Murder in Mind Page 21

  ‘Oh, nothing I can’t handle,’ Matt said, devoutly hoping it was the truth. ‘How’s Coneflower today? Not getting too hot, I hope.’ If Coneflower had a fault, it was a tendency to work himself into a lather before he even got onto the track, thereby wasting precious energy, but, as he was a tenacious stayer, it wasn’t too big a problem.

  ‘No, he’s fine,’ Emmett said. ‘Shouldn’t be surprised if he was growing out of that business. Here he is now.’

  As he spoke, the good-looking black gelding came into view, stalking round on his long clean-boned legs beside his handler, looking every inch the quintessential steeplechaser and, as Emmett had said, showing no sign of sweating up.

  ‘We’ve got a good chance today, don’t you think?’ he continued, with barely a pause. ‘I spoke to John a minute ago and he says he’s been working well on the gallops. In fact, I went over to watch him work last week and he certainly looked the part …’

  Matt let Emmett talk, listening with half an ear whilst he scanned the circling runners. Westerby also had a horse in this race but, so far, the trainer hadn’t made an appearance in the paddock. When Matt finally identified his runner by the number he carried, he saw that the blond lad who had led Maple Tree round the day before had been replaced by a pale girl with straggling dark hair and an eyebrow ring.

  The bell went for the jockeys to mount and, switching his attention back to the matter in hand, Matt accepted Emmett’s good luck wishes and went towards Coneflower to meet Leonard and receive a leg-up into the saddle.

  After the disasters of the day before, Matt was desperate for a good showing, and the black horse didn’t let him down. He was a front runner who not only stayed the distance, but could also be relied upon to produce an extra burst of speed if challenged in the final furlong. On this occasion it wasn’t necessary. By the time they rounded the bend into the home straight for the second time, Coneflower’s ground-eating stride had left the other twelve runners struggling in his wake, and Matt was able to let him ease down towards the finishing post, which he crossed at not much more than a canter, six lengths clear of his nearest rival.

  He rode into the winner’s circle feeling triumph and relief in equal measures – perhaps his luck was on the turn at last.

  Mick Westerby was still absent when Matt went out to ride Peacock Penny, and he was met at the entrance to the paddock by a wiry, middle-aged woman in a tired tweed suit, who introduced herself as Sue Westerby, Mick’s wife, and walked with him towards the centre of the oval enclosure.

  ‘So where’s Mick today?’ he asked casually.

  ‘Called away, I’m afraid. Other business. You’ll have to make do with me.’ She gave him a thin smile, and Matt got the impression that, although Mick was the licensed trainer, as his assistant, his wife might well be the one who wore the trousers in the partnership.

  ‘Oh, I’d rather hoped for a word with him.’

  ‘About yesterday,’ she stated. ‘I’m not surprised. Bloody shambles! Can’t apologise enough. It’s been dealt with.’

  It was quite remarkable, Matt reflected, that someone could utter such conciliatory words whilst not conveying the impression that they were sorry in any way, shape, or form. She obviously didn’t intend to enlighten him as to how it had been dealt with, and he decided the girl with the eyebrow ring might be a softer target.

  They were now drawing close to a serious-looking, bespectacled young man who looked painfully self-conscious standing on his own in the centre of the grass with faces crowding the rails.

  ‘Let me introduce Kevin Rouse. His father owns Peacock Penny,’ Sue Westerby said smoothly, producing the professional smile once again, and Matt realised that she had come to meet him early because she was wary of what he might say in front of the owner.

  ‘Hello, Kevin. Nice to meet you.’ Matt put his hand forward with a friendly smile. ‘Do you come racing often?’

  ‘This is my first time,’ he replied, and Matt could see that, despite the suit and greatcoat, he was maybe only sixteen or seventeen. Wealthy father, buying a couple of racehorses as a status symbol, he surmised. That would explain the widely divergent abilities of the two horses he owned. Whoever had sold him Khaki Kollin had seen him coming, Matt thought sadly, but the mare, who was coming round in front of them now, had been a lucky acquisition.

