The Eddie Malloy Series

by Joe McNally

  Martin followed. ‘But, Eddie, I can’t spend any more time here. I’ve got stuff to do; we’ve got a business to run.’

  ‘Go home and run it then.’

  ‘Just for a few days, then I’ll come back and help you.’

  Yeah, when I’ve found Dunn, you’ll ride in and play the tough guy.

  ‘Fine,’ I said.

  I watched him drive off and wondered how he could so quickly become disheartened. My resolve had been strengthened by Dunn’s disappearance. You didn’t flee your home and workplace over a few stallion samples. Dunn was involved in something serious. And how close was he to the Keelkerry Stud? To my parents? Could they be implicated?

  I headed for their stud, a cold determination in me suppressing the emotions of the past few days. I parked at the gate and marched up the drive. The house was of yellow stone, big deep windows, climbing plants around the door where my gaze was fixed. The white door, coming closer as though a movie camera lens was tightening on it. I was conscious of the sounds of gravel crunching, but seemed somehow removed from the notion that it could be my feet making the noise. All I was aware of was my unblinking focus on that door.

  I reached it.

  Pressed the bell.

  Waited.

  It opened slowly. My father stood there. Still taller than me but age showing: thinning grey hair, hollow cheeks, loose skin on his face, his throat. Shoulders drooping, hair growing from his ears, eyebrows getting bushy - and hatred in his eyes. No, not hatred, scorn. His jaw muscles clenched and he slammed the door shut so hard I felt a mild shockwave on my face.

  I didn’t move. Stayed there, chest out, head high, and was proud of myself for it. And I reached for the bell again and I pressed it and I held it and I could hear it inside hammering like a fire alarm. The ringing went on for more than a minute before the door opened again. My mother. Older, smaller, softer, kinder-looking, the way I remembered her from my infant days. Her hair shorter but shining rich auburn as I remembered it, a small vanity from a bottle which looked so out of place framing the pale skin, the pale, pale skin.

  No hint of shame on her face as she looked at me. I’d never known her speak a word against my father for his treatment of me, but there had never been any hatred in her either. Sadness, yes. Despair, maybe, but at least she’d never hated me for what had happened.

  ‘Eddie,’ she said quietly, and stepped aside, pulling the door fully open. Not trusting myself to handle the emotion of saying the word ‘Mum’, I just accepted the silent invitation to go inside.

  She led me along the hall, her slightly splayfooted walk exactly as I remembered it, to a small cluttered office with one swivel chair. No cozy sitting rooms; this was to be a short formal discussion as far as my mother was concerned. She said she’d bring another chair for herself and politely offered me tea. I declined, unwilling to accept the little gestures that moved me into the same bracket as any trade caller at the stud, that helped her forget she’d carried me inside her, nursed me, and loved me once, her first-born.

  She returned with a light pine chair, closed the door and sat opposite me, open-faced, pleasant, receptive. And, setting my emotions aside for the first time when thinking of her, I wondered what kind of woman this was. How could she not be moved enough to show some feelings? How could she stand so rigidly by her man to the exclusion of everything else on the planet? Had she never questioned that loyalty? Still closely involved in racing, she must have known about my troubles over the past eight or nine years. Had there never been a twinge of regret, an ounce of longing to come and comfort me?

  Here she sat waiting for me to state my business. No ‘How have you been, son?’ No ‘Good to see you after all these years.’

  She said, ‘Edward’s out in the yard.’ A cue to start talking, reassurance we wouldn’t be disturbed by the man she could no longer even bring herself to refer to as my father.

  I said, ‘How have you been, Mum?’

  ‘We’re all right.’

  We. The Siamese marriage.

  ‘My father looks very strained.’

  She blinked at the word ‘father’.

  ‘Edward has… this has come as a bit of a shock to him.’

  ‘It would after fourteen years.’

  She nodded, blinked again. Some emotion there at last. I said, ‘Aren’t you going to ask how I’ve been?’

  ‘You look fine.’

  ‘I’m well practiced in looking fine, Mum, at making it look like I’m solid and sane.’

