Running Scared (The Eddie Malloy series Book 4)

by Richard Pitman

  ‘What sort of things?’

  I explained my theory. ‘Do you think any of that holds water?’ I asked.

  ‘Substantially. Have you spoken to the police?’

  ‘Not yet. The case is closed as far as they’re concerned and I think they’d want some pretty solid evidence before they’d look at it again.’

  ‘Is that evidence likely to be forthcoming?’

  ‘That depends. I’m trying to find out exactly who owns this company that owned the horses. What have you got on them?’

  ‘Give me five minutes, I’ll call you back.’

  He rang with a head office phone number and the address of the private company along with the names of two directors neither of which I recognized. They were based in Stafford. They’d been customers of Castle’s company for just eight months and had paid the premiums for the two horses in advance.

  ‘Their deaths must have put a hole in the profits.’

  ‘We have a very sound business, Mister Malloy, though no one likes to sign a cheque for almost six hundred thousand pounds.’

  ‘You must have done some pretty thorough investigations yourselves last autumn.’

  He shrugged, ‘We had little choice but to agree with the Coroner’s verdict.’

  ‘How much contact do you have with other equine insurers?’

  ‘Very little other than from a competitive point of view, keeping an eye on the market.’

  ‘How do you think they’d feel about an approach from you on the basis that others may have been ripped off? It would be interesting to know if this company has claimed on any other horse deaths.’

  ‘I’ll get started on it.’

  He gave me his mobile number.

  I rang the Stafford number Castle had given me for the private company and asked to speak to Mr. Grafton, one of the names listed as a director.

  The girl who answered didn’t know what I was talking about and a few more questions brought the information that the company in question had closed down three months ago. The place was now a pet shop. The girl hadn’t a clue what the business of the company had been.

  I asked if there were any other shops in the building she was in: newsagent and a hairdresser on either side. I got both their names then their numbers from directory inquiries. The newsagent told me he’d only ever known there to be a secretary in the office when the company was there. They’d traded for less than a year and he thought they had something to do with horseracing.

  ‘Horsefeeds?’ I asked.

  ‘Mmmm . . . Might have been. Can’t remember.’

  My frustration was now tempered with growing confidence. I had to be on the right track. I called McCarthy again and told him I was driving down to see him.

  After much moaning about how precious holidays were, he agreed to meet me for tea in Newbury. Ninety percent of Mac’s destinations had the consolation of waiting calories.

  When I reached the Chequers Hotel, Mac was perched on the edge of a dangerously sumptuous sofa. If he sat back, he’d need assistance to get his bulk upright again. I seldom saw him casually dressed but his belly bulged out of a beige polo shirt over brown cords and loafers.

  He didn’t look that happy to see me though he cheered up considerably when the cream tea arrived. I settled for black coffee and tried to time my questions to finish them as his mouth emptied.

  At first, I thought I detected some of the nervousness he’d displayed on the phone when I’d mentioned Conway. But when he realized I was on a different tack altogether he seemed to relax more.

  He listened to my theories with just the occasional grunt and at the end didn’t show much enthusiasm for helping. He said, ‘You seem to have set everything in motion, Eddie. Let’s wait and see what comes out in the wash.’

  ‘Fine but a helping hand from your boys wouldn’t do any harm.’

  ‘We’re very busy at the moment.’

  ‘What with?’

  ‘A few cases. Confidential.’

  ‘Come on, Mac, you can spare at least one man to start nosing around.’

  Dabbing at his mouth with a napkin he said, ‘How can I justify it? Who do I say has made the formal complaint?’

  ‘Since when did everything have to be official?’

  He shrugged. ‘It makes life difficult for me when it’s not.’ He was ducking and diving, knowing he’d wind me up. I tried a softer approach, sat forward across the table, smiled. ‘Mac, you know that was why I was put on this earth, to make your life difficult. Now do me a favour and put someone on this.’

  He looked exasperated. ‘To do what? I told you, you’ve already done all the right things. Why don’t you wait and see what comes of that?’

  ‘Mac, you’re missing the chance to get some brownie points here. If you’re in this from the start you’ll be able to take the credit.’

  Which he did anyway, usually without having earned it. That tempted him a bit and he hesitated before making a face. ‘I don’t know, let me think about it.’

  ‘Till when?’

  ‘A couple of days.’

  ‘I haven’t got a couple of days! These guys could be setting up more horse killings while we’re talking. What’s the point of your people coming in on Friday if they kill another two horses on Thursday? Start looking now! Give me some help and maybe you’ll get them before the next one.’

  We had a long argument then. He accused me of being fixated with finding Conway ‘dead or alive’.

  I stared at him. ‘You would rather it was all brushed under the carpet, wouldn’t you? What about Cathy Keating? What about Bill’s children? Don’t you think they’d quite like to hear that not only did Bill not commit suicide but that nobody hated him enough to kill him either? If Bill’s death was an accident don’t you think they’d sleep a little bit easier for the rest of their lives?’

  He had sufficient grace left to blush slightly. I asked, ‘Why do you want Conway to stay missing?’

