He hadn't believed it at first when Maureen had told him. She'd got it second-hand from Gillian Hutchinson. Matt's car had been parked outside the Vicarage all night after Bathsheba's meeting! First time ever! And Matt had slunk away, bug-eyed, the next morning. Obviously hadn't slept a wink, Gillian had told Maureen. And Jemima had been over half an hour late opening up the bookshop.
Bout time an' all,' Maureen had said to him. 'Not natural.
Lovely young girl like Jemima. Maybe we'll have two weddings to look forward to, now, eh, duck?'
Vincent doubted it. Drew and Maddy's wedding preparations were all-invasive at Peapods. But it was great to hear Maddy singing again, and to hear the shared laughter. Pregnant! That was what the trouble had been! Silly figgit! Why, in his day very few people got married until the lass was three months gone – and these days no one bothered at all. He couldn't understand the fuss.
No, the Peapods wedding would be the talk of the village for months to come. He couldn't somehow see Matt and Jemima treading the same path. And, to be honest, he couldn't swear that he'd seen Jem and Matt together much since the village hall meeting. If Matt had spent the night with her, then there hadn't been a repeat performance – or maybe they'd just been discreet. Not that she'd said anything – but then she wouldn't, would she? Jemima still carefully guarded her privacy – she'd be mortified to think that he'd joined in the village speculation. And he could hardly ask her, could he? It wouldn't be proper.
'Okay, Vince?' Ned broke into his train of thought. 'You're very quiet. Don't fret, me old mate. Your money's quite safe. And after tonight, if all goes according to plan, I think you might plan a little excursion to the races. Just to watch our investment grow, so to speak. You've been very patient. And loyal. I likes to reward me mates. Especially the loyal ones. Loyalty counts for a lot in this game.'
Vincent perked up. He hadn't set foot on racing's hallowed grounds for months. Even Jemima believed him now and didn't ever quiz him about gambling or racecourse visits. He'd ask her to come with him. Just to prove that he could be trusted. She might even enjoy it. Especially now she and Matt were – well, um – together. It still seemed incredible to Vincent that his daughter could have a close relationship with a jockey and pretend that he worked in a biscuit factory or whatever it was she did. There'd be women out there simply gagging to walk in her shoes.
Still, things might improve now. Jemima appeared to have settled into Milton St John's horsy environment really well. Yes, he'd ask her to come racing. And then they could take Maureen with them as a threesome and that might stop the tittle-tattles too.
Ned was thundering the car at a steady fifty across what appeared to be a field. Total blackness swooshed past the windows. Vincent clung gamely to his seat belt. Maureen hadn't repeated the August Monday stop-over offer. Not that there'd been an awful lot of opportunity. Her Brian had given up his transcontinental trucking for a while and was on short hauls.
'You never know, duck,' she'd said with a sigh, 'when he'll be home these days. More's the pity.'
Maureen, together with Drew and Maddy, had transformed his existence, he thought. Maddy had given him a job which he'd been frankly crap at, and had been so patient with him while he learned; and they'd given him the cottage which was as snug a home as any man could wish for, and Drew had extended his duties to take in all the yard work. He'd even shown him how to muck out and feed and groom the horses for when they were short-staffed.
Vincent, who had lost entire fortunes on horses' noses, had never been within touching distance of them before. At first the horses had frightened him – he'd had no idea they were so huge and powerful – but gradually they'd built up some mutual trust. Now he'd go into the boxes to rake out the soiled straw and move half a ton of animal with no more than a sharp and friendly slap on the rump.
And Maureen ... Well, Maureen had simply made him forget about Rosemary for days – and nights – on end. He could pay her no greater compliment.
'Here we are,' Ned said, slamming on the brakes, and sounding rather relieved. 'You all right, Vince? The suspension's not what it was.'
Vincent muttered that he was fine, just fine, and scrambled out into the night. He gazed around him with disappointment. They were outside the back-of-beyond pub. He thought Ned was taking this clandestine stuff a bit too far. Few people even found their way here by road – he was pretty sure there had been no need to take the cross-country route to shake off any followers.
'Will – er – the big boys be waiting for us inside?'