  She looked at me, determined not to be drawn in. ‘Why did you come here, Eddie?’

  ‘After all this time, you mean? You forgot to tag that on to the end of your question, Mum.’

  She stiffened slightly in her chair. ‘If you’ve come to open old wounds.’

  I leaned toward her, elbows on my knees, hands clasped in what I realized was close to anguish. I’d willed myself not to react like this but I couldn’t help it. I said, ‘Open old wounds? Mine never closed, Mum! They bleed and weep every day of my life. They keep people away from me! They fester. Don’t talk to me about closing.’

  Her pale face flushed. She wasn’t coping any more, not with this adult, this son who was no longer a child.

  I said, ‘Was there no remorse? Ever? Even in the early days?’

  She stood up, held on to the chairback, tears rising. ‘Please go,’ she said.

  I shook my head. ‘No, I’m not going.’ And I felt filled with power, with knowledge that I could stay if I wanted, that neither of my parents was a threat any longer. I could stay and take revenge, dish out some torment.

  Then just as suddenly, the notion seemed vile, abhorrent, shameful. I stood, calmed myself, and in a quiet voice said, ‘I’m not going until I know what Alex Dunn’s been doing for the Keelkerry Stud.’

  27

  When I left, my mother saw me out and watched till I was through the gate. Driving into Newmarket town, I tried to come to terms with my feelings; a strange mixture of personal achievement, self-renewal, a growth in stature that felt almost physical, and a wish that I had come years ago and said my piece.

  But there was also a feeling of being used. When she’d sussed that I could actually help my father, my mother had become quite enthusiastic. She’d admitted that Heraklion, their top stallion, had suffered a similar loss of fertility to Town Crier and at around the same time. Faced with a ruined investment, my father had asked Alex Dunn to do what he could. It seemed Dunn was an old friend and had offered his services for the comparatively small retainer of £350 a month.

  She said Dunn had been sworn to secrecy and that was why he’d panicked when I had confronted him at the races. I told her it had to be more than that but she said she had no reason to doubt him. Yet Dunn had so far failed to find a cure for Heraklion.

  If my father knew I was involved, he’d reject my help. My mother accepted it on his behalf on the condition that he mustn’t be told. Whether or not the stud was saved, my father must never be allowed to believe I’d done anything for him. My mother’s side of the bargain was that she would try to discover Dunn’s whereabouts. He and my father were friends, and my mother thought she should be able to get information without arousing suspicion. She had my home and mobile numbers though I departed the house under no illusions. As soon as this was over, the phone numbers would be burned, and I would once again become the invisible member of the Malloy family.

  That prospect bothered me little now. For a few days, I’d harboured a fantasy that I would appear on my white steed after fourteen years and save the Malloy business, drag my parents back from the brink, finally winning the approval I’d craved. But the last couple of hours had brought home to me that although there would always be an instinctive, emotional link to them, a vague longing, they were people in their own right - and as people rather than parents, I cared little for either of them.

  Dunn’s story of being rattled by my questions didn’t stand up. Vacating his house overnight, lock, stock and stethos
cope, smacked of abject fear. Was he linked to Brian Kincaid’s death? How many other small studs were harbouring infertile stallions? How many of these cases had Dunn been working on? Well, I was in the best place to find out. Newmarket was nothing but a racing community and redolent with jealousy and bitchiness. A few days spent in the pubs and hotels should prove productive.

  I couldn’t afford to go on staying at the hotel I’d been using, so I found a bed and breakfast for two nights, got my phone out and booked a place on the gossip train, first stop Francis Loss, racing manager to Sheikh Ahmad Saad.

  F. Loss was an old friend, known since his riding days as Candy. Sharp and well educated, he’d landed himself a top position with one of the most prominent Arab racehorse owners and breeders in the world. His job was to offer advice to the Sheikh on every aspect of his thoroughbred operation, from buying foals to setting fees at the two major studs he owned. If there was anything afoot with local stallions, Candy would know about it.

