Murder in Mind (6 page)

With a sinking heart, Matt recognised the man. DI Bartholomew. Damn! What did
he
want?

It was the best part of an hour before Matt was able to seek Jamie out. The runners were held up at the start because one of them cast a shoe and the farrier had to be called to replace it and, after the race, when he emerged from the weighing room having showered and changed, the owner of his last ride collared him, wanting to discuss the animal's form.

Free at last, Matt finally ran Jamie to ground in the Tattersalls Bar, alone and slouching on a barstool amongst a scattering of people who were lingering after the racing to celebrate bets won or dull the pain of money thrown away.

He got to within six feet before Jamie looked up and saw him and, straight away, Matt could tell that he'd sunk more than a couple of beers. His body language was lacklustre and his eyes heavy lidded. When he saw Matt, he raised his half-empty glass.

'Gonna join me?'

'No, I'm not. One of us has to drive, remember?' Matt was annoyed. His ankle was aching and had swollen again, and they had agreed that morning that Jamie would drive home. No chance of that now. He reached out and removed the glass from Jamie's hand. 'You've had enough, too. Don't forget you've got a ride tomorrow.'

'
Did
have,' Jamie said, reclaiming his beer. '
Did
have a ride. Not anymore.'

'Why? What happened?'

'Emmett says the ground's too firm for the filly.'

'Oh. Well, it
is
pretty hard,' Matt temporised.

'Bollocks!' Jamie said into his glass. 'Didn't want a rapist riding his horse, more like!'

'Don't be ridiculous! And keep your voice down. Anyway, he wouldn't scratch the horse if that was the case – he'd get someone else to ride it.'

Jamie shook his head. 'Emmett's not like that – he's too
nice
,' he said, turning the last word into a sneer.

Matt reluctantly had to acknowledge the truth of that, but he still didn't accept Jamie's interpretation of the matter.

'She's a young filly; I expect he's just looking after her legs. You can't blame him, she cost him a fortune.'

Jamie grunted and drained his glass.

'What did Bartholomew want?' Matt asked, waving away an expectant barman. 'I saw you talking to him earlier.'

'More bloody questions! Kept on and on about where I went when I left the party. I told him where I went. Not my fault no one saw me. If I'd known I was going to need a fuckin' alibi, I'd have taken someone with me!'

'I hope you didn't say that to Bartholomew.'

Jamie shook his head. 'No, I didn't. That bloke's had a sense of humour bypass.'

'I don't suppose he thinks it's a laughing matter,' Matt pointed out. 'Did he have anything else to say? What about the rape story?'

'Oh, that – no, that wasn't true. Shouldn't be surprised if Razor made that up himself.'

'So they haven't found the lorry driver, then?'

'No, they haven't. I think Bartholomew thinks I made that up, too.'

'Well, how else does he think you got to Charlborough? You couldn't have walked it in that short time. Come on, let's get going. I want to get home and put my feet up.' Matt took the empty glass out of Jamie's fingers and stood back, but the younger man didn't move.

'Bartholomew did say one other thing,' he said, his eyes fixed broodingly on the bar top. 'He told me that Sophie was pregnant.'

'Pregnant? Oh God!'

Jamie didn't seem to have heard. He looked up with eyes that were suspiciously bright. 'I could have been a father, Matt.'

Could have been
was about right, in Matt's opinion. He reflected that, in Jamie's position, he'd have wanted a paternity test before he shelled out maintenance for any child of Sophie's.

'He asked me if I knew. Do you know – he actually asked me if I'd killed her because of the baby!' Jamie said bitterly. 'Christ! How sick is that?'

'It's probably not unheard of,' Matt said. 'Don't forget, blokes like Bartholomew are mixing with the bum-end of society all the time – being cynical is the cornerstone of his job. As of a few days ago, he'd never even heard of you; you can't really blame him for thinking that way.'

Shaking his head, Jamie got to his feet and walked past Matt towards the door, but he didn't say anything else until he slid into the passenger seat of the MR2, and then the words burst from him as if they'd been under pressure.

'Why did this have to happen? Why didn't she tell me she was pregnant? I would have stood by her. It's what I've always wanted – a family. Not yet, obviously, but it's one of those things – if it happens, it happens. If she'd just told me, none of this would have happened; everything would have been all right.'

