Murder in Mind Page 3

  The female officer returned, sliding into the driver’s seat with an accompanying rush of cold air and an apology for keeping him waiting. She introduced herself as WPC Deane and, producing a clipboard with a form attached, told him that she needed to ask him a few questions. She was about his own age – in her mid to late twenties, Matt judged by the soft glow of the car’s inside light – her face boyish and her dark hair cut in short layers beneath the peaked cap. She ran through the basics of who he was, where he lived, and how he had come to be there, and then, under her sympathetic but thorough probing, he was obliged to relate the story of Jamie’s row with Sophie. He felt like a traitor, but knew they would have the story soon enough, whatever he did or didn’t say, and he had no wish to bring down any suspicion on his own head.

  The paramedic reappeared fairly quickly, and Deane excused herself to go and speak to him, but, on her return – to Matt’s frustration – she refused to divulge any information as to the probable manner or cause of Sophie’s death.

  Outside the vehicle, much urgent communication was carried out over radios and, as WPC Deane made notes on the form, Matt saw two more cars arrive, pause while their occupants spoke to officers already at the scene, and then race on in the direction of the club. He supposed they had been despatched to begin questioning the partygoers, and imagined the consternation that would break out as news of Sophie’s death filtered through. The racing world would be humming with it for days to come.

  Moments later an unmarked BMW saloon arrived bearing a large man in civilian clothes, and it was immediately evident to Matt that the newcomer was significant. All heads turned his way and one or two of the officers hurried to meet him. The man looked up at the sky, reached into his car, and took out a mackintosh, which he put on whilst walking towards the taped-off area around the bridge. An instant later, Matt heard the first patter of rain on the roof of the car.

  After a few minutes, presumably briefed on the situation, the big man turned and came towards the vehicle that Matt occupied.

  WPC Deane stepped out of the car to meet him and, after they had exchanged a few words, during which Matt heard Jamie’s name mentioned, the plain-clothed man bent down and his heavy-featured face appeared in the open doorway.

  ‘Mr Shepherd, I’m Detective Inspector Bartholomew of Charlborough CID. Can you tell me where Jamie Mullin is now?’

  Matt shook his head.

  ‘No, I’m sorry. I haven’t seen him since he left the club. I was looking for him when I found Sophie.’

  ‘And he hasn’t been in contact by mobile phone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you tried to contact him?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s no answer.’

  ‘May I have a look at your mobile phone, please?’

  Silently, Matt reached into a pocket and handed it over.

  ‘Thank you.’ The DI dropped it into an evidence bag held open by another officer. ‘Do you have any idea where he might have gone?’

  Matt shook his head again.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I understand that Mr Mullin lodges with you. Is there anyone at home now?’

  ‘The dogs. And my fiancée might be back by now. Why?’

  ‘We’ll need to take a look round.’

  ‘What for?’ Matt bridled at the thought of people – albeit police officers – rummaging through the contents of his home. ‘Sophie’s never been there.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I’m afraid it has to be done. If Jamie hasn’t been back there since the party, it shouldn’t take too long.’

  ‘Well, can I at least warn her?’ Matt was pretty sure he already knew the answer to that one.

  ‘I’m afraid not, but don’t worry, there’ll be a female officer with them. Meanwhile, I’m going to have to ask you to accompany us back to the station for further questioning, Mr Shepherd. We’ll go in my car.’

  ‘You’re asking? Does that mean I have a choice?’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t going to arrest you, but I can if you’d prefer …’

  Resignedly, Matt transferred to the DI’s BMW, where he sat in the back next to the WPC on seats that smelt of cigarette smoke. Bartholomew turned the car round and drove up to the junction with the main road where a roadblock had been set up. There he spoke briefly with the officer in charge before continuing towards Charlborough.

  At Charlborough Police Station, Matt was given a change of clothes, his own – the trouser legs stiff with dried river silt – having been taken and bagged up for forensic examination. He was then shown to a small room furnished with a table, three chairs with bright orange upholstery and wooden arms, and a large wood-effect cupboard with sliding doors. Here, Deane asked him to wait and promised that someone would be along shortly with a cup of tea. Glad of the chance to take the weight off his ankle once more, Matt sank into one of the chairs and looked around him.

