Running Scared (The Eddie Malloy series Book 4)

by Richard Pitman

  It was a miserable weekend for the yard. We’d lost six horses, everyone knew why Carroway, the trainer, had gone, they were aware of the fire at the plantation and the explosion at the sugar factory. Broga had to go to Stockholm for a couple of days but he got the staff together for a pep talk telling them they’d be rewarded well for their loyalty if they saw this through.

  Broga’s political contact had promised to do what he could to maximize police involvement but the firm investigating Clemence had hit a brick wall. The only people he’d worked for in the past as an agent appeared to be legitimate companies though the investigators were painstakingly checking those companies for any tie-ups.

  They were also trying to get inventories of cargo carried from England on other shipping lines around the time of the thefts of Broga’s property.

  I spent a total of fourteen hours over the next three nights in or near Southern Parish Club. Not a sign of Mister Dann and I was beginning to wonder if he too had been consigned to a packing case awaiting an ocean burial.

  41

  On Monday 20th June, McCarthy finally found time to return the numerous calls I’d made before leaving England.

  ‘I could have been dead by now, Mac.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I must have tried to get you ten times before I came over here.’

  ‘I was very busy, Eddie.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Several things.’

  ‘You’re never too busy to return my calls when you want something from me,’ I said.

  ‘Funny you should mention it . . .’

  Mac had heard about the sinking but wasn’t ringing to sympathize. He wanted to pick my brain about Broga Cates asking how well I knew him, what his main business was, stuff like that.

  ‘Why do you want to know, Mac?’

  ‘Can’t really say just now.’

  ‘You can’t say but you want me to tell you all I know.’

  ‘I’m doing somebody a favour, Eddie; you know what it’s like.’

  ‘Come on Mac, I work for Broga, he pays my wages.’

  He sighed. ‘You know Bruce Cronin?’

  ‘The owner?’

  ‘Uhuh. He’s also the MD of Silverdale Insurance; they handle a lot of racing stuff.’

  ‘Yeah, I know them, based in Newbury.’

  ‘That’s right. Did you also know that your boss insures all his stuff with them and that this claim he’ll be making for boat and cargo will be his seventh loss in eleven weeks?’

  There were more claims to come but I didn’t mention them.

  ‘Yeah, well he’s had a few problems.’

  ‘He’s had problems! This will take Silverdale’s pay-out to over two million on his stuff alone.’

  ‘They’re an international company, Mac, they can stand it.’

  ‘Not for much longer, not on top of all the other stuff they’ve been hit with lately. Bruce says there have been more claims in the past four months for fire, theft and wholesale damage than they’ve had in the previous two years and Cates accounts for a fair slice of it.’

  ‘So they believe Broga Cates is ripping them off? A guy who’s got more money than you’ve had calories? They think he’d risk killing his stable jockey and his boat crew? Get real, Mac.’

  ‘But how much has he got? Everybody hears all these multimillionaire stories but he’s got so many businesses nobody really knows what he does for a living.’

  I was getting angry. ‘I can tell you what he doesn’t do; he doesn’t rip off insurance companies. And he doesn’t run moaning to his friends when his luck turns bad. You can bet your life Silverdale Insurance and Bruce Cronin don’t do too much complaining when they’re counting the profits in millions.’

  ‘Bruce is—’

  ‘And, by the way, you’d be better dropping the old pals act and helping Broga Cates find out who’s targeting him. Solve two problems then.’

  McCarthy, as usual, persevered but got nothing from me but more hassle. I said, ‘You must have better things to do. What about Conway, that’s who I rang you about two weeks ago?’ He went quiet.

  I said, ‘Conway, the little con man with the brain scan, remember? The guy who’s supposed to have killed Bill Keating?’

  He seemed suddenly on edge. ‘That’s a case for the police.’

  ‘I know but haven’t you been keeping tabs on it?’

  ‘Not our job.’

  He sounded uptight giving the impression he wanted to end the conversation.

