8

Sitting in the weighing room chewing on an oat bar during the next race, Matt began to ponder the stewards' verdict. Why, he wondered, hadn't they asked for a third or fourth point of view? It was possible one or two of the following jockeys might have seen something, and surely they would have testified to the fact that he'd warned them all about Tulip Time's whip phobia?

Not for the first time, Matt found himself wishing that the whole business of racecourse stewarding could be overhauled. While he felt that, on the whole, they did a very good job, he knew he wasn't alone in the opinion that sometimes the interests of racing might better be served by a panel of professional adjudicators from within the industry.

The rules stated that the placings should remain the same unless there was very little room for doubt that the horse suffering the interference would have won. It was also the case that the further from the winning post the incident took place, the less likely it was that the result would be overturned, but sometimes Matt felt that the letter of the law was adhered to in the face of justice and good sense. However, there was nothing that could be done to change the decision, so he resolved to put it behind him and get on with the business of the day.

His final two rides that afternoon turned in workmanlike but uninspiring performances, both finishing just outside the places, and Matt returned wearily to the weighing room to change into his everyday clothes.

Emerging presently, the first person he saw was Harry Leonard, who waved him over.

'Hiyah. Ouch! That looks sore.'

Gingerly, Matt touched his bruised nose.

'It is, a bit, but I don't think it's broken.'

'Dad told me how it happened. Any luck with the stewards?'

'No. Razor came the innocent. Where is your dad?'

'Still at the stables, I think. Look, I was hoping I'd catch you. See that guy over there by the steps – the one with the black leather jacket? That's Darren Wallis. He's the son of Ron Wallis, the bookie, but he's also one of Sophie Bradford's exes; they were inseparable for a time a while ago. I think he was the one she was flirting with at the party. Don't know if it's any help, but I thought you might want to know, if you're still doing your sleuthing bit.'

Matt sighed.

'Thanks. Yeah, I am – in the teeth of opposition. Not that I'm making much headway, though.'

He looked in the direction Harry was indicating, and saw a fairly heavily built man of around thirty, talking to a willowy blonde girl who was leaning close and laughing. It didn't look to be the most propitious moment to approach him on the subject of an ex-girlfriend, but it seemed too good a chance to miss, so Matt took a deep breath and strolled over.

'Darren Wallis?'

The beefy man broke off his conversation and frowned at Matt.

'Yeah, who wants to know?' he asked, obviously not recognising Matt in his everyday clothes.

'Matt Shepherd. Sorry to interrupt . . .'

Wallis's expression cleared a little.

'The jockey? Oh, right – hi. What can I do for you?'

'Matt Shepherd?' the blonde broke in, doing something coquettish with her eyes. 'My friend thinks you're hot! I couldn't have your autograph, could I?' She fumbled in an impractically small handbag and produced a pen and an address book.

'Yeah, sure.' Matt reached for the book. 'To . . . ?'

'Lucy. With love . . .'

'So what can I do for you?' Wallis repeated.

'Er ... In private, perhaps?' Matt suggested, handing the address book back.

Wallis's brows drew down.

'I suppose so. Listen, Lucy – run along for a moment, would you?'

The blonde made a moue but did as she was told, stalking away on four-inch stilettos, one hand repositioning the strip of fabric that did duty as a skirt.

Watching her, Wallis sighed.

'Nice totty, but not the brightest button in the box. Now, what's this all about?'

'Sophie Bradford. I understand you used to go out with her . . .'

'Yeah, we were together for a while, but I don't know about going out – we spent more time in, than anything – if you get my drift.'

Matt thought he did.

'When was this?'

''Bout eighteen months ago. Can't remember exactly – one blonde seems to blend into another, somehow. So why d'you want to know? Is this something to do with that bit about you in the paper? Said you were trying to solve the murder or something.'

'Yeah. Just trying to help a mate out, that's all. Can you tell me what happened? With Sophie, I mean. Why did you split up?'

'Found out she was two-timing me,' Wallis said disgustedly. 'Caught her with her knickers down, you might say. Not that she wore any, half the time.'

