Murder in Mind (10 page)

'Looks like he's still there,' Kendra remarked.

As they approached, Matt paused by another of the doors.

'Delafield's looking for you,' he said conversationally.

'Oh shit!' came a voice from the shadows. There was a faint glow, incompletely shielded, and then the gritty sound of a shoe on concrete.

Matt moved on to catch up with Kendra and, moments later, Deacon moved out of the doorway, lifting a hand in their direction.

'How did you know he was there? I didn't see him,' she said softly.

'Smelt the cigarette smoke.'

'He is naughty. He knows he's not allowed.'

'I expect that makes it all the more pleasurable,' Matt observed. 'I'm not surprised he rebels a little. If I were your parents, I would thank my lucky stars he's not on something harder than tobacco.'

'Actually . . .' Kendra began, then apparently thought better of it.

'Actually – what? You don't think he is, do you?'

'Oh no, not now! But, when he was at uni, I overheard Mum and Dad having this enormous row about him, and something they said made me wonder . . . They never talked about it to the rest of us. I might have got it all wrong.'

'Well, I wouldn't be surprised if he had tried drugs,' Matt told her. 'The wrong crowd, peer pressure – it happens all the time, and to lads far more streetwise than Deke.'

Finding the showroom door unlocked, they went in. The high-ceilinged room was lit with dozens of spotlights, each angled onto a different stand of hats: narrow-brimmed, wide-brimmed and rimless; veiled, feathered or ribboned – to Matt's wondering eye, every conceivable colour and style seemed to be represented.

Matt uttered a soft 'Wow!' that clearly pleased Kendra.

'Not bad, is it?'

'It's amazing!'

He wandered through the archway to the adjacent workshop, where he could see some of the tools of the milliner's trade laid out on a bench, with a rack displaying dozens of reels of ribbon and thread, and a large ceramic vase that held a collection of ornamental hatpins, like so many metal-stemmed flowers. Matt picked one out, testing the point of the steel pin with his finger.

'Ouch! That's sharp!'

'It has to be, to push through the hat. . .' Kendra observed, as if explaining it to a five-year-old.

'I should think you'd have to be careful you didn't push it through your head!' Matt said, putting the pin back in the vase.

'You forget, these are
ladies'
hats,' she retorted, with a sweet smile. 'We can cope with these sorts of things without killing ourselves.'

'You don't hear of many cases of death by hatpin.' Deacon had followed them into the workshop and was standing leaning against the doorpost. 'But I'm surprised they've not been banned by the EU on health and safety grounds. You can imagine it – directive from Brussels – hatpins shall be no more than two inches in length and must be tipped with rubber.'

'
Made
of rubber, more like,' Matt said, and, while they were laughing, the door to the back room opened and Harry came through, handling the heavy self-closing mechanism with the skill born of practice.

'
Thought
I heard voices,' he said.

'I brought Matt to see the showroom,' Kendra said quickly. 'He hasn't seen it since Mum had it redecorated.'

'Looks really good,' Harry agreed, and it occurred to Matt that he seemed rather flushed and out of breath.

'Are you OK?' he asked. The glimpse he'd had of the back room had shown it to be piled high with boxes, as Joy had said.

'Yeah, of course I am.' The reply was a little abrupt. 'Why shouldn't I be?'

'Just that Joy wasn't sure you could get past the boxes. Sorry I asked.'

In a moment, Harry's likeable smile was back.

'No,
I'm
sorry. I shouldn't be touchy. Actually it
was
a bit tight but – hey ho – I managed in the end. It's just so bloody frustrating sometimes!'

'Yeah, it must be.'

There was an awkward silence, into which Harry said brightly, 'Well, Kennie, m'dear. Are you going to model some of these confections for us?'

When they returned to the patio ten minutes later, the hot drinks had arrived and Grace told the three of them that they'd been within a minute or two of sending out a second search party.

Harry glanced sharply at her, and Matt swore silently under his breath. So much for sparing the ex-jockey's feelings.

Returning to Spinney Cottage, just after midnight, the mellow mood of the evening was shattered by the discovery of a police car parked in front of the house.

'Bloody hell! Now what?' Jamie said, echoing Matt's own thoughts, and, as they pulled up beside it, WPC Deane and a colleague got out.

'Have you found my car? Is that what this is about?' Jamie asked hopefully, dispensing with the social graces.

