The Eddie Malloy Series

by Joe McNally

  ‘Well, I’ll see you at Wolverhampton tomorrow... If you still want me to ride for you that is?’

  ‘I most certainly do. And I’d like you to ride for me next year.’

  ‘Sure, ‘I said, ‘I’d be glad to.’

  ‘I mean as my stable jockey. Under retainer.’

  Stable jockey. Retainer. I’d misunderstood. The best I’d hoped for was that he’d still give me a few rides. A retainer brought security. It meant riding good horses, being able to turn down bad ones. And the strength of Barber’s yard would bring a serious chance of becoming Champion again, in only my second year back.

  He said, ‘Eddie, what’s the problem?’

  ‘No problem,’ I said, ‘no problem, Mister Barber. Sorry I, I just didn’t expect it. Of course I’m bloody delighted to accept! Brilliant!’

  ‘We’ll talk about money soon, get it tied up before the end of next week’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Good man. We’ll show that little bastard, Delaney.’

  ‘So he’s still got a problem with me riding for you?’

  ‘Claims you’re not to be trusted. Says Claude Beckman told him it’s only a matter of time before you’re involved in a major fuck-up.’

  I said, ‘Beckman’s opinion’s probably shared by about ninety per cent of his colleagues.’

  ‘Well it’s up to us to prove them all wrong then, eh?’

  ‘It is, Hubert. We will.’ My decision to stay involved in the hunt for Tommy’s killer suddenly pricked my bubble of enthusiasm, reminding me that detective work and trouble tend to be close partners. ‘Mister Barber,’ I said, ‘before you commit yourself there’s something I’d better tell you.'

  25

  On Friday morning I set off for Wolverhampton with Barber’s job offer still intact. I’d told him about the note being delivered just before the Gold Cup, and he had accepted that I had to act to help the authorities find this guy. One proviso: if I got involved in anything that affected my riding, I was out.

  I won the first race for Barber on a novice hurdler in which he himself had a half-share. He wasn’t at the races. Maybe his Gold Cup hangover was too heavy.

  My next ride, a handicap ’chaser called Hair Trigger, had an excellent chance and had been backed heavily by his owners, a four-man syndicate. My confidence was high and if he lost I knew it wouldn’t be for want of a good ride.

  Standing in the corner of the changing room, I pulled the blue and yellow jumper on. The neck was tight and when my head finally popped through, Con Layton was six feet away smiling at me.

  I smoothed my hair back.

  ‘Do you fancy yours here, Malloy?’ he asked.

  My first thought was to tell him to piss off, but I didn’t need another confrontation. I had to keep a faultless discipline record or Delaney would be saying ‘I told you so’ to Barber.

  ‘The connections expect him to run well,’ I said.

  ‘Ah and I wouldn’t want to see them disappointed,’ Layton said, still smiling, ‘but there’s a difference between running well and winning.’

  A five-horse contest, a small track, it looked like Layton had one of his bent races in mind. Adjusting my breeches and boot-tops I said, ‘Look, Layton, whatever your plans are, count me out.’

  He sat down opposite, trying to reflect some friendship from his small pale eyes. ‘Eddie, there’s other things in life than riding winners. What about the little luxuries, the things you can’t afford with your ten per cent?’

  ‘I’m not interested. Go away.’

  ‘Clarkie will win this and you’ll be on the odds to a grand.’

  ‘Fuck off.’ I started checking my saddle and girths. His voice went very cold, ‘Malloy, look at me.’

  I ignored him.

  ‘Look at me!’

  I looked at his hard eyes. He said, ‘Clarkie wins this race. You get paid.’

  I stood up and stared down at him. ‘I don’t care who wins, but mine runs on his merits so you can shove your money up your arse.’

  ‘Malloy, it’s four against one. Your horse wants holding up so you’ll be among us. If you’re going out to do your best, then we’ll do our best to make sure you come back in an ambulance.’

  Hard as I fought to stay cool, he was making me angry. I took a couple of steps toward him and said, ‘Look, what did I tell you last time? You or your cronies come near me during a race and I’ll break your fucking legs. Now move!’ I pushed past him and went out.