'That's a bit of a bummer.'

'Yeah, but what the heck! 'S not as if I was going to marry the woman,' he said philosophically. 'Hey, don't go thinking I've been bearing a grudge all this time; it wasn't me that topped her – I can tell you that for nothing.'

'I wasn't thinking it,' Matt soothed. 'I gather you were dancing with her at Doogie's party that night, though.'

'Yeah, so what? Your mate Mullin was late, and she hit on me. She wasn't the sort to stand around when she could be having fun.'

'So there wasn't anything going on between you?'

Wallis shook his head.

'Nah, she was just using me to try and make him jealous. Pay him back for keeping her waiting – you know. When I realised what she was up to, I left them to it. I don't want that kind of trouble, and, besides, I had another party to go to.'

'The police have obviously been onto you . . .'

'Yeah, a couple of times, but my alibi checked out, so they lost interest.'

'OK. Well, thanks anyway.' Matt waved a hand and turned away feeling that the encounter had done no more than reinforce what he already knew of the dead girl's character, or lack of it.

Leaving Wallis, Matt made his way to the racecourse stables in search of Leonard, but was told that he'd left a message for Matt to meet him at the car. Wearily, he threaded through the rapidly thinning crowds towards the exit and, as he passed the door to the stands, it opened and the Stipendiary Steward came out, almost bumping into him.

Matt nodded.

'Mr Fairbrother.'

Seeing Matt, Chris Fairbrother hesitated, colour flooding over his face and into the roots of his sandy hair.

'Matt. Hi. Er . . . I'm in a bit of a hurry . . .'

Matt wasn't surprised the Stipe was embarrassed after his recent highly questionable rulings.

'Yes, I expect you are,' he said regarding the man with a degree of bitterness.

Fairbrother's colour deepened.

'Look – about that, I'm sorry. I didn't really have a choice . . .' He faltered. 'Look, we shouldn't even be discussing it. I really have to go.'

On those words, he ducked his head and turned away, leaving Matt mystified as he headed for the car park. What the hell had he meant – he didn't have a choice? Of course he bloody did! He was the Stipendiary Steward – the final decision rested with him.

With no rides booked for the following day, Kendra departed to Birchwood Hall for a day's millining – as she put it – and, after a bit of badgering, Jamie rolled up his sleeves and prepared to help Matt with the ongoing work on the kitchen.

The results of Tulip Time's headbutt had flowered into a pink and purple bruise on the bridge of Matt's nose, but, he was thankful to discover, showed no signs of blackening his eyes. Kendra's reaction had been one of sympathy, but also, Matt fancied, a slight deepening of the faint aura of tension that had surrounded her for the past few days. His attempt to quiz her about it produced only a quick denial and he was left to wonder.

Jamie, Matt discovered, had come through his silent mood, although that proved to be a well-disguised blessing, as he proceeded to hold forth at length on the injustices dealt out to him by the police, the press, and those he termed his 'so-called friends'. Matt was more interested in the circumstances that had led to his arrest and release than his sense of grievance, and wanted to know exactly what he had gleaned from Bartholomew, though it seemed that the DI had been cagey with his information.

'He wouldn't say when I'd get the MG back,' Jamie complained. 'He did say he thought it might be salvageable, though. Apparently they found it upside down in a field, so it sounds like kids, don't you think? Bartholomew said I was bloody lucky it wasn't burnt out.'

'Had it been hotwired?' Matt asked, prising the lid off a tin of undercoat and gazing unenthusiastically at the contents.

'I don't know. Why?'

'Well – I just thought, if they had the keys, it would look like that going-over you got in Bournemouth wasn't so random, after all. Did you tell Bartholomew about that?'

'Yeah, eventually. But I'm not sure he believed me. He wanted to know why I didn't report it at the time. Are you saying they mugged me just to get my car keys?'

