by Joe McNally
‘Who did they plan to replace Greene with?’
‘Nobody, they knew they were very close to the perfect formula, that’s why Kruger became dispensable too. Skinner completed the first phial of the “perfect” dope yesterday morning and rushed down to the yard to tell Roscoe who immediately contacted Stoke at York. He was sufficiently excited about it to leave right away and head down here.
‘But they had two pieces of bad luck. In his anxiety to tell Roscoe, Skinner left the lab door unlocked, probably around the same time that Charmain was hitting me on the head with a cooking pot. Harle must have told her they were using the lab for heroin but the stuff had all been cleared out after Harle’s death. Charmain, in total desperation, lifted the only bottle that looked like heroin and injected it.’
McCarthy stared at me. ‘Stoke’s perfect dope?’
I nodded. ‘Every drop ... Though the formula still exists. Roscoe says he’ll pass it to you to help with his plea-bargaining.’
‘That’s big of him. Did he happen to say if his horse was doped when it won the Champion Hurdle?’
‘He claims it wasn’t. Said they couldn’t risk using the drug till they knew it was flawless, which makes sense. If Roscoe had been exposed early in a doping scandal it would have scuttled the whole plan. To give it more credence and build an alibi for Stoke, he took several decent bets on the horse in the Champion Hurdle, just in case it won, so it cost him a few quid.’
‘Pretty ironic then that he bought himself some bloody good horses without even knowing it.’
‘Yeah ... anyway, Charmain lived just long enough to, inadvertently I think, warn Stoke I was coming.’
‘So you were right, there never was a Perlman?’ McCarthy said.
‘No, I was wrong. Remember the little guy with the glasses, the one who claimed he was Perlman when your bloke first interviewed him? Well, he was. Or at least that was his name. He worked for Stoke. You know I thought Jackie was tipping them off on my movements?’
Mac nodded.
‘It was little Perlman. He was trailing me half the time and I didn’t even know it. He also bugged Kruger’s phone.’
‘So Jackie’s completely innocent?’
I nodded, still feeling slightly ashamed. ‘If you could do one thing for me, Mac, out of all this, don’t ever tell anyone I suspected her.’
He smiled, but there was a mischievous glint. ‘Don’t worry, Eddie, soul of discretion.’
We watched two ‘chasers come down the line of schooling fences. One stood right off and just cleared the fence. I watched them gallop away.
‘What are you plans now, Eddie?’ McCarthy asked.
‘My immediate plans, if I had my licence back, would be to show that clown how to school a horse.’
He looked at me. ‘You really miss it don’t you?’
‘More than you’ll ever know, Mac.’
I turned and started back for the hotel. McCarthy joined me. The sun was well up now. A lark rose, whistling high as we walked near its nest. ‘Remember the interview with the senior steward you asked for?’ McCarthy said.
I looked across at him. He smiled. ‘Next Tuesday, ten-thirty.’
‘How long for?’
‘Half an hour, as agreed.’
I nodded.
‘Think it’ll do any good?’ he asked.
‘I’ll tell the bastard what I think of him. It’ll get five years of bitterness off my chest and then I can maybe get on with my life.’
‘Don’t be too hasty. Remember, Roscoe’s testimony on Kruger might help you out and, there’s always this ...’ He handed me a palm-sized black book about the thickness of a cigarette packet.
I stopped and riffled the handwritten pages. ‘What is it?’
He smiled. ‘Kruger’s diary. From five years ago.’
I stared at him.
‘It agrees with your side of the story, more or less. March twenty-third to twenty-eight are the pages you want.’
He smiled smugly and walked on.
‘Mac!’ I called after him. ‘How long have you had this?’
He stopped and turned. ‘I found it on Kruger’s body the morning you ran out and left me to explain his death to the police. Remember?’
‘You could have told me!’
He shrugged and smiled. ‘Completely slipped my mind. See you on Tuesday.’ He turned again and walked down toward the valley. I opened the diary and slowly turned the pages telling of Kruger’s past and, I hoped, my future.
