The Eddie Malloy Series

by Joe McNally

  Mac had checked out the Compton ‘blindness’ thing and, as with the vet, confirmed that it had been a tightly kept piece of gossip. I asked David Cooper if Roe had been pumping him for information. He denied it.

  Sollis shadowed us discreetly over the next three days. We stayed in Southport, close to Aintree, and moved each night to a different hotel.

  Lisa was sure Roe was still after me, and by Wednesday evening she almost had me convinced too. But he’d have his work cut out.

  His face was all over the newspapers and the TV bulletins. There had been numerous reported sightings in the last forty-eighty hours, all of them investigated by the police, none leading to anything other than increased media hysteria.

  We heard that David Cooper had paid a brief visit to his father, who was now off the danger list but barred from attending the National in which David was to ride his horse, Gospel Oak. Jack Cooper sent me a message via McCarthy, congratulating me on finding the boy and promising a cheque soon.

  I told Lisa we’d have a fortnight in Antigua when the money arrived, but she’d have been happier just to come to terms with what she’d gone through. I’d been unsure how she would react to the ordeal; I’d thought she’d be depressed and weepy for a while. But there seemed to be an air about her of suspended belief, and until late that night, when we were in bed and the lights were off, she’d refused to talk about her time in captivity.

  Now, here in the dark, her body tense and sometimes rigid beside me, she began opening up, ‘Everybody seems to think Roe’s dangerous because he was in the SAS, and he can shoot, and plan things. But he’s dangerous because he’s angry…because he feels guilty…guilty enough to look forward to dying, to be put out of his misery.’

  I turned toward her, but said nothing. She went on, ‘I felt sorry for him in the end. How can you not feel sorry for someone who’s lost all they have, a wife and a son? That night he caught me, he sat talking about them for ages. Just watching his face was worse than being tied up and locked in and deprived of freedom. He blamed himself at first, for both deaths. His wife’s car had come off the road on an icy stretch and dropped down the valley. Roe said he’d been meaning to fit snow chains that morning, but got caught up in a long phone conversation. And he’d promised Christopher, his son, he’d join him at Aintree for the protests, but he got there too late.’

  She went quiet for a while. My eyes had adjusted to the dark, and I could see her profile as she stared at the ceiling. She said, ‘And he told me he felt guilty too about killing the horsebox driver. His original plan had been to kill himself, but he couldn’t “leave the world,” as he put it, without something to remember him by.’

  ‘Well, he’s done that all right,’ I said.

  ‘He said human beings were the worst things to happen to the planet. Animals were the only creatures worth space and time. “Humanity’s poison,” he said, “me included.”’

  ‘Meaning you, or himself?’

  ‘Himself. He made that clear. He asked me nothing about myself, other than how I could justify being involved in racing.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  She hesitated. I heard her swallow. She said, ‘I told him he was right, and that he’d made me see the truth…I crept and I crawled because I was afraid he would kill me.’

  I reached to touch her bare shoulder, ‘I’d have done exactly the same.’

  She turned and smiled sadly, ‘No, you wouldn’t. But thanks, anyway.’

  By morning, I regretted that we hadn’t made love before all this happened, for I’m not sure it was me she wanted. I couldn’t rid myself of the impression she was clinging to me for comfort and for the promise that life, someday, would return to normal. She was especially tender with the still fresh scars on my back, treating them almost as old friends, reassuringly familiar.

  I lay awake, cradling her as she slept, sad now for her and maybe for me too that her shell had broken, and the confidence, the independence, the pure zest for life was leaking out.

  The Aintree management declared they were taking unprecedented security arrangements for the whole meeting, and intended to search every racegoer by using scanning machines. They also said that armed police would be on duty strategically placed around the course ‘to deal with any situation’.

  Neither of us was really in the mood for Thursday’s racemeeting, and we went wandering on foot along the coast. On Thursday evening, Mac called to tell me Jack Cooper’s trainer, Bobby Watt, was trying to contact me. I rang him.

