I watched the first race, a selling hurdle, on the TV in the weighing room. It didn’t matter who won this as long as Bobby Craine and Jake Brassey didn’t have a fall, which might put them out of our race.
The tapes rose and I wasn’t even concentrating on it when Bobby’s horse came down at the first jump.
I turned to one of the valets to double check. ‘Was that Bobby’s?’
He nodded staring in concern at the screen. Bobby was still lying motionless when he went out of camera shot. Dear Jesus don’t let him be hurt. I grabbed a pair of binoculars and hurried outside.
If Bobby couldn’t ride in the next, the trainer would replace him with somebody else, somebody who couldn’t be pulled into the plan at this stage.
Halfway up the stand steps I raised the binoculars and aimed them in the opposite direction from all those around me. Bobby was on his feet.
Let him walk now . . . Please.
He walked, ducked under the rails...he looked fine.
Thank you, God. Thank you.
I turned the glasses toward the action and kept praying that nothing would happen to Jake Brassey. Nothing did. He finished second.
I couldn’t bear to return to the weighing room. I spent the next fifteen minutes sitting in my car not wanting to talk to anyone. To Sholto maybe, to tell him to hang in there.
A few minutes before the off I was in the stand watching the field canter to the start. I walked through the betting ring. Clerks blowing on cold hands, rubbing pens rapidly between palms. Bookies on stools shouting the odds.
Glossop was evens favourite. Thimbelina was eleven to two, Sun Tonic four to one, both lower prices than we’d expected. Some of the money being placed in the shops must be finding its way back to the course. Our bets, like most, would be settled at starting price, which is decided by the average of all prices on offer at the racecourse.
Mist was gradually thickening on the far side. That should help, I thought; give the lads more confidence if the Stewards can’t see them properly.
The nearer the off the more nervous I got and when the tapes finally went up I couldn’t even bring myself to watch it. I headed for the Tote building, leant on a wall and listened to the commentary from a speaker above me.
I had no idea what the tactics would be. I just knew that as they jumped the last Thimbelina and Sun Tonic would have to be first and second.
The toughest bits to listen to came as each hurdle loomed, the parts where the commentator called . . . ‘and as they approach this one’ or, ‘. . . as they come to the next’. If Thimbelina fell, Sholto would crumple just as quickly only he would probably never get back up.
As they moved down the far side for the final time, all five were still standing. I concentrated on the commentator as he steadily increased volume and tension in his voice. ‘. . . Visibility’s becoming poorer out there but Glossop still leads from Sir Abu and ... it looks like Thimbelina in third then comes Sun Tonic and Robespierre last.
‘Beginning to bunch now coming to the next, getting difficult to see them as they rise at it . . . and one’s gone! There’s a faller!’
Please God not Thimbelina
‘. . . can’t quite pick it out, looks to be . . . Sir Abu . . .’
Breathe again.
‘. . . no it’s not!’
Fuck!
‘. . . it’s Robespierre!’
Let him be right this time. My heart pounded.
He confirmed it. ‘. . . Robespierre’s gone at the third from home badly hampering Sir Abu who has a stiff task now and it’s Glossop still leading but only by a length from Thimbelina. Two to jump, getting easier to see them as they start to come back toward us and Glossop’s still galloping strongly in front as they approach the second last, the others having to be pushed along to stay with him, Sir Abu out of it, approaching the penultimate flight Glossop goes three lengths clear . . .’
What the fuck was Craine doing on Glossop? He was making it almost impossible for himself to stop the horse now so close to so many watching eyes. And Glossop was favourite.
‘. . . but Glossop barely rises at it! He mistimed that completely! Hit it hard and his jockey did well to stay in the saddle! Thimbelina takes it up from Sun Tonic . . .’
Go on baby.
. . Glossop’s rider doesn’t look happy and he’s pulling him up after that mistake.’
Well done Bobby.
‘. . . Thimbelina’s three clear of Sun Tonic now who’s struggling and it looks like she only has to jump the last . . .’
