by Joe McNally
We stopped a mile from Roscoe’s knowing it was safer if she walked the rest of the way. As dawn broke we stood holding each other tightly, then parted in silence.
41
At Kempton I saw people I knew, but either they didn’t recognize me because of my damaged face or didn’t want to be seen talking to me.
I spotted Mac standing alone by a racecard kiosk. He watched me approach and looked nervous.
‘I told you not to speak to me on the racecourse,’ he said.
‘Relax. As far as everyone’s concerned I’m the invisible man anyway.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
He still seemed worried. ‘Mac, there’s a race going on, everyone is on the other side of the stand.’
‘Okay, what is it?’
I told him about Jackie. ‘That’s a bad decision, Eddie.’
‘How the hell is it a bad decision? She won’t take any risks, she’s just observing! She’s an insider, for God’s sake! It’s the best break we’ve had.’
He stood shaking his head.
‘What else can we do?’ I asked.
Glaring at me he said, ‘Look, Eddie, do what you want, just start getting me some results.’
I stared at him. ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means I need some results from you! I told you that on Wednesday! I’m under pressure!’
‘Results? Pressure? I just came out of the fucking hospital after getting my face fried for you and you talk to me about pressure!’
He looked around nervously. ‘Calm down, for God’s sake. I’m sorry. Look, on top of the Perlman stuff, I’m getting calls from my boss now every time there’s a major form upset. We’re well into the Flat season, there could be a drugged horse in every damn race.’
‘That’s way over the top, Mac, and you know it.’
‘Okay, maybe it is, but everybody’s feeling it, not just you. Now look, I’ll have to go. We’ll talk soon when we’ve both calmed down a bit.’
The way I felt, that would take a while.
After half an hour spent searching the bars for Priscilla, I saw her walking toward me, deep in conversation with Wendy.
‘Hello.’ I said. They stopped and stared but didn’t recognize me immediately. When Wendy did, her eyebrows went up and her hand clapped her open mouth. ‘Eddie! What the hell happened to you?’
‘It’s a long story, as they say.’
‘You look like you’ve had skin grafts from an old saddle.’
‘I wish it were as tough.’
Wendy stepped to the side to see how far round the scarring went. I turned to her friend. ‘Hello, Priscilla, remember me?’ Priscilla seemed more bored than shocked. ‘Not like that I don’t.’
‘Heard from Alan?’ I asked.
She gave me a bitter look and shook her head. ‘You told me he was in Cyprus.’
‘I think he might be back.’
‘He’d be riding if he was back.’
‘Yes, I suppose he would.’
She sneered. ‘Tell him when he does come back I hope he falls off his first ride and it kicks his balls up into his belly.’
‘Painful.’
‘Not half enough for the slimy little sod.’
Wendy had completed her inspection and was facing me.
She knitted her brows in a half-quizzical smile. ‘You got scars anywhere else then, Eddie?’
‘Nowhere you haven’t seen before,’ I said. She giggled. ‘You coming in to buy us a drink?’ she asked.
‘Sorry, Wendy, not today. But if you hear anything of Alan Harle, ring me. There’ll be a bottle in it for you.’
‘Make it a magnum.’
‘Give me a break.’
Her smile said it was worth a try. Priscilla’s frown said let’s get away from this freak. I said goodbye and went to see a couple of guys I knew in the press bar.
The rest of the day was spent drifting, listening, trying to pick up any snippet leading to Harle, but I came up with nothing and left before the last race.
As I approached my car, I knew something wasn’t right but couldn’t nail what it was. Slowing down I looked around.
From what I could see, I was alone in the car park, though the high sides of the horseboxes could be hiding any number of potential attackers.
Ten paces from the car I realized what was wrong. It was parked nose up to a horse-box. I had reversed into the space when I’d arrived. Someone had been driving my car.
As I reached it, I peered through the windows. No unwanted passengers. I walked to the front and checked the bonnet-catch; no signs of tampering.
