The Eddie Malloy Series

by Joe McNally

  I got into the car, already anticipating Jackie’s call. Maybe she’d have picked up something worthwhile today. She’d had nothing to report the previous two evenings and in a way I was glad; at least it kept her safe.

  I reached the exit within a minute of leaving my parking space, which was bad news for Phil Greene. If I’d been delayed a while, I might have spotted him driving in. If I’d stayed for that drink, I’d have seen him meeting Stoke in the bar. If I hadn’t gone home when I did, it’s just possible I could have saved his life.

  53

  Next morning, half my face was shaved when the phone rang. As I lifted the receiver, it slipped across the shaving cream on my fingers and clattered on the small table.

  I picked it up again. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Eddie,’ the voice was tense.

  ‘Mac. What’s up?’

  ’Have you see the papers?’

  ‘They don’t deliver here in the backwoods.’

  ‘Phil Greene was killed at Newbury yesterday.’

  Logic told me he was mistaken. I didn’t answer.

  ‘Eddie?’

  ‘I’m still here. What happened?’

  ‘He was savaged by a horse. They found him in its stable after racing, ribs smashed, liver punctured, both arms broken. The official cause of death was severe head injuries.’

  It was beginning to come together. ‘Was the horse called Castleford?’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘I was at Newbury yesterday. I saw the horse take a mad turn and savage his jockey and his lad.’

  ‘That’s right. Do you know who owns Castleford?’

  ‘I don’t know who owned him when he arrived at the track, but I’ve a fair idea who owned him when he killed Phil Greene.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Howard Stoke.’

  ‘How the hell-?’

  ‘I added two and two and got the right answer, for once.’

  I told him about Stoke’s behaviour and how he’d followed Castleford and his trainer as the horse was led away after being caught.

  ‘Who found Greene?’ I asked

  ‘One of the groundsmen, checking boxes before leaving.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘About eight.’

  ‘Have you interviewed Stoke?’

  ‘One of my men spoke to him late last night.’

  ‘What’s his story?’

  ‘He claims he was having a drink in the bar when Greene arrived about six-fifteen and they got talking. He said Greene was boisterous, happy, and drinking large whiskeys. Stoke told him about the horse he’d bought, said it was absolutely crazy and there wasn’t a man alive who could ride him and all that Wild West stuff. Stoke said he’d had a few too many himself. Anyway, according to him, Greene boasted there wasn’t a horse alive he couldn’t ride. He said he would get him out of his box and ride him bareback into the bar.

  ‘Stoke says he stopped all the kidding at this point and told Greene there was no way he was to go near the horse. Greene wouldn’t let up and Stoke, quote, had to get serious and threaten him to stay away for his own good.

  ‘Apparently Greene then calmed down but ten minutes later he disappeared, supposedly to the toilet. He never came back. Stoke reckons he was determined to bring the horse out, just to show he could do it. My man said Stoke seemed very upset.’

  ‘Did he ask Stoke why he bought the horse?’

  ‘Yes. Stoke claims he didn’t want to see the horse put down, but he didn’t want it to race again either, in case it savaged anyone else.’

  ‘Did your man believe him?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘You’ve got some gullible people working for you, Mac.’

  ‘That’s not exactly fair comment, Eddie, we had no reason to suspect Stoke was involved.’

  ‘Listen, as soon as Stoke bought that horse the first thing he did at his pitch was make a phone call which was, very probably, to arrange for Greene to come to Newbury.’

  ‘Eddie-’ He started back on the defensive.

  ‘Mac, I’m sorry. You’re right. Your man didn’t know enough of what was going on. Forget what I said.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Have the police interviewed Stoke?’ I asked.

  ‘They saw him last night. I spoke to them just before I called you. They said it’s unlikely they’ll be looking for anyone else but they’d wait for the verdict from the inquest.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘As far as they’re concerned, Stoke’s alibi, if he needed one, is cast iron. There were at least thirty people in that bar when Greene went out and with all the noise that had come from the table most of them would have noticed he’d left and Stoke was still there.’

  ‘And why do you think Stoke was generating the noise?’

  ‘Well, that’s a thought.’

  ‘A thought! Do me a favour, Mac, if I’m still in one piece when this is over, point me in the opposite direction from Racecourse Security Services and tell me not to stop until I clear the horizon.’

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘Do you know when the inquest is?’ I asked.

  ‘Probably early next week. I’ll contact you as soon as I have the details.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Right, I’ll leave you to it then.’

  ‘Mac, before you go, how did Greene get access to the racecourse stables, where were Security?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘We’ve identified a breach there, which is being investigated.’

  ‘Cut the official crap, Mac. What happened?’

  ‘Last day of the meeting. Stoke’s was the only horse still there.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The guy on the gate skived off for a beer.’

  ‘One of your people?’

  ‘It’ll cost him his job.’

  ‘It cost Greene his life.’

  54

  The inquest was on Tuesday: death by misadventure. They buried him on Thursday, a warm afternoon under a cloudless sky. The heavy scent of wildflowers from the field next to the small cemetery drifted over the wreaths.

  The Roscoes and Stokes attended, and Skinner was there. Half a dozen jockeys turned up.

