The Eddie Malloy Series

by Joe McNally

  ‘I know very little about it, Eddie.’

  ‘Well, do yourself a favour and get some sniffing around done.’

  ‘You mean, do you a favour?’

  ‘Mac, there’s no way that was an accident.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  I argued my case for Brian’s medical expertise, which Mac accepted as a reasonable foundation, then told him everything that had happened with Tranter.

  ‘You ought to be very careful who you mention this to, Eddie. That’s a pretty serious allegation.’

  ‘That’s a fact, Mac! I’m not alleging anything. I’m telling you what happened between Tranter and Brian, and I’m telling you that Tranter heard us talking on Friday and could have made a reasonable assumption that Brian was going to be in that sauna.’

  ‘Ah, but—’

  ‘Ah, but nothing! You came to the same conclusion I did just then when I laid out the facts.’

  ‘It’s obvious the slant you’re taking.’

  ‘Because it’s the logical bloody slant to take!’

  There was a pause and I pictured him shaking his head slowly.

  He said, ‘I think you’d best wait and see what the inquiry comes up with.’

  ‘Which will be when? Weeks? Months?’

  ‘I don’t know. Let’s see what the police have to say. The coroner’s report might throw up something.’

  ‘Like what? What evidence is going to be left in a desiccated corpse?’

  ‘That’s not for us to say, Eddie.’

  ‘Come on, Mac, don’t go all superior. The cops have to be persuaded, as from now, to treat this as suspicious.’

  ‘I wish you luck in your persuading.’

  ‘It would be easier with your help and you damn well know it. And you know that’s what I’m asking for.’

  He sighed, long and deliberate, straight into the mouthpiece.

  ‘Okay, after the beating last week, did Tranter say he was going to take revenge on Kincaid?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t hear him say that.’

  ‘Did anyone?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Can you find out?’

  I can ask around, sure, but—’

  'Perhaps you could also ask if anyone knows what time Tranter left Stratford on Friday, and were there any witnesses to his leaving, and did anyone know where he was going, and can anyone at his ultimate destination give him a credible alibi?’

  That cooled my ire. Mac was being sensible and logical, while chiding me gently for not being the same. He’d just set off a train of simple deduction, a straightforward elimination process that I should have gone through before even picking up the phone to him.

  Chastened, I told him I’d press on with it and get back to him soon. I paced the flat trying to concentrate, to clear my mind so I could start again using calm logic rather than anger and emotion.

  The flat was uncomfortably hot. The heat wave persisted. I went outside, scrambled over the big five-bar gate and walked up onto the gallops. The sun threw long shadows across the grassy slope. I spent more than an hour roaming the open spaces, spooked a couple of hares, heard skylarks above and steadily ordered my thoughts.

  Back in the flat, I sat down with my diary and began making calls. The first was to Bill Keating, the jockey who’d spoken to the caretaker at Stratford. The caretaker was a friend, and Bill said he thought he’d speak to me quite freely if I called. His name was Charlie Kenton and he answered at the first ring.

  ‘That was quick,’ I said.

  ‘I was just about to make a call myself! My hand was on the bloody phone! Didn’t half give me a fright. Who is it?’

  I introduced myself as a close friend of Brian’s. Kenton was happy to talk, with the performing instinct of an accomplished gossip. I let him warm up with a gruesome rendition of how he found the body and what he’d told the police. When I got the chance, I asked questions.

  ‘How come he wasn’t found till next morning?’

  Kenton blustered about not being able to be everywhere at once, that his duties were different on racedays, and that generally it was nothing to do with him that Brian’s body had lain in that sauna all night.

  ‘Did nobody see his car left in the car park?’

  ‘Ah, there, you see! He didn’t bring his car. He got a lift with a mate.’

  ‘Who? Which mate?’

  ‘Scotty Fraser, so they tell me.’

  ‘And wasn’t he travelling with Scotty?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘How did he plan to get home?’

  That stumped him. ‘Er, I’m not sure on that one.’

