2

Steeling himself, Matt moved forward until he was close enough to reach down and press two shaky fingers against the cool skin under the girl's jawbone. There was no detectable pulse and, with rising dread, he noticed a thin trickle of blood running blackly from her ear. It brought back painful memories of the death of a fellow jockey, kicked in the head in a horrific fall. No breath issued from her slightly parted lips to warm the back of his hand and, feeling nauseous and a little panicky, he straightened up and reached into his pocket for his mobile phone. He wanted a paramedic – someone, anyone – who could tell him what to do.

The phone lit up in his trembling hand as he slid it open but could find no signal in the gully by the river. Matt cursed under his breath and forced himself to think rationally.

By his reckoning, it was getting on for ten minutes since he'd stopped the car by the bridge, so Sophie must have been lying at the bottom of the bank for at least a quarter of an hour. There had been no discernable warmth in her skin, but he didn't know how significant that was. It was a cold, windy night, and he had a fair idea that his own skin would have felt cool to the touch if he'd lain in this damp hollow for that long. Even so, there was no doubt in his mind that the girl was dead.

He shone the fading torch on her face once more. It was criss-crossed with bramble scratches, as were her arms and bare legs. How had she come to be there? Although it was just conceivable that someone looking over the bridge parapet might have overbalanced, surely then they would have fallen into the river? From the position of her body, the possibility that Sophie's death had been accidental began to look exceedingly remote.

Matt turned and regarded the bank up to the road, noticing for the first time a narrow path of smooth earth winding steeply upward through the tangle of briars and nettles. As he began the ascent, gritting his teeth against the pain in his ankle, he could hear the first sounds of a siren in the far distance.

To Matt, who hadn't started it in very good shape, the night seemed to stretch on interminably.

The first of the emergency services arrived, in the shape of a paramedic in a fast-response car, just as he scrambled up the last few feet of the slope and squeezed through the wire fence. Its occupant asked a few brief questions and made a call on his mobile phone before disappearing into the darkness at the side of the bridge, shining a powerful torch ahead of him.

Feeling cold and shaky, Matt went to wait in Kendra's car, and he was there when, some minutes later, a bevy of sirens and flashing blue lights heralded the advent of two police cars closely followed by an ambulance.

Suddenly the lonely spot was buzzing with activity, as the police officers donned their fluorescent-banded Day-Glo jackets and swung into action.

Matt was approached by a young WPC who, after establishing the essentials, took him to sit in one of the police cars whilst she and her partner held a conversation over the parapet with the paramedic down below. A third officer secured the scene, reeling out a quantity of orange-striped tape around the bridge area and placing cones in the road. The ambulance crew, after consultation with the police, climbed back into their vehicle and drove away, their departure confirming Sophie's demise.

In due course, someone produced wire-cutters and made an opening in the fence beside the bridge, whilst another began rigging up lighting to illuminate the scene.

A passing car slowed to view the spectacle, the driver winding down his window to call a query, only to be moved on by an officer who then took up traffic duty.

Cocooned in the police car, with the multiple flashing lights having an almost hypnotic effect, Matt had a strange sensation of detachment, as if he were watching it all on TV.

The female officer returned, sliding into the driver's seat with an accompanying rush of cold air and an apology for keeping him waiting. She introduced herself as WPC Deane and, producing a clipboard with a form attached, told him that she needed to ask him a few questions. She was about his own age – in her mid to late twenties, Matt judged by the soft glow of the car's inside light – her face boyish and her dark hair cut in short layers beneath the peaked cap. She ran through the basics of who he was, where he lived, and how he had come to be there, and then, under her sympathetic but thorough probing, he was obliged to relate the story of Jamie's row with Sophie. He felt like a traitor, but knew they would have the story soon enough, whatever he did or didn't say, and he had no wish to bring down any suspicion on his own head.

The paramedic reappeared fairly quickly, and Deane excused herself to go and speak to him, but, on her return – to Matt's frustration – she refused to divulge any information as to the probable manner or cause of Sophie's death.

Outside the vehicle, much urgent communication was carried out over radios and, as WPC Deane made notes on the form, Matt saw two more cars arrive, pause while their occupants spoke to officers already at the scene, and then race on in the direction of the club. He supposed they had been despatched to begin questioning the partygoers, and imagined the consternation that would break out as news of Sophie's death filtered through. The racing world would be humming with it for days to come.

Moments later an unmarked BMW saloon arrived bearing a large man in civilian clothes, and it was immediately evident to Matt that the newcomer was significant. All heads turned his way and one or two of the officers hurried to meet him. The man looked up at the sky, reached into his car, and took out a mackintosh, which he put on whilst walking towards the taped-off area around the bridge. An instant later, Matt heard the first patter of rain on the roof of the car.

