Murder in Mind (16 page)

'And?' Matt prompted.

'Oh, I don't think you need me to spell it out, do you?'

Suddenly Matt found that no one cared to meet his eye, and the anger the stewards had induced rose again. Perhaps reading the signs, Rollo put a restraining hand on his arm, but Matt shook it off.

'You bastard!' he exclaimed. 'I rode that horse to win, but it wasn't his day. End of story.'

Razor lifted his brows.

'Whew! Not so cool, Eskimo Joe,' he muttered, but Matt affected not to hear him.

Back at his own peg and trying to get his fury under control, he was approached sheepishly by Mikey. He dug deep and produced a smile for the youngster.

'Hiyah, kid.'

'I'm sorry, Matt. It was my fault before.'

Matt rummaged in his kitbag for a clean pair of gloves.

'How so?'

'Well, me and Rollo were wondering what the stewards wanted you for and I said, if you'd eased down on Temperance Bob, there must have been a good reason, and Razor comes by and says, maybe someone offered you a good reason. But I knew you hadn't – I mean, you wouldn't . . .'

Matt smiled and shook his head.

'No, I wouldn't. Don't worry about it, Mikey.'

The day that had started so promisingly continued on its relentless downhill slide.

Matt's fourth and fifth rides of the day turned in uninspiring performances, both finishing out of the money, and his sixth and final ride folded up on landing after the final flight of hurdles, dumping him in the path of a field of fourteen, who were all, at that point, behind him.

Sitting up when he was sure that the coast was clear, Matt undid the strap on his crash hat and used his whip to vent his frustration on the hoof-torn turf beside him.

'You all right?' a voice called, and he looked across to where an ambulance car waited, engine idling, a medic poised to come to his aid if necessary.

He nodded and waved a hand.

'D'you want a lift?'

'Thanks.' Matt got to his feet wearily, the action pinpointing one or two areas that would be sore later. It was only a few hundred yards back to the stands, but it had been a long day, and he wasn't about to turn down anything that would make life easier.

The weighing room, after the last race, was comparatively empty. A handful of jockeys were just leaving as Matt went in, most of them acknowledging him with a nod or a word as they passed. He crossed to his peg and sat down heavily on the bench beneath it, wishing he was already showered and changed, and that someone else was driving him home.

'Matt?' It was Jim Steady, his valet.

'Hi, Jim.'

'You all right?'

'Yeah, thanks. Just feeling a bit sorry for myself, that's all.'

'A kid outside asked me to give you this,' the valet said, holding out a piece of folded, lined notepaper, such as might have been torn from a spiral-bound pad. It had his name pencilled on the outside and was stuck down with Sellotape.

Matt took the paper and unfolded it. It was written in capital letters with a pencil, and suggested that, if he met the sender in the Paddock Bar in half an hour's time, he might find out something about a certain set of credit cards. It was unsigned.

'Who gave you this?' he asked. 'A kid, you say?'

'Yes. Young lad, about twelve or thirteen. He said someone told him to make sure you got it. He was gone before I could ask him who.'

'He probably didn't know. Thanks, anyway.'

The valet hesitated.

'Not bad news, I hope . . .'

'No. Nothing like that.' Matt wasn't about to satisfy his curiosity. A wonderfully efficient valet he might be, but he provided the service for dozens of jockeys during a normal week, and Matt placed no great reliance upon his discretion.

The Paddock Bar was all but deserted when Matt walked in. At the end of the bar, a red-faced man in a suit but no tie was deep in contemplation of his spirit glass, and in one corner a middle-aged couple sat holding hands. Two of the young staff, dressed in black with short white aprons, were collecting glasses and wiping tables, while another was doing something with the till and a wayward roll of paper.

Matt walked across to the bar and, finding himself suddenly thirsty, ordered a black coffee. He sat on one of the stools and angled himself slightly towards the red-faced man, who glanced at him disinterestedly and then returned his attention to the half-inch or so of brownish liquid he was hoarding. Matt was relieved, he'd been hoping the man wasn't his contact.

The coffee arrived and, as Matt felt in his pockets for some change, a familiar voice spoke in his ear.

'That'll be disgusting; it's the end of the day, so they won't have made fresh. I'd send it back.'

Casey.

Matt took a sip. She was right, it was horribly strong. He made a face and pushed the cup back towards the young man, who'd apparently caught the gist of Casey's comment and was scowling at her.

Unabashed, she climbed onto the stool next to Matt.

'Maybe I'll have tea instead,' he suggested, then turned to Casey, who seemed to have done something different with her hair. It suited her. She looked older and a little more sophisticated. 'Was it you who sent me that note?'

A calculating look came into her eyes.

'It might have been . . .' she said slowly.

