The Eddie Malloy Series

by Joe McNally

13

  On Thursday morning, Barney Dolan rang, sounding nervous. I assured him I was okay for Saturday. If we hadn’t nailed the blackmailer by Friday night, I’d been prepared to tell Barney I couldn’t take the ride. It wouldn’t have been worth exposing the stud just to do Barney a favour. But now that we had an ideal opportunity to get the guy’s number, I was happy to ride, knowing I’d get an angry call from him after Cliptie ran.

  Priorities one and two were coming along nicely, and if over the weekend I could bail Barney out of trouble with Joey the Greek, it could yet turn out to be a productive week.

  The rest of Thursday and Friday proved quiet, frustrating and boring. In the blackmailer’s hall of fame, our guy must hold the record for the smallest phone bill. I began wondering if something had happened to him. Maybe blackmail was his stock in trade and another ‘client’ had sorted him out.

  At noon on Friday, I checked the next day’s declarations and I cursed when I saw Tranter’s name against a runner in Cliptie’s race.

  I was about to call Barney Dolan to warn him when the phone rang. The pause before the caller spoke increased my heart rate and stopped my breath for a second.

  ‘Eddie?’

  It was Martin. I almost swore at him. He said, ‘I think I’ve got our man.’

  ‘The blackmailer?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘He called you?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Come on, Martin!’

  ‘I’m looking at a picture of him.’

  Martin arrived that evening and produced a cutting from a monthly racing magazine called Bloodstalk. It was a full-page story about the Corish Stud and what a fine establishment it was. The writer’s name was Simon Spindari. There was a head and shoulders picture of him at the top of the page - young, dark-eyed, olive-skinned, smiling. Your original Latin lover.

  Martin explained that the feature was commissioned as ‘Advertorial’: the magazine had been paid £1,250 and had written the piece in a very positive light.

  Martin said, ‘I twigged when I noticed the cutting on the office wall. That’s where I’d heard the voice before. He came twice to interview me and I found out this morning he came once when I wasn’t there and spent the afternoon with Caroline, boozing.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Fiona.’

  ‘Why didn’t she tell you before this?’

  ‘She said she didn’t want me to think she was telling tales on Caroline, trying to turn me against her.’

  ‘Telling tales? A journalist having a few drinks and a chat?’

  Martin looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, Fiona thinks it was maybe more than just a few drinks. Which is fair enough, Caroline’s got her own life to lead now.’

  But I could see that in his mind it wasn’t fair enough. The thought of Caroline with someone else hurt him, and perhaps he now saw why she might have betrayed him and told Spindari about Town Crier and what a bastard her husband was. She could have been drunk or simply vengeful. ‘Have you asked Caroline about it?’

  ‘Thought it best not to in case she warned the guy.’

  I nodded, thinking. ‘Are you sure it’s him?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Martin watched me. ‘What do we do now?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. It’ll take a bit of thinking out.’

  ‘Why don’t we just ring him up, tell him we know who he is?’

  ‘Where does that leave us though? He’s still got damaging information.’

  ‘He’s always going to have that, isn’t he? Doesn’t matter what we do.’

  ‘Unless we can make him believe Caroline was lying to him,’ I said.

  ‘How do we do that?’

  I told him what I thought we should do, and when he called me a genius, my thoughts went back to the days when he was my idol. His praise always made me ridiculously proud.

  Before Martin had sussed the identity of the blackmailer, the plan had been for him to come to my flat and wait for the call while I was at Market Rasen. Now he had to make a quick return trip to the stud to put plan B into action.

  Before leaving, he begged me to ring Kincaid to ask about progress on the Town Crier samples. The vet had a ride at Market Rasen and we’d agreed to meet after racing. I promised Martin that if Kincaid got a breakthrough, he’d be on the phone quicker than you could say ‘sperm count’.

  I spent most of the journey to Market Rasen trying to figure out how I was going to cope with Billy Tranter in the second race, which was tailor-made for more of his villainy.

