Murder in Mind

by Lyndon Stacey

  ‘The owner not here?’

  ‘No, not today.’ Harry greeted him with a rueful look. ‘S’pect you’re feeling like shit, aren’t you?’ he observed, in his disarmingly open way. ‘If it’s any consolation, the old man’s not happy, either, but his hands are pretty much tied, you know. Brewer’s got him over a barrel.’

  Matt sighed.

  ‘Yeah, I know. I’ll have a word, later.’ He glanced at the Rockfield second string as it approached on the cinder track. ‘So, what can we expect from this lump of walking dog meat today?’

  Harry grinned. Mr Monkey’s cruel epithet had been earned by a series of uninspired performances during which Jamie had failed to coax anything better than a fifth place out of him. And even that was a joke, coming – as it did – in a race with only five finishers. The horse’s middle-aged owner had been advised on numerous occasions to sell the horse and spend her training fees on something more promising, but she had formed an attachment to the animal and refused, point-blank, to do so.

  ‘Mr Monkey is feeling quite on his toes today,’ Harry reported. ‘You never know – maybe this is the day he shows us what he’s really made of …’

  ‘Hmm. I’ll believe it when I ride into the winner’s circle.’ Matt regarded the slightly built chestnut with a jaundiced eye. The race was a handicap hurdle and the handicapper had awarded Mr Monkey the number nineteen – lowest but one in the weights, which pretty much reflected his likely placing. The frustrating thing was that Matt had schooled the horse a time or two at Rockfield and he showed quite promising ability on the gallops.

  Ten minutes later, mounted and out on the track, Mr Monkey exhibited every sign of eagerness heading down to the start, but, as soon as the race was underway, he dropped to the rear of the field and appeared to lose interest. It was almost, Matt pondered, as they swung round the second bend, as though he lost heart in the presence of the others.

  With this thought in mind, as they moved into the back straight, Matt eased the horse wide of the field until he was running a good fifteen feet away from the others, in the centre of the track. Almost immediately, Mr Monkey’s longish ears pricked forward, and, with a little encouragement, he picked up speed until he was level with the leaders. As they approached the next bend, Matt moved the horse nearer to the others. It would be asking too much to run the whole race so far away from the rail and still expect to be in contention, but the success of the manoeuvre had given him food for thought.

  Sitting behind the field for another half circuit, Matt again swung the horse wide on the back straight, with the same result, but this time he applied more pressure and kept the animal wide as they took the home turn. For a moment, it looked as though he’d given Mr Monkey too much to do, but, as the finishing post came into view, some three furlongs distant, the little chestnut was only a couple of lengths behind the leaders, one of whom was Landon’s mount. With a clear view ahead of him, Mr Monkey responded to Matt’s encouragement with a steady acceleration that took them past the post neck and neck with the favourite.

  ‘Where the fuck did you come from?’ Rollo demanded, as they slowed and turned back towards the stands. He looked sideways at Matt’s mount. ‘What did you do to that animal? Shove a rocket up its arse?’

  Matt laughed, buoyed up by the unexpected success of his strategy.

  ‘Don’t know if I got you or not.’

  ‘Not quite, I don’t think,’ Rollo said. ‘But that was pretty impressive. Didn’t know the bugger had it in him!’

  ‘Neither did I!’

  Harry greeted Matt’s triumphant return with an equal degree of pleasure.

  ‘That’s one in the eye for Charlie. He’s going to look pretty stupid, and he won’t like that.’

  Matt wasn’t sure that making your employer look stupid was the best way to campaign for reinstatement, but, just at that moment, he didn’t care.

  Harry reached up to slap Mr Monkey’s steaming shoulder.

  ‘So, you can do it when you feel like it. You just needed the right jockey.’

  Undoing the girth, Matt shook his head.

  ‘I can’t claim any special powers. It just occurred to me that he was intimidated by the other runners, that’s all. We’ll have to pick courses with long run-ins to give him a chance.’

  ‘But that’s just it – you tune in to the horses; that’s what makes you so good,’ Harry persisted.

  More used to trading insults with his friend, Matt felt mildly uncomfortable and replied with a tongue-in-cheek ‘Aww shucks!’

