I continued, ‘The people who take them, the lab or whatever it is must keep a copy.’
‘They don’t.’
‘Okay, well maybe they can remember something about Bill’s scan.’
‘They take hundreds, maybe thousands a year. They don’t just do work for us, you know.’
‘Surely it’s worth speaking to them, to the guy who did Bill’s?’
‘How is he going to remember?’
‘Have you tried?’
‘We’ve got other cases going as well.’
‘Mac! . . . Oh, this is a waste of time. Why did you agree to meet me? I’ve got better things to do.’
‘Eddie, like before, when I know something I’ll tell you. If I can help I will.’
17
I wasn’t riding today and I decided to head for London, to the clinic I’d visited in July for a brain scan, the same one all the southern-based jocks were sent to.
When I reached the place, I stood across the street looking up at the window, wondering what to do next, how to approach this. I needed to find whoever had carried out Bill’s scan. I had a vague recollection of the man who’d done mine - I thought I’d recognize him if I saw him again - but what would I say? I couldn’t just walk into reception and ask to speak to the little fat guy, which was as much as I could remember about him. I could hardly stroll in and say, I’d like to book a brain scan. Perhaps they’d already been approached by Mac’s people, told to keep quiet.
I checked my watch; a few minutes after one. Maybe my ‘scanner’ would come out for lunch.
An hour’s waiting wore out my patience. I crossed the road and went into the clinic and hurried to reception looking flustered. I started talking in a rush before the elderly woman behind the desk looked up. ‘I’m so sorry. I think I’m about half an hour late. I don’t know if you can still see me. There was a fire at my house at the weekend, you see, it’s been bloody chaos! Lost my appointment card in it, my bloody credit cards, you wouldn’t believe it!’
Her professional, long-practised smile didn’t waver. ‘Mister…?’
‘Carnegie. Iain Carnegie. I do apologize. You wouldn’t believe the hassle this has caused. I know it doesn’t help—’
She was looking at her PC screen when she interrupted. ‘And who is it you’re seeing Mister Carnegie?’
‘God, I’m sorry, I can’t remember. It’s for a brain scan, I have one annually, usually the same man…he’s a, forgive me, short, quite stout fellow, receding hair, Lordy, what’s his name now?’
‘Mister Conway.’
I pointed at her screen excitedly, ‘That’s it. Mister Conway. Very nice fellow. Hopefully he’ll understand.’
She began to look perplexed, scrolling steadily. ‘Mister Conway’s not in today and I can find nothing with your name…for…any day this week.’
‘Oh, don’t tell me I’ve got the wrong day! I might well have done. Was it my eyes today? I’m having them lasered, you see. God, is it the eye clinic I’m supposed to be at?’ I scrabbled to check my watch. ‘I’ll bet you it is. Good grief, I am sorry, I’ll call you. I’ll call tomorrow and get this sorted out. Apologies. Sorry!’ I turned and hurried out unsure whether I felt like an accomplished actor or a total buffoon.
I got myself through the traffic and onto the M4. I planned to visit Kenny Hawkins in hospital.
On the drive I tried to figure out what to do now I had Conway’s name. Was he the only man there who did brain scans? I was sure he’d done my last three so there was every chance he was the jockey specialist, if that was the way they worked things, or the sport specialist. How would I get him to come up with a copy of Bill’s scan, assuming he had one?
By the time I pulled into the car park at Newbury General, I was still searching for a credible solution. I parked and got out looking warily around, conscious of being back in the world of serious accident victims.
They wouldn’t let me see Kenny but Avril, his wife, left his bedside to come and spend five minutes with me. Mid-thirties, small, blonde, very round blue eyes, thin lips, she was as impeccably made-up and dressed as ever though the strain was obvious from half-way along the corridor. I kissed her lightly. She gripped my hand.
We sat in a corner of the waiting room and I brought coffee and hot chocolate from a machine. She sipped it and tried to smile.
‘How is he?’ I asked.
‘Better. Sleeping just now.’
‘What are the doctors saying?’