'But it wasn't,' Matt decided. 'Not quite quick enough, Ms McKeegan. And no, I'm not going to discuss it with you now. If you're a good girl and make yourself scarce, I might just tell you about it afterwards.'

'Don't you dare patronise me!' she returned hotly.

He grinned.

'I knew you'd rise to that.'

'Oh, but –'

'No buts. I'm here to meet someone, and, if they see I'm not alone, they'll more than likely shy away.'

'I'll sit in the corner.'

'Out,' Matt said firmly.

'But I wanted to see you . . .'

'OK, but later. Please, Casey. This could be important.'

Looking slightly sulky, Casey slid off the stool and headed for the door.

Whatever the author of the note had been going to tell him, he or she had obviously had second thoughts. Matt waited half an hour before giving up, and left the bar staff trying to convince the red-faced man that he should also go home.

'But there's no one there,' Matt heard the man say in mournful tones as the door closed behind him. 'My wife left me. She says I drink too much . . .'

Outside, the sun was sinking fast behind the autumnal trees that Matt had so admired when he'd cantered Woodcutter to the start.

Woodcutter! Damn! He'd meant to catch up with Doogie before he left. Too late now. Glancing around, he was surprised and not a little relieved to note that Casey was nowhere to be seen. Presumably she'd given up waiting and gone to wherever she called home, which was precisely what he intended to do.

Where
did
Casey live? he found himself wondering, as he left the racecourse behind and headed across the owners' and trainers' car park in the gathering dusk. He imagined a town-centre flat close to the pubs and clubs, though, at her age, she could just as possibly still live with her family, he thought, realising he knew absolutely nothing about her.

He looked ahead and, just for a moment, couldn't see the MR2 amongst the twenty or thirty cars that remained but, as he walked on, it came into view on the far side of a dirty white transit van that hadn't been there when he'd parked.

Taking the keys from his pocket, Matt operated the remote button, walked between the two vehicles and bent to open the door.

He fumbled and stopped short; it was as if the handle had just disappeared.

Closer inspection revealed that it had. Some kind soul had filled the recess with what looked like Polyfilla.

Matt turned his eyes heavenward and groaned, 'Oh, for fuck's sake!'

In that first instant, annoyance and disbelief filled his mind to such a degree that he didn't pause to wonder why someone should have chosen
his
car to vandalise and, even when the sliding door of the van behind him opened, he didn't immediately apprehend danger. He was in the act of turning when someone caught hold of the collar of his jacket and slammed him, face down, onto the low roof of his car.

The attack was so unexpected that Matt didn't have a chance to get his arms up to protect his face, with the result that his left cheekbone and temple connected painfully with the cold metal. Half stunned, he was easy prey to his attacker, and, before he could gather his scattered wits, his right arm was grasped and twisted up behind his back until his hand was somewhere in the region of the nape of his neck.

Pressure was applied, and he gritted his teeth, glad that he'd always been loose-jointed – something that had saved him from broken bones on many occasions.

Leaning hard, so that Matt's body was sandwiched between him and the unyielding side of the car, the man behind growled, 'I'm gonna to keep this short, 'cos we're just here to deliver a message, and it goes like this: Lay off the snooping and stick to riding the pretty horses, while you still can. Understand?'

Matt wasn't in a position to nod and his lung capacity was severely limited by the weight of his interrogator, but he managed a breathy affirmative.

Keeping up the pressure on Matt's arm, the man bounced his bodyweight against him once more, rocking the car on its suspension.

'Sorry. Didn't catch that. Come again . . .'

'Yes!'

'Yes, what?'

'Yes, I understand,' Matt said, through his teeth.

'Good.'

The man stepped back, pulling him upright, and air found its way back into Matt's lungs. It seemed that he took Matt's prompt acquiescence for submission, for, releasing the arm lock, he swung him round and sent him crashing into the side of the transit van.

Following him, the man leaned forward, as if to deliver a postscript to the message, and Matt found himself facing a stocky character in combat fatigues and a woolly hat, with a neck like a rhinoceros and an attitude to match. Matt was hazily aware that another figure stood to one side looking on, but his full attention was taken by the man in front of him.

Whether it was just that the attack came at the end of a long, frustrating day, he couldn't afterwards be sure, but, finding his arms free, he discovered within himself a fierce aversion to being manhandled and, without further thought, launched a powerful if unskilled uppercut into the face that jutted so aggressively towards his.

The stocky man grunted, staggering back, and Matt – a little off-balance himself – followed his opening gambit with an unscientific shove, which nevertheless sent his opponent sprawling backward across the low bonnet of the MR2.

It was the last fleeting moment of satisfaction that Matt was allowed, for now the silent partner got involved and what he lacked in loquacity he certainly made up for in action. In the blink of an eye and without quite understanding how he got there, Matt found himself lying on his back on the uneven turf of the car park, gasping for breath like a landed fish.

