The downfall of this plan would have been if Delafield had removed the keys, but the gods were with Matt on this occasion, and, with a low-voiced ‘Yes!’, he started the engine, flicked the lights on, and put the vehicle in reverse, familiar with the controls from his own, albeit older, Land Rover at home.
Flooring the accelerator, he backed, at speed, a little way up the track down which he had recently ridden, braked, and then drove forward, steering hard right to make the turn into the gravel track leading to the lane. Catching its nearside wheels in a pothole, the 4x4 tilted so violently that, for one heart-stopping moment, Matt thought it would roll, but somehow it recovered, settling comfortingly back onto four wheels, if somewhat skewed across the track. Matt stamped on the brakes, wrenching the wheel back the other way, and, as the Land Rover straightened out, he heard a thump from the passenger side. The inner light came on and, glancing across, he was in time to see the door swing open and Delafield start to pull himself inside, the knife held between his teeth.
Once again he steered hard right and had the satisfaction of seeing the other man jerked back, wildly off balance and forced to clutch at the doorframe, but, within the narrow confines of the track, Matt soon had to swerve back the other way. The rapid change of direction and the deeply pitted surface of the track combined to shake Delafield’s grip loose and throw him bodily against the inside of the windscreen and then down onto the seat.
‘Motherfucker!’ he growled, and Matt’s desperation at not having got rid of the man was tempered by the realisation that, to have articulated the words, Delafield must have dropped the knife.
A second attempt to throw him out by swerving was thwarted by the door having slammed shut. The Land Rover bumped and jolted down the track, becoming airborne more than once, and, after smacking his head on the front shelf a time or two, Delafield gave up trying to search for the weapon in the footwell and launched an attack with his fists, catching Matt with a stinging blow to the side of his head, which, in turn, resulted in him hitting the other side of his head on the window beside him. Seeing stars, Matt stamped savagely on the brakes and had the satisfaction of seeing Delafield impact heavily with the windscreen for a second time.
It didn’t improve his temper or his language.
Jamming the gear lever into first, Matt transferred his foot to the accelerator and the Land Rover leapt into the harness once more. Ahead, the lights picked out an apparently solid obstruction spanning the width of the track, and it took him a moment or two to realise that it was the hedge on the other side of the road. Within seconds they would be on the tarmac and he would have to make the choice of whether to go left or right â and what then? On the smooth, narrow lane, how long would it be before Delafield recovered the knife?
In the event, he found out even sooner than he’d feared, for, as the Land Rover bucketed over the last few yards of gravel, Delafield came upright again and this time he had the blade in his hand.
Matt made a snap decision. Applying the handbrake, he dragged the wheel round to the left, forcing the locked back wheels to describe a 180-degree arc around the front end. The vehicle crossed the lane travelling backwards with a deafening screech of tyres and hit the bank on the other side with a whip-cracking jolt. The stunt had effectively pinned Delafield against the passenger door and Matt’s intention, in the absence of any better ideas, had been to open the driver’s door and take off on foot once more, but, before he could implement this part of the plan, the cab was filled with dazzling light and something hit the Land Rover, broadside on and very hard indeed.
When the chaos of noise and movement stopped, Matt found himself on Delafield’s side of the vehicle, half-lying against the man, his eyes assaulted by a flashing blue light, and the hissing sound of escaping steam in his ears. Broken glass littered the seat and cascaded from his clothing as he cautiously sat up, whereupon he could see that Delafield’s head was lolling out of the side window.
The driver’s door was wrenched open and a uniformed policeman shone a torch in.
‘You all right, sir?’
Matt nodded, hardly believing it. He felt a little light-headed and there were a few decidedly sore spots, but he’d had a lot worse.
‘Yeah, I think so,’ he said, beginning to edge towards the open door.