My eyes were tight shut but the picture in my mind had never been clearer as I visualized the bay mare galloping toward the final hurdle. No mistakes please, it’s the last thing I’ll ever beg for . . .
‘. . the mare’s four clear as she comes to it and she’s up . . . and over! Lovely jump and she’s coming away now from Sun Tonic . . .’
Thank God.
The tension drained from me as though someone had pulled a plug out. My only thought, cowardly as it seemed, was to escape quickly so I didn’t have to tell the lads there’d be no big payday for Kenny Hawkins.
But running away was pointless. I’d have to explain what had happened. Jeff and the others would be bursting to visit Kenny and give him the good news.
I wandered reluctantly to the weighing room knowing I’d have to sit through the hubbub, which would start when Jake Brassey sat on the scales. I hoped he could act. I hoped they all could.
28
Those who’d ridden in the race would be excited, ecstatic at pulling it off. But all the natural jubilation would have to be curbed or people would get suspicious. It wasn’t the Gold Cup Jake had won it was a crappy little handicap hurdle at a small course, no real call for celebration.
The others would have an even tougher job curbing their instincts. Bobby would have to appear downhearted at having pulled up the favourite so close to home. Glossop had looked perfectly sound trotting in and the Stewards would probably have a few questions for Bobby.
I stood by the door of the weighing room door and offered quiet congratulations to Jake as he walked past clutching saddle and weight cloth against mud-spattered red and yellow colours. He smiled and made for the scales.
I kept staring out into the grey afternoon waiting for the inevitable query from the Clerk of the Scales. A few seconds later it came.
The gruff voice said, ‘You’re six pounds light, Brassey.’
‘What?’
‘Six pounds light.’
‘I can’t be, sir!’
I heard the scales chair squeak as Jake turned to look at the needle. I turned too; it would have been unnatural to keep staring away from the drama. It was a thing that happened very rarely, maybe once every six or seven years.
A Stewards’ Secretary had joined the Clerk and was double-checking Jake’s weight against the racecard. The secretary hurried off.
The grey haired Clerk looked up at Jake, ‘You know I’ll have to object.’
Jake slumped forward in despair, the saddle and weight cloth slipping from his hands to the floor.
Rather overdoing it, I thought hoping he wouldn’t top it off by actually fainting.
Slowly as though all the lead had slipped from the weight cloth into his boots Jake gathered up his gear and, head down, shambled into the sanctuary of the changing room.
The PA system blared, ‘Objection! There is an objection by the Clerk of the Scales to the winner of the second race. Customers are advised to retain all betting tickets until the result of the objection is announced.’
The result was a foregone conclusion. Jockeys were allowed a small weight loss during a race to account for the effects of exertion but anyone weighing in six pounds light was destined for disqualification. The lodging of the objection was simply a formality.
I earnestly hoped Conway’s man had remembered to tell him the bets had to be first past the post.
The race was quickly awarded to Sun Tonic. Jeff wasn’t riding in the next an
d I waited outside for him. Padded jacket over his muddy breeches he came toward me, beaming in the gathering gloom. Reluctant, ashamed to shake his hand if he offered it I turned away before he got the chance, motioning him to follow me.
I stopped beside my car. When Jeff saw my eyes, he knew something was wrong.
‘What’s happened?
‘We got screwed.’
‘What do you mean? Who by?’
‘The man.’
‘What fucking man?’
Up till now, I’d told no one in the weighing room about Conway. Sholto knew but he’d been sworn to silence and McCarthy, the Jockey Club Security man knew but he wouldn’t have let it out. I had two reasons for keeping quiet. The main one was that if Bill Keating had bought a false scan there was a big chance others had too and they’d have a major interest in saving Conway from exposure.
Conway himself had just learned from Sholto that I was involved. It would be tough enough fighting him without some jockeys working on me from the inside.