His instinct for survival was strong, however, honed by many years of dicing with serious injury amongst the hooves of racing thoroughbreds, and, even as he fought to breathe, he was aware of how horribly vulnerable he was in that position. Pulling his arms and legs in, foetus-like, and tucking his head between his elbows, he turned onto his side just a split second before the silent man's boot thudded into his ribcage.

At this point, Matt acknowledged, with a kind of fatalistic calm, his options weren't good. To move from his defensive curl would be to lay his belly and face open to potentially life-threatening injuries but, on the other hand, it would only take one hefty kick to the kidneys or spine and the outcome could easily be the same.

Somewhere around the third or fourth blow, he came to the decision that, if he didn't move soon, he might never do so again. He knew the first man could only have been temporarily incapacitated by his inexperienced punch and, once he was operational again, Matt's chances, already minuscule, would be non-existent.

'What the
fuck
are you doing?' The stocky man sounded furious, and the onslaught faltered.

Matt opened his eyes and peered through the gap between his upper arms. There was nothing within his field of vision other than grass and one of the front wheels of the van.

'Deliver the message and put the frighteners on him – that was the brief – not kick the shit out of him. We don't want a murder on our hands!'

'He asked for it,' the other one replied, punctuating his sentence with another kick, albeit with slightly less vigour, and Matt heard himself grunt.

'Cut it out, I said!'

Matt decided not to wait on the outcome of this dispute. The sight of the van wheel so close had given him an idea and, straightening out suddenly to full length, he rolled once, twice, and fetched up beneath the dark, oily-smelling underbelly of the transit.

Wriggling sideways until he estimated that he was halfway between the wheels, he stopped, face down and chest heaving – partly from exertion and partly from fear. Incidental injuries in the course of his job were one thing, but never before had he been on the receiving end of a concerted effort by one of his own kind to do him harm, and the sensation was immeasurably shocking.

What would they do next?

It seemed likely that, with the temptation one step removed, the stocky man would be able to cap his colleague's more murderous tendencies, but Matt wasn't about to bet on it. What might they have in their van that could make life under it untenable? The way he felt now, nothing short of a shotgun would induce him to leave the comparative safety of his bolthole.

He watched as one pair of boots hurried round to the other side of the van and then their owner knelt down and peered under.

'He's still there – in the middle. Shall I drive forward?'

Matt's heart leapt painfully. How stupid had he been to think he'd found refuge? One man to drive forward and one to pounce; he'd gained nothing.

Just as he was wondering if he could roll out again in the moments before the van moved – or even if he had the nerve to try – Matt heard the other man say urgently, 'Sshh! What was that?'

There was silence for a moment, even Matt holding his breath in anticipation, and then, from some distance away, someone called, 'Matt? Is that you?'

Casey!

Shit! He'd have to warn her, but would she hear if he shouted from under the van?

He started to edge forward, swearing as he bashed his head on some protruding piece of metalwork.

'Come on, we've done enough – let's go,' the man on the left suggested. The side door slid shut with a crash and, shortly after, the nearside cab door opened and the suspension dipped as he got in. Another dip, the two doors banged shut and the engine was gunned.

Matt stayed where he was, pressing the right side of his face to the grass, and folding his arms over his head, resisting – with extreme difficulty – the urge to draw himself up into a protective ball. Hoping against hope that the only way out for the van was directly forward, he shut his eyes and tensed his whole body, as if by doing so he could prevent injury from the rolling wheels and the ton or so of vehicle they conveyed.

For a moment nothing existed except noise, fear, and darkness, as the engine roared and the van pulled away over the rough ground. One of the wheels grazed Matt's elbow, dragging at the sleeve of his jacket, and then it was gone, the chaos replaced by silence and a degree of light.

Deliverance had been so sudden that relief was mingled with disbelief and he lay still, struggling to trust in his altered circumstances.

'Matt?' Casey's voice sounded breathless and much nearer, and he felt, more than heard, her running footsteps approaching. They stopped. 'Matt? Oh my God, are you OK?'

Matt wasn't sure. Compared with half a minute ago, he was terrific, but it had been a close call and, now that the terror was ebbing from his system, his brain was allowing the messages of physical trauma to get through. He wasn't looking forward to moving. In fact, given solitude and a less public place, he would have postponed the decision until he felt more in control, but Casey was waiting, her concern very evident as she repeated his name.

Matt gingerly raised his head three inches.

'Just give me a moment,' he told her, surprised at the normality of his voice.

'What happened? Who were those men? Shall I call the police?'

Realising he wasn't going to be allowed the luxury of breathing space, Matt pushed himself up onto his elbows, wincing a little as all the major muscles of his torso protested in unison.

'I should call the police,' Casey said, but she didn't sound convinced.

'Not yet. I need to think.'

