Murder in Mind (21 page)

'Do you know where I can find Rick?' Matt enquired, as they approached the track.

'Look, you're going to get me into trouble.'

'Please, it's important.'

'What d'you want him for, then? 'Cos he's had enough grief as it is.'

'I'm not going to give him a hard time, trust me.'

'I dunno,' she said doubtfully, and Matt was left wondering whether she didn't know where Rick was to be found or whether she was undecided about whether to tell Matt.

With practised fluidity she released the lead rein and stepped away as the mare bounded forward.

Matt took up the slack in the reins, shifted his weight over Peacock Penny's withers, and put the previous day's drama out of his mind as he switched into work mode.

Less than twenty minutes later he was back, patting the little mare's sweaty neck as she slowed to a trot, having beaten a field of sixteen older and larger horses in a tight finish after one and a half circuits of the hurdles track.

The pale girl came out onto the track to meet him with a huge grin on her face, and whether it was because Matt had brought home the laurels or just because she'd had time to think, he didn't know, but, as she clipped the lead rein in place once more, she looked up and said, 'Rick's here, on the course. You'll probably find him near the bookies on the rails, but I never said that, OK?'

Matt smiled.

'OK. And thanks.'

The business of photographs, weighing in, and the presentation of the prizes all seemed to take an eternity, and, for once, Matt was glad that he had no more rides that day and was able to go in search of the unfortunate 'Rick Smiff'. Even so, that delay was made bearable by the excitement on the face of Peacock Penny's young owner and, when Rouse was borne off by the trainer's wife to further celebrate the win, Matt found himself thinking it was a shame that such a nice lad had landed in the clutches of such as the Westerbys.

Matt's progress through the crowds around the rails was hampered by a number of people wanting to congratulate him on his win. Normally, he could get by without being recognised when in everyday clothes, but, in this case, someone he knew quite well had precipitated the flurry of attention by calling his name far louder than was necessary and soon he was signing autographs left, right, and centre. Maintaining positive public relations was a part of the job he usually accepted with good grace, knowing how important it was for the advancement of his career, but today he heartily wished all the smiling faces would go and find someone else to pester; the more so because, if Rick had been anywhere nearby, he would now almost certainly have disappeared.

When the next race got underway, the crowd's attention was quickly transferred to the track, leaving Matt free to search for Westerby's ex-head lad, but this wasn't helped by the fact that he wasn't 100 per cent certain that he would even recognise the man if he did see him.

To the accompaniment of a crescendo of excited shouting, the race ran its course and people turned away from the rails, either joining the satisfied queues in front of the bookies or screwing up their betting slips in disgust. Matt began to think Rick had seen him coming, and was on the point of conceding defeat when, in one of the bookies' queues, he saw his quarry.

He waited until Rick had collected his winnings and was folding the notes into a back pocket, then stepped forward and spoke his name.

Rick glanced round enquiringly but, when he realised who had spoken, the expression turned to one of dismay. He put his hands up as if to ward Matt off and said, 'Look, I don't want any trouble. I'm sorry, OK? It was a stupid mistake.'

'But whose mistake was it? Yours or Westerby's?'

Rick's grey eyes narrowed and he cast a wary look to either side, as if checking that Matt was alone.

'What do you mean?'

'I mean that it's a pretty sizeable mistake to make, and, call me suspicious, but it seems strange that neither of you noticed that Maple Tree wasn't wearing his breast-girth. Who tacked him up?'

'Er . . . me. I did.'

'On your own?'

'Well, the Governor was pretty busy . . .' Rick's voice faded away uncertainly.

'Yeah, it doesn't sound very likely, does it?' Matt remarked. 'What could be more important on a race day than the horses? Why don't you tell me what really happened?'

Rick looked round again with a touch of desperation and, for a split second, Matt thought he was going to run.

'Please, Rick – I don't want to make trouble for you, I promise you. I just want to know what actually happened. Westerby saddled the horse, didn't he?'

'No, it was me.'

'I don't believe you. I think Westerby did it, and now he's blaming you. But what I don't understand is why you're letting him.'

Rick sighed and looked skyward, his face contorted by indecision, but finally, it seemed, honesty won out.

