by Joe McNally
We travelled in silence for the last hour, and as soon as we reached my place, Martin got straight into his car and roared off without saying a word. Back in the flat, I wondered what to do next.
What a bloody mess.
I grabbed the whisky bottle and sloshed some into two inches of water. Sipping methodically at the scotch, I waited for it to seep under the door marked ‘Inspiration’ in my brain and open it from the inside. Come evening, I was on my second drink, watching the moonrise. I’d spoken to McCarthy. He’d told no one why he was going to Stratford, so unless the caretaker had twigged that I suspected foul play, and he’d blabbed to someone, then either the timing of the burning was coincidental or it lent even more credence to the murder theory.
Mac had told me the police were waiting for the Fire Department’s forensic report so he’d reserve his opinion until that came through.
I tried to figure out how I could learn more about Tranter’s movements on Friday evening, but the only people likely to know were his friends, if he had any. If he did, then they’d probably know exactly what he thought of me.
Another hour of pondering brought no ideas, though Martin’s mind had obviously been at work on the drive home. Just as I was falling into bed, he called me with a ruse of his own.
22
By noon next day, Martin had compiled a list of the labs equipped to carry out the analysis required on the Town Crier samples. We’d agreed to split it and ring them posing as a partner from Brian’s practice - further deception. I took three numbers and left Martin with four and a warning not to lose his temper.
Forty minutes later, I had scored a blue line through all of mine: negative. Martin was waiting for one to return his call, which they did within the hour: zilch. None had received samples from Brian or his practice. Martin got edgy again and started slagging Brian off, saying he’d done nothing with the samples, claiming he’d been stringing us along. I knew Martin was under severe pressure, but couldn’t listen to another tirade. I hung up on him and left the phone off the hook.
It was hot and I was hungry. I had little to eat but plenty to chew on. I wasn’t too depressed. The death of a friend tends to balance your perspective. The stud was important to me financially but otherwise, if it went under, I could live with it. I’d had my share of hardship in the past and always got through.
Martin would probably crack up, but he’d drained me dry of sympathy. Even if we came out okay in the end, I knew our partnership would never be the same. Idols with feet of clay, indeed.
I found some salad in the fridge and boiled a piece of fish. Less than 300 calories and it would keep me going till evening. I had to do ten stone at Uttoxeter tomorrow, which meant losing at least three pounds. A five-mile run this afternoon would help and a sauna tomorrow morning. The thought shook me, and I knew I wouldn’t sit in a sauna again without thinking of Brian Kincaid through every sweating minute.
After lunch, I cleaned up around the flat then changed into my running gear, pulling on two extra sweaters. As I laced my shoes, the phone rang.
‘Eddie, still want me to tell the police about Tranter?’ It was McCarthy. He was notorious for trying to tease, for not coming to the point.
‘What do you know, Mac?’
‘I know Tranter left Stratford soon after racing finished on Friday.’
‘Maybe he did but what was to stop him turning round and coming back.’
‘Well, for one thing, he didn’t have a car.’
I waited. Mac said, ‘About five miles from the course, a Mercedes 600 ran into Tranter’s Volkswagen at traffic lights. His car had to be towed away and the Merc driver took him home.’
‘Who told you all this, Tranter?’
‘No, one of the Stewards who was acting at Stratford, for ’twas he who was driving said Merc.’
‘So how come we haven’t heard this juicy piece of gossip on the grapevine?’
‘Because our rather embarrassed Steward asked Tranter to keep it quiet, and Tranter, knowing which side his bread is low-calorie-spreaded, has done exactly that.’
‘So who told you?’
‘The crasher. The Steward.’
‘Who is.?’
‘Not for publication, Eddie.’
‘Fine.’ I was miffed and not yet convinced. Tranter could have hit Brian on the head before leaving, I supposed, but could he have wedged that door closed, confident nobody would have discovered it?