  Sitting in the weighing room watching the second race on the TV, Matt was glad to see that Landon had apparently taken on board his advice regarding Trestle Table and kept the wily old horse well in to the centre of each fence. Even so, Trestle Table had the last laugh, perhaps recognising his new jockey’s relative inexperience. Matt could see the warning signs as the pair approached the penultimate fence, and muttered, ‘Pull your whip through! Keep him straight!’ to the miniature figure on the screen, and then groaned as Trestle Table ducked left at the last moment, depositing his unfortunate jockey on top of the birch.

  The camera followed the rest of the race to its conclusion, the commentator praising Rollo Gallagher’s riding as he recorded his second win of the day, and saying that the smart money was on the Champion Jockey to retain his title at the end of the current season.

  Matt turned away from the screen, his sympathy for Landon not entirely unmixed with satisfaction that things weren’t running smoothly for Brewer and his new jockey.

  ‘That looks good for you, right?’ Mikey Copperfield had been watching beside him, standing – half-dressed – in breeches and a thin nylon jumper, his thick blond hair spiky and dishevelled. ‘Leonard will be begging you to come back soon.’

  ‘It’s not really John’s fault,’ Matt told the youngster. ‘It’s down to Brewer. But you’re right; it can’t do any harm.’

  He turned away to change into Delta Tango’s colours. Delta Tango, whose owner was the former SAS captain. The acronym had been fluttering on the edges of his consciousness ever since Doogie had told him, and suddenly he knew why. At Hereford, when he’d quizzed Kendra’s brother about his minder, Deacon had boasted that Delafield had been in the Special Forces. Whether or not that was true, Matt didn’t know, but thinking of the powerful self-assurance of the man, he wouldn’t be surprised to find that it was.

  So – another person with an army connection, but had he been at the party? Matt couldn’t remember seeing him there, although, knowing how he shadowed Deacon, it was hard to believe he could have been far away.

  By the time Matt had changed and weighed out, his first flurry of excitement over the recollection had ebbed and died. As far as he knew, no link had existed between Deacon’s minder and Sophie Bradford, and, if Delafield had been at Doogie’s birthday bash, his movements that night would no doubt have been thoroughly checked out by DI Bartholomew and his wonderful computer, so, presumably, he was in the clear. All in all, Delafield looked a less likely suspect than Kenning, if that were possible.

  Trying to relegate the matter to the back of his mind, Matt went out to meet Doogie, the retired SAS captain, and Delta Tango.

  By the end of the afternoon, Ray Landon’s fortunes had begun to revive. He had looked a little discomfited upon coming face to face with Matt after Trestle Table had dumped him, but Matt had merely said, ‘Cunning bastard, isn’t he?’ To which the younger man had responded with a rueful nod.

  Brewer’s remaining two runners performed well enough, one netting a second place, but, as Delta Tango won that particular race for Matt and Doogie, it was unlikely to have aroused much joy in the businessman’s heart. Indeed, on the one occasion when their paths crossed, Brewer walked past Matt with his gaze fixed on some point away to one side.

  ‘You’re welcome to Anthony’s rides until his wrist heals, if Brewer doesn’t come to his senses before then,’ the Scot told Matt as they walked back to the car park to
gether.

  ‘I appreciate that. I’ll get Josh Harper to ring you.’

  ‘If you would. I’ve got two runners at Wincanton on Saturday, if you’re free, and don’t forget you’ve got Woodcutter in the October Cup, Saturday fortnight. Did I tell you he’d been sold?’

  Matt shook his head.

  ‘Well, it won’t make any difference. I haven’t got all the details yet, but the new owner is keen that you should continue to ride him.’

  ‘Oh, that’s good.’ Matt permitted himself a secret smile – he’d been counting on it.

  ‘Good to see your mate out and about,’ Doogie commented.

  ‘My mate? Who?’

  ‘Jamie Mullin. Didn’t you know he was here? Saw him with Casey not ten minutes ago. You know – Casey McKeegan, daughter of the Daily Standard’s senior editor.’

  ‘She’s what?’

