by Joe McNally
‘Of course. Did he pay his bill?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, we’re not allowed to answer questions like that about guests.’
‘I understand. Thanks for your help.’
I hung up and headed for the paddock.
Standing around by the weighing room, I waited for a homeward bound jockey. The race in progress on the other side of the stands had most people’s attention.
A figure came through the glass doors and started across the lawn. My height, my age, dark hair still wet from the shower. Falling into step beside him as he passed I said, ‘Hello, John.’
He glanced at me but kept going, walking like a man with plenty still to do. ‘Hello, Eddie. Heard you were back.’
Jockeys are a strange breed. When you’re one of them, it’s like being a member of some élite regiment in which your colleagues will do almost anything for you. It’s a profession where you put your life on the line every time you pull on a set of silks. Your next ride might be your last and everyone knows it, but nobody discusses it. In a company of men who are all taking the same risks, there is comfort and camaraderie.
But as soon as you’re outside that circle, unless through injury, you become a stranger again, a man in the street, a passer-by. It is nothing intentional or preconceived, that’s just the way it is. The way I’d known it would be. But it still hurt.
I didn’t feel like spouting any small talk and I knew John wouldn’t care to listen to any. Quickening my pace to match his I asked, ‘Where’s Alan Harle staying now, is he still in Trowbridge?’
‘As far as I know he’s got digs near Roscoe.’
‘He trains in Lambourn, doesn’t he?’
‘That’s right, Benson’s old place.’
‘Thanks John.’ I slowed to let him walk on. He stopped and turned. ‘Harle owe you money, too?’ he asked.
‘Er, yes, he does. You too?’
He shook his head. ‘Not me, but he’s had a few quid from some of the others.’ There was satisfaction in the way he said it, pride at not being as soft as those who’d fallen for Harle’s promises.
I nodded, trying to look resigned.
‘I wouldn’t worry too much,’ he said. ‘He’s paid all of them off in the last month or so. Maybe you’ll be next.’
‘I hope so. Thanks.’
‘Okay, Eddie.’ He smiled and I saw that sliver of pride, that edge of arrogance morph into what looked like pity in his eyes, and it made me sick.
18
I arrived home at dusk and cleared ashes from the grate, and gathered logs and firelighters from the kitchen.
Fire crackling, one drink finished, I poured another and went to the telephone. Seven o'clock; I couldn’t be sure if McCarthy would be home from Cheltenham. Best give him half an hour before ringing and spend the time trying to contact Harle.
A friend in Lambourn told me Harle lived about a mile from Roscoe’s stables and gave me his number.
Nobody answered. I dialled that number every five minutes for the next half hour and then my phone rang.
‘Eddie!’
‘Mac. What’s up?’
‘I’ve been trying to get through for bloody ages!’
’Sorry, Mac, I’ve been calling Alan Harle’s number.’
‘Why?’
‘You know he didn’t turn up at Cheltenham today?’
The brief silence told me that McCarthy didn’t know. He said, ‘I’ve had a monstrously busy day.’
‘That means no, then?’
‘I can’t keep on top of every tiny incident!’
‘Cool it, Mac. I know you can’t, I don’t expect you to. Just don’t be so defensive with me. It wastes my time and yours.’
‘As it happens I’ve spent half the damn day getting the information you asked me for.’
‘Okay. Okay.’ I wasn’t going to win this one.
Half an hour later, under the March moon, I drove southeast on the A40. I had washed, shaved and changed into dark comfortable clothes topped with a flat cap. The night was cloudless, cold enough for frost. I pushed the heater up a notch to blow warm air around my ankles.
The conversation with McCarthy replayed in my mind.
Perlman’s horses had been with Roscoe for just over a year. Before that, Roscoe had trained under permit, which meant he could train only horses owned by himself or his immediate family. In Roscoe’s case, his father had provided the horses, one of which remained in training along with ten of Perlman’s.
No other owner had horses with him.
