4

In spite of Matt's best efforts, Jamie didn't get up in time to ride work for Leonard the following morning. By the time Matt had had a cup of coffee and taken the dogs for their early morning stroll with Kendra, it was six o'clock and time to set out for Rockfield, but Jamie was still in bed and answering only in grunts and groans.

'Oh, I should leave him. I expect John will understand,' Kendra said, twining her arms round Matt's neck to kiss him goodbye. 'It's only fair to cut him some slack after what happened.'

'Are you going to be here?'

'This morning I will, but this afternoon I was planning to go over to help Mum. She's got a delivery coming in and I said I'd lend a hand.'

'Oh, right. How's that all going?' Joy Brewer had started her own millinery business just six months before, with an eye to capitalising on the family's racing contacts. It was based in a converted outbuilding at Birchwood Hall, where potential customers could come, drink coffee with Joy, and try on hats at leisure.

'It's going really well,' Kendra told him. 'She's got more work than she can cope with. She was talking about taking on a part-timer to help.'

Matt thought he detected a wistful note in her voice.

'So, how many hours would you do?' he asked.

Kendra looked up into his face, her eyes hopeful.

'Would you mind?'

'No. Why on earth would I? It's up to you. I expect you get bored hanging around here, anyway.'

'Well, sometimes. It would be nice to help Mum and I love the hats.'

'Then go for it,' Matt advised, kissing her once more and lightly slapping her behind.

'But what about Jamie . . . ? Are you worried about him?'

'A little. He was really down yesterday. Finding out that Sophie was pregnant really shook him up – he seems to have taken it for granted that the baby was his. Personally, I have my doubts, but what I'm trying to get him to see is that he mustn't let all this stuff affect his career. He's been doing so well lately, but he needs rides to get rides. Out of sight is all too quickly out of mind. He mustn't stop trying, just because a couple of people are reacting like idiots.'

'I suppose he's bound to take it hard,' Kendra said. 'He's only a kid and not everyone's as single-minded as you are.'

'He's older than you,' Matt protested.

'I'm not talking numbers. Go on, you'd better get going or you'll be late.'

Matt's day was busy. After riding out with the Rockfield string, and having breakfast with the trainer and his wife, he travelled up-country with Leonard, where he rode five horses, notching up two winners and one second place. It was the day of Tortellini's run in the Midlands Gold Plate, and the horse didn't disappoint, romping home five lengths clear of the field, much to the delight of Roy Emmett, who pressed two fifty-pound notes into Matt's palm after the prize-giving.

It wasn't until the lull in between the presentation and going out to the paddock for his last ride of the day that Matt had the time to phone home and see how Jamie was. It was a weighing-room rule that mobile phones were switched off during racing and he had to wheedle permission from security. Taken to a separate area, he tried twice, but both times the answering service cut in, and he was left wondering whether Jamie was still under the covers or had got up and gone out somewhere.

By the time he returned to the cottage that evening, it was nearly eight o'clock and a light was glowing a welcome from behind the closed curtains in the sitting room. Parking the MR2, Matt limped wearily across the yard and let himself in, fending off the tidal surge of dogs in the porch and calling a greeting to Kendra.

'Hi!' She came through from the kitchen wearing an apron that announced 'Chief Cook & Bottlewasher' in large blue letters and, holding her hands up out of the way, leaned forward for a kiss. 'Well done on Tortellini. Can't hug you, I've got tomatoey fingers.'

Matt obliged with the kiss. 'Mm, something smells good – hope it's not fattening. Have you seen Jamie at all? I tried to ring him earlier, but there wasn't any answer. I see his car's gone.'

'No, I haven't seen him,' Kendra said, turning back into the kitchen. 'And I've been back about an hour. I didn't know whether to cook for him or not. There was nothing on the fridge,' she added, referring to their customary practice of leaving Post-it notes on the refrigerator door to keep each other informed as to what was going on.

By the time the meal was ready, Matt had begun to feel a little uneasy. It had to be said that Jamie wasn't always the most considerate of people when it came to notifying them of his plans, and normally Matt would have seen nothing alarming in his absence, but the current state of affairs was far from normal.

