The Eddie Malloy Series

by Joe McNally

  With the Grand National less than a week away the press, predictably, made a major story of it with most of the tabloids carrying it on the front page. I wondered how the killer felt as he read it over his breakfast.

  Mrs Pritchard watched from behind a curtain as I climbed half a dozen steps toward her door, and waited without knocking. She was tall, even in her flat shoes, maybe forty-five, pale skin, long face, sad eyes. She didn’t invite me in and suggested we have our chat in the open spaces of Finsbury Park.

  It was cold and drizzly. She wore a grey herringbone coat and carried a black umbrella. I turned my collar up.

  Between splay-footed strides on the wet pavement, she spoke little, though the noise as buses and cars splashed past would have drowned conversation anyway. We went through the gates and took the diagonal path across the park. In a grove of trees by the railed-off duck pond she said, ‘I am Claude Beckman’s sister.’

  I waited for more.

  She said, ‘I was concerned when some of the papers were alleging Claude might have been involved in those jockey killings.’

  She’d obviously become a lot less concerned when she’d seen this morning’s headlines, hence her sudden backtracking. I said nothing. She continued. ‘Claude couldn’t kill anyone; it’s not something he’d be capable of, much as he may sometimes like to think he would.’

  We walked on past a kid throwing bread to the ducks. Mrs Pritchard said, ‘Claude had a large chip on his shoulder about you, but he had no quarrel with the men who were killed and the newspapers shouldn’t have implied he was involved. He hated you because you took a race away from Mother just before she died, the Whitbread Gold Cup.’

  I’d finished second in the Whitbread, one of the biggest races of the season, about six years ago. But I’d been awarded the race after objecting to the winner for bumping me on the run-in. I couldn’t even remember the name of the horse who’d originally ‘won.’

  Mrs Pritchard said, ‘Mother had always wanted to win the Whitbread. She’d been ill for some time, but had gone to Sandown that day with Claude. When her horse passed the post first she told Claude she could die happy. Then you objected and they took the race away from her. She died two weeks later. Claude doted on her.’

  I recalled Mrs Beckman’s picture on Claude’s mantelpiece. Now I knew why she’d seemed familiar. I also remembered the defaced photo in his racing album and realized the slashed, scarred jockey was me.

  ‘Do you know where Claude is?’ I asked.

  ‘I haven’t seen him for more than three years. We were never particularly close, but I felt I owed it to the family name to try to clear it in his absence.’

  ‘So how do you know he hated me so much?’

  ‘Because for ages after the Whitbread, he talked about getting revenge on you, then within a year you’d lost your licence and your livelihood and Claude was ecstatic. Then, last summer when I read you’d got your licence back, I knew Claude would be raging. I thought of warning you but I knew he was working for The Jockey Club and I didn’t want to jeopardize his position.’

  ‘But you didn’t mind jeopardizing mine?’

  Offended, she stopped and looked down at me. ‘If I’d have thought you were in any real danger, I would have warned you.’

  ‘A bit late for that.’

  A jogger passed us, panting, squelching across the grass.

  She said, ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just over a week ago he drugged me, locked me up in his garden shed, stripped me and laid into me with a horse-whip until he was too tired to lift his arm. Then he dumped me naked in a car park.’

  She stared, frowning, thinking, then said, ‘But he didn’t kill you.’

  ‘So that justifies it?’

  ‘Of course not. I’m sorry he did that, but what I meant was, he’s not a killer.’

  She turned and slowly started walking again. Producing a linen handkerchief from her pocket she tried, as elegantly as her long nose allowed, to clear her sinuses.

  ‘So why doesn’t your brother come out and defend himself against these allegations in the papers? Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  We walked a few strides in silence then she said, ‘Did you tell the police he assaulted you? Are they looking for him?’

  ‘They know what he did, and they’re sort of looking for him in a half-hearted manner.’

  ‘So they don’t really believe he killed those men?’

  ‘I don’t think they do. They can’t make their minds up.’

