Murder in Mind (23 page)

In spite of adjuring Casey to leave the matter to the professionals, Matt found he couldn't stop himself turning the new information over in his mind as he drove to the racecourse later in the day.

The murder of Sophie Bradford had seemed, on the face of it, to be an unpremeditated attack – a spur of the moment thing. Somehow it didn't tally with the kind of organised retaliation of which he'd been on the receiving end. Was there more to it than met the eye? Or had the murder been committed in a flash of drunken temper by someone who, now he'd sobered up, was mounting a careful cover-up operation?

If that was the case, he'd jumped the gun, because, as far as Matt was aware, he'd been nowhere near discovering the murderer's identity, and, in hiring muscle to scare Matt off, the man had potentially increased his own risk of being found.

Ex-army. Even though he'd debated its relevance with Casey, he couldn't stop his thoughts from returning to the fact, over and over again. It was quite possible that Kenning would still have contacts in the forces – in fact, hadn't Casey said something about his involvement in a charity for ex-servicemen? Could he really be behind all this? Matt's mind began to race. He returned to the idea he'd fleetingly considered, that Sophie had been blackmailing the peer in some way. From what he knew of her, it certainly wasn't beyond the bounds of possibility. Kenning hadn't been at the party, but then, if he
had
wanted her out of the way, it was difficult to imagine him dirtying his own hands . . .

But would he really employ someone else to kill for him? Matt found it hard to believe. Surely that would just lay him open to yet more serious blackmail.

Well, then, maybe murder hadn't been intended. What if the attack on Sophie had been intended as a frightener – along the lines of what Matt had been subjected to – but had got out of hand?

'For God's sake, Shepherd!'

Absorbed in the possibilities, Matt had almost collided with the object of his thoughts in the doorway of The Scales. He glanced up and, with a muttered apology, stepped aside.

'Mind still not on the job?' the peer queried, tutting his disapproval.

To retain at least some hope of salvaging his career, Matt stifled the urge to plant a fist in Kenning's aristocratic face and went on into the weighing room, where he found that the tale of his demotion had preceded him. It was not hard to see why – some five pegs down from his, Ray Landon stood, tucking the shirt-tails of Brewer's distinctive colours into the waistband of his breeches. He glanced in Matt's direction and then looked away, clearly feeling the awkwardness of his situation.

Returning the greetings of a couple of his closest colleagues, Matt dumped his kitbag on the bench and, taking a physical and mental deep breath, went over to Landon and laid a hand on his shoulder.

'All right, mate? You want to watch Trestle Table in the second. If you let him get too close to the wings, he'll sometimes duck out on you. Did it to me the first time I rode him.'

Landon turned a wary face in Matt's direction and the noise level in the changing room dropped a decibel or two as those nearest strained to hear what was said.

'Thanks,' Landon said, after a moment. 'Look – I know you must feel like –'

'Forget it,' Matt cut in, shortly. 'If it wasn't you, it'd be someone else. Just don't get too comfortable in my shoes, OK?'

With a final slap on the other jockey's shoulder, he turned back to his own peg to get changed for Mr Monkey.

'That was nice,' a voice said softly in his ear, and Matt found Rollo beside him.

He shrugged.

'No sense in getting mad at him. Someone has to ride the horses.'

'Even so . . .' Rollo hesitated. 'Look, there's a rumour going round that you and Kendra are having a spot of bother – is everything all right?'

'Bloody hell!' Matt exclaimed, explosively. 'Who told you that?'

'I overheard some of the lads talking about it. Don't know where they heard. She hasn't really left you, has she? You two always seemed so tight.'

'No, she hasn't.' Matt gave Rollo the gist of what had happened. 'We thought it was safer if she stayed at her father's until this thing's sorted out, that's all,' he finished, praying that it was true. 'And I'd be obliged if you'd put the guys straight if there's anymore talk. Just as if it was any of their bloody business in the first place.'

'Hey, look – most of them are on your side, Matt. They think what Brewer's doing sucks. I wouldn't be surprised if you had a case against him – I mean, you've done nothing wrong. Why don't you get onto the JAGB?'

Matt pulled a face. The Jockey's Association was the closest thing they had to a union, and a great place to turn to in trouble, but, just at the moment, he was keen to keep his dispute with Kendra's father as low-key as possible.