Harle had never ridden for Roscoe while he was a permit trainer. He’d been appointed stable jockey within a month of Perlman’s horses joining the yard. Some said Perlman simply felt philanthropic; others suspected that Harle would be easier to manipulate than a top jock if the yard had skulduggery in mind.
Harle appeared to be doing all right from the arrangement. McCarthy discovered Roscoe paid him a retainer of twenty grand on top of his normal percentage of winning prize money.
Harle's rides for other yards had dried to a trickle over the last three months; he rode almost exclusively for Perlman now. McCarthy had made zero headway in discovering Perlman's whereabouts or his identity. The RSS man who’d screened him remembered only that he was short and round and he didn’t talk much.
I told McCarthy I planned to go looking for Harle tonight, at his house, ‘What do you think?’ I asked.
‘I think you should be bloody careful. If Harle isn’t answering his phone, then it’s likely he is not at home. Do not break into his house. Do not break the law.’
‘Mac, I’ll call you in the morning.’
‘Eddie!’
‘Good night.’
But Mac had read me well. I’d spent eighteen months in jail for GBH on Kruger, and a man in that jail had taught me how to pick locks. A year after my release he had contacted me seeking a tip for the Grand National. The horse I gave him won at twenty-five-to-one.
Three days later, I took delivery of a beautiful set of bone-handled lock picks. Now, ten minutes from Harle’s house, the leather pouch of picks lay on the passenger seat.
I reached to touch them, and smiled.
19
Most of the training yards in Lambourn are fairly close together, but Roscoe’s lay high on the downs about three miles from his nearest neighbour. The Rover moved smoothly over the recently resurfaced track.
The moon shone so bright I was tempted to drive without lights. Somewhere along here was Harle’s cottage. I kept my speed down and my eyes sharp.
The cottage lay back from the road. Turning off the new tarmac onto dirt, I cut the engine and killed the lights as the car rolled to a halt. The cottage was small, fronted by a neat lawn. Between two chimneys, the roof sparkled under a layer of frost. The place was in darkness.
Skirting the lawn, I walked up the centre path to the front door, which had a large brass knocker in the shape of a bull’s head. The knocker hammered and bounced on the brass plate… silence, then, high in the trees behind me, an owl hooted.
Below the window ran a yard-wide strip of soil. Keeping my boots on the path, I leaned on the windowsill. My moonlit reflection loomed toward me as my nose went to the glass. The curtains were open but I could see nothing inside.
I returned to the car for my flashlight and lock picks then followed the path to the rear of the house.
There was one window and a door. I tried the handle. Taking the slimmest metal rod, I bent to the keyhole, slid it into the lock and silently counted. At eight, it clicked open. Not bad for an amateur.
The living room looked cluttered and untidy in the sweep of the flashlight beam. Newspapers littered the floor, a footstool lay on its side by the fireplace, two fat fireside chairs and a short couch faced different ways.
On the wall opposite the window, a glass display cabinet held a few trophies. Framed photographs hung on all walls: Harle on horses, Harle jumping, Harle galloping, Harle with friends – all Harle’s pictures were here, but he wa
sn’t.
I searched both bedrooms but found only an unopened pack of condoms.
In the living room again, I considered switching on the lights. It should have been safe but I felt nervy.
Best not.
Against the wall, opposite the fire, stood a big roll-top desk. The brass catch took a few seconds to click open. The wood-ribbed cover rode up quietly, revealing a broad writing surface and eight pigeonholes. Sitting in the leather-seated revolving chair, I went through Harle’s stuff, and found four foil-wrapped syringes, which taught me nothing new.
Leaving by the back door, I relocked it.
The moon hung lower in the sky but still bright. Frost formed on the lawn. The cottage seemed to stare at me in cold, composed silence, pleased that it hadn’t given up any secrets.
Harle stayed missing. I spent the next week looking for him, visiting racecourses, speaking to mutual friends - or should I say acquaintances, as it soon became clear that Harle had no real friends.