  I pressed him on whether he himself had been around the weighing room after racing. I was hoping to find out if Tranter had been among the last to leave. But Kenton admitted that he’d been on ‘traffic duty’, which amounted to directing cars out of the public car park. He gave me no further useful information.

  I called Scotty Fraser and was glad, in a sad way, to find him as depressed about Brian’s death as I was. Scotty felt guilty about not giving Brian the promised lift back.

  ‘What happened, did you forget about him?’

  ‘No, I was heading to the weighing room after the last to meet him and I was told he’d already left.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Billy Tranter.’

  My second call of the day to McCarthy interrupted a late Sunday lunch. He wasn’t pleased.

  Scotty Fraser had gone on to explain that he’d called Tranter yesterday, demanding to know why he had said Brian had left Stratford. Tranter told him he’d done it to get back at Brian after the beating. He’d overheard Brian mention he was getting a lift home and thought it would be a nice little touch to leave him stranded. I told Mac all this.

  ‘Well, there you are then,’ he said smugly.

  ‘Mac, come on! Tranter would say that, wouldn’t he? He’s hardly going to admit killing him.’

  ‘Equally, if he intended to kill Kincaid, he’d have to be pretty bloody stupid to drop himself in it now the way you’re suggesting.’

  ‘Why not? He had to make sure that Fraser didn’t go looking for Brian.’

  ‘Perhaps, but he could have done that just as easily by forging a note or something.’

  ‘And who’d have delivered it to Fraser?’

  ‘Wouldn’t have been a big problem.’

  ‘Mac, why are you being so negative? How come you can’t see the obvious?’

  ‘How come you’ve got tunnel vision? Tunnel vision trained on Tranter?’

  ‘Because he’s the only one I know with motive. And he’s crazy.’

  ‘Motive for what? You’re seeing demons round every corner, Eddie. At the moment, we have nothing more than a very unfortunate accident which, with hindsight, some might say was waiting to happen. We have a jockey who’s probably malnourished to some extent, already riding more than a stone below his natural weight; he’s ridden that day having taken no sustenance at all in the previous twenty-four hours. It’s quite probable he’s drained and light-headed then he goes and bakes in a sauna. What price a collapse? You wouldn’t get big odds.’

  We fenced for another ten minutes and Mac said he’d speak to the police officer in charge and raise the possibility of ‘foul play’. I urged him to tell them to have a word with Scotty Fraser.

  Then I rang Kenton, the caretaker back at Stratford, and he said he’d be happy to show me around. We agreed to meet early next morning.

  20

  I was at Stratford before 8 a.m. Kenton was holding the main gate open as I came up the drive. The sauna was situated at the end of a row of showers. Kenton told me it was less than two years old. I went inside the box while he chirped on, pointing to where he’d found Brian and how he’d looked like ‘some little alien’. I wanted to yell at him to shut up and get out. Not once had he mentioned Brian’s family or expressed sympathy for my loss of a friend. I needed time to look around. I asked him if he’d mind returning to the
car and bringing me my mobile phone. He took the keys and hurried off.

  Trying to block out the image of Brian’s corpse, I examined the sauna box: standard, nothing unusual, two benches either side, one above the other, the coals corralled in the corner, water bucket on the floor nearby. I pulled the door closed from the inside, feeling an unexpected wave of trepidation as it clicked shut on the ballbearing catch.

  I pushed it. It needed a little weight behind it but gave quite easily. I repeated the action then went outside and did the same; opened and closed it half a dozen times. The handle was of wood, shaped like a bow, about a foot long. Crouching, I looked closely at it, ran my hands down the soft pine. Relatively new, it had its share of dents and grazes though it gave slightly even under the pressure of a fingernail.

  Where the bottom of the handle met the door, just on the underside of the curve, a ridge ran across. I traced it with my finger; no deeper than a millimeter, it had smooth edges. Facing the door, maybe six feet away, was a solid wall tiled in white glaze. I knelt and looked up at the ridge, but the light wasn’t good.

