Running Scared (The Eddie Malloy series Book 4)

by Richard Pitman

  I spent the next ten minutes trying to convince him he’d get his confidence back as the injuries healed. I warned him if he ran now he’d always be running, but he was determined to leave.

  He was afraid to sleep in his own flat so I let him have my bed and I slept on the sofa. Or lay awake on the sofa summarizing everything, the total losses: the friendship and trust of colleagues, Sholto’s well-being, his confidence, companionship, maybe even his long-term health. Not to mention an estimated quarter of a million pounds worth of winnings, which would have gone to help Kenny Hawkins and possibly one or two others.

  Perhaps that had been the motive for Conway’s abduction, the money. Or his apparent abduction. I’d tried to convince Sholto that the whole thing was probably set up by Conway to dissuade us from tracking him down.

  Sholto said if that was the case, it had worked. He was certain the hard men had been genuine and I’d resigned myself to his leaving in the morning.

  But the longer I lay awake into the night, the more I thought about it, the stronger my conviction grew that Conway had engineered the whole thing. I was sure that if I could find him soon I could recover most of the money and redeem myself with Jeff and the lads. Also, it would make Sholto feel safe again.

  Tomorrow I’d get right back on the fat little bastard’s trail.

  30

  In the cold light of dawn I realized Conway’s trail consisted of nothing more than anger and optimism on my part, and as those feelings faded with the passing fruitless days and weeks, I steadily grew resigned to the fact that Conway had disappeared.

  He never returned to his job at the clinic. I visited his house at least three times a week, even knocked on all the doors in his street with various stories about having a delivery for him.

  All this trekking around while still riding gradually wore me down.

  I was persona non grata with Jeff Dunning and the northern lads and one or two others were beginning to shun me as well. Neumann’s sly digs in the weighing room increased in frequency and intensity and by late January, I’d had about enough.

  Then I got what appeared to be a break. On the evening of the twenty-sixth a man phoned saying that if I was still looking for Conway he was in a position to offer some advice. I asked how much it would cost. He said just half an hour of my time.

  We arranged to meet after racing next day in the car park at Huntingdon races.

  I sat in my car as the crowds filtered home in the gathering gloom and lights popped on in the convoy of vehicles snaking toward the exits.

  I’d told the caller what I drove and my registration but as the car park emptied and dusk deepened I wondered if he was going to turn up. Then I began wondering about the wisdom of meeting a stranger here.

  He’d sounded soft voiced and pleasant, quite old really but I recalled his words: he’d offer advice about my search for Conway not information on where he was.

  I reached into the narrow compartment on the door beside me and felt the heavy links of the chain I now carried for protection.

  Suddenly there was a face at the window, smiling, sixtyish, and friendly with gold-rimmed glasses and a neat white moustache. He opened the door, ‘Mister Malloy?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  He slipped a black glove off and stretched into the car offering his hand. ‘Ernest Goodwin.’

  Alias if ever I heard one.

  ‘May I, er, come in?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He took off his hat, smoothed back his thick white hair and got in. He wore a dark suit and an immaculate gleaming stiff collared white shirt and gold-coloured tie.

  He must have been an exceptionally handsome young man, still good looking, fine featured, just some loose flesh betraying him now.

  He smiled, friendly and winning and I wished for a moment he were my grandfather. He said, ‘Gets very cold when the sun goes down.’

  ‘It does. Did you come in a car?’

  ‘Oh yes. Parked up the slope a bit. Thought it would be much easier finding you if I prowled around on foot.’

  I nodded unable to resist returning his affable smile.

  ‘And so it proved,’ he said, ‘so it proved.’

  And the delay courtesy light went out leaving both our faces in shadow.

  ‘Mister Malloy, as I said on the telephone I have some advice to offer you in relation to Mister Conway.’

  ‘Do you know him personally?’

  ‘I know of him.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘Indeed I do.’

  ‘Will you tell me?’

  ‘I will tell you something which should prove even more valuable to you than Mister Conway’s present whereabouts. I will tell you that if you persevere in your search for the man you will be endangering your health.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘In the way that some gentlemen prefer to practise persuasion, gentlemen who, let me say, feature slightly further down the food chain than you and I. Thoroughly unpleasant people.’

  ‘You’re here to threaten me?’

  He sounded shocked, turned to face me square on. ‘Absolutely not! I came to warn you and to try and save you an awful lot of suffering and heartache.’

  ‘Very charitable of you.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Do you work for Conway?’

  ‘I work for a man who is much more important, much more powerful than Mister Conway. And he is desperately anxious to avoid hurting you. Please heed what I say and give up this pursuit which I can tell you will prove fruitless anyway.’

  ‘If that’s the case then why is your boss so worried?’

  ‘Worry is not a thing the gentleman in question has ever experienced. I can see you’re a determined young man and I do not particularly want to spend a long time debating with you. I have delivered the message as instructed as I believe Mister Barclay also did and I would urge you most strongly to act on my advice.’

  So he knew what had happened to Sholto.

  I said, ‘I’ll think about it, Mister Goodwin. Thanks for taking the time to come and see me.’

  ‘My pleasure Mister Malloy.’