After a few minutes, presumably briefed on the situation, the big man turned and came towards the vehicle that Matt occupied.

WPC Deane stepped out of the car to meet him and, after they had exchanged a few words, during which Matt heard Jamie's name mentioned, the plain-clothed man bent down and his heavy-featured face appeared in the open doorway.

'Mr Shepherd, I'm Detective Inspector Bartholomew of Charlborough CID. Can you tell me where Jamie Mullin is now?'

Matt shook his head.

'No, I'm sorry. I haven't seen him since he left the club. I was looking for him when I found Sophie.'

'And he hasn't been in contact by mobile phone?'

'No.'

'Have you tried to contact him?'

'Yes, but there's no answer.'

'May I have a look at your mobile phone, please?'

Silently, Matt reached into a pocket and handed it over.

'Thank you.' The DI dropped it into an evidence bag held open by another officer. 'Do you have any idea where he might have gone?'

Matt shook his head again.

'Sorry.'

'I understand that Mr Mullin lodges with you. Is there anyone at home now?'

'The dogs. And my fiancée might be back by now. Why?'

'We'll need to take a look round.'

'What for?' Matt bridled at the thought of people – albeit police officers – rummaging through the contents of his home. 'Sophie's never been there.'

'Nevertheless, I'm afraid it has to be done. If Jamie hasn't been back there since the party, it shouldn't take too long.'

'Well, can I at least warn her?' Matt was pretty sure he already knew the answer to that one.

'I'm afraid not, but don't worry, there'll be a female officer with them. Meanwhile, I'm going to have to ask you to accompany us back to the station for further questioning, Mr Shepherd. We'll go in my car.'

'You're asking? Does that mean I have a choice?'

'Well, I wasn't going to arrest you, but I can if you'd prefer . . .'

Resignedly, Matt transferred to the DI's BMW, where he sat in the back next to the WPC on seats that smelt of cigarette smoke. Bartholomew turned the car round and drove up to the junction with the main road where a roadblock had been set up. There he spoke briefly with the officer in charge before continuing towards Charlborough.

At Charlborough Police Station, Matt was given a change of clothes, his own – the trouser legs stiff with dried river silt – having been taken and bagged up for forensic examination. He was then shown to a small room furnished with a table, three chairs with bright orange upholstery and wooden arms, and a large wood-effect cupboard with sliding doors. Here, Deane asked him to wait and promised that someone would be along shortly with a cup of tea. Glad of the chance to take the weight off his ankle once more, Matt sank into one of the chairs and looked around him.

The room was in the heart of the building and had no window to the outside world. The floor wore a speckled blue carpet, the walls were covered with crime prevention and neighbourhood watch posters, and two fluorescent tubes radiated a harsh blue-white light from the yellowing Artexed ceiling.

Apart from the portly, middle-aged sergeant who brought him a mug of builders' strength tea, Matt saw no one for a good twenty minutes. The shakes had subsided now, leaving him both mentally and physically exhausted. An electric heater under the desk was billowing out heat and, with that and the soporific murmur of voices from beyond the closed door, he was more than half asleep by the time Bartholomew reappeared.

He came in carrying a mug and a clipboard and, for the first time, Matt got a good look at him in the light. He was built on impressive proportions – his burly frame well over six foot tall and dressed in a rather creased brown suit. The top button of his black shirt was open above a slightly crooked, loosely knotted tie. His hair was thick, untidy, and a nondescript shade somewhere between dark blond and brown, and his face showed signs of dissipation, even though Matt estimated he was not much more than forty.

The DI settled in one of the orange chairs, placing his mug on the carpet by his feet, and a second officer came in, stood a tape-recorder on the table, pressed a button to set it running, and retreated to stand by the door.

After a moment or two, Bartholomew gave the time and date before saying thoughtfully, 'Matt Shepherd – jockey. I've heard of you, haven't I? Didn't you win the Derby or something?'

'No. I'm a jump jockey.'

'Would've thought you were a bit tall for a jockey . . .'

'Not for a jump jockey,' Matt informed him patiently. It was a common misconception. 'The flat-race jockeys are the little guys.'

'Oh, I see. Was it the Grand National then?'

'No. It was the Champion Hurdle.'

'Ah yes, of course.' The Inspector nodded sagely, but Matt wasn't fooled. He sat quietly, waiting for the policeman to get down to business.

'So why do they call you Mojo?'