  ‘So,’ she said indignantly, ‘why are the papers allowed to publish these allegations? How can they get away with it?’

  I shrugged. ‘If you look closely you’ll see they’re not really alleging anything, not outright anyway, it’s the way it’s written – for those who read between the lines. They use terms like “confirmed bachelor” which is libel-free doublespeak for homosexual.’

  She said, ‘They used that expression for Claude.’

  ‘And is he?’

  She looked at me like I smelled bad. ‘He is a confirmed bachelor. He is not, as far as I know, a homosexual.’

  ‘As far as you know?’

  ‘We were never that close. I didn’t keep tabs on his private life. What has Claude’s sexuality got to do with it? It would hardly give him reason to murder people.’

  She was right, and I realized my mind kept returning to the intensity of his grunts as he beat me. The nakedness and helplessness adding to what I was seeing as the sexual edge of the assault.

  On the walk back I learnt she was a widow and ventured out seldom, preferring a quiet life with her cats. Two of them were in the window as though waiting for her, and it was the only time I saw her smile. She went up the steps without a goodbye and, duty done, conscience clear, stepped through the door back into her own private little world.

  I called McCarthy and updated him on Beckman.

  ‘So what’s your next move?’ he asked.

  I sighed. ‘I’m going to stay away from the Lodge for a few more days. Sollis has been helpful. Says he’ll get to work today on tracking down the other three names on my list but we’re running out of time, Mac. This guy must have something big planned for Saturday, some major fireworks.’

  ‘Probably. I’ve got a meeting with the Aintree executive tomorrow morning to discuss security.’

  ‘Better tell them to get the army in.’

  ‘Cheer up, Eddie, we still have a week to get this guy.’

  ‘And he has a week to kill a few more people. Me included.’

  ‘Stop being pig-headed then, take the offer of police protection.’

  ‘I’ll tell you, I wouldn’t mind Sollis as a minder. He’s built like the proverbial brick shit-house and he’s an all-round Mister Cool.’

  ‘If he’s had firearms training, I could probably arrange that.’

  ‘Okay, see what you can do.’

  Next I rang Lisa and felt a slight nervous flutter as, this time, she answered. She sounded glad to hear from me. I told her what I’d been doing and asked how Susan Gilmour was.

  ‘Improving. Very slowly, but she is better.’

  Lisa had joined an Animal Rights Group in Cheltenham and quickly befriended one of the most dedicated members, a young girl called Lucy.

  Lisa said, ‘She’s only eighteen. You’d be amazed at the number of kids in these groups. Some of them are only about fourteen!’

  ‘The idealism of youth.’

  Lisa had only been to one big meeting but had spent a lot of time with Lucy. She said, ‘They have quite an effective recruitment campaign. Once someone shows a spark of interest, they bombard them with statistics on factory farming, research labs and stuff. They hand out horrendous pictures and show videos of fox-hunts and horses taking some terrible falls in races. I’m trying to find out if they have any footage specific to the Grand National. Maybe somebody in the movement specialises in it.’

  ‘Lisa, you’ve just given me an idea.’

>   46

  We sat in Sollis’s office. He’d just brought in a box of videotapes and was pushing one into the VCR. He said, ‘Aintree last year, that was where you wanted to start, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Might as well.’

  Pressing the play button, he settled back. ‘Got loads of these, you know,’ he said, ‘fox-hunts to fashion shows. See a lot of the same people in each film. Mostly peaceful. A few skirmishes but no violence on the scale you’re talking about.’

  The tape opened on about a dozen protesters on the road outside Aintree racecourse. Their banners had pictures of fallen horses under big slogans like YOU BET: THEY’LL DIE and they could be seen appealing to racegoers, though there was no soundtrack.

  Most racegoers ignored them; a few openly taunted them. When the camera closed in on faces, Sollis leant toward the screen and pointing with his pen ran through a few names and gave brief biographies of each.

  ‘You’d make a good racecourse commentator.’ I told him.

