by Joe McNally
‘Charmain,’ she said, unoffended. ‘Caroll used to be my surname but I’m married now.’ She held out her left hand. The fat solitaire over a wide golden wedding band put the seal on my past like a trap-door closing.
I stared at the rings. ‘When did that happen?’ I asked, unintentionally making it sound like some kind of tragedy.
‘Six months ago,’ she said, smiling radiantly.
I caught myself about to ask if she really loved him. I was getting sillier by the minute. She made me feel even worse with her next question. ‘What are you now?’ she asked. I frowned. ‘I mean, are you a trainer or a jockey or something?’
Obviously just a something, I thought. In her eyes, anyway. ‘I used to be a jockey,’ I said.
‘Were you good?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that all?’
‘What more do you want?’
‘You don’t just say yes to a question like that.’
‘I do.’
She looked perplexed.
‘You’re funny,’ she said.
I stared at her. ‘Thanks.’
‘Why did you stop if you were good?’
‘The authorities took my licence away.’
‘Why?’
‘They said I was involved with a doping ring.’
‘Were you?’
‘What do you think?’ I asked, my childishness showing again. She shrugged, looking slightly hurt at my attitude. ‘I don’t think you’d have done it,’ she said.
I suddenly felt a great tenderness for her which was quickly snuffed out by a hefty bump from behind which made me spill my drink. Some splashed down into an empty glass but most stained the bar’s white linen tablecloth. The offender pushed past without apologising.
I recovered and looked round. A large man had his hand on Charmain’s bare arm. Four thick fingers gripped her so tightly that the flesh between them showed white.
She looked surprised and embarrassed. He looked very angry.
About six feet two, fiftyish, his pale skin emphasising how much dye his bluish-black hair had been doused with. It looked greasy and hung over his collar. His sideburns were the same colour and stretched to two inches below his ear lobe. His eyes were grey.
He wore a fawn jacket over a stomach that was held in only by a large ego. His feet, in crocodile shoes, splayed badly.
He looked as mean as he had when I’d seen him earlier that day at the races paying out a lot of money.
‘Howard!’ Charmain said, half pleading, reaching to try and ease his grip on her arm.
‘Where have you been?’ His voice was level but threatening. I guessed he’d had a lot of practice containing a nasty temper in public. I was having some trouble containing mine.
‘I just came to get another drink, darling!’ She looked up at him and turned on a full wattage smile, though he was still hurting her. I watched his fingers, they began to relax.
‘Good,’ he said and released her arm. Her hand went up to cover the thick white marks, though she kept smiling. His ugly mouth smiled, showing teeth yellow near the gums and white at the biting end but his eyes stayed mean.
Charmain introduced us. ‘Oh, Howard, this is Eddie, he used to be a jockey.’ He looked down and his smile faded. He didn’t offer his hand and he didn’t say pleased to meet you. Charmain tried it from my side. ‘Eddie, this is my husband Howard Stoke.’
I smiled my most pleasant smile. It upset him.
‘Who invited you?’ The growl was still level.
‘I’m a friend of Alan Harle’s.’
‘I could have guessed that,’ he said. ‘You jockeys all have the same dumb look.’ He smiled at his little taunt and his eyes kept watching me from their four-inch height advantage. I drank.
‘Are you always so nice to new acquaintances?’ I asked. He leaned forward and down. ‘You won’t ever be an acquaintance of mine, son.’
I feigned deep disappointment, shaking my head. ‘And after we’d started on such friendly terms.’
He leaned even closer. I could hear him breathe in his nostrils. ‘And you won’t ever be an acquaintance of this lady either, you randy little bastard!’ The grey in his eyes was darkening and I felt like saying, I’ve got news for you, mate, but for Charmain’s sake I didn’t.
Charmain clutched his sleeve. ‘Howard, please come and introduce me to some of your friends!’ He hesitated, glaring at me for another five seconds, then he grabbed her arm and turned away. She didn’t look at me as she followed him. I called after him, ‘Very nice meeting you, Mr Stoke.’
