by Joe McNally
I decided to let them know through the grapevine what I’d done and take my chances when they came looking. A visit to Roscoe’s still might prove fruitful though, especially if I called when he wasn’t at home. I would have to plan it.
But firstly, I decided, a chat with Danny Gordon’s widow might throw up something. I’d go and see her next morning.
I called the hospital before leaving for Newmarket and learned Harle had suffered “a restless night”. Not half as restless as his previous three or four, I’d bet. I rang McCarthy and told him about Harle and my planned visit to see Mrs Gordon.
‘Did the hospital contact the police?’
‘I asked them not to.’ I said.
‘Why?’
‘Because, well, they’ll drag things out for months or years. Look at Danny Gordon’s death, are they any further along with that?’
‘It’s only been three months, Eddie’
‘I’ll tell Mrs Gordon that, shall I?’
He sighed, ‘Look, the less the police get involved, the better for us too. We don’t want the publicity. But we’ve got a relationship to maintain with them so we need to strike a balance.’
‘You think Harle is going to tell on these guys? Did Bergmark? Did Rask? Come on Mac.’
‘I know but, still ...’
‘Listen, would it be easier if I just didn’t report back to you till I’ve definitely got something?’ I asked.
‘No. I need to know what’s happening. Just, well, just be a bit more circumspect.’
‘What does that mean Mac, circumspect?’
‘Er, discreet.’
‘Why didn’t you say discreet? I understand most short words. I’m only an ex-jockey you know. Two syllables is my limit.’
‘You’re a lot smarter than you make out Mister Malloy.’
‘I hope you’re right. Now can you find Mrs Gordon’s address for me?’
She lived in an upstairs flat just off the High Street but either she wasn’t in or she wasn’t answering the door to strangers. I turned to go back down the stairs just as a plain, tired looking woman started climbing them.
She stopped and stared up at me, pulling her coat closed over what looked like a track suit. ‘Morning,’ I said, ‘I’m looking for Mrs Gordon.’
‘I’m Mrs Gordon.’
I walked down to where she stood and held out my hand. ‘My name’s Eddie Malloy. I wondered if you’d mind answering a few questions about Danny?’
She stared, frowning, unsure. I continued. ‘I think the people who killed him are trying to do the same to a friend of mine.’
Still holding her coat closed with one hand she reached out tentatively with the other and shook mine. ‘Did you say your name was Malloy?’
I nodded. ‘Eddie Malloy.’
‘Are you the man that found Danny?’
My mind went back to that freezing morning. ‘That’s right.’
The frown disappeared but she seemed to stoop as a long sigh deflated her. She looked very weary.
‘Come upstairs.’ She said.
The flat was dark, depressing and untidy. Mrs Gordon put the kettle on then moved around silently and steadily picking up kids’ clothes and toys and sweet wrappers. I sat in a chair by the unlit gas fire on top of which was a half-empty bottle of Valium tablets.
‘Milk and sugar?’ she called from the kitchen.
‘Just black, please.’
She brought two mugs. Mine had a greasy smudge on the rim and I turned it and drank from the other side. Mrs Gordon sat opposite me, still in her coat, and pushed the light brown hair back from her face. She wore no make-up and sipped her coffee carefully to avoid a large cold-sore on her top lip. Her hazel eyes should have been her best feature but they looked dull and lifeless.
‘I’m sorry about Danny.’ I said quietly.
She nodded slowly but said nothing. ‘It takes a lot of getting over.’ I said, feeling awkward and slightly ashamed that I didn’t really want to be there.
‘What was he like when you found him?’
I shifted, uncomfortable, uncertain.
She said, ‘I never went to see him ... to see his body. I wanted to, but they said it would be best if his father identified him. I lie awake now knowing I should have seen him ... to say goodbye ... I miss him.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, feeling helpless.
‘Tell me what he was like?’ She persisted. Her eyes were vacant. I didn’t know whether her thoughts were back on that frozen deserted golf course or the Valium had dulled her mind. And I didn’t know how to answer.