  After final prayers, the mourners drifted off in small groups. I made my way over and fell in behind Skinner’s gathering. I deliberately caught Stoke’s eye. He looked smug. Roscoe ignored me and Skinner’s returned glance was evil.

  I scanned the Life each morning for word on Roscoe’s new stable jockey. His announcement after the funeral had been, ‘We’ll have to wait and see. It’s hardly the first thing on our minds at this sad time.’

  How touching.

  And, the reporter had asked, would Mr. Perlman, have a say in the choice of new stable jockey?

  ‘Mister Perlman,’ Roscoe told him, ‘leaves the handling of all his racing affairs to me. I will choose the new jockey.’

  As yet, he hadn’t.

  Stoke was responsible for Greene’s death. I wondered if he’d organized Harle’s, or had Greene been telling me the truth about Harle being killed by his ‘business associates’?

  If Stoke controlled the hit men, why hadn’t he used them to kill Greene instead of taking a chance himself? I needed more information on Stoke’s background.

  One person who should know Stoke better than anyone was his wife Charmain. I wondered if she’d talk. She’d looked drawn and haggard at the funeral. If Phil Greene’s drunken boasts of her being his mistress were true, that might explain why she’d seemed so stressed. But the strains of living with Stoke couldn’t be helping her either if he often behaved as he had with me at the Champion Hurdle party.

  He probably beat the hell out of her if she looked the wrong way at the milkman, and when he went racing she’d be shut in that big house in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do but watch the trees grow.

  I reckoned she’d be sick of Stoke’s idea of domestic bliss. I remembered what she’d been like as a teenager; she wouldn’t have stood Stoke’
s treatment for two minutes back then. How had she got herself involved with him? Why? How much did she know and what would she be willing to tell?

  I checked The Sporting Life classified ads and found that Stoke planned to be at York next Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. A long way from home. On at least one of those nights his wife would have my company.

  55

  At ten o’clock on Friday night, the day after Greene’s funeral, my phone rang. Thinking it was Jackie, I hurried to answer.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Eddie Malloy?’

  ‘That’s right.’ I didn’t recognize the accented voice immediately.

  ‘I have information you may want.’

  The same voice I’d last heard shouting on Roscoe’s answer-phone. ‘Kruger?’ I asked

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Information on what, Mister Kruger?’

  ‘On the doping ring you are trying to break.’

  ‘Why should you want to give me information on something you are running?’

  ‘I am not running it, not anymore.’

  ‘They threw you out?’

  ‘Wrong. I am stepping out. I came into this to make a profit, not to have people killed. You know that, Mister Malloy. I am not a murderer.’

  ‘So who is the murderer?’

  ‘You must meet me tomorrow.’

  ‘Sure, so I can be next in the morgue.’

  ‘Mister Malloy, you do me a disservice, I told you-’

  ‘You did me a pretty big disservice yourself five years ago.’

  ‘That was business. There was nothing personal.’

  ‘And isn’t this the same business, Mister Kruger, only for higher stakes?’

  ‘They told me there would be no killing, now three people are dead. I will not take any further part in it.’ His voice was calm and measured and he sounded, God help me, sincere. ‘So what do you get out of it by giving me information?’ I asked.

  ‘I will give you evidence to convict the madman in charge and you will keep me out of it. I will be leaving the country tomorrow.’

  ‘Why not just leave anyway? Why give me evidence?’

  ‘Because I want to sleep easily in my bed. I will be able to do that if I know this man has been locked up for a long time.’

  It was beginning to sound plausible. I knew Kruger wasn’t the type for murder. A con man, fraudster and all-round crook, but he wasn’t into violence on that scale.

  ‘If you say I’ll be safe at this meeting tomorrow, then you won’t mind me bringing someone else along, will you?’

  ‘No police.’

  ‘No police, but a member of the Racecourse Security Services.’

  ‘That is the same.’

  ‘It’s not. He has no powers of arrest other than as a citizen and that’s not what I want him for.’

  ‘Why, then, do you want him?’

  ‘I want him to witness a sworn statement from you that I had nothing to do with that doping ring five years ago.’

  ‘I can write that statement and sign it and bring it with me.’

  ’No. Without a witness, I’d be accused of forging your signature.’

  ‘I will write the whole statement by hand. You could not forge that.’

  ‘No deal. I want to bring my own witness, and I want you to speak the confession into a tape recorder. Then I have a witness and your voice too, admitting everything. No arguments then.’

  ‘Mister Malloy-’

  ‘Those are the terms, Mister Kruger. If you want this lifelong safety, if you want me to deal with this man, those are the terms.’

  He was silent. I thought he had gone, ‘Kruger?’

  ‘All right. I will see you and your friend tomorrow.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘You know the field which is used as a car park at Stratford racecourse?’

  ‘Yes. What time?’

  ‘Ten o’clock.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He hung up.

  I stood staring at the phone, trying to take in the prospect of getting back my licence, of riding racehorses once more, of a second chance at life.

  Was he bluffing? Was it a trap? I walked to the window and stared into the deep woods. If I told Mac the truth, he’d insist on having a squad of armed cops there. Was I entitled to keep it from him, that Kruger was the man we’d be meeting?

