Murder in Mind Read online

  ‘There you go.’ He put two mugs of tea on the table.

  Jamie looked at his without enthusiasm.

  ‘Actually, I think I’ll just shower and go to bed. Do you mind? I feel kind of dirty.’ He stood up and looked at each of them in turn, the strain of the last twenty-four hours plain to see. ‘I didn’t do it, you know.’

  ‘Well, of course you didn’t!’ Kendra exclaimed. ‘Nobody doubts that.’

  ‘Oh don’t they?’ Jamie retorted bitterly. ‘Nobody except DI Bar-fucking-tholomew and his mob, maybe. I tell you, you’re so knackered by the time they’ve finished with you, you’re even beginning to doubt yourself. Whatever happened to “innocent until proven guilty”?’

  ‘They don’t know you,’ Matt reminded him. ‘And you must admit, from their point of view, it doesn’t look good.’

  ‘But it was just a stupid quarrel. We’d have kissed and made up in a day or two, most likely.’

  ‘You were drunk. People do stupid things when they’re drunk. After all, no one’s saying you meant to kill her. It could have been a tragic accident.’

  ‘But I didn’t kill her. I told you what happened. I never saw her again after I left the club. I kept telling the police that, but they wouldn’t believe me.’

  ‘It’s just ridiculous!’ Kendra protested. ‘Why don’t they ask around? Anyone would tell them you’d never do something like that.’

  ‘Would they, though?’ Matt countered. ‘You might think so, but plant a doubt in their minds and I suspect a number of people would think twice about being a character witness. Don’t forget, almost everyone at the party saw the row.’ He hated to play devil’s advocate, but he felt Kendra was being naive.

  Kendra stared challengingly at him, but Jamie nodded.

  ‘You’re probably right. I expect I’d be one of the first to point the finger, if it was someone else.’ He picked up his mug and headed for his room, pausing in the doorway to add, ‘But thanks anyway, Kennie – you’re a sweetheart.’

  As the door closed behind him, Kendra squared up to Matt hotly.

  ‘What Jamie needs now is support – not you doubting him too!’

  ‘I’m not doubting him. I fought his corner as hard as I could with Bartholomew last night, but I think he has to face facts. Things don’t look good and I don’t think he can count on everyone sticking by him. If only he’d waited and had it out with Sophie in a less public place. Bloody woman! I did try and warn him about her, but I feel guilty that I didn’t try harder. Not that he’d have listened. And, when all’s said and done, I expected her to mess him around, but there’s no way I could ever have foreseen this.’

  3

  ‘JOCKEY’S GIRLFRIEND FOUND DEAD AFTER FIGHT AT PARTY’

  The headline screamed at Matt as he pulled the newspaper through the flap of the letterbox the next morning. He groaned, opening it out. The text was bordered on each side by a photograph. On the left, there was one of Sophie Bradford, taken some years earlier, looking virginal in a floaty white dress, and, on the right, a picture of Jamie, scowling over his shoulder, as he entered the weighing room at one of the racecourses. Possibly Chepstow, Matt decided, wondering how long it had taken someone to trawl through the archives for that shot. Quite a while, probably; Jamie was generally sunny-natured and nearly always produced a wide, engaging grin for the cameras.

  Taking the paper through to the kitchen, he scanned the article. It wasn’t helpful. He read that ‘sources at the party’ were quoted as saying that Sophie was a ‘popular young woman’ and that ‘Irish steeplechase jockey Jamie Mullin’ had appeared ‘moody and jealous’ during the evening and had ‘a violent disagreement with her’ shortly before the attack. The only good news was that no mention was made of Matt’s part in the night’s events. It was believed that a passing motorist discovered the body, the paper reported.

  Jamie was still in bed, able to slip in and out of the early-rising habit in a way that Matt envied. His own inner alarm clock woke him religiously at half past five whether he was riding or not, though, on most mornings, he would be riding ‘work’ for one trainer or another. It was an integral part of being a jockey, helping the trainer assess the race-fitness of his horses, and giving himself the chance to get to know the youngsters before riding them on the track for the first time. Matt would have been riding that morning, if he hadn’t felt it sensible to rest his ankle for a couple more days.