He turned and snarled, ‘Up yours.’
‘Likewise.’ I smiled. They went into the throng and I watched his head bob away across the room as he dragged Charmain behind him. Beauty and the beast. How the hell had she got tied up with him?
Taking another glass of champagne I went looking for Alan Harle. I saw him standing by the entrance and started making my way across. When I was half a dozen steps away he opened the door and went out. I followed him.
8
Six paces ahead and weaving unsteadily along the corridor Harle stopped and pushed carelessly against a door. It swung back and he went in. I reached the door; Gentlemen, the sign said. I was one of those.
The door of the middle cubicle was closed. Harle was behind it. I stood by the sink nearest the drier and waited. A minute went by. There had been no sound.
The door opened and Harle, fiddling with his jacket collar, took two paces out. He almost caught his breath in surprise when he saw me and, turning back in, flushed the toilet. When he came out again he looked completely calm and so pleased to see me you’d have thought I was his dinner date.
He walked right up to me and shook hands. ‘Eddie! They told me you were back. Great news, eh? How’ve you been doing?’
I smiled back at him. He was small, even for a jumps jockey, about five three, but he had what bodybuilders called good symmetry though his face was far from symmetrical. He’d been a stable-lads boxing champ in his younger days. Some said he was a hell of a lot better at boxing than jockeying.
He couldn’t have been that good because his nose was spread a fair bit and had been for as long as I’d known him. His face was chipped in one or two places from racing falls and a crescent-shaped thick pink scar showed through his dark thinning hair.
‘I’ve been doing all right,’ I said, ‘but not riding Champion Hurdle winners.’
‘Magic, eh?’ he beamed. He was drunk but looked lively.
‘Fantastic,’ I said, ‘but no more than you deserve after all the dogs you’ve ridden in the past.’
He turned to the mirror, still smiling, and smoothly drew a comb from his back pocket. Only his head and shoulders showed in the mirror as he combed his sparse hair. ‘Yeah, you can say that again. And you won’t see me on no dogs in the future either, it’s going to be all top quality stuff from here on in.’
‘Yes, I heard you’d landed a good retainer with, eh, whaddyacall’im?’
The comb still moved in useless sweeps. ‘Roscoe,’ he said, ‘Basil Roscoe.’
‘That’s right. I couldn’t remember the name. He’s a newcomer, eh?’
‘After your time anyway, Eddie.’
‘Yes, I’ve been out of touch.’
The comb stopped. Harle admired its work then pushed it back into his pocket. He was still looking in the mirror so I turned too and our reflections carried on the conversation.
‘Any more like Castle Douglas tucked away?’ I asked.
‘We’ve got a couple of cracking novices. One runs in the Triumph on Thursday, Tourist Attraction, he’s called.’
‘Fancy him?’
‘He’ll skate up. Don’t miss him.’
‘I won’t. Who owns him?’
He hesitated. ‘He’s the same owner as Castle Douglas.’
‘Lucky man. Who is he?’ I tried to appear open-faced and innocent. I don’t know if he bought it because he paused again before answering and gave me a glance whi
ch said, is this guy kidding?
‘Mister Perlman, he’s Roscoe’s biggest owner.’ He straightened his tie, leaving the top shirt button loose.
‘Perlman? Never heard of him either,’ I said.
‘He’s only come into the game recently.’
I shook my head slowly. ‘Boy, I can’t get moving for overnight success stories since I came back.’
Turning from the mirror he looked up at me accusingly. I smiled in apology and grabbed his arm. ‘Hell! I don’t mean you, Alan. You deserve every winner you get, you’ve worked hard for your success.’ He seemed placated.
I followed up. ‘But if you’re honest, doesn’t it make you sick when guys like Roscoe and Perlman flash a few quid around and suddenly they’ve got a Champion Hurdler when they haven’t been in the business five minutes?
He shrugged. ‘That’s the way it is, Eddie, money talks.’
‘Where did Perlman make his fortune then?’