'Sophie's cards had to get in there somehow,' Matt observed. 'You didn't put them there, so who did? The fact that they didn't set fire to the car seems significant, don't you think? Kids often do, I would imagine. I'd be surprised if Bartholomew didn't take that into account. This might actually work in your favour, in the long run. I mean – why would you pinch her credit cards?'

Jamie looked a little uncomfortable.

'I wouldn't, but the thing is, Bartholomew's been nosing in my bank account.'

Matt paused in stirring the paint.

'And . . . ?'

'And ... he knows I'm not too flush at the moment,' Jamie said, reddening a little. 'Haven't been for a while.'

'OK. Spell it out. You're not in debt, are you?'

'Well, in a manner of speaking – yeah, a bit. But it doesn't make any difference; I still didn't pinch her cards,' he rushed on. 'Bartholomew was trying to make me say that we'd had another row because she found out that I'd nicked her cards. I mean, it's crazy! He said maybe I didn't mean to kill her. Maybe we were arguing and I'd just pushed her, or she'd tripped and bashed her head on the wall. He kept on and on, but it's not true, Matt. I didn't kill her. I wasn't even there – I told the truth in the beginning. The last time I saw her was in the club. You still believe me, don't you?'

'Of course I do. But I'm bloody annoyed that you didn't tell me you were in debt. Why the hell didn't you?'

Jamie wouldn't meet his eyes. He picked up a paintbrush and started to run the bristles through his fingers.

'Jamie!' Matt felt more like a father than a friend at that moment, even though only four years separated them.

'Because I knew you'd feel you had to help, and you already do enough for me. Whatever you say, I know I don't pay enough rent and I don't want to sponge off you for cash as well.'

'You haven't borrowed money, have you?' Matt asked suspiciously. 'Please don't tell me you've gone to a credit company . . .'

Jamie shook his head.

'No, I haven't – but I was thinking about it.'

'Well, stop thinking about it – it's madness!'

'It's all right for you!' Jamie protested. 'It's easy to take the moral high ground when you've never had to worry about money. Things were just starting to pick up before this happened – I was picking up regular rides and there was a light at the end of the tunnel, but now I've got bugger all coming in and no prospect of it, and I've still got to live. Just what would you do in my position?'

Matt began stirring the paint again, rhythmically following a figure of eight pattern while he sorted out his thoughts. Jamie was right, up to a point. Even though he'd never relied upon his family's money, the very fact of its being there was a kind of mental safety net. How would he feel if, like Jamie, he was the son of a single parent; one of a big family from a Belfast council house? He didn't have an answer. In spite of what he'd said to Jamie, he knew his own pride would get in the way, too.

'I'm not offering to give you money,' he said finally. 'I'll lend it to you. You can pay me back when you're back on your feet.'

'Don't you mean if?'

'No. I don't. Now stop vandalising that paintbrush and give me a hand. If you do a good job, I'll pay you ten quid an hour.'

Jamie slanted a calculating look at him.

'Fifteen?'

'You bloody Irish!' Matt exclaimed.

* * *

Saturday's racing at Maiden Newton didn't get off to a particularly auspicious start for Matt. He'd barely hung his jacket on his peg in the weighing room when a suited and bespectacled official from the Horse Racing Authority called in to inform him that he was wanted for a drug test.

'Again, sir? I had one a couple of weeks ago.'

The official shrugged, disinterested.

'I don't know anything about that – I'm just passing on the request.'

Matt had no choice but to accept the summons. Drugs tests were an inescapable part of a jockey's life, as in any modern sport. At least one jockey was tested at the start of each day's racing, and, on occasion, all the jockeys at a meeting would be checked. The tests were, however, supposed to be random – unless doubts were harboured about a particular rider – and Matt felt a little hard done by to have drawn the short straw twice in such a short period of time.

With a sigh, Matt made his way to the specially adapted camper van where another official was waiting to conduct a breath test for alcohol and a urine test for narcotics.

When he emerged a few minutes later, having given the requisite samples, he came face to face with the tall, wiry figure of Lord Kenning, so close to the camper van that it almost looked as though he'd been waiting for Matt to appear. His first words gave weight to this suspicion.

