The Eddie Malloy Series

by Joe McNally

  ‘I’ll speak to your father tonight. Perhaps you could call me tomorrow.’ I nodded, smiling. Her neck was still arched and I felt a strong urge to kiss her gently on her upturned cheek. We stood by the door. I noticed how quiet the yard was. ‘Where are the horses?’ I asked.

  ‘Gone,’ she said flatly. ‘We just can’t cope for the moment. We’ve sent them to various people we know.’

  People we know. No use for the word ‘friends’.

  She stayed at the door, watching me cast a long shadow in the beam of the security light as I walked to the car. That night I slept in a small hotel, closing my eyes with a strange mixture of fear and hope in my heart.

  33

  Next morning’s Sporting Life told me William Capshaw had two runners at Ascot. Not all trainers appeared at the races when their horses ran, but Ascot was sufficiently prestigious for most to make an effort.

  Even if Capshaw wasn’t there, I’d get a chance to see Candy again. Sheikh Ahmad Saad had six entered at Ascot and his racing manager would be bound to be there. I wondered if Candy might just happen to bump into the same hard man I’d seen him with at Sandown.

  If that had been coincidence and the tough guys were nothing to do with Candy, I couldn’t risk talking to him. I didn’t know who I could trust. The more I considered it, the more I convinced myself that the papers I’d found with Dunn had been meant as a silent warning. So long as I kept my nose out of things, no blackmail call would be needed. The day the call finally came would be the day I’d know I’d been rumbled.

  It would be impossible for me to track Candy and Capshaw, so I arranged for Martin to meet me in the car park and to bring two cameras. Before getting heavily into booze, Caroline had been a photography buff, and Martin arrived with a couple of bags full of gear and began unloading them.

  Bearing in mind my intention to keep a low profile, I was confident that few of the flat-racing community would recognize me, especially in ‘civvies’. But I didn’t want to bring attention to myself or to Martin.

  I said, ‘Martin, for God’s sake! We’re supposed to be moving around unobtrusively, taking a few discreet pictures. All we need is a camera each with a reasonable telephoto lens.’

  ‘Okay, okay!’ He spent a few minutes choosing and fitting lenses then gave me four rolls of film. ‘If you need any more, give me a shout.’

  ‘I won’t. It’s best if we don’t speak to each other once we’re through the gates.’

  The plan was that we would take turns following Capshaw and Candy at what we hoped was a safe distance.

  Capshaw had a runner in the first. I took up an early position by the parade-ring rails, watching the horses go round until owners and trainers filtered in. Capshaw was with two men and two women, smiling at them, fielding excited questions from all sides, stoking their enthusiasm and hope.

  He was small and dapper in a well-tailored navy suit, white shirt and patterned tie. The tallest man in the party pointed to the ground and Capshaw smiled and bent over to fix his shoelace. As he straightened, he mouthed the words ‘Good luck’ and the party smiled and nodded, a slim dark-haired girl nervously patting his arm. I checked the racecard: the owner’s name was K. Semple. I wondered which of them it was. I shot a few frames.

  Their horse ran okay before fading to finish fourth. All seemed delighted. I tracked Capshaw as best I could, though he disappeared from time to time into places like the owners’ and trainers’ bar where I couldn’t follow. The only sign all was not well with him came when he was alone. In company, he was animated and jolly. It was a good act. As soon as his companions turned away, Capshaw looked troubled.

  Sheikh Ahmad Saad’s horse won the fourth, and I moved toward the winner’s enclosure to watch connections have their usual post-race discussion. Martin stood against the opposite rail and I saw him snap a few pictures then nodded to indicate that I’d take over.

  The Sheikh’s Racing Manager, Candy, tanned, fit and elegant, was among the entourage as usual. He too looked worried. The race they’d just won was hardly top class, but I’d have thought it would have produced a smile. Through the long lens, I scanned the rest of the party - mostly glum faces. The Sheikh himself had a smile of sorts, but grim and fixed, professional.