The other reason was that I’d been concerned at how quickly Kenny’s brother, Joe, had got to learn about the initial suggestion for the fixed race. When he’d mentioned it to me, the day I met him at the hospital, I’d wondered who’d told him. I suspected Neumann, the guy who’d slagged Jeff off for suggesting it. But I couldn’t be sure.
So I told Jeff as much as I dared; the truth with just the names and the motives left out. But, understandably, he wouldn’t buy it. His final words to me were that it was ‘a load of fucking bullshit’.
The fact that the first past the post idea had come from me didn’t help things.
He slapped the roof of the car and swung his boot as though ready to kick the door. I guessed the prospect of breaking toes or being spotted by an official stopped him and he spun and strode away steam-driven into the course.
Jeff and I weren’t bosom buddies but he should have known me well enough not to say all the things he’d just said.
Sighing sadly, I started the car and headed for home, my thoughts shared between Sholto and the guys back in the Sedgefield weighing room who’d probably never trust me again. That fact alone stoked a rising anger, a grim determination to nail this bastard, Conway.
29
The next three days were among the most miserable of my life. I got calls on Thursday evening from Bobby Craine and Jake Brassey both asking how I could do that to Kenny. Neither would listen to reason and swore they’d never talk to me again.
Jake called after Bobby and, frustrated and guilt ridden I came within an ace of telling him the whole damn story.
Friday and Saturday were spent at Market Rasen and Towcester, miserably waiting for word from Sholto. Saturday evening right through till Sunday’s frozen dawn found me hunched in my car outside Conway’s dark and silent house.
I couldn’t go to the police for fear of dropping the race conspirators in it, not to mention myself. Couldn’t even turn to McCarthy of Jockey Club Security for the same reason. I had told Charles, but only because Sholto worked for him. He listened in resigned silence then shook his head slowly, throwing me one of those 'you’ve really done it now' looks.
It was dusk when I reached the flat, tired and dishevelled. I looked in the bathroom mirror through bloodshot eyes at almost forty-eight hours of beard growth and I sighed and ran a hot bath.
Towelling myself dry under the harsh light I resigned myself to the prospect of Sholto turning up dead.
My doorbell rang while I was still naked, someone leaning constantly on the button.
Pulling on a dressing gown, I hurried downstairs. ‘Who is it?’ I shouted but couldn’t make myself heard above the bell.
I opened the door. Sholto took his finger off the button and walked in slamming the door behind him and turning the key. He leaned against it staring at me through bruised swollen flesh. Dried blood cracked on his chin. His two front teeth were missing.
Dirt and blood soiled his red hair. Though his eyes were little more than slits I could see the mixture of fear and relief in them. His head was back, leaning on the door. He swallowed twice, Adam’s apple bobbing, as though preparing to talk. But nothing came out.
I reached for his arm, put mine around his shoulder and helped him upstairs. With warm water and a soft cloth, I cleaned him up as best I could, wincing with him at the tenderness of each injury. He still hadn’t spoken. A torrent of questions was building up in me but I held my tongue.
I helped him from the stiff-backed chair to the big easy chair under the lamp by the fire. Quietly I said, ‘I think Charles has got some good painkillers. I’ll get them.’
‘Just a drink, Eddie.’ His voice was croaky, weary.
‘You sure?’
He nodded.
‘Whiskey?’
‘Big one.’
I poured for both of us and couldn’t help flinching as Sholto tipped the burning liquid into his battered mouth. He made a sour face but soon took another slug then laid his head back staring at the ceiling. He was quiet for a minute.
I sat in the easy chair opposite and remembered the last time we’d sat here, recalled his bubbly enthusiasm, his vitality as we’d listened to the Conway tape.
Now he slumped like a broken soldier. He wore a dark polo neck and light cords and for the first time I noticed, as he sat spread legged, the long looping stain on the trousers from the groin down both thighs where he’d obviously emptied his bladder in fear or desperation. The anger rose in me again and I silently promised Conway the hammering of his life when I caught up with him.