There had still been no word at eleven o'clock when Matt took the dogs into the paddock for their late night comfort walk. Back in the cottage, he tried Jamie's mobile number one last time before following Kendra up the narrow staircase to bed.

Nothing was heard from Jamie the following day, by which time Matt's anxiety was mixed with a fair measure of annoyance. He'd managed to get Doogie McKenzie to consider putting the Irishman up on one of his runners at the weekend – as his regular jockey had picked up a suspension for careless riding – but Jamie's disappearance had seen that chance go begging and done his ongoing prospects no good at all. He still wasn't answering his phone, and a phone call to his landlord at his other digs produced the information that he hadn't been seen there for a week. Matt went to bed wondering how soon he could officially be listed as a missing person, and reluctantly decided that, if Jamie hadn't made contact by the following evening, Bartholomew should be told.

It was just before three in the morning when Matt was dragged back from the depths of sleep by the insistent trill of the telephone on his bedside table. Putting out a questing hand, he located the receiver and brought it to his ear.

After a certain amount of crackling, hissing, and a couple of beeps, someone asked, 'Matt? Izat you?' The voice, though thickened and slurring, was undoubtedly Jamie's. 'Matt?'

'Yeah, it's me. Where are you? And where the hell have you been all this time?'

'I don't know . . .'

Matt sat up and switched the bedside light on, blinking at the abrupt change.

'What do you mean – you don't know? You must have some idea, surely.'

'Erm . . . Bournemouth. I'm in Bournemouth.'

'What are doing there – apart from getting drunk, that is?'

'I need you to come and get me,' Jamie said, adding as an afterthought, 'Please?'

Matt's heart sank.

'Do you know what time it is? Can't you get a taxi?'

'I haven't got any money. S'all gone – everything.'

'Listen. Call a taxi and tell them I'll pay when you get here, OK?'

'I can't. They've taken everything. I only had 50p in my pocket and I've used that to ring you. I need you to come and get me – please, Matt.'

'Who are you talking about? Who's taken everything?' Seriously worried now, Matt sat up straight, his heart thumping.

'I don't know who they were; I didn't see them. It was too dark. They took my wallet and my phone and my keys – everything.'

'Have you called the police? You should call them.'

'Oh, God no!' Jamie groaned. 'I just want to come home. Please, Matt.'

Matt hesitated, but he could sympathise with Jamie's reluctance to spend another night in a police station answering questions.

'All right,' he said eventually. 'But you'll have to give me some idea whereabouts you are. Bournemouth is a big place.' He was out of bed now and reaching for his clothes.

Kendra turned over and blinked sleepily.

'What's happening?' she asked, but Matt waved a hand to silence her.

'Jamie? Are you there?'

'Yeah . . .'

'Where are you?'

'I'm, er . . . down the bottom, on the seafront . . . There's a big cinema thing . . .'

'The IMAX, you mean? Are you near the IMAX?'

'Yeah, I was on the beach . . .'

'What on earth were you . . . No, forget it. Stay where you are. I'll be there as soon as I can.' He switched the phone off, tossed it on the bed, and began to pull on his trousers.

Bournemouth in the early hours of a Saturday morning was a busy place and, unsure of his way, Matt saw rather more of it than he intended. Groups of the young and not so young hung around outside clubs, wandered in rowdy drunkenness through the streets, and pissed and vomited in doorways and dark corners. Matt found his lip curling in silent distaste at the mindlessness of it all. A fat teenager wearing an England football shirt pulled his tracksuit bottoms down and mooned at the car as it passed, apparently providing riotous entertainment for half a dozen other youngsters, who lounged, drink cans and cigarettes in hand, against the railings beside the road.

'Get a life!' Matt muttered, swinging the MR2 round a roundabout and heading on downhill towards the seafront.

Passing the IMAX cinema, he slowed to a crawl, eyes darting from side to side. Two men walked by, hand in hand, and a couple of kids were kissing on a wooden bench, but there was no sign of Jamie until the car turned away from the beach once more and, for a fleeting second, its headlights illuminated a figure sitting in the shadow of a wall.

Matt slammed the brakes on and backed up.

Caught in the full beam, the man threw up a hand to shield his eyes. Light, spiky hair, goatee beard, blue jeans, faded red sweatshirt, and white Nike trainers.