Squatting, I ran my hand along the underside of the car then decided that wasn’t thorough enough. Lying down, I dug my heels in and pushed myself under the car for a proper look. I found nothing.
Sliding out, I got to my feet and dusted myself down. Close behind me someone spoke. ‘Looking for something?’
I took a large step, almost a jump away from the voice and turned very quickly. My hand was raised to punch when my brain registered the uniform of the Metropolitan Police. It cancelled the message to my fist and began whirring frantically through the plausible excuse file.
I tried playing for time since I didn’t think he’d quite believe I was looking to see if someone had stuck twenty pounds of explosive on my exhaust pipe. ‘Do you always creep up so quietly on people?’
‘Only suspects, sir.’
I watched his eyes registering the damage to my face, but he recovered quickly enough. I said, ‘Suspect? Me? What of? This is my car.’
‘What were you doing lying under it?’
‘I saw a cat.’ Jeez, I thought, what a lame excuse. ‘A big black one. It was under the wheel. I saw it as I came up and I didn’t want to risk running it over if it was trapped.’
‘Animal lover, are you, sir?’
‘Honestly!’
Unclipping the radio from his lapel, he asked HQ to run a computer check on the licence number.
That’s when I remembered that the car wasn’t registered in my name.
The tinny voice of the controller came through. The constable had his notebook out. ‘The car is registered in the name of The Jockey Club, Portman Square, London.’
‘Roger,’ he said, pressing a period from his pencil into the book. I waited for him to speak. He looked at me. ‘You a member of the Jockey Club, sir?’
Very droll.
‘I have the use of the car for a while.’
‘Do you have the keys?’
I pulled them from my pocket. ‘Open the car, please,’ he said. I pushed the key in, the lock clicked and I opened the door.
‘Close it now, please.’
I closed it.
Walking to the back of the car, he looked again at the registration plate, notebook and pencil in hand.
‘Will you open the boot, please, sir?’
‘Sure.’
I pushed the key in. The lid came smoothly up, and I stared inside and wondered if the day was going to get any worse. There was someone in the boot. It was Alan Harle. He was dead.
42
They took me to a small square room with a table and two chairs and a vase of daffodils on the windowsill, and kept me waiting with only a silent constable for company.
It didn’t take Detective Sergeant Cranley long to get there, and the evil glee which had no doubt shone on his face throughout the journey was still obvious as he came through the door.
One of the London CID boys was with him and couldn’t have failed to be impressed by Cranley’s unbiased opening line. ‘Well, well, well, Malloy, got you by the bollocks at last!’
I saved my reply. This already had the makings of a long night.
Cranley sent the young constable for a pot of tea, then he pulled a chair across for the CID man. They sat opposite me and Cranley smiled. He got up twice to make tiny adjustments to the position of his chair and when he finally settled he raised
his arms, made guns of his fingers and thumbs and pointed both hands at me, ‘Dead in my sights, Mister Malloy. I’ve got you dead in my sights now.’
I shook my head slowly. He said, ’Just the same as you had Alan Harle dead in yours. How long have you been hauling his body around?’
I said, ‘You must have very little to do, if you’re planning on baiting me all night with this crap.’
‘Crap? Crap, is it? You almost kill him, then do your good Samaritan and rush him to hospital, all caring, and sharing your story with me. Remember, “Oh, please help my friend! He needs police protection. Big bad men are after him. Please hurry!” Well, Malloy, the big bad man was you, wasn’t he? You’re a decent actor, I’ll give you that. You had me proper wound up.’
‘Are you serious here, Cranley?’
’Never more so, Malloy, never more so.’
‘You think I killed Alan Harle?’
’Not an unreasonable assumption given he’s been a passenger of yours twice. The first time he went from your motor into the intensive care unit, the second, and, of course, last time, he went from your motor into the morgue. Oh, and just by the oddest coincidence, said motor is not registered in your name.’