  Leafing through the newspaper over breakfast, he toyed briefly with the idea of throwing it away before Jamie appeared downstairs, but knew that it would only be postponing the inevitable; he would have to face up to the inflammatory needling of the press sooner or later – better that it happened in the sanctuary of Spinney Cottage than in public view on a racecourse.

  Jamie’s reaction to the article was one of voluble indignation. He held forth for several minutes on the subject of what measures he would take against the editors of the Daily Standard, each idea as doomed to failure as the last. Matt bore the tirade with patience, aware that beneath the bluster there was a rippling undercurrent of panic.

  ‘Don’t try and take the papers on,’ he advised, when Jamie’s first outburst had spent itself. ‘All you’ll do is give them more to write about. There’s nothing they’d like better.’

  ‘So what the hell am I supposed to do? Sit back and let them write lies about me?’

  ‘Yeah – basically. It’s all you can do.’ Having been in the public eye longer than Jamie, Matt had had more experience in dealing with the press. ‘Keep your head down and get on with your work. People who know you won’t believe all that stuff anyway. I’m sure the police will come up with something before long, and you’ll be off the hook.’

  ‘I don’t like that Bartholomew,’ Jamie muttered, staring broodingly into his coffee mug.

  ‘You don’t have to like him! I’m not asking you to bloody sleep with him – just trust him to do his job and get on with yours!’

  The following day – the Tuesday – saw Jamie riding at Aylesbury. Matt saw him off with mixed feelings. His ankle felt a lot better and it was hard to see someone else taking his rides, but, on the other hand, it would take Jamie’s mind off Sophie’s death and the police enquiry.

  ‘Be careful with Tulip Time,’ he told the Irishman over the breakfast table. ‘If you have to use your whip, make sure you keep it behind your leg. If you wave it near his head, he’ll stop; he’s a moody bugger! And you’ll need to keep Inkster covered up for the first circuit. The owner will tell you to take him to the front, so just nod and ignore him. If you give him too much daylight early on, he’ll pull your arms out and not look where he’s going. First time I rode him, he got away from me and went arse over ears at the first fence!’

  ‘But you won on him last time out, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah. Well, I do try not to make the same mistake twice. He’s a good enough horse – you just have to time your run right. I shouldn’t think there’s much in the field to trouble him.’

  ‘Except Rubblestubble.’ Jamie had done his homework. In spite of his happy-go-lucky image, he was very serious about his racing and studied the form.

  ‘Rubblestubble isn’t proven on the fast ground,’ Matt said. ‘And, with his action, I don’t think it’ll suit him.’

  He was going by the general rule that horses that galloped with a higher knee action found firmer ground more jarring, which often took the edge off their enthusiasm. It couldn’t be regarded as an absolute science, because temperament had to be taken into account; some horses would ignore the discomfort and suffer for it afterwards. To avoid the risk of long-term damage, a sensible trainer wouldn’t race such horses on firm ground unless the stakes were very high.

  Jamie left the house mid-morning, but he didn’t take all the tension with him. In spite of his advice to carry on as though nothing had happened, Matt knew it wasn’t going to be easy for his friend, and couldn’t help worrying about him. The morning’s headlines wouldn’t
have helped, either. The Daily Standard had discovered that Sophie Bradford was related to one of the top brass in the Jockey Club – racing’s ruling body – and led with the headline ‘ROADSIDE ATTACK VICTIM WAS LORD KENNING’S NIECE’. Listed as riding at Aylesbury, Jamie was going to be a sitting duck for the media, many of whom would no doubt be trying to provoke some kind of reaction – something juicy to put in print. Matt could only hope his friend would be able to keep a rein on his volatile temper.

  As the day wore on, it became clear that some helpful soul had divulged the fact that Jamie lodged with Matt and, after the fourth call from snooping reporters, Matt left the receiver off the house phone and turned his mobile on instead.

  The afternoon’s racing was broadcast on television, and Matt watched Jamie pilot Tulip Time to a respectable third place and then ride a brilliant race on Inkster to win by two lengths. With the last of Jamie’s three races being run after TV coverage had finished, Matt switched off, thinking that he’d have to watch his back if the boy was going to ride too many more like that.

  When Jamie returned later that afternoon, Matt was sanding down a window frame in the newly built extension at the back of the house. The Irishman sought him out as soon as he got in, and Matt could see straight away that he wasn’t happy.

