Jumping to Conclusions (33 page)

Bathsheba's voice, carrying now from the other direction, dispersed the euphoria. Both she and Charlie peered downwards.

'Old bag's giving up,' Charlie reported. 'She's yelling something at Bronwyn – oh, and heading off towards home. Give her a couple of minutes to get round the corner and you'll be okay.'

'Thanks.' She sighed. 'Do you think she'll really make things difficult for me?'

'I don't think she'll close the shop. But she can be dead persuasive. She'll probably hire flying pickets or something. Still, you're tough – and clever. You'll be more than a match for her. It's a shame about Lucinda, though.'

It was. Lucinda had been invaluable in the shop and had become a good friend. Jemima realised she would probably miss the friendship more. 'That's rich coming from you.'

'Lucinda and I know exactly where we stand – or rather, don't...'

'And Tina?'

'Is unaware of the situation and not really part of this conversation. Unless, of course, you want to trade under-the-sheets gossip about Matt. In which case,' Charlie's eyes gleamed, 'I'd be all ears.'

'God, no. I've never been a believer in kiss and tell.' Which was, on reflection, just as well, she thought, as there was very little kissing to tell anything about. 'Unlike some in this village, I think my private life should stay just that.'

'Bugger,' Charlie said good-naturedly. 'Matt won't say anything about you, either. Boring sod. I suppose you want to go home now, do you?'

'Yes, please.' Tentatively straightening her legs, Jemima slid towards the edge of the branch. She peered downwards. The ground looked a very long way away. Getting down was going to be a darn sight harder than getting up had been.

'Do you want any help?'

Jemima shook her head. 'I can manage, thank you. Ooops!'

Charlie hauled her back. 'Head first is not the best option. What sort of childhood did you have? Didn't anyone teach you how to climb trees?'

'Unlike some, I wasn't privileged enough to have a nanny, a minder, a valet, a butler, a resident fitness instructor and tree-climbing tutor –'

Charlie laughed at her. 'Put your left foot here. Hold on with your right hand. There ... See? Easy. And I didn't have those things, either. I had a wheelchair-bound father, an over-protective mother, no brothers and sisters, and acres of space. I learned self-sufficiency at an early age. No – not that branch – the next one.' He sat back and looked at her. 'You'd probably find it easier if you tucked your skirt into your knickers.'

She slithered down the remaining three feet of trunk, grazing her hands. Much of the tree still seemed to be attached to her hair. Charlie swung effortlessly between the branches and dropped easily beside her.

He was quite some athlete, she thought reluctantly. And okay, really. 'Thanks.'

'No sweat. I'll ask Lucinda to ring you, shall I?'

She nodded. 'We'll have to try and work something out. Now all I've got to do is explain things to Glen before Bathsheba's meeting on Friday.'

'Good luck.' Charlie managed to squeeze his hands into the pockets of the skin-tight jeans. He started to walk away, then stopped. 'Oh, and give my love to Gillian.'

Matt had absolutely no intention of seeing Tina Maloret again. With Kath at the Lancing Grange brainstorming sessions, or in a crowd of thousands at the racecourse, it might be okay. But he didn't want to be on his own with her. He'd never trusted her – and now he knew he couldn't trust himself, either.

Still, right now he had other things on his mind. It was the last race at Worcester on a golden afternoon; the first Friday in September. Dragon Slayer was hot favourite. Five to two on at the last show. Kath Seaward had chosen different tactics from Drew for the season's inaugural airing of her potential champion. Not for Lancing Grange the obscurity of an unannounced outing at Fontwell. Dragon Slayer was far too well known for that. Kath Seaward planned to do it in style.

Concentrate, Matt told himself as he and Dragon Slayer made their way to the start. Concentrate on this race. Worry about everything else later. Dragon Slayer, preening, prancing, putting on a show for the public, obviously couldn't wait. Matt would have liked to wait for ever.

He wished he could tell someone. Confess all. Make a clean breast of it. But he couldn't. And Ned Filkins knew he couldn't. Ned knew all about his weakness. Ned was blackmailing him with the secret. But Ned didn't want cash for his pay-off; he just wanted Dragon Slayer to lose. And money
had
changed hands. He'd actually taken money from Ned. Blood money. Thirty pieces of silver. Whatever. Doing so had sealed his fate.

