Murder in Mind Read online

  ‘That car of his has been a godsend, hasn’t it?’ Matt said, trying not to look at the forbidden eggs. As a personal friend of Harry’s, he knew that the most devastating consequence of his accident had been the loss of his independence, and the funding of a specially adapted MPV by the Injured Jockeys’ Fund had been a tremendous boost to his mental recovery. If only his physical recovery could follow suit, Matt thought sadly, but it seemed the doctors were at a bit of a standstill as regards that.

  ‘Saved his life, I shouldn’t wonder.’ Having seen to everyone else, Irene finally sat at the table with a slice of toast and a mug of tea.

  ‘Was it that bad?’ Matt knew Harry had been depressed, but he had had no idea it had been that serious. Harry hid his feelings well, and Matt experienced a twinge of guilt that he hadn’t made the time to find out how his friend had really been coping.

  ‘I don’t think it was quite that tragic,’ Leonard moderated, with a frown at his wife. ‘Harry’s a tough lad. He just had a low spell. It’s not surprising; it can happen to anyone.’

  ‘Jamie’s here, then,’ Jim Steady commented, as he laid out the silks for Matt’s first race. Steady was Matt’s racecourse valet. They were in the weighing room at Worcester racecourse and all around them were jockeys in various stages of undress, preparing for the coming afternoon’s racing. The weighing room was actually a misnomer for the changing room; the area where the jockeys actually weighed out being known as ‘The Scales’.

  ‘Yeah, he’s got two rides,’ Matt said, in answer to the valet’s remark. He was surprised. Steady surely knew that; he usually valeted for Jamie, too.

  Steady grunted. ‘I know, I just thought …’

  ‘You thought what?’

  The valet looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, I don’t know nothing about it, but there was this rumour going round this morning that he’d been arrested.’

  Was there indeed? Matt looked across to where Jamie was taking off his jacket, noticing that, where he would normally have been part of a lively crowd, now he was isolated, or as isolated as it was possible to be in the fairly cramped changing area. The tide of busy, chattering, laughing men and boys was parting around him, as though he were a rock in a stream. The young Irishman was keeping his head down for the most part, although, as Matt watched, Jamie glanced up and caught his eye, shrugging slightly. The look on his face might have fooled the casual observer, but Matt knew him well and could tell he was intensely unhappy.

  ‘So, what else are they saying?’ he demanded of the valet. Jamie was generally well liked, and the other jockeys were usually pretty supportive when one of their number was in trouble. Something was going on, and he suspected he hadn’t been told because he was known to be Jamie’s particular friend.

  Jim Steady wouldn’t meet Matt’s eyes. He muttered something about having others to see to, and would have made his getaway if Matt hadn’t caught his arm.

  ‘Jim! Tell me.’

  ‘Oh look – I don’t really know; I wouldn’t like to say. It’s none of my business really.’

  ‘Well, which is it? You don’t know, or you don’t want to say?’

  ‘Look, I’m not saying I believe it – I’ve always thought he was a nice lad, but what I heard was that the girl that was murdered the other night was raped before she was killed. And they’re saying that Jamie did it. I don’t believe it, mind,’ he added hastily.

  ‘That’s absolute rubbish!’ Matt said. ‘Who’s saying it? Who told you?’

  ‘I’m not sure I remember. So she wasn’t raped?’

  ‘No! I mean – I don’t know about that, but it definitely wasn’t Jamie, anyway. You must know who told you.’

  ‘I’m keeping out of it. I’m glad it’s not true though.’ Steady was edging away and Matt let him go. On reflection, it was unrealistic to expect him to divulge any names; he had to work with a lot of the jockeys and wouldn’t want to lose their trust.

  With the first race looming, Matt was occupied with changing and weighing out before they were called to the paddock. There, his attention was claimed by the trainer and owners, so he didn’t have time to exchange more than a couple of words with Jamie until they met up down at the start.

  Here, as they circled, keeping the horses warm and supple whilst waiting for the starter to mount his rostrum and call them forward, Matt sought Jamie out, bringing his bay gelding alongside the Irishman’s grey horse.

  ‘Hi, kid. How’re you doin’?’

