Running Scared (The Eddie Malloy series Book 4)

by Richard Pitman

  My penis lay bruised and limp against my thigh as though in mourning for its broken grotesquely swollen supplier.

  I had to close my eyes again.

  I was alive and everything was still there. How well it would work was another matter but nothing had been separated from my body.

  Castration had been my biggest fear. I resolved to be much more sympathetic to geldings in future. If I ever rode again.

  God, what a story for the lads.

  I almost laughed.

  Not a sound from the other rooms. Maybe they’d gone. It took two or three painful minutes to get to my feet. I couldn’t put any weight on my right leg or it sent an explosion of pain upwards. I hobbled very slowly across to the window and pushed a small gap in the curtains . . . Nothing. Just trees, heavy undergrowth.

  I leant on the desk staring at my torn trousers. Picked them up. Enough left to cover me though I’d have to hold them together. The grey boxer shorts were in tatters. I set about trying to get the trousers on. Ten minutes later, I made it to the door, turned the handle and hoped. It opened.

  Nobody in the hall. No noise. Along the grubby hallway undisturbed, praying the front door would be unlocked. It was. I got out.

  The sun shone on me. The scent of flowers and the sea cleaned the house stink out of my nostrils. I rested a moment against the wall, gazed down the drive toward the road wondering if my car would be there. It took hundreds of tiny steps to cover the fifty paces along the driveway to the road; the car was there.

  The keys were in it. Only one problem now - driving.

  I managed to engage first gear and stayed in it all the way to Bridgetown. I stopped by a callbox and called Broga saying a silent please with each ring that he’d be there.

  48

  Broga picked me up and drove me to a private hospital where a young doctor winced (not half as violently as I did) as he inspected the damage. I told him a horse kicked me. ‘Bloody good aim,’ he said.

  He told me they’d have to wait till the swelling subsided before they’d be able to give an accurate assessment of the ‘long term effects’. There was little the hospital could offer but bed rest, which I argued, could be taken just as well back at the yard.

  But Broga insisted I stay in overnight to be on the safe side. I was too sore and worn out to argue and they checked me into a big bright room with flowers, TV, telephone and views over the gardens.

  Cream pyjamas and a dressing gown were thrown in and Broga promised to bring some clothes for me. Blinds closed and air conditioning humming hypnotically I fell asleep and woke a couple of hours later to find Broga at my bedside. He’d brought clothes and bad news.

  ‘I’m selling up, Eddie. It’s not worth it.’

  Groin still anaesthetized by the injection I pulled myself into a sitting position. ‘You’re kidding!’

  He shook his head, swept a swathe of his dark hair away with his fingers. ‘Nah, this has brought it home to me. They could have killed you. The longer it goes on the more danger everybody’s in. The more chance somebody will get killed.’

  ‘Broga, come on, you’re over-reacting! I’ve had the equivalent of a punch in the ribs and a very solid kick in the bollocks; they hardly held a gun to my head! You’re not going to let them beat you just for that!’

  He was staring at the floor, shaking his head. ‘It’s my responsibility, Eddie.’

  ‘Well it’s my balls, Broga, and if you think I ain’t going after Clemence again once I can walk straight you’re dreaming.’

  He looked at me. ‘I’m sorry, Eddie. This was never meant to be much more than a hobby for me and it’s turning into a fucking nightmare.’

  ‘What about your man in parliament? Get him moving. Tell him to get the cops off their arses and catch these bastards!’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s backing off a bit, has been from the start. A little bit too sordid for him.’

  ‘Speak to DS Handler, then, he’s okay, he’ll do what he can.’

  He shook his head again. ‘No, Eddie, I’m moving out.’

  ‘So they’ve won . . .?’

  He wouldn’t look at me.

  ‘They’ve sunk your boat, killed, what, six maybe eight of your horses? They’ve burned your boxes, filled your feed room with rats, tried to do me in at the races, had a go at using my right bollock in an amazing new Bajan recipe and now you’re giving in! No reprisals? No revenge? Come on, Broga!’