The policeman put a helping hand under Matt’s elbow as he stepped down onto the road, wincing a little as his injured ankle took his weight, and a green-jacketed paramedic passed him en route to go to Delafield’s aid. They made their way round to the other side of the Land Rover, where another paramedic was asking the unresponsive Delafield if he could hear him. Here, Matt discovered that the vehicle that had crashed into them was, in fact, a police car. Behind it, parked on the verge of the narrow lane, were a police Range Rover, a paramedic’s car, and a dark-coloured saloon. Edging past them, blue lights still flashing, came an ambulance. It seemed that the cavalry had arrived, en masse.
‘Well, Mr Shepherd, you’ve certainly been busy,’ a familiar voice observed, and DI Bartholomew hove into view.
Matt would never have believed he could be pleased to see the detective, but the circumstances were indeed extreme.
‘How did you know where to find us? Did someone call you?’
‘You did,’ Bartholomew stated dryly. ‘You left your phone on and there seemed to be something major going on, so we took a fix on it, and here we are.’
‘And just in time,’ Matt remarked, wishing he could sit down.
‘We aim to please. Wait a minute …’ The DI put out a hand to move Matt’s jacket front a little. ‘Can we have a medic over here?’ he asked, raising his voice.
‘It probably looks worse than it is,’ Matt told him. The knife wound had paled into insignificance in the frantic struggle for survival that had followed.
‘Nevertheless … So, would you like to tell me what’s been going on here?’
‘Oh my God! Deacon!’ Matt said, suddenly remembering.
Bartholomew nodded soberly.
‘Yes, we found him.’
Matt didn’t miss the significance of the tone. ‘Is he … ?’
‘I’m afraid he didn’t make it.’
‘I tried to call an ambulance …’
Bartholomew shook his head.
‘From what the medic said, they wouldn’t have been able to save him had they been here when it happened.’
‘Poor bastard!’ Matt said bitterly, and all at once the events of the evening seemed overwhelming and pointless. He looked up at Bartholomew, wanting to explain about Deacon’s illness, about how Delafield had run him down by mistake, but somehow he couldn’t focus on the big man’s face. He frowned, blinking to try to clear his vision, and felt the road tilt under his feet.
Someone caught him as he fell and the last thing he heard before he passed out was Bartholomew shouting, ‘Where’s that bloody medic?’
It was a mellow late October day, and Matt was circling at the two-mile start on Henfield Racecourse, along with fifteen other jockeys. It was normal for the adrenalin to start pumping through his veins at this point, but today, deep inside, fizzed an extra excitement, for it was the day of the prestigious Henfield October Cup and he was riding Woodcutter. They had been circling for a minute or two already, because the seventeenth runner, Rollo’s mount, had spread a plate, or lost a shoe, in layman’s terms, and the farrier had been sent for.
Woodcutter was taking the delay well, as were the two runners from Rockfield: Inkster, ridden by Ray Landon; and Jamie’s mount, Secundo.
Jamie caught Matt’s eye as he passed.
‘You really think that little half-pint animal is going to beat the mighty Secundo?’ he enquired derisively.
‘We’ll see,’ Matt replied. Jamie had received a formal offer to ride for Rockfield just a week ago and it was good to have the Irishman back on side. For Matt’s part, his relationship with Kendra’s father had undergone something of a change since Deacon’s death and the revelations that came ho
t on its heels.
Walking the little bay horse round with the autumn sunshine warm through his thin silks, his mind drifted back to the days following that terrifying night.
He had awoken in the ambulance on his way to hospital, but, after the examination and stitches in the knife wound and wire tear, he’d succumbed to fatigue and slept through the night and half of the next day.
Waking in a hospital room, the first person he’d seen had been Kendra, who was sitting in the easy chair at his bedside, staring out of the window with reddened eyes. He’d softly spoken her name, and the hug she gave him â if a little physically uncomfortable in the circumstances â reassured him that, whatever else might fall apart, their relationship wasn’t about to.
