The Eddie Malloy Series

by Joe McNally

  ‘Missed a ride? Never. Keen as mustard. Well, once he’s on a horse he is, otherwise you wouldn’t know he’s alive, especially when his old man’s around. Poor kid’s scared to breathe in case he gets a bollocking.’

  ‘Where is his father?’

  Watt nodded toward the main stand. ‘In the bar. You ever met him?’

  ‘Never had the pleasure.’

  ‘It isn’t one, believe me.’

  ‘So I’ve heard.’

  I wondered if Cooper senior had heard the gossip yet. ‘Does he know you’ve asked me to ride?’

  ‘Does it make a difference?’

  ‘Not to me it doesn’t, but depending on what rumours-’

  ‘You mean that crap going round about you and Gilmour?’

  I nodded. He smiled, showing small discoloured teeth. ‘Load of bollocks and everyone knows it!’

  ‘Everyone?’

  ‘Anyone with any sense.’

  ‘I wish I had your confidence, but I can do without the publicity of taking another ride from a jockey who’s disappeared.’

  Watt patted my shoulder as we headed for the weighing room. ‘Don’t worry about it, his car’s probably broken down or he’s dirtied his nappy.’

  Half an hour later, I had the misfortune of meeting the boy’s father. I’d always considered the stories about him grossly exaggerated. I was wrong. Cooper had made millions in the hotel and property business and believed that his money meant he could do and say as he pleased.

  A watery sun hung over the parade ring where little groups stood chatting, corralled by their circling horses. Everyone was well dressed and reasonably sober.

  Just to prove that no one dictated what Jack Cooper wore to the races, he came striding across the lawn in jeans and an open-necked denim shirt. He moved fast in a straight line toward us, pinched, high-cheek-boned face grim and determined looking. I glanced at Watt; he whispered, ‘Shit, he’s in a temper!’

  Cooper stopped in front of us: early fifties maybe, light-brown hair suspiciously short of grey, dark eyes, my height but leaner, wiry. I was struck by his skin texture: very thin, almost parchment-like, making him look unwell.

  Watt said, ‘Jack, this is Eddie Malloy.’

  Smiling, I held out my hand. Cooper ignored it, and leaning at me like a Regimental Sergeant Major, he said, ‘Watt says you’re a hotshot. You’d better be. You get one chance with me, that’s all. I’ve had a very big bet here,’ he jabbed a finger at me, ‘so don’t fuck up!’

  Watt saw me redden and said, ‘Eddie’s good, Jack, he won’t let us down.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’ I said, through gritted teeth.

  Cooper said, ‘Do better than your best, Malloy. Win. I’ve got a lot of money on this horse. You cut slices off him if you have to.’

  I’d sooner cut slices off you, you bastard. I needed the breaks but not this bad. I unbuckled my helmet and said, ‘I’m a jockey, Mister Cooper, if it’s a butcher you’re after, try the High Street.’

  Bobby Watt, pulling nervously at his earlobe, intervened. ‘Eddie, I’m sure Mister Cooper meant -’ Cooper thumped him on the shoulder, knocking him off-balance.

  ‘Don’t fucking apologise for me!’ Cooper shouted. Among the little cliques around us, a few heads turned. Watt straightened, trying to regain his composure. ‘Sorry, Jack, I was only-’

  ‘Shut it!’ Cooper barked and turned back to me. ‘Are you saying you won’t ride this horse?’

  ‘I’m saying if you want me to ride, I’ll do my best, but I won’t knock him about if he’s struggling.’

  The loudspeaker sounded: ‘Jockeys, please mount.’ Each lad led his horse off the tarmac to the lawn as jockeys moved toward them.

  Cooper turned to Watt. ‘You said this bastard was desperate. You said he’d do what he was told.’

  I looked at Watt. He shrugged and half smiled apologetically. ‘Well, he was wrong,’ I said. ‘Now do you want me to ride this horse, or will I go and take these colours off?’

  Cooper sneered. ‘The stewards would do you for refusing to ride.’

  ‘Not if I told them the reason.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare!’

  I stared back at him. The skin around his eyes creased as he squinted at me, trying to weigh things up. A substitute at this stage wouldn’t be allowed. If I refused to ride, the horse couldn’t run, and the stewards would want to know why. Also, Cooper wouldn’t have the chance to land his bets.