‘He was ...’ I began. ‘It was very cold that morning ... He was ... white. The frost made him look ... peaceful.’ I waited. She stared, but looked less tense. ‘There wasn’t much blood, was there?’ she asked.
I didn’t know which way to go. If I painted too bland a picture she might berate herself more for not going to see the body. But I couldn’t bring myself to describe to her anything like the real horror of it. ‘No, there was very little,’ I said, which was no lie as virtually all the blood had drained from him.
She shook her head slowly, still miles away. ‘I think you did the right thing,’ I said. ‘He wouldn’t have wanted you to see him ... He looked very calm, as though he’d made his peace with the world.’
‘You think so?’
‘I’m sure he did.’
She pursed her lips. ‘You didn’t find any letters in his pockets or anything?’
I shook my head, reluctant to tell her I hadn’t looked.
‘I thought he might have written one to me ... you know, to say goodbye?’
I nodded, desperately sorry for her. All the more so because the Valium seemed to have killed the emotion she should have been showing as she spoke. The drugs just channelled her feelings into a monotone.
‘I asked the police,’ she went on, ‘but they said they didn’t find anything either. They’re fucking useless.’
The curse, completely lacking in anger, took me by surprise. She continued in that flat voice. ‘I told them who killed him but they did nothing.’
‘Who killed him?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know exactly who did it but I know who had him killed.’
‘Who?’
‘Two men called Rask and Bergmark.’
I concentrated on keeping the excitement out of my voice. ‘Do you know why?’
‘They’d been trying to blackmail him and Danny got his friends to beat them up.’
‘Which friends?’
‘I don’t know. Danny didn’t tell me their names.’
‘Why were Bergmark and Rask trying to blackmail Danny?’
She sipped coffee. ‘They said Danny had been sacked from the Tote in Sweden for trying to steal money. They said they’d tell his boss at the Lab.’
‘What did they want from him?’
‘They wanted him to cover up samples from doped horses.’
‘Why?’
‘They were doping them with a trainer ... betting them.’
She reached in her coat pocket, brought out a packet of cigarettes and lit one.
‘Do you know who the trainer was?’ She shook her head and drew on the cigarette.
‘You told the police all this?’
She nodded. ‘They asked me for evidence, blackmail notes. I didn’t have any. They told me they took Rask and Bergmark in for questioning but had to let them go. Useless bastards.’ She flicked ash onto the carpet.
‘You definitely don’t know the trainer who was involved with Bergmark and Rask?’
‘No.’
‘And you’ve no idea who Danny’s friends were, the ones who beat up Bergmark and Rask?’
She shook her head.
‘Did you know Rask was dead?’ I offered by way of compensation.
‘Good. How did he die?’
‘The police say he hung himself.’
I saw the first trace of a smile. ‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’ I asked.
&nbs
p; ‘I’ve told you everything I know the same as I told the police, only they didn’t do anything about it.’
I scribbled my phone number on her cigarette packet. ‘Would you get in touch with me if anything else comes up?’
She nodded. ‘Okay.’
Leaving the mug of half-finished coffee on the floor, I got to my feet. She pushed herself out of the chair. ‘Who’s the friend you’re trying to help?’ she asked.
‘He’s a jockey.’
‘Did he know Rask and Bergmark too?’
‘I don’t think so. I’m not really able to question him just now.’
‘You talk like a policeman.’
I smiled. ‘I’m not, but I know what you mean.’
She led the way to the door and opened it. ‘If you find who killed Danny will you come back and tell me?’
‘Sure.’
‘Do you have anyone to help you?’
‘One or two people.’
‘Do you think you will catch them?’
I shrugged. ‘I’ll try.’
She stared up at me and I started to see the first real signs of despair as tears welled in her eyes. Reaching with one hand I gently squeezed her arm then turned and left.
It was a relief to be back out in the sun.