Jamie. It had to be.

Matt hauled the steering wheel hard left, driving the car up onto the kerb and wincing as he heard the undercarriage scrape on the concrete. He dipped the headlights, switched off, and, within moments, was crouching down beside his friend.

'You OK?'

He didn't look OK. One eye was blackened and his lip was split. He blinked at Matt, squinting against the sudden brightness.

'I'm sorry. They took everything. I had to call you – didn't know what else to do.'

'That's OK, don't worry. What did they do to you? Are you hurt?'

Jamie shook his head, waving a hand vaguely towards his face.

'My head aches. I didn't see them coming. They pushed me into the wall. Akshly, I think I'm a bit pissed,' he confided.

'You don't say.' Matt put a hand under Jamie's arm. 'Do you think you could get up, if I helped you?' He cast an anxious look back towards the car and two youths who were approaching, eyeing it speculatively. Thank God he'd removed the ignition key.

'Yeah – I'm OK,' Jamie mumbled. 'Juss give me a moment . . .'

'We don't have a moment. We're going now,' Matt told him firmly, exerting upward pressure. To his relief, the Irishman made an effort and came staggering to his feet, clutching the front of Matt's jacket for support.

After an initial spell of dizziness, Jamie rallied and, with a fair bit of help from Matt, made it to the passenger seat of the MR2.

'Where's your car?'

'I'm not sure. It's here somewhere.' Jamie swung his arm in a gesture that Matt took to encompass the whole of Bournemouth. 'They took the keys . . .'

'Well, unless you told them where the car is, I guess it'll be safe. Whatever, I'm not driving round Bournemouth half the night looking for it.'

Glancing at the younger man's face as they set off for home, Matt wished he'd brought the old Spinney Cottage Land Rover instead. They kept it for transporting dogs, horse feed, and bales of hay and, consequently, the very real prospect of Jamie puking on the way home wouldn't have been quite as grim as it was amidst the gleaming leather upholstery of the sports car.

As it turned out, Jamie was only sick once, and managed to get the door open in good time, before settling back in his seat with his eyes closed and apparently sleeping for the remainder of the journey. Uneasily mindful of the possibility of concussion, Matt woke Jamie once, and was rewarded by a reasonably coherent response, which partially satisfied the niggling voice that was telling him he should really be taking him to A & E.

Back at the cottage, Jamie seemed to have revived a stage or two, and was able to make his way to the front door with only minimal assistance. Sitting him down at the kitchen table, Matt gathered cotton wool, warm water with a dash of antiseptic lotion, and some sticking plaster, and set about cleaning him up.

'What's going on?' Kendra was standing in the kitchen doorway, a towelling bathrobe wrapped about her and sheepskin slippers protecting her feet from the chill of the stone flags. Her long hair was untidy from bed and her eyes sleepy. 'Oh my God! What on earth have you been up to, Jamie?'

Jamie merely shook his head slightly, so Matt answered for him.

'From what I can gather, he was walking along the beach – having drunk himself stupid – and some kind souls shoved him into the wall and nicked his wallet, phone, and car keys.'

'Fucking bastards!' Jamie put in.

'Exactly,' Matt agreed.

'Here, let me do that.' Kendra came forward and took the bowl of water and wad of cotton out of Matt's hands. He moved aside, gratefully.

'So what's happened to the car?'

'We don't know. Jamie can't remember where he left it. I suppose we'll have to go back and look for it in daylight. I've rung the police and told them that Jamie dropped the keys – he couldn't face more questions, and I can't say I blame him. If it was kids, they'll never catch 'em anyway – even if they bother trying.'

'So they took your wallet? Did you have any cards with you?' Kendra asked, bringing a practical viewpoint into the mix. 'Because, if you did, you'll need to get them stopped.'

'They won't find much,' Jamie responded. 'Enough to buy a slap-up meal at Burger King and that's about it!'

By the time Jamie had been cleaned up and his card companies notified, it was getting on for six o'clock. Matt had made tea and Kendra took hers and went sleepily back to bed, recommending that the others follow her example. Matt was very ready to do so, aware that a busy day awaited him, but Jamie, it seemed, wanted to talk.

