Running Scared (The Eddie Malloy series Book 4)

by Richard Pitman

  I exchanged good mornings with several lads and went into the house. Charles stood at the kitchen worktop under an array of pots and pans dangling from a wooden beam. The glare from an overhead strip light reflected from the mustard coloured walls making him look jaundiced. In his mid-forties, he was five seven with dark curly hair and unusually thick eyebrows.

  The percolated coffee he was pouring looked rich and strong.

  ‘Black for me,’ I said.

  He glanced up. ‘Eddie! How’re you doing?’ As if he hadn’t seen me in years.

  ‘Morning Charles.’

  ‘Sit down. Coffee coming right up.’

  I sat at the big table and picked up The Sporting Life. Charles took a seat at the end and slid the steaming mug along to me.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘How’d the funeral go?’ he asked.

  ‘As well as funerals can.’

  ‘How are Cathy and the kids?’

  ‘Bearing up.’

  ‘D’you apologies for me not being able to make it?’

  ‘Uhuh.’

  ‘Cathy understand about it? She wasn’t upset or anything?’

  ‘She’s got more things to worry her right now, Charles.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so.’

  The door opened and a yellow bobble hat poked round.

  Underneath it was the flushed young face of Darren, one of the lads. He said, ‘Padge says to tell you Kinky’s got a leg, guv’nor.’

  Charles sipped black coffee and nodded. ‘How bad?’

  ‘Fair bit of heat in his off fore. Won’t make Saturday, Padge says.’

  ‘Okay,’ Charles said and Darren’s head withdrew.

  Kinky was a horse, King Kibbutz, Padge was the head lad and ‘a leg’ was bad news - lameness. The horse had been entered to run at Wetherby on Saturday.

  ‘That’s three on the easy list,’ Charles said.

  ‘They’ll all be fine in a week,’ I said. Injuries, especially minor ones, to National Hunt horses were a fact of life in every yard.

  ‘Hope those bloody foreigners stay sound,’ Charles said. ‘If one of them goes I’ll cut my throat.’

  The ‘foreigners’ were two horses he’d bought from New Zealand at the start of the season. They were just about acclimatized and both showed promise, one more than the other. He was called Allesandro and he was scheduled to have his first serious gallop this morning.

  We’d yet to work him with any of the other horses whose racecourse form would offer a reliable yardstick. But a jockey can tell a good horse purely by the feel he gives, the way he moves under you. I was convinced Allesandro was very good though I’d settled for telling Charles he might win a race.

  As the sun began taking the chill out of the air, three of us jig-jogged at the bottom of the grass gallop which rose in a long steady climb.

  Allesandro grew impatient beneath me. He was a strong iron-grey gelding with a big ribcage and a plain head. The two bays alongside me had won five races between them. They were maybe twenty percent fitter than my horse and Charles had told me just to sit in behind and see how long I could track them when they quickened up. We were to go a mile.

  I saw Charles’s stocky outline waiting halfway up the gallop. Bryson and Collins, talented work riders, were aboard the others. Bryson called out, ‘Ready!’

  The pair in front set off with huge simultaneous leaps and were galloping the moment their feet touched turf. I was still turning at this point but Allesandro quickly cottoned on and I felt him drop his bit, warning me that he was about to whip around.

  He did so in an instant and launched us in pursuit.

  Bryson and Collins mastered their horses after fifty yards by which time I was sitting on their tails having my arms stretched like in some old-fashioned torture.

  This was an important gallop. It would tell us if Charles and Broga were going to have a class horse in their first batch - a blessing. I felt a degree of tension and Allesandro sensed it making him more eager to race. In common with all good racehorses, he loved competition and the closer he was to the others the better he worked.

  But he was too keen and twice his steel shoes clipped the heels of Bryson’s horse, the first time slightly losing his own balance, the second causing the leader to falter.

  Bryson turned cursing. I smiled at him.

