Murder in Mind (14 page)

'Bull!' Matt said explosively, in spite of his resolve to stay calm. 'With respect, sir, I've warned the lads, more than once, that Tulip Time is head shy and ultra-sensitive to whips.'

'Mr Shepherd! I must ask you to wait your turn,' Fairbrother cut in. 'You have already spoken; please let Mr Hislop have his say.'

'I honestly didn't know, sir,' Razor declared, with a convincing expression of earnest apology. 'I thought I was doing the right thing, trying to keep my horse straight.'

'And what do you say to Mr Shepherd's assertion that you actually hit his horse shortly before the last fence? We all saw how it swerved . . .'

'I'd be very surprised if I did, sir,' Razor said, still with that guileless expression.

Matt longed to wipe it off his face. He risked another interruption.

'Sir, I shouted to him – twice – to watch his whip, but he didn't take any notice.'

'I didn't hear you,' Razor said. 'What are you saying? That I did it on purpose?'

That's exactly what I'm saying,
Matt wanted to say, but he gritted his teeth against the temptation.

A few moments later they were asked to leave the room whilst the stewards came to their decision.

As the door closed behind them, Razor shook his head, pityingly.

'You haven't got a chance, you know.'

Matt ignored him.

When they were called back, a few minutes later, it was to be told that the decision of the stewards was that, if interference had indeed taken place, it had been of an accidental nature. The Stipendiary Steward added that, as it was impossible to prove that Matt's horse would have beaten the favourite, the placings would remain unaltered and no further action would be taken.

Silently fuming, Matt joined Razor in thanking the stewards, and they filed out.

'Told you.' Razor was full of smug satisfaction. 'No hard feelings, eh?'

'Absolutely not,' Matt agreed, then leaned close as he passed. 'But, if you ever do anything like that again, I'll take you apart piece by miserable piece, and be damned to the stewards!'

He had the brief gratification of seeing Razor's self-satisfied expression falter, but, in truth, as soon as the words had left his lips, he regretted them. Falling out with the other jockey wasn't going to achieve anything useful, no matter how much support he could count on from the other lads in the weighing room. He couldn't imagine Razor ever being a friend, but he had an idea he'd make an uncomfortable enemy.

Sitting in the weighing room chewing on an oat bar during the next race, Matt began to ponder the stewards' verdict. Why, he wondered, hadn't they asked for a third or fourth point of view? It was possible one or two of the following jockeys might have seen something, and surely they would have testified to the fact that he'd warned them all about Tulip Time's whip phobia?

Not for the first time, Matt found himself wishing that the whole business of racecourse stewarding could be overhauled. While he felt that, on the whole, they did a very good job, he knew he wasn't alone in the opinion that sometimes the interests of racing might better be served by a panel of professional adjudicators from within the industry.

The rules stated that the placings should remain the same unless there was very little room for doubt that the horse suffering the interference would have won. It was also the case that the further from the winning post the incident took place, the less likely it was that the result would be overturned, but sometimes Matt felt that the letter of the law was adhered to in the face of justice and good sense. However, there was nothing that could be done to change the decision, so he resolved to put it behind him and get on with the business of the day.

His final two rides that afternoon turned in workmanlike but uninspiring performances, both finishing just outside the places, and Matt returned wearily to the weighing room to change into his everyday clothes.

Emerging presently, the first person he saw was Harry Leonard, who waved him over.

'Hiyah. Ouch! That looks sore.'

Gingerly, Matt touched his bruised nose.

'It is, a bit, but I don't think it's broken.'

'Dad told me how it happened. Any luck with the stewards?'

'No. Razor came the innocent. Where
is
your dad?'

'Still at the stables, I think. Look, I was hoping I'd catch you. See that guy over there by the steps – the one with the black leather jacket? That's Darren Wallis. He's the son of Ron Wallis, the bookie, but he's also one of Sophie Bradford's exes; they were inseparable for a time a while ago. I think he was the one she was flirting with at the party. Don't know if it's any help, but I thought you might want to know, if you're still doing your sleuthing bit.'

Matt sighed.

'Thanks. Yeah, I am – in the teeth of opposition. Not that I'm making much headway, though.'

He looked in the direction Harry was indicating, and saw a fairly heavily built man of around thirty, talking to a willowy blonde girl who was leaning close and laughing. It didn't look to be the most propitious moment to approach him on the subject of an ex-girlfriend, but it seemed too good a chance to miss, so Matt took a deep breath and strolled over.

'Darren Wallis?'

The beefy man broke off his conversation and frowned at Matt.

'Yeah, who wants to know?' he asked, obviously not recognising Matt in his everyday clothes.

'Matt Shepherd. Sorry to interrupt . . .'

Wallis's expression cleared a little.

'The jockey? Oh, right – hi. What can I do for you?'

'Matt Shepherd?' the blonde broke in, doing something coquettish with her eyes. 'My friend thinks you're hot! I couldn't have your autograph, could I?' She fumbled in an impractically small handbag and produced a pen and an address book.

