The Eddie Malloy Series

by Joe McNally

  There was no accompanying note, no blackmail threat. None was needed. What I held were photocopies.

  Someone somewhere had the originals.

  32

  In four separate interviews with the police over the next forty-eight hours, it became obvious they were highly skeptical about my story, especially with regard to the stallion and mare. If it had happened, they said, then Dunn had been trying to take some crazy revenge on me before killing himself. The vet had left a typewritten suicide note claiming I’d been hounding him over gambling debts. Still unable to disclose the real reason, I insisted that all I’d been seeking from him had been information on Brian Kincaid.

  When the news of Dunn’s death broke, my parents reappeared to be grilled by the CID. Dunn had offered them a two-day break in a Welsh holiday cottage he owned. He’d volunteered to move in and look after the horses while they were away.

  In the days after Dunn’s death, I frequently found myself swamped by anger. Rage at my mother and father and the police and Dunn; anger at him more for dying than anything else, dying and removing my only solid lead to this whole bloody complicated mess. What the hell was going on? Who was behind all this? What was behind it? Much more than the gambling problems of a racecourse vet, I was certain.

  Then there was the dire prospect of the blackmail call when it finally came, the task of convincing these people who held the originals of the photocopied documents that I’d do whatever they wanted to keep this quiet. And all the time the fury of old was building in me, bolstering the determination to find them and deal with them, pay them back. I thought I’d mellowed in the past couple of years, God knows I’d worked at it, but it must simply be part of my character to react badly to threats. Well, not badly; foolishly. My fear threshold is always overcome by cold anger and pig-headedness - a poor survival mechanism.

  It had been three days since Dunn died, and I’d left the flat only briefly to buy fresh dressings for my bitten arm though the wound wasn’t deep and would heal quickly. The papers I’d found in the stable were locked away in a small metal filing box. I’d expected a call from the blackmailers. None had come. They were making me sweat.

  I’d like to have established a link between Dunn and Capshaw the trainer, but I simply hadn’t had the time to cross-reference all Dunn’s betting records with the formbook to check Breslin’s suspicion that an unusually high percentage of bets had been on Capshaw-trained horses.

  Now I had all the time it took for the blackmailers to get in touch. Hours, days, weeks. I’d best get to work on the printouts. I sat long into the night, stopping occasionally to look at the silent phone, never expecting there to be a cut-off point when they might not call.

  They didn’t. I woke, stiff and uncomfortable, to sunshine through my window, my head on one of the thick printouts, the heat from the desk lamp warm on my right cheek. I filled the kettle then dragged the phone as close to the bathroom door as possible, and stepped in the shower.

  Wet-haired and chewing toast, I returned to the desk to review the previous evening’s work. A high percentage of Dunn’s bets had indeed been on Capshaw’s horses. The first place Dunn had gone that morning when we’d given him a fright at my father’s stud had been Capshaw’s. There had to be a link.

  One person who’d seemed close to Dunn was my father, and only he or my mother could have told the vet what had happened all those years ago. And Dunn had told the blackmailers and they had killed him. I’d yet to learn how he’d died. The cops refused to release the cause of death, pending further enquiries. I needed to talk to my father.

  I called the stud. Mother answered, sounding very strained, still shocked.

  ‘Mother, it’s Eddie. Are you all right? You sound quite—’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Tension now too on hearing my voice.

  ‘I need to see you both.’

  ‘Edward is ill, he’s not seeing anybody.’

  ‘I think he’ll be seeing me all right.’

  ‘He’s not at all well.’

  ‘I’m afraid he’ll feel even worse when he sees what I’ve got. Please prepare him for a shock - another shock, I suppose I should say. And you too.’

  ‘Wait until things are better, Eddie.’

  The first time since childhood that I’d heard her say my name. A strange feeling, like a drowning man staring hopelessly up at the deck of a liner only to see a hand stretching down toward him. I was silent for a moment. Then, more softly, I said, ‘Things aren’t going to get better, Mum, I’m sorry. Not until we sort this out.’