Matt's surprise must have shown, for Bartholomew added, 'My officers have been talking to your colleagues at the social club.'

'Well, we all have nicknames – mine's short for Eskimo Joe.'

'Ah. A cool customer.'

'Or maybe just a good actor,' Matt said, and the DI pursed his lips and nodded slowly.

The interview with Bartholomew more or less followed the same format as the earlier one with WPC Deane, although this time the DI informed him of his rights first.

'Am I under arrest?' Matt's heart rate had stepped up a notch, the phrases familiar from countless movies and TV shows.

'No, no,' Bartholomew soothed. 'There's a procedure to follow, that's all. Now, I know you've already been through it with my constable, but, for the tape, could you just run through the events of this evening, starting at the time you arrived at the party at . . .' he consulted his notes '. . . at The Cattle Market Social Club near Charlborough. Take your time and tell me everything you can remember – even if it doesn't seem important.'

Matt did so, and Bartholomew listened, interrupting occasionally to get him to clarify something. The detective's demeanour throughout was matter of fact and calm to the point where he sounded faintly bored.

'Was it your impression that Mr Mullin had been drinking heavily?' he asked, when Matt told him how the young jockey had been thrown out of the club.

'He'd obviously had a bit to drink, but it was a party; I'd have been more surprised if he hadn't. He didn't have to drive. I expected him to go home with Sophie.'

'Is he normally a heavy drinker?'

'About average, when he's not riding, but we have to be very careful.'

'Why, particularly?'

'Because we can be tested at the track – randomly; it's just not worth the risk. Look – what happened to Sophie? How did she actually die?'

The DI regarded him thoughtfully.

'I'm not at liberty to discuss details with you – indeed, I don't know the details until a proper examination has taken place – but it appears that she suffered severe head injuries, and that's all I'm prepared to say.'

Behind Bartholomew the door opened and someone leaned round it to have a few quiet words with the officer standing inside. He nodded and, as the door closed, came forward to relay the message to the DI.

'Have you found Jamie?' Matt asked, catching a word or two. 'Is he all right?'

'Yes, we've found him,' Bartholomew confirmed. 'He's being brought in now. Tell me, in general, how does drink affect Jamie? Does he get argumentative? Violent?'

'No. A bit loud, perhaps, but that's all. He wouldn't hurt anyone.'

'Yes, well, unfortunately, Mr Shepherd, most of us aren't really aware of what we ourselves are capable of, let alone other people, however well we might think we know them. Alcohol and jealousy are a potent combination.'

Matt shook his head.

'I'm sure he didn't kill her.'

Bartholomew inclined his head. 'Well then, he's got absolutely nothing to worry about, has he? But if he did . . .' He left the possibility hanging in the air between them and pushed himself to his feet, making ample use of the chair arms, which creaked in protest. 'Well, thank you for your time, Matt. That'll be all for now. We'll just get those fingerprints and a DNA sample and I'll see if I can find someone to run you home.'

Matt stood up.

'And what about Jamie?'

'Mr Mullin will be spending the night with us. We need to speak with him and we can't do that until he's had time to sober up. He'll be left to sleep it off for now and we'll see how he is in the morning.'

He opened the door and stood back to allow Matt to pass.

'Is he under arrest?'

'We'll speak to him in the morning,' the DI repeated. 'Goodnight, Mr Shepherd.'

A further hour had passed by the time arrangements had been made to get Matt home. When he enquired about Kendra's car, he was told that, like his clothing, it was classed as evidence and would have to undergo forensic tests. He realised with a shock that they wanted to check that the Honda hadn't been used to transport Sophie, or her body, to the bridge.

'Did the doctor say you were fit to drive?' Bartholomew asked, casting a doubtful look at Matt's ankle as he got up stiffly from his seat in reception.

'I didn't ask him.'

'Hmm. Perhaps you should have.'

'It's an automatic,' Matt pointed out. 'That's why I borrowed it.'

Bartholomew merely raised his eyebrows, so he gave up and hobbled out to the squad car with WPC Deane. Settling himself and his stick into the passenger seat, he sat back with his eyes closed, looking forward to home, a decent cup of tea, and a long overdue dose of painkillers.

It was half past three in the morning when the police car turned into the yard at the cottage. During the journey, Deane had made sporadic attempts to engage him in conversation, which lent some weight to Matt's suspicion that Bartholomew had hoped he would open up to her when he relaxed. As it was, in spite of his anxiety about Kendra, Matt was so tired that he found himself nodding off more than once and Deane gave up before they were halfway home.

