The Eddie Malloy Series

by Joe McNally

  Joanna checked her screen, ‘No Mister Cheeseman.’

  ‘Would you hand me the key, please?’

  He smiled and asked me to follow him.

  The room wasn’t that big. I started at the window end, working through the desk drawers, wardrobe shelves and base, the floor, skirting boards, under the beds, methodically checking the least likely places, trying to cover every inch.

  The telephone table: nothing stuck under the phone. The table had one narrow shelf, dark and quite deep and, apparently, empty. On my knees I reached inside and felt a book. I slid it out: The Bible. I shook it, riffling the pages with my right hand. A card, a white card with writing on it fluttered to the floor.

  I bent quickly and grabbed it: ‘This Bible was placed here by the Gideon Society.’

  Shit.

  I put the card down then noticed something on the back. It looked like the neat block writing that had been on my note, in the same black ink. It read ‘Hebrews 9:22.’ I searched the bible hurriedly: “Without shedding of blood is no remission.”

  I just stopped myself from kissing the card as though it were a winning lottery ticket. It let me off the hook, left me free to ride all of Barber’s horses, including his Gold Cup runner.

  McCarthy rang Sanders, who arrived within the hour, hot and bothered. Kavanagh and Miller followed him up the steps to the front door as we watched from the bar.

  We tried to be amiable, but none of them spoke until we reached the room. I told them what I’d done and showed them the card. Miller turned me by the shoulders, forcing my hands against the wall. He searched me, then Kavanagh read me my rights and they marched me out.

  I was thrown in a cell and told they intended to charge me with the murder of Thomas Gilmour.

  19

  They locked the door at ten to five on Sunday afternoon. Between then and the next morning, I saw no one except the silent cop who brought me a dried-up meal around seven thirty.

  The cell had cream-painted brick walls marked with smudges where someone had tried to remove graffiti. Curl-edged brown tiles pocked with cigarette burns covered the floor. There was a bed and a chipped washbasin. The place smelled of Jeyes fluid.

  I spent an uncomfortable though not particularly stressful night, since I was confident I’d be released as soon as Sanders considered he’d given me a big enough fright. If they really suspected me of Gilmour’s murder, they’d have been interrogating the hell out of me.

  Parched scrambled egg and toast arrived at eight. Kavanagh and Miller arrived at eight-thirty, Kavanagh frowning and tutting at me and Miller wearing his usual aggressive stare. They took me to ‘the interview room’.

  We sat on metal chairs opposite each other across a table; two against one. Kavanagh talked. Miller clicked a tape-recorder and took notes.

  Kavanagh said, ‘You’ve been a very silly boy, Eddie.’

  ‘Slap my wrist, then, and send me home.’

  Kavanagh said, ‘I don’t think you’ll be going home for quite a while.’

  ‘Then you’d better charge me with something.’

  ‘Where do you want me to start?’ Kavanagh asked. ‘Stealing police property? Forgery? Impersonating an agent of the Greater Northern Police Force? Murdering Thomas Anthony Gilmour?’

  ‘Come on, Sergeant Kavanagh, why don’t you just admit that you and your boss are a bit peeved that I found something you guys should have found a week ago?’

  Kavanagh went cold-eyed and said, ‘It wasn’t there a week ago.’

  He waited for that to sink home. I smiled and said, ‘You honestly expect me to believe that you think I wrote that note myself?’

  He shrugged. ‘You said it, Eddie, not me.’

  I laughed and sat back, shaking my head. Kavanagh said, ‘You were in the room alone, you could have done anything. You gained fraudulent access. You were desperate to get in there.’

  ‘I was desperate to get in there because, as I kept telling you, your boss and anyone else who’d listen, there had to be a note. You were too pig-headed to go and look again. I was the one taking all the shit, what did you expect me to do, sit quiet and watch my career slide down the drain?’

  He waited, knowing he was getting me riled then said, ‘Did you ask McCarthy to come to the room with you?’

  ‘You know I didn’t or you wouldn’t be asking.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘Because it wasn’t his problem.’

