The Eddie Malloy Series

by Joe McNally

  Resisting a brief crazy temptation to break into the grooms’ quarters and find Jackie, I jogged to where I’d hidden the car and headed home.

  I was in Cheltenham by nine next morning, drinking coffee in a restaurant overlooking the broad boulevard in the centre of town. Roscoe had announced the appointment of his new stable jockey, twenty-one-year-old Phil Greene. I doubted that all he was doing at Roscoe’s last night was signing his contract.

  And who was the little man who’d been with him, the same one who’d been shadowing Harle at the Duke’s Hotel? The difference this time was that Greene obviously knew who he was. Harle hadn’t, or so he’d claimed at the time.

  I rang McCarthy’s office and his secretary said sorry, he wasn’t in, and who was calling?

  ‘Eddie Malloy.’

  ‘Oh, Mister McCarthy did leave a message that he’d be at Salisbury races this afternoon.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll see him there.’

  It was the warmest day of the year so far, and when I reached the racecourse, I decided to have a beer before seeking out McCarthy.

  Carrying the drink to the corner, I tucked myself in to watch the world go by. Part of that world was McCarthy, in a big hurry. I left my beer and followed him, catching him as he slowed approaching the weighing room. I touched his shoulder, ‘Mac.’

  He turned, looking flustered. ‘Later Eddie, please. After racing.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll see you in the car park.’

  Standing by the rails, I watched the next race, a decent sprint handicap. I was half a furlong from the winning post and as they charged past me, the whips cracking on rumps sounded like a busy rifle range.

  All around me the crowds bawled at their horses to run faster, their jockeys to hit harder. As the winner passed the post, the roar collapsed to a murmur in seconds. I headed toward the winner’s enclosure.

  Walking steadily on the outside of the crowd flow, I saw Charmain crossing the lawn. Elegantly dressed and beautiful as ever, moving smartly and staring straight ahead, she looked pleased with herself.

  Stepping out of the shuffling line, I turned and watched her walk away and thought about the last time I’d seen her; the Champion Hurdle party at the Duke’s Hotel.

  A fine party that. One worth reflecting on. Charmain had been there, so had Roscoe, and Harle and our little bumbling friend who’d visited Roscoe’s with Greene last night. Had Skinner been at the party too, and Phil Greene?

  I remembered Charmain’s ill-mannered husband, although I couldn’t recall his name. How had she escaped him today? I doubted he knew she was parading about at Salisbury races drawing lustful glances from every heterosexual man she passed.

  His name came to me, Stoke, a bookmaker. Maybe he was here. I went to the betting ring to find out. He was standing on his stool, deep in conversation with someone else I knew, young Phil Greene, Roscoe’s new jockey. Well, well, well, another ingredient. The pot was bubbling nicely.

  Stoke was leaning over, his head close to Greene’s mouth. His lips weren’t moving so I guessed Greene’s were. He talked with Stoke until they were interrupted by punters wanting a bet on the final race.

  A twenty-five-to-one chance won it. The bookies smiled and got off their stools and the punters grimaced and made for the exits, dropping crumpled tickets on the way. Stoke jammed a wad of notes into the inside pocket of his jacket, peeled a few from another bundle to pay off his clerk, then walked with Greene toward the stands.

  I followed them to the car park where they stopped alongside a big sky-blue Mercedes. Charmain was in the back seat, though neither of the men seemed to acknowledge her presence. Stoke opened the driver’s door, took off his jacket and slung it in beside his wife.

  He got in and looked in the mirror, fingering his too long hair and his too thin tie. Greene slid in. As they strapped on their seat belts, I made for my own car, parked near the exit.

  The Merc’s reversing lights glowed and Stoke swung it for the gate. I followed. McCarthy would have to wait.

  45

  They kept a sensible speed, heading North on the A34 past Oxford. I found myself dropping farther behind as we got deeper into the countryside. The roads got narrower and other cars scarce. Stoke wouldn’t have to be a mastermind to realize he was being followed. I tried to keep him in sight but it was a tricky game, the hedgerows grew high in places and if Stoke took a turn-off while he was out of view I’d lose him.

