Jumping to Conclusions (62 page)

And Vincent! The conniving bastard. He should sack him – and he would certainly threaten to do so. But he knew Maddy would intervene. Anyway, how could they sack someone who had delivered their only son? Still, he'd put the fear of God into him.

Charlie was still looking shell-shocked. 'You mean – Tina ... She enjoys being with you more than me?'

Matt gave a sheepish smile. 'Strangely, yeah. Sorry.'

'Fucking hell.'

Drew, trying to sort out the various strands, and not to imagine Matt striding around with a bullwhip, attempted to look solemn. 'You and Vincent must both go to the police. Blackmail is a serious crime. You've got to tell them all this – and get Ned Filkins put away for a bloody long time.'

'How can we?' Matt spread his hands. 'We're both guilty. I threw races. Vincent paid to get them thrown.'

Drew shrugged. 'So? No one said it would be easy. It'll be bloody tough – but it still won't be the end of the world. Ned's the real villain. You'll be the victims as far as the police are concerned.'

Fair words, Drew thought. And probably true – whatever Vincent and Matt had been sucked into. He wasn't sure he could be quite so magnanimous. After all, between them, they could have wrecked his future.

'I'm not going to the police.' Matt scuffed at the dusty floor with the toe of his immaculately polished shoe. 'I'm actually jacking it all in. I'm going to America. I'm getting out of race-riding altogether.' He shot an apologetic look at Charlie. 'I'm going with Tina. She'll be doing most of her television work over in the States. We're leaving at the end of the week.'

Drew looked quickly at Charlie. Bloody hell. Didn't he mind? Apparently not. He'd never be alone for long. He had Lucinda in an on-off sort of way, didn't he? And, of course, everyone knew he was carrying a torch for Jemima. Apart from Jemima, that was.

'What about Kath?'

Matt gave a shrug. 'I've just told her. Oh, just the America bit. Not the rest. She blew my ears off as it was.'

Drew laughed. 'Christ! And you're scared of telling the police after you've faced Lady Macbeth? Get a grip.'

'I think Matt's right.' Charlie reached for his jeans from the peg. 'I think it would be far better to let things die down. And you can bet your life that Ned Filkins will have cleared out of Milton St John long before the first coaches get back to the Cat and Fiddle.'

Matt stood up. 'Christ, I hope so. I'd like to kill the bastard. Still, at least he'll be completely skint now. He had everything riding on me today.'

Drew smiled. Poetic justice. 'And Vincent?'

'Vincent, too,' Matt said. 'Poor bugger. He'll have to start his savings from scratch. Look, if I'm leaving the country and Ned Filkins is leaving the planet, and if you two can forgive me –'

Charlie sighed heavily, then held out his hand. 'Okay. Whatever. Drew?'

Drew sighed. He'd never forgive Matt for the disaster he could so easily have caused. But was there really any point in prolonging the agony?

'Yeah, well ... if you're leaving, I don't suppose it'll make too much difference. However, if you change your mind and stick around I'll make sure you never ride for anyone again. Understood?'

'Understood.' Matt walked towards the door. 'And I won't be hanging about to find out. Thanks for everything – and well done, today. You deserved it.'

'Sanctimonious shit!' Drew exploded as soon as the door closed. 'Weirdo. You
knew,
didn't you?'

'Nah.' Charlie shook his head. 'Not about the rubber corsets. That's really freaky. I still can't believe that. No, I mean I knew the silly sod was chucking races – and I tried to stop him. I had no idea why. Poor bugger. So, that's two jump jockeys hanging up their boots then.'

'Two?'

Charlie grinned. 'You'll be wanting an assistant trainer of the highest calibre to get Peapods into flat-racing's celestial sphere, won't you?'

'Yeah, I suppose I will.' Drew chewed his lower lip. 'Can you think of anyone for the job? Hey – where are you off to?'

'I want to find Jemima. The do at the Adelphi won't be the same without her. I mean, we've got loads to celebrate and – hell, Drew – why are you looking at me like that?'

Drew shook his head. 'She's gone, Charlie. I saw her heading for the car park just as they announced the stewards' enquiry.'

Jemima dragged a mug from the cupboard, tipped in a haphazard sprinkling of coffee granules, and thrust the kettle switch to boil.