  He glanced around again. The only others in the big lounge were a couple with three quite noisy children. Nobody was going to overhear us but Mac lowered his voice anyway. ‘We don’t need this whole brain scan thing blowing up again, that’s why.’

  I sat watching him almost squirm and I knew he was hiding something.

  The brain scans.

  It clicked.

  I said, ‘How many more false scans were there besides Bill’s?’

  He looked at me, morose, defeated. ‘Two,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘How did you find out about them?’

  ‘Had all the scans in the files compared against the false one in Bill Keating’s files.’

  ‘In case Conway was using copies of the same scan?’

  He nodded.

  ‘And he was?’

  Nodded again.

  ‘Now the Jockey Club are covering it up.’

  He rallied slightly as he donned his official cap. ‘It’s not a cover up. We simply chose, in the best interests of racing’s image, not to release the news.’

  ‘A cover up by any other name would smell as lousy, Mac.’

  ‘Very poetic, Eddie but I told you, no cover up and no lasting harm. The two jockeys concerned will never race again.’

  ‘And that makes it all right, does it?’

  ‘The world is not a perfect place. You should know that as well as anybody.’

  I sighed, ‘You know the worst part? You’ll probably manage to keep it under wraps. Conway’s probably lying at the bottom of the Atlantic.’

  He tried not to look too cheered by that but it was hard to hide. I gave up on him. ‘Mac, I hope you enjoyed the tea. I’ll pay on the way out. Call me when you find your conscience.’

  I felt angry and annoyed on the drive home. I’d known Mac for quite a while and although he’d usually take advantage where he could, he tended to root for the underdog. I wondered how much pressure his bosses were putting him under on this one.


  The long drive had increased the discomfort in my groin and I had to climb the stairs to the flat one at a time. I felt even more frustrated to find nothing on my answerphone. I’d been hoping Broga would have turned something up by now.

  I poured a large whiskey and spent the rest of the evening jotting and doodling trying to figure out who the other two jocks were, racked my brain for people who’d shown the same symptoms as Bill Keating. They’d be missing from the weighing room come the start of the new season but that was still weeks away. I couldn’t wait that long.

  53

  Next morning Keith Castle phoned to say he’d set things in motion with the other insurance companies and would get back to me as soon as he heard something.

  ‘When’s that likely to be, Keith?’

  ‘Very difficult to predict. Some are large organizations where the wheels grind slowly.’

  ‘What do you think, a day, two?’

  ‘Not for the big ones, Mister Malloy, we may be talking a week or more.’

  ‘Shit.’

  I moped around the flat. All I could do now was wait and see what others came up with. Just after four Broga called to tell me that the company who’d owned Killian and Cartographer had, like the Newbury one, been registered in the Isle of Man making it impossible to trace the owner. The business of this company was apparently horse-grooming equipment.

  At least that confirmed the likelihood that the owner of both companies could easily be the same person which, again, if we accepted Conway’s corpse had been in that packing case meant the links were strengthening all the time.

  Broga said the investigations into Phil Campbell were almost complete and he should have a report tomorrow.

  I called McCarthy and could sense him flinch at the sound of my voice. ‘Mac, any news on that company who owned Killian and Cartographer? Did they own any other horses?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to my office, Eddie, give me ten minutes.’

  He rang back. ‘None. That was their only venture into ownership.’

  ‘Shit. Listen, what I need is a list of all private companies in, say, the last five years, who’ve owned horses?’

  He groaned, ‘Eddie, come on! We’ve got other things to do!’

  ‘Not as important as this, Mac, and you know it. You might not like it but you know I’m right.’

  ‘It’ll take ages.’

  ‘No it won’t. Surely Weatherby’s will have it all on computer?’ Weatherby’s are the Jockey Club’s administrators. Another groan then a resigned, ‘Leave it with me.’

  ‘Mac! What I need especially are private companies who have owned winners.’

  ‘I thought you were sure they were just having them killed all over the place.’

  ‘If they’re working the scam I think they are then at some point, if they’ve been going long enough, they’ll have bought a decent horse, one which would have earned more than its insurance value.’

  ‘And then what are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to try and find out who accepted the winner’s trophy on behalf of the company.’

  Three hours later, he called to tell me he had a list of 259 companies thirty-one of which had owned at least one winner. He also had the names of the winning horses and the races won.

  I gave him Charles’s fax number. I then refaxed the list to Keith Castle’s company with a message that it should help speed matters considerably. All he had to do now was check with other insurers to see which of the companies had claimed on dead thoroughbreds, especially unraced ones.

  Then I sat down to concentrate on the winners. There were eighteen horses who’d won the thirty-one races between them. All were owned by different private companies. Ideally, I’d like to have known which of those had been registered in the Isle of Man but finding that out might take days.

  The horses’ victories were spread over four years at flat tracks mostly in the midlands and the north. I broke them into areas covered by certain racecourse photographers ending up with five lists, then I phoned round the photographers all of whom I knew quite well.

  I spoke to three and told them what I wanted and left messages for the others. I could have got the results more quickly by visiting the Racing Post offices or The Sporting Life but I didn’t want to alert newsmen.

