Running Scared (The Eddie Malloy series Book 4)

by Richard Pitman

  His voice now:

  - Yes, I’d like to speak to Mister Conway if it’s possible.

  - I’m afraid he’s busy. Can I help?

  - Not really, thanks. When will Mister Conway be free?

  - He could be tied up all day.

  - Would you be kind enough to buzz him now and give him a message?

  - What’s the name?

  - My name is Mister Barclay. Would you tell him Bill Keating sent me?

  A long pause. Doors opening and closing. A phone ringing somewhere. Then her voice again.

  - Would you like to follow me?

  - Sure. Thanks.

  More door sounds then after the final click no more extraneous noise; no echo. I pictured a small room with soft furnishings.

  - Sit down. What do you want?

  Cold voice, accent slightly Americanized, stirring a stronger memory in me of what he was like.

  - Are you Mister Conway?

  - What do you want?

  - You are Mister Conway?

  - Yes, I’m Mister Conway; now tell me what you want.

  - Well, it’s kind of difficult. I used to be a jockey. Retired a while ago. Well, invalided out really. Thing is, I want to give it another go. I reckon I’ve a couple more years in me. Anyway, problem is I got bombed out after a dodgy brain scan and I need to pass one before they’ll grant my licence. Is this making sense to you?

  - Keep talking.

  - Well, look I hope I haven’t got this wrong but Bill Keating, God rest him, Bill told me a while back that you were the man to see.

  - For what?

  - For help?

  - What exactly did he say?

  - Just said you were the man. Said he had similar problems and you helped him get his licence.

  - And you didn’t ask him how?

  - Oh, we chatted for a while.

  I smiled across at Sholto

  - What would you do if you didn’t get your licence back?

  - Well, that would cause me problems. I’ve been promised a few nice horses to ride, you see.

  There was a long pause. I visualized Conway weighing things up, trying to figure out exactly how much Sholto knew. Sholto’s voice came on again.

  - Do you think you’d be able to help?

  - Depends. Could you come in this afternoon and let me have a preliminary look?

  - Sure, what time?

  - Two fifteen?

  - Fine. See you then.

  Door sounds again, feet in corridors then street traffic then nothing.

  On the way from the station, Sholto had filled in the gap. When he’d returned in the afternoon, Conway had asked him to change into a hospital gown so the next half hour or so wasn’t on tape. Conway did the scan then asked Sholto to get dressed and wait for him in his office.

  Having verified the most significant part of Sholto’s story, that he could not produce a clear scan, and probably checked too that he had been a jockey Conway was a noticeably more forthcoming in the second half of the tape.

  - Well Mister Barclay, if the Jockey Club send you along for an official scan I shouldn’t think there would be too much trouble in us ensuring you get your licence back.

  - Brilliant. I appreciate that.

  - No problem though it is, of course, a rather costly procedure.

  - Oh. What would be the total charge?

  - Five grand.

  - Is that inclusive of VAT?

  I chuckled. Sholto smiled across at me.

  - That’s the bottom line. No more to pay.

  - Would it have to be upfront?

  - ’Fraid so.

  - That does cause me a minor problem, only temporary, you understand.

  - That’s a shame.

  - How would you feel about payment in kind?

  - It doesn’t excite me. Cash has a certain solidity about it, makes me feel more secure.

  - It would be cash, the end result, I mean.

  - Fine, come back when you’ve got it.

  - Depending on your own, eh, resources Mister Conway you could have a hell of a lot more than five grand come Saturday night, if you listen to what I’m saying.

  - Cash makes me listen, Mister Barclay, sharpens my hearing to concert pitch. Other forms of payment render me the equivalent of tone deaf.

  - (Long sigh) Bill gave me the distinct impression I’d find you an easy man to deal with.

  Sholto said it just coldly enough to set Conway wondering again exactly how much he knew. Enough for blackmail?

  - Let me hear your proposal, Mister Barclay.