  ‘May I ask what you are doing?’

  I turned slowly to see a well-dressed, white-haired man - the clerk of the course, Gilbert Grimond.

  ‘Saying a prayer for Brian Kincaid.’ On my knees, it was the first thing that came into my head and it was enough to throw Mr. Grimond temporarily. ‘Oh,’ he said. I didn’t think it was the right time to tell him that what I was really doing was trying to figure what had been wedged against that handle to keep Brian Kincaid from escaping. What had been used to cover the end of the instrument so that the ridge it left was soft, barely perceptible.

  I decided the real reason could wait until I’d spoken to McCarthy, told him what I’d found. Bad decision.

  McCarthy was in meetings all day Monday. I left several messages for him but it was late evening before he called me at home. He sounded weary at first, giving the impression that I was the final one on his ‘to do’ list and all he wanted was to tick off my name and get a decent night’s sleep. When I told him about the door handle, he wakened up a bit. ‘I’d better go up there in the morning and have a look,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll meet you there.’

  ‘No, that’s a bad idea. You’re much too close to this without having any real reason to be so. Not to the outside world, at least.’

  ‘Mac—’

  ‘Eddie! If there is a case to be investigated here, the police are going to be touchy enough about me bringing it to their attention. If they think you’re the one behind it all, driving things along, they’ll make life difficult.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Also, what they will see is a vendetta against Tranter. Leave it to me. I’ve got no axe to grind, and apart from anything else it is my job.’

  ‘So you say, but how come you always clock on when the rest of the shift have done the donkey work?’

  ‘The craftsmen always come in after the labourers, Eddie. Like the stallion that finishes the job after the teaser’s done the dirty work. ’

  I smiled. ‘The stallion? Getting a bit above yourself, aren’t you?’ But he was probably spot on. I’d been involved with various police forces in the last few years and if there was a right way to rub them up I’d yet to find it. I contented myself with the thought that evidence was beginning to build - circumstantial maybe, but it was early days and the outlook was promising.

  In a more positive mood, I made a sandwich and sat down to listen to the radio news, half-hoping for some breakthrough by the cops. But there was nothing at all on Brian’s death – a stale story, filed away and forgotten. I wondered how Judy was bearing up, whether she was still under sedation.

  The phone rang. Martin, sounding strung out. ‘Eddie, I’m sorry about your friend, but we’ve got to do something about this horse!’

  ‘What’s the big hurry? The stud season’s almost over.’

  We got into a long argument about the urgency of solving Town Crier’s problem. I got the impression that Martin was feeling neglected because Town Crier was no longer my priority. I told him if he felt so strongly about the problem, he should solve it himself. He said that was just what he would do and slammed the phone down.

  Ten minutes later, I called him back and arranged to meet next day. He promised to be at my flat early and was true to his word, getting me out of bed.

  Even allowing that I was unshaven and bleary-eyed, I still looked better than he did. That terrible concentration-camp gauntness and desperation were in his face. I made coffee. Martin paced, unwilling to sit down.

  ‘What’s wrong, Martin?’

  ‘We can’t let this slip, Eddie. We’ve got to sort Town Crier out.’

  ‘I know but there’s no big hurry any more, is there? We’ve got seven months before the start of the new season.’

  ‘We’ve got nothing like seven months! If the story gets out and we have to submit to tests on him, we’re fucked!’

  I couldn’t understand the sudden desperation. ‘Martin, what’s happened? Has Spindari been back in touch?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘So how is the story going to get out?’

  He marched up to me, shoving his face in mine, shades of madness in his bloodshot eyes. ‘It could! It just could! And you don’t care anymore! You don’t give a monkey’s fuck! What am I supposed to do, eh? Tell me!’ Then he broke down in tears, deep racking sobs. He sank to the floor, crying uncontrollably.