'Called in again, Matt? You'd better be careful; people will begin to talk.'

Matt stopped in front of him.

'How would they even know, unless someone saw fit to tell them, sir?'

'Oh, I know what the weighing room's like. There's always gossip. It only takes a couple of jocks to tell their girlfriends or trainers and, before you know where you are, it's common knowledge.' He leaned closer to Matt. 'Let's just hope the press doesn't get wind of it and start to speculate. That could be very prejudicial to your career . . .'

Matt held Kenning's gaze for a moment, so angry that he didn't trust himself to answer.

'Excuse me, sir. I have a horse to ride.'

Kenning straightened up.

'Of course you do.' He stepped to one side, adding in an undertone, 'And let's hope those results come back clean, shall we?'

Matt's eyes narrowed, but now Kenning was smiling and moving on to speak to one of his cronies, so that he could almost believe he'd imagined the last remark.

As he changed into his breeches and colours, he couldn't stop his mind replaying the interchange. What had the peer meant by that last comment? Surely even someone with as much clout as he had couldn't influence the outcome of a drugs test. Kenning was a big noise in the Jockey Club, not the HRA, and Matt knew it was the HRA who organised the drug testing, although he was pretty sure it was an outside body that actually carried it out. No – Kenning had just been trying to scare him, and what's more he had succeeded, for a heartbeat or two. It would be about a month before a copy of the results would fall onto the doormat at Spinney Cottage, and no doubt it had amused the man to think that Matt would worry about his remark until the day he was shown to be clear.

'Bastard!'

'Whoa! I shall make sure I don't get on the wrong side of you today,' Rollo declared. 'Which particular bastard were you thinking of?'

Matt looked round. He hadn't realised he'd spoken out loud.

'Kenning.'

'Ah, the smarmy bastard.'

Matt laughed.

'You like him too, then?'

'Don't know anyone that does, really,' Rollo said. 'At least, not among us lower forms of life in the weighing room. What has he done to upset you?'

'Oh, nothing I could sue him for.'

'OK. Well, I was coming to ask if there was anything you could tell me about Mr Manchester. You rode him last time out, didn't you?'

Matt shook off his anger. It was highly unprofessional to carry a bad mood into the workplace, to say nothing of the detrimental effect it could have on the partnership between horse and rider.

'Mr Manchester? Chestnut gelding – trained by Belinda Kepple?'

'That's the one.'

'So, what does she say?'

'It was Belinda who said to ask you,' Rollo replied. 'She says he shows nothing at home, but you got a sweet tune out of him.'

Matt cast his mind back.

'I don't think there's any mystery to it. He's a front runner. He'll pull like hell from the off, but he'll settle when he's at the front.'

By the time Matt and Rollo strolled out to the paddock, Matt had managed to put Lord Kenning to the back of his mind, and the sight of the ten novice chasers stalking round the paddock with the autumn sunlight gleaming on their burnished hides lifted his mood in the way nothing else could.

He was riding a new horse for Doogie McKenzie – Woodcutter, a youngster he knew the Scot thought a lot of. Looking at him now, a smallish, dark bay gelding with an intelligent head, a sloping shoulder and good clean limbs, he had to admit that he was a nice type, but it wasn't until the horse was led into the centre of the paddock to have his girth tightened and stirrups let down that Matt felt a stirring of excitement. Standing stock-still, Woodcutter lifted his head to gaze out over the heads of the crowd to where the first of the runners was already heading down the cinder path to the track, and Matt saw something in his eye that sent a shiver up his spine.

The look of eagles, it was sometimes somewhat fancifully called, but it nevertheless described perfectly that extraspecial something that some horses have about them. It wouldn't necessarily translate into speed, but it almost always denoted character. Such horses could be exceptional – and they seemed aware of it.

The girths tightened, Doogie came across to where Matt was fastening the strap on his helmet.

'Owner not here?' Matt asked.

'Had to work,' the trainer replied. 'He's a surgeon – last-minute call. So what d'you think?'