'Dunno.' Ned panted as he fitted a Heath-Robinson type immobiliser from his steering wheel to the accelerator.
Vincent thought this was right over the top. Ned's clapped-out Fiesta was hardly the sort of car any self-respecting joy-rider would be seen dead in.
Eventually they shuffled inside. The pub was empty. The laconic barman was sitting on his stool still reading the Sun. Our Winnie's culinary delights had been wiped from the blackboard.
'A pint of Guinness, please, landlord.' Ned approached the bar with an immense stage wink. 'And a vodka-and-lime for my friend.'
'Bitter,' Vincent said quickly. 'A pint of bitter.'
Ned raised weaselly eyebrows. 'Oooh, pardon me! I understood it was always vodka-and-lime these days.'
Vodka-and-limes were associated with Maureen. He couldn't possibly sully the memories.
They sat in morose silence in the window-seat. Vincent flexed his fingers in anticipation; Ned smacked his lips noisily; the landlord crackled the pages of the Sun; the clock ticked and the dog snored.
The door flew open. 'Sorry I'm late.' Matt Garside poked his head into the bar. 'Have you been waiting long?'
Vincent was sure his mouth was gaping as he tried to smile. Aware that he looked like the village idiot, he stopped. Ned had got to his feet and was ushering Matt towards a free chair.
'Good evening,' Vincent said as Ned returned to the bar for Matt's Diet Coke and their refills. It seemed stupidly formal but he was very out of kilter here. Was Matt racing's Mr Big, then? Or had he just popped in for a drink? He'd have to be very careful. 'Nasty night.'
'No frost, though,' Matt said, not meeting his eyes. 'Should be okay for racing tomorrow.'
Vincent trawled round for something else to say. 'Er – Jemima not with you, then?'
'No.'
Vincent exhaled. For the first time he wished Ned would come and join them and take up the slack. Matt dissected a beer mat. The dog rolled over, stretched, and slept again.
'Riding tomorrow, are you?'
'Yeah, at Towcester.'
Vincent swallowed the last dregs of his bitter. This man might one day be his son-in-law. It was not an auspicious start to family outings. Thankfully, Ned arrived back then, carrying three glasses. The atmosphere chilled a bit further.
'Right.' Ned settled himself between them. 'Now, let's get down to business.'
Afterwards, Vincent thought, there were a lot of things he should have said. As Jemima's father there were a lot of things he should have done, God help him. He could – and should – have walked out straight away. As soon as he knew. But, oh, it was so sweet. So easy. And almost infallible.
The money-making scam Ned had so far been pulling was simply that. A tax-free way to raise the stake necessary for the next phase. The big boys, it appeared, were nothing more than a figment of Ned's imagination. Just to add a bit of spice. This, like all clever and illegal schemes, involved very few people.
Just the three of them, it transpired. Vincent, pretty hazy as to why he'd been included in the triumvirate, tentatively enquired. If, as he suspected, Matt had been using his relationship with Jemima to claw him in, then he was going to the police or the Jockey Club or both, so help him.
Matt assured him that meeting Jemima at Windsor, seeing Jemima since, had absolutely no connection. This – um – suggestion had come up later. Much later. He looked pretty uneasy about it, to be honest, Vincent thought. He wasn't sure he trusted him.<
br />
Ned wiped the Guinness froth from his upper lip and explained the principles to Vincent. It had been a gift from the gods, Milton St John having two horses going for the same crown. Two excellent Grand National prospects: Drew Fitzgerald and Kath Seaward, both desperate to win – if for entirely different reasons. Of course, as with all scams, there were other horses to be considered in the equation, but Ned had done his homework. Yeah, sure, there would be an element of risk, but what was speculation without a risk, eh? Wasn't it what those stock-market laddies did all the time, eh?
Vincent was confused. 'But why involve me? Why not keep it all for yourself?'
'Peapods,' Ned said simply. 'I still had me contacts at Lancing Grange. I needed an ear at Peapods. Bloody Drew Fitzgerald's lads sodding adore him. They wouldn't even tell you the colour of his bloody socks. I was looking to have a foot in each camp, so to speak. You arrived at just the right time, Vince, mate, what with the job going there and everything. And you were broke. And it's all worked out nicely, hasn't it?'