  ‘She’s a fine-looking mare,’ he told the lad – which wasn’t strictly true, as she was a little light-framed and leggy – but Kevin was clearly pleased that Matt liked her.

  Once Matt was on board Peacock Penny, Sue was obliged to drop back and watch with her owner as the stable girl led the mare once more round the paddock and off down the path to the track.

  ‘So, where’s the lad who was here yesterday?’ Matt asked, as soon as he was settled into the saddle. ‘Tall. Sandy hair.’

  The girl glanced up at him.

  ‘Rick Smiff?’ she asked.

  ‘Could have been. I got the impression he was maybe head lad.’

  ‘Was.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Was head lad,’ she said, with emphasis.

  ‘Oh. So what happened?’

  ‘Got the boot, didn’t he?’

  ‘Because of what happened yesterday with Maple Tree?’ Matt could see Sue watching intently as they passed and drew no little satisfaction from the fact that she would probably have given anything to shut the girl up.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. The Governor said it was Rick’s fault but …’ She stopped, maybe belatedly remembering who she was talking to.

  ‘But you don’t think it was?’ Matt prompted.

  ‘I ain’t sayin’ nuffin’.’

  ‘But you already have,’ Matt pointed out reasonably. ‘What were you just about to say? Come on, I won’t tell on you.’

  ‘She’s watchin’ me!’ the girl hissed. ‘I’ll bloody cop it if she thinks I said anyfing!’

  ‘So why don’t you think it was Rick’s fault?’

  They’d turned down the path away from the paddock now and, maybe encouraged by the added distance between her and the Governor’s wife, the girl gave in.

  ‘Well, Rick’s real careful, you know? All I’m sayin’ is, I can’t see him forgetting somefing like that.’

  ‘Do you know where I can find Rick?’ Matt enquired, as they approached the track.

  ‘Look, you’re going to get me into trouble.’

  ‘Please, it’s important.’

  ‘What d’you want him for, then? ‘Cos he’s had enough grief as it is.’

  ‘I’m not going to give him a hard time, trust me.’

  ‘I dunno,’ she said doubtfully, and Matt was left wondering whether she didn’t know where Rick was to be found or whether she was undecided about whether to tell Matt.

  With practised fluidity she released the lead rein and stepped away as the mare bounded forward.

  Matt took up the slack in the reins, shifted his weight over Peacock Penny’s withers, and put the previous day’s drama out of his mind as he switched into work mode.

  Less than twenty minutes later he was back, patting the little mare’s sweaty neck as she slowed to a trot, having beaten a field of sixteen older and larger horses in a tight finish after one and a half circuits of the hurdles track.

  The pale girl came out onto the track to meet him with a huge grin on her face, and whether it was because Matt had brought home the laurels or just because she’d had time to think, he didn’t know, but, as she clipped the lead rein in place once more, she looked up and said, ‘Rick’s here, on the course. You’ll probably find him near the bookies on the rails, but I never said that, OK?’

  Matt smiled.

  ‘OK. And thanks.’

  The business of photographs, weighing in, and the presentation of the prizes all seemed to take an eternity, and, for once, Matt was glad that he had no more rides that day and was able to go in search of the unfortunate ‘Rick Smiff’. Even so, that delay was made bearable by the excitement on the face of Peacock
Penny’s young owner and, when Rouse was borne off by the trainer’s wife to further celebrate the win, Matt found himself thinking it was a shame that such a nice lad had landed in the clutches of such as the Westerbys.

  Matt’s progress through the crowds around the rails was hampered by a number of people wanting to congratulate him on his win. Normally, he could get by without being recognised when in everyday clothes, but, in this case, someone he knew quite well had precipitated the flurry of attention by calling his name far louder than was necessary and soon he was signing autographs left, right, and centre. Maintaining positive public relations was a part of the job he usually accepted with good grace, knowing how important it was for the advancement of his career, but today he heartily wished all the smiling faces would go and find someone else to pester; the more so because, if Rick had been anywhere nearby, he would now almost certainly have disappeared.

