by Joe McNally
I smiled. ‘And what does that make you?’ Mac was at least ten years older than I was.
‘I’m a professional sleuth.’
I raised a mischievous eyebrow but resisted saying, ‘Oh, yeah?’ He promised to keep me informed of police progress, and I wandered off trying to convey an air of resignation though it was important not to overplay it. Mac knew I wasn’t a quitter.
I had a sandwich in a pub then rang Martin to tell him I’d set up a meeting and was hopeful of having something more solid soon. He grunted… moody bastard.
Alex Dunn’s place wasn’t easy to find. I asked directions of a garage attendant and got there at 6.25. An old bungalow with flaked cream masonry and mustard-coloured door and sills, it lay down a narrow road facing acres of deep woods. There was no car in the drive, and if Dunn was at home, he wasn’t coming out. I went around the back along paths bordered by colourful but neglected plants and shrubs.
The house looked much bigger from this side. I tried the door of the long porch. It was open. I knocked on the half-glassed door inside. Silence. I returned to the car and waited. An hour later Dunn hadn’t showed, and I was angry with myself for so easily accepting his suggestion of meeting here.
If he had no intention of keeping the date, I had little intention of breaking it. Starting the engine, I cruised along and found a track into the woods. I turned in and drove till I could no longer see the bungalow.
I got out, taking with me the waterproof I always carried, and headed through the woods for the house, stopping twenty yards in and settling on the ground where I could see without, I hoped, being seen.
Come darkness, no vehicles had passed. The only sounds were from nocturnal creatures on the prowl. I decided to do some prowling myself and just after eleven, I returned to Dunn’s place and broke in.
24
The biggest room had been converted into a lab, which, unlike the rest of the property, was clean and tidy to the point of obsession, to the point where I replaced each phial, each box, in its exact spot. I spent more than an hour checking cupboards and shelves, searching for anything marked with Brian Kincaid’s name.
I tried a door in the corner of the lab. It was locked. I rooted in drawers for keys and found one that fitted. It was a big cupboard piled high with cardboard boxes marked with huge letters: Guterson’s Gloves. Hauling the top box down, I eased aside the already open flaps. Nothing but blue arm-length gloves for use in veterinary examinations. Why lock up a stock of rubber gloves?
I went to the office and raked through filing cabinets, drawers, and a Rolodex telephone list where I found Brian’s office number, and, in fresher ink, his mobile number.
Beneath the big wooden desk, I discovered a box file of copy invoices. Under the bright lamp, I worked through them until I saw a name I recognized, a name that halted my finger on the page and brought me to a breath-holding stop, as the man himself would have done had he appeared in front of me - Edward F. Malloy: my father.
I felt faint as his figure loomed huge in my mind. I’d spent years trying to erase his memory, succeeding only after psychiatric help, and now he was back, unintentionally, uninvited, but with almost the same shattering impact of the worst days of my life. I had to get out of the room.
I stood outside, leaning against the corner of the house, the dry old paint flaking under my hand. Staring at the full moon, I recalled the disciplines of old and made myself breathe deeply, hearing the breaths, focusing on them, using them to clean my mind again, to erase that picture before the well-remembered anxiety attack set in.
But I was out of practice, and the face of my father stayed stubbornly where it was. I resigned myself to the anxiety attack but it didn’t come. And I stood there for God knows how long, wondering if finally, at the age of thirty, I was capable of coping with thoughts of the past.
I went inside, sat down and looked again at his name, which seemed to take up the whole page. I stayed there till the impact lessened, until the name diminished and took its proper place on the page above the address: a stud in Newmarket. Someone had told me years ago that they’d moved here. And then I thought of my mother too, and the dread drained from me and sadness seeped in.
I pulled myself together enough to start wondering how long my father had been a client of Alex Dunn’s. The invoice was marked ‘Quarterly as agreed’ and was for £1,050. It was dated 30 March. I skipped through and found one other issued at the end of December. Both, unusually, were headed ‘Professional Services’. Most invoices in Dunn’s file carried details of the work, like scanning, cyst removal, etc.