  The size of the field gave me the advantage; dirty riding would be hard to disguise. My girths were being checked as the others circled at the start. Layton and Clark talked quietly. The lack of pre-start ribbing and the cowed expressions of the other two jockeys told me Layton had them in his pocket.

  We lined up. Layton pulled down his goggles and smiled at me. ‘It’s make your mind up time, Malloy.’

  I glared at him. ‘You’ve had one warning, Layton, that’s all you’re getting.’

  The starter pulled the handle. The elasticated tape flew up. We were off.

  My first thoughts were to have plenty of daylight between myself and the rest, race wide of them. It should prompt the stewards to keep watching me.

  Off a very slow pace, I raced on their right flank like a dog herding sheep, my horse enjoying himself free of hassle and flying divots. We just kept popping the fences nicely, behind and wide of the others.

  Onto the second circuit and they quickened, hoping to draw me in, knowing if I wanted to scuttle their plans I’d have to join the race soon. Equally, if they continued to crawl along, they’d all still be full of running at the finish, making their intentions to fix the result obvious.

  Two couldn’t maintain the increased gallop beyond the third last, and I passed them in three strides. Up ahead, Layton and Clark were talking. I was closing fast but the wind carried their words out of earshot.

  Mine, Hair Trigger, was travelling easily. We could pass them when we wanted. The problem was which route to take. If I went outside Layton he’d run wide, carrying me off-course. Up the inside and Clark would have me through the rails. Between them would be suicide.

  But they were both coming under pressure and in the scramble of the first few desperate strides after landing over the second last, they moved apart, trying to tempt me through.

  I kicked Hair Trigger forward as if to dive between them but at the last moment yanked his head to the left, almost running into the back of Clark’s horse.

  The first move panicked Clark into leaning right-handed, shutting the gap but leaving a big opening on the rails. Clark had bought the dummy and Hair Trigger’s head slotted nicely into the space on his inside.

  ‘Rails! You thick bastard!’ Layton rasped. ‘He’s gone for the rails! Stop him now!’

  Violently changing direction on half a ton of galloping horseflesh twice in a few seconds is a lot to ask, and although Clark’s horse responded, I was away, leaving nothing to cushion him from colliding with the wing of the last fence.

  The shattering crash, Clark’s anguished cry and the horse’s grunt made me wince. Layton’s antics had cost him several lengths and his horse was struggling. He drew his whip and laid into the poor beast under him, more to relieve his anger than raise another challenge.

  Hair Trigger jumped the last with the energy of a horse going to the start and galloped past the post well clear. As we pulled up, I thought briefly of Clark and how badly he might be hurt, then dismissed twinges of guilt. He’d brought it on himself.

  As we walked in ‘Stewards Enquiry’ boomed from the loudspeakers and I suddenly felt a mixture of rage, elation and relief. Layton had been out to maim or kill me for the sake of a few thousand pounds. Should I take my revenge privately or try to get him warned off?

  If I told the stewards he’d approached me with a bribe before the race, I was sure they’d view the video with a different perspective. Then again, Layton would deny it and accuse me of smearing him. No doubt the other three would back him up, tho
ugh the way Clark crashed through that wing, he’d be giving no evidence today.

  My memory echoed his scream as the horse came down, but sympathy was the last thing he deserved. Or maybe he did deserve some; Layton had probably bullied him into it. Layton might have had something on him, and on the others. As soon as you accepted a bribe, the first time you took part in a bent race, the moneyman had you in his pocket.

  Why was it that Layton always came out without a scratch? Maybe a private comeuppance was just what he needed.

  26

  Hair Trigger’s owners were incensed that their horse and their cash had been endangered, and I had to hold the biggest of them off when he tried to reach Layton as he dismounted. ‘It won’t help in the Enquiry,’ I told him. ‘Calm down. I’ll sort Layton out.’

  As soon as we’d weighed in, Beckman came for us. ‘The stewards’ room, now!’ he barked. We followed. Neither of us had spoken since weighing in. I’d decided to play it cool and let the video evidence speak for itself. Accusing Layton of attempted bribery without proof was pointless. It was important, too, to let Layton think he was out of his league with me, that nothing he tried would bother me. Then he’d slink back into his own division and stick to people who were afraid of him.

