The Eddie Malloy Series

by Joe McNally

  Outside the weighing room McCarthy fell into step with me, and as we went toward the gate he said, ‘The forensic boys deciphered Donachy’s note.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Another quote from the Bible: Romans six, twenty-three: “The wages of sin is death”.’

  I shook my head. ‘This guy is going to take some catching.’

  As we reached my car, Mac said, ‘They’ve had another look at the note you got. Remember what it said? Numbers, thirty-two twenty-three?’

  I said, ‘There’s a book in the Bible called Numbers, isn’t there?’

  He nodded.

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘“Be sure your sin will find you out”.’

  ‘Which one? There’s plenty to choose from.’ I said.

  ‘I hope you feel as light-hearted as you’re trying to make out.’

  ‘I wish I did, Mac.’

  ‘You can expect a visit from Kavanagh this evening.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘He wants to dig a bit deeper into your background to try to find a link with Gilmour and Donachy.’

  I sighed heavily, tired of all this. Mac said, ‘Want me to come along for moral support?’

  ‘Or to stop me punching the bastard.’ I said.

  22

  Kavanagh stayed for two hours. Mac sat in. Other than the fact we were jockeys, I could think of nothing to tie me in with Gilmour and Donachy. I argued that if I was on the list, why hadn’t he tried to kill me the day he’d brought the note? Kavanagh said the killer might not have delivered it.

  The police were dissecting Donachy’s history, and when I told Kavanagh my parents came from Dublin he renewed his grip on the ‘Irish link’. I didn’t like talking about my family and this reluctance rekindled Kavanagh’s hunch about some terrorist connection.

  ‘Not in my family,’ I argued.

  ‘Not as far as you know,’ he said. Things got heated then, and Mac suggested we adjourn overnight.

  The terrorist angle resurfaced in next day’s papers. One of them had picked up on Gilmour’s twenty-four-hour detention by the police at Fishguard, the incident the Aussie had written about. The only person I’d told about that had been Lisa, and I was concerned in case she thought I’d dropped Susan in it.

  At nine o’clock I rang Lisa at home. She answered, sounding out of breath. ‘You okay?’ I asked.

  ‘Fine... Been out running... Just came through the door.’

  ‘Do you want me to call back?’

  ‘No, it’s okay... have you found something?’

  ‘Not really, I was wondering if you’d seen this morning’s papers?’

  ‘The bit about Tommy?’ she said.

  ‘I just don’t want you thinking they got that from me.’

  ‘I didn’t. I knew it was only a matter of time before they dug it up. So did Susan.’

  ‘Have the press been pestering her?’

  ‘They might have been trying to, but they won’t find her. She’s gone to stay with a friend in France for a few days. What about you? Are you any further forward?’

  I hesitated, then said, ‘Put it this way, I’ve had a few little adventures since we last spoke.’

  ‘Anything you can tell me about?’

  ‘How long have you got?’

  ‘If it’s to do with Tommy?’

  ‘More myself than Tommy, I suppose,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe we can meet?’

  ‘Thought you weren’t supposed to hang around with bums like me?’

  ‘Well, if you don’t tell, I won’t.’

  ‘Okay. How about Saturday night?’

  ‘Sorry, Susan’s due home Saturday evening, promised I’d pick her up.’

  ‘Sunday?’

  ‘Depends how Susan is on the Saturday. I’m on leave for a couple of weeks after that. Can I call you?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Sounded like she was anxious to get away. I felt awkward. Apart from Jackie, my contact with women in the past six years had consisted of occasional one-night stands. Developments in sexual-social manners had passed me by. I wasn’t confident any more about interpreting signals.

  Lisa said, ‘I’ve got to go. Good luck in the Gold Cup.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said lamely as the line went dead.

  23

  Great Divide was my only ride of the day, and potentially the most important one I’d ever have.

  The changing room was alive with jockeys and valets checking and double-checking, shouting, laughing nervously as the tension built.