What was Dunn doing for my father that had already taken six months and looked to be ongoing? Why were the details not shown? I noted the address and phone number of my father’s stud then checked the remaining rooms and left.
I’d brought no overnight bag but I was confident I’d pin Dunn down next day at Newmarket races, so I drove into town and found a hotel.
Next morning, Saturday, I called the number Dunn had given me as his home telephone. No answer. I tried several times without success.
Faced with a few hours to kill before racing started, I asked the hotel porter for directions to my father’s place. It was a short trip. I drove fifty yards beyond the entrance and parked. Turning in my seat, I watched the gate. Trees and bushes shielded the house from the road. I just kept staring at the gate, hoping for I don’t know what. This was the home of my parents, a home I had never known.
We’d come to England from Ireland when I was seven and I’d spent the next nine years on a farm in Cumbria. My father kept horses and had dabbled in breeding. It had always been his ambition to own a proper stud farm. Now he did, though it looked to be a small operation. Now I watched, wondering what I would do if he suddenly appeared, or my mother. And my first thought was that I would duck out of sight. Would they recognize me now? I looked in the rear-view mirror. Had I changed much in the fourteen years since I’d left home?
In looks, maybe not; inside me, immense changes. Forty years was what it felt like in my head, not fourteen. I started the car again and pulled slowly away.
Dunn failed to turn up at Newmarket races. I drove to the bungalow. It was deserted, the broken glass still on the floor in the porch.
Where the hell had he gone and why had he panicked? I went in and spent more than an hour going through the copy invoices again, making notes of all his clients then getting their phone numbers from his Rolodex.
On the long drive home, I tried to figure out what it was I’d said that had scared Alex Dunn so badly. I’d only raised two issues: Brian’s death and the samples from Town Crier. Which one had set him off? And what exactly was Dunn working on for my father?
A possible link came to mind. Tenuous but worth exploring.
At the flat, I skimmed through the stallion ads in the Directory of the Turf, checking the stud names below the glossy colour pictures. The Keelkerry Stud, named after my father’s hometown, had a quarter-page ad dominated by the picture of a bay stallion called Heraklion whose career highlights, and those of his offspring, were listed in bold type.
I rang Martin and told him what had happened in the past twenty-four hours. Dunn’s sudden disappearance cheered him immensely; he was convinced the vet must know something about the Town Crier samples and equally sure that we’d soon find Dunn. I asked Martin to call the Keelkerry Stud posing as a breeder who wanted to send a mare for a very late covering.
‘Why don’t you call?’
‘We don’t get on. I haven’t spoken to my father in years.’
Martin said, ‘They’ll think I’m mad calling this late, the season’s virtually over.’
‘Act a bit eccentric then. Tell them you made a last-minute decision.’
I explained how I wanted him to go about it: to ask advice on which stallion to use then name two or three from the ad and see what the reaction was.
Ten minutes later Martin called, excitement in his voice. ‘No Heraklion!’
; ‘Who did you speak to?’
‘I think it must have been your mother.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She didn’t question me at first, seemed anxious to have the chance of some unexpected revenue. She did a bloody good selling job on every stallion but Heraklion. When I suggested him she said he’d been retired for the season and I said, “Oh, still hasn’t recovered from his problem then?” which threw her. I told her some friends of mine had tried to book mares to him a couple of months ago and the horse had been on the easy list. She rallied then, I’ll say that for her, said he’d been suffering from a complex fracture of the off hind after being kicked by a mare. “An accident,” she said, “inherently sound, you know, and we’re sure he’ll be back to his best next season.’”
So, two smallish studs who’d lost their best stallion. Perhaps Heraklion had been kicked, but the stud’s link with Alex Dunn made it too much for coincidence. Martin told me my mother had almost desperately tried to sell him a covering from one of the other stallions. Business must be pretty bad. I felt a pang of remorse having deceived her.