  He smiled and continued until a teenager appeared on the screen. Reaching quickly for the remote control he froze the picture. I looked at him. He’d gone serious. He said, ‘I’d forgotten about this.’ Nodding toward the shimmering freeze-frame he said, ‘A few hours after this was taken that kid was dead. Crushed under the wheels of a horsebox.’

  I tried to see the boy’s face. It wasn’t clear. ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  ‘This protest was on the Friday, the day before the National. Early next morning they appeared farther up the road to try and prevent horseboxes driving into the stables. They had a sit-down protest and our lads had to drag them away to let the boxes through. This kid wriggles free and runs after one of the boxes, tries to jump up on the driver’s footplate, misses, and goes under the wheels.’

  I cringed. ‘You got film of it?’

  He nodded. ‘But you don’t want to see it.’ He stopped the tape, ejecting it. ‘How about the previous years?’ he asked.

  I shook my head slowly, still thinking about the dead boy. ‘How old was the kid?’

  ‘Sixteen, I think.’

  ‘Was there an inquest?’

  ‘Death by misadventure.’

  ‘Were you there?’

  ‘At the inquest? No. My mate was, had to show this tape and give evidence.’

  ‘Can I talk to him?’

  Sollis looked at me. ‘Think you’re on to something here?’

  ‘Knowing a bit about the likes of Craven now, I’d be pretty sure one of the AR people would have threatened revenge. Didn’t you hear of anything?’

  ‘You’d be better talking to Polly, he was dealing with it.’

  ‘Polly?’

  ‘Jim Perkins. We call him Polly.’

  Sollis got him on the phone and we had a long chat. The boy’s name was Christopher Roe. Roe’s mates had tried to attack the box-driver straight after the incident, and the driver had subsequently received death threats by post and telephone, though all that calmed down after a couple of weeks.

  The only family the boy had was his father, who he’d lived with on a farm near Hereford. His mother had been killed three years previously in a traffic accident.

  ‘Was his father at the inquest?’ I asked.

  Perkins said, ‘Yes. I remember watching him as the box-driver gave evidence. Now from what I’d heard, if anyone was cut out for taking revenge it was Victor Roe. Ex-SAS man, tough as nails, supposed to have killed half a dozen terrorists in his time.’

  ‘But he was as calm as you like. You’d almost’ve thought he was in church. Peaceful looking? I’d have called it serene. Not a hint of animosity in his face. Just sat there clutching his Bible.’

  47

  Perkins was confident that after the inquest Roe had returned to his farm to get on with his life as best he could. I was more of a mind that he’d found justification in his Bible to avenge his son’s death.

  It was mid-afternoon. Sollis was still awaiting official approval to take over as my bodyguard. I rang McCarthy again to tell him about Victor Roe, and to ask him to press hard for Sollis’s clearance.

  While we waited, I discovered the name of the box-driver involved in the kid’s death and rang his stable. I was put on to Tony Greenaway, the head lad, who I knew well. We exchanged pleasantries and I told him as much as he had to know before asking him if I could speak to Sampson, the box-driver.

  ‘He left last year, Eddie, around the beginning of July.’

  ‘D’you know where I can find him?’

  ‘We’ve already tried a few times. He’s called us once, that’s all we’ve heard, and he was in a bit of a state then.’

  He told me Sampson had said in that call that he wouldn’t be back, that he couldn’t forget the kid’s death. Sampson had worked there for five years. A recovering alcoholic and ex-vagrant, he’d made a lot of friends at the stable. Tony reckoned he was drunk the night he rang and might have ended up on the streets again.

  He said, ‘Every month or so one of the lads goes to London and spends a night trawling the streets and soup kitchens to see if we can find him.’ He sighed, ‘No luck so far.’

  ‘You were sure he was drunk the time he called?’

  ‘He was pretty emotional, crying. That wasn’t like him. It was a bloody shame. I remember him saying to tell Liz, that’s our cook, that he loved her and that he was sorry he’d never got round to telling her that himself. Terrible...’

  ‘And not a word from him since? Not a sighting?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  I thanked Tony and told him I hoped Sampson would turn up, though I had grave doubts.

