3

'JOCKEY'S GIRLFRIEND FOUND DEAD AFTER FIGHT AT PARTY'

The headline screamed at Matt as he pulled the newspaper through the flap of the letterbox the next morning. He groaned, opening it out. The text was bordered on each side by a photograph. On the left, there was one of Sophie Bradford, taken some years earlier, looking virginal in a floaty white dress, and, on the right, a picture of Jamie, scowling over his shoulder, as he entered the weighing room at one of the racecourses. Possibly Chepstow, Matt decided, wondering how long it had taken someone to trawl through the archives for that shot. Quite a while, probably; Jamie was generally sunny-natured and nearly always produced a wide, engaging grin for the cameras.

Taking the paper through to the kitchen, he scanned the article. It wasn't helpful. He read that 'sources at the party' were quoted as saying that Sophie was a 'popular young woman' and that 'Irish steeplechase jockey Jamie Mullin' had appeared 'moody and jealous' during the evening and had 'a violent disagreement with her' shortly before the attack. The only good news was that no mention was made of Matt's part in the night's events. It was believed that a passing motorist discovered the body, the paper reported.

Jamie was still in bed, able to slip in and out of the early-rising habit in a way that Matt envied. His own inner alarm clock woke him religiously at half past five whether he was riding or not, though, on most mornings, he would be riding 'work' for one trainer or another. It was an integral part of being a jockey, helping the trainer assess the race-fitness of his horses, and giving himself the chance to get to know the youngsters before riding them on the track for the first time. Matt would have been riding that morning, if he hadn't felt it sensible to rest his ankle for a couple more days.

Leafing through the newspaper over breakfast, he toyed briefly with the idea of throwing it away before Jamie appeared downstairs, but knew that it would only be postponing the inevitable; he would have to face up to the inflammatory needling of the press sooner or later – better that it happened in the sanctuary of Spinney Cottage than in public view on a racecourse.

Jamie's reaction to the article was one of voluble indignation. He held forth for several minutes on the subject of what measures he would take against the editors of the Daily Standard, each idea as doomed to failure as the last. Matt bore the tirade with patience, aware that beneath the bluster there was a rippling undercurrent of panic.

'Don't try and take the papers on,' he advised, when Jamie's first outburst had spent itself. 'All you'll do is give them more to write about. There's nothing they'd like better.'

'So what the hell am I supposed to do? Sit back and let them write lies about me?'

'Yeah – basically. It's all you can do.' Having been in the public eye longer than Jamie, Matt had had more experience in dealing with the press. 'Keep your head down and get on with your work. People who know you won't believe all that stuff anyway. I'm sure the police will come up with something before long, and you'll be off the hook.'

'I don't like that Bartholomew,' Jamie muttered, staring broodingly into his coffee mug.

'You don't have to like him! I'm not asking you to bloody sleep with him – just trust him to do his job and get on with yours!'

The following day – the Tuesday – saw Jamie riding at Aylesbury. Matt saw him off with mixed feelings. His ankle felt a lot better and it was hard to see someone else taking his rides, but, on the other hand, it would take Jamie's mind off Sophie's death and the police enquiry.

'Be careful with Tulip Time,' he told the Irishman over the breakfast table. 'If you have to use your whip, make sure you keep it behind your leg. If you wave it near his head, he'll stop; he's a moody bugger! And you'll need to keep Inkster covered up for the first circuit. The owner will tell you to take him to the front, so just nod and ignore him. If you give him too much daylight early on, he'll pull your arms out and not look where he's going. First time I rode him, he got away from me and went arse over ears at the first fence!'

'But you won on him last time out, didn't you?'

'Yeah. Well, I do try not to make the same mistake twice. He's a good enough horse – you just have to time your run right. I shouldn't think there's much in the field to trouble him.'

'Except Rubblestubble.' Jamie had done his homework. In spite of his happy-go-lucky image, he was very serious about his racing and studied the form.

'Rubblestubble isn't proven on the fast ground,' Matt said. 'And, with his action, I don't think it'll suit him.'

He was going by the general rule that horses that galloped with a higher knee action found firmer ground more jarring, which often took the edge off their enthusiasm. It couldn't be regarded as an absolute science, because temperament had to be taken into account; some horses would ignore the discomfort and suffer for it afterwards. To avoid the risk of long-term damage, a sensible trainer wouldn't race such horses on firm ground unless the stakes were very high.