Excerpt from Hunted, the second in the Eddie Malloy series
1
On a Saturday in early March I sat in the jockeys’ changing room at Haydock Park knowing that by dusk my career would be over. This was my first season back riding after losing my jockey’s licence five years before. Last time round I’d been Champion Jockey.
Before deciding to quit I’d agonised for weeks, as though it were a complicated equation. It was simple: I wasn’t earning enough to feed myself. I owed money to banks, garages, saddlers my landlord, and Jackie, my girlfriend.
My credit had run out. It was time to find a proper job. Time to leave the only career I’d known, riding racehorses over jumps. The galling thing was that I was good at it, one of the best.
Still, owners and trainers had chosen to ignore that. Maybe they were taking revenge, paying me back for past sins. Whatever, there was nothing I could do to change their minds.
I looked around me. One thing I wouldn’t miss was these cold gloomy corners. The pecking order in the changing room classified me fourth division now, along with the has-beens and never-will-bes. Our own little clique, losers one and all but too terrified to admit it. So we buoyed ourselves with empty banter and hollow camaraderie, scared to drop the façade on our big failures, our small lives.
I was here for one ride, a no-hoper in the novice hurdle. As soon as the race was over I would shower, change and leave the racecourse for the last time. I could probably sell my boots and saddles for the price of a month’s rent. On Monday I’d start looking for something else.
The changing room was beginning to buzz with jockeys and valets preparing for the day’s racing. It was Greenalls Gold Cup day, the last major meeting before the Cheltenham festival. As usual there was a quality field for the big ‘chase. I heard someone say the favourite, Cragrock, was a certainty. Rewind the tape five years and I’d probably have been riding it.
I couldn’t suffer any more of the happy chatter and the atmosphere of anticipation. My ride was two hours away. There was no need for me to stay in here till then so I got up and headed for the door.
Things went suddenly quiet among the group over to my right, eight or nine jockeys in various stages of undress. Con Layton’s Irish accent rose from their midst. ‘And did yer mammy iron your nice clean underpants for you before you came out? I’ll bet she still wipes yer little bottom too? Is that right ... ? Come on, don’t be shy, you can tell your Uncle Cornelius ...’
I could only see the back of Layton’s head. Stepping to the side and squinting through someone’s crooked elbow I saw the reddening face of the Irishman’s latest target, a newcomer named David Cooper. The boy was only nineteen but already had the makings of a top jockey. Well, he had the skills; I wasn’t sure his heart was in it.
He was a quiet kid, didn’t mix and didn’t speak much, mostly I suspected because he was painfully self-conscious about the distinct ‘th’ for ‘s’ lisp which made his upper-class accent sound staged and effeminate.
A few strained chuckles rose from Layton’s audience as they watched him tormenting the boy. The Irishman wouldn’t be doing it just for fun. Young Cooper had a fancied ride against him in the big race, this was Layton starting to psych him out.
Layton had built himself a reputation as a bully and genuine ‘hard-man’. He was also a crook who arranged and rode in fixed races. The Irishman was just a journeyman jockey but he made a nice living from his schemes.
Since I’d come back I’d had little to do with La
yton, though he had thrown the occasional taunt in my direction. I’d had more to worry about than rising to the bait.
He was stooping close to young Cooper now, face to face. He said, ‘D’ye still sleep with yer mammy?’ The boy’s flushed face couldn’t hold Layton’s gaze any longer. His eyes, begging without hope for someone to intervene, flitted sideways and upward at the ring of faces watching him.
Layton said, ‘What does she look like with no clothes on?’
Tears welled in the boy’s eyes. No more chuckles from the audience. A couple turned away shaking their heads. The room was silent waiting for the kid’s reaction. Some of them would want to step in but they knew the youngster had to handle it himself if he wanted to survive. He was learning how hard a world it was.
Enjoying the boy’s humiliation Layton said, ‘Come on, son, what does she look like? All the boys would like to know.’