At Spinney Cottage, a light glowed behind the curtains in the sitting room, but there were no other vehicles in the yard. It appeared that the police had finished their search.

'Thank you for your help, Mr Shepherd, we'll be in touch,' the WPC said, as Matt eased himself out of the car.

'Yeah, well – thanks for the lift.' Matt turned away, and, by the time he reached the front door, Deane had gone.

Letting himself in, he found Kendra curled up on the sofa, wrapped in a duvet. She appeared to be asleep, but woke up soon enough when Patches picked up a squeaky toy and started parading round the room with it to celebrate Matt's return.

'Oh, thank God you're back! Are you OK?' she said, standing up and shedding the quilt. 'The police were here for ages. I had to go next door with the dogs. Woke Terry up – but it was either that or the police station. They wouldn't tell me what they were looking for. What's going on, Matt?'

'I'm sorry. I wanted to warn you, but they wouldn't let me.'

Kendra came over and Matt enfolded her in a big hug.

'I was terrified when they turned up. I thought something had happened to you,' she said, tucking her face into the side of his neck.

'I'm sorry,' he said again. His ankle was throbbing and he was beginning to feel a bit light-headed.

'God, where on earth did you get this jumper? It's not yours, is it? It smells musty.'

'Police lost property, I shouldn't wonder,' Matt said. 'They promised me it was clean, but they took my clothes for forensic tests.'

'So what's going on? They were asking about Jamie – if I'd heard from him. Said they were working on an enquiry. Is he OK?'

Matt sighed.

'Yeah – physically, at any rate. He's at Charlborough Police Station. Sophie Bradford's dead.'

It came out more bluntly than he intended and Kendra pulled away to look at him, her eyes wide. 'Sophie? How? I mean – what happened?'

'It looks like she left the party on her own and someone attacked her.'

Kendra's eyes opened even wider.

'What? She was murdered? Oh my God! That's awful!'

'What's worse is that, at the moment, they think Jamie did it.'

'But that's ridiculous! Why would they?' Kendra exclaimed. 'Jamie wouldn't hurt anyone.'

'Well, unfortunately he and Sophie had a bit of a set-to at the party last night, in full view of everyone,' Matt told her. 'So, I suppose it's not surprising he's their number one suspect.'

He hobbled to the nearest chair and collapsed into it.

'Sophie . . .' Kendra said wonderingly. 'It's hard to believe. Poor girl! I mean – I won't pretend I ever really liked her – but you wouldn't wish something like this on anyone, would you?'

'Just at the moment, all I wish for is to get this shoe off before my ankle explodes. Everything else will just have to wait,' Matt said wearily.

One of the few drawbacks of being stable jockey in John Leonard's yard was that it placed Matt under the controlling influence of Kendra's father, Charlie Brewer. Brewer's string of thirty or so thoroughbreds represented nearly half the horses in training at the Rockfield yard and – as the businessman wasn't above reminding Leonard when they experienced a difference of opinions – the trainer owed his success and ongoing career almost entirely to him.

Leonard, ex-RAF and son of a gentleman farmer, had already been training racehorses at the time Kendra's father had first met him, desperately struggling against an ever-increasing tide of debt that had been set in motion by crippling inheritance taxes. Brewer, for his part, had just made the decision to spend a little of his considerable wealth on a racehorse or two, and was looking around for a trainer. His eye had alighted on Leonard's struggling yard at Rockfield Farm, less than a dozen miles from Brewer's home, and, within a very short space of time, he had bought the farm and stables, taken the trainer onto his payroll, and added half a dozen well-bred youngsters to the eleven animals already there.

Six years on, Rockfield ranked amongst the most successful yards in the country, and Brewer's string of horses were the envy of many a more established owner. And if, in due course, Leonard had any reservations about this wholesale takeover of his home, life, and career, he had never shared them with Matt in the three years he'd known him, and no doubt felt it to be a small price to pay in return for the many advantages of the arrangement. In his early sixties, he could now face the prospect of retirement with equanimity and the comfort of knowing that his disabled son was assured of a job.

Matt was aware that it was a source of irritation to Brewer that he couldn't control Matt in the same way, more especially since he had become engaged to Brewer's daughter. Matt knew he wasn't the man the social-climbing businessman had hoped for Kendra to settle down with and had resisted the attraction himself for some time, wary of the implications of marrying the boss's daughter, but, in the end, the chemistry had been too strong.

True to his character, when Brewer had realised that he couldn't stop the relationship developing, he sought instead to manage it. Here, too, he had been thwarted. Matt had remained politely but stubbornly independent, rejecting his future father-in-law's handsome offer to build them a home in the shadow of his own, Birchwood Hall, in favour of staying on in Spinney Cottage, some twenty miles away.

