Murder in Mind (15 page)

Matt held Kenning's gaze for a moment, so angry that he didn't trust himself to answer.

'Excuse me, sir. I have a horse to ride.'

Kenning straightened up.

'Of course you do.' He stepped to one side, adding in an undertone, 'And let's hope those results come back clean, shall we?'

Matt's eyes narrowed, but now Kenning was smiling and moving on to speak to one of his cronies, so that he could almost believe he'd imagined the last remark.

As he changed into his breeches and colours, he couldn't stop his mind replaying the interchange. What had the peer meant by that last comment? Surely even someone with as much clout as
he
had couldn't influence the outcome of a drugs test. Kenning was a big noise in the Jockey Club, not the HRA, and Matt knew it was the HRA who organised the drug testing, although he was pretty sure it was an outside body that actually carried it out. No – Kenning had just been trying to scare him, and what's more he had succeeded, for a heartbeat or two. It would be about a month before a copy of the results would fall onto the doormat at Spinney Cottage, and no doubt it had amused the man to think that Matt would worry about his remark until the day he was shown to be clear.

'Bastard!'

'Whoa! I shall make sure I don't get on the wrong side of you today,' Rollo declared. 'Which particular bastard were you thinking of?'

Matt looked round. He hadn't realised he'd spoken out loud.

'Kenning.'

'Ah, the
smarmy
bastard.'

Matt laughed.

'You like him too, then?'

'Don't know anyone that does, really,' Rollo said. 'At least, not among us lower forms of life in the weighing room. What has he done to upset you?'

'Oh, nothing I could sue him for.'

'OK. Well, I was coming to ask if there was anything you could tell me about Mr Manchester. You rode him last time out, didn't you?'

Matt shook off his anger. It was highly unprofessional to carry a bad mood into the workplace, to say nothing of the detrimental effect it could have on the partnership between horse and rider.

'Mr Manchester? Chestnut gelding – trained by Belinda Kepple?'

'That's the one.'

'So, what does she say?'

'It was Belinda who said to ask you,' Rollo replied. 'She says he shows nothing at home, but you got a sweet tune out of him.'

Matt cast his mind back.

'I don't think there's any mystery to it. He's a front runner. He'll pull like hell from the off, but he'll settle when he's at the front.'

By the time Matt and Rollo strolled out to the paddock, Matt had managed to put Lord Kenning to the back of his mind, and the sight of the ten novice chasers stalking round the paddock with the autumn sunlight gleaming on their burnished hides lifted his mood in the way nothing else could.

He was riding a new horse for Doogie McKenzie – Woodcutter, a youngster he knew the Scot thought a lot of. Looking at him now, a smallish, dark bay gelding with an intelligent head, a sloping shoulder and good clean limbs, he had to admit that he was a nice type, but it wasn't until the horse was led into the centre of the paddock to have his girth tightened and stirrups let down that Matt felt a stirring of excitement. Standing stock-still, Woodcutter lifted his head to gaze out over the heads of the crowd to where the first of the runners was already heading down the cinder path to the track, and Matt saw something in his eye that sent a shiver up his spine.

The look of eagles, it was sometimes somewhat fancifully called, but it nevertheless described perfectly that extraspecial something that some horses have about them. It wouldn't necessarily translate into speed, but it almost always denoted character. Such horses could be exceptional – and they seemed aware of it.

The girths tightened, Doogie came across to where Matt was fastening the strap on his helmet.

'Owner not here?' Matt asked.

'Had to work,' the trainer replied. 'He's a surgeon – last-minute call. So what d'you think?'

'Yeah, he's a nice sort,' Matt replied. 'I can see why you like him. Sorry I didn't make it over to school him. How's he been going?'

'He's an absolute star!' Doogie said. 'Been working like a dream. I don't think you'll have any bother with him, unless he's just a tad overkeen.'

Matt walked forward with the Scot, preparatory to being legged into the saddle. Close up, the horse looked lean and hard-muscled.

'So where's he been? Why haven't I seen him on the track?'

'His owner's been point-to-pointing him,' Doogie muttered disgustedly. 'Until I managed to make him see what a waste that was. Trouble is, now he's saying, if he can't ride him, he might as well sell him, so it looks like I'm buggered either way.'

