Murder in Mind Read Online Free Page B

since the party, it shouldn't take too long.'
    'Well, can I at least warn her?' Matt was pretty sure he already knew the answer to that one.
    'I'm afraid not, but don't worry, there'll be a female officer with them. Meanwhile, I'm going to have to ask you to accompany us back to the station for further questioning, Mr Shepherd. We'll go in my car.'
    'You're asking? Does that mean I have a choice?'
    'Well, I wasn't going to arrest you, but I can if you'd prefer . . .'
    Resignedly, Matt transferred to the DI's BMW, where he sat in the back next to the WPC on seats that smelt of cigarette smoke. Bartholomew turned the car round and drove up to the junction with the main road where a roadblock had been set up. There he spoke briefly with the officer in charge before continuing towards Charlborough.
    At Charlborough Police Station, Matt was given a change of clothes, his own – the trouser legs stiff with dried river silt – having been taken and bagged up for forensic examination. He was then shown to a small room furnished with a table, three chairs with bright orange upholstery and wooden arms, and a large wood-effect cupboard with sliding doors. Here, Deane asked him to wait and promised that someone would be along shortly with a cup of tea. Glad of the chance to take the weight off his ankle once more, Matt sank into one of the chairs and looked around him.
    The room was in the heart of the building and had no window to the outside world. The floor wore a speckled blue carpet, the walls were covered with crime prevention and neighbourhood watch posters, and two fluorescent tubes radiated a harsh blue-white light from the yellowing Artexed ceiling.
    Apart from the portly, middle-aged sergeant who brought him a mug of builders' strength tea, Matt saw no one for a good twenty minutes. The shakes had subsided now, leaving him both mentally and physically exhausted. An electric heater under the desk was billowing out heat and, with that and the soporific murmur of voices from beyond the closed door, he was more than half asleep by the time Bartholomew reappeared.
    He came in carrying a mug and a clipboard and, for the first time, Matt got a good look at him in the light. He was built on impressive proportions – his burly frame well over six foot tall and dressed in a rather creased brown suit. The top button of his black shirt was open above a slightly crooked, loosely knotted tie. His hair was thick, untidy, and a nondescript shade somewhere between dark blond and brown, and his face showed signs of dissipation, even though Matt estimated he was not much more than forty.
    The DI settled in one of the orange chairs, placing his mug on the carpet by his feet, and a second officer came in, stood a tape-recorder on the table, pressed a button to set it running, and retreated to stand by the door.
    After a moment or two, Bartholomew gave the time and date before saying thoughtfully, 'Matt Shepherd – jockey. I've heard of you, haven't I? Didn't you win the Derby or something?'
    'No. I'm a jump jockey.'
    'Would've thought you were a bit tall for a jockey . . .'
    'Not for a jump jockey,' Matt informed him patiently. It was a common misconception. 'The flat-race jockeys are the little guys.'
    'Oh, I see. Was it the Grand National then?'
    'No. It was the Champion Hurdle.'
    'Ah yes, of course.' The Inspector nodded sagely, but Matt wasn't fooled. He sat quietly, waiting for the policeman to get down to business.
    'So why do they call you Mojo?'
    Matt's surprise must have shown, for Bartholomew added, 'My officers have been talking to your colleagues at the social club.'
    'Well, we all have nicknames – mine's short for Eskimo Joe.'
    'Ah. A cool customer.'
    'Or maybe just a good actor,' Matt said, and the DI pursed his lips and nodded slowly.
    The interview with Bartholomew more or less followed the same format as the earlier one with WPC Deane, although this time the DI informed him of his rights first.
    'Am I under arrest?' Matt's