‘Nobody knows.’ He was fishing in his pockets but his hands came out empty. ‘Any smokes?’ he asked.
‘Sorry.’ I laughed. ‘Go in and ask Perlman for a Havana, I’m sure he can afford it.’
‘I would if I knew what he looked like.’
I looked puzzled. ‘What are you talking about?’
He smiled.
I thought I heard the door open. Harle spoke. ‘What I could tell you about Perlman ...’
There was a slight squeak from the door spring. I heard no footsteps on the tiled floor but Harle became alert. He gave a follow-me nod and turned to leave. Whoever had come in was hidden from us by a dividing wall; he heard us move and began walking in. Turning at the end of the wall we almost collided with a small, neatly dressed and apparently stone-cold sober man wearing thick glasses.
He looked surprised. ‘Oh sorry!’ he said and stepped aside to let us pass. ‘Have to be getting the old eyes tested again, Alan.’
Harle nodded at him and smiled. We went out into the corridor.
‘Friend of yours?’ I asked.
‘I’ve seen him around the racecourse and he’s in here with us tonight. Don’t know who asked him.’
We began walking back to the party. ‘Anyway, what were you saying about Perlman?’ I asked.
We reached the door of the Directors Suite. ‘Some other time, Eddie, eh?
‘Sure. What about Friday, after racing?’
‘Fine, yeah, great.’
His look didn’t match his words and I knew his mind was elsewhere. ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘I’ll meet you by the weighing room.’
‘Definitely. Look forward to it.’
I headed along the corridor and returned to the toilet. All three cubicle doors were open. Stepping through the centre one I closed it behind me. Taped to the base of the cistern I found a plastic bag containing an empty glass phial and a syringe.
I made my way back to the car thinking there might just be a buzz to be had playing amateur detective. It didn’t deliver the thrills of my riding days, but it would do for now.
9
First thing next morning I rang McCarthy’s office. He answered the phone.
‘Can’t you afford a secretary?’ I asked.
‘Who is this?’
‘Malloy.’
He wasn’t pleased. ‘What do you want?’
‘Some information.’
‘On what? Is it important?’
‘It is to me.’
‘Look, Eddie, I’m under severe pressure over yesterday’s Champion Hurdle, The Jockey Club want a report by noon today. There’s no way -’
‘What about the Champion Hurdle?’
‘Well, nothing ... nothing about the race itself anyway. But heads will be rolling because the Queen Mum was embarrassed at the presentation by the absence of the owner. She didn’t complain but the course executive look on it as a deliberate insult by this guy Perlman.’
‘Go on.’
He hesitated. ‘You know something about this?’
‘Finish your side first.’
‘Okay. We sent someone to interview Perlman this morning. He can’t be found. His house, or at least the address we have registered, is empty and has been for a while according to the locals who also say they’ve never heard of Perlman.’
‘Wasn’t he checked through the normal procedures before your people cleared him as an owner?’
‘Of course he was! Couldn’t have been more impressive. A million quid’s worth of country house in Wiltshire, a Rolls in the drive, we even sent the same guy this morning who interviewed him initially. The place is deserted.’
‘What happens now?’ I asked.
‘Arses get kicked, our clearance procedure gets tightened and we keep looking for Perlman.’
‘Have you called Roscoe, his trainer?’
‘Yes. He claims he’s never met Perlman nor spoken to him. He communicates with the stable by email only and pays his bills prompt on the eighth of every month. Obviously we’ll be looking further into that but we’re under the cosh.’
‘If Perlman actually exists then I know someone who might tell me a few things about him if I buy enough champagne.’
‘Who? And what do you mean if he actually exists?’
‘Oh, come on, Mac, how many owners do you know who don’t turn up when they win the Champion? How many have never met their trainer? The name’s got to be a front for someone, maybe somebody who’s been warned off in the past.’
‘For what?’
‘How would I know? But whatever it was he might be doing it again in the name of Perlman.’
There was silence at the other end. I went on, ‘Anyway, I’ll see if I can find anything out from Alan Harle.’
‘Roscoe’s jockey?’