  He got up. ‘Sorry, Eddie, I can understand how you feel. It’s for the best. You’ll see that when the fizz goes out of you.’

  ‘Listen, Broga—’

  He put his hand up, that steely business air suddenly about him. ‘You listen, Eddie, it’s over. I already spoke to Phil about the estate.’

  I said, ‘He’s still very interested, right?’

  He nodded. ‘We’re meeting tomorrow to put it on a more formal basis.’

  I pushed myself forward. A stab of pain made me grimace. I said, ‘Broga, listen, he’s probably the guy behind all this in the first place.’

  ‘That’s nonsense, I’ve already told you.’

  ‘Try this then, do me a favour and try this. Meet him and say you’re happy to sell up. Tell him what’s happened to me and make it clear I’m scared and I’m heading home to England as soon as I’ve recovered. Tell him you’ve already set things in motion. Then give it a couple of days by which time I’ll be up and about again, then arrange another meeting.’

  ‘Uhuh.’ He was beginning to look thoughtful.

  ‘Then, at that meeting, say you’re having second thoughts. Tell him Malloy doesn’t want you to sell up, that he’s rebelling and wants to stay here. Say that you feel indebted to me for what I’ve been through and that you need some time to think.’

  ‘And what will that achieve?’

  ‘I’ll bet that within twenty-four hours the heavies are gunning for me again. They’ll be concentrating even harder on persuading me to go home. Very quickly.’

  ‘That won’t prove that Phil’s put them up to it.’

  ‘It’ll keep him in the frame.’

  ‘No, Eddie, I’ve always had a good relationship with Phil, I’m not going to backtrack on a business deal.’

  ‘Okay. Fine. You say you’re seeing him tomorrow, you haven’t formally offered him the chance to buy yet. Try that line, tell him I was angry that you were thinking of selling and you just want a few days’ breathing space till I’m out of hospital. That’s nothing more than the truth.’

  He stood up, went to the bottom of my bed, gripped the metal rail then nodded reluctantly. ‘All right, but I’m giving it a week maximum.’

  After Broga left, DS Handler arrived to take my statement. I told him we couldn’t keep meeting like this but he wasn’t amused. He knew that even if they found Clemence and his gang they’d simply offer alibis.

  The doctor wanted me to stay at least three days but I couldn’t afford the time. With Broga ready to admit defeat, I had to turn something up very soon.

  Next afternoon Endell, in luminous orange vest and yellow shorts came to pick me up.

  He fussed over me, carried my bag and took great care to settle me on a big blue rubber swimming ring which lay on the passenger seat. When I saw it, I thought it was a wind up and looked across at him expecting a fit of giggling but he seemed quite subdued and didn’t cheer up much during the careful drive home, though it might have been self-preservation: I’d warned I’d kill him if he hit a single pothole.

  Broga had arranged to meet Phil Campbell for lunch at Campbell’s golf club. I waited anxiously for him to return with the news that Campbell had blown his top when Broga told him my determination was making him think again about selling.

  But when Broga returned, he told me Campbell hadn’t seemed perturbed. Campbell had said he’d be disappointed if things fell through but he hoped they wouldn’t.

  I thought he’d be confident they wouldn’t because he’d be doing everything possible to persuade me to go. By this time, Broga d
idn’t know whose side to take though I got the impression he still believed in Campbell’s honesty.

  ‘Let’s see what happens,’ I said and hobbled painfully off to lie down.

  We didn’t have long to wait.

  Just after eight o’clock that night, my phone rang. Before answering I clicked on the tape recorder I’d had installed by the alarm people.

  I picked up the handset. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Malloy?’

  ‘Uhuh.’

  ‘Can you spare a couple of minutes?’

  English voice. Couldn’t place it. I said, ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Don’t talk. Listen.’

  ‘I like to know who I’m listening to.’

  ‘You’re listening to the guy who’s about to save your life.’

  He said, ‘Are you listening?’

  ‘Keep talking.’