'Do you think she was a slut?' he asked, as Matt stood hopefully with the door to the stairs open. 'Sophie, I mean. Razor and the others – they said everyone knew she slept around. Did you know?'

'Well . . .' Matt hesitated, unwilling to lie but not feeling the time was exactly ideal for being bluntly honest.

Apparently Jamie wasn't expecting an answer.

'I know she wasn't an angel,' he went on. 'But she was trying to change. If she'd had a child, I think she'd have been different, don't you?'

'Mm. Maybe . . .'

'All right, she was a slut!' Jamie said suddenly, explosively. 'She was a lying bitch and everyone could see it except me! They were laughing at me. Were you laughing, too? Huh? Were you?'

'No,' Matt said quietly.

Jamie looked up at him, his face bitter. 'You knew she was sleeping around – why didn't you tell me? Why did you let me make a fool of myself? That baby wasn't mine. Why did I ever think it could have been?'

'You don't know that,' Matt countered, more to calm him than through any conviction. He closed the door and came back into the room, placing his mug on the table opposite Jamie and sliding wearily into a seat.

'Yes I do. Bartholomew rang earlier. The DNA didn't match. It wasn't my baby. God knows whose it was – take your pick, really.'

'I'm sorry' Matt wasn't sure if that was the right thing to say. Was it right to commiserate because the baby – which had never had a chance at life – hadn't been Jamie's? At this time in the morning, it was too much for his sleep-deprived brain to sort out.

'I'm not,' Jamie stated, taking a sip of his tea, but, as if to prove him a liar, tears welled under his lashes and one escaped to run down his cheek. He brushed it away, impatiently. 'What am I going to do, Matt? People were just starting to ask for me to ride their horses – not because I happened to be available, but because they actually wanted me. But they won't want me now. This has ruined everything. Why won't anyone believe I didn't do it?'

'People do believe you. I do, Kendra does, John and Reney do, and loads of other people. I think Bartholomew probably does, too, or he'd have charged you by now.'

Jamie shook his head.

'No, he doesn't. He was trying to get me to confess. Said it would be in my best interests. Now he thinks I killed her because the baby wasn't mine. Bastard!'

Matt wasn't sure what to say, and, after a moment, came up with a suggestion that was near to his own heart.

'Look, why don't you get some sleep. You're not thinking straight – which is hardly surprising after the night you've had. Let's leave it till later, huh?'

'Yeah, maybe.' Jamie showed no signs of moving.

'Jamie, come on . . .'

'You go on.'

Matt sighed and tried again.

'You know, drinking yourself into a stupor isn't the way to deal with all this. It won't solve anything.'

'So what do you suggest, Matt? How would you deal with losing your girlfriend – who, it turns out, was fucking half the county behind your back – losing your job – as near as dammit – and having all your mates look at you as if you'd just crawled out of a sewer! I feel like shit and drinking is the only thing that makes it go away.'

'But it doesn't, does it?' Matt said, exasperated. 'You have to stop sometime, and, when you do, it's still there. If I were in your shoes, I'd stop whingeing and protesting my innocence, and prove it.'

'How?' Jamie looked up. 'How can I prove it?'

'By finding out who did kill Sophie.'

Jamie frowned, but there was a spark of interest in his eyes.

'How?'

'I don't know – I'm too tired to think at the moment.'

'Will you help me, then?'

Having an uncomfortable suspicion that he might have started something he would come to regret, Matt pushed his chair back and stood up.

'If I can. Now, will you go to bed?'

'All right – but you will help?'

'I said yes, didn't I? Go to bed!'

Any hope that a few hours' sleep would have erased all memory of their conversation from Jamie's head was swiftly banished when Matt encountered him later that morning. Surprisingly, considering the hour at which they'd finally gone to bed, this was at the breakfast table, just after nine. Matt had left a text message on Leonard's phone to excuse himself from riding work, before falling into bed at the time he would usually have been getting up. Even though he managed to sleep for a couple of hours, he awoke feeling anything but rested and could have happily done without a return to Jamie's problems over the coffee and toast.

'So, what do we do first?' Jamie looked like a morning-after boxer with an impressive black eye and a cut and swollen lip, but it seemed that Matt's promise of positive action had acted like a tonic.