Jamie left the house mid-morning, but he didn't take all the tension with him. In spite of his advice to carry on as though nothing had happened, Matt knew it wasn't going to be easy for his friend, and couldn't help worrying about him. The morning's headlines wouldn't have helped, either. The Daily Standard had discovered that Sophie Bradford was related to one of the top brass in the Jockey Club – racing's ruling body – and led with the headline 'ROADSIDE ATTACK VICTIM WAS LORD KENNING'S NIECE'. Listed as riding at Aylesbury, Jamie was going to be a sitting duck for the media, many of whom would no doubt be trying to provoke some kind of reaction – something juicy to put in print. Matt could only hope his friend would be able to keep a rein on his volatile temper.

As the day wore on, it became clear that some helpful soul had divulged the fact that Jamie lodged with Matt and, after the fourth call from snooping reporters, Matt left the receiver off the house phone and turned his mobile on instead.

The afternoon's racing was broadcast on television, and Matt watched Jamie pilot Tulip Time to a respectable third place and then ride a brilliant race on Inkster to win by two lengths. With the last of Jamie's three races being run after TV coverage had finished, Matt switched off, thinking that he'd have to watch his back if the boy was going to ride too many more like that.

When Jamie returned later that afternoon, Matt was sanding down a window frame in the newly built extension at the back of the house. The Irishman sought him out as soon as he got in, and Matt could see straight away that he wasn't happy.

'Hiyah. What's up? Should have thought you'd be over the moon. Two good results.'

'Fliss Truman had two spare rides this afternoon because Rollo had a hard fall in Tulip Time's race, but she put Bully up instead of me.'

'Well, she's allowed to,' Matt pointed out reasonably.

'Yeah, I know, but she always uses me.'

'Well, did you ask her why?'

'Yeah. She said the owner asked for someone else. No prizes for guessing why.'

'You don't know that. Maybe they wanted a more experienced jockey. It happens,' Matt said.

'I won on one of those horses in the spring,' Jamie said bitterly. 'I remember, because the owner gave me a twenty-quid note. Now, suddenly, he doesn't want to know me.'

Matt sighed.

'OK, so you're getting a bit of fallout from the weekend, but it'll blow over, give it time.'

'How much time?' Jamie demanded. 'Until the police find the bastard that killed Sophie? What if they never do, huh? What then? People will look at me for years, and wonder if I did it.'

'I'm sorry, I don't have all the answers. I know it isn't easy, but I don't see that you have a lot of choice,' Matt said, adding more brightly, 'Inkster went well for you, didn't he? I watched on telly. You'll be taking that ride off me, if I'm not careful.'

'Oh God, yes – TV! They wanted to interview me after Inkster, but I managed to dodge them. Did they say anything about – you know?'

'It was Ted Barker. He just said you were bound to be a bit upset because you'd just lost a close personal friend. He's a good bloke, Ted.'

Jamie grunted, flopping down on the extension's only piece of furniture, an old dust-sheeted chair, and levering his right shoe off with the toe of his left. As he repeated the operation with the other foot, Kendra's little sheltie, ever sensitive to distress, padded into the room and laid her head on his knee. He stroked her soft fur absent-mindedly.

'It was really weird today. The bloody reporters all wanted to talk to me and everyone else treated me like a leper.'

'The lads in the weighing room were all right though, weren't they?'

'Yeah, mostly. Razor made a few remarks.'

'Well, I shouldn't let that worry you. Everyone knows what he's like.' All the jump jockeys had nicknames and Geoff Hislop's was a direct result of his acerbic tongue and cruel wit. He was a man with few close friends.

'Yeah, but he's a jammy git, too. Did you see him trying to box me in on Inkster? I was shouting for some light, but the bastard knew I had the better horse and he wasn't going to let me out. That guy has the luck of the devil with the stewards! If that had been you or me, we'd have been hauled up and handed a suspension before we knew where we were!'

Matt shrugged.

'They're just doing their job. Don't take it personally.'

Jamie nodded glumly. He had a bit of a persecution complex where the stewards were concerned. Each race meeting had three stewards, usually local people of some standing, who were responsible for overseeing fair play under the guidance of the Stipendiary Steward, in whose hands the final decision was left. In Matt's own experience, their judgements were generally fair, but the system wasn't perfect and, on some occasions, you just had to accept the punishment and put it behind you. There was the option to appeal, but, unless the stakes were very high, it was rarely taken up.