  People send good luck messages: used to be telegrams, now it’s cards or faxes, and Simpson, one of the valets, was calling names and handing them out. Everybody had at least one. Mine was in an envelope with my name printed in block capitals.

  The folded piece of paper stuck together as I tried to open it. I eased the corners apart. The message was typed, the print faint and uneven. It said: “Vengeance is mine. I will repay, sayeth the Lord.”

  I read it twice, then shoved it into the zipper pocket of my kitbag. Bob, my valet, approached and began tying the blue silk cap onto my skullcap. ‘Ready for it?’ he asked. I nodded.

  I had been ready, now I was in a mild panic. Bob stepped back, looked me over, spun me by the shoulders, put a playful arm around my neck and said, ‘You should’ve been one of those male models, Eddie. You’d have made more money.’

  I smiled, miles away as Bob slapped my shoulder and wished me luck. I’d need plenty of it if this madman was going to try something during the big race. I’d had a written threat once before, warning me to fall off at the first in the Champion Hurdle or I’d be shot. I’d ignored it and finished third.

  Should I ignore this? Should I tell Barber? If I did, he might withdraw the horse. Then again, it hadn’t been a direct threat to do something during the race. But why send it just before the off?

  The bell rang, signalling time to leave for the parade ring. I had to make up my mind. We filed through the big glass doors onto the veranda where the privileged people posed: trainers, owners, Jockey Club members and their celebrity guests.

  As we broke through the pack and entered the parade ring, the impact of the occasion hit me as it always did. The crowd rose away fifty deep up the steps to the right of the large oval, and you could feel their reaction to our entry. No cheers or clapping but an almost tangible increase in the tension round the whole arena.

  We cut through gaps in the circling horses and split up to join the tight little groups scattered across the lawn. Barber stood over a party of six, none of whom I’d met before. He introduced me: only two were the owners of Great Divide, Mr and Mrs Carfax. The others were friends of the family who kept saying, “Isn’t it exciting!” Too exciting for Mrs Carfax whose heavy jowls swayed as she jigged from foot to foot.

  Barber legged me into the saddle, squeezed my ankle and wished me luck. The blonde groom, Natalie, who’d led me in at Haydock was almost pulled off her feet as the powerful ’chaser surged forward.

  Watching on TV during my prison sentence, I’d studied the camera angles and favoured shots at Cheltenham determinedly, promising my mates I’d give them a wave when I rode in my next Gold Cup.

  Face on to the camera at the top of the ring, I smiled and tipped my cap and thanked God I was out here riding and not in there watching.

  Natalie led the horse round, walking fast, patting his neck regularly I called down to her, ‘Do you get all the good horses?’

  She turned, smiling nervously. ‘I’m lucky, I suppose. Divvy’s my favourite. You will look after him, won’t you?’

  I nodded, fighting thoughts of someone out there with a high-powered rifle. Aiming at a racing target, he was much more likely to hit the horse.

  She turned to me again as we left the parade ring. ‘God, I hate this. I wish we could just keep them in the stable and ride them in the mornings. I wish they never had to race. I can’t watch. I have to lock myself in the loo.’


  Throughout the slow parade in front of packed stands, my mind was on the note. Why use a typewriter this time? The others had been hand-written. Why no reference to chapter and verse like the previous ones? This had been a direct quotation. The other notes, apart from my first one, had been found with corpses. Why not wait until he’d killed me?

  Natalie slipped the lead rein off as we turned and Great Divide lunged forward, getting the run on me, galloping to the start more quickly than I’d have wanted.

  Even though our mounts were veterans, we urged them toward the first jump to remind them of what they faced. As Great Divide peered over the beautifully built four-foot-six fence, something caught my eye.

  About a hundred yards beyond the inside rail, near the centre of the course, a man in a dark suit stood alone. He seemed to be holding an object at eye-level, and my first thought was that he was sighting something. The sunlight glinted on it. He noticed me watching and quickly slipped whatever it was into the inside of his jacket. He walked slowly toward us…he was wearing a roman-collar.

  Priests. Bibles.

  Decisions.