'In a manner of speaking. I'm afraid I have to ask you to accompany us to the station, sir,' Deane said.

'Again? What for? What's happened?'

WPC Deane stepped closer.

'James Mullin, I'm arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Sophie Bradford. You do not have to say anything–'

'Hang on!' Jamie protested. 'You've already questioned me.'

'We have some new evidence,' she told him, then continued with the caution before opening the back door of the squad car and indicating that he get inside. 'If you would, sir . . . ?'

With one last desperate look at Matt and Kendra, Jamie stepped forward and complied.

Jamie was taken to Charlborough Police Station and, although Matt and Kendra would have followed, Deane told them there was little point in doing so, as they wouldn't be able to see him.

They let themselves into the cottage feeling tired and dispirited.

'You don't think it really
could
have been Jamie, do you?' Kendra asked. They were facing one another over the kitchen table – he doodling in the margins of the
Racing Post
and she apparently engrossed in centring her half-finished mug of coffee on its coaster.

'No, I don't.' Matt looked up. It was the first time she'd asked and he hoped it didn't mean she was beginning to have doubts.

'No, me neither. Oh, I feel so sorry for him – it's so unfair.'

'I know. It's just so frustrating not knowing what they've got on him.' It had been the recurring theme of the last fifteen minutes. 'If Jamie's told us everything, then I can't see what evidence they
can
have.'

'Well, at least they've found his car,' Kendra said.

'Yeah, but God only knows what condition it's in. Still, with any luck, his insurance will cough up.'

'Even though he told them he dropped the keys?'

'We don't know for sure that whoever took it had the keys,' Matt pointed out. 'They may have hot-wired it. I expect it's quite easy with an old car like that.'

They sat in silence for a moment and then Kendra spoke.

'So what happens now?'

'Now? Bed, I should think.' Matt got up and tipped the remains of his own coffee down the sink before coming to stand behind her chair and leaning to kiss her silky blonde hair.

'No, I mean with Jamie. Do you think they'll charge him?'

Matt shrugged.

'It depends what they've found, I suppose.'

'Not much more
you
can do, anyway. I guess it's up to the police now.' Matt thought Kendra sounded relieved about the fact.

'Yeah, but I promised him I'd try. After that pep talk I gave him the other day about getting off his backside and helping himself, it's the very least I can do, don't you think? You saw the way he looked at me when they took him away.'

'Bartholomew won't be pleased,' Kendra said, twisting to look up at Matt.

'Bartholomew is supposed to be one of the good guys,' Matt responded. 'Let's not start worrying about
him
.'

'So, where are you going to start?'

'I'm not sure. I suppose, try and speak to Sophie's friends and relations, but the problem is, I don't even know where she lived. I wish I'd thought to ask Jamie.'

'Oh, that's easy. She rents an apartment in Bath – at least she used to. I know her flatmate – Tara Goodwin – we were at school together and I ran into her last year.'

'Brilliant! You wouldn't happen to have her address, I suppose?'

Kendra looked apologetic.

'Sorry. I can give you her phone number, though. You could ring and ask. Or I will, if you don't want to.'

'Hmm. If it's at all possible, I think I'd rather just turn up. It would give her less time to think up an excuse for not seeing me.' Matt kissed her again. 'Right, I'm off to bed. I've got to be at the yard in less than six hours.'

True to her word, Kendra found and wrote down Tara Goodwin's number for Matt before he set off for Rockfield at six o'clock the following morning, although he still hadn't decided quite how to go about approaching her.

There was no racing that day and he spent a busy couple of hours schooling young horses for Leonard. It was a part of the job that he enjoyed very much. Trying the novices over fences for the first time was often the moment when a bright spark of talent began to glow in one of the horses;
a spark that, with time and care, could flare into that one in a million horse that would make tracks like Aintree and Cheltenham its own, and bring fame and fortune to all its connections. It took more than talent to make a champion, though, Matt reflected as he rode back to the yard on his last mount of the day. It was a critical blend of ability, courage, luck, and that extra indomitable will to win that only a very few possessed.

The chestnut he was sitting on was ordinary; he might make a fairly decent chaser. It was the third time he'd schooled the horse and he'd taken to fences calmly and sensibly, but Matt hadn't felt that rush of exhilaration that the special ones generated. He patted the warm satiny neck. Most of his rides were like this fella. They were the bread and butter of his job and deserved no less respect than the brilliant ones. It was only the stupid and the wilfully awkward that he had a problem with, but thankfully they were very much the minority.