I looked at the CID guy, ‘Is this standard procedure?’
The man folded his arms and said, ‘You’re entitled to request legal representation at any time.’
Cranley leant forward, ‘Oh, yes, Malloy, why haven’t you asked for a lawyer by now?’
‘Because I don’t need a fucking lawyer! I haven’t done anything!’
‘You’re a convicted criminal,’ Cranley said, ‘you cannot control your temper. You almost beat a man to death for which you spent eighteen months in prison. What did Harle do to you? Must have been much worse than this Mister Kruger, at least you stopped battering Kruger in time for doctors to save his life.’
I shook my head again. Cranley raised his left hand and pointed his finger gun at me, making as though he was pulling a trigger, ‘Leopards!’ He brought his other hand up and fired with that too, ’Spots!’ then, slowly and theatrically he joined his palms, ‘They go together, Mister Malloy. They do not change. The leopard does not leave his spots and the spots do not leave the leopard.’
I smiled, ‘Have you any idea what you look like? Talk about me being an actor? Jeez, give it a rest, will you?’
He got to his feet and bent low across the table, ‘Oh, there will be no rest. Not tonight, not until you tell us everything.’
The young cop came back in with the tea-tray. Cranley turned, ‘Ah, sustenance. We’re going to need it!’
He persevered, I’ll give him that. All night he persevered, trying to extract a confession, screaming at me, pushing his sweaty pockmarked face into mine, breathing his garlic breath. At one point, he raised his fist, but then he looked in my eyes and what he saw made him think twice.
As dawn broke, they took my belt and tie and shoe laces and threw me in a cell. I’d had no food or drink and my head pounded from Cranley’s screaming. I lay down and tried to clear my mind.
Who the hell were these guys of Kruger’s? I’d been at Kempton no more than two hours. You don’t just happen across a car and dump a body in it. How had they known I’d be there? How could they know which car I was driving? They began to seem somehow superhuman.
If they were that good, I’d better tell Jackie to forget what we’d arranged. She wouldn’t be safe doing even that. Jackie…I thought about holding her the way I had on Sunday morning when we’d parted.
Trying to comfort myself, I replayed in my head our last conversation.
What are your immediate plans, Eddie? Well, tomorrow I’ll be at Kempton…
Jackie…?
The longer I dwelt on it, the more my suspicion deepened. Surely everything we’d had during those three days couldn’t have been false? Insecure as I was, I didn’t believe I could be suckered so easily by a woman.
In the end, I convinced myself it was just tiredness and mental bruising making me suspicious of Jackie. After all, hadn’t Kruger’s men traced me before, followed me to Roscoe’s place?
Or had they? Maybe they’d been on their way to Roscoe’s and just happened upon my car. If they’d followed me, why hadn’t they stopped me entering Roscoe’s house?
My weary, battered mind tumbled the thoughts over in slow motion. I didn’t know what to think any more, couldn’t trust myself to be logical. Attempts at sleep resulted in a fitful two hours, punctuated by snatches of the same nightmare.
At ten o’clock, a policeman brought me breakfast, soap and a towel. ‘Get that down you, then get cleaned up. There’s somebody here to see you.’
43
I was led to a room where McCarthy waited.
‘You look awful,’ he said.
‘Thanks.’
‘Have you been up all night?’
‘Almost. Cranley was conducting one of his special interviews. You know, one of those where they tell you what you did rather than ask you?’
‘Yes, he looks the type. I’ve just spent fifteen minutes with him. He is not your biggest fan, Eddie, I can assure you of that. What the hell have you done to upset him so much?’
‘Nothing. We took an instant dislike to each other, you know, like the opposite of love at first sight? He’s obsessed with my supposed involvement in all this, keeps saying he’s going to get me.’
‘Not this time he isn’t. He’s had the results of some of the forensic tests. Harle’s been dead at least a week, which gives you the perfect alibi, since you were lying in a bed in Newbury Hospital when he was killed.’
