Murder in Mind (25 page)

'Mm – he's always been lucky,' Kendra replied. 'Did you think he seemed OK?'

'OK? What d'you mean? He was a bit quiet at first, but then he often is, isn't he? He seemed fine later. Why do you ask?'

'Well, Fran's a bit worried about him. I think it's this course she's on, it's turning her into a mental-health hypochondriac. Personally, I think Deke's always been a bit dippy, but he's a sweetie, so who cares?'

Matt shrugged.

'I don't really know Deke that well, but I shall be nervous now, if I catch Frances looking at me a bit hard.'

'Oh, she gave up on you as a hopeless case ages ago,' Kendra told him, bringing her feet up onto the settee and snuggling closer. Spotting a gap at the other end of the seat, Taffy jumped up and settled into it.

'Just like old times,' Matt observed.

'Mm. Do you
have
to go back tonight?'

'Yeah, sorry. I promised Doogie I'd do some schooling for him tomorrow, and, anyway, the dogs will be sitting cross-legged as it is.' He hesitated. 'Come with me?'

Immediately he felt a minute withdrawal.

'I can't. Please don't ask.'

He could have kicked himself for spoiling the moment. Giving her shoulders a squeeze, he apologised.

'I'm sorry too.' She sighed. 'When will all this be over?'

'I wish I knew. It can't be soon enough for me. What has your father said about all this? I mean, you and me, and the situation with me and Ray Landon?'

Kendra shook her head.

'Nothing. I tried to talk to him about that, but he won't discuss it. He said it's a business decision, not personal.'

'And about us?'

She hesitated.

'What?' Matt asked, when she didn't answer. 'What has he said?'

Kendra shrugged.

'Nothing much.'

'That doesn't sound like him . . .'

'It doesn't matter.'

'Tell me.'

There was a long pause.

'He asked me if I wanted someone to go over to pick up the rest of my things.'

Matt sat up straight.

'You're joking!'

Again the shake of the head. She wouldn't meet his eyes.

'And what did you say?'

'I said no, of course. Do you really have to ask? I told him that, as soon as things have settled down a bit, I'll be moving back to Spinney Cottage. He just kind of grunted and walked off,' she added, correctly anticipating Matt's next query. 'I really don't know what's got into him. He seems constantly bad-tempered these days.'

Around eleven o'clock, when Kendra's eyelids were drooping with tiredness, Matt shook her gently and told her he should be on his way.

'And you should be getting to bed, my girl – you're half asleep as it is.'

'Mm. I haven't been sleeping too well, but I'll be all right tonight,' she said, turning her head to kiss him.

'Good. Well, I'll just say goodbye to your mum before I go . . .'

'She'll probably be in the library. I think she was going to show Harry some old photos – I can't remember why . . . Something to do with a horse they were talking about earlier.'

'OK, I'll find her. You get to bed. I'll ring you tomorrow. By the way, did you ever find your mobile?'

'Yes, it was here all the time. Mum found it.'

'Good old Mum.' Matt pulled Kendra to her feet, where she drooped against him once more, tilting her face up to his.

'Love you,' she murmured, when they eventually separated.

'Love you too. Now, off with you, or you'll have junior yawning in there,' he added, rubbing her stomach gently.

He followed her to the hall and watched as she mounted the stairs with Taffy trotting solemnly at her heels. Moments later she had passed from view and he turned away with a smile on his lips.

He was still thinking about her when he knocked softly on the panelled door and walked into the library.

It would have been difficult to say who was more surprised – Harry and Frances, or Matt.

Harry had his back to the door when Matt opened it, so it was Frances who saw him first, and, as the laughter died out of her face, it took a moment for the significance to hit Harry. When it did, he turned slowly, hanging onto the back of one of the library chairs, his other hand still poised to throw the small tasselled cushion it held.

What surprised Matt was not that they should be fooling around in such a way, but that Harry was on his feet, and the wheelchair was some six or seven paces away by the bookshelves that lined the side wall.

'Matt . . . hi.'

