Murder in Mind

by Lyndon Stacey

  ‘But what are you going to do?’

  Still hugging her, Matt explained about Jamie’s moving out and, after an initial protest, she agreed that it might be for the best. What he didn’t share with either of them was his growing determination that Kenning shouldn’t be allowed to get away with the ruinous campaign he was waging.

  What they didn’t know, they wouldn’t worry about.

  Racing, the next day, was at Henfield, a smallish course on the Sussex Downs. Matt was booked to ride Cantablay for Kendra’s father and a novice for Doogie McKenzie, but it seemed that Brewer’s prediction was correct, for one other owner had jocked him off at the declaration stage and the only additional ride Josh Harper had managed to secure for him was on one of Westerby’s horses.

  ‘Sorry Matt,’ his agent had said the night before. ‘I don’t think many people actually believe there’s a problem with your riding, but they don’t want to take any chances. It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. But this horse of Westerby’s is no slouch. It won a couple of useful races earlier this year. Certainly isn’t another Khaki Kollin.’

  Doogie’s novice was Matt’s first ride of the day, but it had never been on a racecourse before and ran very green. Matt coaxed enough of a run from it to pass the post in sixth place, which satisfied its connections, but would do little to redeem his besieged reputation.

  Brewer’s horse, Cantablay, was favourite to win the big race of the afternoon, and the businessman was in the paddock with Leonard when Matt made his way out to ride.

  ‘The only thing capable of coming close is Louisiana Lou, and you beat her at Worcester the other week,’ he reminded Matt. ‘I don’t want any foul-ups this time.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Matt kept his tone respectful with an effort. ‘Any special instructions?’ Brewer always left the issuing of directions to Leonard, and they both knew it.

  ‘Just do your bloody job!’ was the low-voiced reply.

  As the trainer stepped forward to boost Matt into the saddle, he muttered, ‘For God’s sake, don’t wind him up!’

  Once on board and out on the course, Matt began to relax, feeling the tensions of the past couple of days dissipate in the wind that whipped past his ears. Cantablay felt strong and sensible, and although Louisiana Lou, with Razor on his back, looked fit and keen, she had been well beaten on their last meeting and, barring accidents, Matt could see no reason why the places should be reversed.

  An accident was exactly what happened.

  As usual, the bay travelled well, jumping cleanly and with enthusiasm. Matt kept him just behind the leaders until they approached the third last, where he eased the horse out of the pack to give him space to run on, but the fates were against him.

  As he landed over the birch, the horse slightly ahead and to his inside pecked and pitched sideways, bringing Matt’s horse down in a tangle of legs.

  Seeing the ground flashing towards him, Matt swore, ducked his left shoulder, and rolled, turning two complete somersaults before he came to a halt.

  Looking back, Matt saw that Cantablay had also rolled and was now struggling to his feet, but one despairing glance instantly told him that the bay gelding’s racing days were over, his near fore dangling uselessly from below the knee.

  ‘Steady lad,’ he soothed, going forward to catch the trailing rein.

  Not understanding what had happened to him, the horse tried to walk and almost fell, his eyes white-rimmed with pain and sudden fear.

  ‘Whoah, steady. It’s all right,’ Matt lied, as the horse ambulance drew up on the other side of the rails.

  How low can Mojo go? Matt quoted to himself gloomily, as he trudged back up the path to the weighing room. For the time being, he’d managed to avoid Brewer, but he knew he’d have to face him sometime. The fall had been no fault of his – just one of the sad statistics of National Hunt racing – but, although it wasn’t the first time it had happened to him and was unlikely to be the last, it was always distressing.

  ‘Bad luck, mate!’ someone called, and he raised a hand in thanks. There had been many such commiserations as he’d made his way back, and he appreciated them. Although newcomers were often horrified that a horse with a broken leg almost always had to be put down, most people at the tracks knew how poor the prognosis was for recovery from such injuries. Horses do not make good invalids, their physiology making them unable to lie down for sustained periods, and putting a limb in traction was impractical. With a return to full fitness unlikely, the kindest decision in most cases is swift euthanasia.