Deacon’s death had hit the family hard, coupled â as it was â with the shock of discovering his involvement in Sophie Bradford’s killing, but after three weeks, Matt was relieved to see that what could have split the family asunder had actually united them more strongly. Even Grace, not usually a team player, had seemed to rise to the occasion, although, as Frances remarked wickedly to Matt, in her case there was plenty of scope for upward motion.
Delafield was still in hospital with head injuries and the knowledge that DI Bartholomew was eagerly awaiting his discharge. Matt wasn’t looking forward to the inevitable court appearance, but knowing how slowly the wheels of the justice system rumbled along, he was able to relegate it quite comfortably to the back of his mind for the time being.
When the police had finished questioning Matt, there had been a very difficult interview with Charlie Brewer to endure. Matt could recall it with uncomfortable clarity. The businessman had asked him to come to his study, offered him a seat; a drink, which he had refused; and then stood looking out of the window whilst apparently searching for the words to begin. In the end, Matt had taken pity on him.
‘I know why you did what you did,’ he said. ‘I don’t condone it and I find it hard to forgive just at the moment, but I do understand why you tried to cut me out of the picture.’
Brewer swung round.
‘It wasn’t my idea. Niall told me to get rid of you. He said, if you stayed, you were bound to work out the truth about Deacon and then we’d all be up on charges.’
‘It was that evening I heard the two of you in here, wasn’t it? That’s when it all started to go belly-up.’
‘So you did overhear,’ the businessman said. ‘I wondered if you had …’
‘Not much, frankly, and what I did hear didn’t make much sense, but I could tell that Delafield had something on you.’
‘I’d just found out that he was gay,’ Brewer said, his face twisting into an involuntary expression of distaste. ‘I wasn’t going to have that kind of influence around my son, so I told Niall he’d have to go. That’s when he told me what Deke had done. He threatened to go to the police with it; said he’d tell them that I’d known all along. What could I do? I couldn’t just hand my own son over to the police.’
‘He needed proper help,’ Matt pointed out. ‘Didn’t it occur to you that it might have been better for him, in the long run? Bartholomew says he’d probably have got off on diminished responsibility; it would have been manslaughter rather than murder. And, anyway, didn’t you ever think of the girls?’
Brewer had cast him a look of deep anguish.
‘Of course I thought of the girls â they were constantly on my mind â and God knows I’d never have put them in any danger, but … Well, Niall said it was probably an accident â the Bradford girl, I mean. He told me that Deacon gave him the slip and went off with the girl. The boy was naive, a dreamer. If she led him on and then got scared … Maybe they struggled and she fell … ? I don’t know. But Niall said, if the police found out about Deacon’s illness, they’d lock him up and throw away the key. And well â he’s my son, for God’s sake!’
‘Delafield has no idea what happened,’ Matt stated. ‘He wasn’t even there â I bet he didn’t tell you that. He left Deacon and went out with his boyfriend. The whole thing was his fault, and he would have said anything to keep his job.’
Brewer nodded miserably.
‘I know that now.’
‘And the cat? Was that an accident, too?’
Brewer flinched as if Matt had hit him.
‘That was later. Until then, I didn’t know he was capable of something like that and, by that time, I was in too deep.’ He hesitated, then said dully, ‘You don’t think the girl was an accident?’
Matt shook his head.
‘I don’t know. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know now. Deacon couldn’t remember. He just seemed totally bewildered by what had happened.’ He paused, looking at Brewer contemplatively. ‘I still find it hard to believe that you’d go along with a vicious bastard like Delafield. Ruining my career was bad enough, but trying to turn Kendra against me â frightening her like that!’
‘I didn’t know he was going to do that,’ the businessman protested. ‘You know I would never have agreed to anything like that.’
‘But you weren’t above making use of it to try and separate us.’
Brewer met Matt’s eyes for a moment and then looked away.
‘I know it was wrong. I’m sorry.’