  When the pair in front collided, the rebound created a temporary gap that Allesandro instinctively surged for. Fortunately for me, trying to keep him anchored, it closed.

  Charles had wanted me just to stay with these two for as long as I could but I already knew Allesandro was capable of much better. As we passed Charles, my arms, wrists and fingers were numb from holding this big horse and I caught a glance of the trainer’s bemused, happy look.

  Even though they quickened, Allesandro was bursting to eat them up. His head got lower as he fought me and with a furlong to go, I simply couldn’t hold him any longer and gave in.

  He moved outside and passed them in three strides, snorted his turbo and quickly pulled clear. Glancing back at a wide eyed Bryson I saw him mouth, Jesus!

  Smiling as I narrowed my eyes against the wind and felt the cold slicing my cheeks I sat almost still enjoying the pulsing rhythm, the raw power that sent us twenty lengths clear by the end.

  We’d gone a third of a mile past the finish before I could pull the grey up and as I turned to walk him downhill, I saw Charles jumping up and down and punching the air. He was whooping and squealing with delight and doing jigs and I burst out laughing at the ridiculous joy of it all.

  After riding another piece of fast work and schooling four horses I went to my flat, made tea and a salad sandwich, sat down to read the Racing Post but found myself confronting the problem that had been bothering me all morning; Bill Keating’s death.

  The reason I’d been pushing it out of my thoughts was simply that I didn’t know what to do. Cathy had shifted her worries onto my shoulders. I hadn’t objected and now they sat there weighing me down, daring me to do something about them.

  Deciding logic was the thing, rationally applied common sense, I searched out pen and paper. Back at the table, yellow pad and black biro in hand I got to work.

  The problem: prove that Bill Keating’s death wasn’t suicide. Complications: no evidence, no witnesses and probably no cooperation from the police. Further complications: If it is suicide, Cathy doesn’t get the insurance money. If it was murder, she does. If she gets paid the business survives, the children’s futures are secure and so is hers.

  So Cathy’s troubles are over.

  But that would just be the start of it. Faced with a huge pay-out the insurance company would ask questions. The police would be renewing their interest too. It didn’t help that the horsebox Bill died in belonged to Cathy.

  I rang an owner I knew, Marjorie Simmonds, who was a partner in an insurance company. We exchanged the usual pleasantries then I asked about the likelihood of Cathy’s payment being withheld.

  Marjorie told me that was a common misconception. She said, ‘The important thing would have been Bill’s state of mind and his physical condition when the policy was taken out which was how long ago?’

  ‘When they started the business I suppose. It was tied into the loan they got. Must be five years or more.’

  ‘They’d have put him through a stringent medical for that sort of risk, Eddie. He’d have to have been A1 for that and, assuming he was, I don’t think Cathy will have anything to worry about.’

  ‘Would they argue that he might have been taking heroin back then?’

  ‘They might try but they’d have to prove it which I think would be difficult if not impossible.’

  ‘Great. Thanks, Marjorie.’

  ‘My pleasure. Any tips?’

  ‘I’ll give you a double: be wise and don’t bet.’

  ‘Spoilsport.’

  Much relieved I called Cathy. She was grateful but not totally convinced. She went to ring her lawyer.

  I closed the
yellow pad and put it away. Then I sat staring out of the window. Mentioning heroin to Marjorie set me thinking that for all of the fine words said about Bill, for all the police had claimed they could find no possible reason anyone would want to kill him, he had been involved with criminals. Drug dealers.

  Who had got him sucked into that world? Why? I knew nothing about the drug but I believed it wasn’t cheap, not when you were addicted.

  And Bill Keating had little spare cash. So how was he paying these guys? Knowing a jockey was going to fall off fancied horses could be a lucrative gig for a bent bookmaker or a syndicate of punters. I pictured Bill’s gap-toothed smile and realized I’d been kidding myself about how well I’d known him. Most jockeys worked a certain patch around their home. I rode mainly in the midlands and the south. I’d see Bill once or twice a week. He travelled the country, unusual given the mileage costs and the scarcity of rides. I’d known him go all the way to Perth for one mount in a novice hurdle. Why? Even if it won, Bill would have made a loss on the trip.