  When the next race got underway, the crowd’s attention was quickly transferred to the track, leaving Matt free to search for Westerby’s ex-head lad, but this wasn’t helped by the fact that he wasn’t 100 per cent certain that he would even recognise the man if he did see him.

  To the accompaniment of a crescendo of excited shouting, the race ran its course and people turned away from the rails, either joining the satisfied queues in front of the bookies or screwing up their betting slips in disgust. Matt began to think Rick had seen him coming, and was on the point of conceding defeat when, in one of the bookies’ queues, he saw his quarry.

  He waited until Rick had collected his winnings and was folding the notes into a back pocket, then stepped forward and spoke his name.

  Rick glanced round enquiringly but, when he realised who had spoken, the expression turned to one of dismay. He put his hands up as if to ward Matt off and said, ‘Look, I don’t want any trouble. I’m sorry, OK? It was a stupid mistake.’

  ‘But whose mistake was it? Yours or Westerby’s?’

  Rick’s grey eyes narrowed and he cast a wary look to either side, as if checking that Matt was alone.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that it’s a pretty sizeable mistake to make, and, call me suspicious, but it seems strange that neither of you noticed that Maple Tree wasn’t wearing his breast-girth. Who tacked him up?’

  ‘Er … me. I did.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘Well, the Governor was pretty busy …’ Rick’s voice faded away uncertainly.

  ‘Yeah, it doesn’t sound very likely, does it?’ Matt remarked. ‘What could be more important on a race day than the horses? Why don’t you tell me what really happened?’

  Rick looked round again with a touch of desperation and, for a split second, Matt thought he was going to run.

  ‘Please, Rick – I don’t want to make trouble for you, I promise you. I just want to know what actually happened. Westerby saddled the horse, didn’t he?’

  ‘No, it was me.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. I think Westerby did it, and now he’s blaming you. But what I don’t understand is why you’re letting him.’

  Rick sighed and looked skyward, his face contorted by indecision, but finally, it seemed, honesty won out.

  ‘I was there.’

  ‘But it was Westerby who saddled the horse, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So he left off the breast-girth, and I’m guessing it wasn’t an accident,’ Matt said, taking care not to show the surge of triumph he felt. ‘You must have noticed. Didn’t you say something?’

  ‘Yeah, I did …’

  ‘So, what reason did he give?’

  ‘He said …’ Rick hesitated. ‘Do you want to know exactly?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Urn – he said, “We’re gonna give that arrogant bastard the ride of his life!” I wasn’t happy about it, but what could I do? He’s the Guv’nor. Was,’ he corrected.

  You could have reported him to the stewards or – at the very least – warned me, Matt thought, but, realistically, he wouldn’t have expected it; the backlash would have been huge. He remembered the head lad’s unhappy face as he led Maple Tree round before the race.

  ‘We? Are you’re sure he said we?’

  Rick nodded.

  ‘Yeah, ‘cos I remember thinking – Count me out, psycho! I don’t want no part of this. I knew how dangerous it could be, see?’

  ‘What I don’t understand is why you were still prepared to tell lies to protect Westerby, when he sacked you and left you to carry the can?’

  Rick looked at his shoes, his sandy fringe flopping over his eyes.

  ‘I got a police record, see?’ he mumbled. ‘Nicked a couple of cars when I was a nipper. The Guv’nor said, if I told anyone about the girth, he’d put it about that he caught me stealing. So then no one would believe me and I’d never get another job neither, would I?’

  ‘OK, then, if he knew you wouldn’t blow the whistle, why did he sack you?’

  ‘Well, to keep you off his back,’ Rick replied. ‘When he saw you get straight up from that fall, he got in his car and went home. You couldn’t see him for dust.’

  ‘Smart move,’ Matt said.

  He looked at Rick thoughtfully and then decided to back another hunch.

  ‘Does Westerby have any connections with Lord Kenning? I mean, has he ever been to the yard or have you seen them talking recently?’

  Rick pursed his lips and shook his head.

  Matt wasn’t overly surprised. It had been a long shot but, even so, he had to admit to a faint twinge of disappointment; it would have explained a lot.