‘Also,’ Mac said, ‘to put the proverbial tin lid on your theory, Tranter was in Ireland when the weighing room at Stratford burned down. If you still think Brian Kincaid was murdered, Eddie, you’d better find yourself another suspect.’
A blue haze hung over the vast parklands as I ran along an old cart track. The sweating had started before I’d broken into a jog and now, beneath the layers of clothing, under the tight-cuffed plastic body suit, I could feel and hear the sponginess under my arms as they pumped out a steady rhythm. I was thinking more clearly and had spent the first two miles wondering who could tell me more about Brian Kincaid. I was certain he hadn’t lied about sending the samples to a lab. Before leaving the flat I’d even taken the chance of checking with the Equine Fertility Unit at Newmarket, the one I’d made Brian promise he wouldn’t use. They had nothing.
That was the first piece of the puzzle. The second was that Brian had been murdered, I was sure of that. And the third was that Tranter no longer seemed a suspect.
So what had Brian Kincaid done to make somebody kill him?
It was pointless returning to his professional partners. Martin had blown any potential trust there. But who else had Brian associated with?
The best bet would be to speak to Judy again. I owed her a call anyway but visiting after bereavement was never easy, least of all when your motive was selfish.
I took a cool shower, fighting the temptation to lay my head back and drink from the gushing jets. Any intake of liquid would counteract the sweating. I gargled a strong mouthwash, dressed, and dialed Judy’s number. Her sister Amanda answered and told me Judy was with the police in Worcester.
‘Couldn’t they have come to her?’
‘They did, yesterday. She wants to know more so she’s gone to Worcester Police Station to see the chap from Warwick.’
Brian died in the county of Warwickshire so the cops there would be in charge of the investigation. Her sister said Judy had found strength when she learned that Brian’s death was being treated as suspicious. ‘She badly needs someone to blame for taking him away. Now she’s got the bit between her teeth, she’s determined to do all she can to discover who was responsible.’ I told Amanda I’d like to help if I could and she said Judy would be in that evening, and she was sure she’d appreciate a visit.
When I got there, Judy, in pressed tan slacks and a cream blouse, welcomed me. Slim, with cropped fair hair, she was tall, almost gangly, and wore no make-up. Her cheeks always carried a reddish bloom; a true country girl. Her blue eyes were defiant despite signs of weeping.
She led me through the house to a big garden where Amanda was rocking the baby in a shaded cradle. Amanda’s husband Dave was barbecuing meat that sizzled temptingly and smelt delicious, making me regret I was wasting hard for Uttoxeter tomorrow.
I asked about plans for the funeral. Judy didn’t flinch. She said, ‘The police said that if evidence of suspicious circumstances might come to light, it would be better to delay the funeral until after the coroner’s inquest.’
‘When will the inquest be?’ I asked.
She shrugged, ‘They said, weeks, maybe months…but it’s for the best…for justice for Brian.’
I nodded. I had no way of knowing if the police had simply been paying lip-service to Judy’s concerns, but I was glad Brian wouldn’t be buried until someone had investigated, even if that someone was me.
We sat until dusk, when marauding insects made things uncomfortable. What I’d expected to be an ordeal turned out to be enjoyable and uplifting. We talked about Brian
, recounting stories, remembering funny episodes, laughing freely; even Judy, whose eyes sparkled at times with memories. If anyone had happened upon us, they’d have assumed we were discussing a dear friend long dead but it had been less than a week since his murder - a word, understandably, still forbidden.
I worked the conversation around to Brian’s friends and associates, and by the time I left I had the names of three people who’d been fairly close to him. Judy told me he’d probably thought highly enough of them to confide, talk about any worries.
Judy said, ‘I’d try Alex Dunn first. Brian loved Alex. He was Brian’s mentor. “The best vet in the world”, Brian called him. Used to call him it to his face, too, and Alex always blushed.’ She smiled again then the smile disappeared and concern took its place. She said, ‘God, I wonder if Alex knows. He and Brian had spoken half a dozen times in the week before, but Alex hasn’t called since.’