'I
was
there.'

'But it was Westerby who saddled the horse, yes?'

'Yes.'

'So he left off the breast-girth, and I'm guessing it wasn't an accident,' Matt said, taking care not to show the surge of triumph he felt. 'You must have noticed. Didn't you say something?'

'Yeah, I did . . .'

'So, what reason did he give?'

'He said . . .' Rick hesitated. 'Do you want to know exactly?'

'Yes, please.'

'Urn – he said, "We're gonna give that arrogant bastard the ride of his life!" I wasn't happy about it, but what could I do? He's the Guv'nor. Was,' he corrected.

You could have reported him to the stewards or – at the very least
–
warned me,
Matt thought, but, realistically, he wouldn't have expected it; the backlash would have been huge. He remembered the head lad's unhappy face as he led Maple Tree round before the race.

'We? Are you're sure he said
we
?'

Rick nodded.

'Yeah, 'cos I remember thinking – Count me out, psycho! I don't want no part of this. I knew how dangerous it could be, see?'

'What I don't understand is why you were still prepared to tell lies to protect Westerby, when he sacked you and left you to carry the can?'

Rick looked at his shoes, his sandy fringe flopping over his eyes.

'I got a police record, see?' he mumbled. 'Nicked a couple of cars when I was a nipper. The Guv'nor said, if I told anyone about the girth, he'd put it about that he caught me stealing. So then no one would believe me and I'd never get another job neither, would I?'

'OK, then, if he knew you wouldn't blow the whistle, why did he sack you?'

'Well, to keep you off his back,' Rick replied. 'When he saw you get straight up from that fall, he got in his car and went home. You couldn't see him for dust.'

'Smart move,' Matt said.

He looked at Rick thoughtfully and then decided to back another hunch.

'Does Westerby have any connections with Lord Kenning? I mean, has he ever been to the yard or have you seen them talking recently?'

Rick pursed his lips and shook his head.

Matt wasn't overly surprised. It had been a long shot but, even so, he had to admit to a faint twinge of disappointment; it would have explained a lot.

'OK, never mind . . .' he started to say, but Rick interrupted him.

'Now you say that – I never saw him, but the Guv'nor did say something, a couple of days ago . . . He was looking right pleased with himself, and he told me, if I ever saw Lord Kenning on the racecourse, I should mind my Ps and Qs, 'cos, if we played our cards right, Kenning might be sending us some horses – to train, I mean.'

'Did he now?' Matt breathed, hardly able to believe his good luck.

'That's what the Guv'nor said, but I thought he was barking! I mean, Kenning was never going to send us anyfing in a million years, was he? But the Guv seemed to believe it anyway. 'E was like the cat that got the sodding cream.'

'Did you win much?'

Rick was momentarily caught off guard.

'Sorry?'

'The last race – did you get a good price?'

'Not bad, I s'pose.' He patted the pocket where he'd put the notes. 'I had some on Peacock Penny, too. She's a smashing filly.'

'She is that,' Matt agreed. 'Look, I'm not going to offer you any money here – there are too many eyes, and it could get us both into trouble, but, if you get stuck anytime, give me a shout, OK?'

Rick looked taken aback.

'OK,' he said slowly. 'But I'm not telling anyone else what I told you. Especially not the police.'

Rick's expression clearly showed his opinion of the police and Matt sympathised with him. Bartholomew hadn't come over as a people-person in his dealings with Matt; with someone who already had a record, he imagined he'd be ten times worse.

'No police,' he agreed.

'So, what are you going to do now?' Rick asked. 'Are you going after Westerby?'

'I'm not sure. Not right away, anyway.'

'But you won't tell him what I said . . .'

'I won't tell him,' Matt promised. 'But where can I find you again – if I need to?'

'My mate runs a pub, just down the road from here – The Blue Lion. He'll always get a message to me.'

Pleased as he was with the information Rick had given him, Matt was under no illusions about whether it would prove easy to make use of. If it came down to the word of an ex-employee with a criminal record, against that of his former employer and a much-respected peer of the realm, it didn't take a Mensa candidate to figure out where the authorities would choose to place their belief. Even so, Matt hugged the tale of Kenning's possible involvement in Westerby's sabotage to him like a hot-water bottle on a cold night. At some stage, he felt sure, he would be able to turn the knowledge against them.