'Yeah, he's a nice sort,' Matt replied. 'I can see why you like him. Sorry I didn't make it over to school him. How's he been going?'

'He's an absolute star!' Doogie said. 'Been working like a dream. I don't think you'll have any bother with him, unless he's just a tad overkeen.'

Matt walked forward with the Scot, preparatory to being legged into the saddle. Close up, the horse looked lean and hard-muscled.

'So where's he been? Why haven't I seen him on the track?'

'His owner's been point-to-pointing him,' Doogie muttered disgustedly. 'Until I managed to make him see what a waste that was. Trouble is, now he's saying, if he can't ride him, he might as well sell him, so it looks like I'm buggered either way.'

Matt picked up the reins, rested his hands lightly on the bay's withers, and bent his leg at the knee. Seconds later, he landed lightly in the saddle and the toes of his soft leather boots found the stirrup irons. Woodcutter walked forward calmly, his short black mane flopping up and down with the rhythm of his stride, and an ear flicking back enquiringly towards his new partner.

'Good lad,' Matt told him.

'It's up to you how you ride him. You'll have to play it by ear,' Doogie said, as he patted the horse's shoulder and moved away.

That was one of the things Matt liked about the Scotsman. Unless there was a good reason to, he never interfered. There was a trust between them that each would do their job to the best of their ability, and the confidence that that best would be enough.

Woodcutter walked calmly beside his lad out of the paddock and down to the track, where he arched his neck and jogged a little as he felt the turf beneath his hooves.

On Matt's OK, the lad slipped the lead rein and they were away. The bay settled into an eager canter as he spied the rumps of the other runners ahead of him. Balanced easily over the horse's withers, his hands resting quietly on his neck, Matt looked forward through the pricked, black-tipped ears, his knees flexing with the rhythm of Woodcutter's stride, and was aware of a tremendous feeling of contentment. The sun was warm, the track a broad strip of emerald between shining white rails, the trees beyond the racecourse were russet and gold, and beneath him was a young horse about to embark on his new life as a steeplechaser. Life, in spite of the recent troubles, was good.

Woodcutter didn't put a foot wrong. Matt made sure he was ready when the tape flew back and settled him in mid-field, seeing Rollo on Mr Manchester leading the way, two or three horses ahead. Maiden Newton was an ideal course for youngsters – the fences were well made and of medium height, the bends fairly open, and the rails opened out in the home straight, allowing the field room to spread across the track, which made it less likely that anyone would get trapped behind a tiring horse in the race to the line.

Woodcutter rounded the last bend still travelling strongly with one fence left to jump. The four runners ahead of him separated as the pace picked up a notch or two, and, as soon as Matt gave him the office, the little bay surged forward. He flew the last birch, gaining half a length in the air, and thundered into the final two furlongs neck and neck with Rollo's horse.

There was no contest.

For a moment, as they drew level, Mr Manchester rallied, finding extra reserves of energy, but Woodcutter was having none of it. Flattening his ears back, he lengthened his stride and, within moments, had left the chestnut floundering in his wake.

As soon as he was clear, his ears flicked forward once more and he would have run on, but Matt steadied him; he didn't want him winning by too large a margin, or he'd be penalised by the handicapper. They passed the finishing post easing down but still three lengths ahead of Rollo's horse, and Matt patted Woodcutter's neck, telling him he was indeed a star.

The lad came out, smiling, to lead the horse in, and, within a few strides, Doogie was there, too.

'No need to ask how that felt,' he commented, looking up at Matt. 'You're grinning like a Cheshire cat!'

'Did you see the way he went past them?' Matt demanded. 'And he was hardly trying! I tell you, if you put any other jockey up on this boy, I swear I'll never speak to you again!'

Doogie shook his head.

'It might not be up to me, Matt,' he warned, and Matt remembered that the horse might well be sold.

By the time he dismounted in the winner's circle, Matt had made a decision.

'Where's this fella running next?'

'He's entered in the October Cup at Henfield,' Doogie told him, mentioning one of the newest prestige races for novice chasers. 'Why?'