  Here was an elite gathering on a fine afternoon at one of the world’s biggest racecourses. Their horse had just won and their oil wells were pumping out more cash than they could spend - and all they could manage was an interesting variety of frowns.

  I followed Candy for twenty minutes or so on the chance he’d run into the hard men who’d warned me off from Dunn’s place. If Dunn had the clout to recruit those guys and he was as afraid of me as he’d claimed in the suicide note, why hadn’t he sent them back to teach me a proper lesson? Or had they been the ones who’d doped me and tied me to the mare? The culprits must have known Dunn lay dead in that box. Could they also have killed him?

  Even discounting the grim method of death, Dunn was an unlikely suicide candidate. Part of the nature of the compulsive gambler is the constant belief that something will turn up, that tomorrow will be the day fortunes change. Hopelessness tends to be a temporary condition.

  Also, why kill himself at my father’s place, and why with prostaglandin? I was certain Dunn would have had access to many more types of drugs that would have offered a more peaceful passing.

  I recalled my first meeting with him and how shocked he’d looked when I’d mentioned Brian and the lab samples. He knew something crucial about one or both of those matters, and now he was dead. Did the burden of the knowledge make him kill himself, or was he murdered to keep him quiet?

  All this was turning over in my mind while I followed Candy at what I hoped was a safe distance. He spoke to two of the trainers the Sheikh employed and various other dogsbodies, but the heavies didn’t appear.

  Martin and I swapped quarry again for the next race, then once again, for the last where Capshaw trained the winner. I went to the winner’s enclosure to watch them coming in. Capshaw seemed relieved and I wondered if his owners had had a serious bet. They looked pleased enough. There were four of them around the sweating chestnut, patting and kissing the horse and posing for pictures while Capshaw spoke to the press.

  I saw Martin in the corner, still snapping away.

  Checking the racecard, I noticed that the winner was owned by Guterson’s Gloves Ltd, and that the race had also been sponsored by them. It was always nice to win your own money. The company’s name rang a bell with me, though it took me a few minutes to recall why: Guterson’s had been the name on the boxes of rubber gloves stored in the locked cupboard in Dunn’s bungalow.

  The usual back scratching then; Guterson had a horse in training with Capshaw, Dunn is tied in with Capshaw, Dunn had to buy Guterson’s gloves. Neat.

  I stayed for the trophy presentation, which was made by Mr. Bob Guterson to his own marketing manager at Guterson’s Gloves. Guterson certainly had a grasp of monopolies.

  When we met again in the car park, neither Martin nor I could claim to have photographed anything that looked crooked, but he said he’d get the films developed and I said I’d ask Mac to go through them to see if he could spot any dodgy characters.

  I rang my mother. She said Father was no better but that I could stay in the spare room for a few weeks if I would try not to disturb him. I promised and hung up, unsure if this was a tiny repair in that long-shredded umbilical cord. I realized that the invitation was motivated by their terror of disclosure; it wasn’t the way I’d have wanted it, but there was a bitter-sweetness I could almost taste.

  I changed routes and headed north to pick up as much stuff as I could from the flat. If my stay in Newmarket turned out to be an extended one, I didn’t want to be travelling back and forth.

  I reached Shropshire just after eight. The yard was quiet. I hurried upstairs to empty my wardrobe and grab a few books and tapes. The light was flashing on my answerphone though, as always, I’d emptied it remotely that morning.
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  One message from a trainer, Ken McGilvary, offering me two rides at Exeter next day. I thought about it as I stuffed extra toiletries into a plastic bag. I hadn’t ridden for a while and was missing it. I could do with a break from all the sneaking around and, more to the point, if I was seen to be riding again so soon, the people who wanted me out of the stallion case would be reassured that I’d given up and returned to normal life.

  That decided it. I called Ken and accepted. He was confident about the chances of my first ride and advised me to have a bet. Jockeys aren’t allowed to gamble, but many place bets through a third party. Personally, I avoid it. I find owners and trainers to be the worst tipsters in the land. They are optimists by nature and their default state is to favour their own horses.