'What you do first is go and look for your car,' Matt told him. 'I can give you a lift down there, but you'll have to find your own way back, because I'm riding this afternoon. Have you remembered where you left it?'

'Yeah, I think so. But what I meant was where do we start with clearing my name?'

'Give me a chance!' Matt exclaimed, last night's premonition growing ever stronger. 'Just when am I supposed to have come up with a plan of action? In my sleep?'

In spite of having formulated no plan, the first chance to make enquiries on Jamie's behalf presented itself that very afternoon and in an entirely unexpected way.

Rockfield had sent runners to two courses – Leonard had taken a promising young horse to run on the flat at the Ascot Festival; whilst Harry and Matt were at Maiden Newton, where Matt was booked to ride two for Kendra's father and one for another owner.

The afternoon started badly when he was hailed by Mick Westerby, a wiry ex-jockey-turned-trainer he'd ridden for on several occasions when he was starting out, who offered him the ride on a novice in the first.

'Nice sort. Been showing a lot of promise at home,' Westerby told him. 'Randall's been schooling him over hurdles for me. Jockey's called in sick this morning.'

Matt wasn't keen. Although it went against the grain to turn down a riding fee, he hadn't the greatest regard for Westerby's skill in bringing on youngsters, and jump racing was a risky enough business anyway without taking on a ride that had every chance of ending in a fall. Still, Nick Randall was no fool, and if he'd been schooling him . . .

'Chap who owns him has just bought Peacock Penny,' Westerby added casually. 'You know, the mare who wiped the floor with the field in the Devon Stakes. I expect he'll be looking for a jock to ride her soon . . .'

'You're a devious bastard!' Matt declared. 'All right, but if this animal goes flat on its face at the first, I'll feed your bollocks to my dogs!'

'He'll be fine. Just keep a hold of his head. I'll give the colours to your valet.' Westerby began to turn away, then hesitated. 'Er . . . How many dogs have you got?'

Matt leaned close.

'Four,' he said. 'And they always seem to be hungry . . .'

The first race of the day was a two-mile novice hurdle. The ground was good to firm and Westerby's youngster, who went by the name of Khaki Kollin, cantered quite smoothly down to the start, so Matt began to relax a little, until one of the other jockeys called out, 'Have you packed your parachute, Mojo?'

He turned to see Irishman Tam Connelly riding towards him on a neat-looking chestnut.

'Do you know this fella, then?' he asked, with a feeling he wasn't going to like the answer.

Connelly laughed.

'You remember old Fletch bust his collarbone a couple of weeks back? Well, guess what he was riding . . .'

Matt groaned.

'That bugger Westerby swore he was a good 'un. Said Nicko had been schooling him.'

'Nicko rode him once,' Connelly said. 'Told 'em to take him to the glue factory. Have a nice day!'

'Oh, cheers, mate!'

The starter called them in; Matt pulled his chinstrap a little tighter and shortened his reins; the tape flew up and they were away.

It seemed Khaki Kollin's smooth progress to the start had been misleading. As soon as the race got underway, all his manners went out the window, and, with them, any chance of a comfortable ride. 'Keep a hold of his head,' the trainer had said. That was a joke! Matt found himself with a choice between letting the animal have its head, in which case it seemed probable Khaki Kollin would burn himself out within a mile – always supposing he didn't come crashing down at the first hurdle – or trying to control the speed, which option was almost certain to result in a pitched battle all the way to the first with much the same outcome.

In the end, he compromised, but his efforts to tuck the horse in behind the steadier runners met with little success. Kollin barged about, seemingly with little regard for his own safety, finally clipping the heels of the horse in front, causing it to stumble and drawing a curse from its jockey. Matt steered his mount wide again, gritting his teeth and holding on tight as the first hurdle loomed.

The jumps used in a hurdle race are made of gorse woven into a wooden frame and driven into the turf so that they flatten if they are hit hard enough, which is exactly what Kollin did. Executing something between a skip and a jump, he barely attained half of the necessary three foot six and lost his back end on landing, throwing his head up and thumping Matt in the face with his neck.