  The others were mounted. White Hart’s lad looked anxiously in our direction. Cooper said, ‘You think you’ve got me by the balls, Malloy.’

  I nodded. Watt was almost wetting himself.

  ‘Get on the horse!’ Cooper said bitterly.

  Knowing it would be my last ride for him anyway, I pushed my luck and said, ‘What’s the magic word?’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘What’s the magic word to get people to do what you’d like them to do?’

  Face reddening, eyes bulging, neck veins straining he slapped his fringe away from his forehead. ‘Malloy! If-’

  ‘Ah-ah.’ I smiled, determined now, nothing to lose. ‘The magic word?’

  ‘Please!’ He spat and strode off, steam-driven, across the parade ring.

  Laughing quietly, I walked toward the horse. Watt, pale and sweating so much his hair was damp, followed me shaking his head and saying again and again, with different inflexions each time, ‘Jesus Christ Almighty!’

  Although 6/1 with the bookies, the horse was clearly the best in the race. Watt must have been cheating with him all season to get such a decent price. We were going easily throughout and could have won by ten lengths, but I decided to give Cooper a few palpitations by holding my challenge until the last few strides before winning cheekily by a head.

  Cooper met us in the winner’s enclosure. You’d have thought his successful bets would have cooled his anger, but he still bubbled at high temperature. The sparse crowd’s applause as I dismounted couldn’t drown his words: ‘Get weighed in and get those colours off, you’ll never wear them again.’

  I undid the girths and said quietly, ‘Mister Cooper, my memory suffers when people don’t talk nice to me. Sometimes makes me forget to do things…like weigh in.’

  Every rider has to report to the scales after each race and have the clerk check that he’s come back with the same weight he went out with. If I failed to do that, it meant automatic disqualification, all bets lost.

  Until I weighed in I still held the whip hand. Cooper had forgotten that. Instead of trying to be polite, he reverted to threats. ‘Malloy, if you don’t weigh in, I’ll make sure you never ride in Britain again. I might even fix it so you never fucking walk again!’

  Saddle over my arm I sidled up to him. The crowd probably thought we were exchanging pleasantries. ‘Listen, Cooper, I’d have thought a smart man like you would have guessed by now that I don’t like being threatened. It doesn’t scare me, just rubs me up the wrong way. Now, you might think that because you’ve got tuppence less than the Aga Khan it buys you the right to abuse people, but it cuts no ice with me. I need the rides and I need them badly, but if all the owners in racing slithered out of the same hole as you, I’d go and shovel shit for a living.’ Leaning close to his face, I said, ‘Comprende?’ I walked away.

  Not weighing in would have sorted Cooper out nicely, but it would also have deprived me, and hundreds of honest punters, of a winner, so I did my duty.

  I hung around until the last race hoping for more rides, but worried too about David Cooper. By the time I left he hadn’t turned up. If he too was found murdered, at least they couldn’t accuse me of trying to curry favour with his father.

  Reviewing the day as I drove home, I should have been depressed: no word of Gilmour’s killer, the rumours about me were gathering pace, and to top it all I’d sacrificed another good source of rides in Jack Cooper.

  But I felt fine. My run-in with Cooper had given me back some self-respect, a quality I’d been prett
y short on for a long time. So I’d lost a few rides, what the hell? I felt good about myself, and I’d forgotten how much that meant to me.

  On the way to Leicester to meet the cops, I stopped at home to dump my gear. The phone was ringing as I went in.

  It was Hubert Barber. ‘Eddie, something’s come up, we need to talk.’

  His tone was serious so I didn’t need three guesses. ‘Sure, Mister Barber, I’m free just now.’

  ‘Not on the phone. You’re at Stratford tomorrow, aren’t you?

  I took a deep breath. ‘If you still want me to ride those horses, I am.’

  ‘Can you meet me in the car park around half eleven? You know my car, a blue Range Rover.’

  Rides neither confirmed nor denied.

  ‘Mister Barber, is this about-’

  ‘I’d sooner we discuss it tomorrow, Eddie.’

  Fine. One more try. ‘Is it worth bringing my riding gear?’

  ‘Bring it. See you tomorrow.’