‘What was the cause of death?’
‘Still to be confirmed, but they’ve detected Hepatitis B along with a massive quantity of heroin. Either he injected himself with an infected needle or somebody else did.’
‘I think we can safely say it was somebody else, don’t you? They’ll be claiming he dumped his own body in my car next.’
He smiled.
‘I guess that’s how they got you involved, through the car?’ I asked. He nodded.
‘I’m sorry, Mac, I know that’s really dropped you in it.’
‘Don’t worry, it turned out a blessing in disguise. It’s made my people realize just how serious this is. There were a lot of heads in the sand, Eddie, a lot of people who didn’t want to face the reality of what was going on, didn’t want to admit you were on our side. Harle’s body in the boot of a Jockey Club car at Kempton brought matters to a head. We had a very interesting meeting last night. If you’re still up for it, I can tell you that you now have everybody’s support. And I mean everybody.’
He sounded like he was knighting me. ‘What do you want me to do, Mac, get down on my knees and thank the Lord?’
He shrugged and looked hurt. ‘We’ve been skulking around in back alleys so long I thought you’d appreciate being, well, accepted.’
‘How gratifying! I’m so pleased to know that Jockey Club members have now voted not to hold their noses and cross the street when they see me approach. I’m honoured, but did they say anything in passing about returning my licence?’
‘I’m not going to bullshit you. That is still going to depend very heavily on getting a confession out of Kruger.’
‘Well, surprise, surprise.’
He looked at me. ‘Are you sticking with it?’
‘Can you get me out of here today?’
‘This morning.’
‘Can you get Cranley off my back?’
‘I’ve told him you are now officially employed by the Jockey Club…temporarily, of course.’
‘Of course!’
‘I said you’d be working on this case on the basis that the police, good as they are at their job, do not have enough time to dedicate exclusively to this particular problem.’
‘And how did Detective Sergeant Cranley take that little speech?’
‘Let’s say he didn’t applaud. I then told him that you would give the police all the help and informa
tion you could and that you’d expect the same from them.’
‘Fat chance. What have the press got to say about it this morning?’
‘Not that much in the racing papers who are closing ranks as usual, thank God, but a couple of the tabloids are featuring it, though that should soon blow over since Cranley intends to keep it low-profile.’
‘Now, I wonder why that is? Could it be anything to do with the fact that so far he’s made a complete balls of the whole thing?’
‘Probably.’ McCarthy looked at me expectantly.
‘Well? Are you still in?’
I nodded. ‘Either until they get me or the Jockey Club runs out of cars.’
44
McCarthy found me another car, a white Granada (‘It’ll make you feel like a cop’), and I returned to the cottage to bathe and change.
Mac had underplayed the press reports. Harle’s death hit the front pages in some papers. Roscoe was quoted as being ‘devastated’ by the news and repeated his story about Harle running out on him back in March and never contacting him since.
I slept for a while then prepared myself for another trip to Roscoe’s. On the drive down, thoughts of Jackie occupied my mind. I was missing her, regretting I wouldn’t be there for her ten o’clock call. I’d shaken off my suspicions of the previous night, though some dregs obstinately remained, making me feel guilty about harbouring them.
The gathering dusk closed around me as I crouched uncomfortably with my binoculars halfway up a tree, about three hundred yards from Roscoe’s front door. Things were bound to be stirred up by Harle’s murder and there was a reasonable chance Roscoe might be entertaining some interesting visitors.
It was midnight when I shimmied down to the ground, stiff, sore and cold. I could still smell the exhaust fumes of the car which had left Roscoe’s and passed below me a minute before. The two men inside had been with Roscoe for almost three hours. One was my little bumbling friend from the toilet of the Duke’s Hotel and the other was a young man I’d last seen lying unconscious on the Cheltenham turf – Phil Greene, Harle’s stand-in. Somehow, I didn’t think they’d been on a social call.