by John Barlow
I bumped into Freddy again a few months later. He was working as a bookie’s runner at Doncaster racecourse, laying off bets for Frank Sykes, an old friend of my dad’s. Frank saw me, came over for a chat. Freddy took over. There wasn’t a big crowd, but he did his best to buoy up the punters: ‘Seven to two and four back legs’, ‘it’s a snip, like the snip he’s just had, the bugger’ll be raring to find that vet…’ All that crap. Not very original, but it’s the races not the Perrier Awards. Just give ’em a chuckle as you take their money.
That’s Freddy. He’s got a way of making you smile, no matter how old the jokes. There’s heart in him, loads of it. It’s as if his mission is to keep reminding you that life really is worth living.
His mum died when he was fifteen. Since then he’d lived off his wits. How he fell in with Frank Sykes I don’t know, but as a bookie he was bloody hopeless. Someone’d place a bet and it’d take him so long to scribble out the ticket, a complimentary belly laugh every time, that punters were turning away and looking along the rail, keen to get their bets on. When Sykes saw what was going on he shouldered his way back to the stand, grabbed the tickets, and shouted in Freddy’s ear. You didn’t have to be a lip-reader either.
“John Ray,” I said, introducing myself as he walked off. “Fancy a drink?”
I don’t know why I did it. I was just getting back on my feet. The new showroom was still being built and I wasn’t looking for anyone, not a failed bookie anyway.
We went for a beer. There was something about him that I liked immediately. Something brave and indomitable, a spirit that carried you along. Good vibes, I suppose you’d call it. Two minutes after Sykes had told him to piss off and he’d already brushed it off.
He knocked back four pints in less than an hour, and I persuaded him that his talents were wasted at the race track, that he was a natural salesman, not a bookie.
And I was right.
He sells more cars in a week that I do in a month. And the thing is, he knows nothing about motors, got no interest in them. It’s all in the charm, the rapport. But it’s not smooth, there’s no guile, no calculation. First he’ll show you the high mileage, then the book price, all done with a shrug. He’s not doing a number on you either. I don’t think he actually knows what a sales pitch is. He just puts people at their ease and yatters on about whatever comes to mind.
And that’s why I don’t believe you killed the girl, Freddy. If you had done, I don’t think you’d’ve dumped her in the boot of a car and run away. I saw something that day at the races, and it wasn’t that. I’d stake everything on it. Everything.
Don’t get me wrong. He’s not perfect. Fancies himself as a bit of a character, a wide-boy. You don’t end up working for Frank Sykes by staying in school and doing your exams. Likes to think he’s a bit snide, bit shady. Doesn’t mind the odd brawl. But it’s the scams and the dodginess he really enjoys, the cheeky chappy crim stuff. Thinks it’s the life for a real man. He’s only twenty-one, but I’ll bet that a few years from now he’ll have an old lock-up somewhere full of knocked-off plasma TVs and piles of DVDs.
Dad loves him, too. And Den. And Connie… Fuck it, everyone loves Freddy.
He takes the turning for Doncaster. The traffic’s going at a crawl, the big race less than an hour away and people still making their way there.
When Freddy was six months old his mum moved away from Leeds with him. And from that day on Dad paid her rent. Til the day she died. I don’t think Freddy knows that. He knows Tony Ray was good to them, but he doesn’t know the whole of it. Neither did I until I started getting Dad’s accounts in order. Every month, five hundred quid.
You’ve gotta ask yourself why, haven’t you? I know I have. Not that it makes any difference to me. Freddy? I couldn’t love the bloke more than I do, whatever the truth.
As for Baron, he’s not gonna get to know any of this.
***
At the moment Baron has all the information he needs. From ten cars back in the line, he watches as John Ray’s dark blue Saab crawls towards the racetrack.