For a while after this disagreement, Brewer had been a little cool towards him, but Matt had affected not to notice it and lately the businessman had shown a measure of acceptance.

One dictate that he and Kendra did bow down to was that they should join the rest of the family for the Sunday evening meal at Birchwood Hall. This doubled as a social occasion and a chance for Brewer to discuss with his jockey the timetable and prospects for the week ahead.

The day following Doogie's party was no exception, and seven o'clock found Kendra parking Matt's car on the broad sweep of gravel in front of the Brewer family home.

Birchwood Hall was a Regency-period country house of some stature and importance with an imposing three-storey facade and a colonnaded front door sufficient to satisfy the most ostentatious of occupants. With upward of thirty main rooms, numerous outbuildings, a stable block, and an orangery that had been converted into a swimming pool, it stood in formal gardens, surrounded by about seventy acres of park and farmland.

Much as Charlie Brewer would have loved to claim it as a family seat, handed down through the generations, the truth was that he'd bought it less than twenty years before; his own antecedents having eked out a far less privileged existence as farm labourers in Suffolk. Her grandfather, according to Kendra, had been a second-hand car dealer.

She and Matt were met at the door by the Brewers' butler-cum-occasional-chauffeur, Greening, who informed them that the family were assembled in the drawing room. They always were at this time on a Sunday evening, but the politenesses had to be observed.

It was typical that the first person Matt saw as he followed Kendra into the elegant reception room was her father. At forty-six, tanned and bald-headed, he was a muscular six foot or so, with shrewd blue eyes in a strong face that sported a designer moustache and close-cut goatee beard. There was no denying that he was a striking figure, and it was easy to see, in the middle-aged man, the good-looking young lad-about-town who had swept a seventeen-year-old debutante off her feet at a summer ball some twenty-five years before. The intervening period had added to that charm an indefinable presence born of success, so that he seemed to inexorably draw the eye, dominating any gathering at which he was present.

Reclining in a gold brocade wing chair, with a glass of red wine in his hand, Charlie Brewer looked up as his daughter and her fiancé entered, but it was his wife, Joy, who stood and came to meet them across the immaculate cream carpet.

'Ah, here they are. Hello darling! Oh dear! How's that ankle of yours, Matt?' she asked in quick sympathy, her brows drawing down over a pair of fine brown eyes. Slim, with long blonde hair, she was often mistaken for an elder sister rather than the mother of her four grown-up children. Matt was extremely fond of her.

'It'll be fine in a day or two,' he assured her, as they exchanged kisses.

'Wouldn't have happened if you hadn't ridden Smythe's horse,' Brewer commented from across the room. 'Missed out on Secundo, didn't you?'

'Yes. That'll teach me, won't it?' Matt observed, with a quizzical smile. 'Still, Jamie did a good job on him.'

Brewer grunted. 'That horse would have won whoever was on his back, but that's not the point. You're the stable jockey.'

'Yes, well let's not start the evening with an argument, darling,' Joy put in. 'Matt didn't hurt his foot on purpose, I imagine.'

Matt was grateful to her. As stable jockey, he was technically employed by Leonard and answerable to him alone, but, because of the trainer's dependence on Brewer, the issue was a little confused. Brewer was strongly of the opinion that Matt should ride for Rockfield and no other yard, even to the point of offering to subsidise him for any loss of income, but Matt wasn't prepared to sign up for that. He liked to be busy; he liked variety; and he was also very wary of placing all his eggs in one basket. Besides which, as his reputation continued to grow, he was getting some really good rides from other yards. The Champion Hurdle win had been on a horse from Doogie McKenzie's yard and the Scottish trainer had a number of youngsters that he was looking forward to riding.

Kendra left his side to go and give her father a kiss and, glancing round the room, Matt waved a hand and voiced an all-encompassing greeting. He did a swift head count. There would be eight sitting down to dinner on this occasion, as the whole family was present. He knew Kendra's two elder sisters, Grace and Frances, and her younger brother, Deacon, who was seated in one of the wing chairs with one of his two Persian cats on his lap. The only person he didn't recognise was a young man who was sitting on the settee next to Kendra's eldest sister, Grace.

'Come and meet Rupert,' Joy said, taking Matt's arm and steering him towards the pair.

As they approached, the young man rose to his feet and Matt found that he was of a similar height and age to himself, with receding blond hair and rather weak, pale blue eyes. His carefully casual clothes screamed money, from the Calvin Klein polo shirt down to the toes of his Timberland leather trainers.