Martin was set on finding Dunn, determined to stake out his place if necessary, and I knew by his tone he wouldn’t be argued out of it this time. I could have used some help but Martin was too fiery. He promised to stay calm and be guided by me, so I gave in and told him Dunn’s address, warning him that he mustn’t pounce.
‘If he turns up, try and follow him. We’ll learn more that way.’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘Stay in touch with me on my mobile. I’ll probably be in Newmarket tomorrow anyway so let’s meet.’
When Martin hung up, I resisted the urge to replace the handset because I knew I’d find it hard to pick it up again to call my mother. I dialed and tried to steel myself for the voice I’d last heard when little more than a child.
It rang seven times then, ‘Keelkerry Stud.’ It was my father. The voice had changed; less volume, weaker, as though the edges had worn away. I couldn’t bring myself to speak. ‘Hello!’ he said. ‘Hello!’ And that impatience, that pent up anger I remembered so vividly, was still there. My top lip filmed with sweat. My mouth dried up. I replaced the receiver quietly, irrationally afraid he might be able to tell it was me and call me to account for it. I lowered myself slowly onto the chair by the window and sat gazing out, seeing nothing. My throat tightened and I swallowed repeatedly, pumping out silent tears.
25
The following day I packed an overnight bag and headed to Newmarket, determined to speak to my parents. I was no longer a child and I wasn’t going to let my father return me to that state. I was a grown man with a legitimate interest in his association with Alex Dunn, and I was damned well going to ask some questions.
That was the theory at least, but much as I disciplined my brain, my emotions mutinied. A few times I checked the speedo and found it registering way below my normal speed from subconscious dread of reaching my destination.
Martin called me at nine o’clock. He complained of being cold and stiff after sitting in the woods for half the night waiting fruitlessly for Dunn. I offered to meet him for lunch in town, but he told me to come to Dunn’s place, said he wouldn’t move till the vet appeared.
I was in Newmarket before ten and on the approach to the Keelkerry Stud, my stomach tightened, causing me to shift in my seat. I pulled into the verge about a hundred yards before the gate, steeling myself not to drive past this time. I’d get out here and walk across, go through the gate and straight to the front door. No hesitation. No stopping.
I checked my face in the mirror. As I reached for the door handle, a light blue Vauxhall Estate coming toward me slowed and indicated then turned and nosed up to the gate. The driver was so tall he had trouble getting out of the car. It was Alex Dunn. He opened the gate and drove through, then closed it behind him. The driveway was screened by a high hedge.
I ran across the road, making my way along the hedge line. The stud stood alone on open land. I heard Dunn switch off the engine. A car door slammed. I hoped my father might be there to meet him. Perhaps they’d start talking in the yard. No. Just faint footsteps on gravel then another door closing. No knock. No greeting. It sounded as if Dunn had simply walked right into the house.
I looked across at my car on the verge and the sunlight glinted on a side window, almost blinding me. I couldn’t leave it there much longer. If anyone in the stud saw it, they might become suspicious.
I’d have to drive about half a mile round a long steady bend before the car could be parked out of sight. I hurried to the car, did a U-turn and sped down the road. On foot again, I came at the stud from a different angle, cutting across meadows to see how far back the trees and hedges ran. They seemed to border the rear and sides of the property in a looping semi-circle. A couple of furlongs down from the house and stables, they thinned enough for me to peer through at eight fenced-off paddocks with maybe a dozen horses grazing quietly in the sunshine. All were in view of the buildings. Once through the trees and onto the property there was no decent cover.
I’d hoped to get inside, close to whatever horse Dunn was visiting and eavesdrop on his conversation with my father or the groom or whoever. But unless I could get through the thick hedges beside the stables, then it would mean crossing open ground, which would leave me exposed. If I was to face my parents again, it wouldn’t be as an intruder.
I circled the perimeter, but couldn’t find a safe way in. I returned to the hedge close to where Dunn’s car was parked. Perhaps I’d hear something as he left.