  The room was in the heart of the building and had no window to the outside world. The floor wore a speckled blue carpet, the walls were covered with crime prevention and neighbourhood watch posters, and two fluorescent tubes radiated a harsh blue-white light from the yellowing Artexed ceiling.

  Apart from the portly, middle-aged sergeant who brought him a mug of builders’ strength tea, Matt saw no one for a good twenty minutes. The shakes had subsided now, leaving him both mentally and physically exhausted. An electric heater under the desk was billowing out heat and, with that and the soporific murmur of voices from beyond the closed door, he was more than half asleep by the time Bartholomew reappeared.

  He came in carrying a mug and a clipboard and, for the first time, Matt got a good look at him in the light. He was built on impressive proportions – his burly frame well over six foot tall and dressed in a rather creased brown suit. The top button of his black shirt was open above a slightly crooked, loosely knotted tie. His hair was thick, untidy, and a nondescript shade somewhere between dark blond and brown, and his face showed signs of dissipation, even though Matt estimated he was not much more than forty.

  The DI settled in one of the orange chairs, placing his mug on the carpet by his feet, and a second officer came in, stood a tape-recorder on the table, pressed a button to set it running, and retreated to stand by the door.

  After a moment or two, Bartholomew gave the time and date before saying thoughtfully, ‘Matt Shepherd – jockey. I’ve heard of you, haven’t I? Didn’t you win the Derby or something?’

  ‘No. I’m a jump jockey.’

  ‘Would’ve thought you were a bit tall for a jockey …’

  ‘Not for a jump jockey,’ Matt informed him patiently. It was a common misconception. ‘The flat-race jockeys are the little guys.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Was it the Grand National then?’

  ‘No. It was the Champion Hurdle.’

  ‘Ah yes, of course.’ The Inspector nodded sagely, but Matt wasn’t fooled. He sat quietly, waiting for the policeman to get down to business.

  ‘So why do they call you Mojo?’

  Matt’s surprise must have shown, for Bartholomew added, ‘My officers have been talking to your colleagues at the social club.’

  ‘Well, we all have nicknames – mine’s short for Eskimo Joe.’

  ‘Ah. A cool customer.’

  ‘Or maybe just a good actor,’ Matt said, and the DI pursed his lips and nodded slowly.

  The interview with Bartholomew more or less followed the same format as the earlier one with WPC Deane, although this time the DI informed him of his rights first.

  ‘Am I under arrest?’ Matt’s heart rate had stepped up a notch, the phrases familiar from countless movies and TV shows.

  ‘No, no,’ Bartholomew soothed. ‘There’s a procedure to follow, that’s all. Now, I know you’ve already been through it with my constable, but, for the tape, could you just run through the events of this evening, starting at the time you arrived at the party at …’ he consulted his notes ‘… at The Cattle Market Social Club near Charlboro
ugh. Take your time and tell me everything you can remember – even if it doesn’t seem important.’

  Matt did so, and Bartholomew listened, interrupting occasionally to get him to clarify something. The detective’s demeanour throughout was matter of fact and calm to the point where he sounded faintly bored.

  ‘Was it your impression that Mr Mullin had been drinking heavily?’ he asked, when Matt told him how the young jockey had been thrown out of the club.

  ‘He’d obviously had a bit to drink, but it was a party; I’d have been more surprised if he hadn’t. He didn’t have to drive. I expected him to go home with Sophie.’

  ‘Is he normally a heavy drinker?’

  ‘About average, when he’s not riding, but we have to be very careful.’

  ‘Why, particularly?’

  ‘Because we can be tested at the track – randomly; it’s just not worth the risk. Look – what happened to Sophie? How did she actually die?’

  The DI regarded him thoughtfully.

  ‘I’m not at liberty to discuss details with you – indeed, I don’t know the details until a proper examination has taken place – but it appears that she suffered severe head injuries, and that’s all I’m prepared to say.’

