Jumping to Conclusions Read Online Free PDF Page A

You take the biscuit. Not a hope, Charlie. Not a bloody hope.' She span away from him on the high shiny boots. 'In fact, I'll be ecstatic if I never clap eyes on you again.'
    Wrenching the Aston Martin off the A34 in the darkness, Charlie felt slightly better. The high-banked lanes of Berkshire meant home at last. Home, where he could bolt the door, muffle any media intrusion – why the hell they wanted to re-run the damn race every half an hour anyway, he had no idea – play some loud music, and get very, very drunk.
    Home was a half-timbered black and white cottage on the edge of Drew Fitzgerald's Peapods yard. Charlie had previously lived in the stable staff bungalow, but had bought the cottage when Drew and Maddy had decided to extend the bungalow into a hostel for the lads. The residential elevation had come at about the same time as he'd traded in his Calibra for the classic Aston Martin. A time when the future looked extremely rosy. Charlie groaned. The way today had gone, he'd be down-grading the Aston Martin to a bicycle and begging a bed in the hostel – if he was very lucky.
    Lights were on in most of Milton St John's houses. No doubt everyone was dolling themselves up for a night of sorrow-drowning at the Cat and Fiddle. The pub's regulars had spent the last few days daubing sheets with Congratulations Kath, Charlie and Dragon Slayer, and Milton St John wins the Big One. Charlie slowed the Aston Martin to a thirty mile an hour crawl. The entire village had been rooting for Kath and Dragon Slayer. Homes would have been remortgaged on the gamble. He'd be the least popular man in the world tonight.
    It was even more galling to know that the celebrations for King Rupert, trained as he was at neighbouring Lambourn, were likely to spill over into the village. It would probably end in a riot.
    He carefully negotiated the curve in the road past the pub, past Bronwyn Pugh's Village Stores, the Munchy Bar, and the empty bookshop. Just as he drew level with St Saviour's Church, a shadowy figure hurried from the graveyard's darkness and ducking under the lych gate, stepped straight out in front of him.
    Charlie stood on the brakes. The Aston Martin slewed across the road.
    'Bloody hell!' This was all he needed, today of all days; some glue-sniffing kid walking under the wheels. He rolled down the window. 'For Christ's sake! Look where you're going! I could have killed you!'
    The figure, still enveloped in blackness, hesitated for a moment, then walked back across the road towards him. Oh God, Charlie thought. Please don't let it be someone wanting to top themselves because they backed Dragon Slayer ... Or even worse, someone who wanted to punch his lights out for the same reason ...
    'I'm so sorry... I wasn't concentrating. I had other things on my mind. I didn't mean – oh, Charlie! I didn't know it was you!'
    Charlie felt a flood of relief. Gillian Hutchinson, the Vicar's wife, was hardly likely to deliver a swift upper-cut. She leaned towards the car, long pale hair escaping, a black cloak making her practically invisible in the gloom. Charlie thought she looked like Meryl Streep in that French Bloke's Woman film that one of his ex's had adored and he'd slept through three times.
    'Sorry,' she said again. 'I was miles away. And commiserations, anyway. I listened on the radio and I was so worried when you fell. They said Dragon Slayer was okay, but they said you were being bundled off in the ambulance. Were you hurt?'
    'Pride mainly.' Charlie was very fond of Gillian. Gillian was the most un-typical vicar's wife in the world. 'I hope you didn't back us.'
    'Of course I did. Never mind – there's always next year. In fact, I'm counting on you winning next year.'
    'I shouldn't count on anything.' Charlie straightened up, easing the ache of the bruises. 'We'll have to wait and see what Drew says. He'll probably disown me.'
    'Drew'll be fine about it.' Gillian tried to push her hair away from her face. 'He's an ex-jockey. He