Sholto must have read my mind. Still looking at the ceiling, he said quietly, ‘Get out of this, Eddie.’
I waited.
‘They’ll kill you.’ His head tilted forward and he looked at me and drank some more.
Through pain and relived terror, it took him a long time to tell me the story. When he’d arrived at the house, Conway had led him to the basement where he said he had the cash in a bag. Sholto had gone with him down a flight of stairs into a brightly lit room where about fifteen stone of solid thuggery went to work on him.
He suffered plenty pain trying to convince them he was being truthful. He gave them my name and number and told them to call.
‘Sorry, Eddie, I had to.’
‘Of course you did, don’t apologize.’
The rest was down to waiting. The big guy stayed with him. Conway disappeared for a couple of days, returned the day after the race very pleased with himself then started planning with the big guy how he was going to get me, how he could use Sholto to set me up for the same treatment.
‘Where were you all this time?’ I asked.
‘In the basement, never left it.’
‘Jesus, I spent half the weekend sitting outside the place.’
‘Don’t go back, Eddie, listen to me.’
‘How did you get away?’
‘That’s what I’m going to tell you, that’s why I’m warning you.’
He took a mouthful of whiskey and swallowed it before it burned his wounded mouth too much. Then he told me what had happened that afternoon.
‘The big guy was watching me in the basement. The door burst open and two guys in suits dragged Conway in. Conway’s man, credit to him, looked up for having a go but one of the suits pulled a gun.
‘No shouting or raving, just pointed the gun at the big guy’s head. Didn’t say a word. The big guy backed off then the other suit tells the big guy to help him haul Conway outside. Conway is absolutely fucking shitting himself. He was as white as that wall and it’s obvious he knows these guys are proper pros.
‘The guy with the gun comes over to where I’m sat. I’m thinking this is it. I’m saying my prayers and hoping I can get through them all and remember every poor bastard I’ve done wrong to in my life and asking them to forgive me and watching the guy and waiting for him to shoot me.
‘But he lays the gun on the table and sits down. He nods at my face…’ Sholto pointed to his wounds, ‘and he
asks if Conway did it and I’m just nodding and still waiting and trying to put it all together and figure out what the fuck’s going on and whether Conway’s ripped the guy off with the horse or something…
‘And he says, “I’m going to make you a deal. I’m going to take Conway and his friend away and fix it so they’ll never bother you again. And I’ll make sure they get plenty of what they gave you.” And I’m still just nodding and realizing maybe I’m not going to die here and still trying to work out what the fuck’s going on, then he says, “Your part of the deal is to tell Eddie Malloy he needs to stick to riding horses and forget all about Conway and everything that’s happened. Okay?” And I’m still nodding like a donkey ready to do anything, any fucking thing to get out of there.
‘So I’m here and I’m doing my part of the deal and telling you these guys are serious shit. Even if he hadn’t asked me to warn you off Eddie, that’s exactly what I’d be doing ‘cause you’ve done a lot for me and—’
‘But Sholto—’
He put his hand up, silencing me. ‘Eddie! Eddie, believe me! I’m not some kid that knows nothing. I’ve seen plenty in my life and I’m telling you, and I know you’ve investigated stuff and beat the odds and all that, forget it. Forget it! These guys won’t even talk to you. They’ll just shoot you in the fucking head. Do you understand me?’
I nodded, hoping he’d calm down. I drank. Sholto reached for the bottle and poured some more whiskey and slugged half of it and tried to settle in the chair.
‘So what did they want with Conway?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know and I don’t care.’
‘What did these guys look like?’
‘Killers.’
‘Physical descriptions?’
‘Oh forget it, Eddie…Jesus’ He was worn out now and realized he hadn’t managed to convince me. ‘I’ve done what I promised. I’ll sleep here tonight. I’m leaving in the morning.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I don’t know but I’m too fucking scared to stay here.’
Running Scared (The Eddie Malloy series Book 4) Page 11