  In the weighing room, the other jockeys were sympathetic, many of them having been through the experience themselves. Even Razor, to whom Matt’s fall had gifted the race, seemed disinclined to crow. To most of their riders, owners, and trainers, these thoroughbreds were much more than a means to an end, they were individual characters and, over the years – in jump racing especially – real partnerships developed between animal and man, and a deep and genuine loss was felt at their passing.

  Matt changed into the colours Westerby’s horse was to carry, slipped a jacket over them to keep them clean, had a sandwich, and settled down to watch the intervening races on the jockey’s TV until it was time to ride again.

  He’d looked up the form on his last ride of the day and found that Josh Harper was indeed right. The horse, a grey gelding called Maple Tree, had won over today’s distance on two occasions and looked to be in with a chance, so it was with a palpable lifting of spirits that he went out to the paddock.

  Westerby was waiting alone, huddled into a padded jacket against the sharp wind that had sprung up as the day progressed.

  ‘Matt,’ he said, nodding.

  ‘Owner not here?’ Matt enquired, his eyes on the deep-chested grey being led round the paddock by a tall, good-looking lad with sandy hair and a morose expression. The wind was lifting the horse’s mane and rippling the corners of the warm rug he wore over his saddle.

  ‘No. Unfortunately she’s not in very good health.’

  ‘Anything I should know about this one?’

  ‘Take him steady down to the start,’ Westerby recommended. ‘Keep him handy and send him on round the last bend. He’ll give you a good ride.’

  ‘Let’s hope so – you owe me one,’ Matt observed, thinking of his last ride for the trainer.

  Westerby pulled his collar up round his ears and didn’t answer.

  Following the trainer’s advice, Matt took Maple Tree down to the start at a steady pace, his fingers loosely entwined in the grey’s unplaited mane and resting on his prominent withers. The horse felt powerful and bold, and Matt prepared to enjoy himself. He had the promised ride on Peacock Penny the next day, and found himself wishing he trusted Westerby more, because the man trained some good horses and, in these uncertain times, he might quite possibly need all the rides he could garner.

  As the tape flew back, he managed to slot Maple Tree into the middle of the twenty or so runners, and there they stayed for most of the first circuit. The horse was indeed bold, jumping with more eagerness than care, but he seemed to have the scope to get himself out of trouble, and Matt would have thoroughly enjoyed the ride had it not dawned on him – as they flew the open ditch in the back straight for the second time – that all was not well with Maple Tree’s saddle.

  It wasn’t easy to stay focussed on keeping the horse running straight over the short distance to the next fence when he had the growing conviction that the small synthetic pad was shifting beneath him. Risking a quick glance downward, he could see the horse’s huge grey shoulders powering forwards and, further down, the rhythmic flash of his front hooves, but it was the position of the saddle that held his attention. Previously hard up against the rise of Maple Tree’s prominent withers, it had moved back considerably and, in consequence, was now sitting on a narrower part of the animal’s body.

  Matt cursed and Rollo, who was racing alongside, glanced across.

  ‘You all right?’

  �
�Bloody saddle’s slipped!’

  ‘Oh, bad luck! Gonna pull up?’

  ‘Would if I could,’ Matt told him, but he knew it was a forlorn hope. The big grey was full of running and had no intention of stopping anytime soon.

  ‘Could’ve done with a breast-girth,’ Rollo shouted, as his horse took off over the next fence.

  Matching Rollo’s horse, stride for stride, Matt and Maple Tree safely negotiated the next two fences but, with each enthusiastic leap, Matt felt his position become increasingly unstable.

  Rollo was right – the grey could have done with a breast-girth, a webbing band that attaches to the saddle on each side, running across the horse’s chest at the base of its neck, and held in place by a leather strap over the shoulders. As a horse takes off, its neck and shoulders stretch forward, elongating its body, which is what makes a breast-girth an essential piece of kit for many jumpers. If the horse hadn’t been rugged against the cold wind in the paddock, it might have occurred to Matt to question its absence on such a big-fronted horse – but, then again, it might not. He usually trusted a trainer to know what tack the horse needed. For the second time in his life, Matt made a mental note to have words with Mick Westerby.