  He got out. The courtesy light illuminated his white hair till he straightened and fitted his hat on. Bending forward he leant in again smiling, ‘Goodnight to you. Drive safely home.’

  I smiled back. ‘Won’t you give me one clue to Conway’s whereabouts?’

  He blew air from his cheeks. ‘You’re very persistent.’ He considered things for a few moments then said, ‘A couple of weeks ago Mister Conway left on a sea voyage. Take it from me that he will not be returning.’ The smile faded and he walked away into the dark.

  Driving home, I began to doubt my theory that Conway had set up his own abduction. Why go to these lengths just to keep a curious if determined jockey off his tail? Why not have me beaten up like Sholto or even killed like Bill?

  But who had abducted him and why were they so anxious that I give up my search? And again why not simply send the gunman to see me? What was behind the softly softly tactics?

  Before this meeting, I’d been almost on the verge of giving up, but I don’t like being threatened and I didn’t want Goodwin’s boss to think he’d been successful in cowing me.

  So I stuck at it for another fortnight though I knew I was going nowhere. The visits to Conway’s house, the calls to the clinic to see if he’d turned up yet yielded nothing but frustration and a steady grinding down of my spirits. By 7th February, I’d decided I was a fool to take all this on my own shoulders.

  Other people had responsibilities here, if not to Kenny Hawkins then at least to Bill Keating’s memory. The Jockey Club for one. It was time their security team started sharing the legwork.

  I called McCarthy. He did his usual and tried to duck out of seeing me.

  ‘I’m busy tomorrow, Eddie. I can’t just drop everything when it suits you.’

  ‘This isn’t to suit me. I’ve got something for you.’

  ‘
What?’

  ‘Tapes.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Meet me tomorrow. I’ll hand them over then.’

  31

  We met in a hotel in Wantage. Dominated as usual by his appetite Mac wouldn’t face serious discussion till he’d lovingly ordered lunch. I stuck with clear soup and chicken salad, sipping mineral water against Mac’s red wine as we waited in the quiet restaurant.

  He listened warily at first then with increasing despondency as I told him what I knew about Conway and that I had tapes and a witness though I couldn’t mention the fixed race or tell him what had happened to Sholto at Conway’s house.

  He said, ‘We can’t make anything stand up just on tapes, Eddie.’

  ‘Maybe not but it’s a good start. A bit of legwork by your guys should help.’

  ‘The first thing we need to do is interview Conway.’

  ‘And what if you can’t find him?’

  ‘We’ll have to wait till he turns up.’

  I fought the frustration. ‘For how long?’

  He just shrugged. I said, ‘Mac, he might never turn up. You have to assume that.’

  ‘Why? Maybe he’s gone on holiday.’

  I wished I could tell him about the fixed race. I blustered on about Conway not reporting for work at the clinic, about him taking the chance of being exposed there if his past work was investigated while he was absent. I made out the case for him running away from or being abducted by some villains he’d maybe crossed but Mac was unconvinced.

  Throughout the meal, I kept chipping away at him. I said, ‘Look, let’s just assume for a minute that everything I say is true. If Conway never turns up you’re going to have to start an investigation anyway so you might as well do it while the trail is still warm.’

  ‘Don’t see your logic, Eddie. What concern is it of ours if he never comes back?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know how many jockeys with damaged brains are trying to get horses over fences?’

  ‘That’s supposition.’

  ‘Mac, come on! We’ve been through all this! You know Conway did Bill Keating’s scan, you should be trying to find out exactly who else he scanned and checking your records, interviewing people.’

  ‘Making a rod for our own backs you mean?’

  ‘No! I mean finding out how many lives that little bastard has buggered up!’

  I ended up threatening that if he didn’t take some action I’d break my theory to the Press and give them the tapes. That unnerved him and he made a vague offer to ‘take a look at it’ but I pinned him down to the promise of a full investigation and he ate his apple pie and cream with considerably less gusto than the first two courses.

  For once in his life Mac chose to do it the easy way and by the end of the week he’d persuaded the police to search Conway’s house. When they turned the place over they found no clues to the fat man’s whereabouts but they did find three things that turned Bill Keating’s case into a murder inquiry.

  Among a set of files in a locked tin box was Bill’s original brain scan showing the damage that would have cost him his riding licence. Attached to it by a paperclip was the faked scan that had gone missing from Bill’s file at the Jockey Club.

  They also found in his garage a crowbar, which, after forensic examination, proved to be the tool used to punch a hole in the exhaust of Bill’s horsebox.

  And they discovered blood on the floor of the basement. It was probably Sholto’s but I couldn’t reveal that.

  A warrant was issued for Conway’s arrest and while the whole story couldn’t be revealed until he was found we managed to get enough released to the Press to make it clear Bill Keating had not taken his own life. Mac’s department, as usual, got all the credit though that didn’t bother me. I felt my own sense of achievement and satisfaction, albeit temporarily: I still wanted to find Conway and take revenge for what he did to Sholto.

  Jockey Club chiefs promised a security review and considered the option of ordering new brain scans on all jockeys. But because it was so close to the end of the season, they decided to wait until June.