  Just after seven, they stopped about a mile through a small village called Shipton-on-Cherwell. Stoke pulled up by a bridge near a neat white cottage on the canal and Greene got out. He turned and bowed to speak to Stoke who revved the engine, sending puffs of grey smoke from the tailpipe. Greene straightened and slammed the door and the Merc took off over the narrow bridge. He watched it go and was rewarded with a glance and a secretive wave from Charmain.

  I carried on down the hill, slowing to a crawl approaching the bridge. Greene hurried along the canal bank by a line of four barges moored in the muddy water.

  Two boats were covered by tarpaulins; another was a shiny varnished brown with brass fittings and a black chimney three feet high. Greene jumped onto the deck of the third barge in line, its yellow and green paint looking faded and cracked. The name on the side was Lickety Split.

  The houses on the edge of the village were in view. I drove through the long evening shadows into Shipton. I stopped at a garage and asked the man behind the counter about the boat.

  ‘I’ve passed it a couple of times,’ I said, ‘always fancied living on a boat for a year and that one looks like it wouldn’t cost too much.’

  ‘The guy who owns it lived on it himself for a few years. He just started renting it out at the end of last year when he got a new job down in Lambourn,’ the garage man said.

  ‘Think he’d be open to offers?’

  ‘You can only try.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got his phone number?’

  ‘Afraid not. Skinner’s his name. A vet. I heard he’d got a job with a trainer after he’d had a few problems. Less said the better I suppose.’

  ‘I know Lambourn. I’ve got a few mates there so I should be able to track him down. Thanks.’

  ‘No problem. Hope to see you back here then, if you get the boat. Good luck with it.’

  ‘Thanks. You’ve been helpful.’ I said.

  Really helpful.

  I stopped at a phone box and called McCarthy.

  ‘Eddie.’ He didn’t sound delighted.

  ‘Sorry I missed you at Salisbury today, I got kind of sidetracked.’

  ‘Anything worthwhile?’

  I told him about Greene and the Stokes, and that Greene was staying in Skinner’s boat.

  ‘What do you make of it?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know, but it set me thinking about Skinner. Can you remember him when he worked on the racecourse?’

  ‘Remember him well. It was one of my lads who had to tell him his services would no longer be required.’

  ‘For betting, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yep. Compulsive gambling plus needles and horses are not a good mix.’

  ‘How long ago did he lose his job?’

  ‘Must be a couple of years now.’

  ‘Was Howard Stoke around at the time? Making a book, I mean?’

  ‘I can’t remember, but I could find out. What’s the connection?’

  ‘I don’t know that there is one, yet. But it would be interesting to know if Skinner bet with Stoke and if so, how much. There’s obviously some tie-up between Stoke and Greene, and with Greene using Skinner’s boat, well, there could just be a niche in Roscoe’s set-up where we’ll find Stoke fits nicely.

  ‘And, last night I saw Greene leaving Roscoe’s with the same bloke who was trailing Harle in the Duke’s Hotel after the Champion Hurdle.’

  ‘Are you sure it was the same man?’

  ‘Positive. Small, chubby, very thick round glasses, unmistakable.’

  There was silence for a few
seconds. I thought the line had gone dead. ‘Mac?’

  He spoke. ‘Remember I told you we interviewed Perlman before accepting his registration as an owner?’

  ‘Uhuh. At his big house in Wiltshire, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. Did I tell you the physical description as far as my man could recall?’

  ‘Let me guess, small and chubby with very thick round glasses?’

  ‘Got it in one.’

  ‘Well, well, well,’ I smiled.

  ‘So it looks like there is a Perlman after all,’ Mac said.

  ‘No chance. The little guy has got to be a decoy. Kruger’s the man, believe me.’

  ‘Don’t get stuck on Kruger, Eddie, you’re too single-minded with him. You’ve got to allow for other possibilities.’

