by Joe McNally
I got to my feet. The dizziness was slight. I walked a few steps toward the door ... Balance was okay. I kept going and went outside. Dusk was falling. The car had gone.
I thought of the other car parked half a mile away in Shipton and felt for the keys in my pocket. Found them. I set off in a running limp toward the village.
I thought of Charmain as I drove. She’d be there by now, easily. I wondered how she planned to find the stuff at Roscoe’s. Would she wait till dark and try to break in? She couldn’t wait. She’d be growing more desperate by the hour. What if she hadn’t told me everything? Maybe she was tied in with Roscoe too, the same as she’d been with Harle and Greene.
I drove fast, my leg wound pulsing at every ridge and pothole. Even in the dark, driving the road that led the last couple of miles to Roscoe’s brought back scary memories of the scalding. The black shape of each large tree I passed reminded me of the one I’d woken up under, lying on the frosty road.
Half a mile from Roscoe’s I stopped, got the flashlight and lock-picks and quietly closed the car door. I felt only minor twinges in my leg as I climbed the small fence and set out across the fields. No lights showed in Roscoe’s house but I took a line toward the small cottage sitting alone on an incline about two hundred yards from the main stable block. The head lad’s cottage - it too was in darkness.
The door was unlocked. I looked around before going in. Down to my left was the stable yard, dark and almost silent. The only sound came from a box away in the corner where a shod hoof worked through straw bedding to scrape at the concrete floor. Softly, I turned the handle.
The flashlight lit up a narrow hall. There was a door on either side of me. I chose the one on the right and eased it closed behind me. I moved the beam a yard forward and in the spotlight was a foot. The yellow training shoe hung only on the toe. Above the shoe the pale pink leg of the tracksuit that had been new the day before. As the light moved upwards something glinted on the floor by her side: an empty glass phial. Her left sleeve was rolled up. Still hanging from her bare arm was the syringe, the plunger pushed fully home.
Her eyes were closed. No more cramps. No more shivering. No more loneliness chained up in the big house. Life’s agonies were over.
As I knelt in the darkness to ease the syringe from her arm someone switched the light on. I was dazzled for a second then I turned round and Howard Stoke was there by the door, his hand still on the light switch. Roscoe, looking strained, was at his shoulder. Switching off the flashlight I slowly stood up.
Stoke and Roscoe hadn’t spoken. Stoke still held the light switch. I considered yanking the door open and running, then Stoke took his hand from the switch, put it into his coat pocket and brought out a gun.
39
Stoke pointed the gun at my head and I thought he was going to shoot me without saying even one word. I wanted to look at Roscoe to see if there was anything in his face to give me hope, but I couldn’t make my eyes leave Stoke’s trigger finger. Something told me that if I looked away he’d fire.
His lips drew back from his teeth.
‘Tell me how it feels, Mister Malloy?’ Stoke said. The level of control he needed to steady his voice frightened me much more than the silence had.
‘How what feels?’ My own control had almost gone.
‘How it feels to be living the last two minutes of your life.’
‘What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry about Charmain? About Phil Greene and Alan Harle?’
His reply started under control but each word jumped ten decibels. ‘I want you to say you’re sorry for fucking up my life!’
The gun quivered in his hand. I fought to keep cool. ‘It wasn’t my doing.’ I said.
‘Whose was it, the man in the fucking moon?!’
I stayed silent. Whatever I said he was going to shoot me. I’d never seen such rage. The volcano had started erupting and it was only a matter of minutes, maybe seconds, before it blew completely.
‘Look at her,’ he said. I kept my eyes on the gun. ‘Look at her!’ he yelled. I turned and looked at Charmain.
‘The stuff in that syringe, the stuff she squeezed into her arm cost me almost half a million pounds ... Two liquid ounces ... One single ampoule ... Five hundred thousand pounds.’
And four lives, I thought, but didn’t say.
‘And that bitch shot it into one dirty vein. But don’t think you’ve beaten me, Malloy ... I’d hate you to die thinking that. Skinner didn’t fuck up completely, he did remember to write the formula down, so we will be back in business very soon. Very soon, Mister Malloy, and without you this time.’