Matt left Henfield fairly content with his day's work. True, he had only ridden twice, but he had won twice, which should have given the doubters something to chew over.

Although he would rather have been racing, one advantage of finishing early was that he arrived back at the cottage before it was completely dark, with the pleasant expectation of a long, lazy evening with Kendra, a log fire, and a bottle of wine. To this end, when he stopped for petrol, he equipped himself with a large bunch of mixed flowers, smiling inwardly as he pictured her delight.

The house was in darkness when he drove into the yard, except for a faint glow that suggested a light on in one of the back rooms upstairs. Surprised, and hoping Kendra hadn't made plans for another evening out, Matt turned his key in the front door, but it wouldn't open – apparently bolted on the inside. He rapped on it with the horseshoe-shaped knocker, which set the dogs barking furiously, but no one came to open the door.

Deeply puzzled, Matt went round the back of the cottage and let himself in, switching the light on and fending off the excited attentions of Sky and The Boys. Fitting bolts to the new back door was one of the next jobs on his never-ending list, but, thankfully, he hadn't got round to it as yet.

Kendra wasn't in the kitchen, and he laid the flowers on the table, feeling even more bewildered. Remembering the light he'd seen upstairs, Matt went up, wondering if perhaps she was unwell and had gone to lie down with Taffy for company.

'Kendra?'

He paused at the turn of the stairs to listen for an answer, but there was none, only a faint clicking of claws, which heralded Taffy's approach over the uncarpeted floor. As Matt reached the landing, the sheltie appeared in the doorway of the master bedroom, and, when she turned and went back, he was hot on her heels.

He stopped just over the threshold. The light was on, but Kendra wasn't there.

Taffy was now standing in front of the door to the en suite bathroom.

'Is she in there?' he asked the dog, who glanced back at Matt before returning her attention solemnly to the door, as if by sheer patience she would eventually be rewarded by its opening. She looked as though she was prepared to stand there all night.

Matt went across and knocked lightly on the stripped wooden panel. Painting was one of many jobs waiting to be done.

'Kendra? Are you in there?' He leaned close, but couldn't hear anything, and his heart began to thud with apprehension.

'Kendra! Are you all right?' Thanking providence that the lock had been removed for redecorating, Matt let himself in, following a close second to Taffy, who wasn't about to concede precedence to anyone.

At first it seemed as though the bathroom, too, was empty, but Taffy knew where she was going and, looking across, Matt could see a dark shadow, low down behind the semi-obscure door of the new shower cubicle.

'Kendra?'

Within moments, Matt had followed, sliding the door back, panic ballooning. And there, huddled – fully clothed – against the tiled back wall, was Kendra, her arms hugging her knees and her head bowed so that her face was hidden behind a curtain of blonde hair.

While Matt paused, his mind racing through the possible reasons for her hiding there, Taffy – ever practical – hopped over the lip of the shower basin and approached her mistress, pushing her nose under Kendra's arm to force her way into her embrace.

'Kendra – sweetheart, what's the matter? What's going on?' Matt's first thought was that something had happened to the baby.

At the sound of his voice, Kendra raised her head as if hearing it for the first time, and the expression on her face jolted him like a physical shock. Her eyes were huge, haunted, terrified, and she had clearly been crying.

'Oh my God, Kennie – what's wrong? What's happened?' He stepped into the cubicle, reached down to her, and drew her to her feet, where she stood, leaning weakly against him, clutching the sheltie under one arm. Matt could feel her trembling and his own heart thudding.

'Talk to me,' he urged gently. 'What's the matter?'

'He said he was coming to get me,' she sobbed into the fleece collar of his jacket. 'I've been so frightened.'

'Who did?'

'I don't know – a man, on the phone. He said he knew where I lived and he was coming to get me.'

Matt was horrified.

'When? When did this happen?'

'This afternoon, when I got back from helping Mum. I didn't know what to do . . .'