  ‘OK, never mind …’ he started to say, but Rick interrupted him.

  ‘Now you say that – I never saw him, but the Guv’nor did say something, a couple of days ago … He was looking right pleased with himself, and he told me, if I ever saw Lord Kenning on the racecourse, I should mind my Ps and Qs, ‘cos, if we played our cards right, Kenning might be sending us some horses – to train, I mean.’

  ‘Did he now?’ Matt breathed, hardly able to believe his good luck.

  ‘That’s what the Guv’nor said, but I thought he was barking! I mean, Kenning was never going to send us anyfing in a million years, was he? But the Guv seemed to believe it anyway. ‘E was like the cat that got the sodding cream.’

  ‘Did you win much?’

  Rick was momentarily caught off guard.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The last race – did you get a good price?’

  ‘Not bad, I s’pose.’ He patted the pocket where he’d put the notes. ‘I had some on Peacock Penny, too. She’s a smashing filly.’

  ‘She is that,’ Matt agreed. ‘Look, I’m not going to offer you any money here – there are too many eyes, and it could get us both into trouble, but, if you get stuck anytime, give me a shout, OK?’

  Rick looked taken aback.

  ‘OK,’ he said slowly. ‘But I’m not telling anyone else what I told you. Especially not the police.’

  Rick’s expression clearly showed his opinion of the police and Matt sympathised with him. Bartholomew hadn’t come over as a people-person in his dealings with Matt; with someone who already had a record, he imagined he’d be ten times worse.

  ‘No police,’ he agreed.

  ‘So, what are you going to do now?’ Rick asked. ‘Are you going after Westerby?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Not right away, anyway.’

  ‘But you won’t tell him what I said …’

  ‘I won’t tell him,’ Matt promised. ‘But where can I find you again – if I need to?’

  ‘My mate runs a pub, just down the road from here – The Blue Lion. He’ll always get a message to me.’

  Pleased as he was with the information Rick had given him, Matt was under no illusions about whether it would prove easy to make use of. If it came down to the word of an ex-employee with a criminal record, against that of his former employer and a much-respected peer of the realm, it didn’t take a
Mensa candidate to figure out where the authorities would choose to place their belief. Even so, Matt hugged the tale of Kenning’s possible involvement in Westerby’s sabotage to him like a hot-water bottle on a cold night. At some stage, he felt sure, he would be able to turn the knowledge against them.

  Matt left Henfield fairly content with his day’s work. True, he had only ridden twice, but he had won twice, which should have given the doubters something to chew over.

  Although he would rather have been racing, one advantage of finishing early was that he arrived back at the cottage before it was completely dark, with the pleasant expectation of a long, lazy evening with Kendra, a log fire, and a bottle of wine. To this end, when he stopped for petrol, he equipped himself with a large bunch of mixed flowers, smiling inwardly as he pictured her delight.

  The house was in darkness when he drove into the yard, except for a faint glow that suggested a light on in one of the back rooms upstairs. Surprised, and hoping Kendra hadn’t made plans for another evening out, Matt turned his key in the front door, but it wouldn’t open – apparently bolted on the inside. He rapped on it with the horseshoe-shaped knocker, which set the dogs barking furiously, but no one came to open the door.

  Deeply puzzled, Matt went round the back of the cottage and let himself in, switching the light on and fending off the excited attentions of Sky and The Boys. Fitting bolts to the new back door was one of the next jobs on his never-ending list, but, thankfully, he hadn’t got round to it as yet.

  Kendra wasn’t in the kitchen, and he laid the flowers on the table, feeling even more bewildered. Remembering the light he’d seen upstairs, Matt went up, wondering if perhaps she was unwell and had gone to lie down with Taffy for company.

  ‘Kendra?’

  He paused at the turn of the stairs to listen for an answer, but there was none, only a faint clicking of claws, which heralded Taffy’s approach over the uncarpeted floor. As Matt reached the landing, the sheltie appeared in the doorway of the master bedroom, and, when she turned and went back, he was hot on her heels.

  He stopped just over the threshold. The light was on, but Kendra wasn’t there.