  On his travels, he’d be meeting jockeys and trainers whom I’d bump into maybe just a couple of times a year. And who else might he be meeting on those long lone trips? I got the pen and pad out again along with my diary and spent the next three hours calling jockeys and trainers up and down the country, trying to find out if there was a side to Bill I’d never known. By midnight, I had a big phone bill, a fierce headache and no answers.

  It must have been after one when I finally got to sleep. Just before 2 a.m., the phone rang. I was groggy when I picked it up. A voice I didn’t recognize said, ‘You’ve been asking questions about Bill Keating?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘Well be a good boy and stop it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you don’t you’ll get a chance to ask Bill personally.’ Alert now, I didn’t reply. The voice-bank section in my memory was whizzing crazily through the entries to try and place the caller.

  He said, ‘Malloy, you there?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  The voice, suddenly much more menacing said, ‘Listen, bastard, forget it. Understand?’

  I hung up.

  I understood.

  8

  It was a bright, cold morning. I rode work and schooled three over fences, ate a meagre breakfast alone, soaked the racing papers with spilled coffee then got my kit ready for Cheltenham.

  My car was in for service and Charles had lent me his red Jeep. Unused to the high-sides I went too fast on the motorway and a strong crosswind bullied me down to a manageable speed.

  I reached the course two hours before my first ride and two pounds heavier than I’d have to be when I got in the saddle. Some jockeys go through terrors trying to control their weight but up until this season, I’d had no problems and could normally eat and drink what I liked within reason.

  But returning after the two-month summer break it had taken me just that bit longer to get in shape and I’d spent more time in saunas this season than I had in my whole life. Maybe age was catching up.

  Clutching a towel, I opened the sauna door and stepped inside to be greeted by three others already sweating freely, Blake, Neumann and King of the Sauna, Dave ‘Puddly’ Dudley, who would sweat if you aimed a hair drier at him.

  In the next half hour, six more jockeys joined us and a lot of the talk was about Bill. I’d spoken to most of these guys on the phone last night before I’d got the call from the would-be hard man. I’d need to be careful. One of those sweating around me might be the man who’d tipped him off.

  Neumann didn’t like me, but I already knew that. He’d ridden Charles’s horses before I’d come back on the scene and unintentionally taken his job when Broga came on the scene. I had been open with him about it when Broga had thrown that cash at Charles, effectively making him his private trainer and me his retained jockey. I’d tried the no hard feelings stuff with Neumann but he wasn’t having it. He’d backed out of fighting me at Plumpton, but he wasn’t the type to forget an insult.

  I showered and went looking for Doc Clarke to find out what he knew about heroin addiction. I was sticking to my assumption that the criminals Bill had been associating with were controlling drugs. The arrogance of last night’s caller bolstered my belief that he was part of some organization, a drugs gang maybe, some team used to getting results through violence. The sensible option for them would have been silence. Why threaten me when all they were doing was confirming Bill’s death was suspicious? They must have thought it would be like swatting flies.

  I smiled.

  Doc Clarke was busy. I knew I’d see him later in the weighing room.

  I finished unplaced in the handicap hurdle, won the handicap chase by ten lengths and came cantering at the second last in the novice chase all set to make it a double when my horse completely lost concentration. A narrow brown gelding with a short neck he’d jumped impeccably throughout and we’d taken up the running turning into the straight. Maybe it was my fault for being over cautious - I shortened him up and asked him to pop over but he got too close, rose almost vertically and started paddling in panic, flailing the black birch with his front legs.

  I was sure I had plenty of time to push clear but his hindquarters caught me in their arc and whiplashed me into the turf, pounding the wind from my lungs and rattling every bone.

  I lost consciousness for a few seconds, but by the time the medics reached me, my eyes were open though my brain felt like it was vibrating. Any obvious signs of concussion when the doc checked me over would mean a suspension of up to twenty days.