On the long drive home I tried to analyse the new information. When she’d started talking I’d thought I had struck a rich seam, but trying to sift the nuggets from the dirt didn’t clarify things a hell of a lot.
Ignoring the fact that she wasn’t completely stable and assuming everything she said was true, the men who killed her husband couldn’t be as McCarthy thought, the ones who’d maimed Rask and Bergmark. Then again, after Gordon was murdered, I suppose it was only natural for her to blame the Swedes.
McCarthy had said Rask and Bergmark weren’t really major players and if Gordon had been responsible for setting the two thugs on them I would have thought they’d have been so terrified, revenge would have been the last thing on their minds.
Let’s assume the thugs were Kruger’s and Danny Gordon had persuaded Kruger to send them to sort out the Swedes. Why would Kruger have arranged it for Gordon? What did he owe him or what did he want from him in return? Some of the secrets from the Forensic Lab? That had to be a distinct possibility.
But if McCarthy’s assumption was correct then it was Kruger’s men who killed Danny Gordon. But why? Why almost kill for a man one week then kill him the next? Had Gordon double-crossed Kruger? Had Kruger got what he wanted from Gordon and murdered a potential witness?
Who was the trainer involved with Bergmark and Rask in the dope cover-up plot Mrs Gordon had told me about? Roscoe? If he was tied up with Kruger in developing the perfect dope then there’d be no need for an accomplice in the Forensic Lab since it would be pointless trying to hide what was undetectable.
A visit to Roscoe’s had to be next but I decided in the meantime to throw my hat visibly into the ring by letting it be known on the racecourse that Harle was back in circulation. That was sure to flush out Kruger’s boys.
14
I phoned McCarthy and told him Mrs Gordon’s story. He said he’d check with the police on her blackmail claim. When I let him know I planned to leak it on the racecourse that Harle was out and ‘Malloy had seen him’ to urge the hit-men to come looking for me he didn’t like it.
Apart from thinking I was tempting fate he said the press would pick up on Harle’s story and start digging dirt. I persuaded him it was a chance we had to take. After McCarthy I phoned Priscilla in London.
‘Hello?’
I recognised her voice. ‘Priscilla, it’s Eddie Malloy.’ She thought for a few seconds and I prompted her. ‘Remember? I was looking for Alan.’
‘Oh, yes, did you find him?
‘He’s in Cyprus.’
‘Cyprus! What the hell is he doing there?’
‘He says he’s sick of the British weather and he’s going to ride there for the rest of the season. Don’t be upset, he’s thinking about you. He sends his regards.’
‘I’ll regards the bastard when he gets back. He could at least have sent me some money.’
‘I think he’s a bit broke just at the moment.’
‘Have you got an address for him?’
‘No, I’m sorry, I haven’t.’ I heard a grunt of anger and frustration and guessed that things were about to start getting thrown around her flat. ‘I thought you’d appreciate the call anyway, Priscilla. If you do bump into Alan in the future remember to mention my name. Goodbye.’
I hung up on one sore lady who was guaranteed to blab around the racecourse how Alan had done her wrong and how Eddie Malloy had found him in Cyprus. After that it was only a matter of time till I received a visit.
I checked the Racing Calendar. Wetherby had a two-day meeting the following Tuesday and Wednesday and Roscoe had horses entered on both days, which meant he’d be away for at least one night and possibly two.
There had to be a chance his house would be deserted on the Tuesday night, just ripe for a visit with the lock-picks.
That evening I went to see Harle in hospital. He was in the intensive-care ward heavily sedated and a doctor told me it would be days before he’d be well enough to talk sensibly. I said I’d come back soon anyway.
Driving home it occurred to me how vulnerable Harle was lying virtually comatose in a hospital bed. If the heavies found out where he was they wouldn’t have too much trouble finishing him off. But they’d have to find him first.