'Rupert Beaufort,' the young man announced, before Joy had a chance to introduce him. He stretched out a beautifully manicured hand. 'And you must be the jockey.'

'That's right,' Matt agreed, shaking the soft-skinned hand and quelling an impulse to tighten his grip and wipe the slightly patronising smile off Beaufort's face. 'Matt Shepherd.'

'Rupert's father is Jarvis Beaufort,' Grace announced, in the tone of one imparting a golden nugget of information. She stood up and came forward to put her hand on Beaufort's designer-jacketed arm. 'He owns Beaufort's the Jewellers.'

And diamonds are a girl's best friend, Matt thought dryly, raising his eyebrows and inclining his head in a spurious show of interest.

Three years older than Kendra, Grace was stick-slim and, in Matt's estimation, the smile on her face was about as natural as the blondeness of her hair. She had her father's colouring and rampant ambition, but little of his charm.

'Rupert has promised to take me on a private tour of the London showroom and studios,' she said. 'It'll be wonderful.'

'Oh, how exciting!' Kendra exclaimed, coming over in time to save Matt from having to find something polite to say.

Grace positively glowed with satisfaction, and it occurred to Matt, not for the first time, that she was a little jealous of her younger sister.

When they sat down to dinner at the fifteen-foot-long, mahogany table, under the lights of three cut-glass chandeliers, Matt was pleased to find himself next to Kendra's second sister, Frances. At twenty-three, she was just a year younger than Grace, but couldn't have been more different. Taller, bigger built, and plainer than her siblings, she wore her shoulder-length brown hair unbleached, and a minimal amount of make-up and jewellery, but she had an attraction all her own. Intelligent and practical, with a sharp wit, which she wasn't averse to sharing, she was, to her father's eternal mystification, training to be a child psychologist.

'So, what do you think of Grace's latest conquest?' she murmured to Matt as they began the meal. 'Impeccable qualifications, wouldn't you say?'

He glanced at her in amusement, not pretending to misunderstand.

'Oh, definitely. Diamonds and an Eton accent – perfect.'

At the head of the table, Brewer cleared his throat.

'Nasty business that, last night,' he commented, breaking a roll to dip into his asparagus soup. 'Deacon had already left, but I think Harry got caught up in it. It was a hell of a business, I gather. Were you there when the police turned up?'

'No, I'd already left too,' Matt said.

Kendra looked at him, raising her eyebrows infinitesimally, but didn't say anything.

'That poor girl!' Joy said.

Grace was less sympathetic. 'It was on the news earlier. They made her sound like such an innocent little thing, but you should have seen the way she was dancing – she was asking for it.'

'Oh no – you can't say that!' her mother responded. 'God knows she wasn't a saint, but no one deserves that!'

'I didn't see you at the party,' Matt remarked to Grace. He'd declined the soup, knowing from experience that it was rich and creamy. With two further courses to come, he had to watch his fat intake.

'Oh, Rupert and I just popped in for a few minutes. We were passing and there was someone he wanted a word with. Sophie was dancing on one of the tables when I saw her, and Jamie was looking as mad as fire. No wonder; she can't have had much on under that dress.'

'I think she looked beautiful,' Deacon put in.

He was sitting diagonally across the table from Matt, and had been very quiet until then. Even now he spoke as if to himself, his dark eyes dreamy under the fringe that flopped over his fine-boned face. At nineteen he was heir to a business empire worth millions, but, as yet, had shown no great desire to become involved in the running of it. With uncharacteristic patience, his father had been heard to say he had no doubt the lad would come to it in time.

'She was a slut!' Grace declared.

'Now, come on,' Joy intervened. 'I think that's enough. Whatever else she was, she was someone's daughter and nothing excuses the taking of a life. Let's talk about something else, shall we?'

There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment, broken only by the chink of cutlery on china, and then Grace spoke again.

'No prizes for guessing who the number one suspect will be, anyway,' she remarked, and Matt could cheerfully have throttled her.

Her father pushed his empty bowl aside.

'Who?'

'Well, Jamie Mullin, of course. She's been leading him round by the nose for weeks and they had an almighty row last night – right in the middle of the dance floor!'

'That doesn't mean he killed her!' Kendra protested. 'Jamie wouldn't do anything like that and you know it!'

'I didn't say he would. I just said he'd be the prime suspect.'

Greening came in with a heated trolley, removed the soup bowls, and replaced them with plates for the next course. When he'd departed, leaving the diners to help themselves to a roast dinner of generous proportions, Brewer stated that nothing would surprise him about Mullin.