Jesus! It had, of course. Vincent closed his eyes. He'd been giving away Peapods' trade secrets for months! And increasing Ned's stake money. Christ. This was bigger than anything he'd ever dabbled in before.
Matt didn't look at either of them while the plan was explained. His knuckles on the Coke glass were white, Vincent noticed. There was a muscle twitching in his cheek.
Simply – oh, so simply – what was going to happen was that Dragon Slayer, who was already ante-post favourite, would lose the Hennessey Gold Cup next month. Bonnie Nuts, if everyone was to be believed, could win it. Ned would be putting little each-way bets on Bonnie all round the country so as not to sod up the odds. No one would suspect.
They'd clean up nicely. This procedure would then be repeated elsewhere – hopefully culminating at the Kempton Christmas meeting and the Cheltenham Festival. Bonnie would finish higher than Dragon Slayer whenever they were pitched against each other. Dragon Slayer, it would then be assumed, had gone off the boil – and should start somewhere around thirty threes or lower for the National. Bonnie Nuts would hopefully be favourite. They would then play their ace card. Every single penny of their by-then considerable winnings on Dragon Slayer for the National.
Kath Seaward might suspect but she couldn't prove anything – Matt would see to that. He'd keep assuring her that the horse would come right in time. The same with the owner – Matt, Vincent noticed, actually winced when Ned mentioned Tina Maloret – and, of course, Matt would be as perplexed as anyone over the lack of form. The stewards could do what they liked – they'd not find any evidence of drugs or tampering....
Matt had proved that he could pull a horse with the best of them – and the racing press had been full of Kath's comments regarding Dragon Slayer's dislike of open ditches. Then, when Dragon Slayer won the National, everything would be all right.
Vincent let all this whizz round in his head. A million questions begged to be asked.
He looked at Matt. 'But what if Bonnie Nuts really is better? What if he beats you in the National?'
'He won't,' Ned cut in. 'Matt will see to that. Charlie Somerset will be unseated somewhere along the way.'
Vincent swallowed. He'd have to warn them at Peapods. He'd have to tell Jemima. He liked Charlie –
'Of course, you won't be saying a word.' Ned fished into his pocket and waved some papers under Vincent's nose. 'My contacts have been very busy researching your background, Vince, mate. Undischarged bankrupt. Umpteen County Court judgments. A suspended prison sentence for defrauding your own company. Repossessions. And a list of debt collectors who'd kill to know your current address.'
It was like an upper-cut to the windpipe. The fragile happiness he'd built up would be wiped out. He'd lose it all: Jemima's love and respect, Maureen's company, and everything he'd found at Peapods ... Shit, shit, shit.
Matt looked at him with understanding. 'If it's any consolation, I got suckered the same way.'
'It fucking isn't.' Vincent was bitingly angry. There was no way out. Nowhere to go – except along with it. 'And does Jemima know anything?'
Matt shook his head and shredded another beer mat.
Ned was nodding happily. 'Don't look so stressed, Vince, mate.
Matt has agreed to come along with us because he wants to win the National. He wants to win the National so much that it bloody hurts. He's been in Somerset's shadow for years. The ole cow, Mizz Seaward, will have what she wants in the end, Peapods will have picked up all the major spoils along the way until the National – and we'll have won the fucking lottery. Where the hell is the problem in that?'
Vincent wasn't sure. All he wanted to do was to get as far away from Ned and Matt as possible. But he still had the roller-coaster ride back to the village in Ned's car. He couldn't even walk it, could he? It was miles across open downland.
Somehow that seemed preferable than spending another minute in this company.
He stood up. 'Thanks for an entertaining evening, gentlemen. No, no, don't get up. I can find my own way out.'
Two hours later, frozen, drenched to the skin, his legs ripped to shreds by brambles, and more frightened than he'd ever been in his life, Vincent stumbled on to Milton St John's High Street.
The walk through the shrill darkness had at least given him time to think. He wouldn't say anything. He knew he wouldn't – couldn't. But he'd warn Jemima away from Matt Garside. He had to do that. And maybe he'd mention something at Peapods. Maybe drop a few little hints ... And maybe, just maybe, Bonnie Nuts would win on merit anyway, so it wouldn't be illegal, would it? And as for Matt unseating Charlie in the National – well, that was too Dick Francis for words! No one would be able to get away with that. Not these days. They even had cameras attached to the jockey's crash hats these days, didn't they?