  No waiting outside the stewards’ room this time. Beckman, who looked pretty angry himself, marched us straight in and slammed the door, which earned him a reproving glance from the chairman of the stewards, Simon Fullmore.

  I was glad to see Fullmore. He was known for being firm but fair with a sound knowledge of race riding. Narrow-faced with slate grey hair and blue eyes, he was pushing sixty but looked ten years younger.

  Fullmore was flanked by Clarence Heaton, an amiable old buffer who hated disagreeing with anyone, and John Chalmers, a man I knew little about.

  Beckman started by having a real go at me, accusing me of ‘disgracefully dangerous riding’. The chairman shut him up and turned to Layton and me.

  Layton told them I’d been cursing at him and Clark, threatening them throughout the race, telling them I’d had a big bet on my horse, knowing, as we all did, that jockeys are not allowed to bet. He said I’d barged into them deliberately, trying to bring them down.

  I put my case calmly despite frequent interruptions from Layton and Beckman who glared at me throughout. This was the guy who’d tried to screw me at the Greenalls Enquiry and who’d been bad-mouthing me to Barber’s owner, Delaney. What the hell had I done to upset him so much?

  Chalmers asked me, ‘Why would Layton and Clark want to stop you winning?’

  ‘If you you had witnessed a changing-room conversation between Layton and me before the race, you would know, sir. But since I can’t corroborate what was said there, it’s probably best that I ask you to draw your own conclusions. I was riding the favourite and you may want to bear in mind the results of previous four and five horse races on the smaller tracks which Layton and Clark have ridden in.’

  I sensed Layton wanted to say something, but he’d be wary of incriminating himself. The results were in the form book.

  Chalmers said, ‘Are you saying that Layton and Clark are responsible for fixing races?’

  ‘I’m not sir, as I can’t prove it. I’m sure the stewards are more than capable of interpreting the results of a series of races without any help from me.’

  ‘Indeed, Malloy,’ said Fullmore, ‘but we’re here to discuss an allegation of dangerous riding. Much as we might wish to take account of previous incidents’, he glanced at Layton, ‘we cannot. Have you anything else to say, Malloy?’

  ‘I’d like to see the film, sir.’

  ‘Layton?’

  ‘Just to say, sir, that Malloy is a very dangerous man to be riding racehorses and I think he should be taught a lesson.’

  Fullmore said, ‘By the stewards?’

  Layton spluttered, ‘Of course, sir!’

  Fullmore said, ‘Well thank you for that advice. Mister Beckman, do you have any more questions?’

  Beckman looked at me. ‘Malloy, do you have any idea where Clark is now?’

  ‘I should think he’s on his way to hospital, Mister Beckman.’

  Beckman said, ‘That’s right. He’s going there for treatment to a broken arm, concussion and possible internal injuries.’

  I said, ‘Some people only learn from experience.’

  He didn’t care for that. ‘You don’t consider yourself responsible in any way?’

  ‘Not in the least.’

  ‘Listen, Malloy-’

  Fullmore intervened. ‘Gentlemen, I think it best if we adjourn for the moment to watch the film of the race. Malloy, Layton, the stewards will view the race in private first. Please wait outside.’

  Layton followed me out and closed the door. He looked at me with his sly little half-smile. ‘When are you goin’ to learn your lesson, Malloy?’

  ‘When will you learn yours? You’re never going to get a result out of me and you’ll never get one from the stewards. They all know you’re bent.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ he said.

  ‘And I’ll tell you another thing, Layton, I’ll spell it out since you’re too thick to take the hints. You don’t scare me. I’ve gone through more shit in the last five years than you’ve ever seen, and if you think I’m going to let a prick like you fuck things up, you’ve got a lot to learn. Stick to playing with the second-raters and stay out of my way.’

  He smiled. ‘Ah, you’ve a lot to learn yourself, Malloy.’

  We sat silent until they called us in five minutes later. Beckman’s florid face, his white-knuckled grip on his notebook, told me all I wanted to know.