  ‘He’s in charge of the case for The Jockey Club.’

  ‘McCarthy does things his way, I do things mine. In theory, with the letter and stuff, I was breaking the law; if I’d pushed Mac into it too his employers wouldn’t have been pleased. I can take my chances. I’ve no one to answer to.’

  He smiled. ‘Except us.’

  I sighed in frustration. He said, ‘Convenient that McCarthy wasn’t with you. Did the hotel manager ask if you wanted him to wait in the room?’

  ‘You obviously know damn well he did.’

  ‘But you sent him away.’

  ‘Look, Kavanagh, this is a load of crap. I’m not going to answer for every little thing I did yesterday.’

  ‘You’re above the law now, are you?’

  ‘I’m above being wound up by you guys. This makes your Monday morning, does it? Helps beat the depression of coming to work?’

  ‘We’re just trying to do a job.’

  It was obvious the tape-recorder was on, Kavanagh talking official and acting all hurt. First chance they got they’d be back to their smartass remarks and threats.

  I said, ‘Trying is the right word because you haven’t been too successful so far, have you? Doubting me on the note, missing the one in Gilmour’s Bible. Now you want to hide your embarrassment, turn the screw on me with all this nonsense, it’s bloody pathetic! You know I had nothing to do with Gilmour’s murder! So does Sanders! But you’re obviously going to take whatever childish satisfaction you can get by messing me around as long as possible!’

  Kavanagh tutted, ‘The bluster of a guilty man.’

  He had me well on the boil and I had to fight to control myself. I was tempted to goad him with missing Gilmour’s potential IRA connection too, but it would have meant a grilling for Susan Gilmour who would never stand the strain. I said nothing about my booked mounts at the Cheltenham festival which was twenty-four hours away. I had to be out by early next morning to keep those rides.

  Kavanagh persevered, attempting to wear me down, to get a confession, but I was convinced his heart wasn’t in it; he knew it was a sham.

  I had an idea. ‘What have you done with the note?’ I asked.

  Kavanagh said, ‘It’s gone to forensic with your fingerprints on it.’

  I said, ‘It’s also gone to forensic with ink on it that’s at least a week old.’

  ‘So…you brought the card with you. When did you write it?’

  I stared at him. ‘You really expect me to dignify that with an answer?’

  ‘It’s a formal question, Mister Malloy, and a perfectly sensible one under the circumstances.’ He folded his arms, looking smug.

  I leaned across the table. ‘It’s only perfectly sensible to someone with no sense. This guy is very very confident that he’s a lot cleverer than you, though that wouldn’t be hard. He’s already proved it. His calling card’s been lying here for a week, waiting for someone who’s smart.’

  Kavanagh reddened, looked at his watch and said, ‘Interview ended, seven minutes past eleven.’ He clicked off the tape and they left.

  I saw no one else except the cops who brought food. At lights out, I lay down to torture myself into the small hours of day one of the Cheltenham festival, the burial place for my career.

  20

  I woke to daylight through the tiny window, and soreness in my muscles from the bad bed. It took me ten seconds to realize where I was, and I’d just pulled my thoughts together when I heard the key turn in the corridor door. I prayed it would be Kavanagh. I reckoned I’d a reasonable chan
ce of getting through to him, of persuading him to let me make a call.

  It was the silent breakfast cop, tall and skeletal, an inch gap at the throat of his shirt, his bony wrists like pistons coming from his cuffs as he laid the tray down. I asked him to get Kavanagh for me, or Sanders or even Miller. He just stared back. I pleaded with him to call McCarthy. Eventually he spoke. Shrugging his narrow shoulders apologetically he said, ‘I’m sorry, mate, I can’t.’

  I paced the cell, dragging the minutes and seconds behind me. They’d taken my watch but every time I turned toward the door I saw through the bars the black clock high on the wall.

  I tortured myself with thoughts of Cheltenham, the biggest National Hunt meeting in the world. The place where it was an achievement for owners, trainers and jockeys just to have a runner. Where riding any winner over the three days left memories which lasted years. To be connected with the winner of one of the two major championship races was to bask in the glory of it for the rest of your life and be spoken of, even after death, as the man who rode, owned or trained a Gold Cup or Champion Hurdle winner.

