Murder in Mind (20 page)

'Bad luck, mate!' someone called, and he raised a hand in thanks. There had been many such commiserations as he'd made his way back, and he appreciated them. Although newcomers were often horrified that a horse with a broken leg almost always had to be put down, most people at the tracks knew how poor the prognosis was for recovery from such injuries. Horses do not make good invalids, their physiology making them unable to lie down for sustained periods, and putting a limb in traction was impractical. With a return to full fitness unlikely, the kindest decision in most cases is swift euthanasia.

In the weighing room, the other jockeys were sympathetic, many of them having been through the experience themselves. Even Razor, to whom Matt's fall had gifted the race, seemed disinclined to crow. To most of their riders, owners, and trainers, these thoroughbreds were much more than a means to an end, they were individual characters and, over the years – in jump racing especially – real partnerships developed between animal and man, and a deep and genuine loss was felt at their passing.

Matt changed into the colours Westerby's horse was to carry, slipped a jacket over them to keep them clean, had a sandwich, and settled down to watch the intervening races on the jockey's TV until it was time to ride again.

He'd looked up the form on his last ride of the day and found that Josh Harper was indeed right. The horse, a grey gelding called Maple Tree, had won over today's distance on two occasions and looked to be in with a chance, so it was with a palpable lifting of spirits that he went out to the paddock.

Westerby was waiting alone, huddled into a padded jacket against the sharp wind that had sprung up as the day progressed.

'Matt,' he said, nodding.

'Owner not here?' Matt enquired, his eyes on the deep-chested grey being led round the paddock by a tall, good-looking lad with sandy hair and a morose expression. The wind was lifting the horse's mane and rippling the corners of the warm rug he wore over his saddle.

'No. Unfortunately she's not in very good health.'

'Anything I should know about this one?'

'Take him steady down to the start,' Westerby recommended. 'Keep him handy and send him on round the last bend. He'll give you a good ride.'

'Let's hope so – you owe me one,' Matt observed, thinking of his last ride for the trainer.

Westerby pulled his collar up round his ears and didn't answer.

Following the trainer's advice, Matt took Maple Tree down to the start at a steady pace, his fingers loosely entwined in the grey's unplaited mane and resting on his prominent withers. The horse felt powerful and bold, and Matt prepared to enjoy himself. He had the promised ride on Peacock Penny the next day, and found himself wishing he trusted Westerby more, because the man trained some good horses and, in these uncertain times, he might quite possibly need all the rides he could garner.

As the tape flew back, he managed to slot Maple Tree into the middle of the twenty or so runners, and there they stayed for most of the first circuit. The horse was indeed bold, jumping with more eagerness than care, but he seemed to have the scope to get himself out of trouble, and Matt would have thoroughly enjoyed the ride had it not dawned on him – as they flew the open ditch in the back straight for the second time – that all was not well with Maple Tree's saddle.

It wasn't easy to stay focussed on keeping the horse running straight over the short distance to the next fence when he had the growing conviction that the small synthetic pad was shifting beneath him. Risking a quick glance downward, he could see the horse's huge grey shoulders powering forwards and, further down, the rhythmic flash of his front hooves, but it was the position of the saddle that held his attention. Previously hard up against the rise of Maple Tree's prominent withers, it had moved back considerably and, in consequence, was now sitting on a narrower part of the animal's body.

Matt cursed and Rollo, who was racing alongside, glanced across.

'You all right?'

'Bloody saddle's slipped!'

'Oh, bad luck! Gonna pull up?'

'Would if I could,' Matt told him, but he knew it was a forlorn hope. The big grey was full of running and had no intention of stopping anytime soon.

'Could've done with a breast-girth,' Rollo shouted, as his horse took off over the next fence.

Matching Rollo's horse, stride for stride, Matt and Maple Tree safely negotiated the next two fences but, with each enthusiastic leap, Matt felt his position become increasingly unstable.

Rollo was right – the grey could have done with a breast-girth, a webbing band that attaches to the saddle on each side, running across the horse's chest at the base of its neck, and held in place by a leather strap over the shoulders. As a horse takes off, its neck and shoulders stretch forward, elongating its body, which is what makes a breast-girth an essential piece of kit for many jumpers. If the horse hadn't been rugged against the cold wind in the paddock, it might have occurred to Matt to question its absence on such a big-fronted horse – but, then again, it might not. He usually trusted a trainer to know what tack the horse needed. For the second time in his life, Matt made a mental note to have words with Mick Westerby.