Nor had he any family. I remembered he’d been an orphan but thought there might be a brother or sister somewhere. If so, nobody I spoke to knew of them. The press had shown an initial interest in Harle’s disappearance, but Roscoe told them Harle had walked out on him after an argument. He didn’t know where he'd gone and ‘frankly, didn’t care’.
Someone did not want Harle found. McCarthy had wound himself up so tight his usual bass voice often hit soprano when we spoke on the phone. He told me he could fund just seven more days of my ‘investigation’.
There was only one more thing I could think of to try to trace Harle, one last card. On the Saturday, I went to Ascot and played it.
20
At Ascot it was raining. I sat in the bar. Next to me, munching her way contentedly through a smoked salmon sandwich, sat a regular race-goer known among jockeys as Walk-Over Wendy.
Wendy washed down the sandwich with champagne. I'd bought both. She was plumpish, fair-haired and pretty. No more than twenty, she didn’t have the highest IQ in the world but she was always happy and obliging. Ex-jockeys, though, didn't qualify. She liked to stay in fashion that way. Has-beens got nothing except information, for which they had to pay.
She finished eating and wiped her hands and mouth with a paper napkin. Cocking her head to one side in what she imagined to be a coy pose, her eyes sparkled as she said, ‘What is it you’re after?’
‘I want to know if Alan Harle has a girlfriend at the moment.’
She frowned. ‘Oh, I haven’t seen Alan for ages, weeks…I’d forgotten all about him.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
She shook her head, looking serious. ‘I haven’t seen him since, when was it? Yes, Haydock, Greenall Whitley day.’
The girl’s life calendar didn’t run on dates, she tracked time by the passing of big races.
‘Didn’t you see him at Cheltenham?’ I asked.
The smile returned to her chubby cheeks. ‘Afraid not, I had Gary all to myself at the festival. I don’t remember much else.’
She looked out of the window into the distance and smiled at the memory. ‘Though he’s the same as all you other jockeys, after sex,’ she said, ‘he just pats you on the neck and says, “Good girl! Good girl!”’
She grinned at me mischievously to see if I’d got the joke and I smiled and nodded, making her look very pleased with herself.
‘Do you know if Alan was seeing someone when you last spoke to him?’
‘Yes, he was.’
‘Did he tell you her name?’
‘He didn’t tell me anything,’ coy again. I poured champagne into her glass and she drank it. I waited.
‘She told me,’ Wendy said.
‘Who’s she?’
‘Her name’s Priscilla. Prissy by name but not by nature.’
‘Do you know where she lives?’
‘London. She goes racing quite a lot, met Alan at Kempton, I think. She said he was a real modern guy.’
I knew what she meant. ‘Is Priscilla a friend of yours?’
‘Mmmm, sort of. I’ve seen her around the tracks a few times.’
‘Have you got her phone number?’
She lowered her head and puckered up her nose. ‘I didn’t think you were one for second-hand goods, Eddie.’
‘Strictly business.’
‘I’ll bet. You want to take up where Alan left off, don’t you?’
‘How do you know he has left off?’
She sat up straight and looked serious. Maybe I was sounding too much like an interrogator.
‘I don’t. I was just thinking, if Alan hasn’t been around for a few weeks…well.’
‘Look, Wendy, I’ve got to get in touch with Alan. It’s a business agreement we need to tie up and I’m under pressure.’
‘Okay, okay! Keep your knickers on!’ She dug around in her bag till she found her little black book and gave me Priscilla’s number.
PRISCILLA WAS NOT enthusiastic about discussing Alan Harle. Cold would be a fair description. When I said I had some good news for him, her attitude changed. She agreed to meet me that evening in a pub near her flat.
‘How will I know you?’ she asked.
‘What do you drink?’ I said.
‘Pernod and blackcurrant.’
‘I’ll order one. It’ll be on the table beside me.’