  ‘Hiyah. What’s up? Should have thought you’d be over the moon. Two good results.’

  ‘Fliss Truman had two spare rides this afternoon because Rollo had a hard fall in Tulip Time’s race, but she put Bully up instead of me.’

  ‘Well, she’s allowed to,’ Matt pointed out reasonably.

  ‘Yeah, I know, but she always uses me.’

  ‘Well, did you ask her why?’

  ‘Yeah. She said the owner asked for someone else. No prizes for guessing why.’

  ‘You don’t know that. Maybe they wanted a more experienced jockey. It happens,’ Matt said.

  ‘I won on one of those horses in the spring,’ Jamie said bitterly. ‘I remember, because the owner gave me a twenty-quid note. Now, suddenly, he doesn’t want to know me.’

  Matt sighed.

  ‘OK, so you’re getting a bit of fallout from the weekend, but it’ll blow over, give it time.’

  ‘How much time?’ Jamie demanded. ‘Until the police find the bastard that killed Sophie? What if they never do, huh? What then? People will look at me for years, and wonder if I did it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have all the answers. I know it isn’t easy, but I don’t see that you have a lot of choice,’ Matt said, adding more brightly, ‘Inkster went well for you, didn’t he? I watched on telly. You’ll be taking that ride off me, if I’m not careful.’

  ‘Oh God, yes – TV! They wanted to interview me after Inkster, but I managed to dodge them. Did they say anything about – you know?’

  ‘It was Ted Barker. He just said you were bound to be a bit upset because you’d just lost a close personal friend. He’s a good bloke, Ted.’

  Jamie grunted, flopping down on the extension’s only piece of furniture, an old dust-sheeted chair, and levering his right shoe off with the toe of his left. As he repeated the operation with the other foot, Kendra’s little sheltie, ever sensitive to distress, padded into the room and laid her head on his knee. He stroked her soft fur absent-mindedly.

  ‘It was really weird today. The bloody reporters all wanted to talk to me and everyone else treated me like a leper.’

  ‘The lads in the weighing room were all right though, weren’t they?’

  ‘Yeah, mostly. Razor made a few remarks.’

  ‘Well, I shouldn’t let that worry you. Everyone knows what he’s like.’ All the jump jockeys had nicknames and Geoff Hislop’s was a direct result of his acerbic tongue and cruel wit. He was a man with few close friends.

  ‘Yeah, but he’s a jammy git, too. Did you see him trying to box me in on Inkster? I was shouting for some light, but the bastard knew I had the better horse and he wasn’t going to let me out. That guy has the luck of the devil with the stewards! If that had been you or me, we’d have been hauled up and handed a suspension before we knew where we were!’

  Matt shrugged.

  ‘They’re just doing their job. Don’t take it personally.’

  Jamie nodded glumly. He had a bit of a persecution complex where the stewards were concerned. Each race meeting had three stewards, usually local people of some standing, who were responsible for overseeing fair play under the guidance of the Stipendiary Steward, in whose hands the final decision was left. In Matt’s own experience, their judgements were generally fair, but the system wasn’t perfect and, on some occasions, you just had to accept the punishment and put it behind you. There was the option to appeal, but, unless the stakes were very high, it was rarely taken up.

  Matt felt sorry for Jamie.

  ‘Hey, don’t let them get you down, kiddo. Give the police a couple of days and they’ll probably have taken someone in for questioning and then the heat’ll be off you. They’ll find who did this, don’t worry.’

  Matt’s words were only intended as a reassurance for the moment, which was just as well, because the following morning’s paper put paid to any good they might have done.

  The two of them had risen early and driven over to Rockfield in Jamie’s ageing MG Roadster to ride work and do some schooling for John Leonard on the all-weather gallops, half a mile from the yard. The session had gone well, with all the horses seeming to be fit and happy in their exercise, and Matt was pleased to find that the strain of riding produced no more than a dull ache in his ankle. Dull aches were nothing – in a sport where you can expect an average of one in ten races to end in a fall, injuries were commonplace and bruises practically the norm. Coping with the wear and tear was all part of the game, and having a body that could take the punishment and repair itself quickly one of the necessary qualifications.