  Forty thousand racegoers, some from halfway round the world, would be on their way to the course now in cars, trains, buses, on foot…those in helicopters would look down on streams of humanity converging from all directions like people who’d found the end of the rainbow and were certain the gold was there.

  I tried to drive it from my mind, but I couldn’t. The clock hands crawled to eleven-thirty. At the course, horses would be coming down the ramps out of their boxes, looking around, ears pricked, excitement building, knowing why they were there, heading for the stables, coats gleaming, muscles showing hard and smooth, fit to run for their lives.

  The crowds would be buzzing, moving past shouting newsvendors, heather-pushing gypsies, cockney ticket touts. They’d be queuing for racecards, filtering down to look at the course or hurrying toward the bars which would be full of noise and anticipation, whiskey fumes, champagne bubbles and cigar smoke.

  Bookmakers would be setting up their stands, opening satchels, counting money into them, thousands of pounds. They’d be cleaning boards, sorting race sheets, smoothing the pages of their big field books, bantering among themselves, boosting collective morale knowing they were seen by almost everyone else there as ‘the enemy’. Only a hundred or so of them against forty thousand, but favourites for victory even though all they had for ammunition was luck.

  Ten to twelve.

  The main players would be gathering around the weighing room: Jockey Club members, millionaire owners, movie stars, pop singers, trainers, jockeys...

  Jockeys…they’d be discussing prospects, exchanging information, finalising plans, enjoying that delicious high of anticipation that can only be savoured before your first ride of the day, before the disappointment of a loser snuffs it out.

  I flopped on my bunk almost crying with frustration. Then I heard a key turning in the corridor door…footsteps. I looked up. A sergeant I hadn’t seen before, McCarthy behind him looking serious. The cop opened the door and left without locking it. McCarthy stared at me, still unsmiling, as I stood up.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Come on, you’re out.’

  ‘Out? How?’

  ‘Good news and bad news.’

  I waited.

  He said, ‘You know Dermot Donachy?’

  I nodded, ‘What about him?’

  ‘They found him dead last night. Same gun that killed Gilmour, leg broken, bible quote, the whole nine yards.’

  ‘Jesus!’

  ‘The manager of a Cheltenham nightclub discovered his body in the toilets.’

  I looked at the clock: five to twelve. Grabbing McCarthy’s arm I hauled him through the door. ‘Come on, I can still make Cheltenham. You can tell me the rest later.’

  Sanders didn’t turn out to say goodbye, nor did his two wise monkeys. We stood at the desk waiting for the sergeant to get my things together. A thought occurred to me and I said to Mac, ‘Have they checked what the bible quote was?’

  ‘Too much blood and brains on the note to be certain just now. It was rolled up and stuck into the exit wound in his head.’

  21

  We left the station at twelve-ten. Cheltenham was one hundred and twenty miles south, and I had a mount booked in the two-fifty, but would have to be there half an hour before that. McCarthy offered to drop me at the Green Manor Hotel to pick up my car.

  ‘Mac, we don’t have time for that! Get on the motorway and put your foot down.’

  ‘Come on, Eddie, you’ve got no chance of making the second race.’

  ‘We’ll make it if you drive fast enough.’

  ‘Even if the motorways are clear, we’ll never get through the jams around the course.’

  ‘Let’s worry about that when we get there.’

  He looked across at me and said, ‘No way am I driving at a hundred, I’ve already got a speeding ticket.’

  ‘Pull over. I’ll drive.’

  He grimaced. ‘You’re not insured, Eddie.’

  ‘Mac! I’ve just spent the last forty-eight hours locked in a cell wondering if I’m going to be charged with murder, and you’re whining about speeding tickets and insurance! It’s the Cheltenham festival, for God’s sake, and I’ve got the biggest break of my life! If you’re not going to let me drive, then I’ll find some other way of getting there.’

