Wild Horses - By Dick Francis Page 0,106

us both.

I took a breath. I said, ‘The Drumbeat said I couldn’t solve Sonia’s death, and I have. So now I’ll find out who killed Paul Pannier.’

He pushed himself away from the gate explosively, shouting back at me, ‘’How? Leave it alone. Leave all of us alone. Don’t make this pissing film.’

His raised voice brought my judo keeper out of the car like an uncoiling eel. Jackson looked both surprised and alarmed, even as I made soothing hand gestures to calm my minder’s reflexes.

I said to Jackson, ‘My bodyguard’s like a growling dog. Pay no attention. The film company insists on him because others beside you want this movie stopped.’

‘That bitch Audrey, Sonia’s sneering sister, I bet she does, for one.’

‘She above all,’ I agreed.

Lucy reappeared at the front door and called to her father, ‘Dad, Uncle Ridley’s on the phone.’

‘Tell him I’ll come in a minute.’

I said, as she dematerialised, ‘Your brother rode on the Heath this morning, for the film. He won’t be pleased with me.’

‘Why not?’

‘He’ll tell you.’

‘I wish you’d never come,’ he said bitterly, and strode off towards his house, his safe haven, his two normal nice women.

I spent the journey back to Newmarket knowing I’d been rash, but not really regretting it. I might think I knew who’d killed Paul, but proving it was different. The police would have to prove it, but I could at least direct their gaze.

I thought of one particular newspaper clipping that I’d found in the file now resting in O’Hara’s safe.

Valentine had written it for his occasional gossip column. The paper was dated six weeks after Sonia’s death, and didn’t mention her.

It said:

Newmarket sources tell me that the jockey P.G. Falmouth (19), familiarly known as ‘Pig’, has gone to Australia, and is seeking a work-permit to ride there, hoping to settle. Born and raised near the town of his name in Cornwall, Pig Falmouth moved to Newmarket two years ago, where his attractive personality and dedication to winning soon earned him many friends. Undoubtedly he would have prospered in England as his experience increased, but we wish him great success in his new venture overseas.

This item was accompanied by a smiling picture of a fresh-faced, good-looking young man in jockey’s helmet and colours; but it was the headline of the section that had been for me the drench of ice-cold understanding.

‘Exit,’ it said, ‘of the Cornish boy.’

CHAPTER 16

We filmed the hanging scene the following morning, Monday, in the cut-and-separated loose box upstairs in the house.

Moncrieff flung a rope over the rafters and swung on it himself to test the set’s robustness, but owing to the solid breeze blocks and huge metal angle-iron braces anchoring the new walls to the old floor, there wasn’t the slightest quiver in the scenery, to the audible relief of the production department. The straw-covered concrete in the set sections deadened all hollow give-away underfoot echoing noises, those reality-destroying clatterings across the floors of many a supposedly well-built Hollywood ‘mansion’.

‘Where did you get to after our very brief meeting last night?’ Moncrieff enquired. ‘Howard was looking all over the hotel for you.’

‘Was he?’

‘Your car brought you back, you ate a room-service sandwich while we discussed today’s work, and then you vanished.’

‘Did I? Well, I’m here now.’

‘I told Howard you would be sure to be here this morning.’

‘Thanks so much.’

Moncrieff grinned. ‘Howard was anxious.’

‘Mm. Did the Yvonne girl get here?’

‘Down in make-up,’ Moncrieff nodded lasciviously. ‘And is she a dish.’

‘Long blonde hair?’

He nodded. ‘The wig you ordered. Where did you get to, in fact?’

‘Around,’ I said vaguely. I’d slipped my minder and walked a roundabout way, via the Heath, to the stables, booking in with the guard on the house door and telling him I wanted to work undisturbed and, if anyone asked, to say I wasn’t there.

‘Sure thing, Mr Lyon,’ he promised, used to my vagaries, so I’d gone privately into the downstairs office and phoned Robbie Gill.

‘Sorry to bother you on Sunday evening,’ I apologised.

‘I was only watching the telly. How can I help?’

I said, ‘Is Dorothea well enough to be moved tomorrow instead of Tuesday?’

‘Did you see her today? What did you think?’

‘She’s longing to go to the nursing home, she said, and a lot of her toughness of spirit is back. But medically… could she go?’

‘Hm…’

‘She’s remembered a good deal more about being stabbed,’ I said. ‘She saw the attacker’s face, but she doesn’t know him. She also saw the knife that cut her.’

‘God,’ Robbie exclaimed, ‘that knuckleduster thing?’

‘No. It was the