I was standing twenty feet away. I said, ‘That how you get your kicks, Layton?’
Everyone turned. Layton pushed through them and came toward me. Young Cooper watched, unable to hide his relief.
Layton stopped a couple of paces away. About five seven, three inches shorter than me, he was rat-like. His reddish-brown eyebrows were thick and met over his big nose. His white T shirt was blotched with water and he had a hand on each end of the yellow towel hanging round his neck. He said, ‘A voice from the gallery, Malloy. I didn’t quite catch what you said, now?’
‘I said is that how you get your kicks? Is that what turns you on, getting young boys to talk about their mothers? Or is it just the bullying that gives you the big charge?’
It was Layton’s turn to redden. ‘You sayin’ I’m a bully, Malloy?’
‘Either a bully or a pervert, take your pick.’
His fists balled, jaw muscles clenched, eyes went cold but I could see he wasn’t sure what to do. It must have been the first time in years he’d been challenged. Even worse, he didn’t know the strength of his opponent.
A fight could leave him with a broken jaw which, apart from the loss of face, would mean he wouldn’t be riding for a while.
Feet apart, hands by my sides, I stood calmly watching him try to make a decision. Though I’d told no one yet that I was quitting he knew if it came to a brawl he had more to lose.
His hands relaxed and he clasped them behind his back and put on a sly little smile. ‘You’ve an awful insolent mouth on you, Malloy.’
‘I can live with it. Better than a mind like a sewer.’
Now he knew he wasn’t going to win a battle of words. Taking a couple of steps toward me he leaned forward till I could see the tiny blue veins in the whites of his eyes. He said, ‘You and me must get together some time soon.’
I held his gaze. ‘Anytime. Just give me a couple of days’ notice so I can arrange a vaccination.’
A few laughed. There was one outright guffaw and I saw in Layton’s eyes he knew he had to do something. With our faces so close I guessed it would be a head-butt and I moved just as he tried it, stepping aside as he over-balanced.
I hit him in the ribs then again in the kidneys. He grunted and went to his knees. Grabbing the towel, I looped it around his neck and pulled a tight strangle-hold while I stood on his left calf to stop him rising.
He gurgled, clutching. I leaned close to his ear. ‘How does it feel, Layton? What’s it like to be on the receiving end?’ I jerked the towel tighter and his tongue came out, his eyes watered.
I let go and he slumped forward, his head on the bench, saliva dripping from his gasping mouth, onto the dark tiles. I stepped away. There were maybe twenty people looking on, most watching me, some staring at Layton.
I turned to leave and heard Layton trying to rise. Looking round I saw him sprawled against the bench now face up, still breathing hard but glaring at me. ‘You’re a fucking dead man, Malloy,’ he hissed.
‘Top marks for perception.’ I said.
Layton looked puzzled as one of his buddies, Meese, helped him away to the toilets.
The buzz of conversation resumed. Colin Blake came up and squeezed my arm. ‘Nice one, Eddie, but you’ve done yourself no favours there, mate.’
I smiled at him. ‘You’d be surprised.’ The confrontation had given a quick boost to my self-esteem, though I wasn’t sure how much of the bravado had come from the knowledge that after today I would never be in a changing room with Layton again.
On my way out a couple of the lads slapped my back and said well done. I almost felt as if I’d won a race.
In his father’s luminous yellow and red colours young Cooper was sitting on the scales, weighing out for the first race. Still embarrassed, he glanced at me and I could see that his discomfort stemmed from the realisation that he’d had to be rescued, that he couldn’t cut it himself.
Not wanting to make him feel obliged I smiled briefly and walked on, but he stuck out a hand to grip my arm as I passed. I stopped. ‘Thank you,’ he said, avoiding the shortened version so he wouldn’t have to lisp the ‘s’.
‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘Good luck today.’
He smiled weakly and nodded, causing the scale needle to bob between ten stone ten and ten twelve. I left him with his own troubles and took mine outside.