  - Tomorrow afternoon I’ll ring you with the name of a horse that runs on Saturday. The horse will win easily at a good price if bets are placed, eh, discreetly.

  - You expect me to do five grand’s worth of work in exchange for a tip?

  - It’s not a tip. It is the biggest investment opportunity you have ever had in your life and it’s the first of five I’ll give you this season if you agree to discretion in placing your money.

  Long pause before Conway answered.

  - And if that’s not acceptable to me?

  - Then we’ll have to negotiate on some other basis.

  That slightly cold tone again. Sholto had been superb. He sat looking chuffed.

  - Here. Ring me with the horse tomorrow. If it wins, come and see me again on Monday.

  - Mister Conway, listen. When I give you the horse, the first part of the deal is done. When he wins, the second part is done. If you don’t bet on him that’s too bad, we don’t move back to square one.

  - Ring me Friday. Goodbye.

  - See you Monday.

  Door noises. Footsteps. Traffic. A dull whooping noise as Sholto celebrated. Then silence.

  Sholto reached up and switched it off. I congratulated him, ‘Brilliant, absolutely brilliant. You should be on the stage.’

  He sat smiling widely and raised his glass. A couple of drunken hours later he fell asleep on the sofa. I left the fire burning and threw a blanket over him before wandering off to bed my head full of plans.

  19

  I’d told Charles about Sholto and he was more than happy to have him around for a while. Broga Cates was talking about buying more horses and Charles said there might be a job going in a few weeks. They knew each other from their riding days and, next morning, both stood watching me canter past on Allesandro, our big hope for tomorrow at Chepstow.

  After breakfast, we returned to my flat and I called Jeff Dunning, the jockey who’d suggested fixing a race to benefit Kenny Hawkins and his family. The news on Kenny was no better. He’d regained full consciousness but it looked almost certain he’d be paralyzed from the waist down. I told Jeff I’d been doing a bit of thinking and asked if we could get together this evening for a chat.

  He was riding at Hexham, I was at Market Rasen more than a hundred miles further south and it would be a week or more before we were both at the same track again. We agreed to meet in a pub near Thirsk giving us a roughly equal trip.

  I then rang Cathy to find out how her insurance claim was progressing. She’d heard nothing. I persuaded her to ask her solicitor to ring the insurance company for an update.

  I gave Sholto some more money and asked him to spend three days in Newmarket. His job was to find Vince and track him discreetly if possible, see if he recognized any of the people Vince did business with. I gave Sholto a description and told him he might be wearing a polo neck to hide bruises.

  I said, ‘Leave messages on my answerphone, I can dial into it remotely from my mobile.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Don’t take risks.’

  He smiled.

  ‘I mean it, Sholto; I just want to find out who he’s seeing and how regularly and where they might fit in. They’re mostly Flat folk so you may not recognize too many of them but there’s half a chance we’ll get something out of it. And it’s better than sitting around here.’

  ‘Or shovelling pigshit.’

  ‘Exactly.’

&n
bsp; Before leaving, I fixed the recorder to the phone and Sholto rang Conway and told him Allesandro would win the opener at Chepstow tomorrow. All Conway said was, ‘Okay.’

  At Market Rasen, I had four mounts. I picked up a spare in the fifth. Neumann was supposed to ride it but he took a heavy fall in the novice chase and the doctor stood him down which made it doubly pleasing for me when it won.

  That gave me an extra boost. I was already on a high with everything taking shape around Bill Keating’s death and I was buzzing as I headed for the car park in the dusk. I was in and away before I realized I hadn’t checked for booby traps. There could have been a wheel missing never mind loose.

  I’d had no more threats and it had been over a week since the Jeep capsized. I was getting complacent. Then again, it now looked like Conway, ultimately, had been behind the threat and the sabotage. The quick reaction to my calls around a few jockeys that first night pointed to Conway having a close contact in the weighing room, maybe someone else he had a hold over, another jockey with a false scan tucked away somewhere.