Matt swore and caught sight of Tam Connelly's grinning face looking back at him as the rest of the field passed by. The mistake at the first would have been almost worthwhile if Khaki Kollin had learnt from it, but, once he regained his stride, he set off for the second hurdle with undiminished enthusiasm, leaving Matt with the feeling that it was not so much if they came to grief, as how soon.

He wasn't left wondering for long. The second hurdle was negotiated, if not stylishly, then at least without drama, but as they approached the third, which would also be the last jump when they had completed a circuit of the track, Kollin had caught up and was running hard on the heels of the field. Matt made the decision to leave the horse to its own devices and hope that self-preservation took a hand.

It didn't.

Khaki Kollin was either too excited or too stupid to think of anything but getting past the other horses and, for the second time, he completely failed to jump high enough. This time gravity won out. The horse stumbled, tipped onto his nose, and ended up skidding along the turf on his side.

For Matt, propelled over Kollin's shoulder to bounce and roll to a halt some twenty feet away, the thing was a run of the mill affair, barely bruising, and, as he watched the horse scramble to its feet and gallop after the others, he felt no great sense of disappointment. The fall had been a foregone conclusion and, as such, it was just as well that it had happened here, where it was a short walk back to the weighing room, than way over on the other side of the course. He would receive his riding fee and there was no damage done – it could have been a great deal worse, but, even so, he had a bone to pick with a certain trainer.

Climbing to his feet, he loosened the strap on his crash cap and headed for the medical room and the compulsory checks, and then the pleasure of a confrontation with Mick bloody Westerby.

In fact, it wasn't until after Matt's last ride of the day that he finally caught up with Khaki Kollin's trainer, coming face to face with the ex-jockey round a corner.

'Matt!' Westerby exclaimed, in unconvincing tones of happy surprise.

'Mick,' Matt responded, somewhat more heavily. 'Do you remember our little conversation? You told me that horse had been showing a lot of promise . . . Promise of what? I wonder.'

'Randall thought he was going nicely.'

'I have it on good authority that Randall said he should be consigned to the knacker's. And remember Fletch?'

'Ah. Perhaps I was thinking of a different horse.'

'Perhaps you were,' Matt agreed. 'But please don't tell me you were mixed up about getting me the ride on Peacock Penny.'

'No, no,' Westerby assured him hastily. 'I was just talking about you with the owner yesterday.'

'Well, mind you talk to him about it again soon. I think you owe me that,' Matt said.

'Mick? Is there a problem?' A cultured voice spoke from behind Matt, and he swung round to see the tall, grey-suited figure of Lord Kenning, Sophie Bradford's uncle. 'Ah, Matt. Didn't realise it was you. How are you? Nice win on that black horse of Emmett's earlier . . . Er, what's its name?'

'Coneflower,' Matt supplied. 'Thanks, yes – he's a good horse. Er . . . Lord Kenning, could I possibly have a word with you?' He glanced at Westerby, who muttered something about having horses to see to and scuttled away, patently relieved to have been let off the hook.

'Yes, Matt. How can I help you?' Lord Kenning held out one arm, palm forward, to indicate that Matt should walk on with him, and he did so, wondering how on earth to broach the subject uppermost in his mind.

'Well, actually, it's about Jamie Mullin,' he began. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the peer's face harden and hurried on. 'I think he's being given a raw deal.'

'Oh?' Kenning's tone wasn't encouraging.

'The press have picked him out as a suspect, purely because he was Sophie's boyfriend, but he hasn't actually done anything wrong, and I thought if you – as Sophie's uncle – were to demonstrate support . . .'

'Who says he hasn't done anything wrong?' Kenning demanded. 'Of course, he does – and you do too, I suppose, as he's a friend of yours – but how do I know that? As far as I know, he could well be her killer. He picked a fight with her in front of everyone at that party, and he was quite plainly drunk. Everybody knows he has a sparky temper; it seems to me he's the obvious suspect. The only thing I can't understand is why the police haven't got him under lock and key!'

'Because there's no evidence,' Matt countered. 'And that's because Jamie didn't do it. Look, I know Sophie was your niece, but how well did you actually know her? Were you close?'

Kenning's brows drew down over his pale grey eyes and his colour rose alarmingly.