2
The oval horsewalk was empty but the runners for the first would soon be in and the crowds would form around the ring to watch them parade. Then the bell would ring in the changing room and the jockeys would come out and make their way through the admiring throng into the arena.
They’d huddle with trainer and owner and friends and talk tactics, make plans. Then they’d mount and be led out, staring straight ahead above the crowds, feeling that tight little thrill that comes from being different from the masses, from knowing that among the millions who love racing you are one of the main players.
And I wouldn’t be there.
Not after today. That gut-sick feeling of hopelessness came back and I suddenly knew how drug addicts must feel when they realise there’s never going to be another fix.
When someone touched my elbow and spoke my name I turned.
Her face was thin, hair dark and luxuriantly thick, eyes brown and distinctly oval, good mouth with well-shaped lips, my height, she looked at me. ‘You okay?’
I nodded, dredging up a half-smile. ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’
She said, ‘Carter told me what you did to Layton. I just wanted to say I wish I’d been there.’
Lisa Ffrench was being pretty forthright. I didn’t know her much beyond saying hello. Her job barred her from ‘consorting’ with jockeys and she was probably leaving herself open to criticism even talking to me now. Lisa was a stenographer. She worked for The Jockey Club, noting everything that was said during Stewards’ Enquiries.
I shrugged. ‘I didn’t really do anything ... just put him in his place.’
‘Well and truly, the way I heard it.’ Her smile was wide.
I said, ‘You’re not a member of his fan club then?’
‘Watched him lying through his teeth too many times, and sucking up to the stewards.’
I nodded, anxious to be alone again so I could be as miserable as I wanted. I said, ‘Well, it won’t take him long to bounce back, nasty as ever.’
‘No doubt, but his ego will stay bruised for a while so you’d better watch yourself.’
‘Shouldn’t be too hard. This is my last day.’
‘Last day at what?’
‘Race-riding. I’m quitting.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I can’t make a living at it any more.’
She shook her head slowly. ‘That’s tough. Bad luck. You’re a good jockey.’
‘You think so?’
She nodded.
‘Pity you don’t own a string of twenty.’ I looked away again across the parade ring expecting her to politely excuse herself before the conversation got embarrassing. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know yet, but
I know what you’d better do before your bosses see you talking to lowlife like me.’
‘Is it safe to leave you?’
Puzzled, I turned toward her again. She was still smiling. ‘I’m scared in case you overdose on self-pity.’
That made me smile. She turned and headed for the weighing room walking athletically in her flat shoes, skinny bottom swinging in her tight knee-length skirt
I watched her disappear through the door. Two minutes later she came marching back, making straight for me again. Half surprised, half apprehensive, I waited.
When she reached me she offered a piece of information that could save my career and ruin hers.
‘Why are you doing this?’ I asked.
‘Because I don’t want you to quit.’
‘What does it matter to you, you don’t even know me?’ It sounded hostile and she raised her hands in surrender and took a step back. ‘Okay, okay, sorry for interfering.’
‘Look, Lisa, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. I appreciate what you’re doing ... we hardly know each other ...’ I tailed off lamely
She looked perplexed. The wind caught her heavy shoulder-length hair and lifted it to show a small gold ear-ring. Her brown oval eyes told me her patience was waning. She said, ‘Fine, do what you like.’ She walked away with that confident head-up stride.
Hubert Barber trained Cragrock, the favourite in the big race. His stable jockey hadn’t turned up and Lisa had overheard Barber tell the clerk of the scales that he planned to withdraw the horse.
She’d just been trying to persuade me to approach Barber and ask him to run the horse and let me ride.
I had ridden for him a few times during my Championship season and we’d got on well together but he’d never offered me anything since my comeback. Watching Lisa disappear into the crowd I thought, what the hell, I might as well try. With no confidence and little hope I went to look for Barber.
I found him outside the main gate shuffling impatiently, peering at cars coming in, squinting into taxis as they pulled up.