  Since that night, I’d pretty much stopped questioning jockeys about Bill and hadn’t mentioned Conway’s name to any of them. Apart from Jockey Club officials, Sholto was the only one who knew and I trusted him completely.

  Perhaps Conway simply thought I’d taken the hint and given up.

  Whatever, things seemed to be coming right. My inclination had been that drug dealers were involved with Bill’s death. But Conway’s little scheme threw new light on it.

  Bill had failed his pre-season scan. Conway had offered to fix it for him for five grand and pass a clear scan to the Jockey Club - God knows whose. But Bill quickly discovered why he’d failed the scan and paid the price of riding with a degree of brain damage. Reflecting on that perhaps Bill didn’t think he’d had value for his five grand. If he’d threatened Conway with exposure, could Conway have set up the fake suicide?

  There had to be a chance too that Conway was tied in with Vince or some other dealer on a commission basis. Who better than Conway to know the potential agony of continuing to ride while in Bill’s condition? How easy for him to say, ‘Incidentally, if the headaches become too much I’d recommend this guy. He’ll sort you out with a real good painkiller.’

  So it could be a joint operation.

  Sholto would be useful to Conway while he was giving winning tips. That fact alone should keep him safe. Until they discovered his source, they’d have to see he came to no harm.

  That was the theory.

  Speeding north, I flipped open my mobile and the buttons glowed warmly in the winter dark. I dialled Cathy’s number. Amy answered and called her mother and Cathy told me what I was hoping to hear, that the insurance company were in the process of finalizing payment. I congratulated her. She asked me to dinner on Saturday night. I accepted.

  Another piece neatly in place. One more worry wiped from my slate. I reckoned I was within days of finding Bill’s killer. Just Kenny Hawkins to be sorted out now and I had that planned all the way to the jackpot.

  Things were going well. Too well.

  I was due a setback.

  Overdue.

  20

  When I reached the pub Jeff Dunning was there and before the first drink was finished, I discovered he’d been doing almost as much thinking as I had.

  Rather than just plan bets on genuine tips, Jeff already had a pool of volunteers ready to fix a race. All they needed was the right opportunity. They wanted a small field, which would help them ‘arrange’ things more easily. Five or six runners would be ideal.

  They also wanted a quiet midweek meeting on a low-grade course. Two reasons here: it would be easier to manipulate the betting market and get a good price for their winner and it would, theoretically at least, minimize the damage to ordinary punters who tend to bet most on big handicap races on busy days.

  Jeff’s brown eyes shone with enthusiasm, his dark curls bobbing as he threw back half his beer. I felt a bit guilty keeping quiet about what Joe Hawkins had said about ‘charity’, but there’d be no harm done. Hawkins hadn’t known then that Kenny would probably be paralyzed for life. And how could I be sure he’d keep his promise anyway to look after his brother?

  I had never been involved in race-fixing. No good can come of it in the long term for racing and anyone who takes part leaves himself open to blackmail for the rest of his days.

  The most I’d wanted from Jeff was his cooperation in getting the best information about genuine horses that were expected to win. Without naming Conway, I told Jeff I knew a guy who’d stung a number of innocent people and that this would provide a nice chance for revenge and help stake the coup for Kenny.

  If between us we could give Conway four straight winners then I was confident we could sting him with the fifth tip and make enough to set Kenny Hawkins up for life.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Let this guy bet the first four tips himself then tell him the fifth will be the last and the biggest of all and that we insist on handling the stake money.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘We keep his winnings and give them to Kenny.’

  ‘And this guy of yours will just say ho-hum and sit back?’

  ‘Maybe not but there’ll be nothing he can do.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’ I didn’t want to tell him about Sholto’s tapes or Bill Keating, not until we’d cleaned Conway out then passed the evidence to the cops.

  Jeff said, ‘Wouldn’t it be better to have an even bigger certainty with our idea. You’re not just relying on a hopeful tip then, you know you’re on a certainty.’