Fourteen
The woman at the turnstile feeds his twenty pound notes into a scanner and hands him a crisp new tenner and a ticket. Thirty quid for the Grandstand Enclosure. It seems a lot to watch horses. But it’s St Leger day and if Freddy has come to Donnie this is where he’ll be.
The enclosure is packed, the echoey squawk of a public address system cutting through the noise of the crowd. Freddy’s call this morning? That was the metallic noise in the background. He’s been here all day.
The horses for the main race are already in the parade ring. All pretence at cordiality suddenly vanishes as people elbow and shove for one last look at their chosen animal, seeing in the brushed sheen of its hind quarters the unmistakable mark of victory. And most people are looking at one horse in particular.
Over towards the grandstand the blue umbrellas of the tic-tac men poke up above a multicoloured sea of hats. The crush is so intense that when someone raises their arm to catch a bookie’s eye they find it easier to leave the arm up there than try to find room for it back down below.
Freddy, a few minutes before a race? He likes his racing, knows a few trainers and stable lads, the usual wide-boy stuff. But will he care today, after everything that’s happened? Whatever it was that happened… Perhaps he’ll be in the bar. The bar? John stops and thinks. Freddy’s not a drinker. He can booze most men under the table, but he’s not a drinker. When he’s got a problem he doesn’t grab the bottle. Freddy won’t be drinking today. Or will he?
How well do I actually know him?
Horses and riders make their way out onto the track, strutting like gods, stirring the public to delirium. John hears the roar and feels the adrenalin surge through his blood, the sheer electric thrill of the St Leger.
They’d been here for last year’s race, him and Freddy. Best suits, Champagne, the works. The new showroom had been open a few months, in which time they’d both learned from scratch how to sell cars; and that’s when the joke had begun, that the showroom would eventually be Freddy’s, with John retiring to a yacht in the Med.
In five years’ time, to be precise. Tony Ray’s Motors? A means to an end. Secondhand cars bore me to death.
He scans the crowd: women with fierce tans and dresses like shortened evening gowns, men pulling at their collars and fanning themselves with race cards. Then he sees him, leaning against a wall outside the bar, his large frame somehow diminished, drained of its natural power and vitality. He’s staring at the ground like a drunken tramp.
The horses are up at the stalls. Freddy stirs. He knows something’s happening but it’s in the background and his head soon drops back down. The name Acephal rings out over the public speakers and a massive cheer goes up. Acephal, the clear favourite since betting opened. She’s down at three to one despite the size of the field, her closest rivals more than twice that. The money’s been piling on all day and her odds have been shortening steadily.
John pushes through the crowd, his back to the track, making straight for Freddy.
They’re under orders. A moment’s lull around the ground, a final flutter of anticipation.
Then a great cheer as they come out of the stalls. The horses seem to fall forwards, hanging there a split second. Then they’re into their stride and immediately their speed is staggering. Even from a distance the spectacle is magnificent and brutal and almost stops the beat of your heart. The sport of kings.
But today John sees nothing of the race.
“Freddy?” he says, voice raised against the deafening noise.
Freddy looks up. There’s a swell of the chest, the beginnings of tears in the corners of his eyes.
“What…” John says, unsure what to do now that he’s here. “Freddy, are you… are you all right?”
It’s pathetic. Donna Macken is dead. Beaten and left to die in the boot of a car. And Freddy’s here at the races just hours later. But what else can he say?
> Freddy wavers between comprehension and exhaustion, like a dog that’s been whipped til it doesn’t know what to do.
The sound of the crowd turns a little deeper as twenty-five thousand race-goers strain to see into the distance. Where’s Acephal?
She’s behind. Wearing the plain blue of Godolphin, she’s at the back. People ball their fists and stare at the spot of blue trailing the main pack. At the back?
Even John, with only a passing interest in racing, knows that Acephal is not supposed to be at the back. Pure constant speed is her pedigree, the reason why several million pounds stand to be won or lost on her today. If you’ve ever seen her run, she’s out there close to the front waiting for the pack to tire, patient, peerless. A horse to whom the word genius has been attributed with total sincerity.