  Behind Bartholomew the door opened and someone leaned round it to have a few quiet words with the officer standing inside. He nodded and, as the door closed, came forward to relay the message to the DI.

  ‘Have you found Jamie?’ Matt asked, catching a word or two. ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘Yes, we’ve found him,’ Bartholomew confirmed. ‘He’s being brought in now. Tell me, in general, how does drink affect Jamie? Does he get argumentative? Violent?’

  ‘No. A bit loud, perhaps, but that’s all. He wouldn’t hurt anyone.’

  ‘Yes, well, unfortunately, Mr Shepherd, most of us aren’t really aware of what we ourselves are capable of, let alone other people, however well we might think we know them. Alcohol and jealousy are a potent combination.’

  Matt shook his head.

  ‘I’m sure he didn’t kill her.’

  Bartholomew inclined his head. ‘Well then, he’s got absolutely nothing to worry about, has he? But if he did …’ He left the possibility hanging in the air between them and pushed himself to his feet, making ample use of the chair arms, which creaked in protest. ‘Well, thank you for your time, Matt. That’ll be all for now. We’ll just get those fingerprints and a DNA sample and I’ll see if I can find someone to run you home.’

  Matt stood up.

  ‘And what about Jamie?’

  ‘Mr Mullin will be spending the night with us. We need to speak with him and we can’t do that until he’s had time to sober up. He’ll be left to sleep it off for now and we’ll see how he is in the morning.’

  He opened the door and stood back to allow Matt to pass.

  ‘Is he under arrest?’

  ‘We’ll speak to him in the morning,’ the DI repeated. ‘Goodnight, Mr Shepherd.’

  A further hour had passed by the time arrangements had been made to get Matt home. When he enquired about Kendra’s car, he was told that, like his clothing, it was classed as evidence and would have to undergo forensic tests. He realised with a shock that they wanted to check that the Honda hadn’t been used to transport Sophie, or her body, to the bridge.

  ‘Did the doctor say you were fit to drive?’ Bartholomew asked, casting a doubtful look at Matt’s ankle as he got up stiffly from his seat in reception.

  ‘I didn’t ask him.’

  ‘Hmm. Perhaps you should have.’

  ‘It’s an automatic,’ Matt pointed out. ‘That’s why I borrowed it.’

  Bartholomew merely raised his eyebrows, so he gave up and hobbled out to the squad car with WPC Deane. Settling himself and his stick into the passenger seat, he sat back with his eyes closed, looking forward to home, a decent cup of tea, and a long overdue dose of painkillers.

  It was half past three in the morning when the police car turned into the yard at the cottage. During the journey, Deane had made sporadic attempts to engage him in conversation, which lent some weight to Matt’s suspicion that Bartholomew had hoped he would open up to her when he relaxed. As it was, in spite of his anxiety about Kendra, Matt was so tired that he found himself nodding off more than once and Deane gave up before they were halfway home.

  At Spinney Cottage, a light glowed behind the curtains in the sitting room, but there were no other vehicles in the yard. It appeared that the police had finished their search.

  ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Shepherd, we’ll be in touch,’ the WPC said, as Matt eased himself out of the car.

  ‘Yeah, well – thanks for the lift.’ Matt turned away, and, by the time he reached the front door, Deane had gone.

  Letting himself in, he found Kendra curled up on the sofa, wrapped in a duvet. She appeared to be asleep, but woke up soon enough when Patches picked up a squeaky toy and started parading round the room with it to celebrate Matt’s return.

  ‘Oh, thank God you’re back! Are you OK?’ she said, standing up and shedding the quilt. ‘The police were here for ages. I had to go next door with the dogs. Woke Terry up – but it was either that or the police station. They wouldn’t tell me what they were looking for. What’s going on, Matt?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I wanted to warn you, but they wouldn’t let me.’

  Kendra came over and Matt enfolded her in a big hug.

  ‘I was terrified when they turned up. I thought something had happened to you,’ she said, tucking her face into the side of his neck.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. His ankle was throbbing and he was beginning to feel a bit light-headed.

