Free Murder in Mind by Lyndon Stacey Page B

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.