'I think you've said enough, Shepherd! I'll not stand here and listen to you repeating unfounded rumours about my family, and, if I were you, I'd be careful whom I did speak to on the matter. Your career may be on a high at the moment, but it could just as easily go the other way, if you get my meaning. Good day.'

He stalked off, leaving Matt staring after him in complete bewilderment. What on earth had prompted that reaction? It was true he hadn't held out much hope of winning Lord Kenning's support, but he had thought it worth a try. He certainly hadn't expected a rebuff on that scale.

While he stood in momentary confusion, a voice hailed him from behind.

'Matt. Hi!'

Matt turned. Harry Leonard was approaching, smiling up at him from his wheelchair. Around thirty, with wavy brown hair and an engaging grin, he was a good-looking man who'd received plenty of attention from the ladies when he'd been a jockey and Matt thought that, now he'd stopped wasting to make his riding weight, he looked better than he had ever done.

'Hiyah,' he responded, putting Lord Kenning's strange behaviour to the back of his mind for the time being.

'Join me for a drink to celebrate Coneflower's win?' Harry suggested.

'Er, yeah, OK.' He'd wanted to get back at a reasonable hour, just in case Jamie suffered a relapse into his depressed state of the day before and decided to go out on the town again. Still, Kendra was going to be around and had promised to keep an eye on him, and it was a while since he'd had a chance to catch up with Harry, socially.

Ensconced in the owners' and trainers' bar, with a white wine spritzer in his hand, Matt relaxed with a deep sigh. A party of thirty-somethings were noisily celebrating a win on the other side of the room, and at the bar two or three solitary drinkers appeared to be doing the opposite, but there were more staff than customers around at this time of day, collecting glasses and wiping tables now the rush was over.

'Not a bad day, I suppose,' he said, as Harry manoeuvred his chair closer to the table. 'Although Panda Feet was a bit of a disappointment. I just couldn't get him interested at all. Have you spoken to Toby Potter since the race?' Panda Feet was usually a reliable stayer, but today he'd trailed home twelfth of seventeen. His owner, a vet who'd been an enthusiastic amateur jockey in years gone by, normally collared Matt after the race for an in-depth discussion of his horse's performance, but today he'd been nowhere to be seen.

Harry shrugged.

'No, I haven't seen him. Perhaps he was on call and an emergency came up.'

'Where does he work?' Matt asked, helping himself to two or three peanuts from a dish on the table.

'Bristol vet hospital.' With a small smile, Harry moved the nuts beyond his reach.

'Didn't I hear he's started doing some new mumbo-jumbo therapy? Can't remember who told me.'

'Sounds like something Charlie might have said,' Harry said dryly. 'He doesn't believe in anything that hasn't been tested, re-tested, and the figures produced in triplicate for his scrutiny. Toby's a physio; you make him sound like a witch doctor! Anyway, you mad bugger, what on earth made you take the ride on Mick Westerby's no-hoper?'

'Well, obviously I was the only person on the racecourse who didn't know it was a no-hoper. I knew about Fletch, of course, but, for some reason, I just didn't connect the two. Peacock Penny was held out as a carrot, and I'm going to make damn sure he honours that promise.'

'I don't think Khaki Wotsit has finished a race yet – but I might be wrong. Still, it could have been worse.'

'Yeah, it was about a grade three,' Matt replied. In the years when they had both been riding, they'd formed a habit of grading their falls from one to ten, according to pain and damage, with grade one being a step-off, four a case of bad bruising, and five upward being broken bones of varying severity and number. It had all been a joke until Harry had suffered his crippling fall. Matt remembered the first words the trainer's son had spoken to him in hospital, whilst still hooked up to a myriad of tubes and monitors. 'Guess that was a ten,' he'd said sleepily, the morphine keeping his sense of humour alive. At that point, he hadn't been told the grim report of the surgeon. With an effort, Matt had smiled, but their joke had turned sour.

'So, where's Jamie today? Not riding?' Harry's query brought him back to the present.

Matt shook his head. 'No one wants to touch him at the moment with this Sophie Bradford thing going on.'

'Oh, that's a bit unfair!' Harry exclaimed. 'The police don't really think he had anything to do with it, do they? Seriously?'

'I'm not sure. They're certainly keeping the pressure on. And, you have to admit, it didn't look good, he and Sophie having that row less than an hour before she turns up dead. I mean, they couldn't have picked a more public place, could they?'