  ‘Why not?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s not our problem anymore.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Look, I’ll have to go. Speak to you soon.’

  I hung up, wondering again why Conway’s name made McCarthy so nervous.

  42

  Next day, Tuesday, I was due to ride in the invitation race in the afternoon so I rose early to ride out with the first lot. I entered the yard to the sound of gunfire.

  All the box doors, top and bottom, were closed. Forming a semicircle against the feed room door in the corner, stood four of the black grooms talking excitedly, crouched and ready to spring. Two carried spades, the other pair, Kari and Endell, had machetes.

  Around them lay the slashed bodies of a dozen big grey rats, flies buzzing at the drying blood.

  The window of the feed room had three smashed panes and standing on a beer crate aiming through the gap with a rifle was Amory, the head lad. He fired three in rapid succession shouting, ‘Bastards! Bastards!’

  Behind locked doors horses neighed in fright, their hooves clicking and scraping as they moved nervously.

  I hurried across and asked Endell what was happening. Poised staring toward the feed room he answered without looking at me.

  ‘Somebody t’row rats in de feed room! Hun’reds!’

  Amory’s rifle jammed and he cursed and stepped off the crate. Moments later a rat leapt through the broken window and lay dazed for a moment as it hit the cobblestones. The four beaters rushed at it screeching and swinging their weapons.

  The rat recovered and bolted clear as metal struck sparks from the ground and curses filled the air.

  Amory looked up at the window, probably wary now of stepping back onto the crate in case another rat jumped straight at his face. He was sweating, hands shaking as he reloaded the rifle.

  ‘How many left?’ I asked.

  ‘Bullets?’

  ‘Rats.’

  ‘Plenty, plenty, plenty!’

  ‘How’d they get in there?’

  ‘Doan’ know, jus’ wan’ ’em out!’

  ‘You’re not going to do it this way if there’s a lot of them—’

  Another one came flying past, brushing against my shoulder as it dropped. Amory yelped and aimed wildly as it landed and rolled over. The four beaters slashed at it as Amory tried to get a shot. I grabbed the rifle barrel, pushing it straight down. He looked at me in surprise. I said, ‘You’ve as much chance as killing one of us or shooting your own foot.’

  Kari’s machete hit the rat’s ribcage spraying blood onto clothes, some onto Amory’s face. He screamed and backed away wiping the red smear madly with his pink T-shirt. Kari whooped. Fresh blood stained the ragged bandages on her hands.

  Grabbing the crate, I rammed it against the broken window catching glimpses of a stream of hairy grey bodies rushing around the feed sacks inside, their scurrying, scratching and squeaking making me feel sick.

  The door looked secure though it had hurriedly been slammed shut pinning a fat rat against the jamb. I called on Endell to find something to make a more permanent repair to the window. A couple of minutes later he returned with small gauge chicken wire and a box of nails. We got three layers of wire up without any more escapees.

  Amory and the grooms were angry I’d stopped them but I persuaded them that the rats must have been brought here and put in the feed room. If so, it was unlikely anyone would have driven right into the yard, even in darkness, and unloaded them. I suggested w
e look round the rear of the building.

  Still armed and bloodthirsty they filed grimly after me like a band of rebels.

  The feed room backed onto a rose garden. On the soft broad path beside it, we found the tracks of a big car or small van. Among the flowers, a plastic pipe led down to the ventilation hole. The mouth of the pipe had a bright red football forced into it. The ball was fixed to the sides of the pipe with silver tape.

  Amory bent to rip it off. I stopped him. Rats would be bottlenecked in there ready to stream out. The lads volunteered to shoot and hack at them as they escaped but they’d miss far too many and the whole property would be infested.

  We agreed the best bet was to dig a hole right at the mouth of the pipe. More spades were sent for and we set to. An hour later, we had a hole big enough to bury six men standing up.

  Shortly afterwards we stood over the pit with a five gallon can of petrol, a sharp knife, three fire extinguishers and two old doors. One of the grooms was sent into the yard with his spade to hammer on the feed room door and scare the rats again.