‘Wait and see. That’s what they say. But there’s not an ounce of optimism in their eyes or their faces when they say it to me.’
‘It’s early days.’
She nodded and stared at the chocolate suds in her cup. ‘Long days.’ She said quietly, then, ‘You expect it to happen on the racecourse if it’s going to happen at all. Every day he went out there I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again or if they’d bring him back on a stretcher. For what?’
She looked at me, one of his gang, one of the kamikaze band who encouraged each other.
She went on, ‘For broken bones and depression. Sixty thousand miles a year. Kow-towing to fat owners and so-called trainers who don’t even teach their horses to jump . . .’
She was getting upset but needed to get it out. She turned to me. ‘He’s too old, Eddie. I told him. It was his birthday two weeks ago, I told him then. Thirty-nine . . .’
She was talking like he was injured on the track. I tried to bring her mind back to it. ‘What happened? How did the car come off the road?’
‘They don’t know. He just went through the crash barrier on the bend going into the bridge.’
‘Were the brakes faulty or something?’
‘They don’t know. Still checking.’
A woman’s voice behind me called out, ‘Avril!’
Avril glanced past my shoulder and had to battle not to swivel her eyes upwards in despair. Quietly she said, ‘Excuse me a minute, Eddie.’ And forcing a tight smile she got up.
I turned and watched them. The woman was about sixty, short and heavy, her camel coat well past her knees, expensive shoes and hair-do, auburn, no grey showing. She stood waiting for the dutiful kiss and I assumed it was either Avril’s or Kenny’s mother.
Avril didn’t kiss the man who was with her. He nodded and stared coldly down at her. Avril’s back was to me so I couldn’t see her reaction. He resembled Kenny, maybe three or four years younger, chubby faced, broad across the bridge of his nose, short dark hair. At around five eight, he’d be a couple of inches taller than Kenny.
Avril spent a few minutes with them then nodded toward me. The man left them and approached me holding out his hand and smiling showing some good dental work. I got up to shake hands.
‘Joe Hawkins,’ he said, ‘Kenny’s brother.’
‘Thought I saw a resemblance. Eddie Malloy.’
‘I know who you are.’ There was ice behind the smile.
‘I was sorry to hear about Kenny. We all were. He’s well liked.’
‘So I hear.’
I couldn’t tell if there was resentment in that comment. He said, ‘Listen, I’ll be telling him not to worry. Especially about money.’
He waited for some reaction from me. I stayed quiet. ‘My brother doesn’t need charity, Malloy.’
Somebody had been talking. I played dumb. ‘What does that mean?’
‘You know what it means. Run all the bent races you want but keep your charity for the Salvation Army. I’ll take care of my brother.’ A slight raising of eyebrows and widening of eyes asked me silently if I understood.
‘Nice meeting you,’ I said and sat down.
Joe turned toward his mother, passing Avril with barely a glance as she returned to sit beside me.
Watching them go through the doors leading to Kenny’s room she said, ‘What did he want?’
‘Just introducing himself.’ Even before he’d spoken to me, I’d had no intention of telling Avril or Kenny we were planning the coup on their behalf.
‘Mummy thinks the sun shines out of his arse.’
‘And you don’t?’ I said, smiling.
‘If I never saw him again in my life it would be too soon. I don’t like him; don’t trust him. I try to make a point of being out when he calls to see Kenny.’
‘What does he do?’
‘Describes himself as an international businessman. International rip-off artist would be more like it.’
‘Dodgy businesses?’
‘Lucrative ones as far as I can make out but he won’t tell anyone exactly what he does, not even Kenny or his mum. Throws his money around hoping to impress people, mostly Kenny and his mother. He always envied Kenny, always tried to make an impact on him, make Kenny envy him with his cars and boats and stuff.’
‘Kenny’s not into that, is he?’
‘Nah, Kenny’s never been like that. A reasonable car, a decent house ... as long as he’s riding he’s happy.’ Her eyes clouded then and she said quietly ‘Was.’
I reached for her hand. ‘Avril, it wouldn’t be the first time the doctors have been wrong.’