He stepped forward and motioned Roscoe into the room. ‘Where’s Skinner?’ Stoke asked him. I glanced at Roscoe. He looked very wary of Stoke.
‘He’s outside.’
‘Get him in here.’
Roscoe went out and came back with the vet, who darted a frightened glance at Stoke.
Stoke looked at me. ‘I believe you’ve met Mr Skinner,’ he said. I didn’t reply. ‘He’s almost as bad as you, Malloy. You know how these guys with degrees are supposed to be brainy? I mean, they told me this man was a genius when I took him on. He was smart enough to work on the ultimate drug, completely undetectable. A drug that will make me millions, give me control over all the arseholes in racing, like you, Malloy. Pretty smart, then, you’d say, eh?’
I watched him as he turned his attention to the scowling Skinner.
‘But not smart enough to remember to lock the fucking door behind him!’
I guessed that was how Charmain had got in.
Stoke glared at Skinner, who looked away quickly. Stoke turned back to me.
‘What did McCarthy tell you? You’d get your licence back if you cracked it? The Jockey Club would reconsider and all that fucking garbage? And you believed it? They took you for a mug, Malloy, and look where it’s got you now.’
I kept watching his finger. Slowly he lowered the gun and held it out to Roscoe who’d moved away. ‘Roscoe!’ Stoke almost screamed. ‘Take this! ‘Roscoe, pale-faced, hurried forward and took the gun. ‘If he even moves, shoot him,’ Stoke ordered.
Stoke put his hands on his hips and smiled at me. ‘Cool, Malloy, very cool. I thought I’d have had you begging, thought you’d have been on your knees. You must have known I wouldn’t shoot you.’ He took off his coat and walked to the sink unit, talking as he went. ‘No way ... I couldn’t just kill you without you suffering any pain.’
‘Bad for your reputation.’ I said and wished I hadn’t.
‘Very cool, Malloy, but very true.’ His voice was much lighter now. He seemed to be enjoying the prospect of whatever he had planned.
Lifting a phial of dark liquid from a shelf he held it up. ‘This is what’s going to kill you, Malloy, and it’s going to take weeks, maybe longer. I’m going to lock you away and come every day to watch you die, to see you suffer.’
I stared at the phial. My brain had stopped working.
‘Sit down beside my wife, Mister Malloy, make yourself comfortable. And before you do, take off your jacket.’
I took it off.
Stoke took his off.
‘Now sit down like I told you.’
I eased myself down onto the floor beside Charmain’s body. It was already cold.
‘Now let’s roll our sleeves up.’ He rolled up his shirt-sleeves. ‘Come on!’ he yelled.
I rolled them up.
Carrying the liquid he came toward me moving like the eighteen-stone slob he was. As he walked, he said, ‘Did you know what your friend Harle died of?’
‘Heroin overdose.’
‘Nope.’ He stood over me, blocking out the light. I looked up at him. He smiled. ‘Ever heard of Hepatitis B?’
I kept staring. He kept smiling. ‘Harle had it. We did give him an overdose, two syringes full, in fact. Both needles were infected.’
My eyes were going to the glass phial as he asked, ‘Guess what this is?’ He held up the dark brown liqui
d.
I knew.
‘A clever fucker like you will have sussed that it’s a blood sample from Harle’s corpse taken shortly before we dumped him in your car.’
He bent and pulled the syringe from Charmain’s arm. ‘She was still alive when we got here, you know. Told us you’d be coming ... To rescue her ... She always was a poor judge.’
Taking the liquid back to the sink unit he dipped the empty syringe in it and drew the plunger till it filled. He turned to Roscoe. ‘If he moves an inch either way, shoot him.’
Roscoe raised the gun. I looked at his face. It told me nothing. I didn’t think he’d shoot but I didn’t know.
Stoke came for me holding the syringe up. He stopped at my feet and stood open-legged. ‘Arm out.’
I didn’t move.
‘Hold your arm out or I’ll inject it through your eye.’