Matt didn't think Jamie really expected an answer, and he didn't attempt one. After all, what could he say that the Irishman would want to hear? That, had she lived, and by some miracle the child was proven to be Jamie's, Matt could have forecast nothing but trouble and heartache? When he'd first come into contact with Sophie, some years before, she had already earned herself the nickname of the Bradford Bang, and, from what he'd heard, the sobriquet had become more apt with each passing year.

He wouldn't have wished her fate upon anyone, but, at the same time, he couldn't be sorry that Jamie had been freed from her clutches, once and for all. It was a very black cloud indeed that didn't have
any
silver lining.

In spite of Matt's best efforts, Jamie didn't get up in time to ride work for Leonard the following morning. By the time Matt had had a cup of coffee and taken the dogs for their early morning stroll with Kendra, it was six o'clock and time to set out for Rockfield, but Jamie was still in bed and answering only in grunts and groans.

'Oh, I should leave him. I expect John will understand,' Kendra said, twining her arms round Matt's neck to kiss him goodbye. 'It's only fair to cut him some slack after what happened.'

'Are you going to be here?'

'This morning I will, but this afternoon I was planning to go over to help Mum. She's got a delivery coming in and I said I'd lend a hand.'

'Oh, right. How's that all going?' Joy Brewer had started her own millinery business just six months before, with an eye to capitalising on the family's racing contacts. It was based in a converted outbuilding at Birchwood Hall, where potential customers could come, drink coffee with Joy, and try on hats at leisure.

'It's going really well,' Kendra told him. 'She's got more work than she can cope with. She was talking about taking on a part-timer to help.'

Matt thought he detected a wistful note in her voice.

'So, how many hours would you do?' he asked.

Kendra looked up into his face, her eyes hopeful.

'Would you mind?'

'No. Why on earth would I? It's up to you. I expect you get bored hanging around here, anyway.'

'Well, sometimes. It would be nice to help Mum and I love the hats.'

'Then go for it,' Matt advised, kissing her once more and lightly slapping her behind.

'But what about Jamie . . . ? Are you worried about him?'

'A little. He was really down yesterday. Finding out that Sophie was pregnant really shook him up – he seems to have taken it for granted that the baby was his. Personally, I have my doubts, but what I'm trying to get him to see is that he mustn't let all this stuff affect his career. He's been doing so well lately, but he needs rides to get rides. Out of sight is all too quickly out of mind. He mustn't stop trying, just because a couple of people are reacting like idiots.'

'I suppose he's bound to take it hard,' Kendra said. 'He's only a kid and not everyone's as single-minded as you are.'

'He's older than you,' Matt protested.

'I'm not talking numbers. Go on, you'd better get going or you'll be late.'

Matt's day was busy. After riding out with the Rockfield string, and having breakfast with the trainer and his wife, he travelled up-country with Leonard, where he rode five horses, notching up two winners and one second place. It was the day of Tortellini's run in the Midlands Gold Plate, and the horse didn't disappoint, romping home five lengths clear of the field, much to the delight of Roy Emmett, who pressed two fifty-pound notes into Matt's palm after the prize-giving.

It wasn't until the lull in between the presentation and going out to the paddock for his last ride of the day that Matt had the time to phone home and see how Jamie was. It was a weighing-room rule that mobile phones were switched off during racing and he had to wheedle permission from security. Taken to a separate area, he tried twice, but both times the answering service cut in, and he was left wondering whether Jamie was still under the covers or had got up and gone out somewhere.

By the time he returned to the cottage that evening, it was nearly eight o'clock and a light was glowing a welcome from behind the closed curtains in the sitting room. Parking the MR2, Matt limped wearily across the yard and let himself in, fending off the tidal surge of dogs in the porch and calling a greeting to Kendra.

'Hi!' She came through from the kitchen wearing an apron that announced 'Chief Cook
& Bottlewasher' in large blue letters and, holding her hands up out of the way, leaned forward for a kiss. 'Well done on Tortellini. Can't hug you, I've got tomatoey fingers.'

Matt obliged with the kiss. 'Mm, something smells good – hope it's not fattening. Have you seen Jamie at all? I tried to ring him earlier, but there wasn't any answer. I see his car's gone.'

'No, I haven't seen him,' Kendra said, turning back into the kitchen. 'And I've been back about an hour. I didn't know whether to cook for him or not. There was nothing on the fridge,' she added, referring to their customary practice of leaving Post-it notes on the refrigerator door to keep each other informed as to what was going on.