  Cliptie had fourteen opponents and was a twelve to one chance in the betting forecast. If he won, Barney would recover Joey the Greek’s cash and more besides. But such a big field on this tight undulating track would have Tranter slavering with anticipation.

  The best way of staying safe and getting a clear run would be to jump him off in front and try and hold on to the lead, but horses are individuals and need riding in different ways. Dolan had told me Cliptie did best when covered up and delivered very late. A tricky horse, and, in Tranter, a tricky rival.

  14

  The past few days had been cooler, and it was grey and overcast with dark clouds rolling in from the west as I headed for the weighing room. We could have done with some rain earlier in the week to soften the going, though the management had been watering and claimed to have produced perfect ground. Against Tranter, I feared I’d be hitting that ground hard at some point between 2.45 and 2.50, and had my doubts about how ‘perfect’ it would feel then.

  But trainers seemed convinced as there were more than ten runners entered in each race, a rare thing these days. This meant the weighing room would be busier than normal. There were the usual calls of welcome and jocular abuse as I worked my way through valets and jockeys in various stages of undress till I reached my peg.

  In the changing room, there is an unofficial pecking order based on success and experience and everyone observes it. The top jocks always got the positions closest to heaters, toilets, saunas, etc., then the scale slides to the bottom, the dingy corners where you find the humble conditional jockeys, their eye as firmly fixed on that number one peg as it is on a Grand National victory.

  The place smelled of leather and sweat and tobacco smoke, liniment, saddle soap, boot polish and hope. And we treasured it as the sanctuary it was. No trainers or owners allowed, no matter how rich or how well connected. Valets, jockeys, racecourse officials only. It was our own little Wendy House where the baddies couldn’t get us and where most of us hoped we’d never have to grow up.

  I knew Barney Dolan liked a drink, but I hadn’t seen him drunk. Not until I walked into the paddock. Sweat beaded his forehead and each cheekbone, as though his red nose was radiating heat. His eyes were bloodshot, his pupils the size of confetti. He stank of gin and slurred his speech as he gave me instructions. I squeezed his arm. ‘Cool it. We’ll be okay.’

  He just nodded stupidly and tears welled but didn’t fall, as his face seemed to freeze with the terror of losing. You could have transferred the picture straight into a Gamblers Anonymous leaflet and captioned it ‘Addict at the end of his tether’.

  I’d been pretty tense myself for the past hour. Tranter hadn’t turned up. I’d sat in the changing room, waiting to see his face as he came through the door. I would know by his first look if he intended to try and do me again today, but he didn’t arrive and minutes before the deadline a substitute jockey was declared.

  I knew now I could ride the race without constantly watching my back. I’d been looking forward to giving that good news to Barney Dolan in the paddock but his mind was no longer open for business, closed down for the afternoon by that well-known racecourse firm, Fear & Booze.

  The mounting bell sounded. Barney stood rooted. I went over to Cliptie and the lad legged me up. Cliptie flicked an ear and rolled an eye toward me, probably wondering which little adventure I had in store for him today. I clapped his neck as we walked round. ‘Relax,
I forgot to bring my swimming trunks.’ The blond lad looked up at me and smiled.

  As we left the paddock, I looked toward the car park to see Billy Tranter running for the weighing room as furiously as his saddle and kitbag would allow. I whistled loudly through my teeth, which wasn’t the smartest thing to do as Cliptie jibbed in surprise and jumped sideways, but I caught Tranter’s eye and gave him a wide smile and a high wave. I saw his mouth form a curse as he slammed the saddle to the ground and kicked it.

  We cantered to the start.

  My stupid antics had stirred Cliptie up, and he wouldn’t settle to walk round. He jogged and skittered and generally worked himself into lather, and I was glad that Dolan wasn’t capable of holding up a pair of binoculars. By the time the tape rose, Cliptie was in such a sweat, I could hear my boots squeak against his sides as I fought to settle him. He fought, throwing his head about, pulling hard, so determined that he barely took off at the first hurdle then almost tied himself in knots as he hurried to overcome the stumble and resume his headlong gallop.

  I hadn’t managed to rein him back an ounce as we approached the second and I stopped wrestling and just concentrated on getting him over safely. He jumped it cleanly, eager to return to fighting me.

