by Gene
Adolf cleared the hurdle and jinked instinctively to the left but there was no way he could avoid the faller. Jericho's trailing leg caught Adolf's off-hind foot and then he was also plunging to the ground, slamming Jamie into the deck.
He lay there for a few seconds, stunned by the speed of events. He remembered this feeling too - of being suddenly ditched, robbed of victory at the last gasp. It was one memory he could do without.
A collective groan went up from the Beaufort party as their horse crashed to the turf. There were cries of disappointment, resigned shrugs from the cynical - a fall was only to be expected, after all - and general concern for horse and rider.
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`He's on his feet, thank God,' said the man with the binoculars. `The jockey's OK, too.'
`What rotten luck,' boomed Toby's voice, putting the official verdict on proceedings. `But that's racing, folks.'
But these reactions were not of interest to Malcolm. The pressure on his hand vanished and Beverley stepped away from him with an impatient shrug.
The look she turned on him was one of fury. He was beginning to learn her moods. When things went wrong her first reaction was to look for someone to blame. The nearest person would do.
Coniston Water would obviously have to wait.
Jamie sat motionless in the changing room. He'd taken a battering down his left side from the fall but fortunately he'd been passed fit for his ride on Feeding Frenzy. It would have been a blow to miss that.
What hurt more than his bruises was the dressing-down he'd received from the Colonel.
`What the blazes did you think you were doing sitting behind Jericho?
You had the width of the whole flipping course to run in.'
Jamie had been indignant but these days he knew better than to fly off the handle in response. Ì was keeping him covered, Colonel. Like we discussed.'
`Yes, but it was obvious that horse was going to fall. He'd run out of puff.
We could all see him wobbling from up in the stand.'
It was true that he'd not really been concentrating on the condition of the horse ahead. He'd been entirely focused on Adolf and how they were going to win. Counting his chickens.
Ì'm sorry, Colonel,' he said.
The trainer glowered at him. Ì gave Mr. Beaufort and his friends a load of cobblers about it just being bad luck. One of the hazards of the game being brought down by a faller and so on, but in this instance I don't think it was.
This one's down to you, Jamie, and I hope you learn a lesson from it.'
`Yes, sir,' he'd replied, feeling about sixteen - the age when he'd first ridden for Toby.
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Ros watched the entire exchange without saying a word, her face inscrutable. Doubtless she'd give him the benefit of her two pennyworth later. He couldn't wait.
`You all right, mate?'
Jamie looked up to see Robin Price, the jockey who'd been on the winner of his race, crossing the room towards him.
`You took a bit of a bash, didn't you?' Robin said as he sat down on the bench opposite.
Ìt's only a bruise.' He was touched by the lad's concern. 'Congratulations, by the way.'
`Thanks.' Robin's face was split in two by the width of his grin. He looked like he didn't need to shave much. Ìt's my first win.' 'Excellent.' Jamie found himself smiling broadly. The boy's pleasure was infectious. 'I hope you're going to celebrate in style.'
`You bet. Look what the owner gave me.' He held up a banknote - £50.
`With my win bonus I'll clear about two hundred and fifty pounds. We're going to have a brilliant night.'
A moment ago Jamie had been feeling like a kid; now he felt positively middle-aged.
I d invest this if I were you, lad,’ said Desmond Hartley as he slipped the envelope into Jamie's hand. 'Ring me at the office if you a' like a few tips.'
'Thank you, sir. I might take you up on that.'
The envelope felt thick- three grand sort of thick- as he assessed it surreptitiously between his fingers. What with the percentage of the prize money from the Diadem Stakes, he might have cleared almost ten grand from that race alone. High-rolling owners like Hartley could be very generous.
A classic piece of riding,’ the owner said, Vanessa at his elbow, her eyes bathing Jamie with the light of admiration and newly fired lust.
Would Hartley have been so appreciative if he had realised Jamie had already been the beneficiary of his daughter's own brand of generosity?