  Peeling off his outer layer of clothing in the warmth of the kitchen at Rockfield Farm, Matt breathed in the heavenly aroma of grilled bacon and exhaled with a sigh of contentment. Irene Leonard had years of experience in cooking for jockeys and stable lads, and he knew the bacon would be lean and cooked over a drip tray. The farmhouse kitchen was like a second home to Matt, its old-fashioned cream-painted cupboards and dresser, uneven flagged floor, and green checked curtains as familiar to him as the more modern, fitted one at Spinney Cottage.

  ‘Good mornin’ to you, Reney,’ Jamie said cheerfully, broadening his accent comically. ‘You’re looking as pretty as a May morning, so you are! How do you do it?’

  Irene looked up from stirring teabags in a huge earthenware pot. She frowned at him and prodded the air with a long-handled spoon. ‘You’re a disrespectful young varmint!’ she scolded, but there was a glow of pleasure about her. ‘Wash your hands, sit down, and keep your Irish charm for someone naive enough to be taken in by it!’

  ‘My, but you’ve a sharp tongue about you, gal!’ Jamie shook his head mournfully.

  ‘Old Brodie reckons Temperance Bob won’t like the ground,’ John Leonard reported, following Matt and Jamie into the kitchen with the paper open at the racing page. He took his cap off to reveal a sunbronzed pate ringed by a fringe of grey hair. Old Brodie was a well-regarded tipster with a regular slot on the racing page of the Standard. ‘He should have come up and watched him work the last few days.’

  ‘Certainly didn’t feel like he had any issues with it,’ Matt agreed. The horse had been pulling hard on the gallops that morning.

  ‘Wash up and sit down,’ Irene told her husband, putting the teapot and three mugs on the table. In her late fifties, she had collar-length reddish-blonde hair, a stout figure invariably clothed in a navy pinafore dress, and a face as smooth and pink-cheeked as a child in a storybook.

  The trainer obediently headed for the sink, dropping the paper beside his place-setting, where it was instantly fielded by Jamie.

  Matt watched him as he scanned the pages and could see by the change in his expression that he didn’t
like what he found.

  ‘Listen to this …’ Jamie exclaimed. ‘“Mullin was riding at Fontwell yesterday, for all the world as though nothing had happened.” What did they expect me to do? Go around bawling my eyes out? And here, it says I’m “surly and secretive”. What the hell is that supposed to mean? Just because I didn’t want to spend all day being interviewed by reporters? How can they say that? And listen: “Today, Mullin, who often steps in when Gallagher is injured, was passed over in favour of Bob Jennings, who made a very good job of riding two for Fliss Truman.” No mention of my ride on Inkster at all!’

  Matt’s heart sank. Jamie had been pretty much his normal upbeat self so far that morning, but, in a few short moments, the article had brought his sense of fear and grievance jangling back to the surface.

  Leonard turned away from the sink, drying his hands on a tea towel. Tall and trim in corduroys and a checked shirt, he was an intelligent man who was generally liked and respected, both around the yard and by his peers in the racing world.

  ‘It’s only one person’s opinion, lad,’ he said calmly. ‘And it’s their job to sensationalise – you know that. Take no notice.’

  ‘Trouble is – other people take notice,’ Jamie pointed out. ‘I already missed out on two rides yesterday. You know I rely on picking up last-minute rides; they’re just not going to happen, if this goes on.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got two decent rides today for Mr Brewer, so concentrate on those and let the future take care of itself,’ the trainer advised, and Jamie nodded glumly.

  ‘Where’s Harry this morning? Did he have a bad night?’ Matt asked as Irene put a slice of wholemeal toast with bacon and tomato in front of him. After his accident, Harry, the trainer’s wheelchair-bound son, had suffered debilitating bouts of sleeplessness, when the pain from his damaged spine had kept him awake, sometimes for nights on end. Nowadays, these episodes were a rarity, but it was unusual for Harry to miss watching the morning gallops, and Matt was concerned.

  ‘No, he’s fine.’ Leonard speared one of two fried eggs with his fork and dunked his toast in the yolk. ‘He’s gone on ahead in the car. Said he wanted to call in on someone on the way – can’t remember who. Oh, and he’s going to pick up some bits and pieces from Greaves, you know – the saddler.’