The smug smile was still on my face when I realised how stupid I’d been. Pulling over I stopped and switched off the engine. There had been racing at Ascot that afternoon, a London track. Chances were Priscilla had been there and if so she’d have been mouthing off about Harle being in Cyprus. As soon as our friends tagged onto this they’d be hotfooting it to Puckham Farm to check on Harle.
They knew his condition and they knew he was beyond escape. If he wasn’t there he’d been rescued and if he’d been rescued there was only one place for him: hospital.
And not just any hospital, the nearest hospital, which was the one I’d just left.
I started the engine and turned the car back toward Cheltenham. If Harle stayed in that bed another twenty-four hours I was pretty sure he’d leave it in a box. I’d put him in hospital, in danger, now I had to get him out.
I told the ward sister I felt bad about leaving my brother alone and could I stay with him till nightfall. ‘Absolutely not,’ she said. I pleaded with her, told her our mother was desperately worried about him but she wouldn’t budge.
I couldn’t get in but I didn’t doubt that Kruger’s men would find a way, possibly a violent one, to gain access and kill him or abduct him again. As from now his life was in danger and it was my fault for being so stupid as to make that call to Priscilla. I should never have done it without ensuring he was protected and much as I hated the idea the only way to make amends was to call in the police.
I’d been so used to going it alone, so determined to get the evidence needed to regain my licence that I didn’t want anyone else involved. Especially the police. I was an ex-jailbird; they were certain to treat me with suspicion at best. I didn’t want them asking The Jockey Club to keep me out of it.
I tried to think of an alternative but with the exception of sitting outside the hospital with a gun there wasn’t one. I headed for the police station.
They showed me into a small brightly lit room and said there would be someone along soon. Ten minutes later he came in with his notebook. About forty years old, five seven, twenty pounds overweight, reddish-fair hair, bad acne and an attitude that said he’d rather be doing something else.
He approached the desk. ‘Mister Malloy?’
‘That’s right.’ I offered my hand and he shook it reluctantly as he sat down. ‘Detective sergeant Cranley.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’
He grunted. ‘Now what’s this about some friend of yours in trouble?’
‘Alan Harle. He’s a jockey. At the moment he’s lying comatose in hospital. Somebody’s trying to kill him.’
He pursed his lips and stared at me. ‘Who’s this somebody?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Well, who do you think it is, Mister Malloy?’
This was going to be a long haul. ‘I think a man called Gerard Kruger is behind it.’
‘And why would this Mister Kruger want to kill your friend?’
‘I don’t know. That’s what I was trying to discover when I found Harle.’
‘Found him where?’ He was making notes now. I told him what happened at Puckham Farm.
‘Why didn’t you call us?’
‘My first thought was to get him to hospital.’
‘Well, what was your second thought?’
I bit back a sarcastic reply. ‘Look, it only happened yesterday. I’m here now telling you about it. He needs some protection.’
‘That’s hardly for you to decide.’
‘Well, who the hell is it for, then? Harle’s life is in danger.’
He stared at me, frowning so hard his acne joined up. ‘Keep your voice down, Mister Malloy, you’re getting yourself all upset.’
‘Look, sergeant ...’
‘Detective sergeant.’
‘Look, the guys who are after Harle ...’
‘I thought you said it was one man, a Mister Kruger?’
‘He uses two hit men and they’ve already killed one man and maimed two others.’
‘You’ve got evidence of this, I suppose?’
‘No I haven’t.’
He held the pen about two feet above his notepad and stared at me as though I’d crawled from some hole. Then he dropped the pen from height and crossed his arms. ‘You’re sitting there naming names, accusing people of murder without any evidence? What are you all about, Mister Malloy?’
‘If I had evidence I’d be talking to somebody higher up than you.’ I said foolishly.
Unfolding his arms he clasped his hands. ‘Is that right? And just who would you be talking to?’
I sighed in frustration. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m worried about my friend. Everything I’ve told you is true, I’m just trying to convince you that he’s in grave danger, that he needs some protection until he’s well again. Send one of your men to see what sort of state he’s in if you don’t believe me.’