'Yeah, sure.' Matt reached for the book. 'To . . . ?'

'Lucy. With love . . .'

'So what can I do for you?' Wallis repeated.

'Er ... In private, perhaps?' Matt suggested, handing the address book back.

Wallis's brows drew down.

'I suppose so. Listen, Lucy – run along for a moment, would you?'

The blonde made a moue but did as she was told, stalking away on four-inch stilettos, one hand repositioning the strip of fabric that did duty as a skirt.

Watching her, Wallis sighed.

'Nice totty, but not the brightest button in the box. Now, what's this all about?'

'Sophie Bradford. I understand you used to go out with her . . .'

'Yeah, we were together for a while, but I don't know about going out – we spent more time in, than anything – if you get my drift.'

Matt thought he did.

'When was this?'

''Bout eighteen months ago. Can't remember exactly – one blonde seems to blend into another, somehow. So why d'you want to know? Is this something to do with that bit about you in the paper? Said you were trying to solve the murder or something.'

'Yeah. Just trying to help a mate out, that's all. Can you tell me what happened? With Sophie, I mean. Why did you split up?'

'Found out she was two-timing me,' Wallis said disgustedly. 'Caught her with her knickers down, you might say. Not that she wore any, half the time.'

'That's a bit of a bummer.'

'Yeah, but what the heck! 'S not as if I was going to marry the woman,' he said philosophically. 'Hey, don't go thinking I've been bearing a grudge all this time; it wasn't me that topped her – I can tell you that for nothing.'

'I wasn't thinking it,' Matt soothed. 'I gather you were dancing with her at Doogie's party that night, though.'

'Yeah, so what? Your mate Mullin was late, and she hit on me. She wasn't the sort to stand around when she could be having fun.'

'So there wasn't anything going on between you?'

Wallis shook his head.

'Nah, she was just using me to try and make him jealous. Pay him back for keeping her waiting – you know. When I realised what she was up to, I left them to it. I don't want that kind of trouble, and, besides, I had another party to go to.'

'The police have obviously been onto you . . .'

'Yeah, a couple of times, but my alibi checked out, so they lost interest.'

'OK. Well, thanks anyway.' Matt waved a hand and turned away feeling that the encounter had done no more than reinforce what he already knew of the dead girl's character, or lack of it.

Leaving Wallis, Matt made his way to the racecourse stables in search of Leonard, but was told that he'd left a message for Matt to meet him at the car. Wearily, he threaded through the rapidly thinning crowds towards the exit and, as he passed the door to the stands, it opened and the Stipendiary Steward came out, almost bumping into him.

Matt nodded.

'Mr Fairbrother.'

Seeing Matt, Chris Fairbrother hesitated, colour flooding over his face and into the roots of his sandy hair.

'Matt. Hi. Er . . . I'm in a bit of a hurry . . .'

Matt wasn't surprised the Stipe was embarrassed after his recent highly questionable rulings.

'Yes, I expect you are,' he said regarding the man with a degree of bitterness.

Fairbrother's colour deepened.

'Look – about that, I'm sorry. I didn't really have a choice . . .' He faltered. 'Look, we shouldn't even be discussing it. I really have to go.'

On those words, he ducked his head and turned away, leaving Matt mystified as he headed for the car park. What the hell had he meant – he didn't have a choice? Of course he bloody did! He was the Stipendiary Steward – the final decision rested with him.

With no rides booked for the following day, Kendra departed to Birchwood Hall for a day's millining – as she put it – and, after a bit of badgering, Jamie rolled up his sleeves and prepared to help Matt with the ongoing work on the kitchen.

The results of Tulip Time's headbutt had flowered into a pink and purple bruise on the bridge of Matt's nose, but, he was thankful to discover, showed no signs of blackening his eyes. Kendra's reaction had been one of sympathy, but also, Matt fancied, a slight deepening of the faint aura of tension that had surrounded her for the past few days. His attempt to quiz her about it produced only a quick denial and he was left to wonder.

Jamie, Matt discovered, had come through his silent mood, although that proved to be a well-disguised blessing, as he proceeded to hold forth at length on the injustices dealt out to him by the police, the press, and those he termed his 'so-called friends'. Matt was more interested in the circumstances that had led to his arrest and release than his sense of grievance, and wanted to know exactly what he had gleaned from Bartholomew, though it seemed that the DI had been cagey with his information.

'He wouldn't say when I'd get the MG back,' Jamie complained. 'He did say he thought it might be salvageable, though. Apparently they found it upside down in a field, so it sounds like kids, don't you think? Bartholomew said I was bloody lucky it wasn't burnt out.'

'Had it been hotwired?' Matt asked, prising the lid off a tin of undercoat and gazing unenthusiastically at the contents.

'I don't know. Why?'