Matt felt sorry for Jamie.

'Hey, don't let them get you down, kiddo. Give the police a couple of days and they'll probably have taken someone in for questioning and then the heat'll be off you. They'll find who did this, don't worry.'

Matt's words were only intended as a reassurance for the moment, which was just as well, because the following morning's paper put paid to any good they might have done.

The two of them had risen early and driven over to Rockfield in Jamie's ageing MG Roadster to ride work and do some schooling for John Leonard on the all-weather gallops, half a mile from the yard. The session had gone well, with all the horses seeming to be fit and happy in their exercise, and Matt was pleased to find that the strain of riding produced no more than a dull ache in his ankle. Dull aches were nothing – in a sport where you can expect an average of one in ten races to end in a fall, injuries were commonplace and bruises practically the norm. Coping with the wear and tear was all part of the game, and having a body that could take the punishment and repair itself quickly one of the necessary qualifications.

Peeling off his outer layer of clothing in the warmth of the kitchen at Rockfield Farm, Matt breathed in the heavenly aroma of grilled bacon and exhaled with a sigh of contentment. Irene Leonard had years of experience in cooking for jockeys and stable lads, and he knew the bacon would be lean and cooked over a drip tray. The farmhouse kitchen was like a second home to Matt, its old-fashioned cream-painted cupboards and dresser, uneven flagged floor, and green checked curtains as familiar to him as the more modern, fitted one at Spinney Cottage.

'Good mornin' to you, Reney,' Jamie said cheerfully, broadening his accent comically. 'You're looking as pretty as a May morning, so you are! How do you do it?'

Irene looked up from stirring teabags in a huge earthenware pot. She frowned at him and prodded the air with a long-handled spoon. 'You're a disrespectful young varmint!' she scolded, but there was a glow of pleasure about her. 'Wash your hands, sit down, and keep your Irish charm for someone naive enough to be taken in by it!'

'My, but you've a sharp tongue about you, gal!' Jamie shook his head mournfully.

'Old Brodie reckons Temperance Bob won't like the ground,' John Leonard reported, following Matt and Jamie into the kitchen with the paper open at the racing page. He took his cap off to reveal a sunbronzed pate ringed by a fringe of grey hair. Old Brodie was a well-regarded tipster with a regular slot on the racing page of the Standard. 'He should have come up and watched him work the last few days.'

'Certainly didn't feel like he had any issues with it,' Matt agreed. The horse had been pulling hard on the gallops that morning.

'Wash up and sit down,' Irene told her husband, putting the teapot and three mugs on the table. In her late fifties, she had collar-length reddish-blonde hair, a stout figure invariably clothed in a navy pinafore dress, and a face as smooth and pink-cheeked as a child in a storybook.

The trainer obediently headed for the sink, dropping the paper beside his place-setting, where it was instantly fielded by Jamie.

Matt watched him as he scanned the pages and could see by the change in his expression that he didn't like what he found.

'Listen to this . . .' Jamie exclaimed. '"Mullin was riding at Fontwell yesterday, for all the world as though nothing had happened." What did they expect me to do? Go around bawling my eyes out? And here, it says I'm "surly and secretive". What the hell is that supposed to mean? Just because I didn't want to spend all day being interviewed by reporters? How can they say that? And listen: "Today, Mullin, who often steps in when Gallagher is injured, was passed over in favour of Bob Jennings, who made a very good job of riding two for Fliss Truman." No mention of my ride on Inkster at all!'

Matt's heart sank. Jamie had been pretty much his normal upbeat self so far that morning, but, in a few short moments, the article had brought his sense of fear and grievance jangling back to the surface.

Leonard turned away from the sink, drying his hands on a tea towel. Tall and trim in corduroys and a checked shirt, he was an intelligent man who was generally liked and respected, both around the yard and by his peers in the racing world.

'It's only one person's opinion, lad,' he said calmly. 'And it's their job to sensationalise – you know that. Take no notice.'

'Trouble is – other people take notice,' Jamie pointed out. 'I already missed out on two rides yesterday. You know I rely on picking up last-minute rides; they're just not going to happen, if this goes on.'

'Well, you've got two decent rides today for Mr Brewer, so concentrate on those and let the future take care of itself,' the trainer advised, and Jamie nodded glumly.