‘I was never good enough for her, in your eyes, was I?’ Matt stated without heat. ‘A commoner. A steeplechase jockey. You wanted a title, or, at the very least, money.’
Brewer turned back.
‘All right, I admit it, I did want more for her. I wanted the best, what father wouldn’t?’
‘No, you’re wrong there. Most fathers want their children to be happy. And the bottom line is that if you hadn’t been so worried about what the world would think, none of this mess would have happened.’ Matt had stood up, intending to leave before he said something that would irrevocably damage their future relationship; after all, the man was going to be his father-in-law one day, however little either of them relished the fact.
‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ Brewer demanded. ‘Do you think I don’t blame myself every waking moment? It’s my fault that the girl is dead and it’s my fault Deacon is dead, and, whatever you may think of me â I did love him. I love all my family, and all I’ve done is fuck things up for everybody!’
Matt sighed, moved to compassion in spite of himself, but he couldn’t truthfully think of anything comforting to say. He turned his back and went to the door.
‘I don’t blame you for hating me,’ Brewer said. ‘But, for Kendra’s sake, can’t we try and start again? I’d like to offer you your job back, on whatever terms you like. Will you consider it? The horses run better for you than for anyone else.’
Matt paused on the threshold, reluctantly impressed. He was only too aware how much the admission would have cost Brewer, after all he’d said in the past.
‘I’m sorry. The answer’s no,’ he said, after a moment. ‘I’ll ride for you, when you’ve got something good to offer, but I don’t want my job back â not yet awhile, anyway. I’ve a fancy to stay freelance. Why don’t you give it to Jamie?’
Now, Matt sighed. The whole business had been so destructive; he had no idea how long it would take for the repercussions to die away. As well as Delafield, Charlie would be facing charges in due course, but it was expected that the courts would show a degree of leniency in the circumstances.
A quickening in Woodcutter’s pace alerted Matt to the fact that Rollo’s horse had been reshod and things were on the move, so he shrugged off the memories, shortened his reins, and pulled down his goggles. He was confident that the little bay was good, but there was no excuse for handicapping him by missing the jump-off at the start.
‘Jockeys!’ The familiar call set his nerves atingling and Woodcutter began to canter in a rocking-horse motion on the spot. Within moments, the tape flew back and they were away.
Woodcutter hadn’t run on a track since Matt’s win with him at Maiden Newton, and, although he’d exercised
him a number of times at Doogie’s, he hadn’t shown any great enthusiasm on the gallops. This was clearly a horse that saved his best for the racecourse.
Keen and yet biddable, he had the ability to take the race on from the front, yet allowed Matt to play a waiting game, slotting in a third of the way down the field, on the outer edge to keep clear of trouble, and jumping as if there were prizes for style. Matt’s only worry was that some unforeseeable problem would crop up, such as a loose horse taking him out at one of the fences, but it didn’t happen, and Woodcutter gave him the ride of a lifetime.
Turning into the final straight with two to jump, his heart was singing. The little bay was placed fourth, tracking Secundo, Inkster, and Rollo’s chestnut, and, as Matt let him have a little more rein, Inkster quickly dropped out of the equation. Woodcutter took the last level with the chestnut, but he was quick in the air and landed half a length clear.
‘You’ve got him, Matt!’ Rollo called as he fell behind and, hearing him, Jamie glanced over his shoulder before stepping up the pressure on the favourite.
Secundo responded willingly, but Matt knew he was on the better horse. With half a furlong to run, he finally gave Woodcutter his head and had to stifle a cry of pure exhilaration as the little bay lengthened his stride and passed Jamie’s horse as if it was standing still.
Crossing the line, some four lengths the winner, Matt stood in his stirrups and punched the air. The October Cup was theirs, but that was quite plainly only the start of what this horse was capable of achieving. This was a one in a million kind of horse and, if Matt had his way, no one was ever going to ride it but himself; he was entitled to celebrate.
Murder in Mind Page 32