  When we heard the banging Endell cut the tape, knifed the ball and pulled it free as the air rushed out. We all stepped away from the edges waiting for the exodus.

  It didn’t come.

  Amory, at the far side of the hole squatted to look into the pipe, ‘De mouf jam wid dead ’uns!’

  We looked at each other with the same thought in mind: any volunteers to clear it? Kari smiled wide and took the rifle, straddled the pipe mouth and rammed the gun barrel into it from above grunting as she worked it like a plunger, her loose denim shirt showing swinging breasts.

  The dead bodies were pushed out first then a surging scratching squeaking river of rats became a mewling grey waterfall as they cascaded into the pit, biting, clawing, and fighting to stay alive as others piled in.

  It must have continued for three minutes and the dark sides of the oblong hole filled steadily like some hellish bath with bubbling grey hair, snapping teeth, long squirming tails and tiny desperate eyes.

  Finally, it stopped about eighteen inches from the top and we quickly dragged the old doors across to cover the crawling mass. Through a narrow gap in the doors, we emptied the full petrol can, made a bigger gap then stepped away.

  Three grooms stood at the house side, extinguishers ready and I lit a tightly screwed up ball of paper. Endell threw it at the gap.

  There was a whoosh and a mild explosion as the fumes ignited blowing the doors six inches upwards sending flames around their edges as they settled back, a burning roof on the terrible concert of squealing.

  Kari seemed elated by it, this revenge on whoever had caused her misery. I resolved to try and get to know her better while trying to convince myself the motive wasn’t simply lust.

  Endell and I left Amory and the others to clean up. Letitia, the maid, had already called the police.

  43

  We got changed and headed for our afternoon dates with two horses at the Garrison Savannah. Apart from riding in the race itself, I was looking forward to seeing some of my weighing room buddies from England again.

  Barbados was a popular holiday spot for the jump boys who could afford it though without Broga Cates this year that would not have included me. Six of us were due to compete in a special invitation race.

  Blakey was going to be there as was Jeff Dunning who’d organized the coup race for Kenny. Jeff was a long way below the top flight at home and I wondered how he’d managed to wangle an invite to ride here. Not that I was the most famous jock around; Broga had fixed the ride for me on one of his own horses.

  This would be the first time I’d have seen Jeff since the Conway story broke and I was hoping to begin repairing our friendship. Jeff and the others wouldn’t know I was riding till they saw the racecard so there’d be plenty of ribbing when I walked into the weighing room.

  And there was. They’d heard about the boat sinking and they teased me with predictable quotes about sea horses, water polo and midnight swims as well as the usual ribaldry.

  One guy I hadn’t expected to see was Neumann. He wasn’t down to ride but he’d managed to get into the weighing room where he hung around stony faced and sulky each time our eyes met. How long had he been on the island and who had he come over with?

  We cantered to the start and circled slowly enjoying the sunshine, recalling the discomforts of Plumpton in December, swearing we’d all lose a pile of weight and ride here permanently.

  Back on a horse, with friends again, I felt great. I forgot about explosions, abductions and rats and shot out of the stalls determined to beat these guys so I could crow about it all through the winter.

  And I’m sure I would have won if someone hadn’t cut halfway through my right stirrup leather. I was leading the pack off the final bend when it snapped and I went down among the flashing hooves.

  One horse seemed to jump over me then the kicks came, as though they were intent on keeping me rolling over. But in seconds, they were past.

  Hoofbeats faded. I lay still. Conscious. Eyes open. At ground level. Many feet close to my face, some booted, some sandaled, some bare, their black toes fidgeting showing almost white underneath.

  The body never adjusts to the potential shock of a fall at speed. Full internal emergency procedures usually launch before you hit the ground and the gushing adrenaline can sometimes mask an injury. I went through my usual routine easing onto my back and gently stretching and moving joints and limbs hoping for all the normal sensations, especially pain that would carry the news that I was not paralyzed.