  ‘Bloody awful!’ Jamie muttered. ‘You must have heard what they’re saying. I’m not just a murderer, now I’m a fuckin’ rapist, too!’ His agitation transferred itself to his horse and it tossed its head, nervously.

  ‘Shhh! It’s just talk. I know it’s hard, but you’re here to do a job, and you have to keep your mind on that.’

  From the rostrum, the starter called out, ‘Goggles!’

  ‘It’s easy for you,’ Jamie protested, putting up a hand to pull his protective goggles into place. ‘It’s not you everybody’s whispering about.’

  ‘And, of course, I don’t give a damn,’ Matt observed.

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s just so fuckin’ unfair!’

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Mutton!’ someone exclaimed, using Jamie’s nickname. ‘Been let out for the day for good behaviour?’

  Unseen by either of them, Geoff Hislop had ridden up on Matt’s left and was now grinning unpleasantly across at Jamie. He had a thin, sharp-featured face that only served to make his own nickname more apt.

  ‘Fuck off, Razor!’ Jamie responded, snatching his own mount up short and turning away.

  Before Matt could say anything, the starter called out, ‘All right, jockeys, make a line and walk in. Right, keep to line, walk … walk.’

  Within moments the horses were all turning towards the starting line. The starter called, ‘All right, come on!’, the elasticised tape pinged aside, and, with a surge, they were away and powering towards the first fence, some two hundred yards distant.

  As always with Matt, he left all the business of everyday living at the starting line; his world narrowing to the strip of lush green turf down which he was travelling, the pounding rhythm of the horse beneath him, and the urgent, jostling presence of the other runners around him.

  The bay gelding was a fairly experienced campaigner and, tucking him in behind the leaders, Matt was able to settle him quite quickly and approach the first fence at a sensible pace. On his outside, Razor – on the favourite – was swearing at his mount, who was pulling hard with its mouth open and head low, and, glancing over his shoulder, he could see Jamie’s grey horse, two or three lengths behind. The only sounds were the thudding of hooves, the short, sharp snorting breaths of the horses, and the odd word from one of the jockeys. The wind whipped past Matt’s ears and small chunks of turf hit his chest and face, thrown up by the leading animal, some three lengths ahead.

  The first fence loomed, the runners rose like a Mexican wave of horseflesh over the clipped birch, touched down, and were away towards the second. A buzz of exhilaration fizzed through Matt. Even after nearly ten years of racing, the thrill was still there, the painful consequences of his last race forgotten in the excitement of the present.

  The bay gelding gave Matt a super ride, taking all the fences in his stride and moving forward smoothly as they rounded the last bend to take up a position just behind Razor on the favourite. Heading for the second last, Matt became aware of someone else moving up on his outside. A grey horse. Jamie’s.

  Razor looked back, saw him coming, and gave his mount a sharp crack of the whip, just behind his leg. The pace picked up a notch or two, but Jamie’s horse, not shaken off, moved up alongside the favourite and they approached the last fence together, rising in perfect synchronicity with Matt close behind.

  As they landed, Matt saw Razor’s horse, ears back, beginning to falter, so he switched his own gelding to the outside so as not to be hampered by the slowing animal.

  They approached the
furlong pole almost in a line, with Jamie’s grey a fraction in front of Razor’s horse, and Matt barely half a length adrift, and he saw Jamie sit down and urge his horse forward. Under pressure, the grey surged ahead, veering towards the rails in front of the struggling favourite, and, yelling abuse, Razor made a big show of pulling his horse back, and quickly dropped out of the reckoning.

  Pulling his whip through to keep the bay straight, Matt pushed him on with hands and heels, and had the satisfaction of overhauling Jamie’s grey and putting a length between them at the finishing line.

  Both horses slowed to a canter and then to a ragged trot, and Matt patted the bay’s sweaty neck and looked across at Jamie.

  ‘Gotcha!’ he said, with a grin, and Jamie grinned ruefully in reply.

  As they turned back to meet the approaching handlers, Razor rode between the two of them and leaned towards the Irishman.

  ‘You fuckin’ took me out, you moron!’

  Jamie looked astounded.

  ‘I did not!’ he protested, but Razor was gone. ‘I didn’t,’ he said again, turning to Matt.

