by Joe McNally
I fell into step beside him and he looked up and nodded, not particularly pleased to see me. ‘What was wrong with him?’ I asked.’
‘Broken shoulder.’
‘It’s a tough business.’
‘You should know,’ he said sarcastically, still walking toward the Land-Rover.
‘Wasn’t Alan Harle down to ride him?’ I asked.
‘I’m not the bloody starter,’ he said as he climbed into the passenger seat. The driver revved the engine.
‘Any chance of a lift back?’ I asked, but the only acknowledgement was a cloud of blue smoke from the exhaust as they pulled away.
10
Back in the enclosure I made my way through the betting ring to where the reps for SiS stood. SiS is the racing news service which relays information and live pictures from the racecourse to betting shops.
There was only one person in the booth as I approached, a pleasant looking bloke with brown hair and a moustache. He was speaking on the phone. When he finished I introduced myself.
‘Grenville Riley,’ He said, offering his hand. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Do you know if Alan Harle has a mount today?’
He didn’t have to consult any papers. ‘No, he’s not riding today or tomorrow. He was booked to ride two today and one tomorrow but his trainer told me he wouldn’t be riding for the rest of the meeting.’
‘Roscoe?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘Said he had a bad case of flu.’
Bad case of a hangover, I thought, ‘When did he tell you?’
‘About an hour before the first.’
‘Did he say who’d be replacing him?’
‘Young Phil Greene. The poor bugger just got buried in the last.’
‘I know. He’s all right. I’ve spoken to the doctor.’
He nodded. ‘Didn’t look too good for the horse though,’ he said.
‘No, he’s been put down.’
He frowned and shook his head slowly.
‘I don’t suppose you know any of the vets?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, most of them.’ He pulled a box of small cigars from his coat pocket.
‘Skinner isn’t back on the Jockey Club payroll, is he?’
‘You kidding, with his reputation?’
‘I know, but he was out there with the vet when he put Craven King down.’
‘I heard he works for Roscoe now.’
‘Skinner does?’
‘Yeah, private vet to the stable so they say. If Roscoe’s got any brains he’ll be watching what Skinner jabs those horses with.’
I smiled. Many a true word…
‘Smoke?’ he offered.
‘No, thanks.’
‘My only vice.’ He smiled, lighting one.
‘You’re lucky. Listen, is Greene Roscoe’s usual standby?’
‘Not really. I’ve noticed he’s been riding one or two in the last few weeks for him but before that Roscoe’s used anyone who was available.’
His mobile phone rang. I slapped his shoulder lightly. ‘Thanks a lot, you’ve been very helpful.’
He smiled, ‘Anytime, Eddie, any time.’
I thought about going to the trainer’s bar and asking Roscoe how my pal Alan was but I decided against it in case Roscoe was smarter than he looked. A phone call to Harle’s hotel might pay better dividends. The pleasant voice of the receptionist answered on the second ring.
‘Can you put me through to Mr Alan Harle’s room, please?’
‘Do you know the room number, sir?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t.’
‘Hold on please.’
I held on.
‘Hello, sir, I’m afraid Mr Harle left this morning.’
‘When do you expect him back?’
‘We don’t sir.’
I hesitated. ‘Did you see him leave?’ I realised as soon as I asked that it was a strange question from her point of view. She was non-committal. ‘I didn’t start till two o’clock, sir.’
‘Of course. Did he pay his bill?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, we’re not allowed to answer questions like that about guests.’
‘I understand. Thanks for your help.’
I hung up and headed for the paddock.
Standing around by the weighing room I waited for a homeward bound jockey. The race in progress on the other side of the stands had most people’s attention.
A figure came through the glass doors and started across the lawn. My height, my age, dark hair still wet from the shower. Falling into step beside him as he passed I said, ‘Hello, John.’
He glanced across at me but kept going. He walked pretty fast. ‘Hello, Eddie. Heard you were back.’