'Just don't leave it so late next time,’ Hartley added. It's not good for my health. You must have nerves of steel.'
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Jamie laughed and they all joined in. He had left his victory burst late, that was true, but he d never had any doubt that he'd get there. Today was one of those days when everything was destined to go right.
He d had two winners before he d even lined up on Morwenstow, over seven furlongs and a mile. In both of those he’ll come with a run in the last furlong and cruised past the leader in his own time, making it look easy - which it was. The Diadem was different. He'd been up against strong competition and Morwenstow had been nervy at the start, jumping out behind the field.
It was a short race, a six furlong sprint for the line, a mere eighty seconds in the saddle. He had no time to nurse his mount along and get him in the mood. He had to impose his will and shake the horse out of his lethargy.
He gave Morwenstow a smack across the shoulder and went to work. The horse did as he was told - he had no option.
There was a wall of horses ahead of him at the three furlong mark.
Halfway through the race and he was still last. But there was afire in his mount now and he d lit it. He plunged into the body of the pack. For a split second the horses closed in around him until it seemed he was touching riders on either side, the group of them pelting along like a many-legged beast. Then his rivals fell away and he saw open ground ahead.
At five furlongs he was two lengths down on the leading horses, four of them racing abreast. `Come on,' he muttered, 'where's my gap?’ And there it was - a sliver of daylight between the rail and the stand-side runner.
Jamie switched to the inside and gave Morwenstow the word. The pair of them knifed through the opening, seemingly creating space out of nothing.
The rider outside them turned his head and Jamie glimpsed his mouth open in an O of surprise. He tried to close the door and shut them out but he was too late, Morwenstow held his station. For a few seconds the two horses raced shoulder to shoulder. The post shot towards them and Jamie squeezed the last ounce out of his horse.
The photo seemed to take ages but Jamie was calm. He had no doubt.
Officially Morwenstow won by a short head but a nostril would have been a more accurate assessment.
`You deserve that, my boy,’ said Hartley, pointing to Jamie's envelope.
`You've got a rare gift.'
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Did he still have a gift? Jamie wondered as he trotted Feeding Frenzy up for a preliminary look at the first fence ahead of the fifth race, a two-mile novice chase over eleven fences. The rolling scenery and small crowd of racing enthusiasts, bundled up against the wintry breeze, were a far cry from the lush lawns of Ascot and the massed ranks of well-dressed southerners, high on champagne cocktails and Pimms. Once Jamie had been the darling of the rich, but could he perform before the country folk of Cumbria? In those days he'd been contemptuous of meetings like this, with their derisory prize money and rural clientele. Now he was just grateful to be allowed to take part.
`He's a grand sort,' Ferdy Gates had said of Feeding Frenzy on introducing the horse to Jamie, `but he'll never set the world on fire.' Since then Jamie had ridden work on him and he had no reason to doubt Ferdy's assessment.
As the tapes went up and they set off, Jamie settled the horse at the rear of the nine runners. He was well aware that this was his second first of the day. He'd just ridden his first hurdle race and now he was having his maiden crack at a steeplec
hase. He prayed that this time he'd at least manage to finish the race.
Feeding Frenzy provided a different sort of ride to Adolf. For one thing, he did everything he was told without protest. And he jumped right-handed without having to be yanked in the correct direction after every obstacle. Even more important, he'd tackled jumps like these many times.
The same could not be said for Jamie who'd only been over an open ditch twice, up on Ferdy's practice ground, and had never tackled a water jump at all. Yet here he was clearing the water in front of the stands with the shouts of zealous punters clearly audible over the drumming of hooves and the creaking and jingling of tack.
I could get a taste for this, he thought as they turned out into the open country. It was a relief to be on a compliant animal with nimble feet and he found himself gliding past a couple of back-markers, eager to take on the next fence.
Since his failure - as he saw it - on Adolf, he'd attempted to find out about the other horses in the race. Ferdy had marked his card, telling him which animals to be wary of. It wouldn't do to be brought down by another dodgy jumper.
