The Eddie Malloy Series

by Joe McNally

  He gazed at me. I looked away, staring into the fire, and he said, ‘That means left alone by me as much as Layton, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Mac, the reason I helped you last time was to get my licence back. Okay, sometimes it was great playing detective, but when I found myself on the receiving end of beatings and threats, when I had to handle idiotic cops and junkies and psychos, it began losing its attraction. And on top of everything else, I was shit-scared most of the time.’

  He smiled at me. ‘But you got the job done. You were good.’

  ‘As the Chinese stamp collector said, philately will get you nowhere.’

  ‘So you’re sitting this one out?’

  ‘If it’s all the same to you.’

  He sipped coffee and put on his grave face, but behind those dark eyes, devilment glinted. ‘I don’t think you’ll be able to, Eddie.’

  He loved this.

  ‘Out with it, Mac.’

  ‘I was at Windsor yesterday... There was a rumour going round, one I first heard on Sunday evening.’ He paused, and drank.

  ‘And?’ I said.

  ‘They’re saying you had Tommy Gilmour murdered.’

  10

  I stared at McCarthy, conscious of holding my breath. ‘You’re winding me up, Mac?’

  He shook his head. ‘Wish I was.’

  ‘Come on, why would I want Tommy dead?’

  ‘They’re saying you did it to get his rides.’

  I laughed, half-manic, half-nervous, though I felt relieved as I slumped in the chair. ‘Is that all? Is that my sole motive for having Tommy Gilmour murdered?’

  He shrugged. ‘As far as I know.’

  ‘Well that’s all right then.’ I held my glass up, ‘Cheers.’

  McCarthy stared at me. ‘Look, you could be in very deep trouble here.’

  ‘Mac! For God’s sake, it’s too ridiculous for words!’

  ‘I know that and you know that, but you can’t just write it off so easily for others.’

  ‘Look, I’m a jockey. I ride horses for a living. I go racing, then I come back to this big house and eat and sleep then go racing again. I’m a jockey, not a bloody Mafia man!’

  He was irritated. ‘So people are supposed to just ignore your criminal record, your history of violence?’

  ‘My history of violence, as you know, is confined to kicking the shit out of the guy who framed me which, as you also know, was what earned me my criminal record, so stop exaggerating.’

  ‘What about your little barbed wire episode last summer?’

  ‘It was them or me, Mac, come on!’

  He squirmed a bit. ‘I’m only trying to play devil’s advocate, Eddie. These are serious allegations.’

  ‘Mac, think about it! Anybody with half a brain would laugh you off the racecourse if you repeated all this. Me, having someone murdered just for his rides? What do I do if Barber’s horses go down with the virus, murder someone else?’

  McCarthy put his cup down and hauled himself out of the chair. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you’re obviously determined to write this off without any more thought.’

  ‘It doesn’t deserve any more thought,’ I said, standing up. ‘Who started these rumours anyway?’

  He shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

  ‘Well who did you hear it from?’

  ‘Half a dozen people.’

  Resting my elbows wearily on the mantelpiece, I cradled my head in my hands. Then, remembering the note and Tommy’s diary, I told him about them.

  ‘Who sent them?’ he said.

  ‘How the hell do I know? They were meant to look like they’d come from Gilmour’s killer. That’s what I rang you about.’

  ‘You think it was meant as a threat?’

  ‘Or a warning. If it’s genuine.’

  ‘Why would he warn you?’

  ‘Maybe he was upset at me calling him a lunatic.’

  Mac shut his eyes and frowned deeply. ‘“The lunatics have taken over the asylum…”’ He mused, then, ‘What do you suppose the numbers meant?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue.’

  ‘What were they again?’

  ‘Thirty-two and twenty-three.’

  ‘And they mean nothing to you?’

  ‘Not a thing. What struck me as curious was that he’d written the actual word “numbers” before the figures themselves.’

  Eyes still closed, Mac shook his head. ‘Beats me.’

  ‘Shouldn’t the police have told you I gave them this stuff?’

  ‘In theory, yes. Seldom works in practice.’