Had they been on the home straight, it would still have been within the bounds of possibility that he and his mount could finish the race together, but the final bend was fast approaching with all its potential jostling for position. Unable to slow the big grey, Matt knew that, realistically, it was not a case of
if
he came off, but when and how hard.

In the event, it was not the bend but the fence before it that proved his undoing. It was a simple, inviting birch, probably one of the smallest on the course, but, in the last couple of strides before take-off, the horse on his inside – perhaps getting tired – veered across Maple Tree's line, causing him to change direction as he took off, twisting a little in the air.

In mid-leap, high over four feet six of birch, the saddle slipped to one side and Matt went with it.

The first thing Matt hit, when he parted company with Maple Tree, was the rump of the horse who, by swerving, had sealed his fate. Rebounding, he dropped down behind the two horses and, because of the nature of the fall, wasn't able to tuck and roll, but landed heavily on his side, knocking the wind from his lungs and jarring every bone in his body. Lying helpless and vulnerable, he could do no more than close his eyes as the other runners touched down all around him, their aluminium-tipped hooves punching four-inch holes into the turf.

It was a testament to the effort that horses make to avoid riders on the ground that none of those deadly hooves scored a direct hit on Matt's sprawling figure. Amidst the ground-shaking chaos of noise and movement, something grazed his shoulder; he heard someone utter a shocked 'Christ!' and then the field was over and gone, like an express train thundering away down a track, taking urgency with it and leaving tranquillity in its wake.

As often, the whole experience was too swift even to justify relief at its passing and, as peace returned, Matt lay still, doing a mental inventory of his extremities. If they all retained sensation and movement, then the greatest horror was averted and all else could be faced and overcome.

They all did.

Matt opened his eyes to a vista of lush green, and supposed that he would have to try breathing at some point, but, just at that moment, it felt as though tight steel bands had been placed around his ribs. Footsteps swished towards him through the grass and a stout brown shoe appeared in his field of vision.

'Are you all right, sir?'

Matt nodded, but his attempt to tell the newcomer that he was merely winded came out as a hoarse whisper, so he drew in a painful half-breath and tried again.

'Just winded. Give me a moment.'

'Nasty fall, that.'

'They're never much fun,' Matt told the shoe, and, after a couple more shallow breaths, felt equal to the challenge of sitting up, aided by unseen hands.

Undoing the chinstrap on his helmet, he thanked the stout middle-aged lady who was crouching by his side; confirmed, in answer to her question, that there were no bones broken; and, with her help, presently made it to his feet.

* * *

The jokers in the weighing room had a field day.

'Trying out for the circus, Mojo?' one asked. 'Neat trick that. Think I saw the Cossacks do it, but, of course, they landed standing up.'

'I thought he was going to sit up behind me,' Tam Connelly reported. 'I mean, I know I had a good horse, but really a jockey should stick with the one he started on, don't you think?'

'He likes the course here so much he wants to keep getting up close and personal with it,' another voice suggested.

'No, I reckon he's got something going with one of the sheilas in the medical room,' Bully said.

'Yeah, yeah. Keep trying – you're almost funny,' Matt told them.

'So what did Westerby say?' Rollo asked, coming over. 'What excuse did he give for not having put a breast-girth on that animal? If ever a horse needed one . . .'

'I haven't seen him yet,' Matt said grimly. 'Surprisingly, he had made himself scarce when I got back, bloody man!'

'You're really not having much luck lately, are you? I saw that stuff in the paper yesterday. That was bang out of line. You should make them print a retraction.'

'Trouble is, it was basically true,' Matt said gloomily.

'You're kidding! Even the stuff about Brewer?' Rollo was astounded. 'I can't believe that! Ask anyone and they'd have said you had the most solid job in racing; especially since you took up with the governor's daughter. What's the matter with the man?'

'I have an idea it has something to do with our friend Kenning. I'm not exactly flavour of the month with him and you know what a toad-eater Brewer is when there's a title involved.'

Rollo shook his head.

'It still doesn't make sense. Brewer might be desperate for recognition, but he's not stupid. He knows damn well he was lucky to get you. Surely he wouldn't jock you off, even for Kenning?'

Matt shrugged. He was feeling sore and the loss of Cantablay still weighed on his mind.