  If it turned out to be a trap, was I justified in risking McCarthy’s life as well as my own?

  I sat by the cold fireplace, head in hands. Everything I knew about Kruger chimed with what he’d said. He’d had no taste for violence. Even all those years ago when my rage had driven me to beat him savagely, there had been no comeback, no revenge attack on me, even though Kruger could’ve organized that with a one-minute phone call.

  No, I must dump the doubts and believe what he had told me. A decision had to be made, and this was it.

  I called McCarthy. ‘Mac, I need a big favour, two big favours.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Number one, meet me at Stratford tomorrow morning at ten. Number two, don’t ask me any questions on the phone, I’ll fill you in when I see you.’

  ‘There’s no racing at Stratford tomorrow.’

  ‘Meet me in the field they use for the public car park. And bring your Dictaphone.’

  I POURED a drink and began to let the pictures of me, in silks once again, on horseback, begin trickling back into my mind.

  I was on a real high when Jackie phoned at ten-thirty. She sounded anxious. ‘Eddie! I’ve been trying to get through for ages, is everything all right?’

  ‘Couldn’t be better. The reason you couldn’t get through was that I had a call that’s given me the best break of the case. In fact, it’ll probably crack it completely.’

  I told her everything, blabbing like an excited schoolboy. She said, ‘Eddie, I don’t like the smell of this.’

  ‘Look, don’t worry! I won’t take any chances. Mac’s agreed to come.’

  ‘What time will you be home? Can I phone to make sure you’re all right?’

  ‘We’re due to meet him at ten at Stratford racecourse but depending on how it goes I might not come straight back here. Chances are I won’t. Listen Jackie, don’t worry. Ring me tomorrow night if you can.’

  ‘Okay.’

  We talked for a while. There was nothing to report at her end except a noticeable lack of grief at Roscoe’s about Phil Greene’s death. Plans for our future took up the rest of the conversation, and I went to bed confident we would be together again soon.

  56

  McCarthy was at Stratford at ten. So, it seemed, was Kruger, as the only other car was a black Vauxhall parked two hundred yards away in the empty field.

  McCarthy pushed open his passenger door for me but I declined. ‘Let’s walk. It’ll give me time to tell you what’s happening.’

  We went through the gate toward the big black Carlton, which faced us head-on.

  ‘You got the whadyamacallit,’ I asked, ‘the recorder?’

  ‘The Dictaphone. It’s in my pocket.’

  ‘Let me see it.’

  He stopped and frowned. I clenched my jaw and stared at him. He sighed and drew the small beige machine from his jacket pocket.

  ‘Good,’ I said, ‘In that black car is Mister Gerard Kruger.’

  Mac grabbed my arm, ‘You are kidding me!’

  ‘I’m not kidding you, Mac, and he’s here to do us a big favour.’

  We were fifty yards from the car. Mac stooped, trying to see who was in there, ‘Well, it looks like he's on his own.’

  ‘He is on his own,’ I said, ‘and he’s promised to tell everything so long as he can then walk away.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he didn’t sign up for any killings, and he wants the man who is carrying out those killings locked up for a long time so he can sleep safe in his bed.’

  Mac stooped again and stared. I said, ‘Mac, you’re going to spook him. His engine is still running. It won’t take much for
him to hit that gas pedal and take off. Come on.’

  We walked. Mac kept his eyes fixed on the black Carlton, he was getting edgy again. ‘I don’t like this Eddie. He’s seen us. We’re walking toward him. Why not switch off his engine now?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mac. Maybe he’s cold and likes to keep his heater on.’

  ‘Or maybe, as soon as we’re close enough, he’ll accelerate and run us down.’

  ‘If he does, you go left and I’ll go right. One of us’ll survive.’

  ‘Don’t be flippant, Eddie, for all you know-’

  ‘Mac,’ We were ten yards from the car now, ‘what’s that sticking through his window?’

  ‘Shit!’

  We ran to the car. McCarthy yanked the rubber hose pipe from the small gap and I pulled the driver’s door open to haul Kruger out. But his skin was cold, his limbs stiff.

  My jockey’s licence, within an arm’s length last night, had not so much receded over the horizon as disappeared into space. I had to turn away, fighting a sudden urge to punch Kruger’s cold, dead face.

  McCarthy switched off the engine and looked at me. ‘Suicide?’ he asked.

  ‘Suicide, bollocks!’ I said. ‘They doped him, knocked him out or something and stuck him in there. Probably did it somewhere else and drove him here. His phone must have been bugged.’

  McCarthy looked distressed and I began to wonder if this was the first corpse he’d seen. He leaned on the bonnet, staring down at his big reflection in the shiny paintwork and said quietly, ‘We’d better get the police.’

  ‘You get the police, I’m going.’

  His head snapped up. ‘What are you talking about, going? You’re staying here to give a statement to the police.’

  I marched over to face him across the bonnet and just stopped myself from grasping the wing and leaving fingerprints all over it. ‘Mac, who was there when Danny Gordon was found dead?’

  ‘You were.’