  ‘Just ignore him.’

  They slowed to a walk and heard the public address system issue the ominous two-tone chime that presaged a Stewards’ Enquiry.

  Jamie grimaced. ‘Oh God, that’s all I need!’

  Fred Pinter, Rockfield’s travelling head lad, materialised at the bay’s head and took his rein to lead him back to the winner’s circle, glowing with pleasure at the reception they received. As a close second favourite, there had been a fair amount of money on him, and the punters were loud in their glee.

  By the time Matt had dismounted, had his photo taken next to the horse, been hugged by the lady owner, spoken to Leonard, and unsaddled, he had to hurry to weigh in before the fifteen-minute deadline. As he made his way through the drifts of people, collecting the occasional pat on the back, he became aware that the TV presenter,Ted Barker, was interviewing someone over the PA system.

  ‘Well, I’ve got Geoff Hislop here. Geoff, you were on the beaten favourite, Louisiana Lou. You came in fourth – was that the ground? Does she prefer a bit more cut in it?’

  ‘Yeah, I think she does.’ Hislop’s Yorkshire accent was unmistakable. ‘But she still had a bit of fuel in the tank. What really finished her off was being hampered on the run in by Mullin’s horse. I had to snatch her up and come round him, and it completely ruined her rhythm. When you’re that close to the line, there’s no time to recover.’

  ‘You’re saying Jamie Mullin’s horse – that was Penselwood, wasn’t it? – hung across to the rail and forced you to pull up? Are you saying you think Louisiana Lou still had a chance of winning at that point?’

  ‘She might have, if Mullin had had his mind on the job. We all know he’s going through a rough patch right now – and, of course, we wish him well – but he can’t let it affect his riding. It’s a dangerous enough game as it is without loose cannons in our midst.’

  Matt could see the tall figure of Ted Barker now, just yards away, and, in spite of the waiting scales, when he drew close, he slowed up to lean over Razor’s shoulder.

  ‘Bad luck, fella,’ he said, clapping the other jockey on the back.

  ‘Ah, Matt – Matt Shepherd. Have you got time for a quick word?’ Barker asked, as Matt had hoped he would. Wearing his trademark cream suit and trilby, he was a well-known and well-liked figure around the racetracks and on the BBC’s racing team.

  ‘Er … Just a very quick one,’ Matt said, and Hislop moved aside to make way for him.

  ‘You rode the winner, Temperance Bob. Well done! Was that as easy as it looked?’

  ‘Pretty much. He’s a very honest horse; always gives his best.’

  ‘Geoff reckons he had an unlucky run – could you see what happened?’

  ‘Yes, I was right behind them.’ Matt cheered, inwardly. Never one to miss an opportunity for controversy, the presenter had given him just what he’d wanted. ‘It’s true, Jamie’s horse did hang left, but, in my opinion, Hislop’s horse wasn’t going anywhere by then. She looked good and tired, to me.’

  ‘It did look as though Hislop had to take a pull on Louisiana Lou,’ Barker persisted, pushing the microphone towards Matt again, hazel eyes sharp with interest in his pleasant face.

  ‘Yeah, but sometimes these incidents can look a lot worse than they actually are,’ Matt replied lightly. ‘Look, it’s up to the stewards now. I’d better get weighed in, OK?’

  ‘Of course. Thanks for talking to us, Matt.’ Barker smiled and turned away to speak directly to camera and, carrying his saddle and crash cap, Matt hurried towards the scales and the waiting officials.

  By the time he’d changed into his colours for the next race, the stewards had announced no change to the finishing order, and the presentation to the connections of the winner could get underway. Slipping Temperance Bob’s colours back on over the top of the ones for his second ride, Matt went out to join Leonard and receive his prize.

  After his success in the first race, Matt’s afternoon settled into the usual mix of fortunes, with two runners unplaced, and Charlie Brewer’s hope, Cheddah, beaten by a short head. Jamie’s second ride trailed home almost last and Matt saw little of him until he was legged-up onto his mount for the final race and spotted the Irishman over the heads of the crowd, walking away from the paddock in company with a bulky figure in a brown suit.

  With a sinking heart, Matt recognised the man. DI Bartholomew. Damn! What did he want?