  Had they been on the home straight, it would still have been within the bounds of possibility that he and his mount could finish the race together, but the final bend was fast approaching with all its potential jostling for position. Unable to slow the big grey, Matt knew that, realistically, it was not a case of if he came off, but when and how hard.

  In the event, it was not the bend but the fence before it that proved his undoing. It was a simple, inviting birch, probably one of the smallest on the course, but, in the last couple of strides before take-off, the horse on his inside – perhaps getting tired – veered across Maple Tree’s line, causing him to change direction as he took off, twisting a little in the air.

  In mid-leap, high over four feet six of birch, the saddle slipped to one side and Matt went with it.

  11

  The first thing Matt hit, when he parted company with Maple Tree, was the rump of the horse who, by swerving, had sealed his fate. Rebounding, he dropped down behind the two horses and, because of the nature of the fall, wasn’t able to tuck and roll, but landed heavily on his side, knocking the wind from his lungs and jarring every bone in his body. Lying helpless and vulnerable, he could do no more than close his eyes as the other runners touched down all around him, their aluminium-tipped hooves punching four-inch holes into the turf.

  It was a testament to the effort that horses make to avoid riders on the ground that none of those deadly hooves scored a direct hit on Matt’s sprawling figure. Amidst the ground-shaking chaos of noise and movement, something grazed his shoulder; he heard someone utter a shocked ‘Christ!’ and then the field was over and gone, like an express train thundering away down a track, taking urgency with it and leaving tranquillity in its wake.

  As often, the whole experience was too swift even to justify relief at its passing and, as peace returned, Matt lay still, doing a mental inventory of his extremities. If they all retained sensation and movement, then the greatest horror was averted and all else could be faced and overcome.

  They all did.

  Matt opened his eyes to a vista of lush green, and supposed that he would have to try breathing at some point, but, just at that moment, it felt as though tight steel bands had been placed around his ribs. Footsteps swished towards him through the grass and a stout brown shoe appeared in his field of vision.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’

  Matt nodded, but his attempt to tell the newcomer that he was merely winded came out as a hoarse whisper, so he drew in a painful half-breath and tried again.

  ‘Just winded. Give me a moment.’

  ‘Nasty fall, that.’

  ‘They’re never much fun,’ Matt told the shoe, and, after a couple more shallow breaths, felt equal to the challenge of sitting up, aided by unseen hands.

  Undoing the chinstrap on his helmet, he thanked the stout middle-aged lady who was crouching by his side; confirmed, in answer to her question, that there were no bones broken; and, with her help, presently made it to his feet.

  *

  The jokers in the weighing room had a field day.

  ‘Trying out for the circus, Mojo?’ one asked. ‘Neat trick that. Think I saw the Cossacks do it, but, of course, they landed standing up.’

  ‘I thought he was going to sit up behind me,’ Tam Connelly reported. ‘I mean, I know I had a good horse, but really a jockey should stick with the one he started on, don’t you think?’

  ‘He likes the course here so much he wants to keep getting up close and personal with it,’ another voice suggested.

  ‘No, I reckon he’s got something going with one of the sheilas in the medical room,’ Bully said.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Keep trying – you’re almost funny,’ Matt told them.

  ‘So what did Westerby say?’ Rollo asked, coming over. ‘What excuse did he give for not having put a breast-girth on that animal? If ever a horse needed one …’

  ‘I haven’t seen him yet,’ Matt said grimly. ‘Surprisingly, he had made himself scarce when I got back, bloody man!’

  ‘You’re really not having much luck lately, are you? I saw that stuff in the paper yesterday. That was bang out of line. You should make them print a retraction.’

  ‘Trouble is, it was basically true,’ Matt said gloomily.

  ‘You’re kidding! Even the stuff about Brewer?’ Rollo was astounded. ‘I can’t believe that! Ask anyone and they’d have said you had the most solid job in racing; especially since you took up with the governor’s daughter. What’s the matter with the man?’