  ‘Please.’

  Her voice, cracking, almost brought me to tears. ‘You’ll understand when you see this, Mum, you will. I’ll be there this evening. I’ll try for around seven.’

  I heard the shortest of sobs before she hung up.

  When I arrived, my mother stood at the window, arms folded, eyes cast down, not looking at me as I came along the path. Then she moved away and I heard her footsteps in the hall. She opened the door, her weary, unsmiling face, tired and old but not yet defeated. That touch of iron in her eyes, a look she’d always had.

  ‘Hello,’ she said quietly and stepped aside to let me in.

  ‘Hello, Mum.’

  Still no smile.

  This time she led me into a large drawing room, tastefully furnished but sadly unlived in. A lonely old table and two easy chairs, a cold empty fireplace, two horse and jockey paintings facing each other from opposite walls as though they’d been waiting centuries for this race that would never start.

  I stood awkwardly in the middle of the room. My mother looked up at me. ‘Would you like some tea?’

  I smiled. ‘No, thanks.’

  She gestured toward a chair. ‘Please sit down.’

  I did and the fat cushion sank, leaving my arms on the rests almost at shoulder level. She moved silently in old blue shoes and perched on the hard edge of the chair opposite, waiting. Waiting to find out what was in the bulging brown envelope I’d brought. I placed it on my knee.

  ‘Where’s my father?’

  ‘He’s ill. He has to stay in bed.’ She looked calm but determined.

  I said, ‘He’s got to see this, Mum.’

  Mum. Again. I watched for her reaction to the word. None. She reached out, her bony arm emerging from the sleeve of her beige cardigan, her wrinkled work-worn hand. I placed the envelope gently between her fingers. She opened it and drew out the papers. I settled slowly and watched as she read, her hand steady as she turned the pages, eyes set hard, the only sign of emotion the occasional flex of jaw muscles.

  She put the papers back in the envelope and offered it to me. ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This. After all this time?’

  ‘It wasn’t me. I found these in one of your boxes the other day, close to Alex Dunn’s body.’

  ‘Who wrote it?’ Anger rising.

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. That’s why Father’s got to see it.’

  ‘No. It will kill him.’

  ‘It’ll kill him even quicker if the press get hold of it.’

  She sat rigid, staring straight ahead, defying the welling tears to rise any higher. Determination to protect him, something that had served her all her life, was no longer going to be enough and she knew it. I edged forward in the chair and said quietly, ‘Did Father tell Alex Dunn this?’

  She shook her head, not looking at me.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  No answer. Tears winning now, glistening in her eyes, softening them, slipping out, seeking the widest wrinkle in her cheek. And I knew he must have told Dunn, and I realized she knew. And Dunn had told whoever was behind all this, maybe not intentionally, but he’d done it, betrayed my father, and condemned himself.

  ‘Where is he?’ I asked softly.

  ‘Upstairs. In bed.’

  I rose. ‘I’ll go up.’

  ‘No.’ She got to her feet. ‘I’ll take it. You wait. Please. Wait.’

  S
he took the envelope from my hands and left the room. I sat down again, hearing her climb the creaking stairs, a door opening then dull voices punctuated by silence. And my mind drifted to the dark evenings when I’d lie in bed and hear those same voices rise from around the kitchen range, making me smile with delicious anticipation as I listened to them discuss plans for all the years ahead.

  All the years.

  The horses, the children - me and my brother and sister - the stud farm we’d build, the biggest in Newmarket. The champions we’d breed. The fun we’d have. All the years. All the dreams.

  Then the world caved in.

  Sitting in this strange house, I wished I had tears left for it. But they’d been used up a long time ago. That part of my heart was shriveled.

  I became aware of my mother standing in the doorway. I hadn’t heard her. ‘He’ll see you,’ she said.

  An audience bestowed by the mighty one, the withholder of happiness. I followed her up the stairs.