  ‘Bar a fall,’ I reminded him.

  ‘Bar a fall, but we’ll pick a nice easy hurdle somewhere.’

  ‘I’m not into fixed races, Jeff, but if you’re determined to go ahead, I wouldn’t mind taking advantage of it.’

  ‘Good!’ He confessed that a few of the lads were tempted to make some serious money for themselves as well as helping Kenny. I didn’t think that was a great idea. If the shit hit the fan, their bets could probably be traced. But I couldn’t dictate the rules and when I was convinced Jeff couldn’t be dissuaded I threw in an idea someone had put to me a few years ago, one which would increase the jackpot.

  ‘If we play it right we can rip this guy off without him even knowing, that would cut down any chance of reprisals.’

  Jeff drank some beer. ‘How?’

  ‘You know how quite a lot of betting shops operate first past the post pay-outs?’

  ‘Sorry, Eddie, I’m not really a betting man myself.’

  ‘Nor am I but I heard this plot years ago. These first past the post shops are exactly what they say, they pay out on the first horse to pass the post no matter what happens in the Stewards’ Room. You could break every rule in the book during the race making disqualification a certainty but these shops still pay.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So what you want to do is fix not just who’s going to finish first but the second horse too. Using first past the post and official result shops we then place half the stake money on each and tell whoever is on the winner to sling some weight away before the race or even during it. He weighs in light and gets disqualified but we still collect on first past the post. Then when the second is promoted we collect on him too on official result.’

  Jeff smiled in admiration. ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘But how does it increase the take? Surely we’d be just as well putting the lot on the winner.’

  ‘Why risk it? Spreading tons of money for the same horse will raise suspicions somewhere twice as quick as if two are being bet. It’ll help in getting a reasonable price about both. Also it gives us a chance of saving something if one of them falls.’

  He was nodding, thinking. ‘I like it. I think I like it.’

  ‘And, and, if it’s only a five-runner race we can set aside some of this guy’s stake money to bet the three planned
losers on course which will push out the prices of the two we’ll collect on.’

  ‘For someone wary of anything illegal you’re getting pretty hot on this one, Eddie.’

  He was right, I was buzzing. I tried to excuse it. ‘Well, if you guys are determined anyway all I’m doing is acting on the information. It’s not as if I’ll be riding in the race or anything. And it’s not as if I want anything out of it personally.’

  Jeff smiled. ‘Whose conscience are you trying to ease, yours or mine?’

  ‘Mine mostly, I suppose.’

  ‘You’re too straight, Eddie.’

  It was pointless me arguing a moral case. I was justifying this to myself for Bill’s sake and for Kenny’s. They say every man has his price and if I was tested, I suspected deep down that it wasn’t so much that I was too straight as too aware of the consequences if caught.

  Jeff knew a number of people spread around the country that could put the money on discreetly. Joe Hawkins came back to mind. Someone who’d been in the weighing room when this plan was first hatched had either mentioned it directly to him or Joe had picked it up from general gossip.

  I warned Jeff to keep it strictly between us until the last possible minute. It might be months before the right race came up and if anybody got wind of the plans before then the sting would be ruined. Even the jockeys in the race didn’t have to be briefed until the day itself.

  Jeff agreed and said he’d speak to everyone about getting some bait in the way of winners. The first one - Allesandro at Chepstow tomorrow - depended on me. If he got beat, we lost Conway and the whole thing was down the tubes.

  The long drive home from Yorkshire passed quickly. The last few days had introduced a number of factors into the Bill Keating equation and I spent most of the trip turning them over time and again, looking for a balance.

  Midnight slipped past dropping me quietly into Guy Fawkes Day. Mentally I ticked off another twenty-four hours clear of threats but the more I thought of Conway the more I wondered if I was underestimating him because of his size, his age. He didn’t seem capable of scaring anyone let alone killing but he probably had the money to pay someone else to.