Slowly she shook her head and wiped the tears with a fresh Kleenex. She squeezed my hand, ‘Thanks for coming.’
I walked her to the door of the ward. ‘How are the children?’
‘Okay. Pretty much okay.’
‘You’ve got my number?’
‘I think so.’
I lifted a card from the desk and scribbled it anyway. ‘Ring me if there’s anything I can do, day or night.’
‘Thanks, Eddie.’
‘Tell Kenny I dropped by.’
‘I will.’
Cathy Keating’s place wasn’t far from the hospital. I drove there.
The ramp was down on the horsebox by the wall and as I parked, Cathy appeared at the top in rubber boots holding the dribbling spout of a hosepipe. ‘You should have phoned - I’d have put my party frock on.’
‘You look as if a good party’s exactly what you need.’
‘Don’t I know it.’
I walked up the ramp. ‘Can I help?’
‘No thanks. Just one more stall to clean and that’s it’
We talked as she worked and I told her what had happened in the past forty-eight hours. She seemed a bit more receptive than last time. We moved from the horsebox to the stables and Cathy chivvied each horse gently around its box as she deftly forked droppings and soiled straw into a barrow by the door.
She’d just finished the final box, scattering new straw and banking it neatly against the walls when some sixth sense made her turn round to see the big gelding raise his tail. ‘Oh no you don’t,’ she said, stepping swiftly across to stand behind him, ‘bedding’s too dear to have you mess it up right away.’ She cupped gloved hands below the arched tail and caught the steaming droppings as they popped out settling into a neat pile on her hands and wrists. Carrying them past me to the barrow she smiled and said, ‘Come into the house now and I’ll butter you some nice scones.’
I declined the scones but sipped coffee as Cathy ate. I asked if Bill had ever mentioned his brain scan.
‘Not that I can remember.’
‘Did you get his personal effects?’
Her look hardened. ‘You make it sound like there was an auction for them.’
‘I’m sorry. I was wondering where Bill’s medical book was.’
‘I’ve got it along with his other things.’
She went to the study and brought back a fat cardboard file.
In his medical book, the date of Bill’s scan was clearly marked, okayed and initialled although I couldn’t make out the scrawl. Mac was telling the truth; the scan had been clear. The autopsy suggested there was no way the damage wouldn’t have shown. Bill’s annual scan had only been about six weeks before his death. Yet what reason would a Jockey Club doctor have to sign off a bad scan? I knew the four doctors who covered the south, knew them well. I’d have bet a large amount they were dead straight.
Something came to me. ‘You got Bill’s bank statements?’
She got them from the folder.
‘Is it okay if I look through them?’ I asked. She didn’t answer, just opened her hands and gave a small shrug.
I worked through the pile of paper. ‘What are you looking for?’
Still studying I said slowly, ‘I’m . . . looking . . . for . . . this.’ My finger rested on the date a five grand loan he’d taken out had registered on his bank statement - four days after his scan had been done. Three days later, he’d withdrawn the full five in cash.
If the doctors were straight, the only other person involved with Bill’s scan would have been Conway. Cathy was looking over my shoulder. ‘You think Bill spent that on heroin?’
‘No. I think Bill spent that buying himself a clean scan from a fat man.’
18
I spent much of that evening and some of next morning trying to trace an ex-jockey called Sholto Barclay. Sholto had retired five years ago after a particularly heavy fall. There were no compulsory brain scans then, but Sholto’s doctor suggested he take one. He did and it showed that the next time the lights went out they might not come back on. Last I’d heard of him, he was selling animal feed, hawking it around farms and stables, but nobody I spoke to had seen him for over a year.
The weighing room at Uttoxeter was busy and I asked every jock about Sholto but nobody could help. My first ride was in the third, an eighteen-runner hurdle. The jockeys in the first couple of races had come in soaked and mud-caked and valets cursed and worked furiously cleaning and drying.
My instructions from the trainer were to be prominent, which for my own comfort I interpreted as get to the front and hold on as long as you can. That way I had half a chance of staying relatively clean.