'Brewer doesn't like it that I'm trying to help Jamie out. I think perhaps he's worried people will think I'm guilty by association. He says I haven't got my mind on the job, and, of course, it's sod's law that I'm having crappy luck at the moment.'

From the doorway, an official called the jockeys for the next race and Rollo had to go. Within moments, the weighing room had almost emptied, the heart of it going out with the chattering crowd of men bound for the paddock. Matt sat on the bench, half changed into his civvies, feeling drained of energy and purpose.

'I'm not surprised your saddle slipped.' It was Mikey who spoke from the other side of the room. 'I rode him a couple of times for Westerby last year and I'm sure he had a breast-girth on. You'd want one, wouldn't you, with a big front on him like that?'

Matt looked up.

'Are you sure? For Westerby?'

Mikey nodded.

'Yeah, I'm sure.'

'Right.' Matt stood up and reached for his shirt. 'I think I'm going to have a few words with Mick Westerby.'

As it happened, Matt's confrontation with the trainer had to wait, for, after asking a number of people, he was told that Westerby, with perhaps some precognition of trouble, had prudently already left the racecourse. Frustrated, Matt drew some comfort from the fact that Henfield was a two-day meeting and he knew that Westerby had a couple of runners the next day, one of them being the much vaunted Peacock Penny, whom Matt was booked to ride. Taking his leave of Leonard, who was still plainly very cut up over Cantablay's death, Matt eased himself stiffly behind the wheel of the MR2 and headed for home, thinking, as he did so, that the events of the day would have Dave Rossiter of the
Daily Standard
rubbing his hands in glee. He really wasn't looking forward to reading the sports pages the next morning.

Weighing out for the first of two races he was booked for the next day, it seemed to Matt as though he hadn't been away. By the time he'd got home the previous night, Kendra had gone out with Frances for the evening, leaving a curry simmering on the Aga, and, after he'd eaten, Matt had fallen asleep on the sofa in front of the TV with Taffy curled up next to him.

After coming home in the early hours, Kendra had still been in bed when he'd left for Rockfield that morning, although she had lifted her face for a sleepy kiss when he'd taken her a cup of tea. Matt got the impression that the company of her sister had done her a lot of good, and he left the house in a more positive mood than he had for several days. He felt, as long as he and Kennie were OK, he could face most things, a conviction that even survived Rossiter's best efforts in the daily sports round-up.

Now, at Henfield, it was an overcast day with a biting cold wind, and when, in due course, the jockeys were called into the paddock, he found Roy Emmett huddled in a sheepskin coat, with matching hat and gloves, and a red scarf wound about his neck. In spite of this, his eyes were watering behind his bottle-bottom glasses and his nose, which rivalled the scarf for hue, sported a glistening dewdrop. There was no sign of his partner, a tall, austere-looking man who rarely came to the races, and neither was Leonard in attendance, but Matt knew that Rockfield had two horses in the race, so the trainer was presumably with the owner of the other.

Matt approached Emmett with a degree of reserve, unsure as to whether he was one of the owners from whom Brewer claimed to have received complaints, but he needn't have worried.

When Emmett saw him, he beamed, the dewdrop wobbling dangerously as they shook hands.

'Good to see you, Matt. How are you?'

'Do you want my opinion or the one everyone read in the paper this morning?'

'Never take much notice of the newspapers, to tell you the truth. They're never happy unless they're raking up trouble. Giving you a hard time, are they? What's that about, then?'

'Oh, nothing I can't handle,' Matt said, devoutly hoping it was the truth. 'How's Coneflower today? Not getting too hot, I hope.' If Coneflower had a fault, it was a tendency to work himself into a lather before he even got onto the track, thereby wasting precious energy, but, as he was a tenacious stayer, it wasn't too big a problem.

'No, he's fine,' Emmett said. 'Shouldn't be surprised if he was growing out of that business. Here he is now.'

As he spoke, the good-looking black gelding came into view, stalking round on his long clean-boned legs beside his handler, looking every inch the quintessential steeplechaser and, as Emmett had said, showing no sign of sweating up.

'We've got a good chance today, don't you think?' he continued, with barely a pause. 'I spoke to John a minute ago and he says he's been working well on the gallops. In fact, I went over to watch him work last week and he certainly looked the part . . .'

Matt let Emmett talk, listening with half an ear whilst he scanned the circling runners. Westerby also had a horse in this race but, so far, the trainer hadn't made an appearance in the paddock. When Matt finally identified his runner by the number he carried, he saw that the blond lad who had led Maple Tree round the day before had been replaced by a pale girl with straggling dark hair and an eyebrow ring.