'Well – I just thought, if they had the keys, it would look like that going-over you got in Bournemouth wasn't so random, after all. Did you tell Bartholomew about that?'

'Yeah, eventually. But I'm not sure he believed me. He wanted to know why I didn't report it at the time. Are you saying they mugged me just to get my car keys?'

'Sophie's cards had to get in there somehow,' Matt observed. 'You didn't put them there, so who did? The fact that they didn't set fire to the car seems significant, don't you think? Kids often do, I would imagine. I'd be surprised if Bartholomew didn't take that into account. This might actually work in your favour, in the long run. I mean – why would
you
pinch her credit cards?'

Jamie looked a little uncomfortable.

'I wouldn't, but the thing is, Bartholomew's been nosing in my bank account.'

Matt paused in stirring the paint.

'And . . . ?'

'And ... he knows I'm not too flush at the moment,' Jamie said, reddening a little. 'Haven't been for a while.'

'OK. Spell it out. You're not in debt, are you?'

'Well, in a manner of speaking – yeah, a bit. But it doesn't make any difference; I still didn't pinch her cards,' he rushed on. 'Bartholomew was trying to make me say that we'd had another row because she found out that I'd nicked her cards. I mean, it's crazy! He said maybe I didn't mean to kill her. Maybe we were arguing and I'd just pushed her, or she'd tripped and bashed her head on the wall. He kept on and on, but it's not true, Matt. I didn't kill her. I wasn't even there – I told the truth in the beginning. The last time I saw her was in the club.
You
still believe me, don't you?'

'Of course I do. But I'm bloody annoyed that you didn't tell me you were in debt. Why the hell didn't you?'

Jamie wouldn't meet his eyes. He picked up a paintbrush and started to run the bristles through his fingers.

'Jamie!' Matt felt more like a father than a friend at that moment, even though only four years separated them.

'Because I knew you'd feel you had to help, and you already do enough for me. Whatever you say, I know I don't pay enough rent and I don't want to sponge off you for cash as well.'

'You haven't borrowed money, have you?' Matt asked suspiciously. 'Please don't tell me you've gone to a credit company . . .'

Jamie shook his head.

'No, I haven't – but I
was
thinking about it.'

'Well, stop thinking about it – it's madness!'

'It's all right for you!' Jamie protested. 'It's easy to take the moral high ground when you've never had to worry about money. Things were just starting to pick up before this happened – I was picking up regular rides and there was a light at the end of the tunnel, but now I've got bugger all coming in and no prospect of it, and I've still got to live. Just what would you do in my position?'

Matt began stirring the paint again, rhythmically following a figure of eight pattern while he sorted out his thoughts. Jamie was right, up to a point. Even though he'd never relied upon his family's money, the very fact of its being there was a kind of mental safety net. How would he feel if, like Jamie, he was the son of a single parent; one of a big family from a Belfast council house? He didn't have an answer. In spite of what he'd said to Jamie, he knew his own pride would get in the way, too.

'I'm not offering to give you money,' he said finally. 'I'll lend it to you. You can pay me back when you're back on your feet.'

'Don't you mean
if
?'

'No. I don't. Now stop vandalising that paintbrush and give me a hand. If you do a good job, I'll pay you ten quid an hour.'

Jamie slanted a calculating look at him.

'Fifteen?'

'You bloody Irish!' Matt exclaimed.

* * *

Saturday's racing at Maiden Newton didn't get off to a particularly auspicious start for Matt. He'd barely hung his jacket on his peg in the weighing room when a suited and bespectacled official from the Horse Racing Authority called in to inform him that he was wanted for a drug test.

'Again, sir? I had one a couple of weeks ago.'

The official shrugged, disinterested.

'I don't know anything about that – I'm just passing on the request.'

Matt had no choice but to accept the summons. Drugs tests were an inescapable part of a jockey's life, as in any modern sport. At least one jockey was tested at the start of each day's racing, and, on occasion, all the jockeys at a meeting would be checked. The tests were, however, supposed to be random – unless doubts were harboured about a particular rider – and Matt felt a little hard done by to have drawn the short straw twice in such a short period of time.

With a sigh, Matt made his way to the specially adapted camper van where another official was waiting to conduct a breath test for alcohol and a urine test for narcotics.

When he emerged a few minutes later, having given the requisite samples, he came face to face with the tall, wiry figure of Lord Kenning, so close to the camper van that it almost looked as though he'd been waiting for Matt to appear. His first words gave weight to this suspicion.

'Called in again, Matt? You'd better be careful; people will begin to talk.'

Matt stopped in front of him.

'How would they even know, unless
someone
saw fit to tell them, sir?'

'Oh, I know what the weighing room's like. There's always gossip. It only takes a couple of jocks to tell their girlfriends or trainers and, before you know where you are, it's common knowledge.' He leaned closer to Matt. 'Let's just hope the press doesn't get wind of it and start to speculate. That could be very prejudicial to your career . . .'