  I could tell the starter and have the horse withdrawn, although if the assassin was determined to shoot me he’d do so much more easily as we stood alone as the rest galloped off.

  I was over-reacting. Priests are not an uncommon sight at Cheltenham, with so many Irish racegoers attending. It could be a priest who was simply checking his binoculars. The glint could have been off the lens.

  Why did he stuff them so quickly into his jacket then?

  If I asked the starter to have the police pick him up and he turned out to be innocent, I’d be laughed off the racecourse.

  Circling at the start I looked to see if he was still there. He was moving down the dirt track on the inside of the rails. Which fence would he stop at?

  I tried to reason with myself to quell the rising panic. Maybe I could just stay on the outside of the pack throughout? But there were only five other runners.

  Girths checked, small talk finished, starter mounting his rostrum. ‘Ready, jockeys?’ Nobody answers, the lever cracks down, the tapes hiss skywards and we’re off in the Gold Cup.

  All abreast, we make the short run to the first at a speed that leaves little room for adjustment. We land safely, though at full gallop, and each of us knows we’ll have to settle our horse down a gear or two to survive.

  Even a race as pressurised as the Gold Cup can become an enjoyable romp on top-class horses, if the ground is good and the field small. Closely packed, the banter is sharp and relaxed among the others, now that we’re racing.

  Tucked in the middle of the group I keep quiet and concentrate on settling my horse. After the fourth jump he’s moving in a nice steady rhythm on the bridle, listening to my signals. I ease him to the tail of the field, ready to gain ground on the outside as we come down the hill for the first time toward the jump where the priest waits.

  We approach the fence tightly bunched, hoof beats drumming, biceps straining, boots touching...I see the man, his arms resting on the rails, no weapon visible. I switch Great Divide to the outside, hiding. We clear it and gallop away.

  Still in a tight group, we set off on the second circuit, all going well and jumping soundly. Five from home, the long shot, a grey horse, begins to labour, and drops away as the pace picks up.

  We five remaining jump the next and as we land, Bomber Harries on the second favourite, Tuscany, kicks for all he’s worth as the rest of us get our horses balanced.

  Turning down toward the third last where the priest waits, Bomber’s gone four lengths clear.

  We trade glances, knowing that if anyone goes in pursuit we’ll put our mounts under pressure, accelerating downhill where bodyweight alone causes a natural surge, making the jump even more dangerous.

  Blakey, the most experienced, and swinging along nicely, says, ‘He’s gone too soon.’

  The others look doubtfully at Blakey who says, ‘I’m telling you, the bastard’s gone too soon!’

  He’s wrong, I’m sure, but if I go after Bomber alone, my man at the fence will have the clearest of targets. If I wait, if I hide again on the outside of the others, I won’t win the Gold Cup.

  Do I blow my career or give this guy a free shot?

  I shout, ‘You’re wrong, Blakey, he’s nicked it! We’d better get after him!’ The others say nothing. Blakey says, ‘Believe me, he’ll come back to us!’

  Bomber’s five lengths clear, travelling strongly. I change hands on the reins, kick my horse in the belly and go after him, out into the open.

  Galloping hard now, a hundred yards from the man in black...Bomber goes over...silently I count down my final strides, the man straightens from the rails, I crouch lower, he reaches inside his jacket, the black birch looms, Great Divide’s quarters coil, he springs, the man’s hand rises holding glinting steel, I cringe as we land…and the priest drinks from a whiskey flask.

  I laugh as the terror evaporates, replaced by a massive surge of vitality. I whoop like a Red Indian and the horse’s ears flick back. I shout, ‘Let’s go and win this!’

  Bomber is seven clear leaning into the final bend, with no sign of him weakening.

  We find our rhythm. I twirl my whip, then smack Great Divide’s quarters. He surges, chasing Tuscany’s black tail as I duck and push, my pelvis urging him forward.

  Tuscany blunders through the second last. I set mine up for a long one as we approach, and he flies in a low accurate trajectory, hardly breaking stride.