  ‘Come on, Mac! I told you about the call Kruger left on Roscoe’s answering machine. Let me remind you what he said, “Who is running this effing show, Roscoe?”’

  ‘So who do you think Kruger was complaining about in that call? Who’s trying to take over the show?’

  ’Roscoe. That’s what it sounded like.’ I said.

  ‘That depends how you interpret it, doesn’t it?’

  That made me ponder. ‘I suppose it does.’

  ‘You shouldn’t jump to conclusions, Eddie. Don’t discount that little guy.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll keep him in mind.’

  ‘I mean it!’

  ‘Okay, okay.’

  ‘So, what’s next?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, Greene seems a cocky bastard. I think I’ll pay him a visit under the guise of a journalist and butter him up a bit.’

  ‘I’d say you were a hundred-to-one Eddie. Roscoe or Kruger or whoever is bound to have him briefed to give you a wide berth.’

  ‘We’ll see. Remember, officially, he’s just signed with Roscoe so they might not have pulled him in yet to whatever racket they’re running. Why, for instance, hasn’t Roscoe moved him out of the boat and into Harle’s old place?’

  ‘Maybe he’s afraid of ghosts.’

  ‘Maybe he is Mac, maybe he is.’ I smiled.

  46

  The following evening, I was back at the canal-side. I crossed the small bridge to the footpath. The water was so still I could see insects hopping on the surface. The boat with the brass fittings and polished wood had gone, leaving Skinner’s and the other tarpaulin-covered boats, motionless as though the green slime surrounding them had anchored them to the bank.

  I stepped onto Skinner’s boat and it rolled under my weight. A little tattered red pennant hung limp from a thin six-inch pole on the roof.

  Above a small entrance door was a Lucas headlamp the glass dirty and holed through the C. An air-gun pellet lay flattened behind the glass.

  I tried the door: it was locked. Returning to the towpath, I moved along the side looking through the windows, but dingy curtains hid the interior.

  As I walked to the rear of the boat, a man came down the towpath about a hundred yards away, running fast in my direction and accelerating as he closed on me.

  He ran faster, sprinting. Reaching me, he went past and slowed down to stop at the front of the boat. He bent forward, hands on knees, and I walked toward him. He wore a black track suit of heavy cotton. Sweat dripped from his forehead and cheekbones and shone on the back of his neck. His face was red and he panted hard. His name was Phil Greene.

  I sat on the edge of his boat. He didn’t look up. All he would see from there would be my knees and shoes. ‘In training for the new season, Phil?’ I asked.

  He nodded and pearls of sweat bounced and swung from his curly hair.

  ‘Tough going,’ I said.

  He looked at me. ‘I can handle it.’

  I smiled. ‘I’m sure you can.’

  He straightened until he was looking down at me. ‘What can I do for you, Mister…?’

  He knew who I was. ‘Malloy,’ I said. ‘Eddie Malloy.’

  ‘I thought I’d seen your face somewhere.’ His breathing had steadied. Squatting, he reached to the side of the path and plucked some of the longer blades of grass. ‘You used to be a jockey, didn’t you?’

  Used to be…It always struck home. ‘A long time ago,’ I said.

  ‘Couldn’t have been that long ago.’

  ‘Long enough. You can be a has-been in this game in six months.’

  ‘If you’re a mug you can.’ He darted a childish little smile at me.

  ‘Or if you get your neck broken.’ I smiled back.

  He didn’t read the tone or he ignored it. ‘That’s for mugs too, riding dodgy novices. No more of that for me.’ He smiled his smile again. I was beginning to dislike it.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘A cushy number for you this season, riding for Roscoe.’

  ‘And for a few seasons after that if I’ve got anything to do with it.’

  ‘Which is exactly what I came here to talk to you about.’

  He looked up from where he was squatting like a kid, absent-mindedly rolling the blades of grass he’d plucked between his palms.

  ‘How do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘Ever read the profiles of racing personalities in The Sporting Life?’

  ‘Uhuh.’

  ‘How’d you like to be a subject?’