21
The lounge was quiet. Three men and two women sat drinking at the bar. I chose a table in the corner. The girl saw me when she came in and walked over without hesitating. The barman nodded and smiled at her.
She was tall, about five-nine, and would have dwarfed Harle. Her dyed black hair swung at shoulder length. She wore light makeup, and tight trousers as black as her hair. Her heels were three-inch spikes and a short red leather jacket hung on her skinny torso. She was at least ten years older than Wendy.
I stood up as she reached the table and held out my hand.
‘Eddie Malloy,’ I said.
She touched her fingers against mine. ‘I’m Priscilla,’ she said, with a false huskiness, and sat opposite me. I pushed the glass with the dark liquid toward her. She didn’t say thanks, just sipped, half-sucked.
‘You’re looking for Alan?’ she asked.
‘That’s right.’
‘Does he owe you money?’
‘No, but it’ll cost him money if I don’t find him.’
‘How come?’
‘A business deal we're working on. I need to see him to tie it up.’
‘Not the smartest guy in the world, are you?’ She drank again and looked coldly at me.
‘Why’s that?’ I asked.
‘Taking Alan Harle on as a business partner.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘He’s a lying, scheming, unreliable bastard.’
I shrugged. ‘Nobody’s perfect. Can I ask when you last saw him?’
‘What kind of deal is it anyway?’
‘I can’t tell you. Ask Alan.’
‘No, thanks, I’m finished with him,’ she sipped Pernod.
‘What’s he done to upset you?’
‘More like what hasn’t he done. He never turns up when he says he will, never rings, never buys you what he promises, screws around…’ she hunched forward glaring at me as though it was my fault.
‘So you’d fallen out?’ I asked.
‘Not as far as he was concerned, but as far as it goes with me we’re finished,’ she sat back folding her arms.
‘Can you remember when you last saw him?’
‘I haven’t seen him since before Cheltenham.’
‘And he hasn’t phoned?’
She stared at me, weighing things up. Finally, she said, ‘He phoned two days ago.’
‘From where?’ I asked.
‘Fuck ‘em Farm?’ she waited for my reaction.
‘Not a place I’m familiar with.’
‘You sure? Never been to an orgy or anything there with your mate Alan?’ her eyes widened as the anger built.<
br />
‘Priscilla, I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about. What did Alan say?’
She stared at me. ‘He said, “Help me, Priss, I’m at Fuck ‘em farm.” Then I heard him laughing and hung up on the bastard.’
‘You sure he was laughing?’
She glared, maybe at the memory or at me questioning her interpretation of the call. She leant at me aggressively. ‘Listen, he was screeching with laughter. Fuck ‘em farm! Big joke, eh? He always thought practical jokes were funny. I didn’t and that just egged him on with his piss-taking.’
‘Why would he be laughing after asking you for help?’
‘I’m telling you! That’s what it sounded like to me. He was always taking the piss. Probably in bed with some bitch and thought he’d have a laugh at my expense.’
‘Supposing he was in trouble?’
She looked uncomfortable. ‘What kind of trouble?’
‘I don’t know. You said he was screeching?’
‘He was…It sounded, well you know, that high-pitched kind of…’
‘Did he sound scared?’
She hesitated then said, ‘I suppose, if I didn’t know what he could be like, I’d have taken it as sounding scared,’ her face hardened again, ‘is this something to do with this deal you mentioned? Has it got him in trouble?’
‘It can’t have done, it’s a straightforward, upfront property deal. All above board.’
‘He never did anything straightforward in his life,’ she said, slugging down the rest of her drink. I pointed to her glass. ‘Same again?’
She pushed the glass away, ‘No, thanks.’
‘Did Alan talk much about his job with Basil Roscoe?’
‘I think you are not understanding our relationship, Mister Malloy. I didn’t give a toss about his job with Roscoe so why would I ask about it?’
‘And he didn’t say anything about it?’
‘If he did, he’d have got the rubber ear from me so I wouldn’t remember.’