Murder in Mind (26 page)

'Nice work, Mikey! Hey, who's the guy in the long coat who was talking to Mick?'

Mikey shrugged.

'Not sure. The owner, I think. Somebody Naismith. Why?'

'Just wondered,' Matt said, hoping Doogie could find out more. He wouldn't mind a little chat with Somebody Naismith, if he got the chance. He had an idea he might be interested to hear the sad tale of Maple Tree's last run.

When Matt joined Doogie in the paddock for the second of his two runners, the elderly trainer had a twinkle in his eye.

'Got the information you were after,' he announced. 'The chap with Westerby
was
Glenda's son. His name's Stephen Naismith and he's a lawyer. As the only child, he's expected to inherit his mother's horses, but it's not known whether he intends to keep them on. That's all anyone seems to know, at the moment. Oh, and he's currently entertaining our friend Mick in the bar upstairs.'

'Brilliant. Thank you.'

It was good news that Naismith had not, as yet, left the course, but slightly less promising, for Matt's purposes, that he seemed to be on such friendly terms with his late mother's unscrupulous trainer.

'Got some more news for you, too. Chris Fairbrother's retiring.' His bright blue eyes watched Matt closely. 'Thought you might like to know, considering he's given you a bit of a hard time of it lately.'

'But he's only young.'

'Well, it might just be temporary. His little girl is sick and he's taking her abroad for treatment. America, I think.'

'Poor bloke,' Matt said, genuinely sorry. Maybe that explained the steward's odd judgements of late. 'Christ, that'll cost him a pretty penny . . .'

'Ah, that's what I thought,' Doogie said. 'But it seems your good friend Lord Kenning is helping out. What do you think of that?'

What indeed? Remembering Fairbrother's strange behaviour the last time they had met, certain things began to slot into place.

'Well, well,' Matt said, thoughtfully.

Having partnered Doogie's second horse to a respectable third place, and with no rides in the next two races, Matt pulled his Q&S jacket on over his silks and went in search of Maple Tree's new owner.

Although Matt had no ride in the next race, he knew Westerby had a runner, and so could be fairly certain that the trainer would be in the paddock and not still in the bar with Stephen Naismith.

So it proved.

It appeared that Naismith had come to Wincanton on his own, and when Matt paused in the doorway of the bar, scanning the room, he saw him sitting at a table by the window, his grey overcoat thrown over the back of the seat beside him. Naismith was deep in contemplation of his racecard when Matt approached, and didn't look up when he stopped beside the table.

'Mr Naismith?'

'Yes?' Naismith glanced up blankly. He clearly didn't recognise Matt, even with the giveaway breeches and boots.

'Hi. My name's Matt Shepherd. I ride for Mick Westerby sometimes . . .'
Not anymore, he didn't.
'Could I have a word?'

'Er . . . Yes – sure. Have a seat.' His voice was educated, pleasant, unaccented.

'I don't know whether you're aware, but I rode Maple Tree for your mother, when he last ran.'

'I'm afraid my mother's passed away.'

'Yes, I heard. I'm sorry. I never met her, but Doogie McKenzie told me she was quite a character.'

'She was,' Naismith agreed. 'So what can I do for you, Mr Shepherd?'

'Well, Maple Tree is – as you saw today – a very good horse,' Matt told him. 'But when
I
rode him, he wasn't allowed to run on merit; in fact, I believe he was sabotaged in an attempt to get at me . . .'

Quite suddenly Naismith's easy attitude was replaced by the needle-sharp gaze of a man for whom conflict and dissent were a part of everyday life.

'Perhaps you'd better start at the beginning,' he suggested. 'Would you like a coffee?'

Naismith listened with apparent interest to what Matt had to say, and ended by thanking Matt for telling him, without giving any intimation of what he intended doing about it – if anything. From his reaction to the story, Matt was led to suspect that the lawyer hadn't been wholly won over by Westerby himself, and he exhibited no sign of disbelief, even when Lord Kenning's name was introduced into the tale. He wanted to know where he could find Rick Smith and, reluctantly, Matt told him, whilst warning him that Westerby's ex-head lad might well refuse to see him. The encounter took far longer than Matt had envisaged, and, after answering a few very pertinent questions, he had to hurry back to weigh out for his next race, leaving Maple Tree's owner to digest what he had heard.