By the time the meal was ready, Matt had begun to feel a little uneasy. It had to be said that Jamie wasn't always the most considerate of people when it came to notifying them of his plans, and normally Matt would have seen nothing alarming in his absence, but the current state of affairs was far from normal.

There had still been no word at eleven o'clock when Matt took the dogs into the paddock for their late night comfort walk. Back in the cottage, he tried Jamie's mobile number one last time before following Kendra up the narrow staircase to bed.

Nothing was heard from Jamie the following day, by which time Matt's anxiety was mixed with a fair measure of annoyance. He'd managed to get Doogie McKenzie to consider putting the Irishman up on one of his runners at the weekend – as his regular jockey had picked up a suspension for careless riding – but Jamie's disappearance had seen that chance go begging and done his ongoing prospects no good at all. He still wasn't answering his phone, and a phone call to his landlord at his other digs produced the information that he hadn't been seen there for a week. Matt went to bed wondering how soon he could officially be listed as a missing person, and reluctantly decided that, if Jamie hadn't made contact by the following evening, Bartholomew should be told.

It was just before three in the morning when Matt was dragged back from the depths of sleep by the insistent trill of the telephone on his bedside table. Putting out a questing hand, he located the receiver and brought it to his ear.

After a certain amount of crackling, hissing, and a couple of beeps, someone asked, 'Matt? Izat you?' The voice, though thickened and slurring, was undoubtedly Jamie's. 'Matt?'

'Yeah, it's me. Where are you? And where the hell have you been all this time?'

'I don't know . . .'

Matt sat up and switched the bedside light on, blinking at the abrupt change.

'What do you mean – you don't know? You must have some idea, surely.'

'Erm . . . Bournemouth. I'm in Bournemouth.'

'What are doing there – apart from getting drunk, that is?'

'I need you to come and get me,' Jamie said,
adding as an afterthought, 'Please?'

Matt's heart sank.

'Do you know what time it is? Can't you get a taxi?'

'I haven't got any money. S'all gone – everything.'

'Listen. Call a taxi and tell them I'll pay when you get here, OK?'

'I can't. They've taken everything. I only had 50p in my pocket and I've used that to ring you. I need you to come and get me – please, Matt.'

'Who are you talking about? Who's taken everything?' Seriously worried now, Matt sat up straight, his heart thumping.

'I don't know who they were; I didn't see them. It was too dark. They took my wallet and my phone and my keys – everything.'

'Have you called the police? You should call them.'

'Oh, God no!' Jamie groaned. 'I just want to come home. Please, Matt.'

Matt hesitated, but he could sympathise with Jamie's reluctance to spend another night in a police station answering questions.

'All right,' he said eventually. 'But you'll have to give me some idea whereabouts you are. Bournemouth is a big place.' He was out of bed now and reaching for his clothes.

Kendra turned over and blinked sleepily.

'What's happening?' she asked, but Matt waved a hand to silence her.

'Jamie? Are you there?'

'Yeah . . .'

'Where are you?'

'I'm, er . . . down the bottom, on the seafront . . . There's a big cinema thing . . .'

'The IMAX, you mean? Are you near the IMAX?'

'Yeah, I was on the beach . . .'

'What on earth were you . . . No, forget it. Stay where you are. I'll be there as soon as I can.' He switched the phone off, tossed it on the bed, and began to pull on his trousers.

Bournemouth in the early hours of a Saturday morning was a busy place and, unsure of his way, Matt saw rather more of it than he intended. Groups of the young and not so young hung around outside clubs, wandered in rowdy drunkenness through the streets, and pissed and vomited in doorways and dark corners. Matt found his lip curling in silent distaste at the mindlessness of it all. A fat teenager wearing an England football shirt pulled his tracksuit bottoms down and mooned at the car as it passed, apparently providing riotous entertainment for half a dozen other youngsters, who lounged, drink cans and cigarettes in hand, against the railings beside the road.

'Get a life!' Matt muttered, swinging the MR2 round a roundabout and heading on downhill towards the seafront.

Passing the IMAX cinema, he slowed to a crawl, eyes darting from side to side. Two men walked by, hand in hand, and a couple of kids were kissing on a wooden bench, but there was no sign of Jamie until the car turned away from the beach once more and, for a fleeting second, its headlights illuminated a figure sitting in the shadow of a wall.

Matt slammed the brakes on and backed up.

Caught in the full beam, the man threw up a hand to shield his eyes. Light, spiky hair, goatee beard, blue jeans, faded red sweatshirt, and white Nike trainers.