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The horse on his inside pecked at the open ditch and Feeding Frenzy cruised past. Jamie set his sights on the next two horses ahead, travelling side by side as they rounded the bend which led back to the home straight and the next open ditch. The horse nearest to him mucked it up and put his foot in, jerking the rider out of the saddle. Jamie congratulated himself on giving it a wide berth as Feeding Frenzy popped over the obstacle a length ahead of the next horse.
He was lying fourth, he calculated, with a couple of furlongs to go, and Feeding Frenzy was lobbing along nicely. The leaders were just five lengths ahead - plenty of time to reel them in.
He gave Feeding Frenzy a smack with the whip, time to get cracking. The horse took no notice but continued his steady progression towards the next fence.
Jamie hit him again. Come on, you dozy fellow, show me what you've got!
He tried everything he could to shake the horse up but there was no change in his pace. As they hit the uphill slope towards the finish, the leaders began to pull further away. It dawned on Jamie that his mount was already travelling as fast as he could. For all his sure-footedness, Feeding Frenzy was one-paced. As Ferdy had said, he was not going to set the world on fire.
At least he got his wish - he finished the race.
The horses had been loaded into the box and Jamie and Dave were about to take their places in the cab when Ros appeared.
`Jamie, can I have a word?'
Avoiding Dave's inquisitive glance, Jamie followed her across the yard.
He had a fair idea what was coming. This was her bollocking to follow up the Colonel's criticism of his ride on Adolf. What's more, it was to be delivered in cold blood, hours after the event. How typical of Ros.
She turned to face him, her face unreadable. `You probably don't realise what you've done today,' she began.
Oh Lord, what other balls-ups had he perpetrated? Whatever it was, he had no doubt she was about to tell him.
`When I agreed to help you I knew that you were a talented horseman. But you'd learned your skills on fast Flat horses. All you had to do was ride 125
short and point them in the right direction. Your races barely lasted two minutes. Jumping's a different game. Jockeys have got to be stronger, smarter, able to change strategy in the course of a long race.'
All this was true enough, as he was finding out. He wished she'd get to the point.
`Frankly,' she said, `you had it easy on the Flat and I didn't think you'd have the brains or the patience for jumping. Or the courage.' Thanks a bunch, he thought, suppressing the urge to walk away. You didn't turn your back on your enemy - he'd learned that in Garstone. Ì just want you to know that I was wrong,' she said.
He stared at her. Had he heard correctly?
'Toby's entitled to give you his opinion of your race on Adolf but I don't agree with it. In my opinion, to put him in a position to win in your first hurdle race was brilliant. And the way you handled the steeplechase was a revelation. You've got no nerves at all, have you? You just want to win.'
She laid a hand on his arm. `So, what I'm saying is, you should be very happy with what you've achieved this afternoon. I know I am. Well done.'
He took his seat in the horse box in a daze. Dave was smirking and he could see he was in for a journey full of sly remarks at his expense. Not that he cared. Maybe Ros wasn't such a cold fish after all. Simon Bennett was looking more crumpled than usual as he slumped at his desk, resting his head on one hand, a pen poised in the other. A pile of new CDs sat by his elbow.
Ìs this a bad time?' Jane asked as he looked up.
He shook his head and she sat opposite him. She pointed at the CDs; Britney Spears was on top of the pile. `Bit young for you, isn't she?' He rolled his eyes. `Very funny, boss. You tell me what to buy a stroppy little teenager who's got everything but thinks she's got nothing.' She regretted her feeble joke. She realised now that he was preparing his daughter's birthday present. Since their dinner she'd shared the odd parental note with Simon. Tanya was turning fourteen and, so Jane gathered, adolescence was hitting her hard. Simon saw Tanya at weekends and on the occasions she walked out of her mother's house after a row or needed a lift home in the early hours from some forbidden club or party. In other words, he bore 126
a fair amount of the brunt. Jane congratulated herself on producing a boy child. For all her anxieties about Robbie, he played by the rules.