  I hung up. At least I wasn’t jocked off. Yet.

  14

  On the drive to Leicester to meet the two cops, I forced myself to accept that my three rides next day would probably be my last for Barber. He wouldn’t sack me because of a few rumours. Either he’d heard something else or his owners had blown me out.

  It was time to take things more seriously.

  The Stockwell lounge in the Griffin Hotel was big, high-ceilinged, softly lit. The place was about a third full, maybe thirty people. Their conversations hummed just above the tone of the music.

  Miller and Kavanagh sat in the corner where crimson curtains provided a quiet backdrop to Kavanagh’s sweater of multi-coloured squares. The guy certainly liked to be noticed. When he saw me approach, he smiled in a way that said, “Here comes this evening’s amusement”.

  I nodded a silent greeting and sat down. Kavanagh kept smiling. Miller glowered. No fancy duds for him; dark blue polo shirt and navy chinos.

  ‘You made it,’ Kavanagh said.

  ‘Like I said, I’m anxious to co-operate.’

  His blond head nodded slowly, easing the smile a few watts.

  ‘Want some grub?’ Kavanagh asked.

  ‘I grabbed a sandwich when I dropped my gear off. I’m okay.’

  ‘Good.’

  Miller bought drinks, then they both set to work on me. Skirting around at first, messing about, trying to make me believe they had proof I was involved. After half an hour they saw I wasn’t biting and got on with the direct questions. Four brandies down the line, it was obvious they had nothing to go on, though they weren’t happy to concede.

  I said, ‘Can I ask a few questions?’

  ‘Ask away,’ Kavanagh said.

  ‘Have you spoken to the local CID?’

  Kavanagh nodded, ‘They told us about the note you said you’d got.’

  ‘What do you mean, I said I’d got? It was pushed through my door early on Sunday morning.’

  Miller said, ‘Who pushed it, you?’

  ‘Come on! Have you guys seen the note? If I was cooking up a story, I think I’d have come up with something a bit more credible than that.’

  Kavanagh smiled. ‘Seems pretty credible to me.’

  I said, ‘You think it’s genuine then? You think the killer wrote it?’

  ‘I’d say it’s odds-on the killer wrote it,’ Kavanagh said.

  I turned to Miller and said, ‘So?’

  Kavanagh said, ‘Doesn’t mean to say you’re not the killer, Malloy.’

  ‘Oh, come on! What about the diary?’ I asked.

  ‘What about it?’ Kavanagh said. ‘Who’d be most likely to have a murdered man’s diary…the murderer?’

  ‘Exactly!’

  ‘So who had it, Malloy? You did.’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m pissing in the wind with you two, aren’t I? It’s a complete waste of time.’

  Miller said, ‘It’s you that’s wasting our time, Malloy.’

  Trying to contain my anger, I said, ‘No. You bastards are wasting my time and your own. Gimme your boss’s name, maybe he’ll give me sensible answers.’

  Unfazed, Kavanagh said, ‘To what questions?’

  ‘Questions like, was a note found on Gilmour?’

  ‘If there was, it doesn’t really help you out, does it?’

  ‘Did you find a note on Gilmour? In his car? In his hotel room?’

  Kavanagh said, ‘What do you think, Eddie? Would you bet on it? What d’you reckon the odds would be?’

  ‘I’d reckon it was long odds on. If the same guy that wrote my note murdered Gilmour, then I’d say there’d be every chance he’d have left one. Somebody who acts that way, well, it’s just what I think he’d do.’

  Miller said, ‘He didn’t.’

  I turned to Kavanagh for confirmation. He nodded and said, ‘That’s right.’

  I said, ‘He didn’t leave one or you guys didn’t find one?’

  Miller gave me his cold look. ‘He didn’t leave one.’

  I stood up and put my jacket on. ‘I don’t believe that. I don’t think your people looked hard enough.’

  Miller glared up at me. ‘Malloy, we don’t give a flying fuck what you think.’

  I said, ‘Well that’s been pretty obvious since I sat down. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll say goodnight.’ I edged my way around the table, saying ‘I’ll ring your boss tomorrow, see if I can get any sense out of him.’