He grabs Freddy’s shoulders and bellows into his ear:
“Did you fucking kill that girl?”
Freddy’s mouth springs open, and he begins to shake his head. His shoulders straighten, as if he’s about to take a swipe at John.
“Come on,” he says, “let’s go Freddy. Freddy?”
But something’s happening out on the course. It’s as if the two of them are being given a temporary respite from the question of murder, something they can’t help but notice, a convenient distraction.
Acephal is struggling. Can a horse get nerves, a genius horse, this horse? She’s languishing behind the main pack. As they take the long sweeping corner into the finishing straight people are urging her on, their cries desperate and vaguely ridiculous.
Then, suddenly, she’s making up ground. On the finishing straight. This isn’t right. She’s not a closer at the end…
“Owen Metcalfe?” a voice shouts.
DC Steele already has a hand on Freddy’s arm. He leans in and bawls into his ear.
“I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Donna Macken. You do not have to say…”
Four furlongs out. She’s still halfway down the field but moving up fast.
Baron stands with his arms crossed and looks impassively at a cordon of perhaps two dozen bystanders who have now switched their attention from the race.
John sees four uniformed officers moving in.
“Don’t say anything!” he tells to Freddy.
Freddy doesn’t hear him. So he moves in closer. But Steele and a uniform are now on either side of Freddy. They bunch up, blocking John out.
The other uniforms see what’s happening and pile in. The scene turns into a confused scrimmage of male bodies, as the screams of encouragement for Acephal all around the course turn hysterical.
“Don’t say anything at all, Freddy. Freddy?”
Can he hear? Can anyone hear?
Freddy looks blank, like he’s at a séance listening to his own future being told. Or perhaps he’s listening to the race commentary, rather than his own arrest for murder.
She’s flying now. Two furlongs out and showing staggering pace. The noise from the grandstand is incredible.
Various officers of the law form a loose ring around their suspect, and they all move off. John keeps close behind them, still yelling at Freddy, who staggers forward like a dazed bear.
He hasn’t heard me. He’s not listening.
They make their way towards the turnstiles, the uniformed presence easing its way through. And although the race is coming to a climax, plenty of eyes are on them, a whole section of the crowd trying to watch the race and the arrest simultaneously, heads twisting back and forth as if they’re at a tennis match.
John gives it one last try. He lunges forwards, gets an arm around Freddy’s neck, tries to hang on.
“Say nothing,” he shouts, right into his ear. “I’ll get a lawyer. Nothing.”
Two uniforms drag him off. Steele joins in as they pull him back by the shoulders, their elbows flying into his ribs. He finds himself bundled to the ground.
Acephal’s not going to make it. A furlong out and the crowd has turned fatalistic, as if their cries now express the agonising but inevitable tragi-comedy of life. Flat racing, suddenly, is about the enduring frustrations of existence, the inevitability of its disappointments and betrayals. Before the race the horse is everything; afterwards it is nothing. Unless it wins. Then it’s a god.
But today she comes in second, to be toasted heartily by every bookie in the land.
***
By the time he’s picked himself up off the ground, Freddy is being led off to a waiting car.
John watches, panting, unable to do anything more. Steele pushes Freddy’s head down into the car then looks around. He sees John and beckons him over with a finger.
“Fuck you,” John says and stands his ground.
Off to his right a woman starts squealing. She must have picked the winner. After a second or two she stops, embarrassed that she’s the only one celebrating.
Steele walks across to John, a smile on his face.
“That’s you done, big boy,” he says. “Keep out of my fucking face from now on or you’ll be in a cell an’all, understand?”
He snorts like an animal.
And no thoroughbred.
