend danger. He was in the act of turning when someone caught hold of the collar of his jacket and slammed him, face down, onto the low roof of his car.

  9

  The attack was so unexpected that Matt didn’t have a chance to get his arms up to protect his face, with the result that his left cheekbone and temple connected painfully with the cold metal. Half stunned, he was easy prey to his attacker, and, before he could gather his scattered wits, his right arm was grasped and twisted up behind his back until his hand was somewhere in the region of the nape of his neck.

  Pressure was applied, and he gritted his teeth, glad that he’d always been loose-jointed – something that had saved him from broken bones on many occasions.

  Leaning hard, so that Matt’s body was sandwiched between him and the unyielding side of the car, the man behind growled, ‘I’m gonna to keep this shor
t, ‘cos we’re just here to deliver a message, and it goes like this: Lay off the snooping and stick to riding the pretty horses, while you still can. Understand?’

  Matt wasn’t in a position to nod and his lung capacity was severely limited by the weight of his interrogator, but he managed a breathy affirmative.

  Keeping up the pressure on Matt’s arm, the man bounced his bodyweight against him once more, rocking the car on its suspension.

  ‘Sorry. Didn’t catch that. Come again …’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Yes, what?’

  ‘Yes, I understand,’ Matt said, through his teeth.

  ‘Good.’

  The man stepped back, pulling him upright, and air found its way back into Matt’s lungs. It seemed that he took Matt’s prompt acquiescence for submission, for, releasing the arm lock, he swung him round and sent him crashing into the side of the transit van.

  Following him, the man leaned forward, as if to deliver a postscript to the message, and Matt found himself facing a stocky character in combat fatigues and a woolly hat, with a neck like a rhinoceros and an attitude to match. Matt was hazily aware that another figure stood to one side looking on, but his full attention was taken by the man in front of him.

  Whether it was just that the attack came at the end of a long, frustrating day, he couldn’t afterwards be sure, but, finding his arms free, he discovered within himself a fierce aversion to being manhandled and, without further thought, launched a powerful if unskilled uppercut into the face that jutted so aggressively towards his.

  The stocky man grunted, staggering back, and Matt – a little off-balance himself – followed his opening gambit with an unscientific shove, which nevertheless sent his opponent sprawling backward across the low bonnet of the MR2.

  It was the last fleeting moment of satisfaction that Matt was allowed, for now the silent partner got involved and what he lacked in loquacity he certainly made up for in action. In the blink of an eye and without quite understanding how he got there, Matt found himself lying on his back on the uneven turf of the car park, gasping for breath like a landed fish.

  His instinct for survival was strong, however, honed by many years of dicing with serious injury amongst the hooves of racing thoroughbreds, and, even as he fought to breathe, he was aware of how horribly vulnerable he was in that position. Pulling his arms and legs in, foetus-like, and tucking his head between his elbows, he turned onto his side just a split second before the silent man’s boot thudded into his ribcage.