Jamie. It had to be.

Matt hauled the steering wheel hard left, driving the car up onto the kerb and wincing as he heard the undercarriage scrape on the concrete. He dipped the headlights, switched off, and, within moments, was crouching down beside his friend.

'You OK?'

He didn't look OK. One eye was blackened and his lip was split. He blinked at Matt, squinting against the sudden brightness.

'I'm sorry. They took everything. I had to call you – didn't know what else to do.'

'That's OK, don't worry. What did they do to you? Are you hurt?'

Jamie shook his head, waving a hand vaguely towards his face.

'My head aches. I didn't see them coming. They pushed me into the wall. Akshly, I think I'm a bit pissed,' he confided.

'You don't say.' Matt put a hand under Jamie's arm. 'Do you think you could get up, if I helped you?' He cast an anxious look back towards the car and two youths who were approaching, eyeing it speculatively. Thank God he'd removed the ignition key.

'Yeah – I'm OK,' Jamie mumbled. 'Juss give me a moment . . .'

'We don't have a moment. We're going now,' Matt told him firmly, exerting upward pressure. To his relief, the Irishman made an effort and came staggering to his feet, clutching the front of Matt's jacket for support.

After an initial spell of dizziness, Jamie rallied and, with a fair bit of help from Matt, made it to the passenger seat of the MR2.

'Where's your car?'

'I'm not sure. It's here somewhere.' Jamie swung his arm in a gesture that Matt took to encompass the whole of Bournemouth. 'They took the keys . . .'

'Well, unless you told them where the car is, I guess it'll be safe. Whatever, I'm not driving round Bournemouth half the night looking for it.'

Glancing at the younger man's face as they set off for home, Matt wished he'd brought the old Spinney Cottage Land Rover instead. They kept it for transporting dogs, horse feed, and bales of hay and, consequently, the very real prospect of Jamie puking on the way home wouldn't have been quite as grim as it was amidst the gleaming leather upholstery of the sports car.

As it turned out, Jamie was only sick once, and managed to get the door open in good time, before settling back in his seat with his eyes closed and apparently sleeping for the remainder of the journey. Uneasily mindful of the possibility of concussion, Matt woke Jamie once, and was rewarded by a reasonably coherent response, which partially satisfied the niggling voice that was telling him he should really be taking him to A & E.

Back at the cottage, Jamie seemed to have revived a stage or two, and was able to make his way to the front door with only minimal assistance. Sitting him down at the kitchen table, Matt gathered cotton wool, warm water with a dash of antiseptic lotion, and some sticking plaster, and set about cleaning him up.

'What's going on?' Kendra was standing in the kitchen doorway, a towelling bathrobe wrapped about her and sheepskin slippers protecting her feet from the chill of the stone flags. Her long hair was untidy from bed and her eyes sleepy. 'Oh my God! What on earth have you been up to, Jamie?'

Jamie merely shook his head slightly, so Matt answered for him.

'From what I can gather, he was walking along the beach – having drunk himself stupid – and some kind souls shoved him into the wall and nicked his wallet, phone, and car keys.'

'Fucking bastards!' Jamie put in.

'Exactly,' Matt agreed.

'Here, let me do that.' Kendra came forward and took the bowl of water and wad of cotton out of Matt's hands. He moved aside, gratefully.

'So what's happened to the car?'

'We don't know. Jamie can't remember where he left it. I suppose we'll have to go back and look for it in daylight. I've rung the police and told them that Jamie dropped the keys – he couldn't face more questions, and I can't say I blame him. If it was kids, they'll never catch 'em anyway – even if they bother trying.'

'So they took your wallet? Did you have any cards with you?' Kendra asked, bringing a practical viewpoint into the mix. 'Because, if you did, you'll need to get them stopped.'

'They won't find much,' Jamie responded. 'Enough to buy a slap-up meal at Burger King and that's about it!'

By the time Jamie had been cleaned up and his card companies notified, it was getting on for six o'clock. Matt had made tea and Kendra took hers and went sleepily back to bed, recommending that the others follow her example. Matt was very ready to do so, aware that a busy day awaited him, but Jamie, it seemed, wanted to talk.

'Do you think she was a slut?' he asked, as Matt stood hopefully with the door to the stairs open. 'Sophie, I mean. Razor and the others – they said everyone knew she slept around. Did you know?'