It had been a chilly morning with wisps of mist lurking in the hollows, reminding him that the days were shortening and the National Hunt season proper was on its way. Coffee and toast in the farm kitchen beckoned enticingly as Matt unsaddled the chestnut and rubbed him down but, as he followed the trainer towards the house, his mobile began to vibrate, silently, in his jacket pocket. He located it with the hand that wasn't carrying his helmet.

'Yeah?'

'Is that Matt?'

'Yeah. Who is this?'

'It's Casey McKeegan.'

'Oh, hi Casey.'

'I just heard about Jamie. That's awful!'

'You just
heard
? How did you hear? It only happened a few hours ago.'

'I have my sources,' came the smug reply. 'So what's the latest?'

'Well, supposing you tell me.'

'All
I
know is they've found Sophie Bradford's credit cards in Jamie's car and they've arrested him. What do you know?'

Her credit cards – so
that
was it. But how the hell did they come to be there? And how the hell – for that matter – had Casey found out?

'So, what? Have you got a bug on Bartholomew's phone or something?' Matt asked, and Casey laughed.

'I can't reveal my sources,' she said loftily. 'By the way, did you like my piece in the
Standard
?'

'Very good,' he said dryly. 'Especially the bit about my – what was it? – "steady brown eyes". Wasn't that just the teensiest bit over the top?'

'It humanises you. I just wish they'd been blue. "Icy blue eyes" sounds so much more impressive, don't you think?'

'I think you've been reading too many crime novels – that's what
I
think! Look, can your sources do something for me?'

'They might . . .'

'I have a phone number, but I need the address that goes with it. I'd rather you didn't say who's asking, though. Can you do that?'

'Yeah. No problem. What's the number?'

Matt fished the piece of paper out of his pocket and read it to her. 'Have you got that?'

'Yeah. That's a Bath number, isn't it?'

'Yes. How soon can you get it?'

'Right away,' she declared. 'But, if that's Sophie Bradford's flat, I don't need to ask my sources. I know where it is. I can take you there.'

Matt wasn't keen on that idea.

'I'm sure I can find it, if you just give me the address.'

'But that's not how a partnership works,' Casey complained. 'There has to be something in it for me, too.'

'Look,' Matt explained patiently. 'My girlfriend went to school with Sophie's flatmate. With
her
there, she might just be relaxed enough to talk to me; with a journalist in tow, I might just as well not bother going!'

'I could pretend to be your sister.'

'Oh, and you take after our Irish mother, I suppose, whilst I take after our father . . . No, Casey, just stay out of it, please.'

'So why should I tell you the address?'

'To prove to me that you're more mature than you look?' Matt suggested.

There was a moment's silence, then Casey said, 'Has anyone ever told you that you're a devious bastard?'

'Not for a day or two. The address?'

Matt's conversation with Casey gave him much food for thought. The business with Sophie's credit cards was perplexing. He still didn't believe that Jamie was guilty, but the odds were stacking against him. Surely, though, Bartholomew wouldn't think Jamie would be so stupid as to keep them in his car if he
had
stolen them? To what end? He'd have to have been unbelievably moronic to think he'd get away with using them with all the hue and cry going on. If he had stolen them – perhaps with the idea of making the murder look like a mugging – the obvious thing to do would be to destroy them as soon as possible. He hadn't had them upon his person when he was first arrested, so where did they think he'd hidden them? Did they – and this made Matt go cold for a moment – think Jamie had had a partner in crime? Because, if they did, it took little intellect to work out who would be top of their list of candidates.

Kendra's reception of the idea that she should pay an unannounced social call on her old school friend was lukewarm at best.

'But I haven't seen her for absolutely ages! In fact, only once since we left school, and
that
was by accident. I can't just go swanning up to her flat and expect to be invited in, especially after what's happened.'

'But she gave you her number,' Matt reasoned. 'She must have meant you to use it, surely.'

'Well, yes . . . but not necessarily ... I mean – it's a bit like people you meet on holiday. It's a spur of the moment sort of thing, and you don't really expect them to follow it up; in fact, it's a bloody pain if they do! I'm sure I'm the last person Tara wants to see right now.'

'This is for Jamie, remember? It's not a social call.'

