The Eddie Malloy Series

by Joe McNally

  I said, ‘How did you know Kruger was meeting me at Stratford?’

  Roscoe came alive for the first time with a protest, ‘It wasn’t me! I didn’t kill Kruger! It was Stoke’s guys!’

  ‘How did Stoke know?’ I said.

  ‘Perlman bugged Kruger’s phone.’

  Mac nodded and put a finger to his chin, ‘Take me back to this heroin income, was it significant?’

  ‘It helped Stoke pay a lot of the expenses. It was easy to make and sourcing it in France was simple. I’d send horses over with Harle when we needed more supplies. They were smuggled back in the horse box, and Skinner blended everything in the lab.’

  ‘And Harle sold it?’ I said.

  Roscoe sighed, nodding, ‘Until he got too fond of it himself.’

  ’And too fond of Charmain,’ I said.

  ‘That was what fucked everything up. He was a fool. We’d have made it through but for that. It got too personal for Stoke, and he started making poor decisions.’

  ‘Like buying savage horses to kill his young stable jockey?’

  Roscoe looked away, and said, ‘That was bad. But Greene was almost as stupid as Alan.’

  I leaned forward, ’Tell me this, who was it who came up with the methods, the ways to kill and torture?’

  ‘Stoke. He’d spend a lot of time on it.’

  Mac said, ‘You must have been scared yourself if he was that bad?’

  ‘He’s a psychopath.’

  We spent another ten minutes going over everything again, then Mac went to call Cranley. He returned to the table and looked at me, ‘Your nemesis is on his way.’

  ‘I’m his nemesis, Mac. I just wish we could find a way of sticking it to the bastard and letting I’m know who the smartest guy was in the end.’

  Mac said, ‘Well, we can always go back and talk again about the deal?’

  I got up. ‘No way, Mac! The deal’s done now. I’m going home. Jackie’s coming with me. Neither of us has been here today, okay?’

  Mac said, ‘Have you agreed this with Stoke and Skinner?’

  ‘I’m sure when you go in and tell them what the arrangement is, it’ll save them considerable embarrassment. What’s the saying, adding insult to injury? I think they’ll be only too pleased to claim it took most of the Jockey Club Security team to nail them rather than an ex-jockey and a young girl.’

  Mac reached to shake my hand, ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’

  ‘You’ll meet me tomorrow, Mac. I want you to drive up to Mandown gallops and see me on a racehorse for the first time in more than five years. I want you to hand me a piece of Jockey Club headed paper on which will be a lovely letter from the senior steward confirming I am once again a licensed jockey. I will show that piece of paper to a trainer I am about to call, and he will have a horse ready for me to school.’

  Mac smiled, ‘You’ve got it all worked out to a T, haven’t you?’

  ‘You bet.’

  ‘I’d hate to play you at chess,’ he said.

  I smiled. Mac raised a finger, ‘But I’d love to play you at poker.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure.’

  ‘We’ll see sometime.’

  ‘You are on!’

  76

  We didn’t go home. I hadn’t realized that it was almost midnight. We made the short trip to the Malt Shovel in Lambourn where they found us a room and a bottle of scotch.

  Jackie had brought me a pair of riding boots and a helmet from Roscoe’s place, and I put them on the floor by the wardrobe.

  She said, ‘I thought you’d leave them in the car until tomorrow?’

  ‘Too precious,’ I said. ‘I want to look at them.’

  She smiled wearily.

  We sat on the bed in quiet companionship and I tried to accept it was all over. I’d expected to feel elated, to be buzzing with the satisfaction of revenge, but none of it was there.

  All I felt was a deep contentment that Jackie was with me again, a massive happy relief that she hadn’t betrayed me and a steadily burrowing guilt at having suspected her.

  There was no lovemaking. When the trauma hit Jackie she got very weepy, and I spent half the night comforting her, and the other half coping with my deepening guilt over doubting her. Knowing she would never forgive me if she learnt of my suspicions, I overcame the urge to confess.