  If trainers give riding orders, most jockeys try to stick to them, even if they think they are wrong. It’s better to lose a race you could have won than to disobey orders. If the horse gets stuffed then at least the blame can’t be laid on you. The reverse side of this is the fact that a large number of races are decided by decisions taken during running, and I was about to make one for good or bad.

  Cliptie needed holding up in the pack then brought with a late surge to give his best. If he tried to lead all the way, he’d run out of puff or enthusiasm and pack it in before the finish. On the other hand, he was using so much energy fighting my efforts to settle him he’d have nothing left at the finish anyway. So I stopped pulling against him, sat as still as I could and talked softly, sending messages down the reins to say, ‘Okay, you win, no more battles, I promise. Take it easy now, do your own thing.’

  And he understood. The frantic attitude disappeared. The pace didn’t ease much, if any, but the gallop became rhythmical, smoother, not so taxing. The less I moved, the more his excellent balance was apparent. We jumped the third. I glanced round. We were twenty lengths clear. Five to jump.

  How was Dolan coping with this?

  Cliptie held together beautifully over the next two. Unfaltering. Three to jump.

  Attempting to lead all the way is different from any other race-riding tactic. Normally you’ll have a calm, settled horse who’s a proven stayer, who enjoys being out there on his own, who relishes the battle when challengers come at him late in the race. But even on those types there’s always a little spider of doubt waiting to unravel its web, anticipating that blip in the stride or breathing that tells you it will be a miracle if you last home.

  And it’s not only getting home, returning in one piece, puttering into the petrol station on your final whiff of vapour. On a thoroughbred, there is a pack after you. A pack of animals. And you have a fierce desire to win. Not just for you, often for the horse, for your partner, the one who’s done everything he can to stay ahead of that pack. Sometimes you can almost feel the primal fear from him as he falters and tries to keep going, to keep living.

  The worst feeling of all is the helplessness. That was the sensation I dreaded most and that was what I found myself expecting as I went to the second last on this horse who was trying to lead throughout for probably the first time in his life.

  I forced myself to look round again.

  They were coming.

  The dark pack closed like some snaking eraser deleting the distance between us.

  Ten lengths behind. Two to jump. Three furlongs to go. Six hundred and sixty yards. How much was each worth in pounds to Barney Dolan?

  But Cliptie was holding together. Then, a hundred yards off the hurdle, he went… faltered. The tiniest of tremors but one that I knew signified the beginning of the earthquake.

  He cleared the jump but failed to get away cleanly, lost his stride. I gathered the reins, sat lower, gently tried to bring him onto an even keel. His breath rasped, ears came back. I talked to him. ‘Come on! Stay with it! Not far. One more jump.’

  I daren’t look behind. The simple turning action could easily throw him off balance again. I didn’t know how near they were.

  Then I heard the hoofbeats.

  Approaching the last, he was almost exhausted and hit the top, stumbled, but somehow got his legs out in front and stayed upright. I was now a passenger. Dead freight. I was convinced that if I started riding a finish Cliptie would go to pieces.

  Hoofbeats right and left. Loud panting. Then in the periphery of my vision a dark stretching nose each side of Cliptie’s quarters, both gaining, reeling us in, foot by foot, reaching our breast girth, jockeys like dervishes, every instinct in me screaming to kick and scrub and push but my brain overruling, forcing me to sit still and stay balanced, letting Cliptie do everything for both of us. Ninety nine percent of onlookers would think I was throwing the race.

  The winning post seemed eerily fixed, never coming nearer, the only movement from those other two snorting, sweating, whip-marked animals, their heads at Cliptie’s shoulder now, at his throat, his jaw, his nose.

  Then past him.

  And the post.

  ‘Photograph,’ the PA blared.

  ‘Photograph.’

  In most tight finishes, you know if you’ve won or not. Normally you’ll glance across as you hit the line, but I’d been so afraid to move for fear of unbalancing Cliptie that I’d kept staring straight ahead. He pulled himself up very quickly, exhausted. I jumped off and led him toward the unsaddling enclosure.