  ‘I have an idea it has something to do with our friend Kenning. I’m not exactly flavour of the month with him and you know what a toad-eater Brewer is when there’s a title involved.’

  Rollo shook his head.

  ‘It still doesn’t make sense. Brewer might be desperate for recognition, but he’s not stupid. He knows damn well he was lucky to get you. Surely he wouldn’t jock you off, even for Kenning?’

  Matt shrugged. He was feeling sore and the loss of Cantablay still weighed on his mind.

  ‘Brewer doesn’t like it that I’m trying to help Jamie out. I think perhaps he’s worried people will think I’m guilty by association. He says I haven’t got my mind on the job, and, of course, it’s sod’s law that I’m having crappy luck at the moment.’

  From the doorway, an official called the jockeys for the next race and Rollo had to go. Within moments, the weighing room had almost emptied, the heart of it going out with the chattering crowd of men bound for the paddock. Matt sat on the bench, half changed into his civvies, feeling drained of energy and purpose.

  ‘I’m not surprised your saddle slipped.’ It was Mikey who spoke from the other side of the room. ‘I rode him a couple of times for Westerby last year and I’m sure he had a breast-girth on. You’d want one, wouldn’t you, with a big front on him like that?’

  Matt looked up.

  ‘Are you sure? For Westerby?’

  Mikey nodded.

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure.’

  ‘Right.’ Matt stood up and reached for his shirt. ‘I think I’m going to have a few words with Mick Westerby.’

  As it happened, Matt’s confrontation with the trainer had to wait, for, after asking a number of people, he was told that Westerby, with perhaps some precognition of trouble, had prudently already left the racecourse. Frustrated, Matt drew some comfort from the fact that Henfield was a two-day meeting and he knew that Westerby had a couple of runners the next day, one of them being the much vaunted Peacock Penny, whom Matt was booked to ride. Taking his leave of Leonard, who was still plainly very cut up over Cantablay’s death, Matt eased himself stiffly behind the wheel of the MR2 and headed for home, thinking, as he did so, that the events of the day would have Dave Rossiter of the Daily Standard rubbing his hands in glee.
He really wasn’t looking forward to reading the sports pages the next morning.

  Weighing out for the first of two races he was booked for the next day, it seemed to Matt as though he hadn’t been away. By the time he’d got home the previous night, Kendra had gone out with Frances for the evening, leaving a curry simmering on the Aga, and, after he’d eaten, Matt had fallen asleep on the sofa in front of the TV with Taffy curled up next to him.

  After coming home in the early hours, Kendra had still been in bed when he’d left for Rockfield that morning, although she had lifted her face for a sleepy kiss when he’d taken her a cup of tea. Matt got the impression that the company of her sister had done her a lot of good, and he left the house in a more positive mood than he had for several days. He felt, as long as he and Kennie were OK, he could face most things, a conviction that even survived Rossiter’s best efforts in the daily sports round-up.

  Now, at Henfield, it was an overcast day with a biting cold wind, and when, in due course, the jockeys were called into the paddock, he found Roy Emmett huddled in a sheepskin coat, with matching hat and gloves, and a red scarf wound about his neck. In spite of this, his eyes were watering behind his bottle-bottom glasses and his nose, which rivalled the scarf for hue, sported a glistening dewdrop. There was no sign of his partner, a tall, austere-looking man who rarely came to the races, and neither was Leonard in attendance, but Matt knew that Rockfield had two horses in the race, so the trainer was presumably with the owner of the other.

  Matt approached Emmett with a degree of reserve, unsure as to whether he was one of the owners from whom Brewer claimed to have received complaints, but he needn’t have worried.

  When Emmett saw him, he beamed, the dewdrop wobbling dangerously as they shook hands.

  ‘Good to see you, Matt. How are you?’

  ‘Do you want my opinion or the one everyone read in the paper this morning?’

  ‘Never take much notice of the newspapers, to tell you the truth. They’re never happy unless they’re raking up trouble. Giving you a hard time, are they? What’s that about, then?’