  I was at my parents’ place for 10.30. My mother managed a strained smile as she led me along the hall toward the rear of the house, the sound of snoring from my father’s room growing louder then fading as we passed. The big bed made the room seem small. Fresh flowers on a chest of drawers by the window scented the air. The patterned wallpaper was tobacco brown in the dim light, and this room gave the same impression as the others: that of steady decay.

  But the sheets were clean, the quilt thick and the pillows deep. I laid my bags down by the bed. ‘Thanks Mum.’

  She nodded slightly, not convinced she’d done the right thing, but offered me tea and sandwiches. By the time I joined her in the long kitchen, they were on the table, though she couldn’t quite bring herself to sit with me as I ate.

  She asked if I had ‘made any progress today’.

  ‘A little. We certainly didn’t take any steps backward.’

  That short nod again. I was already becoming familiar with it. She excused herself then, saying that she must sit with my father a while. We said goodnight and I sat in silence, the sound of my chewing echoing in my head. I thought again of the old days when it was I who’d lain in bed while my parents sat in the kitchen. When it was I who’d relied on them. For everything.

  They’d failed me.

  Would I fail them now?

  34

  Exeter Racecourse lies high on Haldon Hill where the weather was clear and sunny. I drove steadily down the main approach, weaving through the heavy pedestrian traffic, the usual herd of optimists moving confidently and excitedly toward the front lines to engage the bookies in battle.

  When I entered the weighing room, I realized I hadn’t smiled for weeks. It was so good to be among familiar faces, trusted people, friends. I had a strong desire right then never to leave these guys again. I wished we could all form some full-time travelling band of companions, going from course to course, sticking close together, never having to face the outside world.

  But if I’d have told any of them how I felt, they’d have taken the piss for the rest of my life. I settled for talking to and laughing with as many of them as possible throughout the day. The horse McGilvary had said would win skated in by ten lengths. His other one fell when going well, dealing me a neat kick in the ribs as he scrambled up, but I was okay although I accepted a lift back in the ambulance.

  I picked up a spare ride that finished third, and overall had a bloody good day until the cloud of gloom those papers had created settled on me again. I was sitting in the weighing room after the last, enjoying the banter as everyone packed up, thankful to be heading home still sound in the head, unbandaged and stitch-free. As I looked around, I wondered what they’d all think of me if this story got out.

  A few of them were planning a drinking session at a local hotel. I’d been tempted but the creeping depression persuaded me to give it a miss despite plenty ribbing.

  As I approached my car, I saw there was a bit of a party going on by the BMW parked beside mime. Two young men in light suits were wielding champagne bottles by the neck and singing tunelessly. I smiled. I hoped they had a sober driver stashed away somewhere.

  They were sitting on the bonnet, backs to me as I opened my rear door and slung my kitbag inside. ‘Beat the bookies?’ I asked cheerfully. They both turned, smiling, holding their bottles toward me and moving in my direction remarkably quickly for drunks. They wore sunglasses. I recognized them too late. The darker one dropped his smile and his bottle and pushed me in through my half-open driver’s door while the other guy climbed in the passenger side. I glanced desperately around the car park, but there was nobody nearby.

  Dark Hair got in behind me. I heard my kitbag squeak on the upholstery as he pushed it across the seat. ‘Drive,’ he said.

  I drove.

  He gave simple directions till we were heading south. I’d planned to go north but I wasn’t too despondent. At least this was something, a further step. Anything was better than blundering blindly looking for unfindable clues.

  Anything, Eddie. Death?

  Maybe not.

  When we were travelling at speed, Dark Hair said, ‘Should old acquaintance be forgot, Mister Malloy?’

  ‘You’ve often been brought to mind,’ I said.

  ‘But not with sufficient nous on your part to want to avoid a resumption of that acquaintance.’

  ‘You made such an impression on me,’ I said, ‘I just had to see you again.’

  ‘Well, let’s find out if we can consummate our relationship to your satisfaction this time. I’d hate to think you’d want to come back for more.’