  ‘There’s a flight to London tomorrow afternoon at five thirty. I want you to make sure you’re on it. Find yourself a nice little place in England and stay there permanently. Don’t come back to Barbados. Clear?’

  ‘Can I say one thing?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Whichever travel agent you work for you want to tell your boss you’re badly in need of a refresher course in customer courtesy.’

  The breath hissed through his teeth. ‘Malloy . . . What did I say to you? I told you you should listen. You didn’t listen. YOU DID NOT LISTEN! I’m going to go through it one more time. I am going to try and make it very clear to you. Up till now, we have been very patient. Your quota is completely used up. You are not fucking around with amateurs here; you’re way out of your depth.’

  Something in the voice, the tone, the menace was familiar to me.

  He went on, ‘Now we want you to be a good boy, a good little boy and run off back home. Amuse yourself there. Play with your toys. Do not go back to Barbados.’

  ‘What if—’

  ‘Listen, bastard! No what ifs. No more warnings. Be on that flight.’

  He hung up. I remembered where I’d heard the voice before. I played the tape just to double check. I was sure, then.

  I managed a smile and poured a drink, eased myself delicately into the big soft maroon armchair. I called Broga, asked him to come to the cottage.

  I played the tape. I didn’t smile, tried not to show any satisfaction in being proved right.

  Broga said, ‘It still doesn’t implicate Phil.’

  ‘I accept that but it still gives us six days to find out more.’

  He looked puzzled.

  ‘You gave me a week, Broga. Hear me out, I’ve got a plan.’ I explained it.

  49

  Next day Broga drove me to the airport and accompanied me through the terminal almost as though he was forcefully putting me on the plane. I was confident someone would be watching. I left on the five thirty flight and Broga went home to arrange investigations into Phil Campbell’s private and business life.

  Broga hadn’t been keen on the snooping but I persuaded him that what Campbell didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. If he came up clean, there’d be no damage to their relationship.

  I landed at Gatwick just before 9 a.m. British time on the last Monday in June, got myself a hire car and set off north on wet roads under overcast skies, fat clouds. The radio broadcast solemn warnings of probable interruptions to play at Lord’s and Wimbledon.

  Welcome to a good old-fashioned British summer.

  A mile from the yard, the sky cleared and I smiled at the cool sharp haze-free blue of it and rolled down the windows to breathe English air and smell cut grass and wet woodlands.

  Padge, the head lad was sitting on a sack on the wall, the sunshine making his red hair blaze like gold. Steam rose around him from the drying ground.

  As I pulled in, he glanced up and smiled. I limped toward him, happy to see a friendly unstrained face. He had a saddle in his lap lovingly rubbing saddle soap into it in small circles. He watched me make my way clumsily forward. ‘You look like you shit yourself.’

  ‘And welcome home to you, too.’

  ‘Christ’s sake, what happened?’

  I couldn’t put up with the ribbing till I felt better so I tried the one I’d used on the doctor, ‘Got kicked by a big chestnut bugger at Broga’s place.’

  He looked incredulous. ‘Really? And here was me thinking somebody’d been at your bollocks with the nutcrackers.’ And he nearly fell off the wall laughing.

  I should have known Broga Cates would never have been able to keep his mouth shut.

  The new season was a month away and things were comparatively quiet. Some of the early types were doing road-work. Charles had gone to Scotland for two weeks’ hillwalking.

  Padge, subdued chuckles still occasionally bursting into fresh guffaws, helped me up to the flat with my gear. All was quiet, tidy, as I’d left it. The sun shone through the twelve square windowpanes. I sat at the little pine table and realized this was the first time this had felt like home to me. Padge, silhouetted against the bright window said, ‘You okay?’

  I nodded.

  ‘You sure? Anything I can get you? A cuppa? Some sandwiches? Large whiskey? A truss?’ At which he fell into another fit of laughter. I looked for something to throw at him and he went haring gleefully down the stairs.

  The door banged behind him.