Jockeys are a strange breed. When you’re one of them it’s like being a member of some elite regiment in which your colleagues will do almost anything for you. It’s a profession in which you put your life on the line every time you pull on a set of silks. Your next ride could be your last and everyone knows it; but no one discusses it. In a company of men who are all taking the same risks there is a lot of comfort and camaraderie.
But as soon as you’re outside that circle, unless through injury, you become a stranger again, a man in the street, a passer-by. It is nothing intentional or preconceived, it’s just the way it is. The way I’d known it would be. But it still hurt.
I didn’t feel like spouting any small talk and I knew John wouldn’t care to listen to any. Quickening my pace to match his I asked, ‘Where’s Alan Harle staying now, is he still in Trowbridge?’
‘As far as I know he’s got digs near Roscoe.’
‘He trains in Lambourn, doesn’t he?’
‘That’s right, Benson’s old place.’
That was all I’d wanted to know. ‘Thanks John.’ I slowed to let him walk on. He stopped and turned. ‘Harle owe you money, too?’ he asked.
I played along. ‘Eh, yes, he does. You too?’
He shook his head. ‘Not me, but he’s had a few quid from some of the others.’
I nodded slowly, trying to look resigned.
‘I wouldn’t worry too much,’ he said. ‘He’s paid all of them off in the last month or so. You might be next.’
‘I hope so. Thanks.’
‘Okay, Eddie.’ He smiled and I saw what looked like pity in his eyes and it made me sick.
It was dusk when I got back. I cleared last night’s ashes from the grate and carried logs and fire-lighters from the kitchen.
Fire crackling, one drink finished, I poured another and went to the telephone. It was just after seven and I couldn’t be sure if McCarthy would be back from Cheltenham. I decided to give him another half-hour before ringing and spend the time trying to contact Harle.
A friend in Lambourn told me Harle was living about a mile from Roscoe’s stables and gave me his number. I tried it. Nobody answered.
Half an hour later I was heading south-east on the A40 with a ten-minute phone call to McCarthy under my belt. I had washed, shaved and changed into dark comfortable clothes topped with a flat cap. It was a cloudless night, cold enough for frost and I pushed the heater up a notch to blow warm air round my ankles. The conversation with McCarthy played back in my mind.
Roscoe had been training Perlman’s horses for just over a year. Before that he had trained under permit which meant he could train only horses owned by himself or his immediate family. In Roscoe’s case his father had provided the horses, two of which were still in training along with ten of Perlman’s. No other owner had horses with him.
Harle had never ridden for Roscoe while he was a permit trainer. He’d been appointed stable jockey within a month of Perlman’s horses joining the yard. Some said Perlman was simply being philanthropic, others suspected that Harle would be much easier to manipulate than a top jockey if the stable had any skulduggery in mind.
Harle appeared to be doing all right from the arrangement. McCarthy discovered Roscoe was paying him
a retainer of twenty grand on top of his normal percentage of winning prize money.
Whatever outside rides Harle was getting had dried to a trickle over the last three months; he was riding almost exclusively for Perlman now. As for Perlman, McCarthy was no further forward in finding out where he was or who he was. The RSS man who’d screened Perlman could remember only that he was short and round and he didn’t talk much.
I told McCarthy about Harle’s sudden disappearance. It didn’t make him happy. I told him I was going looking for him and if that made him any happier he didn’t show it.
Most of the training yards in Lambourn were set fairly close together, but Roscoe’s was high on the downs about three miles from his nearest neighbour. The Rover moved smoothly along the recently resurfaced track.
The moon was full, silver and bright and high. You could almost have driven under it without lights. Somewhere along here was Harle’s cottage; I kept my speed down and my eyes sharp.
It lay back from the road. Turning off the new tarmac onto dirt I cut the engine and killed the lights as the car rolled to a halt. The cottage was small, fronted by a neat lawn. Between two chimneys the roof sparkled under a layer of frost. The building was in darkness.