  All the photographers called back promising pictures by Saturday morning. This was Thursday evening.

  On Friday afternoon, Broga rang. When I heard his voice, I dreaded what he was going to say. For although the pieces were coming together here I badly needed confirmation that Phil Campbell was behind the campaign to get Broga off the estate.

  If we couldn’t establish a strong link in Barbados then all we’d be left to work with would be this insurance caper, I’d be tunnelling from one end only.

  ‘Eddie, we can find absolutely nothing wrong with Phil Campbell’s business, his personal life, his wife or kids, his cook, his maid or his cat. The most outrageous thing he’s done was get himself a speeding fine.’

  I felt myself steadily deflate as he talked.

  Broga went on, ‘Unless you’re asking me to believe that Phil has gone from that to organizing total mayhem then I think we’re going to have to exonerate him.’

  I sighed and conceded, ‘Broga, I’m sorry for doubting your word on Phil Campbell but I’ll tell you this, unless we turn up more than I’d hoped for over here it’s going to be a bloody long haul.’

  He let me wallow in despondency for a while then said, ‘What I just gave you was the bad news, Eddie, I’ve got some good news as well.’

  I almost held my breath.

  ‘Ever heard of a man called Joe Hawkins?’

  ‘Kenny’s brother.’

  ‘That’s right. Do you know him?’

  ‘Not exactly. Spoke to him once in hospital when he was visiting Kenny with their mother. Not the most pleasant guy in the world.’

  ‘Who were you visiting?’

  ‘Kenny, remember he was paralyzed in that car smash?’ My mind returned to that day at Newcastle when Jeff Dunning suggested rigging that race on Kenny’s behalf and Neumann had poked his nose in saying we should let his bigshot brother take care of him.

  ‘I do remember. Did you know Joe Hawkins has business interests in Barbados among other countries?’

  ‘I know he’s worth a few quid.’

  ‘His fingers are in a number of pies from what I hear.’

  ‘What’s his business?’

  ‘Anything that makes money. And from what my guys have found out it doesn’t give him sleepless nights if he breaks the law. Within the last six months he’s bought two plantations over here and he’s in the market for more.’

  I perked up.

  He paused then went on. ‘About eighteen months ago Phil Campbell took on a new finance director called David Bernstein. Six months ago, around the time Hawkins moved into the plantation business, Bernstein started socializing with him, dinners, golf, racing, it seems they’re pretty close.’

  He was building up to something. ‘And?’

  ‘We’ve had a look at Bernstein. He used to be a highflier on Wall Street till they jailed him for thirty-two months for insider trading.’

  I smiled, ‘So we have two crooks, and one works for a company that’s been trying to buy your land. And they met six months ago?’

  ‘Uhuh.’

  ‘When did your troubles start?’

  ‘In England, late February. Didn’t get going here till mid-April.’

  ‘Doesn’t quite tie in. Do you think Phil Campbell knows who his financial director is running around with?’

  ‘I very much doubt it but I’ll find out tonight.’

  ‘Is it wise to ask him a straight question on it?’

  ‘Eddie . . .’ It was an admonishment, a reminder I’d already had my bite at that particular cherry.

  ‘I’m sorry, Broga, you’re right. What do we do next?’

  ‘I’m not finished yet. In February one of Joe Hawkins’s many comp
anies bought half a million pounds worth of stock in Saint Simon Insurance.’

  I waited.

  Broga said, ‘They’re Silverdale’s main rivals in the UK.’

  ‘Silverdale, your insurers?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘When in February did Hawkins buy the stock, before or after your house was burgled?’

  ‘Three days before.’

  Another link in the chain.

  Broga promised he’d try to get more info from Phil Campbell that night.

  ‘Okay. In the meantime I’ll try and tie Joe Hawkins into this insurance scam over here.’

  ‘With the horses?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I thought Silverdale hadn’t insured those?’

  ‘They didn’t, it was a smaller company but if it was Hawkins’s man who threatened me on the phone back in October there must be every chance he was running that racket. That’s probably what gave him the idea for trying to bust Silverdale if he’s behind these attacks.’

  ‘Maybe but I’d have thought a couple of horses were small beer for him.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure. If you can afford to keep buying well-bred horses without the risk of losing money, you might get a classic winner sooner or later. Then you are talking big bucks.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘I’ll nose around a bit, maybe pay Kenny a visit.’

  ‘He’s hardly going to drop his own brother in it.’

  ‘I don’t think they got on. Kenny’s straight. I never even heard him mention Joe.’

  ‘Okay, whatever you think.’

  ‘Good luck tonight.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  With renewed hope, I flicked through my diary for Kenny Hawkins’s number.

  Kenny’s wife Avril said Kenny would love to see me this evening. Said it would be a chance to make up for last time when he had been so drunk he’d passed out before I got there. She seemed strained. The relief at the prospect of my visit was almost tangible.

  ‘How’s Kenny been?’

  She sighed, ‘Terrible, if you want to know.’

  ‘Still boozing?’

  ‘He’s drinking too much, Eddie, but even when he’s sober he’s impossible, he’s ... I, I shouldn’t really be telling you this . . . I’m sorry.’