Then she stood in the middle of the kitchen and burst into tears.

She'd been wanting to have a good cry all the way home from Liverpool, but her temper and the stupid sense of self-preservation, which insisted that Floss would negotiate the M6 far better with a dry-eyed driver, wouldn't allow her the luxury.

She wasn't sure if she was crying because watching Charlie win had been the most momentous occasion of her life; or whether it was because she'd died a million times while he and Matt had been battling against the rails; or simply because they'd called the stewards' enquiry and she couldn't stay and watch Charlie lose his dream.

Or maybe it was none of those things. Maybe it had nothing at all to do with Charlie. Maybe it was just because Vincent had proved himself to be only Vincent – the feckless get-rich-quick father he'd always been – and not some apple-cheeked, pipe-smoking, really good father from Pollyanna.

Anyway, none of it mattered now. She'd been to Aintree, and Charlie had won the National and kept the race, and Vincent had let her down. And there was no one in the Vicarage to hear her cry.

She blew her nose loudly on a piece of kitchen roll and removed her glasses. They always turned into little reservoirs when she cried. She really must remember to take them off earlier if she was going to turn into a habitual bawler – which of course she wasn't. Tonight though, she thought, a girl deserved a treat.

The kettle switched itself off. She wished she could.

Making the coffee, she trudged through to the sitting room and turned on the television. God – not another Grand National replay. She couldn't bear it. It simply wasn't fair. She jammed her glasses back on. Charlie, looking glorious, was even more everywhere because of the historic steward's enquiry.

'Get used to it,' she told herself, thumping down on to the sofa, spilling hot coffee on to her fingers and not feeling it. 'He's going to be ultra famous now. They'll probably be giving away little plastic models of him with the cornflakes.'

Models automatically threw up images of Tina. Jemima threw them out again.

She didn't want to think about Tina. Tina and Charlie would no doubt be snuggling up together in the Adelphi's equivalent of the Wallbank-Fox at this very moment. And even if they weren't snuggling up in one of the well-appointed bedrooms, then they'd be bloody snuggling up on the dance floor. Oh, bugger! She'd never wanted any man half as much as she wanted Charlie Somerset – and he'd probably be grabbing the microphone and announcing his engagement to the stalking clothes horse right at that very moment.

She felt tears of indignation prickling her eyes and sniffed them back. One cry was acceptable: two was bordering on sheer self-indulgence. Trying to concentrate on the television, she watched, her heart thumping painfully, as Charlie and Matt fought it out for the final places. Everyone was cheering and screaming. Then, at the course, the atmosphere had been primal and frenzied: now that she knew the outcome it was some small relief to watch it clinically and calmly without the knot of terror grinding in her stomach.

There! Now Charlie was just beating the Irish horse and she exhaled heavily – that minute when he and Bonnie had actually passed the winning post had been like nothing on earth. Her legs had practically given way, and she'd bitten right through the finger of one of Gillian's borrowed leather gloves.

And Matt and Dragon Slayer had been so near! She'd thought at one point that they'd catch Bonne Nuit. But they hadn't – and Charlie had won – and she could hear someone very close to her screaming Charlie's name over and over again, and it was only when she'd shut her mouth that she'd realised the voice had been her own. And then they'd announced the enquiry and she'd felt his pain....

Well, that was quite enough of that nonsense.

She zapped the television channel over. This was better – a film about terminal illness by the look of the pale and anguished faces and the heart-tugging violin strings in the background. She thought she could just about cope with that.

She wasn't sure she'd be able to cope with anything else. Not just yet. She felt there would be an awful lot of mopping-up to do in the morning. Starting with Vincent.

She'd caught up with Maureen and Vincent in the post-National melee. Once her fury had dwindled a little, and Vincent had explained why he'd done it, she'd almost felt sorry for him. Well, there had definitely been pity mixed up in the anger. It must have been awful for him. He really had tried hard to build up a new life – but even so, he'd got sucked in because it was a gamble. And because he was a gambler whose life-blood surged with each taken risk. He would always be a gambler. It was like being on the wagon for years and having just one drink, she supposed. You never thought it would do any harm.