  I sat in the silence for a minute. The light on my answerphone was solid, unblinking. No racing, no contact from the outside world. I ceased to exist until the starting tapes rose again at Bangor. Sometimes that tiny steady light made me feel terribly lonely. Not today.

  The telephone held the link I’d been waiting for. The guy who rang me in Barbados on Wednesday had called me before. On the phone, I was looking at now. Last October. At two in the morning. To tell me to forget about the death of Bill Keating.

  Turning everything over in my head during the past twenty-four hours, I’d wished a number of times that I’d taped that call back in October. I was almost certain it was the same guy but a tape would have confirmed it and maybe given the cops something to work on.

  Broga and I had spent ages kicking it around looking for connections. Somewhere between the tiny village of Lambourn on an autumn day and a large estate in Barbados in midsummer was the key to Bill Keating’s death and Broga Cates’s troubles.

  Somewhere in between came Conway.

  We were assuming for the moment that Phil Campbell or his company were behind everything, but Broga could think of no link whatsoever between Campbell and England.

  One of the first things Broga’s investigators were trying to find out was if Clemence had ever been on Campbell’s payroll.

  My suspicion on rerunning the tape of the threatening call was that it had been made from England. Twice he had warned me not to return to Barbados: the first time he’d said don’t come back but the second time he said don’t go back.

  I couldn’t be sure but it was a fair enough bet to merit the trip across. Even if the whole scam, whatever it was, was now concentrated in Barbados there had to be some scent of the trail remaining here in England.

  My coming home served more than one end: it gave the impression they’d beaten me. Now that they thought I was running scared it should make it easier to root around quietly in England where it had all begun.

  I called Peter McCarthy. No reply. I left a message.

  I stood at the window. The clouds had all gone leaving a bright blue sky. Tempted to go and sit in the sunshine I decided my painful bits couldn’t stand the stairs again and settled for a seat at the table where I must have dozed off.

  The phone woke me. It was McCarthy.

  He said, ‘Should have known you were home. Felt it in my water this morning.’

  ‘Since when did intuition become your strong point?’

  We small talked for a minute or so, and then I asked if anything had been heard of Conway.

  ‘Not a thing. To be honest nobody’s killing themselves to find the man. Why are you still interes
ted?’

  ‘Natural curiosity.’

  ‘That’s not how I’d describe it, Eddie. Innate, pathological maybe, but natural? I don’t think so. Have you got something new on it?’

  ‘Pushing in that direction.’

  There was a longer than normal pause. When he spoke again, the lightness had gone from his voice. ‘What do you know?’

  ‘Is there something to know?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Just that I seemed to throw you there for a minute when I said I was pushing toward something new.’

  ‘Why should that throw me?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘You must have had something in mind!’

  ‘Mac, what’s the problem here? Why so defensive?’

  He half laughed, trying to lighten things again. ‘I’m not being defensive! Not in the least.’

  ‘You don’t know anything new about Conway’s disappearance?’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  I tried to catch him flat. ‘I think he’s dead.’

  That pause again then, ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘Various reasons.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘No single thing, a combination.’

  He sighed. ‘Eddie, if you know anything you’re obliged to tell me.’

  ‘As soon as I do know something I will tell you, it’s all theory at the moment. Why don’t we meet?’

  ‘I’m tied up for a few days.’

  ‘Where are you going to be? I’ll come to you.’

  ‘It’s difficult. Can I call you?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  He got off the phone in a hurry and I hung up under the distinct impression than he knew more than he was saying though that was nothing new for Mac.

  That evening Padge and a couple of the other lads invited me to The Corner House, our local pub, promised they’d pay for all the drinks to celebrate my homecoming. Touched by their kindness I thanked them both warmly and, the soul of naivety and innocence, laughed and joked with them on the short sunny walk.

  As we went through the door into the bar, there was a loud cheer and about a dozen of the regulars held loaded nutcrackers in the air. They squeezed them off in a barrage like a military salute. Shell shards scattered everywhere. I flinched involuntarily at the sight and sound and everyone pissed themselves laughing.