'Excuse me – Matt?' Jim Steady, the valet, interrupted his thoughts. 'Mr McKenzie would like a word, when you have a moment.'

'Right-oh, thanks.'

Matt found Doogie McKenzie waiting just outside the building, his cloud of white hair billowing in the stiff breeze. It seemed he too had heard of the growing rift between Matt and Charlie Brewer, and, although he expressed what Matt felt sure was genuine sympathy for his former protégé, it appeared it had come at a providential time for Doogie. Apparently his own regular jockey had broken his wrist in an accident on the gallops the day before, leaving Doogie in the lurch.

'Tried to ring you yesterday, but I couldn't get through,' he told Matt. 'But your agent said you'd be here, and would most likely be grateful for the rides, so I took a chance and left it. Can you help me out?'

'My pleasure,' Matt told him truthfully. And what better way to show Brewer that, in cutting his stable jockey loose, he was hurting no one but himself?

'They're not world-beaters, but neither are they without a chance,' Doogie said. 'Sage Counsel tends to give up when he's passed, but he's wearing blinkers today, so we'll see if that helps, and Delta Tango is a real honest stayer.'

'Delta Tango? Owner got army connections?' Matt queried, and then a thought struck him. 'Not another of Kenning's, is it?'

'Now, would I do that to you?' Doogie demanded reproachfully, bushy brows drawing down over his sharp blue eyes.

'Sorry. I've just had my fill of nasty surprises lately.'

'Actually the horse
is
owned by a retired army captain and his wife. You'll no doubt meet them later. Ex-SAS, I believe – but nothing to do with your friend Kenning.'

'SAS?' Matt frowned, wondering why that had set a bell tinkling somewhere in the recesses of his mind.

'That's right,' Doogie confirmed. 'I tried out for the SAS once – did I ever tell you?'

'Many times,' Matt said dryly. It was one of the Scot's favourite drinking tales, and the ordeal he claimed to have endured grew more impossibly arduous with every telling.

'OK, well, I'll let you get on, lad. And thanks for stepping in. I never thought Charlie Brewer would be such a complete pillock, but he's done me a favour, so I'm not about to complain!'

With a wave of his hand, Matt went back to weigh out for his ride on Mr Monkey, feeling that at least something was working in his favour that day, even if at the cost of some other poor soul.

In the paddock he found Harry deputising for his father, who was on the other side of the central lawn, supervising Landon's debut as Rockfield's first jockey.

Matt wasn't sorry. He couldn't really justify the resentment he felt towards John Leonard, but, on the other hand, he wasn't ready to face him with a smile. For now, it was easier not to deal with him at all.

'The owner not here?'

'No, not today.' Harry greeted him with a rueful look. 'S'pect you're feeling like shit, aren't you?' he observed, in his disarmingly open way. 'If it's any consolation, the old man's not happy, either, but his hands are pretty much tied, you know. Brewer's got him over a barrel.'

Matt sighed.

'Yeah, I know. I'll have a word, later.' He glanced at the Rockfield second string as it approached on the cinder track. 'So, what can we expect from this lump of walking dog meat today?'

Harry grinned. Mr Monkey's cruel epithet had been earned by a series of uninspired performances during which Jamie had failed to coax anything better than a fifth place out of him. And even that was a joke, coming – as it did – in a race with only five finishers. The horse's middle-aged owner had been advised on numerous occasions to sell the horse and spend her training fees on something more promising, but she had formed an attachment to the animal and refused, point-blank, to do so.

'Mr Monkey is feeling quite on his toes today,' Harry reported. 'You never know – maybe this is the day he shows us what he's really made of . . .'

'Hmm. I'll believe it when I ride into the winner's circle.' Matt regarded the slightly built chestnut with a jaundiced eye. The race was a handicap hurdle and the handicapper had awarded Mr Monkey the number nineteen – lowest but one in the weights, which pretty much reflected his likely placing. The frustrating thing was that Matt had schooled the horse a time or two at Rockfield and he showed quite promising ability on the gallops.