Matt undid the girth and slid the tiny saddle off into his arms.

'If you can get hold of the owner, tell him you might have a buyer for him. I'll speak to you later.'

He walked away, knowing that Doogie was positively bristling with curiosity, but needing time to think before he took the next step.

Time was one luxury that he didn't have an abundance of that day. With a runner in every race, he was locked into a seemingly endless round of changing, weighing out, weighing in, speaking to owners and trainers, and riding.

The big race of the day was third on the card and Matt was riding Charlie's Temperance Bob, who, by virtue of their recent win at Worcester, was the clear favourite. The horse looked well, and, as Matt cantered him down to the start, he felt quietly confident. There was nothing in the field that should worry him, as long as he jumped cleanly, which he normally did.

Matt planned to follow the format that had been proved to suit Bob before, tucking him in just behind the leaders and coming with a late run in the final couple of furlongs, but they had covered barely half of the scheduled two miles when he began to feel that something wasn't right. Uncharacteristically, the horse felt lacklustre and clumsy; if he hadn't known better, Matt would have said he was tired. He had to push him from a long way out, just to keep his position, and, when they rounded the final bend and the field fanned out, he showed no sign of wanting to take advantage of the gap that had opened up in front of him.

After the last fence, the leading horses began the sprint to the line, led by Rollo on a rangy grey, and a gap of four or five lengths opened up in front of Matt's horse. Glancing over his shoulder, Matt saw that there was a similar gap between Bob and the rest of the field, so he eased the pressure and they passed the post in a respectable but disappointing fourth place.

John Leonard was waiting with the lead rein as Matt slowed up.

'What happened there?'

Matt shook his head.

'I don't know – he just had no spark. His jumping wasn't too special, either. I didn't see any point in pushing him.'

'No, you did right.' Leonard slapped Bob's bay neck and glanced back at his flanks. 'He doesn't look particularly distressed – got a bit hot, but then it's a warm day. I wonder what's wrong with the old fella.'

Matt shrugged, calling out congratulations as Rollo rode by.

Back in the weighing room, he was stripping off Charlie Brewer's colours, deep in thought about Woodcutter, when the jockey next to him leaned across and said, 'Hey, Mojo! The Stipe wants you.'

'Oh – sorry.' Matt looked up and saw Chris Fairbrother waiting in the doorway, eyebrows raised.

Matt's session with the stewards was uncomfortable, to say the least. Not entirely surprised that they should want an explanation after such a poor show from a strong favourite, he expected that he and John Leonard would be asked a few questions about Temperance Bob's fitness and health, but he wasn't prepared for the accusatory slant the interrogation took, and he certainly wasn't prepared to be handed a two-day suspension for failing to ride out the finish.

As the door of the stewards' room closed behind him, Matt looked across at the trainer in bewilderment.

'What was that all about? How the hell can they justify giving me a suspension – I came fourth, for Christ's sake!'

'Sshh!' The trainer took his arm and steered him towards the stairs.

'Well, what were they looking at? Any fool could see that horse wasn't comfortable, even if they didn't want to take my word for it.' Matt was incensed, the effort of remaining calm and subordinate, in the face of what he felt to be gross injustice, now finding it's outlet. 'I used to think Fairbrother was one of the better Stipes, but he seems to have it in for me lately. That's the second time in two days!'

'Careful! You're beginning to sound a bit like Jamie,' Leonard warned. 'Seriously, Matt, just let it go. You get runs of bad luck in racing – you should know that.'

Matt took a deep breath and sighed, consciously trying to relax.

'Sorry, John. It's just – well, I thought the stewards saw it my way. They seemed to, from what they were saying, especially that tall guy.'

'I must say, I thought so too, but there you are. I've got no problems with the way you rode him and I'm sure the boss won't have, either.'

They'd reached the bottom of the stairs now and the trainer paused.

'Right, I'd better go and see how Ron's getting on with Parsley Pete. See you in the paddock.'