With an effort, Matt turned partly onto his side, brought his legs up, and got as far as one knee, where he paused, waiting to catch his breath.

Casey stepped forward, offering her hand, and, leaning on her a little, he got to his feet and managed the five or six feet across to his car. Once there, he remembered the state of the door handle and swore.

'What's up?' Casey looked at him. 'Haven't you got the keys?'

'Yeah . . .' As he said it, Matt remembered that he had been holding them when he was attacked. He glanced down at the grass in the failing light. 'Actually, I dropped them, but anyway, the bastards glued up the handle.' Feeling unequal to initiating a search, Matt turned round, leant against the car, and slid down it till he was sitting on the ground with his back resting on the bodywork. He felt shaky and unutterably weary.

'You can't sit there!' Casey exclaimed.

'Just for a moment.'

She looked down at him, her hair falling forward a little around her face, and Matt squinted through the twilight, thinking – for the second time that day – that something was different about her. Apparently working on the
If you can't beat them, join them
philosophy, Casey watched him for a second or two more, then moved over to the car, turned round, and sat down beside him.

'So, who were they? What did they want?'

Matt shook his head slightly.

'I've never seen them before, and, if I never see them again, it'll be too soon.'

'Well, didn't they say anything?' Casey was beginning to sound impatient, but Matt's scattered wits were reassembling and he recalled her vocation.

'Listen, I don't want a whisper of this in tomorrow's paper.'

'Oh, that's not fair! You can't ask me to pass up something like this.'

'Not a whisper. Promise?' Matt looked hard at her through the gloom.

At first she returned his gaze, but then she rolled her eyes heavenward and sighed.

'Oh, all right. So what did they want? Were they sent to warn you off?'

'Apparently.'

'But that's great! It means we've got someone worried. So now we just have to figure out who sent them.'

Matt wished he could view the affair as matter-of-factly as she seemed to.

'And do you have any bright ideas as to how we go about that?' he asked, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

'Well, the van registration might give us something,' she said, studiously casual.

Matt's eyes snapped open again.

'You didn't . . . ? You got the number?'

'Part of it,' she said. 'Echo Tango November, and I think there was a two or a five – it was a bit dark. But it might be enough.'

'You little . . .' He couldn't think of a suitable epithet, and finished, 'Well done! That's brilliant!'

Casey glowed.

'So what about the police? Aren't you going to tell them?' she asked.

Matt groaned. The thought of a session with Bartholomew, when all he really wanted was a hot bath and a stiff whisky, wasn't inviting. After all, what could he realistically report?

'No, not tonight. I will sometime.'

'Bartholomew won't be pleased . . .'

'So what are you, my conscience?' he demanded. 'What can I tell him anyway? That I was set upon by two men – one of whom I didn't get a good look at, and one who looked like any other tough Joe – but that I don't know who sent them, or why. He's bound to think I'm not telling him the whole story. It'll take all night. Let's wait and see if the registration throws up something, then I'll tell him.'

'OK.' Casey didn't seem unduly perturbed by the prospect of bypassing the authorities. 'Well, hadn't we better see if we can find your keys?'

'Actually . . .' Matt shifted his weight a little. 'I think I may be sitting on them.'

To Matt's great relief, they found the handle on the passenger door was clear and, edging across from that side, Casey was able to open the driver's door from within, but she then stubbornly refused to budge, insisting that Matt was in no fit state to drive home.

Aware that she was probably right, Matt nevertheless didn't relish the idea of the youngster at the controls of his precious car, even though the racecourse was his closest, being a bare thirty-five or forty miles from Spinney Cottage. However, Casey assured him that she had her licence and was perfectly capable, and so it proved; in fact, she drove the sports car so carefully that Matt was moved to ask her, as she headed along the A37 at a steady forty-five, what kind of car she herself owned.

'I haven't got a car, as such. Not yet, anyway,' she admitted, not taking her eyes off the road.

'So when exactly did you pass your test?' Matt asked, with a growing conviction that he didn't want to hear the answer.

'Um – in August.'

'
This
August? Last month? Why the hell didn't you tell me?'

'Because you wouldn't have let me drive, if I had,' she pointed out with inescapable logic.

'Too right!'

In spite of her inexperience, the short journey was accomplished without mishap and Casey pulled up in front of the cottage with an unmistakable air of triumph.

Kendra met them at the door and was visibly shocked at Matt's condition. He knew from the car's sun visor mirror that a rapidly purpling bruise on his cheekbone now matched the one on the bridge of his nose and, however much he tried, he couldn't disguise the stiffness that had set into his damaged muscles on the journey home.

'What's happened? Jamie said you'd had a fall – he saw it on TV – but he said it didn't look too bad. Oh – hello Casey,' she added, raising her eyebrows in mute enquiry as Matt stepped past her into the room.