  Everything seemed to be working. I looked up through a ring of mostly black inquiring faces at the blue sky and thanked fate.

  People were bending over me arguing whether I should be helped up or left till the medics arrived. When they did, I was getting groggily to my feet. All around started applauding and I felt strangely embarrassed but I smiled and nodded to them as two guys in white coats led me toward the ambulance.

  The crowd, attached to me now for some reason, sauntered along behind. When the ambulance pulled away swaying down the track they snaked after it singing and laughing in a fat dazzling conga.

  Crazy place.

  The Stewards held an inquiry then decided to bring in the police. The stirrup leather had been deliberately damaged, cut partway through.

  After the doctor had poked and prodded and passed me fit a relieved looking Blakey and Endell walked me to the weighing room to change. I was dazed, bruised and sore. The lads crowded round asking questions: was I sure I was okay? How did it happen? Who would want to cut the leather?

  Jeff Dunning, suddenly friendly again seemed particularly interested in why anyone might want to harm me. He asked questions aimed at finding out what I was doing on the island. Was I still searching for Conway? Was I making any progress? Any suspects so far? He was very apologetic about doubting me over the lost coup money and suggested we meet later for a drink.

  I said I’d call him.

  Before leaving to pick Broga up from the airport, I looked for Neumann. He was nowhere to be seen which was unusual. I’d have thought he’d be determined to be around to take maximum enjoyment from my discomfort.

  I wondered if he’d been anywhere near my saddle peg before the race.

  44

  Broga got off the Stockholm flight impeccable as ever in a light suit, pale blue shirt and speckled tie. Unlike the bedraggled sweaty tourists wandering dazedly through the Arrivals gate he looked like he’d just come from a refreshing half hour at his club.

  He carried about four crocodiles’ worth of overnight bag and gave me his usual sparkling smile as we shook hands.

  The smile faded during the drive home as I brought him up to date on the latest ‘accidents’, the rats and the damaged stirrup leather.

  He said, ‘The way things are going the cops’ll be moving in permanently at Headlands.’

  ‘What about your man, the politician?’

  ‘Seeing him again tonight
for dinner.’

  We spent a while discussing the invasion of rats. It marked a significant change in direction for whoever was targeting Broga. It was the first incident that wouldn’t necessarily have cost him anything financially. Nothing substantial anyway. I said I thought we might have to start questioning why someone wanted him off the island or even off the estate.

  He could think of no one who’d gain by forcing him to give up his interests in Barbados.

  Mac’s call about Silverdale Insurance was nagging at me. Just to help ease my mind I asked Broga straight out exactly what business he was in.

  I could see he was thinking of ducking it. ‘How badly do you want to know?’ he asked me.

  I shrugged, ‘I suppose I could live without it.’

  But he smiled and told me. He had numerous companies operating internationally concentrating mostly on the money markets. They traded in different currencies, precious metals. They borrowed cash, lent it out, brokered equities and bonds, raised loans on behalf of businesses and estates, managed credit card operations, and even made money with a banknote printing company in Germany.

  His racing interests had started as a reward for Charles and me and to give Broga an interest outside the boardroom. But he tried to run things very much on a commercial basis. More big losses would make that impossible. His assets, including employees, would be uninsurable.

  ‘And it’s only the racing side that’s been affected?’ I asked. ‘No stolen gold, no fires at your moneymaking plant?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing, not a single problem at the other companies.’

  When we reached the house Broga called all the staff together again, personally poured drinks for everyone and thanked them for standing by him. He repeated his promise to reward them well if they stayed on. Kari called out, ‘Yuh heah what we done wit’ dem rats, Mistah Cates?’

  ‘I did. Nice work.’

  ‘You bet!’ Kari said, smiling wide and holding up her drink to toast everyone. That brought a few smiles and I began to detect a more positive feeling among them, a determination not to be beaten. And the more I saw of Kari’s personal qualities the more I admired her.