I jumped the chestnut off sharply and the rain and wind made me pay for avoiding the mud. Down the back straight raindrops came at me horizontally as though a regiment were firing them. The poor horse ducked his head and slopped through the heavy ground dreaming, no doubt, of his warm stable and full hay net.
Three from home as tired muscles cried enough my mount lost interest and reduced speed so dramatically I thought he’d strained a tendon and started pulling him up. The remaining bunch engulfed us in seconds their hooves firing a battery of squelchy sods. As the field pulled away, the clods followed a higher arc and rained on us like muddy mortar bombs.
In the weighing room, I glanced in the mirror: a panda stared at me. Big white eyes that had been covered by my goggles looked out from a mud-blackened face.
It was while I was cleaning myself up I got talking to Denis, one of the valets. I mentioned Sholto and he said he’d seen him only last week in Somerset standing beside a tractor he’d just overturned. They’d spoken briefly. Sholto was working on a nearby farm. Denis gave me directions.
My second ride finished unplaced in the last and I carried in another half stone of Staffordshire mud on my boots and colours. Showered and dressed, I ate a smoked salmon sandwich with a cup of black tea then set off for cider country.
I called at three farms before finding Sholto. It was after seven, dark. His sullen employer told me he was in ‘the big barn at the back fixing the milker’.
He was in the big barn at the back resting dreamily in a giant’s armchair of straw bales and smoking. He didn’t hear me walk in and, by his own confession, nearly shat himself when I called his name.
He’d changed little; lots of red hair, very hairy hands and arms too, acne-pitted face, green eyes. He got over his shock and I told him why I’d come. He said he’d be happy to help. We sat a while reminiscing in the gloomy barn. A single dirty strip light glowed weakly among the metal beams high above us and the acrid smell of animal urine drifted in waves.
Sholto rolled another cigarette and poked it into the flame of his Zippo lighter.
‘You’ll burn this place down.’ I said.
He gazed at the dry bales surrounding us. ‘Best thing for it.’
‘Bit
of a bastard, your Guv’nor?’
‘Mmmm.’ He drew on the cigarette.
‘Looked it,’ I said.
‘Not just him,’ Sholto said wearily, ‘the lot of them. The wife’s the worst. Looks at me like I was shit on her shoe.’
He glanced toward the door before continuing. ‘Cow . . . We’ve got two hundred and fifty cows here and she’s the biggest one.’
I smiled. ‘Never mind, if this works out you should end up with a few quid.’
‘That’d be a first. When do we start?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Days off are kind of hard to come by, Eddie, what do I tell him?’
‘Tell him you quit.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Shitty job anyway. You’ve got to be able to get better than this.’
‘Will you feed me till I do?’
‘Sure.’ It wasn’t a big risk. Sholto always hated being idle. ‘Can’t promise steak and caviar,’ I said, ‘but you won’t starve.’
Clamping the thin cigarette between his lips, he held out a dirty broken-nailed hand. ‘Deal.’
We shook on it and I counted out a hundred pounds to cover expenses. I also gave him my mini tape-recorder.
At Uttoxeter next day, I rode a winner for Charles though the horse came home very tired. The rain had stopped but the going had become exhaustingly sticky as the ground dried. It was like struggling through suet pudding.
That evening I drove to Shrewsbury railway station to meet the six forty from London Euston. Sholto came striding toward the car looking very pleased with himself. He got in, still smiling.
‘Your face’ll stay like that,’ I teased.
His eyes sparkled. ‘It went great. Brilliant.’
I smiled too. ‘Good.’
In my flat Sholto sat opposite me by the fire a half-full glass of whiskey in his fist. I sipped mine and waited while he stood the recorder upright under the lamp on the mantelpiece. He switched it on and I watched the tape start spooling in the yellow light.
Sounds of doors closing, Sholto coughing to clear his throat. A woman’s voice. Couldn’t make it out.
Sholto leant forward and turned up the volume.
Running Scared (The Eddie Malloy series Book 4) Page 7