  We gain a length to Tuscany’s lost length. Just two more lengths to find.

  Both horses begin to struggle approaching the last, Bomber’s, maybe, a bit more than mine, and we reel him in slowly, a foot or so a stride.

  I’m on the inside, a length behind as we hurtle to the final fence. Crouched, I see the winning post like a tiny gun-sight between my horse’s ears. If we jump clean we’ll win.

  Tuscany rises in front of us, Great Divide comes up at the same time, tired, mistaking the long shadow of the fence for the take-off point…we crash through the packed birch, and I feel the spirit go out of him as his ears drop with exhaustion.

  Through the tunnel of crowd noise, Tuscany crosses the line four lengths ahead.

  I shook Bomber’s hand as we returned to the winner’s enclosure. I acknowledged the applause, and smiled at Barber as he walked out to meet us. I exaggerated the effect of the error at the last to Barber and the owners, and retreated to the safety of the changing room. The exhilaration at getting safely over the third last had drained away, leaving me feeling empty and stupid. My overheated imagination had probably cost me the Gold Cup...Me, Hubert Barber, the Carfaxes, and young Natalie.

  Barber sent a message telling me we’d been invited to join the winning owners at home that evening for a celebration.

  My inclination was to give it a miss. I was on a downer and would probably depress people. First is first, second is nowhere. I slipped quietly out while everyone was concentrating on the next race, wandered off into the car park, and locked myself in the car.

  I wound the recliner and lay almost flat so nobody passing could see me, and spent fifteen minutes berating myself for losing the Gold Cup and cursing whoever had sent that note.

  I was sure now it hadn’t been genuine, which meant somebody was leaking information about the murders. Either the police or someone in McCarthy’s department. The more I dwelt on it, the angrier I became.

  Thinking McCarthy’s people the more likely source of any leak, I set off looking for him. My frustration grew when I couldn’t find him, and I decided to go home. Before leaving, I spoke to the valet who’d handed me the typed threat. He had collected all the messages from the secretary’s office. No one there could remember who’d delivered it.

  24

  By the time I reached the Lodge, I’d committed to finding the murderer. I knew I was useless when undecided about things. I was sick of the stops and starts in my life, tired of the uncertainties. I
felt poisoned by the toxins that grudges and shame and bitterness had brewed in my mind and in my soul, and I cared little about being killed. It was preferable to living with this shit day in, day out.

  I thought today’s note was fake but couldn’t be sure. Even if it was, until it was known why this guy was shooting jockeys, I might still be on his list.

  I needed a meeting with McCarthy to find out who was coordinating the police work. Donachy had been killed in the south-west, Gilmour in the north. I hoped Sanders wasn’t in charge.

  Should I go to Ireland and dig into Donachy’s background? What if that revealed an IRA connection too? Would I really want to go on? Looking for a madman who was acting alone was one thing; taking on a terrorist organisation was a completely different kettle of piranha.

  No, I couldn’t believe the IRA had anything to do with it. Leaving Bible notes was hardly typical of their operation. Sure, religion was in there somewhere, but this had to be an individual.

  Shouldn’t be that hard to find. I’d tracked down the last lot of villains for McCarthy, hadn’t I? That thought brought Jackie to mind.

  She’d been gone less than two weeks. The longer I waited before trying to contact her the more difficult it would be. Although I still missed her, I was kind of scared she’d want to return. I knew we’d start fighting again.

  I tried McCarthy’s number again. It rang out. I cursed and went to open a bottle of whiskey. The phone rang and I spun and grabbed the receiver.

  ‘Eddie, aren’t you coming to this party?’ It was Hubert Barber. I’d forgotten about the Gold Cup winners’ party.

  ‘Sorry Mr Barber. I ran into a few unexpected, er, things after racing. Delayed me a bit.’

  There was a pause. He said, ‘Anything I should be worrying about?’

  ‘No, not at all. Not in the least. Family stuff, you know.’

  ‘That’s a shame. I wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘In a good way or a bad way?’

  He chuckled. ‘You should have been here, then you’d know!’