  ‘Ah, she didn’t tell you. Now I’ll cop it.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you knew her …’

  ‘My godchild,’ Doogie announced, with a sideways look. ‘Ah, you didn’t know that either, did you? Who d’you think put it into her head to campaign on your behalf?’

  ‘Well, I did wonder, at first,’ Matt admitted. ‘Thanks. Kendra would have it that she was sweet on me.’

  ‘Och, she’s that, too.’ Doogie’s eyes twinkled under his snowy brows. ‘But she’s young – she’ll see sense.’

  ‘So her father is editor of the Standard, is he? I wondered how she managed to get that job at her age.’

  ‘You mustn’t be thinking it just fell into her lap, lad. She’s had to work for it, and she’s got a rare talent, so I’ve heard.’

  Doogie stopped as they came up to the old blue estate car that had borne him to and from the races for as long as Matt had known him.

  ‘Anyway, you can tell Jamie that there’s a couple of rides going begging next week, if he’s interested – and if he hasn’t put on too much weight from lazing about. If he puts up a good show, there could be some more, you never know.’

  ‘I’ll tell him,’ Matt said, shaking the trainer’s hand warmly. ‘And thanks again.’

  After Matt had waved goodbye to Doogie, he used his mobile phone to call Casey and, within five minutes, had tracked her down to a bar overlooking the course. The last race had just been run and she and Jamie were drinking coffee, amidst a sprinkling of people who were probably warming up after an afternoon spent yo-yoing between paddock, betting kiosks, and stands.

  Having been alerted to the fact by Kendra, Matt could appreciate the ongoing transformation in Casey’s appearance. Gone was the unruly mop of curls, to be replaced by a decidedly chic crop; her freckles were subdued under a dusting of make-up; and a fitted brown leather jacket had replaced the amorphous Puffa.

  ‘You look very smart,’ he said approvingly, and was rewarded with a demure, ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Matt turned to Jamie. ‘So, what’re you doing here?’

  ‘Casey persuaded me. She wanted to talk and she suggested we meet here.’

  ‘Well, it might just be the best move you’ve made for a long time,’ Matt told him, settling on the other side of their table with a huge, indulgent cappuccino in front of him. He passed on Doogie’s message.

  Jamie was astounded.

  ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘Nope. Anthony Redman’s broken wrist might well prove a godsend for both of us. Not that that’ll be any comfort at all to him. I feel almost as if we should send him a thank you letter.’

  ‘Christ! I’ll have to do some sweating – I must have put on half a stone.’

  ‘So, what did you want to see me for?’ Casey wanted to know. ‘Changed your mind about following up the lead on Steve Bryan?’

  ‘No!’ Matt said sharply. ‘And I want you to promise you won’t try it on your own, either.’

  ‘But it’s such a wasted opportunity,’ she complained.

  ‘Look, I’ve got something else for you to do, if you can,’ Matt said, hoping to divert her mind. ‘Can your contact find out whether a Niall Delafield was at the party the night Sophie was killed? I didn’t see him there, but Deacon was, and, as he seems to act as his minder, it seems likely that Delafield was around, somewhere.’

  ‘And we want to know this because … ?’

  ‘Because he’s the only person I can think of – other than Kenning – who has army connections.’

  ‘Was he having it off with Sophie Bradford, too? Sorry, Jamie,’ she added hastily.

  ‘Not that I know of, but I couldn’t say for sure,’ Matt replied, glad to see that Jamie seemed to have taken Casey’s unthinking remark in his stride. ‘Will you be able to do it? I’d ask Bartholomew, but I don’t think he’d tell me, and I don’t especially want my head bitten off again.’

  ‘Sure,’ she said, airily. ‘What’s his name again? Delafield? How do you spell that?’

  ‘As it sounds; one L,’ Matt told her. ‘So, who’s your contact in the police force? No – don’t tell me … Your uncle is the Chief Superintendent …’

  ‘What?’ Casey looked at him narrowly. ‘Oh, I get it – you’ve found out about my dad. Who told you?’

  ‘Your godfather.’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ Jamie put in. ‘I’m missing something here. Who is Casey’s father?’

  ‘Only the editor of the Daily Standard,’ Matt said. ‘Why do you keep it a secret?’