  Candy agreed to meet me for half an hour. He was flying to the Middle East that night. We met at seven in a hotel in town and I felt distinctly underdressed as Candy approached in about a grand’s worth of clothes and footwear. Five foot eight, late-thirties, Candy had kept the slim athletic shape he’d had when riding. He smiled as he shook my hand. Good teeth and tan, dark brown eyes and shiny chestnut hair, which, most of the time, successfully hid, his only physical blemish: a port wine stain below his right ear, the shape of Italy on a map.

  I bought him a mineral water and we did the long-time-no-see routine for a few minutes. Candy had never got above himself. People always found him the same way, open and friendly, but I thought I detected an air of wariness. I knew I’d have to be careful. Gossip conduits are two-way and I needed to get what I could without Candy picking up any link with Brian Kincaid.

  I said, ‘Listen, you know I do a little bit of amateurish nosing around from time to time?’

  He smiled. ‘Not quite so amateurish over the last year or two from what I hear.’

  I returned his smile. ‘I’ve got a guy who’s offered me a few quid to try and help him out. He owns a smallish stud which ain’t gonna be a stud much longer unless he discovers what’s gone wrong with his best stallion.’

  I thought I saw a sudden spark in Candy’s eyes but it lasted a millisecond. He sipped his drink and looked interested. I said, ‘The horse completely lost its fertility at the start of the season. The vets have tested everything except its IQ but they’re stumped. If it’s not sorted out before next season he’s finished.’

  ‘Which stallion?’

  ‘Sorry, Candy, I can’t say. The guy’s managed to keep it a secret from most breeders, or at least he thinks he has. I know you’ll think I’ve got a cheek asking you for information and not offering much from my side, but I’m trying to do my best for him.’

  ‘So what are you asking me, Eddie?’

  I shrugged. ‘Just if you’ve heard anything on the grapevine about anyone else who’s got the same problem?’ I was taking the chance Candy was unaware of my involvement in the Corish Stud, far from Newmarket, and a partnership I’d never publicized.

  ‘Stallions have fluctuations in fertility.’

  ‘We’re talking more decimation than fluctuation here. From eighty-eight percent to zilch as quick as you could say, “No foal no fee”.’

  He fingered the port wine stain under his hair and looked thoughtful. ‘So why did he bring you in? Does he think the horse has been got at?’

  ‘As I said, he’s desperate.’

  ‘Do you think the horse was got at?’

  ‘I don’t know. What would the motive be? How would you do it so the vets couldn’t detect it?’

  He shook his head slowly, fingered his tanned chin. I said, ‘So you haven’t heard of any other stallions in the same boat?’

  He continued thoughtful, staring at the tabletop, and said, ‘No.’

  I sighed and sipped some scotch. He said, ‘Sorry, Eddie.’

  ‘Not your fault.’

  ‘What’s your next move?’

  I almost started shooting off about Alex Dunn disappearing but something in my brain slipped the safety catch on and I settled for saying I’d heard Dunn specialized in fertility and I was hoping to track him down. ‘Any idea where I could find him?’

  ‘Sorry, Eddie, I’ve heard the guy’s name but I don’t know much about him except that he’s a bit of a quack. I wouldn’t set too much store by this “specialist” stuff.’ Candy seemed anxious to finish the conversation. He said, ‘It’s an interesting one. I’ll sniff around a bit myself over the next week or so, see if I can find anything out.’

  ‘Good. That’d be great, Candy.’

  ‘No problem. Maybe you could keep me in touch with progress from your end?’

  ‘Sure. Sure I will.’

  ‘Fine. Give me a ring any time.’

  I smiled. ‘They’ve got phones in Lear jets now, have they?’ He stood up, smiling, and finished his drink. ‘It’s not all a bowl of cherries, Eddie, as the saying goes.’

  ‘Strawberries and cream, more like.’

  He laughed. ‘See you. Keep in touch on this.’

  ‘Will do.’

  He turned and left. I waited a few seconds then followed quietly and watched him cross the car park. He got into a Range Rover and immediately made a call. I had a hunch Candy knew more than he was saying.

  I rang Martin, gave him some work to do to take his mind off things. ‘I want you to ring round as many studs as you can and give them that story about a late booking. Make a list of who’s willing and any stallions they try to steer you away from.’