  ‘Eddie, I just had a call from Jack Cooper’s secretary saying I should offer you the ride on Dunstable in the first at Aintree on Saturday. Interested?’

  ‘I’ll be interested if the doctor gives my back the all-clear.’

  ‘What’s wrong, been lying on it too much?’

  ‘Yeah, very funny. I’ll see the doc tomorrow. I should be okay. Will you be there tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ve no runners, but I’ll be there.’

  ‘Can I tell you then?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘How’s your National horse going?’ I asked.

  ‘Great guns, if the kid ain’t been screwed up with this bloody kidnapping caper he’ll have a fine chance.’

  ‘Jack Cooper had a big bet?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Got to keep his excitement levels down.’

  ‘You’ll be glad he’s on the mend, anyway.’

  ‘Damn right. He’s a bloody nuisance at times but I know which side my bread’s buttered.’

  ‘See you tomorrow.’

  On Friday morning, Lisa did one final clean up on my back and we packed our bags and headed for Liverpool.

  52

  More than the usual number of fallers at Aintree on the Friday meant that the course doctor was kept busy, and when I persuaded him to spend a minute examining my back, he hiked my shirt up, and passed his hands over the healing scars and said, ‘You’ll do.’

  I hadn’t expected it to be that easy, and was now faced with the prospect of my first ride in a fortnight. I sat on the scales: ten six. I’d put on three pounds. No matter, Dunstable was set to carry eleven seven. No sauna session would be necessary.

  Lisa and I spent the rest of Friday in a private box as guests of Frances Crosbie, a race sponsor and an owner I rode for occasionally. We drank too much champagne, though it seemed to make Lisa forget things for a while.

  In our bedroom, alone with me again, Lisa became moody and depressed as the alcohol effects wore off. The hotel was full of people we knew, and I persuaded Lisa it was best if we sought out as many of them as possible. Their company would keep our thoughts off tomorrow.

  In a crowd of a dozen or so we had a great night, spiced with the delicious anticipation of every Grand National eve. Four of the lads had rides in the National and three owners with us had runners.

  Comparisons were made, bets were struck, information sought, plans revealed. It was everything I’d remembered, and the only bitterness came from the fact that I had no ride in the race.

  But even that resentment wasn’t nearly as strong as I’d feared. Maybe, after the events of the last few weeks, my values were finally changing.

  We went upstairs at one o’clock and Lisa flopped down on the bed looking sad again. I felt a sudden responsibility for her, a deep tenderness that caught me unawares. Taking my jacket off, I sat beside her, pulling her toward me. She linked her arms weakly around my waist and rested her head on my shoulder. I stroked her hair, the side of her face, then felt the warm tears through my shirt.

  She cried herself softly to sleep and I laid her down, gently eased her dark velvet dress off and drew the covers over her. Quietly undressing, I switched off the light and got in beside her. I lay for a while watching her pretty face, thankful for the peace sleep had given her.

  If the demon of Victor Roe was going to be exorcised, we wouldn’t have much longer to wait. In his mind, he’d feel he had little to lose. With his picture in every paper, it was my guess he’d try
to go out with a major bang, and tomorrow had to be it. Grand National day – the first anniversary of the death of his son.

  53

  I’d been looking forward to the Saturday and my first ride since coming back, but Lisa’s emotional and mental condition was making me wonder if it was safe to leave her on her own. Sollis stuck close now and accompanied us to Frances Crosbie’s box.

  Frances promised to keep an eye on Lisa, and with Sollis at my shoulder, gripping the loaded Smith & Wesson in his coat pocket, I went to get changed for the first.

  Fighting our way through the crowds, reading newspaper headlines like Murderer’s National Threat, hearing racegoers discussing Roe, seeing armed police at every doorway, perched on roofs, riding heavy horses, listening to the tense communications on security staff radios, noting the glint of excitement in the eyes of ordinary people who, having been electronically searched for weapons, sensed that for once they could be as much a part of the drama as the jockeys and horses, the real impact of what Roe had engineered came home to us. We looked at each other earnestly and Sollis said, ‘I wonder where the hell he is?’