I tried to show only a casual interest. ‘Have they always stayed in close touch?’
Judy, distracted, shook her head slowly. ‘I don’t think so. It must have been Christmas when they last spoke. Until lately, that is.’ She turned toward me. ‘Brian said Alex was helping him out with what he called a “fascinating little problem.”
23
Alex Dunn’s practice was in Newmarket and although I’d heard his name, we’d never met. When I got home, I rang a friend down there on the pretext of looking for a good vet I could recommend to someone.
Without prompting, he mentioned Dunn. ‘Got a reputation as a bit of a nutty professor, likes experimenting, does some homeopathic horse stuff if you can believe that, but he gets results. Works on his own in a little place at Six Mile Bottom. Lives alone, doesn’t smoke or drink, but bets like a lunatic.’
He gave me a couple more names. We hung up, and I called Martin and told him I had an idea where the samples might be, though I didn’t elaborate. He wanted more info, but the last thing I needed was him racing off to Newmarket to grab Alex Dunn by the lapels.
He said, ‘So what are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to try and see this guy as soon as possible but it’ll have to be Thursday at the earliest. I’m riding at Uttoxeter tomorrow.’
‘Give me his name, I’ll go and see him.’
‘No, Martin, leave it to me. I’ll call you as soon as I know something.’
He argued his case, temper flaring again. He slammed the phone down on me.
I saw Tranter at Uttoxeter next day. He ignored me, even during the race we contested and which I won. My other two rides were unplaced, but with earnings for the evening of almost £700, I wasn’t too unhappy, and drove home eagerly anticipating tomorrow’s trip to Newmarket.
They were racing there, and I learned from the racecourse office that Alex Dunn was attending in an official capacity. There was no break in the weather and as I steered along the drive approaching the racecourse, heat haze distorted the images of cars and pedestrians ahead.
After the first race, I spotted McCarthy. He was walking toward the stables at right angles to me, his chubby face trying to sweat itself cool. I hadn’t seen Mac for a while. Looked like he’d put most of his weight back on. His wife tried to keep him on a sensible diet, and when he’d been pitching for promotion last year he’d followed it, but when he was pipped for the big job he’d let himself slip again. Pushing seventeen stones now by the look of him.
He didn’t see me till I was almost by his shoulder, and when he did his scowl deepened.
‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Hot, eh?’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Nice to be made welcome at the headquarters of racing.’
He stopped and turned, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. From the front, I could see a tinge of grey in the dark hair at his temples. He said, ‘You don’t like flat racing, Eddie, what are you up to?’
‘Same as I was last time we spoke. I’m trying to find out who killed Brian Kincaid.’
‘Leave it to the proper authorities.’
‘What exactly are the proper authorities doing about it?’
Mac glanced around. At six foot two, his vision covered a wide sweep. He didn’t care to be seen talking to me. We’d been in a few scrapes together, though he’d always come out of it well enough. He said, ‘Look, I need to speak to one of the stable security staff. Can we meet somewhere quiet during the next race?’
The bars would be quiet while a race was on, but flat races seldom lasted longer than a few minutes. I suggested meeting at the stables. He agreed. I asked him where I’d find Alex Dunn.
‘Why do you want him?’
‘I’ll tell you in ten minutes.’
Mac said if Dunn wasn’t out on the course, he usually watched the racing from the owners and trainers stand. He told me I couldn’t miss him - six foot six and very thin with white hair.
I recognized Dunn immediately from the description. He was in the stand. On the steps behind him was a noticeable gap; few would have a decent view over his head topped by a Panama hat. I watched him throughout the mile race that was in progress: a rolled up newspaper in his left fist, fixed like a pathfinder to the binoculars, which moved slowly as the commentary built, the crowd murmur grew to a rumble, the approaching hoofbeats drummed louder.
Then they were past the post.
The noise died. Dunn’s binoculars came down but he stared gloomily into the distance, as though watching a large wager disappear over the horizon.