He hadn't received the huge wads of notes that Vincent seemed to hand over to Ned on a regular basis: that went to the snouts who snuffled for information. But just once, during the summer, when Matt had been desperate – and greedy – Ned had loaned him money. Ned knew how much he needed money. And Ned, with his bloody scumbag contacts, knew where Matt's money went. Knew exactly when it was time for his next fix.

When Ned had offered him five hundred pounds it had been like handing out lifebelts to the
Titanic'
s orchestra. He'd grabbed it with both hands.

And he'd been suckered from that moment.

Reluctantly, Dragon Slayer slowed his canter as they approached the start. Twelve horses, twelve jockeys, all of whom he knew well. Not Charlie today, though. Thank God, not Charlie. He didn't want to face Charlie, with his good-natured grin and his bloody serendipity attitude to life. Charlie Somerset had it all – and would probably have even more. Birth – that's what did it, Matt knew. You were dealt a hand at birth. It simply wasn't fair that Charlie Somerset had got all the aces, while he was left with the jokers.

The circling horses were familiar; so, too, the routines of girth-tightening and checking the stirrup leathers. The usual banter, ribaldry, slanderous remarks. All the same. But he wasn't.

The starter had snapped out the roll-call, and finding everyone present, was calling them into line. Matt tried to swing Dragon Slayer round to face the front. This was the first part. He had to remember to draw no attention to himself. Be casual. So, no lining up on the inside. As far away from the public as possible. The invasive eye of the course camera was another matter. Still, he kicked Dragon Slayer gently, urging him towards the outer rail, so far – dead simple. No problems. Most jockeys preferred the inner at Worcester. No one was going to fight him for his starting position. He glanced round him and exhaled. None of the other jockeys seemed remotely interested in him.

Maybe, he thought, it wouldn't be too difficult. He had never worried too much about having a conscience. He had never needed to. He'd always played everything straight on the course. No one had ever tested his morality before. Now it was being pulled in all directions at once.

One of the rank outsiders was side-stepping and twirling like a liberty pony beside him as Matt held on to his position. Everyone was watching the side-show. Christ! Were they now wondering why he hadn't joined the jostle for the grandstand side of the track? Hell – he was already becoming paranoid. Get a grip!

The starter was barking sarcastically at the unfortunate jockey and his prancing horse at the starting gate. All eyes still seemed to be on him. Matt turned his head away, fiddling with his stirrups, and felt sick.

Then there was Jemima ... Poor Jemima, who was probably at this moment facing the wrath of the massed ranks of the Parish Biddies without him being there to back her. He had promised he'd get back to Milton St John as soon as he could. He'd told her not to worry about Bathsheba's meeting; that he'd lived in the village for long enough to know that these protests would soon be swept aside in favour of some further outrage. He'd had to show her some support, hadn't he? Especially now. He knew how concerned Jemima was about the damage Bathsheba Cox could cause to her livelihood. Jemima, on the other hand, was blissfully unaware of the damage he was probably about to cause to his own.

Dragon Slayer, as always tuned-in to his jockey, read the dilemma in Matt's mind and executed a neat circle, wedging his rump against the tape.

'Garside! Turn around! Round! Face the front jockeys!' The starter looked like he was about to have apoplexy.

Matt yanked at Dragon Slayer's head with uncharacteristic force. The horse, unused to this handling, gave a jolt of surprise and resentment but turned round. The few hardy racegoers who always clustered at the start, jeered derisively at Matt's cavalier treatment. The remaining eleven horses, spooked by the eruption of noise, all shimmied out of line again. The starter and his assistant gave synchronised groans.

Matt shortened Dragon Slayer's reins and kicked him gently towards the elasticated webbing stretched across the course. Calm down. It was okay. They were facing the right way, they weren't looking at him, and he'd still got the outside rails all to himself.

It was all too much to think about. Ned Filkins... He was sure, whatever Ned said, that bloody Maureen had seen them together at that pub on bank holiday Monday. She must have told Vincent she'd seen them – he'd blinked in disbelief at Vincent's car in the car park – and Vincent was Jemima's father, for God's sake. Would he have told Jemima that, on the day he was supposed to have been working, Matt had been spotted skulking in the backwoods with Ned Filkins?

'About sodding time!' The starter decided to go for it. He raised his flag.