Harry seemed at a loss. He turned sideways and sat rather heavily on the arm of the wing chair, replacing the cushion where it belonged.

'Hi. I was, er . . . looking for Joy.' For some reason he wasn't sure he understood himself, Matt held back from commenting on the scene he had inadvertently walked in on. The atmosphere fairly crackled with unspoken thoughts.

Finally, Frances said brightly, 'I think she's in the dining room.'

She got up from her position on the sofa and advanced on Harry.

'Now, are you going to say a pretty please?' she enquired, then looked past him to Matt. 'He was being cheeky, so I removed his chair. But I suppose I'd better take pity on him . . .'

Matt smiled.

'Oh, I don't know. I should make him suffer a bit longer, if I were you,' he said. 'Do him good.
Anyway, I'm heading home, so I'll leave you to it. Goodnight.'

''Night, Matt,' Harry responded, and Frances waved a cheery hand.

Closing the door on them, Matt frowned. The explanation was plausible enough and he'd been careful to show no scepticism, but the truth was that he didn't believe a word of it. Although Harry had long been able to stand for a sufficient length of time to move himself in and out of his wheelchair, the manoeuvre had always caused him white-faced discomfort. The man who had turned to face Matt a moment ago had been smiling and relaxed.

Matt's pleasure at seeing Harry on his feet was mixed with confusion. It was clear that movement was no longer the agonising ordeal it had been since the accident that had ended his career, but for how long had he been improving, and why hadn't he shared the joy of his progress – even with his parents? Frances's pretence indicated that, whatever the reason, Harry wanted no one to know, and Matt felt a little hurt that he hadn't been considered friend enough to be taken into his confidence.

Shrugging the mood away, he made his way to the dining room, where he did find Joy, as Frances had suggested. She was standing by one of the long windows, looking out, and he had to say her name twice before she heard him.

'Oh, hello Matt. Are you off?'

'Yes. The dogs will be waiting to go out. Is everything OK?' He thought she looked a little distracted.

'Well, I'm not sure,' she said, pulling the curtain aside once more and peering into the darkness. 'I can just see the yard from here and it looks as though there's a light on. I was trying to decide if it was the Hattery. I could have sworn I'd turned it off when I finished this afternoon, but it's just possible that I forgot.'

'Do you want me to check?'

'Oh, would you? You are an angel. I can't get Niall on his mobile and I was just thinking I'd better go myself, but it's raining.'

'No problem. If it is unlocked, I'll pop the key on the hall table before I go.'

'Brilliant – thank you.'

With an eye to the rain, Matt went out through the kitchen and utility room, which was a lot closer to the old stableyard than the front door. Turning up the collar of his jacket, he ducked his head and ran along the stone path towards the converted coach house which was the Hattery, but, as he drew closer, he could see that the light Joy had seen wasn't actually coming from the showroom or workshop, but further on. Matt wasn't sure what the next building was used for, but, having come that far, he supposed he might as well investigate.

An ill-fitting blind hung in the lighted window and, pausing as he came level, Matt was able to see round the edge of it. The room beyond appeared to be some sort of office, and was indeed occupied. Standing by the filing cabinet was a slim twenty-something man whom Matt had never seen before, and who was clearly deep in an impassioned conversation with someone out of Matt's line of sight.

At this point, with the rain circumventing his jacket's wholly inadequate defences, Matt's intention was to turn and make good speed in the direction of his car, but two things kept him by the window. One was the striking appearance of the man, who had alabaster skin, large, dark-lashed brown eyes, and long dark hair tied at the nape of his neck with what looked like a length of black velvet ribbon. He wore a three-quarter-length jacket of a silvery-grey material over a black shirt and slim-legged jeans, and the whole effect was more than a little effeminate. The other thing that kept Matt watching was curiosity about the identity of the person this vision was talking to.

Fortunately, he didn't have too long to wait. After gesticulating with all the drama of a silent movie star, the ponytailed one turned and moved towards the door, but, before he could reach it, another figure came into view, vaulting the desk, catching the young man by the shoulders, and turning him round.