'Where's Harry this morning? Did he have a bad night?' Matt asked as Irene put a slice of wholemeal toast with bacon and tomato in front of him. After his accident, Harry, the trainer's wheelchair-bound son, had suffered debilitating bouts of sleeplessness, when the pain from his damaged spine had kept him awake, sometimes for nights on end. Nowadays, these episodes were a rarity, but it was unusual for Harry to miss watching the morning gallops, and Matt was concerned.

'No, he's fine.' Leonard speared one of two fried eggs with his fork and dunked his toast in the yolk. 'He's gone on ahead in the car. Said he wanted to call in on someone on the way – can't remember who. Oh, and he's going to pick up some bits and pieces from Greaves, you know – the saddler.'

'That car of his has been a godsend, hasn't it?' Matt said, trying not to look at the forbidden eggs. As a personal friend of Harry's, he knew that the most devastating consequence of his accident had been the loss of his independence, and the funding of a specially adapted MPV by the Injured Jockeys' Fund had been a tremendous boost to his mental recovery. If only his physical recovery could follow suit, Matt thought sadly, but it seemed the doctors were at a bit of a standstill as regards that.

'Saved his life, I shouldn't wonder.' Having seen to everyone else, Irene finally sat at the table with a slice of toast and a mug of tea.

'Was it that bad?' Matt knew Harry had been depressed, but he had had no idea it had been that serious. Harry hid his feelings well, and Matt experienced a twinge of guilt that he hadn't made the time to find out how his friend had really been coping.

'I don't think it was quite that tragic,' Leonard moderated, with a frown at his wife. 'Harry's a tough lad. He just had a low spell. It's not surprising; it can happen to anyone.'

'Jamie's here, then,' Jim Steady commented, as he laid out the silks for Matt's first race. Steady was Matt's racecourse valet. They were in the weighing room at Worcester racecourse and all around them were jockeys in various stages of undress, preparing for the coming afternoon's racing. The weighing room was actually a misnomer for the changing room; the area where the jockeys actually weighed out being known as 'The Scales'.

'Yeah, he's got two rides,' Matt said, in answer to the valet's remark. He was surprised. Steady surely knew that; he usually valeted for Jamie, too.

Steady grunted. 'I know, I just thought . . .'

'You thought what?'

The valet looked uncomfortable. 'Well, I don't know nothing about it, but there was this rumour going round this morning that he'd been arrested.'

Was there indeed? Matt looked across to where Jamie was taking off his jacket, noticing that, where he would normally have been part of a lively crowd, now he was isolated, or as isolated as it was possible to be in the fairly cramped changing area. The tide of busy, chattering, laughing men and boys was parting around him, as though he were a rock in a stream. The young Irishman was keeping his head down for the most part, although, as Matt watched, Jamie glanced up and caught his eye, shrugging slightly. The look on his face might have fooled the casual observer, but Matt knew him well and could tell he was intensely unhappy.

'So, what else are they saying?' he demanded of the valet. Jamie was generally well liked, and the other jockeys were usually pretty supportive when one of their number was in trouble. Something was going on, and he suspected he hadn't been told because he was known to be Jamie's particular friend.

Jim Steady wouldn't meet Matt's eyes. He muttered something about having others to see to, and would have made his getaway if Matt hadn't caught his arm.

'Jim! Tell me.'

'Oh look – I don't really know; I wouldn't like to say. It's none of my business really.'

'Well, which is it? You don't know, or you don't want to say?'

'Look, I'm not saying I believe it – I've always thought he was a nice lad, but what I heard was that the girl that was murdered the other night was raped before she was killed. And they're saying that Jamie did it. I don't believe it, mind,' he added hastily.

'That's absolute rubbish!' Matt said. 'Who's saying it? Who told you?'

'I'm not sure I remember. So she wasn't raped?'

'No! I mean – I don't know about that, but it definitely wasn't Jamie, anyway. You must know who told you.'

'I'm keeping out of it. I'm glad it's not true though.' Steady was edging away and Matt let him go. On reflection, it was unrealistic to expect him to divulge any names; he had to work with a lot of the jockeys and wouldn't want to lose their trust.

With the first race looming, Matt was occupied with changing and weighing out before they were called to the paddock. There, his attention was claimed by the trainer and owners, so he didn't have time to exchange more than a couple of words with Jamie until they met up down at the start.