Kenning was at Wincanton, but kept his distance, and when, at the end of the day, Roy Emmett's second runner further redeemed Matt's fortunes by winning a novice chase in fine style, he made his way home feeling that, on balance, things were looking up.

Returning to Spinney Cottage after a satisfying schooling session at Doogie's yard the following morning, Matt collected the local paper from his letterbox, weathered a mobbing by his three exuberant dogs, switched the kettle on, and went upstairs for a shower. It was the old Sunday morning routine that he had followed quite happily until Kendra had moved in, but now it felt flat and dull. He really hadn't appreciated how much colour she had brought to his existence, until she had taken it away again. He missed her welcoming kiss; missed being able to discuss how the horses had worked – what Leonard had said; he even missed Taffy. Without him noticing, the streetwise little sheltie had become an integral part of his life, too.

Washed, changed, and the dogs fed, Matt settled down to drink a cup of coffee and read the papers, before going out to see to the horses. The dogs knew the schedule and sat, quietly watchful, on their beds, waiting for a sign that their master was on the move.

The
Daily Standard
's racing pages had, among others, a picture of Mikey winning on Maple Tree the day before, and couldn't resist pointing out that, in doing so, the teenager had beaten Matt Shepherd, who had had a very different result when
he
had last ridden the horse.

'Yeah, yeah,' Matt muttered, causing the dogs to prick up their ears hopefully. He took the jibe with resignation. It was the kind of observation that newspapers love to make, and he certainly didn't begrudge the young jockey his praise. Nobody could deny that Mikey had ridden the horse beautifully.

Moving on, in due course, to the local paper, Matt leafed through the pages, skimming over reports of land disputes, petty crime, and adverts for jumble sales and bingo in various village halls. There was little to catch his interest at first sight, but he would look through it again, if he had time, before it was used to light the wood-burning stove.

He had finished his coffee and was about to put the paper aside when his attention was caught by one of the photos. Frowning slightly, he turned back to look again.

The photo was of a willowy, pouting woman in a skintight skirt and a strapless top that appeared to be composed of a huge bow and not much else. Beside her was an equally slender young man in a three-quarter-length fitted jacket, with a large jewelled buckle on his jeans and tied-back dark hair. The striking, fine-boned face was, without a doubt, the one Matt had seen through the window of the storeroom at Birchwood Hall – the face he'd seen Niall Delafield take in his hands and kiss so ardently.

Swiftly, Matt scanned the text beneath the picture. Joseph Wintermann, the newest sensation in haute couture, was to show off his new season's designs in a charity fashion show that was to take place in a marquee in the grounds of Kelsey Grange on Monday evening. Wintermann was becoming known, the article continued, for his imaginative and daring mixes of velvet, silks, and metallic fabrics. The rights to reproduce Wintermann designs for the general market were being fought over by several of the big names on the high street, he read, and Joseph, an enigmatic young man with dark, romantic looks, was certain to win numerous fans with his winter collection.

Matt was halfway through reading the piece a second time, when his mobile trilled. The display was showing Casey's name. He picked it up.

'Hi. I was going to ring you later.'

'How nice,' she said blithely.

'So what's new?'

'Well, not a lot, actually. Apart from the stuff I told you the other day, there's not much to find about your man Delafield. He seems to have gone off the radar a few years ago, then he turns up abroad, where Brewer found him. But I couldn't find anything at all to link him to Steve Bryan, the van man. They weren't in the same regiment, but I suppose – if you say Delafield was SAS – they might have run into each other there. I should imagine it'd be almost impossible to find out.'

'Yeah, I guess so.' With the shock of last night's discovery, the somewhat loosely linked chain of thought that had led to him asking for the information had completely fallen apart. He searched his memory. 'What about Kenning? Any link there?'

'Sorry. None I could find.'

'Oh well, it was worth a try. So, how did the date with Jamie go?'

'Which one?' she asked coyly.

'Ah! Say no more.'