Matt lifted a hand and went on through The Scales to the weighing room, where a sudden hush fell over the group nearest the door.

He paused, looking at each in turn, amongst them Razor, Mikey, Rollo and Bully.

'OK. Who's going to tell me what I've walked in on?'

'It's nothing –'

'It's my fault –'

Rollo and Mikey spoke together and stopped together, then Rollo started again.

'Razor was just giving us the benefit of his explanation for your horse's poor show,' he told Matt.

'Oh yes?' Matt asked, softly. 'And would he care to share it with me?'

'I was just telling the lads that I had a phone call the other evening . . .'

'What sort of phone call?' Matt asked, although he was pretty sure what was coming.

'Someone who knew I was riding the favourite in the last on Thursday,' Razor put in. He didn't elaborate. He didn't really have to; they were all familiar with the concept of being offered money to lose, even if it hadn't happened to them.

'And?' Matt prompted.

'Oh, I don't think you need me to spell it out, do you?'

Suddenly Matt found that no one cared to meet his eye, and the anger the stewards had induced rose again. Perhaps reading the signs, Rollo put a restraining hand on his arm, but Matt shook it off.

'You bastard!' he exclaimed. 'I rode that horse to win, but it wasn't his day. End of story.'

Razor lifted his brows.

'Whew! Not so cool, Eskimo Joe,' he muttered, but Matt affected not to hear him.

Back at his own peg and trying to get his fury under control, he was approached sheepishly by Mikey. He dug deep and produced a smile for the youngster.

'Hiyah, kid.'

'I'm sorry, Matt. It was my fault before.'

Matt rummaged in his kitbag for a clean pair of gloves.

'How so?'

'Well, me and Rollo were wondering what the stewards wanted you for and I said, if you'd eased down on Temperance Bob, there must have been a good reason, and Razor comes by and says, maybe someone offered you a good reason. But I knew you hadn't – I mean, you wouldn't . . .'

Matt smiled and shook his head.

'No, I wouldn't. Don't worry about it, Mikey.'

The day that had started so promisingly continued on its relentless downhill slide.

Matt's fourth and fifth rides of the day turned in uninspiring performances, both finishing out of the money, and his sixth and final ride folded up on landing after the final flight of hurdles, dumping him in the path of a field of fourteen, who were all, at that point, behind him.

Sitting up when he was sure that the coast was clear, Matt undid the strap on his crash hat and used his whip to vent his frustration on the hoof-torn turf beside him.

'You all right?' a voice called, and he looked across to where an ambulance car waited, engine idling, a medic poised to come to his aid if necessary.

He nodded and waved a hand.

'D'you want a lift?'

'Thanks.' Matt got to his feet wearily, the action pinpointing one or two areas that would be sore later. It was only a few hundred yards back to the stands, but it had been a long day, and he wasn't about to turn down anything that would make life easier.

The weighing room, after the last race, was comparatively empty. A handful of jockeys were just leaving as Matt went in, most of them acknowledging him with a nod or a word as they passed. He crossed to his peg and sat down heavily on the bench beneath it, wishing he was already showered and changed, and that someone else was driving him home.

'Matt?' It was Jim Steady, his valet.

'Hi, Jim.'

'You all right?'

'Yeah, thanks. Just feeling a bit sorry for myself, that's all.'

'A kid outside asked me to give you this,' the valet said, holding out a piece of folded, lined notepaper, such as might have been torn from a spiral-bound pad. It had his name pencilled on the outside and was stuck down with Sellotape.

Matt took the paper and unfolded it. It was written in capital letters with a pencil, and suggested that, if he met the sender in the Paddock Bar in half an hour's time, he might find out something about a certain set of credit cards. It was unsigned.

'Who gave you this?' he asked. 'A kid, you say?'

'Yes. Young lad, about twelve or thirteen. He said someone told him to make sure you got it. He was gone before I could ask him who.'

'He probably didn't know. Thanks, anyway.'

The valet hesitated.

'Not bad news, I hope . . .'