  He stopped and got out, mumbling something about being sorry he ever got involved with me. I slid across, and did everything through the city traffic except loop the loop.

  We hit the motorway, moved into the fast lane, and I pushed the needle of the big Peugeot up to a hundred and twenty, flashing the poor law-abiding drivers in front to move over. I prayed for no road works, no hold-ups, and no police.

  Mac kept quiet during the journey, more, I think, out of self-preservation than anything else; he didn’t want to break my concentration.

  A56, M6, M5, few delays, no police patrols. We left the M5 and hit a three-mile tailback. It was one forty-five.

  McCarthy looked at me with ill-disguised smugness that said, “What are you going to do now, big shot”?

  I got out, threw my jacket and tie on the seat and said, ‘See you at the course.’

  Since I hadn’t been riding enough to keep fit, I’d been doing a lot of running, and had turned in some reasonable times in the fields and lanes around the Lodge. Leather shoes weren’t the best for it, but the grass on the verge showed some give and I soon built up a good pace.

  I drew my share of laughter and comments as I passed along the crawling line of car-bound racegoers. Their exhaust fumes didn’t help my breathing.

  It was a fine crisp day. I hit a nice rhythm and could have been enjoying it if I’d had time.

  Hard pavement now beside the dual carriageway. My feet began to hurt. Three long rows of vehicles queued at the lights about a mile from the course. Five back from them on the inside was a long haired, leather-clad motorcyclist revving a big Harley. I stopped in front of him. He looked at me and eased off the throttle. ‘You know where the racecourse is?’ I asked.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ll give you thirty quid to take me there.’

  ‘Jump on.’

  We roared past the rest of the traffic on the outside, and were at the entrance five minutes later. Sweaty and windblown, I must have presented a wild picture to Hubert Barber when I found him by the weighing room.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘It’s a long story, Mister Barber, can it wait?’

  ‘I suppose so,’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but I’ve got no kit with me. I’m going to have to dash off and make some arrangements.’

  ‘Go on then, I’ll see you before the race.’

  Before turning away, I said, ‘Did you hear about Donachy?’

  He nodded, grim-faced.

  ‘Am I in the clear?’

  He paused.

  I waited.

 
; ‘Ride me a winner and I’ll tell you.’

  I didn’t. We finished fourth of fourteen in the Arkle Chase, but the horse, Leandering, ran up to his best form and gave me a brilliant spin, flying every fence and turning into the straight in line with the leaders, only to weaken on that long climb to the post.

  Barber came hobbling to meet us. The pre-race tension gone, his face told me he was pleased with the performance. ‘You’ve got yourself a horse for next year,’ I told him, and he smiled and clapped Leandering’s foam-flecked shoulder.

  McCarthy sent in my jacket and tie with one of the valets, and the clink of keys in the pocket reminded me I had to arrange for the car to be picked up. I made a few calls.

  I found Barber and asked again if I was in the clear with his owners. He said, ‘We only heard the news this morning. I’ll talk them round. Don’t worry.’

  I told him what had happened since Sunday, and he said that was a hell of a way to get myself an alibi for the latest killing.

  Donachy had been based in Ireland and seldom rode here, so his murder had less impact in the changing room than Tommy Gilmour’s had.

  The murders added further drama to the festival and, as the day wore on and people moved around, meeting friends, drinking, exchanging gossip, embellishing tales, boasting of Irish contacts, theories became rumours and rumours became facts. In the end, I must have heard a dozen different versions of what ‘really’ happened.

  None mentioned the biblical notes.

  The favourite story was that Gilmour and Donachy had reneged on ‘arrangements’ to give the IRA information on planned betting coups. Someone said Gilmour had been ‘knee-capped’ before being shot.

  Another theory was that the guy was a psycho, killing jockeys at random. He’d done a couple of Irishmen in a row just to lull the English boys into a false sense of security. He’d get one of them next. This set a couple of the lads flapping a bit, and by the time I left there were some worried faces in the weighing room.

  I headed for the car park with one race still to go, intent on beating the traffic jams.