Matt picked up the reins, rested his hands lightly on the bay's withers, and bent his leg at the knee. Seconds later, he landed lightly in the saddle and the toes of his soft leather boots found the stirrup irons. Woodcutter walked forward calmly, his short black mane flopping up and down with the rhythm of his stride, and an ear flicking back enquiringly towards his new partner.

'Good lad,' Matt told him.

'It's up to you how you ride him. You'll have to play it by ear,' Doogie said, as he patted the horse's shoulder and moved away.

That was one of the things Matt liked about the Scotsman. Unless there was a good reason to, he never interfered. There was a trust between them that each would do their job to the best of their ability, and the confidence that that best would be enough.

Woodcutter walked calmly beside his lad out of the paddock and down to the track, where he arched his neck and jogged a little as he felt the turf beneath his hooves.

On Matt's OK, the lad slipped the lead rein and they were away. The bay settled into an eager canter as he spied the rumps of the other runners ahead of him. Balanced easily over the horse's withers, his hands resting quietly on his neck, Matt looked forward through the pricked, black-tipped ears, his knees flexing with the rhythm of Woodcutter's stride, and was aware of a tremendous feeling of contentment. The sun was warm, the track a broad strip of emerald between shining white rails, the trees beyond the racecourse were russet and gold, and beneath him was a young horse about to embark on his new life as a steeplechaser. Life, in spite of the recent troubles, was good.

Woodcutter didn't put a foot wrong. Matt made sure he was ready when the tape flew back and settled him in mid-field, seeing Rollo on Mr Manchester leading the way, two or three horses ahead. Maiden Newton was an ideal course for youngsters – the fences were well made and of medium height, the bends fairly open, and the rails opened out in the home straight, allowing the field room to spread across the track, which made it less likely that anyone would get trapped behind a tiring horse in the race to the line.

Woodcutter rounded the last bend still travelling strongly with one fence left to jump. The four runners ahead of him separated as the pace picked up a notch or two, and, as soon as Matt gave him the office, the little bay surged forward. He flew the last birch, gaining half a length in the air, and thundered into the final two furlongs neck and neck with Rollo's horse.

There was no contest.

For a moment, as they drew level, Mr Manchester rallied, finding extra reserves of energy, but Woodcutter was having none of it. Flattening his ears back, he lengthened his stride and, within moments, had left the chestnut floundering in his wake.

As soon as he was clear, his ears flicked forward once more and he would have run on, but Matt steadied him; he didn't want him winning by too large a margin, or he'd be penalised by the handicapper. They passed the finishing post easing down but still three lengths ahead of Rollo's horse, and Matt patted Woodcutter's neck, telling him he was indeed a star.

The lad came out, smiling, to lead the horse in, and, within a few strides, Doogie was there, too.

'No need to ask how that felt,' he commented, looking up at Matt. 'You're grinning like a Cheshire cat!'

'Did you see the way he went past them?' Matt demanded. 'And he was hardly trying! I tell you, if you put any other jockey up on this boy, I swear I'll never speak to you again!'

Doogie shook his head.

'It might not be up to me, Matt,' he warned, and Matt remembered that the horse might well be sold.

By the time he dismounted in the winner's circle, Matt had made a decision.

'Where's this fella running next?'

'He's entered in the October Cup at Henfield,' Doogie told him, mentioning one of the newest prestige races for novice chasers. 'Why?'

Matt undid the girth and slid the tiny saddle off into his arms.

'If you can get hold of the owner, tell him you might have a buyer for him. I'll speak to you later.'

He walked away, knowing that Doogie was positively bristling with curiosity, but needing time to think before he took the next step.

Time was one luxury that he didn't have an abundance of that day. With a runner in every race, he was locked into a seemingly endless round of changing, weighing out, weighing in, speaking to owners and trainers, and riding.

The big race of the day was third on the card and Matt was riding Charlie's Temperance Bob, who, by virtue of their recent win at Worcester, was the clear favourite. The horse looked well, and, as Matt cantered him down to the start, he felt quietly confident. There was nothing in the field that should worry him, as long as he jumped cleanly, which he normally did.