  I tried ringing the police to give them the info on Roe. Kavanagh and Miller were both in London. Inspector Sanders wouldn’t speak to me.

  Over a quick lunch in his favourite pub, Sollis and I worked on the best and safest way to approach Victor Roe. Sollis wondered how much his ex-bosses in the SAS would be willing to tell us.

  Nothing, was the answer. We rang a captain at the Hereford barracks who denied ever having heard of Roe. Sollis pressed him without mentioning that Roe was suspected of involvement in the killings.

  The captain insisted he knew nothing of Roe, and that if we wanted more information, we would have to request an interview by letter with his superior and provide details of when Roe was supposed to have served at Hereford.

  Sollis called Perkins, who said he understood Roe had left the SAS four years ago after his wife had been killed. He didn’t know what rank Roe had held nor could he confirm the ‘terrorist killing’ stories. He admitted the information on Roe had come from a man at the inquest claiming to be Roe’s neighbour. He couldn’t recall the man’s name.

  ‘Brilliant,’ I said. ‘How the hell do we corroborate it?’

  Sollis smiled. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll get an interview fixed up. They’ll have records at the barracks. Standard procedure in the SAS to disclaim all knowledge of individuals.’

  We sent the letter by fax to SAS HQ then spent the afternoon waiting for a response, and for approval for Sollis on the bodyguard front. That arrived at six o’clock. We waited another half-hour for a reply from the SAS. None came.

  I said, ‘Let’s go up there. This is a waste of time.’

  After completing paperwork in triplicate in three different offices, Sollis checked out a Smith & Wesson pistol, fifty rounds of ammunition and an unmarked Range Rover with a car-phone installed.

  I spent the first twenty minutes of the trip marvelling at the technology that allowed you to call somebody on the phone while travelling at eighty miles an hour. ‘How much do these cost?’ I asked Sollis.

  He smiled at my wonderment. ‘I heard they’re close to two grand.’

  ‘Jeez!’

  ‘Our tech guys say they’ll get cheaper. They told me everybody will be carrying one in their pocket in five years’ time.’

  ‘They’ll need bloody big pockets.’

  He smiled again.

  I felt better than I’d done sin
ce this thing had started. For once, I wasn’t on my own. Sollis was more than co-operative. He was friendly, trustworthy, and he was armed.

  It’s amazing the confidence you have when you’ve got a gun on your side.

  It was dark by seven. We were forty miles from Hereford when the car-phone rang. ‘Get that, will you?’ Sollis asked.

  It was confirmation from his office that a fax had arrived saying someone at the barracks would see us. I used the phone to call Lisa, telling Sollis I had to update her but really just wanting to boast to her that I was calling on a two grand car-phone. She wasn’t home. I rang my answer-phone to leave a message for her and to play back whatever had come in.

  Lisa had left a long message: ‘Eddie, tried to reach you earlier. No luck. Listen, we were wondering why Rowlands was killed and not the jockey? It seems Rowlands ran the horse after it had taken a bad fall in the Gold Cup a couple of weeks before. There’d been a few protests in the press after the Gold Cup, saying the horse should have been retired for the season rather than risked again in the National.

  ‘Rowlands obviously ignored everyone and the killer seems to have taken the view that he was to blame for the horse’s death. Anyway, the point is it set me thinking about the others, your race for instance. What if the guy was hunting around for someone other than the jockey to blame?

  ‘Don’t know if you’ve heard of a vet called Digby Craddock, but I found out today that he was responsible for giving the horse that Mark Pelham rode a clean bill of health when it was sold a week before the National. The horse died of a heart attack, and the gossip is that Craddock must have known about it. Some think he did it for a backhander from the vendor.

  ‘I’ve tried to talk to Craddock on the phone to warn him but he thinks I’m a crank, so I’m driving up to see him. Not far, Bromyard in Worcestershire. I’ll try you again on the number you left, once I’ve spoken to him, or I’ll leave another message here. Take care.’