'Oh, darling, that's not fair!' his wife said reproachfully, and Matt kept his temper with an effort, knowing that the businessman had disliked Jamie ever since the Irishman had told him, with debatable tact, that one of his most expensive horses would never make the grade. In Matt's opinion, Jamie would almost certainly be proved right in the long run, but, for the sake of a good working relationship, the opinion would really have been better left unaired.

'I like Jamie,' Deacon said thoughtfully. 'Top bloke!'

Kendra looked across curiously. 'Are you hungover, Deke?'

'I hope not!' Brewer frowned heavily, and Matt caught Rupert looking from one to the other in surprise.

Joy had evidently noticed as well.

'Deacon suffers from migraines,' she explained to the newcomer. 'He's supposed to stay off the alcohol, aren't you, darling?'

'Oh, bad luck, old boy,' Rupert commiserated, but Deacon merely shrugged, looking philosophical.

'So, have the police spoken to Jamie yet?' Grace was like a dog worrying at a bone.

'They're speaking to everyone who was there,' Matt hedged, helping himself to a modest helping of roast chicken and veg.

'I heard they'd arrested him.'

'They've taken him in for questioning, that's all,' Matt said, ruthlessly suppressing his natural honesty. 'It's just routine. They've already spoken to me, and I expect they'll be after you and Rupert before long.'

'What for? We didn't see anything, we were only there about twenty minutes.'

'Well, I don't suppose Jamie saw anything either.'

Grace subsided, looking annoyed, and then, with a sweetly malicious smile, picked up the dish of crispy roast potatoes and offered them to Matt.

He returned her smile with a sarcastic one of his own and shook his head. Potatoes, especially roasted or chipped, were one of the things he had to ration when he was racing, and to give in to temptation was to set foot on the slippery slope that would mean long, dreary hours spent in the sauna.

'No? Oh – sorry, I was forgetting, you have to watch your weight, don't you? How silly of me.'

'Grace, you're a bitch,' Frances said flatly, but her sister just laughed.

'That's enough!' Brewer finally took a hand, apparently dismissing Sophie's demise as of no further interest. 'So what did the doctor say about your ankle, Matt? Will you be fit to ride Cheddah on Wednesday?'

'Can't see why not. It's just badly bruised, that's all.'

'You'd have done far better resting it last night, instead of going out partying,' he groused, balancing three Yorkshire puddings on the edge of his plate, out of the gravy.

Matt didn't rise to the bait. Brewer had always been a little jealous of his enduring loyalty to Doogie McKenzie. He'd have been even less pleased if he'd been privy to Matt's nocturnal scramble to the riverside.

'Yeah, you're probably right,' he agreed, evenly.

Having had the wind effectively let out of his sails, Brewer subsided and applied himself to his meal.

When Matt and Kendra got back to Spinney Cottage just before midnight, they found Jamie sitting at the kitchen table, head on arms, asleep. A mug of something that had once been hot stood in front of him, untouched. It seemed that he had slept through the commotion of the dogs' greetings, but he raised his head sleepily when Matt said his name.

'Are you OK?' Kendra asked. 'When did you get back?'

Jamie rubbed a hand over his face. He looked pale and there were dark circles under his eyes.

'Absolutely shattered. Got back about . . .' he looked at his watch, 'an hour ago.'

Kendra put a hand on his arm.

'I'm so sorry about Sophie, Jamie. What a horrible thing to have happened.'

'They think I did it,' he said bleakly.

'Is that what they said?' Kendra asked indignantly. 'That's ridiculous!'

'If they really thought that, they wouldn't have let you go,' Matt reasoned.

'Well, they haven't got any evidence, have they? Only circumstantial – nothing definite.'

'Well, that's all right then, because they won't find any, will they?' Kendra took the fabric of his shirt between her fingers. 'Did they dress you from lost property, too?'

Jamie glanced down at the red and black checks.

'Yeah, they took my clothes for forensic testing. It was either these or one of those white boiler suit decontamination things you see them wearing on telly.' He looked at Matt. 'They took your clothes too then. Have they questioned you?'

'Yeah. Last night. It was me that found her.'

'You? Where was she? They wouldn't tell me. I think they thought I knew and were hoping I'd let it slip.'

'Just a couple of hundred yards down the road from the club; there's a bridge over a river – she was at the bottom of the bank.'

'So how come you were there?'

'I was looking for you and I saw Sophie's shawl-thing caught in the bushes as I drove by,' Matt told him, taking the kettle to the sink and filling it. 'Where the hell had you got to, anyway?'