Ten minutes later, mounted and out on the track, Mr Monkey exhibited every sign of eagerness heading down to the start, but, as soon as the race was underway, he dropped to the rear of the field and appeared to lose interest. It was almost, Matt pondered, as they swung round the second bend, as though he lost heart in the presence of the others.

With this thought in mind, as they moved into the back straight, Matt eased the horse wide of the field until he was running a good fifteen feet away from the others, in the centre of the track. Almost immediately, Mr Monkey's longish ears pricked forward, and, with a little encouragement, he picked up speed until he was level with the leaders. As they approached the next bend, Matt moved the horse nearer to the others. It would be asking too much to run the whole race so far away from the rail and still expect to be in contention, but the success of the manoeuvre had given him food for thought.

Sitting behind the field for another half circuit, Matt again swung the horse wide on the back straight, with the same result, but this time he applied more pressure and kept the animal wide as they took the home turn. For a moment, it looked as though he'd given Mr Monkey too much to do, but, as the finishing post came into view, some three furlongs distant, the little chestnut was only a couple of lengths behind the leaders, one of whom was Landon's mount. With a clear view ahead of him, Mr Monkey responded to Matt's encouragement with a steady acceleration that took them past the post neck and neck with the favourite.

'Where the fuck did you come from?' Rollo demanded, as they slowed and turned back towards the stands. He looked sideways at Matt's mount. 'What did you do to that animal? Shove a rocket up its arse?'

Matt laughed, buoyed up by the unexpected success of his strategy.

'Don't know if I got you or not.'

'Not quite, I don't think,' Rollo said. 'But that was pretty impressive. Didn't know the bugger had it in him!'

'Neither did I!'

Harry greeted Matt's triumphant return with an equal degree of pleasure.

'That's one in the eye for Charlie. He's going to look pretty stupid, and he won't like that.'

Matt wasn't sure that making your employer look stupid was the best way to campaign for reinstatement, but, just at that moment, he didn't care.

Harry reached up to slap Mr Monkey's steaming shoulder.

'So, you can do it when you feel like it. You just needed the right jockey.'

Undoing the girth, Matt shook his head.

'I can't claim any special powers. It just occurred to me that he was intimidated by the other runners, that's all. We'll have to pick courses with long run-ins to give him a chance.'

'But that's just it – you tune in to the horses; that's what makes you so good,' Harry persisted.

More used to trading insults with his friend, Matt felt mildly uncomfortable and replied with a tongue-in-cheek 'Aww shucks!'

Sitting in the weighing room watching the second race on the TV, Matt was glad to see that Landon had apparently taken on board his advice regarding Trestle Table and kept the wily old horse well in to the centre of each fence. Even so, Trestle Table had the last laugh, perhaps recognising his new jockey's relative inexperience. Matt could see the warning signs as the pair approached the penultimate fence, and muttered, 'Pull your whip through! Keep him straight!' to the miniature figure on the screen, and then groaned as Trestle Table ducked left at the last moment, depositing his unfortunate jockey on top of the birch.

The camera followed the rest of the race to its conclusion, the commentator praising Rollo Gallagher's riding as he recorded his second win of the day, and saying that the smart money was on the Champion Jockey to retain his title at the end of the current season.

Matt turned away from the screen, his sympathy for Landon not entirely unmixed with satisfaction that things weren't running smoothly for Brewer and his new jockey.

'That looks good for you, right?' Mikey Copperfield had been watching beside him, standing – half-dressed – in breeches and a thin nylon jumper, his thick blond hair spiky and dishevelled. 'Leonard will be begging you to come back soon.'

'It's not really John's fault,' Matt told the youngster. 'It's down to Brewer. But you're right; it can't do any harm.'

He turned away to change into Delta Tango's colours. Delta Tango, whose owner was the former SAS captain. The acronym had been fluttering on the edges of his consciousness ever since Doogie had told him, and suddenly he knew why. At Hereford, when he'd quizzed Kendra's brother about his minder, Deacon had boasted that Delafield had been in the Special Forces. Whether or not that was true, Matt didn't know, but thinking of the powerful self-assurance of the man, he wouldn't be surprised to find that it was.

So – another person with an army connection, but had he been at the party? Matt couldn't remember seeing him there, although, knowing how he shadowed Deacon, it was hard to believe he could have been far away.