He gripped the crush barrier with both hands and almost slumped forward. My inclination was to let him compose himself, but my instinct told me to move in while his defenses were low. He stood like a skinny breakwater as the crowd moved around him and the stand emptied. Within a couple of minutes, he was alone.
I approached him head on up the steps, smiling. ‘Mister Dunn?’
He nodded, wondering if he should know me, frowning as he searched for a name. ‘Eddie Malloy.’ I said, holding out my hand. ‘I am a friend. I mean I was a friend of Brian Kincaid.’
There was an immediate change in his brown eyes. He swallowed dryly then held out his hand. He looked to be in his late-fifties, though the hat hid most of his hair, which was Aspirin white and would, I guessed, make him appear considerably older.
‘You knew Brian?’ I said.
He nodded, struggling for normality but showing no surprise at my change of tense. I decided to go for it, but the PA system drowned out my next words. I repeated them. ‘The samples you were helping Brian with, they were from one of my horses.’
He was already quite pale but that spooked him, driving what remained of the colour from his bony face. At the same time, his whole body recoiled a few inches as though I’d raised a hand to hit him. A poker player he wasn’t.
Taking off his hat, he ran skeletal fingers through his thin hair, put the hat back on and said, ‘Which samples?’
He was trying.
I stared at him. ‘The samples from my stallion. The semen, blood, biopsies.’
He checked his watch, hand shaking slightly, and said, ‘I’m very sorry but I’m actually on duty today.’
‘I can wait. We can meet after racing.’
‘I have quite a few appointments.’
‘We need to talk, Mister Dunn. I’m sure you know why.’
He looked at me as though I was a bailiff. I thought for a few seconds he was going to start crying. He said, ‘Perhaps you could come and see me at home?’
‘Fine. This evening? Six-thirty?’
He nodded slowly, watching me like I was the snake, he the rabbit. He gave me his address and phone number when I pressed him. I left and went to meet McCarthy.
He was still inside the racecourse stables. I waited, pacing the perimeter. I was pretty keyed up. Dunn had behaved as though he’d murdered Brian himself. Surely his demeanour couldn’t simply be down to his involvement with the samples analysis? I smiled. Maybe there’d be a bonus in this yet. Maybe Dunn could crack Town Crier’s problem. Maybe he�
��d already cracked it.
McCarthy waddled toward me and we walked into the shade of the stable buildings. He told me the autopsy on Brian had shown up a long thin bruise on the scalp above the right temple which could have been caused by a ‘blow from a third party’ or from a fall. The fire that destroyed the weighing room had started, they reckoned, as a grass fire outside after the weeks without rain. What they couldn’t say was whether it had been arson.
‘Come on, Mac, at three in the morning? It’s hardly going to be spontaneous combustion.’
‘They’re still looking at it, Eddie. I’ll keep you in touch. Now why did you want to see Alex Dunn?’
‘Why do you ask? You interested in him too?’
‘Should I be?’
‘Are we going to spend the rest of the afternoon swapping questions?’
‘Would you like to?’
We smiled. Mac said he wasn’t particularly interested in Dunn, and since I was nervous about the Town Crier samples, I played it as cool as I could and told him that Brian and Alex Dunn had been close friends and I’d wondered if Dunn could give me a lead.
‘And did he?’
I tried to look disappointed. ‘Nah, nothing. He’s still in shock too from Brian’s death.’
‘I didn’t know they were good friends.’
‘Well, old friends. Judy Kincaid told me they didn’t see much of each other but they were in touch recently. Just a shot in the dark.’ I was keen to move McCarthy off the subject in case he sent the police to talk to Dunn. The vet would probably drop dead at the sight of a warrant card.
Mac said, ‘So, what next?’
I sighed. ‘I don’t know. Any suggestions?’
He put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Yes, go home and hang up your pipe and deerstalker. Let the police handle it. You’re getting too old for all this amateur sleuthing stuff.’