Skirting the lawn I walked up the centre path to the front door which had a large brass knocker in the shape of a bull’s head. Raising the heavy ring I let it fall and it hammered and bounced twice on the brass plate; there was no sound from inside. I waited. High in the trees behind me an owl hooted.
I went to the window. Below it was a yard-wide strip of soil. Keeping my feet on the cement I leaned on the windowsill. The moon was so bright I saw my reflection loom toward me as I peered through the glass. The curtains were open but I could see nothing.
I went back to the car for my flashlight and lock picks then followed the path to the back of the house. There was one window and a door. I tried the handle; no luck. Taking a slim metal rod I bent to the keyhole, slid it into the lock and silently started counting. At seven it clicked open. Not bad for an amateur. The trouble with prisons is the inmates have nothing better to do than teach tricks to newcomers.
The living-room looked cluttered and untidy in the sweep of the flashlight beam. There were newspapers on the floor, a footstool on a rug in front of the fireplace, two fat fireside chairs and a short matching couch.
On the wall opposite the window was a glass display cabinet which held a dozen or so trophies. There were many framed photographs around the room; Harle on horses, Harle jumping, Harle galloping, Harle with friends – all Harle’s pictures were here, but he wasn’t.
I searched both bedrooms but found only an unopened pack of condoms.
Back in the living-room I considered switching on the lights but decided not to. It should have been safe but I was on edge.
Against the wall opposite the fire was a big roll top-desk. It was locked but the small brass catch took only a few seconds to click open. The wood-ribbed cover rode up silently revealing a broad writing surface and eight pigeon-holes. Sitting in the leather-seated revolving chair, I went through Harle’s stuff. I found two foil-wrapped syringes but that didn’t teach me anything new.
Leaving by the back door I relocked it.
The moon was lower in the sky but still bright and a frost was forming on the lawn. The cottage seemed to stare at me in cold, composed silence, pleased that it hadn’t given up any secrets.
Harle stayed stubbornly missing. I spent the next week looking for him, visiting racecourses, speaking to mutual friends or should I say acquaintances as it soon became apparent Harle didn’t have any real friends.
Nor had he any family. I remembered he’d been an orphan but thought there might be a brother or sister somewhere. If there was, nobody knew of them. The press had shown an interest initially but Roscoe told them Harle had walked out on him after an argument and he didn’t know where he was and ‘frankly, didn’t care’.
Someone did not want Harle found. There was only one more thing I could think of to try and trace him, one last card. On the Saturday I went to Ascot and played it.
11
At Ascot it was raining. I sat in the bar. Next to me, munching her way contentedly through a smoked salmon sandwich, was a regular race-goer known among jockeys as Walk-Over Wendy.
Wendy was washing down the sandwich with champagne and I was paying for both. She was plumpish, fair-haired and pretty. No more than twenty, she didn’t have the highest IQ in the world but she was always happy – and obliging. Ex-jockeys though were off her list. She liked to stay in fashion that way. Has-beens got nothing except information, for which they had to pay.
She finished eating and wiped her hands and mouth with a paper napkin. Cocking her head to one side in what she imagined to be a coy pose her eyes sparkled as she said, ‘What is it you’re after?’
‘I want to know if Alan Harle has a girlfriend at the moment.’
She frowned. ‘Oh, I haven’t seen Alan for ages, weeks ... I’d forgotten all about him.’ She talked like he was a sheep she was supposed to feed along with the rest of the herd.
‘Do you know where he is?’ I asked.
She shook her head slowly, still looking serious. ‘I haven’t seen him since, when was it? Yes, Haydock, Greenall Whitley day.’
The girl’s life calendar didn’t run on dates, it was big races she counted time by.
‘Didn’t you see him at Cheltenham?’ I asked.
The smile returned to her chubby cheeks. ‘Afraid not, I had Gary all to myself at the festival. I don’t remember much else.’