  An hour later, with a pint of coffee inside him, he was calmer. He admitted he’d been drinking far too much and that Caroline and Fiona were putting ‘unbearable’ pressure on him. The bills were mounting, Kincaid was dead, and my attention was elsewhere. He said he just felt everything was slipping away from him and that if he could only be sure Town Crier would recover, that would give him strength.

  I looked at this hero of mine, slumped at my table, beaten by his own doubts and fears. This hero, this man, this child. And I promised I’d make everything better for him.

  He suggested we visit Brian Kincaid’s partners and try to find out what had happened to the samples Brian had sent off. He seemed in no fit state to meet anyone but he promised he’d be okay. Foolishly, I believed him and set up a meeting that afternoon with John Brogan, the senior partner in Kincaid’s surgery.

  I found a clean shirt for Martin and persuaded him to have a shower and a shave. Just as he closed the bathroom door, the phone rang. It was McCarthy. I looked at my watch: 10.25. I’d assumed he’d be travelling to Stratford as promised but the call was on a clear line, no mobile. I said, ‘I thought you were going to Stratford?’

  ‘I’m at Stratford.’

  ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘I think we’ve got problems.’

  ‘The cops might have problems,’ I said with some satisfaction, ‘not us.’

  ‘We’ve got problems, Eddie.’ A serious tone I should have recognized sooner.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘The sauna’s gone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Somebody burned it down in the early hours of this morning. And the weighing room with it.’

  21

  I was driving as fast as my brain was working which wasn’t sensible on these country roads and the tyres screeched complaints at each bend. Martin stared straight ahead. He’d just lost the argument about concentrating on Town Crier rather than Brian’s death, which I was now almost certain was murder. He paid me back by not responding to the questions I threw out as we headed south. Few needed answering. But I could have used some murmurs of encouragement now and then.

  ‘I mean, if Tranter’s done this where does he stop? He kills Brian, burns down the weighing room to get rid of the evidence, the whole weighing room, mind you… I wonder if it was anything to do with McCarthy going there this morning. How could he have found that out?’

  I asked Martin to get Mac’s number from my diary and dial for me. Silently he did it and handed me the phone. Mac’s mob
ile was switched off. Martin tried the racecourse number. It rang out unanswered. I cursed and returned to one-sided speculation about Tranter and his psychological history, motivation, private life, etc.

  Finally, as we sped down the slip road onto the M5, Martin spoke. ‘What if it wasn’t Tranter?’

  ‘Well, if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t want to be the cop who’s got to solve it. I never knew anybody else who disliked Brian. Who could have a motive besides Tranter?’

  ‘You talk like you and Kincaid were blood brothers or something. I mean, how close were you? He might have been up to all sorts of stuff?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Could be anything!’

  I was angry with Martin. But he and McCarthy had now said I should be more objective about possible suspects, so I kept quiet for the next few heat-hazed miles and concentrated on trying to come up with alternatives. I failed, but it set me wondering if Brian’s partners had an opinion on it.

  The practice was located on the Worcester/Hereford border, and we got there twenty minutes early and waited in a small hot yellow room where an oscillating fan riffled the dog-eared pages of old Sunday supplements.

  The meeting was disastrous. Brogan knew nothing of Kincaid’s work for us and hadn’t the faintest idea where any samples might have been sent to. Martin quickly lost the place completely and started berating Brogan, accusing him of being incompetent, of being in collusion with some unknown enemy. In the end, I had to apologize and almost drag Martin out. We had a serious argument in the car. Serious but pointless. His sole focus was Town Crier’s fertility problem and he was obviously willing to batter and bludgeon his way through all obstacles in his attempt to find a solution. He saw no reason to make allowances for others.

  ‘You simply can’t go around behaving like you did in there!’ I said. ‘Brogan owes us nothing. He’d’ve been well within his rights to have slung you out of there…bodily!’

  ‘Eddie, what you can’t seem to understand is we don’t have the time for anything else! Hear that? We! You’re in this with me but you’re too fucking busy being nice to people! You’re only interested in everyone thinking you’re a nice guy! We’re bleeding to death, man!’