'Yes, I know, but. . . Oh, you're a bastard, you know that?'

'Mm, so I'm told,' Matt said smiling. 'Regularly.'

Brock Street in Bath was a road of golden stone houses near the centre of the town. Two thirds of the way along, Matt and Kendra stopped outside a glossy green front door and, glancing up at the number, Matt said, 'This is it. Ready?'

'Not really. But, if we're going to do it, let's get it over with.'

'Atta girl.'

Matt pressed the button beside a brass plate etched with the imaginative words,
The Flat.

After a short pause, the intercom crackled and a rather indistinct voice enquired, 'Yes? Who is it?'

Matt nodded to Kendra, who leaned forward, saying brightly, 'Tara? Is that you? It's Kendra. Kendra Brewer.'

There followed an even longer pause.

'Kendra Brewer? From Roedale?'

'That's right. I said I'd come and visit, d'you remember?'

'Well, of course! How utterly sweet of you . . .' There was the sound of another, deeper voice and a stifled giggle, before Tara said, 'Come on up and have a coffee. Just give me a minute.'

The intercom crackled abruptly to silence and, after the promised minute lengthened to two, the door beside them gave an audible click.

'We're on.' Matt gave Kendra the thumbs up and pushed the door inward, standing aside for her to enter.

'I feel awful,' she murmured, as she stepped past him. 'She's obviously got someone with her. She must be cursing me!'

The hall and stairs were wide and airy, with cream walls, stained glass over the door, and a hard-wearing hessian carpet. As they hesitated, there came the sound of a door opening and shutting somewhere above them, followed by footsteps running lightly down the stairs. Moments later, round the bend from the second flight, a young Asian man appeared. He wore light cotton trousers with a blue shirt undone to four inches above the waist, and a gold chain rippled on the smooth skin of his chest.

He flashed them a gleaming smile as he passed, pulled the door open, and was gone.

Matt looked at Kendra. 'Right, come on, lass. Up we go.'

Tara Goodwin was slim, with fine dark hair down to her shoulders and a face that would have been beautiful if her rather prominent nose had played along. With barely a blink at finding two people in her hallway, where she'd clearly expected one, she invited them both in with a warmth that – Kendra said later – made her feel guiltier than ever.

The flat that, until lately, Tara had shared with Sophie Bradford had a distinctive retro look, harking back to the brash modernism of the late sixties and early seventies. Boxy black leather sofas sat on lush white carpets, the shelves and coffee table were of tubular chrome and smoked glass, while half a dozen fluffy scarlet cushions, and two red-painted, unframed canvasses on the wall, provided bright splashes of colour to lift the mood.

The lounge and kitchen were open plan and, waving a hand towards the chairs and instructing her uninvited visitors to sit down, Tara went to put the kettle on.

'So what brings you to Bath?' she asked brightly, lining up white mugs and a cafetière on the black granite worktop.

'Shopping, mainly,' Kendra said, and then, apparently realising the incongruity of having no bags, added, 'We've dumped the stuff in the car.'

'Oh, what have you bought? Anything nice?' Tara said, then laughed over her shoulder. 'Now, that's a bloody stupid thing to say, isn't it? As if you'd buy something you didn't like.'

'Just stuff for the house. We're doing it up.'

Tara wanted to know where they lived, and, while Kendra described the cottage in some detail, Matt was considering the delicate task of bringing the conversation round to Sophie Bradford. In the event, Tara did it for him. Coming through from the kitchen area with the coffee and three mugs on a tray, she said, 'I suppose you've heard what happened to my flatmate, Sophie? You must have seen it on the news.'

'She was your flatmate?' Matt exclaimed, before Kendra could reply. 'How awful for you.'

'Yeah, well, to be honest, I can't say we were all that close, because she wasn't here half the time and she could be a bit of a pain. But I've known her quite a while, so it
was
a bit of a shock, and, of course, I've been inundated by the police and reporters all week.' She put the tray down on the table and sank back onto the sofa opposite them. 'The things they want to know – I mean, who her friends were; did she get on with her family; what were her hobbies – men, men, men, basically for that one. They even wanted to know where she shopped. I mean, what's that got to do with anything?

'It
is
awful, though,' she went on, before they had a chance to comment. 'I mean, you hear about these things happening – on the news and everything – but you never expect it to happen to anyone you know. It makes you realise it could've been you. You just don't feel safe anymore.'