The fear mounted. It wasn't fair. It wasn't bloody fair!

The tape sprang away and the twelve contenders catapulted forward. Worcester was a fairly flat and untaxing steeplechase course. Kath had chosen to send Dragon Slayer there for his first race of the season to test the muscles after the summer rest. Matt knew he'd win easily – everyone at Lancing Grange knew he'd win easily.

It was up to him to make sure he didn't.

Delighted at being back on a racecourse, Dragon Slayer was trying to leap away, to jump the hurdles he could have practically stepped over. Matt held him in check, his mind throbbing with possibilities. Maybe in the days of frequent racing skulduggery that the retired stable lads still cackled about, pulling a horse had been a simple matter. Then there had been fewer stewards, and no SIS, no invasive cameras, no video footage. Losing this race on Dragon Slayer was surely going to be a great deal more difficult than winning it.

Eighteen fences. Two circuits. They were halfway round for the first time now, Dragon Slayer soaring across the brushwood, eating up the ground with huge strides, head and shoulders ahead of the rest of the undistinguished pack. He was infinitely superior, far more talented, than the rest of the contenders. Oh, Christ. His reputation would slide even further down the scale. Matt Garside – couldn't win if you gave him a two-day start. He could hear it now ...

No point in doing anything right now, Matt thought, head down. Dragon Slayer was scrubbing easily along between fences, rocketing over the hurdles as they appeared, still a length ahead of the rest of the field. It could easily have been twenty. Several of the other horses were crashing through the fences and landing badly, but there had been no fallers.

Even if a fall, a peck, a stumble may have looked more authentic in front of the stands, Matt knew he couldn't do it. Dragon Slayer merited better than that. Intelligent and sensitive, he'd hate the humiliation as much as his jockey.

They were up and over the fence which would be the last next time round. The landing was inch-perfect. The grandstand crowd roared their approval. If he was going to get away with it, it would have to be on the back straight. The open ditch. Could he pull it off there? Most of Worcester's casualties were at that particular obstacle; it would have to be there or nowhere. Three more fences, then, he thought as they swept round the top turn, three more fences and he and Dragon Slayer would be out of the race.

Safely over the next. Two more to go. Short-term pain for long-term gain – wasn't that what he'd been told?

Over the next as well. He was jumping so well. Too well. Feet to spare. Next one ... Next one ... It made sense. It wasn't cheating. It wasn't – It was securing the future. Three more strides. Two. Screw it – now.

Dragon Slayer, in mid-flight, felt the reins tighten as Matt asked him for an extra stride. Matt, instantly aware of the shock shooting through the bunched muscles, tried to put things right. It was too late. Dragon Slayer knew the instructions were directly at odds with his instinct. That one second of confusion was all that was needed. Easy. So easy. Too bloody easy in fact.

Wrong-footed, Dragon Slayer splashed his hind-legs into the water on landing, stumbled, scrabbled frantically, then jerked himself upright. Half the field had passed them. The groan from the stands was audible. Dragon Slayer, brave and honest, was immediately into his stride again, thundering forward, trying his hardest, wanting to catch up. He wanted to win. He didn't know that he couldn't.

Matt exhaled angrily. He couldn't do this again. Not for the rest of the season. Whatever the cost. He was willing to break Dragon Slayer's heart – but he wasn't going to break his spirit.

They caught most of the contenders on the run-in and finished sixth.

The home-going punters had almost disappeared by the time he emerged from the changing room. Slinging his holdall over one shoulder, he made his way across the paper-strewn pathway and into the car park. Kath was waiting for him.

'Get in.' She was wearing the trench coat, with the panama on the back of her head. 'Don't talk to me now. Just get in.'

Matt scrambled into the passenger seat. Guilt engulfed him in red-hot waves. She must know. Lighting a cigarette, steering with one hand, Kath had the BMW roaring away from the course in minutes. Matt wished he'd driven himself – even began to think longingly of being a passenger in Charlie's Aston Martin.

'I was wrong,' she said, settling at eighty on the A38. 'I should have listened to you. We should have had Dragon Slayer out earlier. Should have followed Drew's example and gone to Fontwell. It's something we're going to have to watch. He always used to spook at open ditches. My mistake. I'd forgotten. Not too disappointed, are you?'