  There had been no reference in the press to my part in freeing Lisa and David Cooper, yet Roe knew I was after him. I was still next on his list as well.

  It came home to me as I pulled on the pink and yellow colours, that Roe couldn’t hope to stay free much longer, whatever happened today. And he was already going down, so another murder would make no difference to him.

  If there was going to be one more killing, it had to be me, this afternoon. The ideal race, for maximum publicity, would be the National itself. But I wasn’t riding in it, so if he wanted to shoot me, he had about ten minutes.

  We trotted around the parade ring, the stable lad on my right, Sollis, wary of the slavering mouth and prancing metal-shod hooves, on my left. The jogging motion threw my churning stomach into greater turmoil.

  I looked from face to face then across the rooftops where, realistically, Roe would have to be for the chance of a decent shot, with a rifle anyway. I counted the armed police up there: twenty at least, watching from the rear of the stand. The same number, I hoped, would be at the front.

  What if he was down there in the crowd, Beretta in pocket? A couple of quick shots then he disappears in the panic; I pictured Sollis bending over my bleeding corpse.

  I tried to force it from my mind as we cantered to the start.

  The race passed without incident. I finished third, panting hard. Sollis met me as I came in, no smile, eyes everywhere, stress tightening his face.

  When I reached the safety of the changing room, my adrenaline, which had been pumping like a burst hydrant, slowed to a steady stream. I promised myself a stiff drink as soon as I got back to Lisa.

  The happy tension was steadily increasing in the weighing room among those with a ride in the National, and I would have liked to have stayed and shared it even though I had no more mounts. But thinking of Lisa again and that drink, I showered and changed and returned to the box.

  Lisa was much calmer. We watched the second race together and she bet the winner; fizzing with excitement she turned to me, waving her ticket, ‘Sixteen to one!’

  ‘Brilliant!’ I said and kissed her. She hugged me, eased her grip then hugged me again. She was smiling, vitality and intensity back in her face. I said, ‘You seem better.’

  She nodded. ‘I think I’m going to be all right now... I’m sorry about last night.’

  ‘Forget it.’

  Her hand on my shoulder she guided me to the door. ‘You go to the weighing room. I’ll be fine here.’

  ‘It’s okay, it’s not as if I’ve got a ride.’

  She looked at me. ‘I know you want to be there, go on.’ She gave me a push. I turned. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Sure I’m sure, I’ll be fine, see you after the race.’

  Sollis put down his orange juice and we hurried to the weighing room. Sollis stood guard outside. I went in to soak up the atmosphere. With forty-five minutes left before the off, the place was buzzing. There are two changing rooms at Aintree and both look as ancient as the race itself, with their high ceilings, wooden walls and metal saddle racks worn smooth and shiny.

  I sat in room two watching the nerves working on jockeys and valets. They each had their own way of handling it: some joked incessantly or played pranks, others went abnormally quiet, a few became surly and uncharacteristically abrupt or developed high-pitched laughs, almost everyone mocked any colleague who appeared on the TV above them doing one of the stream of live interviews.

  Looking at the screen, someone said, ‘Oh-oh, here comes the boy wonder.’

  Most of us glanced up. The presenter was introducing David Cooper, wearing his father’s luminous yellow colours with crimson sleeves.

  The presenter turned to David and said, ‘David, nineteen years old, first ride in the National, the weight of family expectations on your young shoulders and, if that wasn’t enough to be going on with, earlier this week you were literally snatched away from the clutches of a madman. Tell us about it.’

  David Cooper, not at all awkward, stared his questioner in the eye and said, ‘It was no big deal really, I learned a lot from it.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, like what really matters in life, what it means to have proper values, how important it is to have the courage of your convictions.’

  This was far from the youngster’s normally tongue-tied performance, and the atmosphere gradually quietened as people paid attention.