  ‘But you will make sure the rumour-mongers get to hear about them, the note and the diary?’

  Massaging his face wearily with his big hands he looked at me, ‘Think it’ll make any difference?’

  ‘It had better!’

  He shook his head, ‘Eddie, if they think you’re guilty of something, they’ll just see this as an attempt to cover-up.’

  ‘By me?’

  He raised his eyebrows, ‘Who else?’

  ‘Jeez! I give up!’

  ‘Come on, Eddie, your friends will see the rumours as nonsense, but you know what this game’s like!’

  ‘Listen, just call me with the name of the next person you hear it from, OK? I’ll take it from there.’

  By way of closing the subject, I marched across to the drinks cabinet and poured myself another large defiant whiskey. ‘Cheers,’ I said coldly to McCarthy.

  He looked at me. ‘So you don’t want to help in tracking this guy down?’

  ‘This is what all this is about, isn’t it? You make me feel threatened, I get involved in looking for Gilmour’s killer and you have an easier life.’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m not denying I could use your help, but I think you owe it to yourself to take-’

  ‘Look, Mac, don’t give me that crap. I’m staying well out of it.’

  ‘Okay.’ He put his hat on. I followed him out to the hall and opened the door. ‘Sorry you’ve had a wasted journey.’

  He looked at me from his four-inch height advantage. ‘Eddie, I think you’re badly underestimating the feeling that could build up if Gilmour’s killer isn’t found soon. Take a minute to look at the full picture from a stranger’s point of view - you’ve been out for five years, remember, there aren’t that many people around now who remember you well.’

  He was right about that.

  ‘And as far as they’re concerned you’re an ex-Champion Jockey with a grudge against the establishment for taking your licence away and almost killing your career. It’s your first year back and you’re having a terrible season. Everybody knows you’re up to your eyes in debt. As I said, you’ve got a criminal record, you can be ruthless and you can be violent. And don’t forget, who was the only jockey who went and asked for the ride on Cragrock?’

  He stepped outside. ‘Think about it,’ he said. I watched him drive off then slowly closed the door.

  11

  The 10 a.m. news had finished and I was ready to leave for the races when the phone rang. It was Chris Brytham, the trainer who’d booked me to ride at Southwell. ‘Eddie, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to cancel these bookings for today.’

  ‘Aren’t they running?’

  He paused and cleared his throat. ‘They are running but...well, the owner’s asked me to find another jockey.’

  ‘Why?’

  Another pause, then, ‘I’m sorry, Eddie, it’s not my decision. If it had been, you would have kept the rides.’

  It was my turn to be quiet. Brytham tried to fill the silence. ‘I was just hoping I’d catch you before you left to save you a trip. I’m sorry.’

  Everything Mac said last night came back to me. ‘I appreciate the thought, Mister Brytham, but I’ll be going to Southwell anyway. And listen, thanks for the call. I can think of a few trainers who would have replaced me without even letting me know.’

  ‘I wanted to tell you it wasn’t my choice, Eddie. I daresay you’ve an idea what it’s all about and p
ersonally I think it’s a load of rubbish. If things weren’t so tough, I’d tell this owner where to go but, well, you know how it is.’

  I knew how it was, too many trainers chasing too few owners. Chris Brytham wasn’t the only one having to lick boots.

  ‘Yeah, I know. Forget it. Thanks again for the call.’

  ‘I hope it all gets sorted out soon.’

  Well, well, well, it looked like Mac was right. There were people out there prepared to believe these rumours.

  Common sense told me to ring Hubert Barber and ask if the stories had reached him. If Barber pulled the plug I had two choices: hang up my boots and saddle until the cops found Gilmour’s killer, or find the bastard myself. The way I was feeling, the latter was very much favourite. But in calling Barber, I was afraid of what I’d hear, so I left it.

  I was determined to go to Southwell, even if I had to spend the day doing nothing. To stay away would only fuel the rumours. I slung my gear in the car and accelerated viciously down the drive.