Here, as they circled, keeping the horses warm and supple whilst waiting for the starter to mount his rostrum and call them forward, Matt sought Jamie out, bringing his bay gelding alongside the Irishman's grey horse.

'Hi, kid. How're you doin'?'

'Bloody awful!' Jamie muttered. 'You must have heard what they're saying. I'm not just a murderer, now I'm a fuckin' rapist, too!' His agitation transferred itself to his horse and it tossed its head, nervously.

'Shhh! It's just talk. I know it's hard, but you're here to do a job, and you have to keep your mind on that.'

From the rostrum, the starter called out, 'Goggles!'

'It's easy for you,' Jamie protested, putting up a hand to pull his protective goggles into place. 'It's not you everybody's whispering about.'

'And, of course, I don't give a damn,' Matt observed.

'I'm sorry, it's just so fuckin' unfair!'

'Well, if it isn't Mutton!' someone exclaimed, using Jamie's nickname. 'Been let out for the day for good behaviour?'

Unseen by either of them, Geoff Hislop had ridden up on Matt's left and was now grinning unpleasantly across at Jamie. He had a thin, sharp-featured face that only served to make his own nickname more apt.

'Fuck off, Razor!' Jamie responded, snatching his own mount up short and turning away.

Before Matt could say anything, the starter called out, 'All right, jockeys, make a line and walk in. Right, keep to line, walk . . . walk.'

Within moments the horses were all turning towards the starting line. The starter called, 'All right, come on!', the elasticised tape pinged aside, and, with a surge, they were away and powering towards the first fence, some two hundred yards distant.

As always with Matt, he left all the business of everyday living at the starting line; his world narrowing to the strip of lush green turf down which he was travelling, the pounding rhythm of the horse beneath him, and the urgent, jostling presence of the other runners around him.

The bay gelding was a fairly experienced campaigner and, tucking him in behind the leaders, Matt was able to settle him quite quickly and approach the first fence at a sensible pace. On his outside, Razor – on the favourite – was swearing at his mount, who was pulling hard with its mouth open and head low, and, glancing over his shoulder, he could see Jamie's grey horse, two or three lengths behind. The only sounds were the thudding of hooves, the short, sharp snorting breaths of the horses, and the odd word from one of the jockeys. The wind whipped past Matt's ears and small chunks of turf hit his chest and face, thrown up by the leading animal, some three lengths ahead.

The first fence loomed, the runners rose like a Mexican wave of horseflesh over the clipped birch, touched down, and were away towards the second. A buzz of exhilaration fizzed through Matt. Even after nearly ten years of racing, the thrill was still there, the painful consequences of his last race forgotten in the excitement of the present.

The bay gelding gave Matt a super ride, taking all the fences in his stride and moving forward smoothly as they rounded the last bend to take up a position just behind Razor on the favourite. Heading for the second last, Matt became aware of someone else moving up on his outside. A grey horse. Jamie's.

Razor looked back, saw him coming, and gave his mount a sharp crack of the whip, just behind his leg. The pace picked up a notch or two, but Jamie's horse, not shaken off, moved up alongside the favourite and they approached the last fence together, rising in perfect synchronicity with Matt close behind.

As they landed, Matt saw Razor's horse, ears back, beginning to falter, so he switched his own gelding to the outside so as not to be hampered by the slowing animal.

They approached the furlong pole almost in a line, with Jamie's grey a fraction in front of Razor's horse, and Matt barely half a length adrift, and he saw Jamie sit down and urge his horse forward. Under pressure, the grey surged ahead, veering towards the rails in front of the struggling favourite, and, yelling abuse, Razor made a big show of pulling his horse back, and quickly dropped out of the reckoning.

Pulling his whip through to keep the bay straight, Matt pushed him on with hands and heels, and had the satisfaction of overhauling Jamie's grey and putting a length between them at the finishing line.

Both horses slowed to a canter and then to a ragged trot, and Matt patted the bay's sweaty neck and looked across at Jamie.

'Gotcha!' he said, with a grin, and Jamie grinned ruefully in reply.

As they turned back to meet the approaching handlers, Razor rode between the two of them and leaned towards the Irishman.

'You fuckin' took me out, you moron!'

Jamie looked astounded.

'I did not!' he protested, but Razor was gone. 'I didn't,' he said again, turning to Matt.