Matt planned to follow the format that had been proved to suit Bob before, tucking him in just behind the leaders and coming with a late run in the final couple of furlongs, but they had covered barely half of the scheduled two miles when he began to feel that something wasn't right. Uncharacteristically, the horse felt lacklustre and clumsy; if he hadn't known better, Matt would have said he was tired. He had to push him from a long way out, just to keep his position, and, when they rounded the final bend and the field fanned out, he showed no sign of wanting to take advantage of the gap that had opened up in front of him.

After the last fence, the leading horses began the sprint to the line, led by Rollo on a rangy grey, and a gap of four or five lengths opened up in front of Matt's horse. Glancing over his shoulder, Matt saw that there was a similar gap between Bob and the rest of the field, so he eased the pressure and they passed the post in a respectable but disappointing fourth place.

John Leonard was waiting with the lead rein as Matt slowed up.

'What happened there?'

Matt shook his head.

'I don't know – he just had no spark. His jumping wasn't too special, either. I didn't see any point in pushing him.'

'No, you did right.' Leonard slapped Bob's bay neck and glanced back at his flanks. 'He doesn't look particularly distressed – got a bit hot, but then it's a warm day. I wonder what's wrong with the old fella.'

Matt shrugged, calling out congratulations as Rollo rode by.

Back in the weighing room, he was stripping off Charlie Brewer's colours, deep in thought about Woodcutter, when the jockey next to him leaned across and said, 'Hey, Mojo! The Stipe wants you.'

'Oh – sorry.' Matt looked up and saw Chris Fairbrother waiting in the doorway, eyebrows raised.

Matt's session with the stewards was uncomfortable, to say the least. Not entirely surprised that they should want an explanation after such a poor show from a strong favourite, he expected that he and John Leonard would be asked a few questions about Temperance Bob's fitness and health, but he wasn't prepared for the accusatory slant the interrogation took, and he certainly wasn't prepared to be handed a two-day suspension for failing to ride out the finish.

As the door of the stewards' room closed behind him, Matt looked across at the trainer in bewilderment.

'What was that all about? How the hell can they justify giving me a suspension – I came fourth, for Christ's sake!'

'Sshh!' The trainer took his arm and steered him towards the stairs.

'Well, what were they looking at? Any fool could see that horse wasn't comfortable, even if they didn't want to take
my
word for it.' Matt was incensed, the effort of remaining calm and subordinate, in the face of what he felt to be gross injustice, now finding it's outlet. 'I used to think Fairbrother was one of the better Stipes, but he seems to have it in for me lately. That's the second time in two days!'

'Careful! You're beginning to sound a bit like Jamie,' Leonard warned. 'Seriously, Matt, just let it go. You get runs of bad luck in racing – you should know that.'

Matt took a deep breath and sighed, consciously trying to relax.

'Sorry, John. It's just – well, I thought the stewards saw it my way. They seemed to, from what they were saying, especially that tall guy.'

'I must say, I thought so too, but there you are. I've got no problems with the way you rode him and I'm sure the boss won't have, either.'

They'd reached the bottom of the stairs now and the trainer paused.

'Right, I'd better go and see how Ron's getting on with Parsley Pete. See you in the paddock.'

Matt lifted a hand and went on through The Scales to the weighing room, where a sudden hush fell over the group nearest the door.

He paused, looking at each in turn, amongst them Razor, Mikey, Rollo and Bully.

'OK. Who's going to tell me what I've walked in on?'

'It's nothing –'

'It's my fault –'

Rollo and Mikey spoke together and stopped together, then Rollo started again.

'Razor was just giving us the benefit of his explanation for your horse's poor show,' he told Matt.

'Oh yes?' Matt asked, softly. 'And would he care to share it with me?'

'I was just telling the lads that I had a phone call the other evening . . .'

'What sort of phone call?' Matt asked, although he was pretty sure what was coming.

'Someone who knew I was riding the favourite in the last on Thursday,' Razor put in. He didn't elaborate. He didn't really have to; they were all familiar with the concept of being offered money to lose, even if it hadn't happened to them.