  ‘What about my phone bill?’

  'Our phone bill,’ I reminded him. ‘Come on, Martin, twenty-four hours ago it was death or glory to get to the bottom of this. Now you can’t even be bothered making a few calls?’

  He grunted something and hung up. I called McCarthy.

  ‘Mac, did you know Alex Dunn’s moved out of his house?’

  ‘It’s not the sort of thing I get wildly curious about, Eddie.’

  ‘I know, but if you could find me his new address you’d be doing me a favour.’

  ‘Why? I thought you’d spoken to him and he said he didn’t know anything about Brian Kincaid’s death?’

  ‘That’s right, but as I said to you he was in pretty deep shock at the time and I just wondered if maybe, once he’d had time to think, something might have come to him.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mac, but I want to speak to him again.’

  ‘Eddie, tell me what this is really about?’

  ‘I’ve told you, it’s a quiet time for me. I’ll be lucky to get ten rides in the next month and I don’t mind filling my days in trying to make sense of Brian’s death.’

  ‘And I’ve told you, leave it to the coroner, let him try and make some sense of it!’

  ‘Mac, come on! I don’t like doing this but you owe me one. More than one.’

  ‘You don’t like doing it? You’re always doing it! I should have kept notes! Traded bloody IOUs!’

  I smiled. ‘Your hysterics are coming on again, Mac, careful!’

  ‘I’ll ring you back.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘As soon as I know something.’

  ‘Soon, Mac, please! On my mobile. I’m in Newmarket for a few days.’ That brought him up short. ‘Newmarket? What for?’

  ‘I’ve just told you, I want to speak to Alex Dunn.’

  ‘Eddie, you’d better not be working for Compton Breslin.’ He sounded genuinely annoyed. Breslin was a rich bookmaker.

  ‘What would I be doing for Breslin?’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody disingenuous.’

  ‘Me? I don’t know the meaning of the word!’ Which was the truth but I didn’t need to ask anything else. Dunn was obviously a serious gambler. I wondered how much he owed Breslin.

  Mac said, ‘I’ll tell you this now, Eddie, if you’re working
for Breslin I want nothing more to do with you.’

  ‘Mac, you’ve got my word on it. When did I ever break my word?’

  ‘Okay. Fine. Goodnight.’

  He hung up. The smile was still on my face. I loved these little jousts with McCarthy.

  It wasn’t yet 8.30 and I knew there were two evening racemeetings on. Breslin’s credit office would be open. I’d never met the guy but I’d seen him on the racecourse. He was renowned as a proper bookie of the old school, one who’d back his own opinion and lay large bets. He paid promptly and expected the same from his clients. I rang his office. He answered the phone personally. I said that we might have a common interest in Alex Dunn and he agreed to meet me in a local Chinese restaurant at 9.45.

  28

  Breslin was your stereotypical big fat bookmaker: jewellery, checked suit, torpedo cigar, slick hair, and Chaplin moustache. He looked like he’d just stepped off a Blackpool postcard. He was watching my face as he lumbered toward me, and sat down in a jingle of watch chains and bracelets. He smiled at me. ‘Bet you thought this was my showman’s gear, strictly for the racecourse?’

  ‘Well, I did, actually.’

  His smile grew wider, moustache spreading. ‘You’re always on show in my business,’ he said, looking down at the checked waistcoat. ‘The more prosperous you look, the more people want to take money off you. And the more they try, the more I get to keep.’

  I nodded, smiling. He glanced around and beckoned a waiter. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘that’s my excuse for prancing about dressed like one of the Marx Brothers. At night, alone in my room, I slip on my Versace, which has seen nothing but lamplight and a long wardrobe mirror. Sad, isn’t it?’

  I smiled. I liked Breslin. He ordered the best wine and half a dozen courses as though listing runners in a race. The waiter didn’t seem at all surprised, and I guessed this was a regular haunt. He said, ‘Need to keep the waistline up to Industry Standards. Dirty work but some bugger’s got to do it.’