'Just ignore him.'

They slowed to a walk and heard the public address system issue the ominous two-tone chime that presaged a Stewards' Enquiry.

Jamie grimaced. 'Oh God, that's all I need!'

Fred Pinter, Rockfield's travelling head lad, materialised at the bay's head and took his rein to lead him back to the winner's circle, glowing with pleasure at the reception they received. As a close second favourite, there had been a fair amount of money on him, and the punters were loud in their glee.

By the time Matt had dismounted, had his photo taken next to the horse, been hugged by the lady owner, spoken to Leonard, and unsaddled, he had to hurry to weigh in before the fifteen-minute deadline. As he made his way through the drifts of people, collecting the occasional pat on the back, he became aware that the TV presenter,Ted Barker, was interviewing someone over the PA system.

'Well, I've got Geoff Hislop here. Geoff, you were on the beaten favourite, Louisiana Lou. You came in fourth – was that the ground? Does she prefer a bit more cut in it?'

'Yeah, I think she does.' Hislop's Yorkshire accent was unmistakable. 'But she still had a bit of fuel in the tank. What really finished her off was being hampered on the run in by Mullin's horse. I had to snatch her up and come round him, and it completely ruined her rhythm. When you're that close to the line, there's no time to recover.'

'You're saying Jamie Mullin's horse – that was Penselwood, wasn't it? – hung across to the rail and forced you to pull up? Are you saying you think Louisiana Lou still had a chance of winning at that point?'

'She might have, if Mullin had had his mind on the job. We all know he's going through a rough patch right now – and, of course, we wish him well – but he can't let it affect his riding. It's a dangerous enough game as it is without loose cannons in our midst.'

Matt could see the tall figure of Ted Barker now, just yards away, and, in spite of the waiting scales, when he drew close, he slowed up to lean over Razor's shoulder.

'Bad luck, fella,' he said, clapping the other jockey on the back.

'Ah, Matt – Matt Shepherd. Have you got time for a quick word?' Barker asked, as Matt had hoped he would. Wearing his trademark cream suit and trilby, he was a well-known and well-liked figure around the racetracks and on the BBC's racing team.

'Er . . . Just a very quick one,' Matt said, and Hislop moved aside to make way for him.

'You rode the winner, Temperance Bob. Well done! Was that as easy as it looked?'

'Pretty much. He's a very honest horse; always gives his best.'

'Geoff reckons he had an unlucky run – could you see what happened?'

'Yes, I was right behind them.' Matt cheered, inwardly. Never one to miss an opportunity for controversy, the presenter had given him just what he'd wanted. 'It's true, Jamie's horse did hang left, but, in my opinion, Hislop's horse wasn't going anywhere by then. She looked good and tired, to me.'

'It did look as though Hislop had to take a pull on Louisiana Lou,' Barker persisted, pushing the microphone towards Matt again, hazel eyes sharp with interest in his pleasant face.

'Yeah, but sometimes these incidents can look a lot worse than they actually are,' Matt replied lightly. 'Look, it's up to the stewards now. I'd better get weighed in, OK?'

'Of course. Thanks for talking to us, Matt.' Barker smiled and turned away to speak directly to camera and, carrying his saddle and crash cap, Matt hurried towards the scales and the waiting officials.

By the time he'd changed into his colours for the next race, the stewards had announced no change to the finishing order, and the presentation to the connections of the winner could get underway. Slipping Temperance Bob's colours back on over the top of the ones for his second ride, Matt went out to join Leonard and receive his prize.

After his success in the first race, Matt's afternoon settled into the usual mix of fortunes, with two runners unplaced, and Charlie Brewer's hope, Cheddah, beaten by a short head. Jamie's second ride trailed home almost last and Matt saw little of him until he was legged-up onto his mount for the final race and spotted the Irishman over the heads of the crowd, walking away from the paddock in company with a bulky figure in a brown suit.

With a sinking heart, Matt recognised the man. DI Bartholomew. Damn! What did he want?

It was the best part of an hour before Matt was able to seek Jamie out. The runners were held up at the start because one of them cast a shoe and the farrier had to be called to replace it and, after the race, when he emerged from the weighing room having showered and changed, the owner of his last ride collared him, wanting to discuss the animal's form.

Free at last, Matt finally ran Jamie to ground in the Tattersalls Bar, alone and slouching on a barstool amongst a scattering of people who were lingering after the racing to celebrate bets won or dull the pain of money thrown away.