Matt instinctively shrank back a little, but continued to gaze intently at the lighted cameo being played out before him, the rain forgotten. The second man seemed also to be gripped by a strong emotion and though, at first, Matt wasn't sure whether his intentions were violent, it soon became clear that nothing could be further from the truth. After addressing a number of rapid, fervent phrases to the man in the silvery jacket, he placed a finger under his chin, tilted his head up until the dark-lashed eyes looked back at him, and then kissed him full on the lips.

Matt felt a frisson of shock; not so much at the homosexual act as at the instigator of it, for it was none other than Charlie Brewer's security man, Deacon's bodyguard – Niall Delafield.

The kiss was unmistakably passionate, the young man slipping his arms around Delafield's neck to pull him closer, but, in the end, it was Delafield who broke the union, pulling away from the man and shaking his head.

This apparently incensed his lover. With brows drawn down and dark eyes flashing dangerously, he rattled off a furious tirade, punctuated by a number of ineffectual thumps on Delafield's arms and chest with his clenched fists. They were the hands of an artist or musician, not of a fighter, and the blows obviously didn't trouble Delafield at all. Half laughing, he caught the slim fists and held them still, which made the young man even angrier. When the diatribe came to an end, Delafield shrugged, shook his head, and lightly kissed him again before releasing him.

This time his reward was a stinging slap across the face, hard enough to make him take an involuntary step back, and the man in the silver jacket turned without another word and stalked across to the door.

Suddenly Matt realised the assignation was coming to an end and that, if he stayed where he was, he was in imminent danger of discovery. Although his encounters with the man had been few, he needed no one to tell him that being caught spying on Delafield in such a situation was probably not a good idea. Backing away from the window, he glanced hurriedly around and then slipped into the shadowed doorway of Joy's showroom.

He was only just in time.

The storeroom door was thrown open with such force that it hit the brick wall beside it and rebounded, almost hitting the slim figure that erupted from the doorway.

At this point, Matt deemed it prudent to turn his head to the Hattery door, aware that the pale skin of his face would very likely give him away.

'Joe – for God's sake, calm down! It's not going to be for ever, I promise.' That was Delafield.

'That's what
you
say – but you won't say how long.' The Scouse accent contrasted oddly with its owner's exotic appearance. 'So what am I supposed to do? Sit around waiting for you to call? You owe me more than that.'

'I know, and I'm sorry. But this isn't my fault, you know that.'

'Do I? I only know what you're telling me, but what if there's more to it? Is this really about you and me?'

'You know it's not. I just can't get away at the moment – I told you why.'

'Can't – or don't want to?' Joe demanded hotly. 'Perhaps you prefer to be with your precious Deacon.'

'Sshh! Keep your voice down!'

'Why? Brewer's not going to hear me in bloody Reading!'

'He's not the only one that lives here.'

'But who's going to be out here, in this? Besides, why should I care who hears us? If you're dumping me – what does it matter?' the younger man declared dramatically.

'Please don't start that again – I'm not dumping you. Things are a bit difficult at the moment, that's all. Look, I'll call you tomorrow, OK?'

'I might be in, I might not,' came the pettish reply.

'For God's sake, Joe – don't be childish!'

'Anyway – what if I tell him about that night?'

'You don't know anything . . .' There was a note of uncertainty in the response.

'Oh, I think I do. I'm not stupid, you know. I was with you when he phoned, don't forget. It wasn't really your night off, was it?'

There was a pause, when all Matt could hear was the rain hissing on the stone paving. He imagined the silver jacket darkening in the downpour.

'You wouldn't do that,' Delafield said, quite softly.

'Why not? I'd have you to myself then.'

'You mustn't do it. Believe me – you have no idea . . .'

'Call me, then. Come and see me.' The young man sounded at breaking point.

'I will, I said I would,' Delafield soothed.

'Call me.' The voice came from further away; there came the sound of running footsteps and then just the rain.

Heart thumping, Matt stayed where he was, hardly daring to breathe, and presently heard Delafield utter an emphatic, 'Shit!'