  ‘God, where on earth did you get this jumper? It’s not yours, is it? It smells musty.’

  ‘Police lost property, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Matt said. ‘They promised me it was clean, but they took my clothes for forensic tests.’

  ‘So what’s going on? They were asking about Jamie – if I’d heard from him. Said they were working on an enquiry. Is he OK?’

  Matt sighed.

  ‘Yeah – physically, at any rate. He’s at Charlborough Police Station. Sophie Bradford’s dead.’

  It came out more bluntly than he intended and Kendra pulled away to look at him, her eyes wide. ‘Sophie? How? I mean – what happened?’

  ‘It looks like she left the party on her own and someone attacked her.’

  Kendra’s eyes opened even wider.

  ‘What? She was murdered? Oh my God! That’s awful!’

  ‘What’s worse is that, at the moment, they think Jamie did it.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous! Why would they?’ Kendra exclaimed. ‘Jamie wouldn’t hurt anyone.’

  ‘Well, unfortunately he and Sophie had a bit of a set-to at the party last night, in full view of everyone,’ Matt told her. ‘So, I suppose it’s not surprising he’s their number one suspect.’

  He hobbled to the nearest chair and collapsed into it.

  ‘Sophie …’ Kendra said wonderingly. ‘It’s hard to believe. Poor girl! I mean – I won’t pretend I ever really liked her – but you wouldn’t wish something like this on anyone, would you?’

  ‘Just at the moment, all I wish for is to get this shoe off before my ankle explodes. Everything else will just have to wait,’ Matt said wearily.

  One of the few drawbacks of being stable jockey in John Leonard’s yard was that it placed Matt under the controlling influence of Kendra’s father, Charlie Brewer. Brewer’s string of thirty or so thoroughbreds represented nearly half the horses in training at the Rockfield yard and – as the businessman wasn’t above reminding Leonard when they experienced a difference of opinions – the trainer owed his success and ongoing career almost entirely to him.

  Leonard, ex-RAF and son of a gentleman farmer, had already been training racehorses at the time Kendra’s father had first met him, desperately struggling against an ever-increasing tide of debt that had b
een set in motion by crippling inheritance taxes. Brewer, for his part, had just made the decision to spend a little of his considerable wealth on a racehorse or two, and was looking around for a trainer. His eye had alighted on Leonard’s struggling yard at Rockfield Farm, less than a dozen miles from Brewer’s home, and, within a very short space of time, he had bought the farm and stables, taken the trainer onto his payroll, and added half a dozen well-bred youngsters to the eleven animals already there.

  Six years on, Rockfield ranked amongst the most successful yards in the country, and Brewer’s string of horses were the envy of many a more established owner. And if, in due course, Leonard had any reservations about this wholesale takeover of his home, life, and career, he had never shared them with Matt in the three years he’d known him, and no doubt felt it to be a small price to pay in return for the many advantages of the arrangement. In his early sixties, he could now face the prospect of retirement with equanimity and the comfort of knowing that his disabled son was assured of a job.

  Matt was aware that it was a source of irritation to Brewer that he couldn’t control Matt in the same way, more especially since he had become engaged to Brewer’s daughter. Matt knew he wasn’t the man the social-climbing businessman had hoped for Kendra to settle down with and had resisted the attraction himself for some time, wary of the implications of marrying the boss’s daughter, but, in the end, the chemistry had been too strong.

  True to his character, when Brewer had realised that he couldn’t stop the relationship developing, he sought instead to manage it. Here, too, he had been thwarted. Matt had remained politely but stubbornly independent, rejecting his future father-in-law’s handsome offer to build them a home in the shadow of his own, Birchwood Hall, in favour of staying on in Spinney Cottage, some twenty miles away.

  For a while after this disagreement, Brewer had been a little cool towards him, but Matt had affected not to notice it and lately the businessman had shown a measure of acceptance.

  One dictate that he and Kendra did bow down to was that they should join the rest of the family for the Sunday evening meal at Birchwood Hall. This doubled as a social occasion and a chance for Brewer to discuss with his jockey the timetable and prospects for the week ahead.