  ‘Who’d want to read about me?’ he asked in a silly, coy manner that filled me with an urge to throw him in the canal.

  ‘People are always interested in the young hopefuls,’ I said through gritted teeth.

  He stopped rubbing the crumpled grass between his hands, opened them and let the small green cigar come to rest in his palm. Raising his hand to his lips, he blew a short hard breath and the grass disappeared. Only his eyes moved to stare at me. The annoying smile was still on his face but there was a sudden hardness, a greedily protective sheen. ‘I’m no hopeful, Malloy, I’ve arrived.’

  I didn’t like the look and I didn’t like him calling me Malloy, this punk who wouldn’t normally last five minutes.

  ‘Okay, you’ve arrived, I’m not arguing. But you must be thinking already of your first championship, riding a Gold Cup or a National winner?’

  ‘That’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘One thing you need in this game is confidence and you’re not short of that.’

  ‘You bet I’m not. There’s only one way I’m going and that’s to the top.’

  As if to reinforce it, he stood up. I stayed sitting while he walked the towpath, ten paces each way.

  ‘A full page in the Life isn’t going to do your career prospects any harm, is it?’

  ‘I know it isn’t. That’s why I’m going to let you do it.’

  ‘Good. When suits you?’

  ‘Now, if you want.’

  ‘Fine. Why don’t you get changed and, we’ll go and have a few drinks and outline the structure of the piece.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said and sprung past me onto the deck.

  47

  The pub Greene chose was a short drive away, though it seemed a long one for me. He didn’t stop talking about how well he was going to do in the new season, how much his riding had matured, how good horses would let him show his real worth.

  Still, his boasting had benefits. If Roscoe had indeed warned him to avoid me, it seemed likely he’d ignore the trainer and rely on his own judgment. And he’d already decided I was a nobody.

  We pulled in at a white-walled building with a thickly thatched roof. Greene nodded and smiled at a few people as we walked to the bar.

  ‘What are you drinking?’ I asked.

  ‘Canadian Club on the rocks.’

  ‘I’ll have a bottle of beer, please.’

  ‘Certainly, gentlemen,’ said the barman, who was all dickied up with a nice white shirt and black bow tie.

  He brought the drinks and I paid.

  ‘Let’s go out in the last of the sunshine,’ Greene said.

  ‘A bit noisy for interviewing.’

  ‘Break your concentration?’ he said sni
dely.

  I sat at a table by the window and took out a mini tape-recorder.

  ‘No, just might drown out your highly intelligent and interesting answers.’

  He took it as a compliment, smiled and sat down. It wasn’t difficult to fill a tape and we soon reached the stage where he was happy to keep talking, knowing the machine would pick it up, while I got us another drink.

  He stayed with the clear-coloured whiskey and the more he drank the more he talked. Calling a halt around 9.30pm, I switched off the tape.

  ‘Are you sure that’ll be enough?’ he asked.

  ‘Could write a book from that, never mind a profile.’

  He smiled, linked his hands behind his head and slouched in the corner of the sofa-type seat. ‘Maybe someday I will write a book,’ he said. ‘Might even let you ghost it for me,’ he nodded at his empty glass, ‘if you buy me another drink, that is.’

  When the closing bell rang, Greene objected, shouting for more whiskey. The barman ignored him and began clearing up glasses, putting towels over beer pumps and empty bottles in crates.

  Greene was getting abusive. I reached across the table. ‘Come on, Phil, we can go back to my place for a drink.’

  As he stood up and gained his balance, he suddenly looked at me very seriously, ‘Got any Canadian Club at home?’

  ‘Plenty,’ I lied.

  He was surprisingly quiet for the first few miles of the trip, and I glanced across occasionally. His eyes were half-shut and he nodded unevenly like one of those rear-shelf toy dogs.

  We must have been halfway there when he said, ‘I’ve got a mistress, you know.’

  I slowed but didn’t respond. I thought ‘mistress’ an odd word for him to use.

  ‘She’s beautiful and I love her and when I’m champion jockey she’s going to marry me.’