'I went the other way. I wanted a drink and I thought there was a pub up the road, but it was closed – boarded up and everything. I started walking back and then this lorry driver stopped and offered me a lift. I was feeling really pissed off by then, so I thought – why not?'

'So did anyone see you, apart from the lorry driver?'

'No. That's what the police asked me. There's nothing much up that way, except that industrial estate and the pub. Well, not even that now. I didn't see a soul. There weren't even many cars on the road.'

'And what about the lorry? Do you remember anything about that?'

Jamie shook his head.

'You don't see much when it's coming towards you, just lights. It was foreign. The driver didn't speak much English. I think he might have been Romanian or something. To be honest, I didn't take much notice, I was just grateful not to have to walk. He dropped me in Charlborough and I went to a nightclub. Gino's, I think it was. I just wanted to get blotto.'

'And is that where Bartholomew's lot found you?'

'Yeah. I came out for a smoke and there was a car sitting outside with a couple of coppers in it. I think they were just there keeping an eye on the clubbers, but they must have had my description.'

'I thought you'd given up smoking,' Kendra put in, accusingly.

'Yeah, well I have – mostly. Anyway, these coppers wandered over, kind of casually, and asked me my name. I told them. I mean, I didn't know what was going on – not knowing about Sophie. And then they arrested me. God – what a shock! I couldn't believe it.'

'Tea or coffee?' Matt's hand hovered over the tea caddy.

'Er . . . Tea's fine.'

'Me too,' Kendra said. 'So, what started it all? I mean, what was the argument about?'

Jamie pulled a face.

'Her ex-boyfriend was there – at the party. Darren something-or-other. She was flirting with him when we got there and then she danced with him. God, you should have seen them! His fucking hands were all over her. I told her I wasn't happy about it, that's all.'

'And she said . . . ?'

'She said it was my problem, not hers, and I could fuck off for all she cared.'

Matt could imagine Sophie saying that. He was sure there was nothing she'd have liked better than to have two men fighting over her, especially in public.

'So you grabbed her and she slapped you,' he said. 'You should have let it go, you know. She wasn't worth it.'

Jamie groaned.

'I know, but I'd had a couple of drinks – I wasn't thinking straight. But she's never been like that before. It's not like her.'

In Matt's opinion it was just like her, but he didn't say so. Jamie would find out soon enough; there was bound to be talk.

'There you go.' He put two mugs of tea on the table.

Jamie looked at his without enthusiasm.

'Actually, I think I'll just shower and go to bed. Do you mind? I feel kind of dirty.' He stood up and looked at each of them in turn, the strain of the last twenty-four hours plain to see. 'I didn't do it, you know.'

'Well, of course you didn't!' Kendra exclaimed. 'Nobody doubts that.'

'Oh don't they?' Jamie retorted bitterly. 'Nobody except DI Bar-fucking-tholomew and his mob, maybe. I tell you, you're so knackered by the time they've finished with you, you're even beginning to doubt yourself. Whatever happened to "innocent until proven guilty"?'

'They don't know you,' Matt reminded him. 'And you must admit, from their point of view, it doesn't look good.'

'But it was just a stupid quarrel. We'd have kissed and made up in a day or two, most likely.'

'You were drunk. People do stupid things when they're drunk. After all, no one's saying you meant to kill her. It could have been a tragic accident.'

'But I didn't kill her. I told you what happened. I never saw her again after I left the club. I kept telling the police that, but they wouldn't believe me.'

'It's just ridiculous!' Kendra protested. 'Why don't they ask around? Anyone would tell them you'd never do something like that.'

'Would they, though?' Matt countered. 'You might think so, but plant a doubt in their minds and I suspect a number of people would think twice about being a character witness. Don't forget, almost everyone at the party saw the row.' He hated to play devil's advocate, but he felt Kendra was being naive.

Kendra stared challengingly at him, but Jamie nodded.

'You're probably right. I expect I'd be one of the first to point the finger, if it was someone else.' He picked up his mug and headed for his room, pausing in the doorway to add, 'But thanks anyway, Kennie – you're a sweetheart.'

As the door closed behind him, Kendra squared up to Matt hotly.

'What Jamie needs now is support – not you doubting him too!'

'I'm not doubting him. I fought his corner as hard as I could with Bartholomew last night, but I think he has to face facts. Things don't look good and I don't think he can count on everyone sticking by him. If only he'd waited and had it out with Sophie in a less public place. Bloody woman! I did try and warn him about her, but I feel guilty that I didn't try harder. Not that he'd have listened. And, when all's said and done, I expected her to mess him around, but there's no way I could ever have foreseen this.'