  Among the renewed emotional turmoil for Cathy Keating and the children, there was a sense of relief. Profound shock at his murder, of course but some personal consolation in knowing he hadn’t killed himself or the horses that had shared his deathbed.

  On the Sunday before Cheltenham, I went to the little churchyard and stood by Bill’s grave for five minutes. I spoke to him, told him I’d done what I could and said I’d keep on trying to find Conway.

  I looked up, picturing that battered old gap-toothed smile of his filling the sky. From somewhere in my childhood memory I managed to string together the words of a prayer. I left that peaceful little haven feeling pretty damn pleased with myself.

  A dangerous conceit.

  32

  The cops interviewed me about Conway and on learning of Sholto’s involvement in making the tapes, they pushed to discover where he’d gone. I said he’d simply thought it was getting too dangerous and had opted out, saying he was going to Ireland to find work.

  I couldn’t tell them about the planned coup and Sholto’s fate. Anything to do with the coup had to be edited out of what I mentioned to the authorities to protect Jeff Dunning and the lads.

  I did give the cops the details of the veiled threat I’d received during my meeting with Ernest Goodwin in the car park at Huntingdon, told them what he’d said about Conway going on a sea voyage and all that. It was dutifully noted and by the opening day of the Cheltenham Festival, I’d heard nothing more from them.

  With the police and Mac’s department involved in the hunt for Conway, I reckoned my conscience could stand me having a break from it all for a week or so to concentrate on Cheltenham.

  It turned out to be a brilliant meeting for our stable with Allesandro winning the Supreme Novices’ Hurdle by five lengths and Touch Line getting up to win the County Hurdle by a short head under one of the best rides I think I’ve ever given a horse.

  Broga had particular reason to celebrate, as the victories seemed to signify a change of luck for him. Recently it had all been bad.

  On the Friday before Cheltenham, the yard’s brand new horsebox had been stolen on its first racing trip. Someone had driven it away from the Market Rasen car park. Broga had paid forty-five grand for it less than a week before.

  Twenty-four hours later, he lost his Porsche 911 as well, stolen from outside his London house. The cops rated their chances of recovering the horsebox a lot higher than they did the Porsche.

  Two weeks earlier Broga’s big place in the Cotswolds had been burgled while he was away on a business trip. The thieves decided to start their own art collection with most of Broga’s. He’d lost several very valuable antiques too.

  At a big party to celebrate a successful Cheltenham, Broga told me that he hoped this turnaround in his fortunes proved the old saying that bad luck comes in threes. I said I’d bet his insurance company shared his hopes. When Broga’s losses in the last month were totted up, they topped the million mark.

  Broga had taken each blow as ‘just a run of bad luck’. But the more I thought about it the more I was inclined to think someone was targeting him for personal reasons. The first guy that came to mind was Neumann, the jock who’d ridden for Charles before Broga took up the sport.

  Our stable had been in excellent form approaching Cheltenham, something Neumann would have found particularly galling. Also, Neumann had some spare time on his hands having suffered suspensions totalling ten days for rough riding.

  Two things stopped me mentioning my suspicions to Broga: one, I had to admit a strong dislike of Neumann, which coloured my judgement and two, I was wary Broga would ask me to try and find some solid evidence against him. I was enjoying my self-granted leave from the Conway case and didn’t want to get involved in anything else.

  As it turned out it was a wrong decision. If I’d taken an interest in Broga’s misfortunes at that point I might have saved
others and myself an awful lot of pain and trouble.

  33

  Among Broga’s interests in Barbados was a marine transport business which sailed regularly between there and Britain with various cargoes including bloodstock. Broga would send British bought horses over to race on the island. The standard of competition was lower than the UK and his trainer there had been turning out a steady stream of winners.

  He had a big estate on Barbados most of it covered by sugarcane which was processed in a factory he also owned. The five hundred acre plantation ran alongside a new training complex housing twenty-three of his horses.

  On April 14th, the main house at the Plantation burnt down. The fire was blamed on a smouldering cigarette end. Okay, said Broga, just another unfortunate incident but fifteen days later, in the early hours of April 29th, an explosion at the sugar-processing factory caused several hundred thousand pounds worth of damage. That was put down to a faulty fuel pump. The only good news was that no one had been badly injured.

  But between England and the Caribbean that made five very costly blows to Broga in around ten weeks and he was finally beginning to suspect a personal vendetta. On May 1st, all doubt was removed when Broga’s trainer in Barbados received a phone call saying he’d better leave the island in the next forty-eight hours or he’d never leave it alive.

  That’s when Broga called in a firm of private investigators.

  During this period, there’d been no movement on the Conway case. Despite the police alerting Interpol and McCarthy utilizing all of his international racing contacts, there hadn’t been a whisper about Conway. The prospect of him having been genuinely abducted and maybe even killed was becoming more believable.

  Broga Cates knew all the details of the Conway case, he’d insisted one evening that I entertain him with the full story which I did on the promise he’d keep it to himself until Conway turned up.

  On May 20th with the jump season cantering lazily into its final few days, Broga rang me. ‘Eddie, remember that tale you told me about your guy Conway?’