  I eased out on to the long straight road and quickly pushed the needle up to seventy. Flashing headlights glinted in my mirror. Five or six hundred yards behind me was a big white saloon, cops maybe. I dabbed the brakes and checked the speedo.

  The car closed quickly, still flashing. No police livery, no light on the roof, two men in the front seat. I didn’t like it. I pressed the gas pedal and got up to ninety. They followed effortlessly, a big white Rover 820, lights flashing, horn honking, the bearded passenger, angry, signalling wildly that I should pull over.

  I kept going, sweat prickling on my scalp. Who the hell were they?

  At a hundred, steering wheel vibrating in my hands, they pulled out and moved alongside me. I glanced across. The bearded guy was holding something up to the glass. I checked in front and glanced again. It was a small open leather wallet showing what might have been a police badge.

  We were a couple of miles from a village. If I could hold out, at least there’d be someone around when I stopped. My pursuers had other ideas and as they quickened past, they crossed in front of me and the brakes were steadily applied.

  Ramming was an option, but it was unlikely to do enough damage to stop them, and if it was the cops I’d be even deeper in the shit. I braked hard and skidded to a halt at the edge of the road.

  12

  They came toward me. I got out and stood by the door. They wore shirts and ties and walked like cops, and they also had that look about them of trying to remember whose turn it was to do the wisecracks. The honour fell to the clean-shaven one, the driver. Stopping by the front bumper he said, ‘Mister Malloy, is it?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  At arm’s length, he held out his little wallet. ‘Detective Sergeant Kavanagh.’ Tall, fair hair, blue eyes, the gauntness of his face highlighting the small scar on the ridge of his right cheekbone; white shirt, navy tie, dark trousers, black shoes. I stepped forward and looked at his credentials.

  ‘This is Detective Sergeant Miller, who was rather having doubts about your name for a few minutes. We knew it began with M-a. I was pretty sure it was Malloy, but my colleague here swore it was Mansell.’

  Very droll. At least it told me they were genuine cops who’d read up on their motorist gags before leaving the station.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ I said, ‘that when a big car with no markings comes buzzing up my arse at a hundred miles an hour, it tends to make me nervous.’

  Kavanagh smiled and said, ‘Now with your background, Mister Malloy, I can understand that.’

  ‘Good,’ I said, ignoring the jibe. ‘Now what can I do for you?’

  ‘You can join us in the nice warm car out of this nasty wind. We just want a little chat.’

  ‘I don’t mind the chat, but I’d just as soon have it out in this nasty wind if it’s all the same to you.’

  He smiled again. ‘Fine. Where were you last Friday evening?’

  ‘Was that when Gilmour was killed?’

  ‘Maybe you can tell me that?’

  ‘I had dinner with some friends.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Southport.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘Had a drink in the bar of the Hotel and went to bed.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘What time did I go to bed?’

  Kavanagh nodded.

  ‘I don’t know, somewhere between eleven-thirty and midnight.’

  ‘What time did you have breakfast?’

  ‘Eight o’clock.’

  ‘So between midnight and eight you have no alibi?’

  ‘Alibi for what?’

  Kavanagh grinned apologetically. ‘Sorry, poor choice of words. What I meant was nobody can account for your whereabouts between midnight Friday and 8 a.m. Saturday.’

  ‘I told you, I was asleep.’

  His smile dropped, bony face turning sinister. ‘You told me you were asleep. Alone. No one was with you, which means you might be in very deep trouble.’

  The serious look was supposed to make me nervous, but he was bluffing. I shifted my weight, resting a foot on the sill of the open door. ‘Listen, Mister Kavanagh,’ I said, ‘I’m going to Southwell races. I need to get there for the first race. You’ve chased me along the road at a hundred miles an hour, scaring the shit out of me, you’re firing questions at me like I was on Mastermind, and now you’re saying I might be in trouble. I think you forgot something? You still haven’t told me what the hell this is all about?’

  Miller, the bearded one, spoke. ‘Stop being a smartass, Malloy, you know fine what it’s about. Instead of going to the races why don’t you just turn your car around and follow us back to the station.’ The dark beard on his pale skin was thin and well-tended; his hair was slicked with gel, though a tendril had worked loose by his right temple and swung in the wind.