Slowly I straightened my arm. Stoke leaned over. I glanced at Roscoe, grim faced, still aiming. Stoke was astride my legs. He reached for my wrist, bending, slightly off-balance. I leaned toward Charmain, bent my right leg and smashed a kick so hard between Stoke’s legs I felt his balls separate as the toe of my boot hammered deep into his scrotum. He screamed and dropped the syringe which turned once in mid-air like a dagger, then stuck into Charmain’s thigh.
Stoke clutched his groin. I reached up and grabbed the collar of his shirt and hauled him down to shield me from Roscoe. Pulling the syringe from Charmain’s leg, I held it to Stoke’s neck. He was groaning and breathing in short gasps.
Roscoe, gripping with both hands, still had the gun levelled. His knuckles were white as he held it at arm’s length.
‘Drop it or the needle goes in,’ I said, trying to sound calm.
He didn’t reply, just grew more tense.
‘You’d have to shoot both of us,’ I said.
He said nothing but I could see the panic rising in his eyes. From beneath the perfectly set fringe, beads of sweat began appearing. There were dark patches, too, under his arms. His lips were parted, teeth clenched. The jaw muscles swelled then relaxed, beating like steady pulses.
Skinner glowered at him. ‘Don’t let us down, Roscoe.’
‘Come on, Roscoe ...’ I urged. Stoke was still fighting for breath, gasping and spluttering, very close to the needle.
‘Shut it!’ Roscoe said, his voice very thin and light.
I tried to weigh up the look in his eyes again and hoped it was panic rather than madness. I played on. ‘What’s the point? You’d have to kill us both.’
He sniffed hard. Sweat broke on his top lip now
‘Where would you go?’ I asked. ‘Do you think you could leave three bodies here? How will you explain all this stuff? And Harle and Greene? Why take the blame for everything Stoke’s done? That’s where they’ll pin it.’
He stared at me.
‘Put the gun down and call the police, tell them what Stoke’s done. Hire a good lawyer, and you’ll get off with five years, three, with good behaviour.’
He wavered.
‘Roscoe! Shoot him!’ Skinner cried.
‘Don’t’ listen to him, Roscoe. Okay, you’ll lose your training licence, but so what? Stoke here, or Perlman, or whatever you like to call him, won’t be sending you any more horses anyway.’
That seemed to do it. Slowly he straightened up and lowered the gun. The tension eased from his face to be replaced by a tired, defeated look.
Skinner moved forward and smashed his elbow into Roscoe’s cheekbone, grabbing the gun from him as he fell. Skinner came at me looking a lot more determined than Roscoe and almost as crazy as Stoke, who was still gasping for breath.
I held the needle closer to Stoke’s throat. ‘Another step, Skinner, and it goes in.’
‘Who cares? Kill the bastard, I never liked him anyway, but you’re dying with him, you smarmy little shit.’
He moved sideways now, toward the open door, aiming the gun at my head.
‘You’ve got too much to lose, Skinner.’
‘Shut it! That doesn’t wash with me! I’m not some fucking wimp like Roscoe! You are going to die, so say your prayers and say goodbye to your pretty little face that all the girls thought was so fucking cute when you were a big-time jockey!’ He bent forward holding the gun straight out. ‘Because I’m going to blow your head right off your shoulders.’
I watched his finger tighten on the trigger and closed my eyes. Then I heard a sweet soft Irish voice say, ‘Don’t even breathe, Mr Skinner. Drop the gun.’
The pistol clattered to the floor and I opened my eyes to see Jackie resting both barrels of a shotgun just below Skinner’s ear. The vet had gone very pale. ‘Lie down on the floor next to Mister Malloy,’ she said.
Skinner obeyed and she took the gun from his head and rammed it hard between his buttocks. ‘Now, Mr Skinner, you tell me how it feels to have something unwanted and unexpected stuck in your arse.’ She looked at me and we smiled.
40
Jackie got some rope from the tack room and we tied Stoke and Skinner together. She stayed covering them while I took Roscoe into another room and offered to mediate with the police on his behalf if he filled in all the missing links for me. By the time Cranley arrived he’d told me everything and promised to repeat it in court.
We gave our statements and Cranley, finally admitting defeat, said I could go. But there were only policemen milling around, cold and impersonal, so Jackie and I stayed with Charmain’s body till they collected it.