  It was the best part of an hour before Matt was able to seek Jamie out. The runners were held up at the start because one of them cast a shoe and the farrier had to be called to replace it and, after the race, when he emerged from the weighing room having showered and changed, the owner of his last ride collared him, wanting to discuss the animal’s form.

  Free at last, Matt finally ran Jamie to ground in the Tattersalls Bar, alone and slouching on a barstool amongst a scattering of people who were lingering after the racing to celebrate bets won or dull the pain of money thrown away.

  He got to within six feet before Jamie looked up and saw him and, straight away, Matt could tell that he’d sunk more than a couple of beers. His body language was lacklustre and his eyes heavy lidded. When he saw Matt, he raised his half-empty glass.

  ‘Gonna join me?’

  ‘No, I’m not. One of us has to drive, remember?’ Matt was annoyed. His ankle was aching and had swollen again, and they had agreed that morning that Jamie would drive home. No chance of that now. He reached out and removed the glass from Jamie’s hand. ‘You’ve had enough, too. Don’t forget you’ve got a ride tomorrow.’

  ‘Did have,’ Jamie said, reclaiming his beer. ‘Did have a ride. Not anymore.’

  ‘Why? What happened?’

  ‘Emmett says the ground’s too firm for the filly.’

  ‘Oh. Well, it is pretty hard,’ Matt temporised.

  ‘Bollocks!’ Jamie said into his glass. ‘Didn’t want a rapist riding his horse, more like!’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous! And keep your voice down. Anyway, he wouldn’t scratch the horse if that was the case – he’d get someone else to ride it.’

  Jamie shook his head. ‘Emmett’s not like that – he’s too nice,’ he said, turning the last word into a sneer.

  Matt reluctantly had to acknowledge the truth of that, but he still didn’t accept Jamie’s interpretation of the matter.

  ‘She’s a young filly; I expect he’s just looking after her legs. You can’t blame him, she cost him a fortune.’

  Jamie grunted and drained his glass.

  ‘What did Bartholomew want?’ Matt asked, waving away an expectant barman. ‘I saw you talking to him earlier.’

  ‘More bloody questions! Kept on and on about where I went when I left the party. I told him where I went. Not my fault no one saw me. If I’d known I was going to need a fuckin’ alibi, I’d have taken someone with me!’

  ‘I hope you didn’
t say that to Bartholomew.’

  Jamie shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t. That bloke’s had a sense of humour bypass.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he thinks it’s a laughing matter,’ Matt pointed out. ‘Did he have anything else to say? What about the rape story?’

  ‘Oh, that – no, that wasn’t true. Shouldn’t be surprised if Razor made that up himself.’

  ‘So they haven’t found the lorry driver, then?’

  ‘No, they haven’t. I think Bartholomew thinks I made that up, too.’

  ‘Well, how else does he think you got to Charlborough? You couldn’t have walked it in that short time. Come on, let’s get going. I want to get home and put my feet up.’ Matt took the empty glass out of Jamie’s fingers and stood back, but the younger man didn’t move.

  ‘Bartholomew did say one other thing,’ he said, his eyes fixed broodingly on the bar top. ‘He told me that Sophie was pregnant.’

  ‘Pregnant? Oh God!’

  Jamie didn’t seem to have heard. He looked up with eyes that were suspiciously bright. ‘I could have been a father, Matt.’

  Could have been was about right, in Matt’s opinion. He reflected that, in Jamie’s position, he’d have wanted a paternity test before he shelled out maintenance for any child of Sophie’s.

  ‘He asked me if I knew. Do you know – he actually asked me if I’d killed her because of the baby!’ Jamie said bitterly. ‘Christ! How sick is that?’

  ‘It’s probably not unheard of,’ Matt said. ‘Don’t forget, blokes like Bartholomew are mixing with the bum-end of society all the time – being cynical is the cornerstone of his job. As of a few days ago, he’d never even heard of you; you can’t really blame him for thinking that way.’

  Shaking his head, Jamie got to his feet and walked past Matt towards the door, but he didn’t say anything else until he slid into the passenger seat of the MR2, and then the words burst from him as if they’d been under pressure.