  Fullmore spoke. ‘We have looked at the race and the incident in question a number of times, and have come to the conclusion that no blame attaches to Malloy. Clark appeared reckless, and, as such, was the architect of his own problems. You, Layton, also appeared careless in allowing your horse to bump Clark’s and you’ll be suspended from riding for a period of three days from the twenty-fourth of March.’

  Fullmore continued, ‘The result stands, but before you go, gentlemen, it is perhaps appropriate to warn you that the stewards will be taking a particularly keen interest in future races where you are opposing each other.’

  I said, ‘Thank you, sir,’ then glanced at Beckman, whose returned stare was hard and hateful. You’d have thought either Clark was his brother or that Beckman was in league with Layton and had just lost a fortune.

  My mount in the last finished second, rounding off a nice day. I showered and changed and headed for a restaurant for a celebratory meal with the owners of Hair Trigger. They were a decent bunch. I found myself laughing with them and, on the drive home, realized I’d been behaving like a normal human being for an hour. Some people, with their lack of intensity, their capacity for easy relaxation, intrigued me at times.

  The Lodge was in total darkness, my headlights swinging on the windows as I bounced along the drive. Car lights off, I reached into the glove compartment for my flashlight and clicked it on, following its narrow beam to the door.

  I juggled my keys, and found the main one. I clicked the hall light switch. Nothing. No popping bulb. I stepped into the living room and reached for the switch there. Clicked it. Darkness. Shit!

  I went to the cupboard under the stairs, my beam searching for the main fusebox. There was a sudden strange smell. Sweet. Pungent. The beam found the box. Someone had turned the power off. I backed out quickly. Sweet smell stronger. A cold metal tube pressed against my neck. Something clamped on my mouth and nose. The flashlight tumbled…rolled noisily along the hall…shadows loomed. Odour overpowering now. Consciousness going. Slumping... Sweet air... Ether... Jesus Christ. I’m dead.

  27

  The cold woke me. Shivering. Freezing. Pounding headache. The wind blew hard outside. Every time it gusted, an icy draught cut a line down my spine. I lay on my side. My shirt must have ridden up out of my trousers. I reached to pull it down. Nothing there. No clothes. Naked.
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  Consciousness returning, making me feel even colder. I was lying on damp wood. There was something round my neck, something on my face. I reached up. A heavy chain, a hood sewn into the steel links. I followed the chain with my fingers. Two feet from me it looped around a big square piece of timber, the leg of a table, a bench maybe. A fat padlock clasped the links.

  I tried to lie on my back but the chain tightened, stopping me. I edged closer to the padlock and tried again. Made it this time, though something crunched below my left buttock and jagged my flesh. Easing my hips up, I reached slowly. It came away in my hand, cold and slimy with brittle shards. I flicked the dead snail from my fingers and heard it stick to the wall.

  I was in an outhouse or a shed, or an old garage; not a stable, no stable smell. Total darkness. Faint tang of creosote and dampness. Sweet and sour odour of dying vegetation.

  Dreadful headache. Nausea. The worst of hangovers.

  I checked my limbs, flexed my arms and legs, wrists and ankles, fingers and toes, felt my face and skull through the rough cloth hood, reached hesitantly and hopefully between my legs; everything still there. Chilled to the bone, but from what I could tell in the dark, healthy, apart from the headache, which was of hammering intensity. Must have been the ether. No bumps on the head. No signs of him having hit me.

  The wind gusted again sending an icy slice down my side. My teeth chattered. I had to get off the floor. Turning slowly in the direction of the padlock, I lay on my front. Tried pushing myself onto my knees but the chain was anchored low. I felt for where it looped round the wood - very little play but I began working it upward. The strain on my shoulder muscle meant I had to stop and rest every minute or so, but eventually I made it to my hands and knees. The exertion warmed my head inside the hood. The rest of me shivered.

  I rested.

  As full consciousness returned, it scared me into immobility. Maybe I could lift the bench and free myself. Out there in the darkness there might be a hammer, a chisel, a crowbar, something within reach to break the chain links.