  ‘That’s rich! You of all people should know the answer to that one.’

  This time it was Matt’s turn to narrow his eyes thoughtfully.

  ‘I won’t tell if you don’t,’ he said after a moment.

  ‘What about Jamie?’

  Jamie responded with a shrug.

  ‘Whatever. I don’t know what you’re on about anyway.’

  ‘OK, it’s a deal,’ Casey said, getting to her feet and hoisting a hefty-looking shoulder bag into place. ‘Right, I’ll go see what I can find out about this Delafield blokey. See you later, Jamie.’

  She leaned forward and gave her fellow country-man a kiss, waved to Matt, and headed for the door.

  ‘And are you seeing her later?’

  ‘We’re going out for a Chinese,’ Jamie said, watching Casey weave her way between the tables. ‘So, what was that all about? You lost me completely at the end there.’

  ‘Oh, it was just about wanting to be taken on her own merit,’ Matt said, and she had every right to be, he reflected. As she had just demonstrated with her research on his own background, she was thorough to a fault.

  Because he had two of Roy Emmett’s horses to ride on the Saturday, in addition to Doogie’s, Matt rode work for John Leonard the following morning, arriving in the same instant as Ray Landon, and it was a toss-up as to which of the three of them felt the most uncomfortable about the situation. Nothing much was said beyond what was essential to the business of the day, and Matt left feeling thankful that Kendra’s father hadn’t been there to further compound the awkwardness.

  Matt was pleased to see that his old friend, Temperance Bob, was in normal work again, the problem with his back presumably sorted out, although, when he raised the subject with the trainer, Leonard put his recovery down to a combination of heat treatment and swimming. It appeared that Toby Potter hadn’t come to see the horse after all.

  Neither Matt nor Landon stayed for breakfast. Matt, unwilling to prolong the ordeal for any of them, made the excuse of wanting to get back to feed the dogs, a job which, normally, Kendra would have done.

  A phone call to Birchwood Hall the previous night had again been fielded by Grace, but Kendra had rung back less than ten minutes later, and he was greatly reassured to find that she was clearly missing him. He didn’t press her to return, but arranged to visit her at her father’s the following evening after racing.

  With no race meeting that day, Matt buried himself in working on the new kitchen, determined to have it ready for when Kendra returned. He didn’t allow himself to dwell upon just when t
hat might be.

  At six o’clock that evening, he was cleaning paint off his brushes and hands when Casey rang and he hastily wrapped a cotton rag around his fingers to pick up the handset.

  ‘Got your info,’ she announced, with a justifiable touch of smugness. ‘But I’m not sure it helps.’

  ‘Oh.’ Matt couldn’t help feeling disappointed. ‘Tell me anyway.’

  ‘OK. Niall Anton Delafield: age thirty-seven; one-time medic in the Parachute Regiment; never married and only surviving family – his mother – lives in Devon. Disappeared abroad for a while and, as far as I can tell, he’s been working for Brewer for about six months as a security consultant.’

  ‘OK, I’m impressed. And was he at the party?’

  ‘Yes, but only for a short while, apparently. He drove Deacon Brewer there and then went and had a kip in his car in the car park until Deacon came out, just before the trouble flared up between Jamie and Sophie. They were both seen coming and going on the security cameras in the club entranceway. Delafield told the police that they then went on to visit a friend in Warminster before going back to Birchwood Hall – presumably that’s Brewer’s place.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘Well, it seems his story checks out. They stopped to get petrol at a station some six or seven miles away at about the time Sophie Bradford was killed. The car – with the two of them in it – was caught on the forecourt CCTV and Delafield himself filmed entering the shop and paying with his credit card. It all seems right and tight.’

  ‘Damn,’ Matt said. ‘Back to square one. But thanks, anyway – brilliant work.’

  ‘So what now?’

  Matt sighed.

  ‘I wish I knew.’

  ‘Well, I still think we should check Steve Bryan out. It’s the only real lead we’ve got.’

  ‘But we don’t even know for sure that he’s one of the guys who jumped me.’

  ‘Oh, come on, he must be,’ Casey said. ‘It was his van and he’s ex-army – what more do you need?’