  In the morning, I left Jackie asleep, and went downstairs and made the call I’d planned to make the night before. It was to Grayson Lassiter, an old friend who was in the twilight of his training career.

  ‘Eddie! How good to hear from you! How are you?’

  ‘Never been better Grayson. I thought I’d do you the honour of legging me up on the first racehorse I’ll have sat on since I was warned off.’

  ‘I’d be delighted! What’s happened?’

  I explained, and Grayson agreed to bring a nice young gelding he thought highly of, and meet me on the gallops at half ten. I called Mac then to confirm everything, ‘You got the letter?’

  ‘It’s being faxed to me as we speak.’

  ‘Good. How was my friend DS Cranley when he pitched up?’

  ‘All flashing lights and business. I’ll tell you about it when I see you.’

  Jackie and I had breakfast in Lambourn, ‘You look miles better after that few hours’ sleep,’ I said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘What for? No need to apologize.’

  ‘I must have been running on pure adrenaline. It felt like something out of a film. It was only when you and Mister McCarthy marched Mister Roscoe inside that it all actually hit me.’

  I motioned with my hand toward the café window at the bright morning, ‘New day, new start, new world.’

  She smiled and nodded and reached to clutch my hand before I put it down. I said, ’A bit early for arm wrestling,’ and we laughed.

  77

  High on the gallops we looked out on that fresh morning across the thousands of acres of grass, at the criss-cross patterns made by the white railed sections. Rows of schooling fences ran along hedge lines. Most horses had finished their morning work, but a few dozen cantered or trotted, most heading toward home.

  Half a mile down the track, I saw a lone horseman and recognized the half-slumped style of Grayson Lassiter in the lemon, knitted polo neck he’d owned as long as I’d known him.

  Coming up the tarmac road, with perfect timing, was McCarthy in his Volvo. I smiled and turned to Jackie, ‘Funny how when everything comes together everything kind of comes together!’

  She laughed.

  Mac waved as he pulled in beside us. Grayson was two hundred yards away. He too raised a hand in greeting and I waved to him.

  Mac got out and smiled at me, ‘Aren’t you the cat that’s got the cream?’

  ‘So long as you’re the cat that’s got the letter.’

  He pulled it from his inside jacket pocket with a flourish, and he bowed, and handed it to me.

  “Edward Malloy Esquire” the envelope read.

  Jackie said, ‘You’re an esquire now. Open it!’

  I did. It was worded exactly as I’d wanted it and signed in broad dark ink by Peregrine Huntley, senior steward of The Jockey Club.

  I read it again, smiling, then looked at Mac, ‘I never thought this day would come.’

  He smiled, nodding, ‘Oh, it would have.’

  I stopped waving the letter and looked at him, ‘What do you mean?’

  He took out another envelope and gave it to me. The envelope was blank. I looked at him, puzzled. ‘Open it,’ Mac said.

  I pulled out a photocopy of a handwritten letter. It was Kruger’s statement, his confession that I’d had nothing to do with the doping that had cost me my licence. I read it twice, then looked up at McCarthy. He was smiling.

  ‘How long have you had this?’

  ‘Remember that morning at Stratford, when you so selfishly ran off and left me to explain everything?’

  I nodded slowly.

  ‘The police found i
t in his jacket pocket, in an envelope addressed to the senior steward. You’ll see that it’s unsigned.’

  I looked again at it and said, ‘When I spoke to him on the phone the night before Stratford, this is what he offered, to write it longhand and sign it in front of you. I told him no.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t listen.’

  ‘But he never signed it.’

  ‘I took it to the senior steward a week ago and argued your case. The Jockey Club have accepted that it’s his handwriting and the fact that the police found it helped the approval of my request to have your licence returned.’

  ‘You’ve known since that morning at Stratford I’d get my licence back?’

  He nodded. ‘If you’d been less of a hot head. If you’d stayed behind when I was almost begging you to, you’d have saved yourself an awful lot of trouble.’

