Murder in Mind

by Lyndon Stacey

‘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 m
oney, 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 …’

  Matt held Kenning’s gaze for a moment, so angry that he didn’t trust himself to answer.

  ‘Excuse me, sir. I have a horse to ride.’

  Kenning straightened up.

  ‘Of course you do.’ He stepped to one side, adding in an undertone, ‘And let’s hope those results come back clean, shall we?’

  Matt’s eyes narrowed, but now Kenning was smiling and moving on to speak to one of his cronies, so that he could almost believe he’d imagined the last remark.

  As he changed into his breeches and colours, he couldn’t stop his mind replaying the interchange. What had the peer meant by that last comment? Surely even someone with as much clout as he had couldn’t influence the outcome of a drugs test. Kenning was a big noise in the Jockey Club, not the HRA, and Matt knew it was the HRA who organised the drug testing, although he was pretty sure it was an outside body that actually carried it out. No – Kenning had just been trying to scare him, and what’s more he had succeeded, for a heartbeat or two. It would be about a month before a copy of the results would fall onto the doormat at Spinney Cottage, and no doubt it had amused the man to think that Matt would worry about his remark until the day he was shown to be clear.

  ‘Bastard!’

  ‘Whoa! I shall make sure I don’t get on the wrong side of you today,’ Rollo declared. ‘Which particular bastard were you thinking of?’

  Matt looked round. He hadn’t realised he’d spoken out loud.

  ‘Kenning.’

  ‘Ah, the smarmy bastard.’

  Matt laughed.

  ‘You like him too, then?’

  ‘Don’t know anyone that does, really,’ Rollo said. ‘At least, not among us lower forms of life in the weighing room. What has he done to upset you?’

  ‘Oh, nothing I could sue him for.’

  ‘OK. Well, I was coming to ask if there was anything you could tell me about Mr Manchester. You rode him last time out, didn’t you?’

  Matt shook off his anger. It was highly unprofessional to carry a bad mood into the workplace, to say nothing of the detrimental effect it could have on the partnership between horse and rider.

  ‘Mr Manchester? Chestnut gelding – trained by Belinda Kepple?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘So, what does she say?’

  ‘It was Belinda who said to ask you,’ Rollo replied. ‘She says he shows nothing at home, but you got a sweet tune out of him.’

  Matt cast his mind back.

  ‘I don’t think there’s any mystery to it. He’s a front runner. He’ll pull like hell from the off, but he’ll settle when he’s at the front.’

  By the time Matt and Rollo strolled out to the paddock, Matt had managed to put Lord Kenning to the back of his mind, and the sight of the ten novice chasers stalking round the paddock with the autumn sunlight gleaming on their burnished hides lifted his mood in the way nothing else could.

  He was riding a new horse for Doogie McKenzie – Woodcutter, a youngster he knew the Scot thought a lot of. Looking at him now, a smallish, dark bay gelding with an intelligent head, a sloping shoulder and good clean limbs, he had to admit that he was a nice type, but it wasn’t until the horse was led into the centre of the paddock to have his girth tightened and stirrups let down that Matt felt a stirring of excitement. Standing stock-still, Woodcutter lifted his head to gaze out over the heads of the crowd to where the first of the runners was already heading down the cinder path to the track, and Matt saw something in his eye that sent a shiver up his spine.

  The look of eagles, it was sometimes somewhat fancifully called, but it nevertheless described perfectly that extraspecial something that some horses have about them. It wouldn’t necessarily translate into speed, but it almost always denoted character. Such horses could be exceptional – and they seemed aware of it.

  The girths tightened, Doogie came across to where Matt was fastening the strap on his helmet.

  ‘Owner not here?’ Matt asked.

  ‘Had to work,’ the trainer replied. ‘He’s a surgeon – last-minute call. So what d’you think?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s a nice sort,’ Matt replied. ‘I can see why you like him. Sorry I didn’t make it over to school him. How’s he been going?’

  ‘He’s an absolute star!’ Doogie said. ‘Been working like a dream. I don’t think you’ll have any bother with him, unless he’s just a tad overkeen.’

  Matt walked forward with the Scot, preparatory to being legged into the saddle. Close up, the horse looked lean and hard-muscled.

  ‘So where’s he been? Why haven’t I seen him on the track?’

  ‘His owner’s been point-to-pointing him,’ Doogie muttered disgustedly. ‘Until I managed to make him see what a waste that was. Trouble is, now he’s saying, if he can’t ride him, he might as well sell him, so it looks like I’m buggered either way.’

  Matt picked up the reins, rested his hands lightly on the bay’s withers, and bent his leg at the knee. Seconds later, he landed lightly in the saddle and the toes of his soft leather boots found the stirrup irons. Woodcutter walked forward calmly, his short black mane flopping up and down with the rhythm of his stride, and an ear flicking back enquiringly towards his new partner.

  ‘Good lad,’ Matt told him.

  ‘It’s up to you how you ride him. You’ll
have to play it by ear,’ Doogie said, as he patted the horse’s shoulder and moved away.

  That was one of the things Matt liked about the Scotsman. Unless there was a good reason to, he never interfered. There was a trust between them that each would do their job to the best of their ability, and the confidence that that best would be enough.

  Woodcutter walked calmly beside his lad out of the paddock and down to the track, where he arched his neck and jogged a little as he felt the turf beneath his hooves.

  On Matt’s OK, the lad slipped the lead rein and they were away. The bay settled into an eager canter as he spied the rumps of the other runners ahead of him. Balanced easily over the horse’s withers, his hands resting quietly on his neck, Matt looked forward through the pricked, black-tipped ears, his knees flexing with the rhythm of Woodcutter’s stride, and was aware of a tremendous feeling of contentment. The sun was warm, the track a broad strip of emerald between shining white rails, the trees beyond the racecourse were russet and gold, and beneath him was a young horse about to embark on his new life as a steeplechaser. Life, in spite of the recent troubles, was good.

  Woodcutter didn’t put a foot wrong. Matt made sure he was ready when the tape flew back and settled him in mid-field, seeing Rollo on Mr Manchester leading the way, two or three horses ahead. Maiden Newton was an ideal course for youngsters – the fences were well made and of medium height, the bends fairly open, and the rails opened out in the home straight, allowing the field room to spread across the track, which made it less likely that anyone would get trapped behind a tiring horse in the race to the line.

  Woodcutter rounded the last bend still travelling strongly with one fence left to jump. The four runners ahead of him separated as the pace picked up a notch or two, and, as soon as Matt gave him the office, the little bay surged forward. He flew the last birch, gaining half a length in the air, and thundered into the final two furlongs neck and neck with Rollo’s horse.

  There was no contest.

  For a moment, as they drew level, Mr Manchester rallied, finding extra reserves of energy, but Woodcutter was having none of it. Flattening his ears back, he lengthened his stride and, within moments, had left the chestnut floundering in his wake.