'No. Nothing like that.' Matt wasn't about to satisfy his curiosity. A wonderfully efficient valet he might be, but he provided the service for dozens of jockeys during a normal week, and Matt placed no great reliance upon his discretion.

The Paddock Bar was all but deserted when Matt walked in. At the end of the bar, a red-faced man in a suit but no tie was deep in contemplation of his spirit glass, and in one corner a middle-aged couple sat holding hands. Two of the young staff, dressed in black with short white aprons, were collecting glasses and wiping tables, while another was doing something with the till and a wayward roll of paper.

Matt walked across to the bar and, finding himself suddenly thirsty, ordered a black coffee. He sat on one of the stools and angled himself slightly towards the red-faced man, who glanced at him disinterestedly and then returned his attention to the half-inch or so of brownish liquid he was hoarding. Matt was relieved, he'd been hoping the man wasn't his contact.

The coffee arrived and, as Matt felt in his pockets for some change, a familiar voice spoke in his ear.

'That'll be disgusting; it's the end of the day, so they won't have made fresh. I'd send it back.'

Casey.

Matt took a sip. She was right, it was horribly strong. He made a face and pushed the cup back towards the young man, who'd apparently caught the gist of Casey's comment and was scowling at her.

Unabashed, she climbed onto the stool next to Matt.

'Maybe I'll have tea instead,' he suggested, then turned to Casey, who seemed to have done something different with her hair. It suited her. She looked older and a little more sophisticated. 'Was it you who sent me that note?'

A calculating look came into her eyes.

'It might have been . . .' she said slowly.

'But it wasn't,' Matt decided. 'Not quite quick enough, Ms McKeegan. And no, I'm not going to discuss it with you now. If you're a good girl and make yourself scarce, I might just tell you about it afterwards.'

'Don't you dare patronise me!' she returned hotly.

He grinned.

'I knew you'd rise to that.'

'Oh, but –'

'No buts. I'm here to meet someone, and, if they see I'm not alone, they'll more than likely shy away.'

'I'll sit in the corner.'

'Out,' Matt said firmly.

'But I wanted to see you . . .'

'OK, but later. Please, Casey. This could be important.'

Looking slightly sulky, Casey slid off the stool and headed for the door.

Whatever the author of the note had been going to tell him, he or she had obviously had second thoughts. Matt waited half an hour before giving up, and left the bar staff trying to convince the red-faced man that he should also go home.

'But there's no one there,' Matt heard the man say in mournful tones as the door closed behind him. 'My wife left me. She says I drink too much . . .'

Outside, the sun was sinking fast behind the autumnal trees that Matt had so admired when he'd cantered Woodcutter to the start.

Woodcutter! Damn! He'd meant to catch up with Doogie before he left. Too late now. Glancing around, he was surprised and not a little relieved to note that Casey was nowhere to be seen. Presumably she'd given up waiting and gone to wherever she called home, which was precisely what he intended to do.

Where did Casey live? he found himself wondering, as he left the racecourse behind and headed across the owners' and trainers' car park in the gathering dusk. He imagined a town-centre flat close to the pubs and clubs, though, at her age, she could just as possibly still live with her family, he thought, realising he knew absolutely nothing about her.

He looked ahead and, just for a moment, couldn't see the MR2 amongst the twenty or thirty cars that remained but, as he walked on, it came into view on the far side of a dirty white transit van that hadn't been there when he'd parked.

Taking the keys from his pocket, Matt operated the remote button, walked between the two vehicles and bent to open the door.

He fumbled and stopped short; it was as if the handle had just disappeared.

Closer inspection revealed that it had. Some kind soul had filled the recess with what looked like Polyfilla.

Matt turned his eyes heavenward and groaned, 'Oh, for fuck's sake!'

In that first instant, annoyance and disbelief filled his mind to such a degree that he didn't pause to wonder why someone should have chosen his car to vandalise and, even when the sliding door of the van behind him opened, he didn't immediately apprehend danger. He was in the act of turning when someone caught hold of the collar of his jacket and slammed him, face down, onto the low roof of his car.