We sat in quiet companionship waiting for the ambulance and I tried to come to terms with the fact that it was all over. I’d expected to feel elated, to be buzzing with the satisfaction of revenge, but none of it was there.
All I felt was a deep contentment that Jackie was with me again, a massive happy relief that she hadn’t betrayed me and a steadily burrowing guilt at having suspected her.
It was almost midnight, but the Red Lion in Lambourn found us a room and a bottle of scotch. I rang McCarthy and told him the news. He said he’d be there first thing in the morning.
There was no lovemaking. When the trauma hit Jackie she got very weepy and I spent half the night comforting her and the other half coping with my deepening guilt over doubting her. Knowing she would never forgive me if she learnt of my suspicions, I overcame the urge to confess.
In the morning I left Jackie asleep and McCarthy and I walked up on to the Downs. The new jumps season wasn’t that far away and strings of horses passed us going both ways. To our right, a trainer was supervising a schooling session for two ‘chasers. We wandered over and stood by one of the fences.
McCarthy said, ‘Well, are you going to keep me waiting all morning?’
‘What? Sorry, Mac, I was miles away.’
‘I know, you have been since we left the hotel.’
‘Mmm.’
‘You said on the phone that Roscoe had filled in the missing pieces so I’d quite like to hear the full story.’
‘It was more or less as we thought, except that Skinner was the instigator. He’d run up big gambling debts with Stoke who was ready to put the bite on him. Since he was sacked by your people Skinner had been working on his own trying to come up with the perfect dope, which would have meant revenge on the Jockey Club and an end to his money worries. He soon realised he had neither the expertise nor the money and when Stoke started pressing him for payment he offered a deal. Stoke would fund the research and Skinner would do the work.
‘Skinner remembered Kruger’s case well and knew how close he’d come to this perfect dope so he contacted him in Austria. Kruger agreed to come in as a consultant for a set fee and advice on which horses were to be doped. Apparently Kruger knew Danny Gordon for his lab work in Newmarket and wanted him involved.
‘Skinner himself put that proposal to Danny Gordon but Gordon told Skinner he was in deep shit, that Bergmark and Rask were blackmailing him for an attempted Tote fraud in Sweden years ago. Skinner said he could solve that problem if Gordon would agree to
come in on the project. Stoke sent his two gorillas to see the Swedes and you know what happened. Once they were sorted out Gordon tried to renege on his agreement and Stoke had him killed. Kruger then threatened to pull out, but Skinner told him it was Bergmark and Rask who’d put the hit out on Gordon.
‘They soon realised they’d need a number of horses to experiment with under racing conditions and a trainer and jockey who’d co-operate. Skinner knew Harle and Harle knew Roscoe who’d been training a couple of horses under permit.
‘So now, as well as setting up a lab and keeping people on a payroll, Stoke had to come up with the cash to buy a dozen horses. He had the money to do it but was beginning to think about the risks if things didn’t work out. Harle’s suggestion to finance the running of the stables was that Skinner’s lab could be used, in its spare time, so to speak, for manufacturing heroin.
‘Harle had smuggled the stuff in from France a couple of times and knew how lucrative it would be to make it and cut out all the middlemen.’
‘Wouldn’t that be a specialised job, making heroin from scratch?’ McCarthy asked.
‘Apparently not, if you have the basic ingredients which, it seems, are more readily available in France. So Roscoe started sending horses on a fairly regular basis to run at the French provincial tracks.
‘Either Skinner or Harle would accompany them and smuggle the necessary raw materials back in the horsebox. Harle was in charge of the “dealing” side and got a bit too dependent on the stuff himself. He was also creaming off some of Stoke’s “profits”. Stoke discovered this about the same time as Charmain admitted that Harle had got her hooked too. Not only that but he’d seduced her. Stoke sent the boys and Harle paid the price.’
‘Then Greene came in?’
‘That’s right, though not for the money. Young Greene was a career man and Roscoe promised him he’d be champion jockey one day if he co-operated. Trouble was, Charmain was hooked by now and needed a new supplier. She did the seducing this time and was giving Greene money to buy heroin, and sex for doing the running. Stoke found out and no doubt took a special delight in manipulating Greene into the box with the killer horse.