But he didn’t leave. At dusk his car hadn’t been moved. I’d had my phone switched off in case someone rang as Dunn came out. As darkness fell, I walked what I considered to be a safe distance away and called Martin. He was still outside Dunn’s place, hungry and frustrated, and when I told him where I was and why, he said, ‘Why the fuck didn’t you call me? You knew Dunn was there, you could have saved me hanging around this shithole any longer!’
‘I thought he’d leave at any time and maybe head your way.’
‘Well, he didn’t, did he?’
We were silent for a long moment then Martin said, ‘Did you say he’s been there since this morning?’
‘Around ten he arrived.’
‘Fuck me! That’s one long consultation. I wouldn’t like your old man’s vet’s bill.’
‘I think he could be paying in kind.’
‘Huh?’
‘Dunn might be living there. He’s been doing some unspecified work for my father for the past six months or so.’ I told him about the invoices I’d found, mysteriously short on detail. Martin arrived within twenty minutes and we watched together until the last light went out in the house just after 11. So Dunn was a guest.
We were tired and hungry and I suspected I also looked as scruffy as Martin with his heavy stubble and soiled clothes. We returned to the hotel I’d stayed in the night before and persuaded a bored young girl to fix some sandwiches. We downed a large scotch each and trudged wearily to bed after arranging a 6 a.m. alarm call.
In the morning, Martin was going in to collar Alex Dunn.
26
We were outside the Keelkerry Stud just after dawn. Alex Dunn’s car was still in the drive. We’d travelled in separate cars and we met around the bend, half a mile from the stud. Martin joined me on watch, on foot in the chill of morning. We dissected what we’d learned, theorized, argued quietly then finally agreed a plan.
At 8.40, Martin pulled away toward the stud and parked outside the gate. From a distance, I watched him go in.
Twenty-five minutes later, he reappeared and drove off, as agreed, in the opposite direction from where I was stationed. I hurried to my car and cruised past the stud and out of sight again, where I turned quickly and came past once more. As I slowed to turn again, Dunn’s blue estate overtook me at speed and I accelerated smoothly, following him.
I stayed well behind until approaching the edge of Ne
wmarket town, where I had to close up for fear of losing him. He slowed going down the Bury Road as strings of racehorses crossed at regular points on their way to and from the gallops. Near the bottom close to the town centre, Dunn took a right, and as I turned off, I saw his tailgate disappear in another right turn through the gates of a famous racing yard.
I parked and phoned Martin. ‘How did it go?’ I asked.
‘He’s rattled all right! He knows something. I told him if he didn’t come up with the samples and the results by this time tomorrow, I’d bring the police in.’
‘Did you speak to him alone? Was my father there?’
‘Just Dunn. He was coming down the drive as I was walking up. He kept trying to get away, said he had an important appointment, and tried the same thing with me that he did with you: “Come and see me at home this evening.”’ Martin put on a whingeing voice.
I said, ‘Well, he’s reached his important appointment. I’m outside one of the big yards in the town. Think it’s worth keeping a tail on him?’
‘No, no way. He’s too scared to do anything now. He said he’ll definitely meet us at his house tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock.’
‘Do you believe him?’
‘Eddie, he’ll be there.’
He wasn’t. Next day we were there before 9.30 and waited till 11. Dunn had been home. The broken pane had been replaced, the shards swept up. I broke the new one and we went inside. The house had been cleared, very effectively, not a thermometer left in the lab, a pen in the office or a sock in a bedroom drawer. Each empty room seemed to deal Martin a physical blow. By the time we’d finished the tour he looked stunned, defeated, and sounded that way too when he spoke. ‘What do we do now, Eddie?’
‘We find out where he’s gone.’
‘How?’
I looked at him, the tired eyes, the hangdog look, and I realized how much he was pissing me off. Martin was fine if things were going well; otherwise, he either blew his top or whined and moaned, expecting somebody else to solve his problems. ‘We’ll find him,’ I said coldly, and walked out and along the path to the front gate.