  The presenter smiled and said, ‘I think everyone would agree with that, but how do you feel about the man who, allegedly, murdered your colleagues, who kept you locked up in fear of your own life?’

  ‘I admire him.’

  The smooth presenter suddenly looked flummoxed, he said, ‘You admire him?’

  ‘That’s what I said. Victor Roe is a man with total commitment to his convictions. The Grand National cost him the life of his only son. He considers the race barbaric and murderous and has had the courage to do something about it.’

  Sensing a real news story, the presenter perked up again. ‘David, forgive me, but you sound as though you almost agree with the views of Victor Roe.’

  The changing room was now completely silent. This interview was going out live all over the world.

  Cooper said, ‘I agree wholeheartedly with them.’ He turned to face the camera which went in close on his face. He said, ‘All of you out there are contributing to barbarism, to the practice of forcing dumb animals over huge fences. You are all condoning cruelty of the most horrific kind...’

  At this point, I heard the clerk of the course at the doorway say, ‘Jesus Christ Almighty!’ in a voice that suggested the world had come to an end.

  ‘... a cruelty I will no longer be party to...’ At this he ripped his silks off, the cameraman zooming out quickly to catch him throwing them to the ground. I thought of Jack Cooper watching this and his nurses trying to get his heart rate down.

  The boy went on, ‘Every one of you should be ashamed of yourselves. If Victor Roe had got his way, this race would never have gone ahead. There is still a chance that it might not and I sincerely hope that will be the case.’

  Without any acknowledgement to the now speechless presenter, the kid turned and walked away, dumping his whip in a bin as he passed.

  The director cut to a betting show. We all looked at each other; Bomber smiled, shaking his head and said, ‘Never thought the kid had it in him.’

  For the next couple of minutes, everyone forgot their National nerves as they discussed the interview. Suddenly I heard my name called by a weighing-room official. I went to the door. The man said, ‘You’re wanted.’

  Looking over his shoulder I saw a frantic Bobby Watt beckoning me. I went over and he handed me the silks the kid had discarded. ‘Get changed! We’re trying to get special permission from the stewards for a late change of jockey.’

  I just nodded, dumbfounded; I
’d been so wrapped up in David Cooper’s performance it hadn’t occurred to me that the horse would need a new rider. I hurried back into the changing room and found myself a valet who quickly replaced the buttons ripped from the silks by young Cooper.

  Drawing my boots on, I became aware of another pair of boots stopping in front of me and heard Layton’s furtive voice. ‘You’re a jammy bastard, Malloy. Wouldn’t be surprised if you put the kid up to that just to get his ride.’

  I didn’t reply, didn’t even look up, and Layton, no doubt smiling his snide smile, started to move off. I poked my toe out to catch his heel and he tumbled forward, crashed against a bench and landed prone at the brown-brogued feet of Sir Marcus Talland, the senior steward.

  Looking down, Sir Marcus said, ‘No need to grovel, Layton, this is not a Stewards’ Enquiry.’ Everybody laughed except Layton.

  54

  The bell rang; time to leave the warmth and safety of the changing room. We all got up and filed through the exit like paratroopers committed to jump, though unsure if our chutes would open.

  Sollis stepped in beside me and we walked, shoulder to shoulder, to the parade ring. I glanced at the police marksmen on the roof. If Roe was somewhere up there with a rifle, had he heard the jockey change being announced? Did he know I was now on Jack Cooper’s horse? If he did, he’d have no trouble picking me out in these dazzling yellow silks.

  Watt legged me up onto Gospel Oak, a big iron-grey gelding. Detailed riding orders were pointless in the National and Watt restricted himself to, ‘He stays all day. Don’t be afraid to use his stamina, even if it means doing the donkey work over the last two miles.’ I nodded and the stable girl led me round the ring abreast of another horse. Sollis walked alongside, out of kicking and biting range. Forty horses and their excited mass of human connections made things cramped.