  The room was gloomy, curtains drawn. The papers lay under a lamp on the bedside table. His gold-framed spectacles were on the top page, reflecting a coin of light onto an empty glass stained inside with a rim of white powder. The bed was high, wide. He had sunk into the middle of it, the horizontal position removing the superiority he’d always found in his height.

  I went and stood by the bed, my mother behind me. He stared straight up at the dark ceiling, the gloom too deep to let me see the depth of his pallor, but his cheeks were hollow, his eyes dull. I tried to find some sorrow for him, but that had gone the same way as the tears.

  ‘Hello, Father.’

  His jaw clenched.

  I waited. After a minute or more, he said to the ceiling, ‘Who wrote that?’

  I watched him. Demanding still. In a moment, it would be a command. ‘Who wrote it?’ There was grit enough in his voice. I didn’t answer. He kept staring upwards. I heard my mother shuffle uncomfortably. I said to him, ‘Look at me.’

  He flinched noticeably though I’d spoken quietly. The jaw clenched again.

  ‘Look at me,’ I said.

  All three of us waited. Just the sounds of our breathing. Gradually his jaw relaxed, and he turned his head on the pillow until our eyes met. A challenge from his strong son. It couldn’t be declined. I hunkered down level with him and held his gaze. He never blinked. ‘Who wrote that?’ he repeated.

  ‘You wrote it, Dad.’

  Indignation flared in his face. I raised a finger to my lips to hush him. Surprise softened his features. ‘You wrote it when you told Alex Dunn everything, just as surely as if you’d sat at the typewriter yourself.’

  His head rolled back, breaking eye contact. ‘He was the only person I ever told,’ he said, voice shaky. ‘It helped me…to tell.’

  Look where it’s got you now.

  He closed his eyes, squeezed them tight shut. Mother moved forward and reached to take his hand, interlocking fingers with his. I looked up at her. She stared down at him, her eyes showing love and hurt, her jaw and mouth clamped with determination.

  I stood and moved to the end of the bed where I could look at them both. I said, ‘We might be able to stop this getting to the papers. I’ve got to find the person who wrote it and left it there. Whoever it was will call soon.’

  My mother looked at me. I said, ‘He’ll call one of us.’

  She said, ‘What do you want me to do if he rings here?’

  ‘Just listen to what he says. Write it down. Try to hear if there’s anything in the background that might help us pinpoint where he’s calling from. You know, like trains or heavy traffic.’

  I watched her face as she accepted this new role, her brain making yet another adjustment in a lifetime of coping. ‘Should I ask him anything?’

  I half-smiled, trying to ease the tension. ‘You can ask him who he is and why he’s doing this, but I doubt you’ll get an answer.’

  She nodded thoughtfully and looked at my father whose eyes were closed again. I said, ‘Dad, are you awake?’

  At the sound of the word ‘Dad’, he seemed almost to stop breathing for a moment then, eyes closed, he nodded.

  ‘You trusted Alex Dunn?’

  Mother said, ‘He was a very old friend.’

  ‘So what would have made him betray you like that?’

  She shook her head. My father frowned angrily. I said, ‘Who did Dunn associate with? Somebody must have had a hold over him.’

  Mother looked at Father, and he seemed to sense her gaze on him. He opened his eyes but looked at her as he answered. ‘He did a lot of work for Capshaw, didn’t he?’

  Mother nodded as she reached again for his hand and squeezed it.

  ‘Dad.’ Slowly he brought his head round to look at me. ‘What sort of work?’

  ‘Just standard vet stuff as far as I know.’

  ‘And what was he doing for you?’

  Mother said, ‘He was trying to find out what was wrong with Heraklion.’

  ‘Did he say he knew of any other stallion suffering the same ailment?’ I asked.

  Father said, ‘It baffled him. I’d never known him so annoyed or frustrated.’

  I changed tack. ‘Did he strike you as the type to commit suicide?’ Looking at the ceiling again, he said, ‘Alex could get pretty down when the horses weren’t running for him. He gambled a bit.’

  ‘So I’ve heard. But would he have killed himself?’