  Miller raised his feet, lodging them on Kavanagh’s seat, blocking my way. I looked down at him, his chin resting on his knuckles, gold pinkie ring gleaming in his dark beard. His eyes swiveled upwards as he bit at the loose flesh between thumb and forefinger. He said, ‘Be sure and tell him how kind and considerate we were to you.’ I stepped over his legs and went home.

  15

  It was late when I got in. I was anxious about young Cooper. I rang Bobby Watt, who, after moaning about the way I’d talked to Jack Cooper earlier, told me the kid arrived home around eight. He’d got lost on country roads after his car broke down.

  I’d just pulled the cold bed-sheets over me and was reaching to turn out the lamp when the phone rang. Ten past midnight. I hurried downstairs. It was McCarthy. No apology for the late call.

  ‘You saw Kavanagh and Miller tonight.’ A statement.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You talked about the note and the diary,’

  ‘Mac, did you get me out of bed to tell me what I did tonight?’

  ‘Their boss called me.’

  ‘Kavanagh’s and Miller’s?’

  ‘Yes. They should have told you not to mention the note to anyone.’

  ‘Well, they didn’t.’

  ‘I know. They’ve had a bollocking. But Inspector Sanders wants to make sure you don’t discuss the note with anyone until we find out more about it.’

  ‘Tell Inspector Sanders that doesn’t fit with my plans. I’m meeting Hubert Barber in the morning, and unless I can convince him I had nothing to do with Gilmour’s murder then I ain’t going to be riding for him anymore. I need to tell Barber about the note.’

  ‘Eddie, this could mean the difference between catching the guy or not.’

  ‘Too bad.’

  ‘Come on!’

  I stayed silent.

  Serious now, Mac said, ‘The note’s sub judice. If you discuss it or comment on it in any way you’re breaking the law.’

  ‘Mac, gimme a break with all the Latin crap.’

  ‘Sorry, Eddie. Sanders said to ask you nicely then to tell you your feet won’t touch the ground.’

  ‘If I can’t talk about this note, the ground’s the only thing my feet will be touching. They certainly won’t be in a pair of stirrups!’

  ‘Eddie-’

  I hung up. Bastards. They had me all ways.

  It was dull and drizzly next morning as I pulled up next to Barber’s Range Rover in the members’ car park at Stratford. Through the rain-covered windshield, Barber’s head with his icing-white hair was
like a melting pudding. When I climbed in, he looked stern.

  ‘Your lights are on,’ I said.

  ‘Thanks.’ He flicked a switch then turned, looking solemn. ‘Have you heard these rumours about Tommy?’

  ‘I’ve heard I’m supposed to have had him killed.’

  He gazed at me for a long time. Maybe he was waiting for me to glance away or look nervous. I held steady. He obviously wanted to trust me. The prospect of having to interrogate me didn’t sit well with him. I tried to make it easier.

  ‘Hubert, listen, you don’t owe me anything. You’re as entitled as anyone else to be suspicious. Ask whatever you want, I won’t take offence.’

  He sighed, hung his head and ran his fingers through his hair until it stood up. ‘I don’t want to ask you questions. I don’t feel I have to. I’ve always considered myself a fair judge of a man and I think this whole bloody thing is a piece of nonsense.’

  ‘But?’

  He looked at me. ‘Some of my owners are getting a bit windy.’

  ‘They don’t want me on their horses.’

  Looking uncomfortable and apologetic, he said, ‘It’s one chap in particular, been ringing the others up, getting them at it.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Delaney. I don’t think he has anything against you personally, he’s a bit of an old woman, listens to too much gossip. He keeps saying he’s got inside information on you from the stewards’ room.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Barber shrugged. ‘He won’t say. He’s pretty close to one of the stewards’ secretaries, Claude Beckman.’

  It was Beckman who’d given me a tough time in the Enquiry after the Greenalls. Beckman who’d withheld the race video. ‘What’s Beckman saying about me?’

  ‘I don’t even know if it is Beckman, Delaney won’t tell me.’

  ‘Maybe I should talk to Delaney.’

  ‘No. Leave it for now. I’ve persuaded them to hold off for a week to see if the police come up with anything on Tommy.’

  ‘So I’m still riding for you?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Until when?’

  ‘Next Thursday morning.’

  ‘And if my name’s cleared before then?’