He rounded the Peapods bend. Most of Milton St John was in darkness, the villagers asleep and dreaming carefree dreams. Ned bloody Filkins would come unstuck somewhere along the way, he was sure of it. Vincent swallowed. His mouth tasted bitter. He wondered fleetingly just what indiscretion Matt had committed to get caught up in all this. Sure, he believed the bit about him wanting to win the National. He understood that. But there had to be something else, surely, to make him risk his entire career? Poor sod, Vincent thought: poor, poor sod.
The Munchy Bar flat was in darkness. Brian's lorry wasn't in the lay-by. Vincent, imagining Maureen curled asleep, alone, sighed. He needed some comfort tonight. Needed to be held in someone's arms and reassured. Needed to be cuddled and told that everything would be all right.
He plodded on past. It probably would never be all right again.
Chapter Twenty-six
There was only a week to go until Drew and Maddy's wedding. The village was in uproar. It was like the Queen's Jubilee and the Millennium celebrations all rolled into one.
Jemima, idly stirring a cup of coffee in the Munchy Bar, was preoccupied with more mundane matters.
'Want to get it off your chest, duck?' Maureen eased herself into the seat opposite her. 'A problem shared and all that?'
It was the Douwe Egberts period of the day. Maureen, having satisfied the needs of the genteel clientele, was raring for a gossip. Jemima continued stirring. 'I'm okay, thanks. Really.'
'That you're not! You can't fool me. It must be something real bad to bring you in here for your coffee break, with you having your own little kitchen and that. Not that you're not a sight for sore eyes and welcome, of course. Would you like a doughnut to go with that? Cheer you up a bit?'
Jemima shook her head. She wanted to tell Maureen, nicely, to go away and leave her alone – but wasn't that the very reason she'd come into the Munchy Bar in the first place? To be with other people. She hadn't wanted to sit on her own in the bookshop's tiny kitchen, nursing a mug of instant, and thinking. She'd done far too much of that in recent weeks.
'Tracy looking after the shop, is she?'
Jemima nodded. Tracy had been a real boon, but there
wasn't the camaraderie she'd shared with Lucinda. Tracy ran a family of six with military precision and had previously worked the night-shift in a petrol station on the A34; a small bookshop offered few problems. And Bathsheba's fatwa had had no effect on sales. The Christmas stocks were already reducing nicely – she had even reordered the more popular tides, and the new displays especially for the festive season were stacked in the stockroom. The bookshop was surviving nicely. Jemima clinked her spoon round her cup again and wished that she was too.
'Not long till the wedding, eh? You'll be going to the church and the do, will you?' Maureen wiped invisible crumbs from the table with the edge of her pinny. 'Nice for you, living on the spot so to speak. Exciting. Young Matt taking you?'
Jemima took a deep breath. The coffee already had a skin on it. It made her feel sick. 'Yes, I think we're going together.'
'Good. Good. Your dad and me thought we'd go along together, too. With my Brian being in Scarborough all next week, like. Makes sense. No point in us both being alone.'
'No, I suppose not.'
'Spoken to your dad lately, duck? I thought he'd seemed a bit off-colour. Peaky.'
Jemima hadn't noticed. But then she hadn't noticed much recently.
Maureen heaved a sigh. 'And Lucinda's coming back from college for the wedding, isn't she?'
'Yes. She's being a bridesmaid.'
'That'll be nice. Especially with Charlie being best man. They'll be able to dance together after, without ole Bathsheba's forked tongue making mischief, won't they?'
Jemima supposed so. She hadn't really thought about it. Maybe Charlie had asked Tina Maloret to the wedding. Maybe Lucinda would turn up with Rebecca Maxwell-Dunmore's older brother, or some new man from the university. She honestly didn't care.
'Funny colour for bridesmaids, if you ask me. Dark green. Damn unlucky colour for a wedding. Whose idea was that, then?'
'I think it's Maddy's favourite. And Drew's dad was Irish. I don't think they consider it unlucky.'
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