He got to within six feet before Jamie looked up and saw him and, straight away, Matt could tell that he'd sunk more than a couple of beers. His body language was lacklustre and his eyes heavy lidded. When he saw Matt, he raised his half-empty glass.

'Gonna join me?'

'No, I'm not. One of us has to drive, remember?' Matt was annoyed. His ankle was aching and had swollen again, and they had agreed that morning that Jamie would drive home. No chance of that now. He reached out and removed the glass from Jamie's hand. 'You've had enough, too. Don't forget you've got a ride tomorrow.'

'Did have,' Jamie said, reclaiming his beer. 'Did have a ride. Not anymore.'

'Why? What happened?'

'Emmett says the ground's too firm for the filly.'

'Oh. Well, it is pretty hard,' Matt temporised.

'Bollocks!' Jamie said into his glass. 'Didn't want a rapist riding his horse, more like!'

'Don't be ridiculous! And keep your voice down. Anyway, he wouldn't scratch the horse if that was the case – he'd get someone else to ride it.'

Jamie shook his head. 'Emmett's not like that – he's too nice,' he said, turning the last word into a sneer.

Matt reluctantly had to acknowledge the truth of that, but he still didn't accept Jamie's interpretation of the matter.

'She's a young filly; I expect he's just looking after her legs. You can't blame him, she cost him a fortune.'

Jamie grunted and drained his glass.

'What did Bartholomew want?' Matt asked, waving away an expectant barman. 'I saw you talking to him earlier.'

'More bloody questions! Kept on and on about where I went when I left the party. I told him where I went. Not my fault no one saw me. If I'd known I was going to need a fuckin' alibi, I'd have taken someone with me!'

'I hope you didn't say that to Bartholomew.'

Jamie shook his head. 'No, I didn't. That bloke's had a sense of humour bypass.'

'I don't suppose he thinks it's a laughing matter,' Matt pointed out. 'Did he have anything else to say? What about the rape story?'

'Oh, that – no, that wasn't true. Shouldn't be surprised if Razor made that up himself.'

'So they haven't found the lorry driver, then?'

'No, they haven't. I think Bartholomew thinks I made that up, too.'

'Well, how else does he think you got to Charlborough? You couldn't have walked it in that short time. Come on, let's get going. I want to get home and put my feet up.' Matt took the empty glass out of Jamie's fingers and stood back, but the younger man didn't move.

'Bartholomew did say one other thing,' he said, his eyes fixed broodingly on the bar top. 'He told me that Sophie was pregnant.'

'Pregnant? Oh God!'

Jamie didn't seem to have heard. He looked up with eyes that were suspiciously bright. 'I could have been a father, Matt.'

Could have been was about right, in Matt's opinion. He reflected that, in Jamie's position, he'd have wanted a paternity test before he shelled out maintenance for any child of Sophie's.

'He asked me if I knew. Do you know – he actually asked me if I'd killed her because of the baby!' Jamie said bitterly. 'Christ! How sick is that?'

'It's probably not unheard of,' Matt said. 'Don't forget, blokes like Bartholomew are mixing with the bum-end of society all the time – being cynical is the cornerstone of his job. As of a few days ago, he'd never even heard of you; you can't really blame him for thinking that way.'

Shaking his head, Jamie got to his feet and walked past Matt towards the door, but he didn't say anything else until he slid into the passenger seat of the MR2, and then the words burst from him as if they'd been under pressure.

'Why did this have to happen? Why didn't she tell me she was pregnant? I would have stood by her. It's what I've always wanted – a family. Not yet, obviously, but it's one of those things – if it happens, it happens. If she'd just told me, none of this would have happened; everything would have been all right.'

Matt didn't think Jamie really expected an answer, and he didn't attempt one. After all, what could he say that the Irishman would want to hear? That, had she lived, and by some miracle the child was proven to be Jamie's, Matt could have forecast nothing but trouble and heartache? When he'd first come into contact with Sophie, some years before, she had already earned herself the nickname of the Bradford Bang, and, from what he'd heard, the sobriquet had become more apt with each passing year.

He wouldn't have wished her fate upon anyone, but, at the same time, he couldn't be sorry that Jamie had been freed from her clutches, once and for all. It was a very black cloud indeed that didn't have any silver lining.