'No, I guess not, but, actually, I was out getting some fresh air. Typical, isn't it? The highlight of a dull evening and I missed it!'

'There wasn't much to it, really. She'd been winding him up all evening, flirting with an ex-boyfriend. Jamie grabbed her, to try and make her listen, and she slapped him and walked off. He went after her and the bouncer stepped in, so Jamie swung a punch at him.'

Harry chuckled. 'He's game, I'll give him that. I should imagine the bouncer wiped the floor with him, didn't he?'

'No, just frogmarched him out.' Matt took a sip of his drink. 'I gather you were still there when the police arrived.'

'Only just. I was out by my car. I'd had enough at that point and was on my way home, but I wasn't quite quick enough and ended up back inside. They wanted to question everyone, which took forever and was a complete waste of time, considering I didn't see the famous bust-up and I'm hardly in a position to have followed the poor girl down the road and attacked her. Would you believe the cops asked me if I actually needed the wheelchair? I felt like saying, "No, I just use it for fun!"' He shook his head at the memory. 'Lucky you left when you did. You were well out of that.'

'Yeah, except I got caught up in it anyway. It was me that found Sophie's body.'

'You did? I didn't know. God, how awful!'

'It was pretty grim. I was actually looking for Jamie, because I thought he might need a lift home. As you can imagine, I got stuck with the police for hours.'

'Have they got you down as a suspect, too?'

'Lord knows! I expect so. But they seem to be concentrating on Jamie at the moment.'

'So, what did old Kenning want, just now?' Harry was carefully balancing his wine glass on the arm of his wheelchair as he spoke.

'Oh, that.' Matt explained his abortive attempt to get the peer on Jamie's side. 'I must say, I didn't expect quite such a strong reaction,' he finished. 'Nearly snapped my head off!'

'Ah, I take it you didn't hear the rumours then?'

'What rumours?'

'Christ, Matt! You should learn to pay more attention to weighing-room gossip. Couple of years ago – just before my accident, it would have been – there was a rumour going round that our friend Kenning was more than just a doting uncle to pretty Miss Sophie Bradford, if you know what I mean. I can't believe you didn't know.'

'I don't remember it. Perhaps I was injured or suspended or something. No wonder he turned nasty when I asked him how close they'd been. Was there any truth in the rumours?'

Harry shrugged. 'God knows. It was a one-minute wonder, anyway. The lads had moved on to something else in a day or two. I think it was Razor who started it – it usually is – but I don't know where he got it from.' Looking at his watch, he drained his glass and stood it on the table. 'Well, I'd better be going – got a date.'

Matt raised his eyebrows. 'Well, well. Anyone I know?'

Laughing, Harry reversed his chair, then tapped his nose with his index finger.

'Ah, that would be telling. See you later.'

Left alone to finish his spritzer, Matt pulled the forbidden bowl of peanuts closer once more, helped himself to a handful, and gazed thoughtfully out of the window. Below, the horses were just being led back to the stables after the last race and the crowds were rapidly dispersing, leaving behind a mess of discarded betting slips, racecards, and food wrappers on the trampled grass.

Matt took some more nuts and wondered at the sheer laziness of the masses. Bins abounded, and yet it seemed that most people couldn't be bothered to walk the few steps necessary to use them. A disparate movement caught his eye – Harry in his wheelchair, moving swiftly along the tarmac path. The guy should try the Paralympics, he thought with a smile, watching his rapid progress.

The chair continued to follow the path, moving nearer to the building and almost out of Matt's range of vision. Idly, he leaned closer to the window to keep it in view and saw it come to a halt in front of the Tote kiosks, where a figure in a fiat cap and tweed jacket was standing waiting. With a sense of disappointment, Matt wondered if this was the date Harry had referred to. He'd hoped his friend had found himself a girl. Losing interest in the unheard conversation below, he was about to look away when the man in the flat cap glanced up momentarily at the sky as if considering something.

It was Toby Potter, owner of the disappointing Panda Feet, Matt realised in surprise. That was strange, after the conversation they'd just had. If Harry had known he was going to meet the man in a few minutes' time, why on earth hadn't he said so?