He put down his pen and looked at her quizzically. Now she could get down to business.
Ì've been talking to your friend Barrable. I believe him about the money. I just wish I knew how Pete had come by so much.'
`He could have got lucky on a horse.' Ì'm serious, Simon.'
`So am I. Pete gambled on horses - that's how he met Mandy. He'd chat up stable girls to get tips.'
Jane considered the matter for a moment. `Has anyone tried to check that out? Did he have a regular bookie?'
`He used to have a phone account till he got blacklisted. We showed his photo round all the local bookmakers. They knew him all right.' Ànd?’
'He was known as a small-beer punter. Whatever he won he'd end up paying right back, just like the rest of us. What's so funny?'
He'd caught her grinning.
Ì don't think I've ever placed a bet in my life.'
He leaned back in his seat and smiled at her. His eyes gleamed and even beneath the washed-out strip-light of the office he looked impossibly handsome. `What a goody-goody you are, Acting DCI Culpepper,' he said.
Ì must take you in hand one day.'
Jane jumped to her feet. Time to bring this conversation to an end. `Just give it some thought, will you? Where Pete got the money, I mean,' she added as he continued to smile at her lazily.
`Yes, boss.'
She was halfway to the door before she remembered. `Do you know what happened to Amanda's photos?'
He looked surprised. `No.'
Àccording to her sister, Amanda kept a collection of photographs in the sideboard downstairs. Ring any bells?'
He shook his head. `They were probably destroyed in the fire.' Ì thought all the stuff in the sideboard survived.'
According to the scene-of-crime record the solid old sideboard had been badly damaged but its contents were recognisable - cutlery, plates and glasses, even packs of cards and old jigsaws.
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`Yes, but I don't remember any photos.' Èlizabeth says they were kept in a biscuit tin.'
Àha.' Simon produced a cellophane envelope from the shelf behind him and shook some photos on to the desk. They showed the front room of the cottage after the fire had been extinguished. The fire debris was labelled though the main items of furniture were recognisable even in their burnt and blackened state - sideboard, table, chairs.
`There we are,' he said, pointing to a dark object at the back of the wide fireplace, behind the coal scuttle
. Half of it was bent and twisted but the portion farthest from the hearth had retained its square shape. The remains of a biscuit tin.
`So it wasn't in the sideboard,' said Jane, digesting this information. `They must have had the photos out and they got burnt when the place was torched.'
`There's mention of photo remnants in the fire-investigator's report.' Jane nodded. So that was that. At least she could tell Elizabeth what had happened to the photos - that they'd not been put away and had perished in the flames.
She wondered when she'd be able to tell the poor woman some good news.
She sincerely hoped it would be soon.
Chapter Seven
Marie looked up from her desk in the poky room at the back of the surgery. Most of the space was taken up by filing cabinets and the floor on either side of her desk was piled high with olive-green folders. The work of transferring patient details onto the new computer was a slow grind.
Lionel Gooding peered at her from the doorway. `May I interrupt for a moment?'
It wasn't really a request. As the senior member of the medical practice he made the rules. Nevertheless he stepped into the room hesitantly and Marie was on her guard. As a rule - when he wanted her to sort out his computer messes, for example - he strode in and out as if he owned the place which, in a manner of speaking, he did.
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Ìs everything all right, Dr Gooding? I know I'm a bit behind with the records but they're all over the place. Well, some of them. . .'
He cut off her flow with a flap of his hands. `Your work is excellent, Marie, and much appreciated by us all. I'd just like a word of a more personal nature. May I ... ?'
He indicated the spare chair and she swept a bundle of folders off the seat to make space. He'd closed the door behind him - it was ominous. Ì ran into Ros Bradey this morning.'
So that was it. Everything fell into place. He wanted to know why she'd stopped going to the stables.