  ‘You asking me or telling me?’ I said.

  Kavanagh said, ‘We’re asking you, Mister Malloy, asking you nicely.’

  ‘Then you won’t mind if I decline, just as nicely.’

  They weren’t pleased. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘I’ve heard about the garbage being talked on the racecourse and I’m just as anxious as you to clear it up. I’m happy to give you what you need. I’ll sit and talk all night if you want, but you’ve caught me at a bad time. If I don’t turn up at Southwell today, all the assholes who are already talking will say I’ve gone to ground. Contact the local CID, they’ve already taken a statement from me, then if you still want to speak to me I can meet you somewhere after racing.’

  I didn’t mention the note and diary in case they led to further questioning.

  Kavanagh looked at Miller. I pressed on. ‘Look, put yourself in my place. What would you do? I’ve got to be at Southwell. Tell me where you guys are based and I’ll come and see you after the races. I’ll drive straight there.’

  Miller wasn’t happy but Kavanagh said, ‘We’re at the Griffin Hotel in Leicester.’

  I nodded. ‘I know it. I can be there around eight.’

  Kavanagh’s smile returned. ‘We can have a nice cosy dinner.’

  I didn’t reply. Kavanagh headed for his car. Miller glared at me. ‘You’d better be there, Malloy.’ I smiled, just to annoy him.

  As I pulled out to pass them, Kavanagh stuck his head out and motioned me to stop. I pressed the button to lower the passenger window. Kavanagh was smiling big now and shouted, ‘Any tips for today?’

  My eyes said to him, cheeky bastard, and he laughed as I drove off.

  13

  Acting normal at the races was not going to be easy, especially as I had no booked mounts. Scavenging spare rides wasn’t my style at the best of times. Now that people would be finger-pointing and bad-mouthing me behind my back, I found the prospect even less endearing.

  Standing by the door of the weighing room, I watched the comings and goings of a sparse crowd. Small track, cold day, midweek meeting, moderate horses -
they’d be lucky to get five hundred through the turnstiles.

  At the approach of anyone I recognized, I waited to see if I’d be acknowledged or ignored. Everybody I knew spoke or nodded. A few held eye contact longer than normal as though hoping to discover something. Others grunted and avoided looking at me at all.

  Feeling out of place in suit, shirt and tie, I moped around the changing room as jockeys and valets busied themselves with colours and saddles and boots. All was hustle and bustle. Except me. I went outside.

  Just after the second race Bobby Watt, a trainer I used to ride for, hurried across the parade ring. ‘Eddie!’ he called as he approached. He looked anxious.

  ‘Mister Watt,’ I said, ‘How are you?’

  ‘In the shit. You don’t ride in the fourth, do you?’

  ‘No.’

  His narrow flushed face was tense. ‘Can you ride mine?’

  ‘I’d be glad to.’

  ‘Great, I’ll be back shortly.’ He scampered off toward the weighing room. A forty-five-minute final deadline was enforced before each race for the declaration of jockeys; I reckoned Watt had about three minutes to declare me.

  Pulling out my racecard I checked its name: White Hart, due to be partnered by D. Cooper, the kid Layton almost had in tears on Saturday. Young Cooper had been pushed into the game by his multi-millionaire father who was, I’d heard, a major pain in the arse. Daddy, apparently, was trying to buy success for the boy and had twenty horses in training. White Hart was one of them.

  So why wasn’t David riding it? I checked to see if he’d had a fall in either of the first two races but he had no other mounts. Maybe he was sick.

  Bobby Watt came back, moving at a more sedate pace. ‘You make it okay?’ I asked.

  He nodded. ‘Just. Clancy’s got the colours.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. Clancy was a valet. ‘What’s happened to young Cooper?’

  Watt shrugged. ‘Nobody knows. He hasn’t turned up. His old man’s going crazy.’

  I had immediate uncomfortable thoughts of Gilmour. I tried not to let it show. ‘Has he done this before?’