  I stared at him. I was confused, angry, dizzy… ‘Mac, I almost lost my life last night,’ I held the letter up, ‘and I could have walked away from this weeks ago.’

  ‘No you couldn’t. You were in it up to your eyes. You wanted revenge, and you wanted to prove to Cranley that you were no fool, and you didn’t want to let down Danny Gordon’s wife.’

  ‘Maybe. But you used me.’

  He put his big hand on my shoulder and smiled, ‘I harnessed a runaway, Eddie. I did my job. And I tried to give you the chance last night to keep the glory, to get your own back on Cranley. But you wouldn’t let me get a word in, wouldn’t give me a chance to tell you about this.’

  I nodded slowly, raised my eyebrows, and looked at Jackie. She smiled and gave me a “never mind” shrug of the shoulders. I reddened as I looked at McCarthy. He smiled and said, ‘When would you like that game of poker?’

  We laughed, as Grayson pulled up alongside us on a shining bay gelding with a lovely head and honest eye. He slid off gracefully and walked round and hugged me without saying a word and I felt my eyes fill up.

  ‘Put your helmet on,’ Grayson said.

  I offered him the Jockey Club letter, ‘Do you want to see this?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Jackie fastened the helmet buckle for me and I walked slowly round to the side of this fine-tuned sixteen hands of muscle and bone and very slowly, I drew the reins along his neck until my fingers grasped the saddle. Grayson leaned down and offered his hand as my leg bent naturally so he could clasp my shin and up I went lightly, softly, beautifully, to sit once more on a thoroughbred racehorse, to look away into the distance, to the horizon where the earth ended and the sky started and my life began again.

  Book 2 Hunted

  Hunted

  Copyright © 2015 by Joe McNally & Richard Pitman

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Authors’ note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a work of the imagination of the authors or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  1

  As I was leaving the changing room at Haydock, things went suddenly quiet among the group to my left, eight or nine jockeys in various stages of undress. Con Layton’s Irish accent rose from their midst. ‘And did yer mammy iron your nice clean underpants for you before you came out? I’ll bet she still wipes yer bottom too? Is that right...? Don’t be shy, you can tell your Uncle Cornelius ...’

  I could only see the back of Layton’s head. Squinting through someone’s crooked elbow I saw the reddening face of the Irishman’s latest target, a newcomer named David Cooper. The boy was only nineteen and had the makings of a top jockey. Well, he had the skills; I wasn’t sure his heart was in it.

  He was a quiet kid, didn’t mix and didn’t speak much, mostly I suspected because he was painfully self-conscious about the distinct ‘th’ for ‘s’ lisp which made his upper-class accent sound staged and effeminate.

  Strained chuckles rose from Layton’s audience as he tormented the boy. The Irishman wouldn’t be doing it just for fun. The lad had a fancied ride against him in the big race; this was Layton starting to psych him out.

  Since my comeback I’d had little to do with Layton. He threw the occasional taunt my way, as he did with everyone else, but he’d been careful not to bait me too fiercely.

  He stooped close to young Cooper, almost nose to nose. He said, ‘D’ye still sleep with yer mammy?’ The boy flushed, unable to hold Layton’s gaze. His eyes flitted sideways and upward at the ring of faces watching him, begging without hope for someone to intervene.

  Layton said, ‘What does she look like with no clothes on?’

  Tears welled. No more chuckles from the audience. Some turned away, shaking their heads. The room was silent waiting for the kid’s reaction. A few would want to step in, but knew the youngster had to handle it himself if he wanted to survive.

  Layton said, ‘Come on, son, what does she look like? All the boys would like to know.’

  I was twenty feet away. I said, ‘That how you get your kicks, Layton?’

  Everyone turned. Layton pushed through them. Young Cooper watched, unable to hide his relief.