  He shook his head quite vigorously. ‘Not that way he wouldn’t.’

  ‘What way?’ The police had been withholding the cause of death.

  Father looked at me. ‘One of the CID men told me he injected himself with prostaglandin.’

  I flinched involuntarily. I knew prostaglandin was used regularly on mares to abort them, to clean out the uterus. God only knew what it would do to a human being.

  The ridiculous scenario of a TV game show came to mind. ‘We asked one hundred people their favourite method of committing suicide.’ I’d bet injecting prostaglandin wouldn’t be top choice. ‘What sort of death would that have been?’ I asked my father. He looked at Mother, probably wondering whether the conversation was getting too morbid. She responded by nodding encouragement. He stared upward again and said, ‘It would have been agonizing, I’d have thought, but you’d be best asking an expert.’ Mother said to me, ‘Do you think Alex might have been killed?’

  ‘It’s a possibility.’

  Father turned again to Mother, forlorn hope in his eyes. ‘But maybe he did commit suicide. Maybe he wrote everything out, knowing we’d find it when we came back, before the police or anybody. That means nobody else would know about us.’

  I felt a momentary anger as he excluded me from this potential get-out. But he was only following the habits of a lifetime. And anyway, I knew Dunn hadn’t planted those papers, there were too many other things going on. My parents didn’t know about all the peripheral stuff yet, it wasn’t safe to tell them.

  My father looked at me, animosity still in his eyes. ‘You’ve brought this on us. Why couldn’t you just have left Alex alone? What does it matter to you if he owed some bookie money?’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with that.’

  ‘That’s what the note said.’

  My mother, too, was staring accusingly at me.

  ‘I wasn’t chasing Dunn for gambling debts,’ I said. ‘He was involved in something serious. Criminal.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ my father cried, then went into a coughing fit. Mother glared at me and fussed over him. I left quietly and waited downstairs. Ten minutes later, she came into the room. ‘Is he all right?’ I asked.

  She nodded then sat down across from me, looking serious. She said, ‘If Alex Dunn was involved with something criminal, is it possible those papers, that story, was meant to frighten you off?’

  ‘It’s probable.’

  She clasped her fingers and moved uncomfortably. ‘Well, couldn’t you do what they want and not interfere anymore?’

  I stared at her. She
met my gaze. I said, ‘Do you want these people, this person, to hold it over us for the rest of our lives?’

  She shrugged, opened her palms. ‘I just thought.’

  ‘Mum, it won’t work. We can’t live that way.’

  She lowered her eyes, stared at the floor.

  I sat forward. ‘The best I can do is promise that I’ll keep a very low profile. I’ll try and make them believe they’ve scared me off, try and convince them that it’s worked.’

  She looked at me again. ‘But how will we know if they believe that?’

  ‘I think that they won’t call unless they decide I need another lesson. If the blackmail call doesn’t come, it means they think I’ve dropped out.’

  She knew from the look in my eyes I wouldn’t change my mind. She said, ‘Promise me you’ll try hard?’

  ‘To find them or to convince them I’ve given up?’

  ‘Given up.’

  ‘I’ll try to convince them, but only to make it easier for me to find them. I’m not giving up.’

  She watched me and I think I saw in her a hint of distorted pride, of realizing she had passed on to me much of her own iron will.

  I stayed another half-hour or so, prodding gently for more information on Alex Dunn but learning little. He was an excellent vet and a terrible punter. He had never married and had no family that she knew of. But, said Mother, he was a nice man.

  Well, he’d got in with the wrong people. The only link I had to Dunn now was the trainer, Capshaw. It might take a while to find out all I needed to about him, so it would be best if I was based not too far from Newmarket though I wouldn’t want to be in the town itself. All part of lying low for as long as I could.

  Mother came to see me out. I explained that I needed to be nearby for the next couple of weeks. She tilted her head to look up into my eyes, knowing what I was really asking, knowing it was the first favour I had asked since those dreadful days when what I’d begged for hadn’t been in her power to grant.