‘More like this Perlman’s jockey. Can you remember if Roscoe took Harle on around the same time that Perlman appeared on the scene?’
‘Not off hand but I can find out. Call me here this evening.’
‘Listen, I said. ‘I’ll see Harle at Cheltenham today and ask if he wants to go partying tonight. You find out what you can about him and Roscoe and I’ll try and ‘phone you around ten.’
‘Right.’
‘Mac, does nothing else about Harle ring a bell?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like the reported sighting of him with the men last seen with Danny Gordon?’
There was silence for a few seconds then McCarthy said, ‘I’ll check it out.’
I missed the first three races that afternoon and despite the melancholy it had caused the previous day I decided to watch the fourth from out on the course. There wasn’t a single space in the crowd lining the rails at the last fence so I wandered down to the starting gate as the big field of novices lined up.
Harle was booked to ride Craven King for Roscoe and I tried to pick him out as the jockeys pulled their goggles down on tense faces. The horses pricked their ears and strained at their bits, some rolling their eyes back till the whites showed.
There was a moment of almost eerie silence. I panned and turned the wheel on my binoculars to focus on the packed stands and twenty thousand pairs of glinting lenses looked back at me.
‘Come on!’ yelled the starter, breaking the spell. The tape snapped upwards, the riders let out an inch of rein and the ground shook as nineteen novice ‘chasers set off to prove who was champion.
I walked toward the centre of the course till the commentary was out of earshot and there were no people around. That feeling of desolation at not being involved was coming back again and I was trying to fight it. I decided to concentrate on Harle and Craven King in Louis Perlman’s pea-green colours. They travelled well for the first circuit but began to tire as they approached the top of the hill for the last time.
Harle wasn’t hard on him but Craven King repaid him by taking a crashing fall at the third last. I kept my glasses on them waiting for Harle to rise but he didn’t. Nor did the horse. I was only a couple of hundred yards from the fence and I ran toward it.
; Two medics stooped over him waiting for the ambulance which was speeding toward us along with the vet’s Land-Rover and the horse ambulance. Craven King lay on his side panting as one of the groundsmen crouched by his head murmuring words of comfort.
I ducked under the rails. ‘Is he okay?’ I asked as I reached Harle. ‘Just concussed, we think,’ said one of the ambulance-men as the other undid the jockey’s chinstrap and raised his goggles. I looked down at the unconscious figure.
It wasn’t Alan Harle.
‘That’s not Harle,’ I said rather stupidly. One of the medics glanced up at me but didn’t reply. I checked the weight-cloth on the prostrate horse, number 6. I opened my racecard, definitely Craven King, trained by Roscoe and due to be ridden by Alan Harle.
The doctor and the vet arrived at the same time. Hunkering beside the doctor as he eased the jockey’s helmet off I asked, ‘Is he going to be all right?’
His fingers explored the base of the skull as he lifted the boy’s head and turned it gently. ‘I think so. Just concussed.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Greene, Philip Greene,’ The doctor said as he signalled for the stretcher.
They loaded Greene carefully into the ambulance and it trundled gently off toward the stands. I turned, hoping the horse was okay, only to see them erecting screens to protect the sensibilities of racegoers as the vet put a pistol to Craven King’s head and pulled the trigger. The horse shuddered briefly and lay still.
A man in overalls pulled a length of chain from the interior of the horse ambulance and looped it round the horse’s neck. He pressed a button to start the winch and the chain clattered and heaved as it hauled the body across the muddy hoof prints in the grass and up the ramp into the darkness.
The vet was heading back to the Land-Rover, pushing the pistol into a pouch as he walked and talking to a man I recognised as Mr Skinner, still thermometer thin from smoking too much and eating too little. Skinner was dark-haired, maybe forty-five and had the blue face of a twice-a-day shaver. He’d been renowned as a compulsive gambler when I’d been riding and it had cost him his job. He’d been a racecourse vet but had been sacked when the Jockey Club decided his obsession with betting was not in their best interests. What the hell was he doing back in racing?