  Layton stopped a couple of paces in front of me. About five seven, three inches shorter than me, he was rat-like. His reddish-brown eyebrows met over his big nose. His white T-shirt was blotched with water, and he had a hand on each end of the yellow towel hanging round his neck. He said, ‘A voice from the gallery, Malloy. I didn’t quite catch what you said, now?’

  ‘I said is that how you get your kicks? Is that what turns you on, asking young boys about their mothers? Or is it just bullying that gives you the big charge?’

  Layton’s turn to redden. ‘You sayin’ I’m a bully, Malloy?’

  ‘A bully or a pervert, take your pick.’

  His fists balled, jaw muscles clenched, brow furrowed, but I could see he was uncertain. It must have been the first time in years he’d been challenged. Even worse, he didn’t know the strength of his opponent.

  A fight could leave him with a broken jaw which, aside from the humiliation, would mean he wouldn’t be riding for a while.

  Feet apart, arms folded, I stood calmly watching him try to make a decision. Though I’d told no one yet I was quitting, if it came to a brawl he had more to lose.

  His hands relaxed and he clasped them behind his back and put on a sly smile. ‘You’ve an awful insolent mouth on you, Malloy.’

  ‘I can live with it. Better than a mind like a sewer.’

  Now he knew he wasn’t going to win a battle of words. Taking a couple of steps toward me he leaned forward until I could see the tiny blue veins in the whites of his eyes. He said, ‘You and me must get together some time soon.’

  I held his gaze. ‘Anytime. Just give me a couple of days’ notice so I can arrange a vaccination.’

  A few laughed. There was one outright guffaw and that triggered him; he knew he had to do something. With our faces so close, I guessed it would be a head-butt and I moved just as he tried it, stepping aside as he over-balanced.

  I hit him in the ribs, then in the kidneys. He grunted and went to his knees. Grabbing the towel, I looped it around his neck and pulled a tight stranglehold while I stood on his left calf to stop him rising.

  He gurgled, clutching. I leaned close to his ear. ‘How does it feel, Layton? What’s it like to be on the receiving end?’ I jerked the towel tighter and his tongue came out.

  I let go. He slumped forward, head on the bench, saliva dripping. I stepped away. There were maybe twenty people around us, most watching me, some staring at Layton.

  I turned to leave and heard him trying to rise. Sprawled against the bench face up, he was breathing hard, glaring at me. ‘You’re
a fucking dead man, Malloy.’

  ‘Top marks for perception.’ I said.

  Layton looked puzzled, as one of his buddies, Meese, helped him away to the toilets.

  The buzz of conversation resumed. Colin Blake squeezed my arm. ‘Nice one, Eddie, but you’ve done yourself no favours there, mate.’

  I smiled at him. ‘You’d be surprised.’ The confrontation had boosted my self-esteem, though I wasn’t sure how much of the bravado had come from the knowledge that after today I would never be in a changing room with Layton again.

  On my way out a couple of the lads slapped my back and said well done. I felt as if I’d won a race.

  In his father’s luminous yellow and red colours young Cooper was sitting on the scales, weighing out for the first. Still embarrassed, he glanced at me, his discomfort obvious.

  Not wanting to make him feel obliged, I smiled briefly and walked on, but he stuck out a hand to grip my arm as I passed. I stopped. ‘Thank you,’ he said, avoiding the shortened version so he wouldn’t have to lisp the ‘s’.

  ‘Forget it. Good luck today.’

  He smiled weakly and nodded, causing the scale needle to bob between ten stone ten and ten twelve. I left him with his troubles and took mine outside.

  2

  The oval horsewalk was empty but the runners for the first would soon be in and the crowds would form around the rails to watch them parade. Then the bell would ring in the changing room and the jockeys would come out and make their way through the admiring throng into the arena.

  They’d huddle with trainer and owner and friends and talk tactics, discuss plans. Then they’d mount and be led out, staring straight ahead above the crowds, feeling that tight thrill that comes from being different from the masses, from knowing that among the millions who love racing you are one of the main players.

  And I wouldn’t be there.