The film's terminal illness appeared to be infectious. Everyone on the screen was gasping and calling out in reedy voices. Wildly entertaining for a Saturday night. She wished she'd video'd
Blind Date.

Then there had been Matt's involvement. That had really rocked her. Matt? Into submission and domination? When Vincent had explained how Matt had been drawn into the vortex of Ned's scheming, even Maureen had turned pale. It was almost impossible to believe that Matt had been mixed up in something so tacky. Poor Matt. Or maybe he wasn't. If he enjoyed it, who was she to judge? It didn't seem that terrible, to be honest, when she thought about it. A bit unnatural, yes. And probably a killer for his career if the tabloids got hold of it. But it explained an awful lot, too. And it had given her a fairish dollop of satisfaction to know that it hadn't been her body that had repulsed him.

She had insisted that Vincent must go to the police the minute he got back to Milton St John. Ned Filkins should pay for what he'd done. Should pay for what he'd nearly done to Charlie and Bonnie – not to mention Drew's livelihood and Gillian's dreams, and loads of things. Ned Filkins was a bastard.

'And your Dad's not perfect,' Maureen had said quietly. 'But then, duck, who is?'

He was far, far, from perfect. And he'd blustered and said he'd think about telling someone when he got back – and she'd known he wouldn't. He never could face up to his responsibilities. Still maybe it had taught him something. He was flat broke again because of the scam. He'd lost every bloody illegally earned penny.

Maybe, she thought, as they carted out a couple of dead bodies and everyone else on the screen started wailing, he'd been punished enough by that. She hoped at least that he'd learned some sort of lesson from it all.

She clicked the television into silence, abandoned the coffee and the sofa, and wandering into the bathroom, turned on the taps.

A wallowing hour later and leaving a trail of Floris suds on the carpet, Jemima wrapped her dressing gown round her and headed for the kitchen. The Vicarage was actually pretty creepy. She had never been alone in it before. Her flat was fine, but she tried not to think about the dozens of empty rooms, and the surrounding shrubbery, and the dark staircases. Visions of Dickensian-style ghosts of previous clerical incumbents kept creeping into her mind. Maybe she should just pour herself a massive gin and go to bed and try to sleep.

Sleep! Bah! Humbug!

She'd probably never sleep again. No one needed amphetamine stimulation to keep them awake when they lived in Milton St John; she was sure of it. She poured the gin anyway, and switched on the wireless.

Nice. Bill Rennells being avuncular on TVFM. She sat at the kitchen table and listened to the comforting voice. Oh, God – it was no good. She couldn't rest. She needed to be doing something. If she was properly domesticated she'd take the squirty Jif to the kitchen cupboards or bleach her table linen or something. As it was, she could only think of one place she wanted to be.

Hurtling into her bedroom and dressing in record time, she skidded down the Vicarage staircase and out into the enveloping darkness. Jemima shivered, thinking of the village elders slumbering beneath their mossy headstones in the neighbouring cemetery. Why the hell had she watched that spooky film?

Shoving her hands deep in her pockets she headed for the High Street. The Cat and Fiddle was rumbustious with excitement as they celebrated Drew and Gillian and Charlie's victory, even though all three of them were staying up in Liverpool. Absenteeism had never been a reason to skimp on a session in Milton St John. The karaoke machine was thundering 'We Are the Champions' out into the night. No one noticed her passing in the shadows.

She unlocked the door of the bookshop and closed it behind her. For a moment she stood in the gloom, then she took a deep breath and switched on the lights. The shop was lovely like this, Jemima thought, smelling of print and people, but quiet and comforting. A balm. But not for long. Being a great believer in the old adage about work being the only cure for heartache, Jemima headed for the chaos of the stock room.

Half an hour later and she'd refilled three sections of shelving, broken up boxes, and filed the invoices. May's Fishnets glowed in garish splendour at her feet. Oh, well she might as well get them out on the shelves. Gillian's fan club had probably trebled overnight and there'd be queues way past the Munchy Bar for the latest Bella-Donna Stockings.

She'd got the armful balanced under her chin when someone knocked on the door. Sod it. Probably the pub's overspill wanting to conga round the shop.

'We're closed!'

This time the knock was even louder.

'I said we're closed!'

'Jemima – let me in.'

She held her breath. Her heart was rattling a staccato tattoo.