  You can lose a lot of rides in that time and I fought hard to keep my eyes open, to move limbs, and push myself up.

  In the weighing room, I sat still as the doc placed two clammy fingers lightly behind my left ear and asked, ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Okay.’ The jocks’ pre-programmed answer to racecourse doctors. If your neck is twisted till your head’s facing backwards, you’ll tell him you’re fine.

  Moving to the front, he bent forward and held up a handful of fingers asking me to count them.

  ‘Four,’ I said with more hope than confidence.

  ‘How did you get to the races today?’ he asked.

  Even mild concussion can bring temporary amnesia.

  ‘Drove,’ I said, completely unable to remember but going for the stock answer.

  I tried a smile to show my well-being but it felt as though the corners of my mouth were rising in slow motion like a cartoon character.

  Doc Clarke bent lower, his bloodshot eyes staring into mine. He’d checked my limbs and general reflexes. Now he was trying to make up his mind whether I’d lied about losing consciousness out there.

  He settled for the minimum period and stood me down for two days. My protests were milder than usual. The way I felt I would almost have welcomed a week to recover.

  Charles had a runner in the last but he said he’d leave it to his head lad and insisted on driving me home in the Jeep.

  ‘What about your car?’ I asked.

  ‘Jamie will bring it.’

  Jamie was one of his stable lads.

  On the way to the car park, I had to pause and rest a couple of times. Concerned, Charles looked at me as I rested against the side of a big BMW. ‘You look awful.’

  ‘Feel it.’ I had a pounding headache, felt dizzy and cold.

  ‘You’re white as a sheet.’

  I couldn’t answer. Just stared at Cleeve Hill in the distance.

  Charles said, ‘Wait here.’

  A few minutes later, he pulled up beside me and helped me into the passenger seat. He leaned across and slotted my seatbelt home. I was aware of him looking up though I stared straight ahead.

  ‘Still bad?’ he asked.

  ‘Be okay,’ I mumbled, thinking I might never be. It had been a while since I’d suffered concussion and I was trying to remember if it was natural to feel this lousy.

  Charles got in. ‘Soon have you home.’

&nbs
p; Whether I lost consciousness or simply fell asleep, I don’t know but when I opened my eyes again, we were on the motorway. It was raining hard. Sheets of surface water. The trucks threw plumes of spray so big you’d have thought they were towing water-skiers.

  Doing seventy, we swung out to overtake one. Visibility couldn’t have been more than five yards. Our tail was a few feet past his front bumper when the jeep lurched wildly and spun into the path of the truck turning wild pirouettes on the greasy surface.

  ‘Jesus Christ Almighty!’ Charles cried as he fought for control.

  It seemed like slow motion. The jeep waltzed through the water, listing but still maintaining momentum. Each time we came round I looked up and saw the horrified face of the truck driver as he worked down his gears trying not to stamp on his brakes.

  Just before he hit us, I spotted a wheel careering along the hard-shoulder.

  9

  Soaked, bruised and dazed but otherwise unhurt we stood by the roadside wondering stupidly if we could, with the help of the truck driver, roll the jeep upright again.

  I could hardly keep myself upright. A terrible tiredness weighed me down. Double vision made the downpour seem like a biblical flood.

  The jeep lay yards from us on its roof, three remaining wheels and black underside exposed to the rain and lashing spray of passing vehicles. Charles and I had crawled through the wide space left by the shattered windscreen. The rogue wheel was fifty feet down a shallow embankment wedged in a ditch.

  The police arrived quickly but didn’t stay long. Satisfied nobody was injured, they took our details then asked if we’d hang on and give full statements to a backup unit. They explained they had to rush off to a serious accident.

  Before their flashing light was out of sight, the truck driver was climbing into his cab. He’d advised us to let the police come to us rather than wait and get drenched.

  When the breakdown truck arrived, we gladly accepted a lift home.