  At least that told me they didn’t plan to kill me. I was scared, but wasn’t for showing it. I said, ‘I just can’t get enough of such riveting company.’

  ‘Riveting. Now there’s a thought. We’re not too far from a shipyard, actually.’

  The thought of a hot rivet gun against my flesh was enough to silence me for a while. In less than an hour, we were on the North Devon coast. As the big orange sun began sinking, Dark Hair directed me through a series of winding single-track roads until I realized we were heading for the sea.

  The further along the track I drove, the higher we climbed. The ocean lay far below as we drove across the grass, toward what could only be a cliff edge. I took heart from the fact that there were two other cars parked within sight of where we stopped. The people I assumed were their owners strolled in silhouette against the pinkish sky and sea, following their dogs.

  I was told to switch off the engine. We sat in silence, watching the dog-walkers, my companions with growing impatience, me with the fervent wish the walkers would stay all night.

  But they didn’t. Within minutes of each other, they led their pets to the cars and drove away, the smell of their exhausts wafting through my half-opened window.

  When the sound of the departing vehicles faded to silence the tension in the car increased. None of us spoke. After maybe fifteen minutes, the gulls broke from riding silently on the air currents over the cliffs and swept down on us crying for the show to begin.

  Still the pair waited. The sun was huge, dropping gradually below the glassy horizon like an enormous orange coin into a wide slot. And I realized that what they’d been holding off for was dusk.

  Dark Hair got out and opened my door while his friend sat next to me. With the door just halfway open, I’d already decided to kick out and slam it against Dark Hair’s legs. Before I moved my foot an inch, the guy beside me hit me hard and fast on the point of my chin, and I felt my legs buckle and my eyes water as Dark Hair dragged me out.

  They pulled me to my feet and half-dragged me to the cliff edge as I fought desperately to regain my senses. The blow had taken me by surprise. I’d been dazed often enough, concussed a few times, but somehow this was different. Falling from a horse at speed can be bone crunching, but that split second of warning is sufficient to prepare yourself mentally and physically for what’s coming. Being hit in the face by a professional was another matter.

  By the time we reached the edge, my brain had stopped rattling in my skull though my legs remained weak. Dark Hair gripped the back of my neck with his big left hand and pushed me forward.

  The sea was calm. Low ti
de. Dusk and distance softened the rocks hundreds of feet below till they looked no more threatening than chocolates lying haphazardly in a box. The ozone-rich air rose in currents off the cliff face, sharpening my senses and my fear.

  Dark Hair said, ‘Ready? There’ll be top points for artistic impression depending on the degree of difficulty.’

  Smart answers didn’t seem so clever any more. I thought of my mother and felt the strongest pang of regret that my plans to be a proper son again would never be realized.

  Dark Hair said, ‘Goodbye, Mister Malloy.’ Then he pushed me over the edge.

  I fought to keep my balance in what seemed an absurd slow-motion replay of those hundreds of cartoon characters windmilling wildly and pedalling furiously at fresh air, but there was no Hanna Barbera storyboard to keep me upright and I went over, head plunging downwards.

  Then I stopped. I threw out my hands to prevent my nose hitting rock as I swung toward the cliff face. They had me by the ankles.

  Suspended.

  Suspended belief.

  Renewed hope.

  They lowered me slowly. My fingers scrabbled for a hold, a crack, in case they dropped me now. I felt damp vegetation, scratched it, releasing a rich smell. They held me there, panting. I saw the rocks way below. Nothing between them and my eyes. I closed them. Sweat prickled.

  Then, very slowly, my tormentors hauled me up. They tried to make me stand but shock had triped my leg muscles. They laid me flat in the grass, and I went from staring at earth and sea to gazing lovingly at a darkening sky.

  Dark Hair leaned over me, looked into my eyes. ‘Stop following people. Stay out of this. Go back to riding horses for a living. Next time we’ll drop you.’

  Then they went away. I heard my car start up but didn’t turn to watch them leave. I just lay there staring at the sky till it was black and sparkling with stars.