The door shut, a key turned, and then the security man headed back to the house, passing within a few feet of where Matt strove to meld his body into the doorpost.

When he was sure the coast was clear, Matt came cautiously out of hiding, glanced right and left, and then turned and hurried through the rain to his car, keeping in the shadow of the buildings until he had rounded the corner of the house.

Once in the MR2, he stripped off his wet jacket, pulled on a spare fleece that he kept behind his seat, and sat staring sightlessly in the rear-view mirror as the courtesy light faded and went out, his mind busy with the implications of what he'd just witnessed.

Exactly what was it that Joe was threatening to tell? It was certainly enough to seriously rattle Delafield. Who had phoned him? When? And what had been said?

Did Brewer know that the man he relied on to keep an eye on his son was gay? It was hard to believe he did, for Kendra's father was one of the most homophobic people Matt had ever met, but, from what had been said, it sounded as though he'd found out, somehow.

Matt's mind went back to the evening when he'd overheard a heated confrontation between the two men in Brewer's office. The words, which had meant nothing at the time, took on some significance in the light of the night's events. What was it Brewer had said? Something about having a right to be politically incorrect in his own home, wasn't it? And he'd told Delafield to get rid of someone – the exquisite Joe, perhaps? – or risk losing his job.

But Matt also remembered that Delafield had been confident that the businessman wouldn't fire him . . . Why? he wondered. What leverage did the security man have on Kendra's father that could possibly force him to overcome such a deep-seated aversion?

Whatever it was, it seemed that the two had reached an uneasy truce and Matt certainly wasn't about to ask Delafield about it. Maybe the security man had kept his job on the understanding that his lover stayed well away from Birchwood Hall?

It was the only explanation that made any sense at all, but it still didn't quite add up. For one thing, the word
compromise
was not one that Matt would usually use in the same sentence with Brewer. It was way out of character.

Shaking his head, Matt started the car and set off for home. All in all, it had been quite an evening.

The weather at Wincanton the next afternoon was blustery and cold, but the going was good to soft, a fact to which Matt could testify, as he trudged back down the home straight after falling at the last. The first of Roy Emmett's two promising novices had met the fence completely wrong, suffering a crisis of confidence and putting down for an extra stride when he should have been taking off. But the news wasn't all bad – the fall had been easy, the ground relatively soft, and both horse and jockey had come to their feet unharmed. Just another day at the office. All the same, Matt felt as though he'd had more than his fair share of falls lately.

With several runners from Rockfield, both
Harry and John Leonard were at the Somerset course but, although Matt found it impossible to look at him without recalling the scene in the library, Harry seemed untroubled by any awkwardness, greeting him in his usual friendly fashion.

In the paddock for the next race, Matt scanned the field of six runners and was interested to see an old friend among them. It was Maple Tree, the horse of the missing breast-girth incident, although this time Matt noted that he was wearing a full complement of tack. He looked round for Mick Westerby and saw him talking to a tall, middle-aged man in a grey woollen overcoat. Mikey Copperfield stood alongside, characteristically reserved.

'Who's the man with Westerby?' Matt asked Doogie, who, after a lifetime in National Hunt racing, was a font of knowledge when it came to owners, trainers, and horses.

'I'm not sure, but it isn't the horse's owner, I can tell you that much, because Glenda Naismith died last week. Shame – she was a nice old girl, ninety if she was a day and tough as boot leather. Maybe it's her son? I can find out for you. Is it important?'

'It might be,' Matt said. 'I could ask Mikey, but he tends to focus on the horses and everything else washes over the top.'

'He's a rare talent, though,' Doogie stated. 'I'd give him a job any day. OK, I'll see what I can do. Nice horse that grey. Shame Westerby's got it, I wouldn't mind training it myself. It'll be the one to beat in this race, I think.'

Doogie was right. Maple Tree was the one to beat, and, on this occasion, Matt's horse wasn't up to the task. They came a close second, though, passing the post less than a length behind the grey, and Matt slapped the younger jockey on the back as they slowed up.