When Casey rang off, Matt returned to the paper and stared long and hard at the photograph. In spite of the lack of any detectable link between the owner of the white van and Niall Delafield, it was obvious, from what Matt had overheard, that – quite apart from the matter of his sexuality – there was something very irregular about Charlie Brewer's security man.

Matt read the article again.

Kelsey Grange, if he remembered correctly, was a stately home somewhere between Bath and Yeovil. No doubt there would be a good deal of coming and going in the run-up to the fashion show; it was just possible, in the confusion, that there might be a chance to get close enough to have a word with the beautiful and talented Mr Wintermann. Quite what he was going to say, if he did manage such an interview, he wasn't entirely sure, but he felt he should at least make the attempt, if only to assure himself that the argument between Joe Wintermann and Delafield was a private affair and concerned nothing of significance to him.

If the young man was still in emotional turmoil, he might be ripe for pouring his troubles into a sympathetic ear. Matt had to repress a shudder at the thought. This was one task he would gladly have passed over to Bartholomew, but what reason could he give? Being homosexual wasn't a crime, whatever any individual might think about it. He knew nothing about Delafield that would remotely interest Bartholomew, all he had was a collection of disjointed facts and half-heard comments, and a hunch that they might possibly add up to an important whole.

After seeing to the animals, Matt once again spent the remainder of the daylight hours working in the new kitchen, leaving himself just enough time to take the dogs for a decent walk before the darkness closed in.

His evening meal was a reheated tagliatelli, which he ate in the sitting room with the TV on. The three dogs followed him in, flopping down at his feet and keeping an eye on his plate with varying degrees of subtlety. Without Kendra there to frown him down, Matt dropped the last three chunks of ham into their willing mouths and pushed the bowl to one side. It was a long time since he'd spent a Sunday evening at the cottage, and although the custom of going to Birchwood Hall every week had been irksome at times, it seemed infinitely preferable to eating yesterday's leftovers with only the dogs for company, much as he loved them. He'd rung Kendra when he'd finished work but, although she was plainly very happy to hear from him, she reported that her father's mood left a lot to be desired and discouraged Matt's intention to brave it and attend the family meal.

Even though he'd had plenty to occupy his thoughts that day, the conundrum that was Harry Leonard had kept creeping in. Matt found himself replaying the scene over and over in his mind. Was it possible that he'd been mistaken? However he looked at it, the answer was no. Harry had been standing up, one hand on the back of the chair, weight on both feet, and sharing a joke with Kendra's sister. Matt was as sure as he could be that he'd had no further operations so, somehow, Harry had found some way to unlock the pain which had kept him confined to a wheelchair for the last eighteen months. But when had it happened, and how?

Frances would know, and he'd been sorely tempted to ring her, but, having covered for Harry on Friday, it seemed unlikely that she would give up his secret now.

The thought that his friend was on the road to recovery was wonderful, but a niggling worm of unease twisted through that pleasure – how long had he been mobile? Had he, in fact, lied to the police on the night of the party, when they had asked him about the wheelchair, and, if so, why? Wanting to keep his recovery a secret to surprise his friends and family was understandable, but not reason enough to mislead those engaged in conducting a murder enquiry. Matt knew that, secret or not, he was going to have to talk to Harry about it.

Realising that he had absolutely no idea why the woman on the television had just stormed out on her family and slammed the door, or even who she was, Matt switched it off and decided to have an early night.

With no racing the following day, there was nothing to prevent Matt taking a trip out to Kelsey Grange to try and track down Delafield's boyfriend. It was not a thought he relished, not least because, if Delafield ever got wind of it, Matt had an idea he might turn rather nasty, and, long before he arrived at his destination, he had decided that an alias might be a sensible precaution.

Kelsey Grange was a grand but not particularly beautiful Bath stone building in the Adam style, and home to – according to the guidebooks – a quantity of mosaic flooring of international importance.

As Matt drove up, he found the house partly obscured by a large white marquee and the numerous vehicles standing on the parkland immediately in front of it. The marquee was billowing in the brisk breeze and the scene was one of frenetic activity with people scurrying in all directions: some in overalls, some in casual workaday clothing, and one or two looking as though they had stepped out of the fashion pages of a cutting-edge magazine.