  A few punters by the horsewalk asked me if I’d held on and that made me more hopeful; others cursed me for not riding out the finish. Dolan waited in the enclosure. The colour had gone from his face though his nose stayed stubbornly red, making the surrounding skin look even paler. He swayed gently as though just holding on for the result before keeling over.

  He lumbered across, almost blocking my way as I led the horse in, and tried to ask silently but the intended quizzical expression resulted in one slightly tilted eyebrow and crossed eyes. At least if we’d lost he’d feel no pain till he sobered up. I looked at him and shrugged. It was as though we had a pact of silence. The lad took Cliptie and I clapped the horse’s lathered neck. Cliptie’s sides heaved and his head hung.

  I watched the two other jockeys involved ride in; neither entered the winner’s spot.

  The PA crackled slightly and breaths were held. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the judge has called for a print before deciding the outcome of the second race.’

  Unless it was desperately tight, the judge could usually nominate the winner from the negative. We’d now have to wait a few minutes more for a full print to be produced. I went to weigh in then hurried back out. Beside me, Barney stared straight ahead and kept swaying, rhythmical as a metronome.

  After five minutes without an announcement, there were murmurs of ‘dead heat’. Finally, the PA crackled again. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the result of the photo finish… the judge has called a dead heat between number three, Cranston Hall, and number seven, Cliptie.’ I grabbed Barney’s arm. ‘Will that do?’ Bets on dead heats are settled to half the stake. Cliptie’s Starting Price was twelve to one. I wondered how much Barney had bet. But he smiled stupidly and nodded then said, ‘Fixed Tranter, too. Fixed Tranter.’

  I smiled. ‘What did you do?’

  Comically, he bent over and swung his arm, releasing a phantom bowling ball. ‘Old spud up the arse trick!’ he bellowed. I later found out he’d got someone to block Tranter’s car exhaust with a raw potato. Barney bowled again in a demented action replay then fell over and lay on his back, cackling at the sky.

  15

  Brian Kincaid turned up half an hour later, and w
e took Styrofoam cups of black coffee outside and stood by the empty parade ring during the running of the next race. Kincaid’s hooked nose touched the edge of the narrow cup and he had to tilt his head back as he drank. He had no news of any breakthrough on the Town Crier samples, and told me that progress would be quicker if we would allow him to contact the Equine Fertility Unit in Newmarket.

  The lab had some ultra-sophisticated equipment but much of their work came via the Jockey Club, and I was as nervous as Martin about any involvement with them. From the beginning, Kincaid had taken the view that if he asked no questions he’d hear no lies, so when I confirmed we wanted the EFU guys left out he didn’t push it, just told me we’d have to be patient.

  I watched Kincaid ride in the last, admiring how stylish he looked for such a tall man. He rode a brilliant race to catch Tranter’s horse close home, and that made victory all the sweeter for me. Although Kincaid had never given up hope on his horse, Tranter’s had been well clear on the run in then started idling so badly that Kincaid caught him in the shadow of the post and won by a neck.

  I went to applaud Brian Kincaid as he came in. Riding toward the winner’s enclosure Kincaid wasn’t smiling, he was grim-faced and obviously very angry. Jumping from the saddle, he forced a smile for the winning connections and managed a few terse words with the trainer before hurrying inside the weighing room. I followed him.

  He got up from the scales and strode into the changing room, dumped his saddle and whip on the bare wooden table and wrenched open the buckle of his helmet strap. The way he tore the helmet off must have hurt his ears and as he turned to face me, his fury made him almost unrecognizable. Kincaid was the most relaxed guy you could meet, and if anyone had offered to bet me I’d one day see him in such a rage, I’d have lost a lot of money.

  I’d been anxious to ask what had happened, but as I stopped a few yards from him he moved forward, eyes burning through me, and pushed me firmly aside with both hands. I turned to see who his target was, and as a scowling Tranter appeared carrying his gear, Kincaid took two more steps, drew back his right arm and unleashed a punch Tyson would have been proud of.