The bell went for the jockeys to mount and, switching his attention back to the matter in hand, Matt accepted Emmett's good luck wishes and went towards Coneflower to meet Leonard and receive a leg-up into the saddle.

After the disasters of the day before, Matt was desperate for a good showing, and the black horse didn't let him down. He was a front runner who not only stayed the distance, but could also be relied upon to produce an extra burst of speed if challenged in the final furlong. On this occasion it wasn't necessary. By the time they rounded the bend into the home straight for the second time, Coneflower's ground-eating stride had left the other twelve runners struggling in his wake, and Matt was able to let him ease down towards the finishing post, which he crossed at not much more than a canter, six lengths clear of his nearest rival.

He rode into the winner's circle feeling triumph and relief in equal measures – perhaps his luck was on the turn at last.

Mick Westerby was still absent when Matt went out to ride Peacock Penny, and he was met at the entrance to the paddock by a wiry, middle-aged woman in a tired tweed suit, who introduced herself as Sue Westerby, Mick's wife, and walked with him towards the centre of the oval enclosure.

'So where's Mick today?' he asked casually.

'Called away, I'm afraid. Other business. You'll have to make do with me.' She gave him a thin smile, and Matt got the impression that, although Mick was the licensed trainer, as his assistant, his wife might well be the one who wore the trousers in the partnership.

'Oh, I'd rather hoped for a word with him.'

'About yesterday,' she stated. 'I'm not surprised. Bloody shambles! Can't apologise enough. It's been dealt with.'

It was quite remarkable, Matt reflected, that someone could utter such conciliatory words whilst not conveying the impression that they were sorry in any way, shape, or form. She obviously didn't intend to enlighten him as to
how
it had been dealt with, and he decided the girl with the eyebrow ring might be a softer target.

They were now drawing close to a serious-looking, bespectacled young man who looked painfully self-conscious standing on his own in the centre of the grass with faces crowding the rails.

'Let me introduce Kevin Rouse. His father owns Peacock Penny,' Sue Westerby said smoothly, producing the professional smile once again, and Matt realised that she had come to meet him early because she was wary of what he might say in front of the owner.

'Hello, Kevin. Nice to meet you.' Matt put his hand forward with a friendly smile. 'Do you come racing often?'

'This is my first time,' he replied, and Matt could see that, despite the suit and greatcoat, he was maybe only sixteen or seventeen. Wealthy father, buying a couple of racehorses as a status symbol, he surmised. That would explain the widely divergent abilities of the two horses he owned. Whoever had sold him Khaki Kollin had seen him coming, Matt thought sadly, but the mare, who was coming round in front of them now, had been a lucky acquisition.

'She's a fine-looking mare,' he told the lad – which wasn't strictly true, as she was a little light-framed and leggy – but Kevin was clearly pleased that Matt liked her.

Once Matt was on board Peacock Penny, Sue was obliged to drop back and watch with her owner as the stable girl led the mare once more round the paddock and off down the path to the track.

'So, where's the lad who was here yesterday?' Matt asked, as soon as he was settled into the saddle. 'Tall. Sandy hair.'

The girl glanced up at him.

'Rick Smiff?' she asked.

'Could have been. I got the impression he was maybe head lad.'

'Was.'

'Sorry?'

'
Was
head lad,' she said, with emphasis.

'Oh. So what happened?'

'Got the boot, didn't he?'

'Because of what happened yesterday with Maple Tree?' Matt could see Sue watching intently as they passed and drew no little satisfaction from the fact that she would probably have given anything to shut the girl up.

'Yeah, that's right. The Governor said it was Rick's fault but . . .' She stopped, maybe belatedly remembering who she was talking to.

'But you don't think it was?' Matt prompted.

'I ain't sayin' nuffin'.'

'But you already have,' Matt pointed out reasonably. 'What were you just about to say? Come on, I won't tell on you.'

'She's watchin' me!' the girl hissed. 'I'll bloody cop it if she thinks I said anyfing!'

'So why don't you think it was Rick's fault?'

They'd turned down the path away from the paddock now and, maybe encouraged by the added distance between her and the Governor's wife, the girl gave in.

'Well, Rick's real careful, you know? All I'm sayin' is, I can't see him forgetting somefing like that.'