Fifteen
Henry Moran is fifty-eight but doesn’t look it. Each year his tightly curled hair gets a little thinner, its uniform chestnut brown a little less plausible, and the taut skin of his face and neck becomes ever more like that of a roast duck. Yet he passes for a younger man, and that, strangely for someone of his intelligence, is all that matters.
He knows DI Baron well. First names, bottle of scotch at Christmas. And Baron was not in the least surprised to find Henry Moran waiting at Millgarth when they arrived back from Doncaster. Now the men are facing each other across a desk in an interview room. They’ve been here a while.
“Right,” Baron says calmly. At his side is DC Steele, blank-faced as usual. “Let’s have it again. You left the room, and at that point she was still alive.”
Freddy nods.
“You see, I think she was already dead. Or dying.”
“No,” he says, exhausted, arms on the table, big hands trembling.
“Well, she was dead when she came out of that room. You hear me, Freddy? She was already dead.”
“I heard.”
“So?”
“She were alive when I left her,” he says, doesn’t even glance at his lawyer.
For his part, Moran looks on impassively. But this is dangerous. Freddy’s in deep shock, about an inch away from breaking down. Baron knows it. And if Freddy cracks now and blurts things out, he might mention the kind of details that’ll make a retraction difficult later. Baron knows that too.
“Okay. There’s another way it might’ve happened. Her skull’s cracked, right on the temple. So this is what I’m thinking…” The Inspector pauses as if to gather his thoughts. “Your Ukrainian friends leave you alone in a hotel room with their private hooker. You fancy a bit for yourself. Nice looking girl, very nice, all alone with a big fella like you? But she says no. She says no, and you don’t like it. Decide to teach her a lesson.”
Freddy looks up at Baron, face screwed up, eyes nearly closed. “What?”
“You’re a strong bloke, Freddy. Look at the size of you, eh? Things get a bit physical, then you slip out of the room to join the others, leave her there on the floor. Where she fucking dies, Freddy, because she wouldn’t give you any!”
“You cunt…”
The table jumps as Freddy springs from his chair, arm swinging out, his hand swiping Baron across the face.
Everybody on their feet. Baron backing off, blinking, a hand over his nose. Steele and Moran grabbing Freddy. Uniforms stream in through the door, pinning Freddy to the table, cuffs on in seconds.
As they drag him out he’s gasping for air between heavy, audible sobs.
Baron rubs his nose, watches as Freddy is led away.
“Henry?”
“What can I say, Steve?”
The Inspector looks uncharacteristically happy.
He moves across to the tape recorder, describes what’s just happened, and terminates the interview. “Reconvene in an hour, counsel?”
Moran nods slowly.
***
“Thanks for coming, Henry,” John says, getting up from one of the plastic chairs bolted to the floor in the entrance.
“When the going gets tough, eh?” says Moran, pointing to the exit and walking towards it without stopping to greet John.
Back in 1985, Henry Moran had been on the legal team that got Tony Ray acquitted on counterfeiting charges at the Old Bailey. The old Spaniard saw something that he liked in Moran’s humourless, taciturn manner, and Moran remained the Ray family solicitor for over a quarter of a century. After Joe was shot, John decided to start afresh, severing all ties with Moran, as much for his own sanity as anything. The two men haven’t spoken in nearly two years. But when Freddy was arrested at the race track, he knew exactly who to call.
“Dead in the room,” Moran says as he makes his way to a quiet spot outside the station.
“Who?”
“The girl.”
“The hotel room? No, she walked out of there,” John says, puzzled, lighting a cigarette. “I saw it.”
“They did the walking for her. She never flexes her ankle joints. Pathologist saw the video. Dead giveaway apparently. No pun, etcetera. She’d been beaten up before she died, and the cause of death was a blow to the temple, enough to crack her skull. That’s all they’re saying at the moment.”
“And Freddy?”
“Says the girl was alive when he left the room. Got no idea what happened. He’s scared stiff.”
Moran counts these facts off on the fingers of his left hand as if recalling the items on a shopping list.