She looked far away and grinned at the memory. ‘Though he’s the same as all you other jockeys, after sex.’ She said. ‘He just pats you on the neck and says, “Good girl! Good girl!”‘
She grinned at me mischievously to see if I’d got the joke and I smiled and nodded, making her look very pleased with herself.
‘Do you know if Alan was seeing someone when you last spoke to him?’
She didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes, he was.’
‘Did he tell you her name?’
‘He didn’t tell me anything.’ She was trying to look coy again. I poured some more champagne in to her glass and she emptied it. I waited.
‘She told me,’ Wendy said.
‘Who’s she?’
‘Her name’s Priscilla. Prissy by name but not by nature.’
I thought she was going to start giggling. ‘Do you know where she lives?’ I asked.
‘London. She goes racing quite a lot, met Alan at Kempton, I think. She said he was a real modern guy.’
I knew what she meant. ‘Is Priscilla a friend of yours?’
‘Mmm, sort of. I’ve seen her around the tracks a few times.’
‘Have you got her phone number?’
She lowered her head and puckered up her nose. ‘I didn’t think you were one for second-hand goods, Eddie.’
‘Strictly business.’
‘I’ll bet. You want to take up where Alan left off, don’t you?’
‘How do you know he has left off?’
She sat up straight and looked serious. Maybe I was making it sound too much like interrogation.
‘I don’t, I was just thinking, if Alan hasn’t been around for a few weeks ... well’
‘Look, Wendy, I’ve got to get in touch with Alan. It’s a business agreement we need to tie up and time is pressing.’
‘Okay, okay! Keep your knickers on!’ She dug around in her bag till she found her little black book.
Priscilla was not enthusiastic about discussing Alan Harle. Cold, would be a fair description. When I said I had some good news for him her attitude changed. She agreed to meet me that evening in a pub near her flat.
‘How will I know you?’ she asked.
‘What do you drink?’ I said.
Pernod and blackcurrant.’
‘I’ll order one, it’ll be on the table beside me.’
The lounge was quiet. Three men and two women were drinking a
t the bar. I sat at a table in the corner. The girl saw me when she came through the door and walked over without hesitating. The barman nodded and smiled at her.
She was tall, about five-nine and would have dwarfed Harle. Her dyed black hair swung at shoulder length. She wore little make-up, and tight trousers as black as her hair. Her heels were three-inch spikes and a short red leather jacket hung on her skinny torso. She was at least ten years older than Wendy.
I stood up as she reached the table and held out my hand.
‘Eddie Malloy,’ I said.
She touched my hand with her fingers like it was hanging by a piece of skin and she was scared it would fall off. ‘I’m Priscilla,’ she said, with a false huskiness.
She sat down and I pushed the glass with the dark liquid toward her. She didn’t thank me, just sipped, half-sucked. ‘You’re looking for Alan?’ she asked.
‘That’s right.’
‘Does he owe you money?’
‘No, but it’ll cost him money if I don’t find him.’
‘How come?’
‘A business deal we were working on. I need to see him to tie it up.’
‘You’re not the smartest guy in the world, are you?’ She drank again and looked coldly at me.
‘Why’s that?’ I asked.
‘Taking Alan Harle on as a business partner.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘He’s a lying, scheming, unreliable bastard.’
I shrugged. ‘Nobody’s perfect. Can I ask when you last saw him?’
‘What kind of deal is it anyway?’
‘I can’t tell you. Ask Alan.’
‘No, thanks, I’m finished with him.’ She sipped more Pernod.
‘What’s he done to upset you?’
‘More like what hasn’t he done. He never turns up when he says he will, never rings, never buys you what he promises, screws around ...’ She hunched forward glaring at me as though it was my fault.
‘So you’d fallen out?’ I asked.
‘Not as far as he was concerned, but as far as it goes with me we’re finished.’ She sat back folding her arms. I was beginning to feel like an agony aunt.