by Joe McNally
‘The faked one?’
‘Yes.’
‘What does Bayley Watt think?’
‘About Jimmy’s supposed suicide? I don’t know. I don’t want to ask him too many questions just now. If there was a way of knowing if he was lying about sacking Jimmy that would give me a steer.’
‘Why say he’d sacked him? That puts Watt on the spot as a potential contributor to suicide. It would have been easier to play dumb.’
‘But if he was trying to throw someone off the trail, it would push people more toward the suicide theory.’
‘You believe Watt could have been involved in his death?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know. No. I’ve known the man for years. He’s not a killer.’
‘You knew Jimmy Sherrick for years. He saved your life. Jimmy says he chucked it, Watt says he didn’t. Gun to your head, who would you believe?’
‘Jimmy.’
‘So what is your man hiding?
‘Rule out this Comanche stuff for me and I’ll make a serious start on him.’
‘And say farewell to this fine horse of his who stole your heart?’
‘Maybe.’
She continued working, never looking at her webcam as I watched. ‘Maybe is a weasel word, Eddie. You’ll never find peace with a head full of maybes. All decisions are better than maybes, even wrong decisions.’
‘How old are you, Mave?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘You talk with the certainty of a woman who’s seen everything.’
‘You don’t have to be old to do that, Eddie. A dispassionate view of life for one year will tell you all you need to know about human nature. It changeth not and never will.’
‘Do you ever have nightmares?’
‘I work nights.’
‘Like vampires?’
Finally her fingers stopped and she turned to the webcam with that detached, knowing look I was becoming familiar with. ‘Eddie, there’s only one sucker around here.’
I smiled. ‘Touché.’
‘Good night.’
Before going to bed, I searched online trying to find out if cyanide had ever been used in micro amounts to try to kill cancer cells. It didn’t take long because there wasn’t the slightest hint it had ever been tried. Still, I didn’t discount it. Jimmy had said it was something “new”. And what did he have to lose?
17
Next morning’s Racing Post carried a nice picture of me and Spiritless Fun jumping the last at Taunton. The report said the horse was as short as ten to one for the Supreme Novices’ Hurdle at the Cheltenham Festival. I looked streamlined in the saddle, head motionless, perfectly balanced; I was still pretty stylish over a hurdle, I thought. That brought a smile for the first time in twenty four hours.
Some mental stability had returned. If I kept the ride on the horse, fine. If not, no point going crazy over it.
Also, trying not to upset Bayley Watt would have driven me mad. He was probably already thinking he could use the horse as leverage. I decided to go on the attack. I called him. He was abrupt. ‘Eddie. I still haven’t made up my mind. I’ll call you toward the weekend,’
‘That’s not what I’m ringing about.’
I let that simmer for a few seconds then said, ‘Had Jimmy sat on that horse?’
‘Why?’
‘Had he?’
‘Why are you asking?’
‘How long have you had him?’
‘Eddie, I’ve got four fucking horses still to muck out. What’s with the twenty questions all of a sudden?’
‘Put it like this, Bayley, if I’d been thinking of suicide, and I had that horse to look forward to, I’d need to have been almost comatose with depression to do what Jimmy did. I’m not making light of it and I’m not trying to be a smart arse, that’s just how I see it.’
‘The way you see things isn’t always right, is it? How can you put yourself in Jimmy’s shoes over one horse considering what the poor bastard ended up doing?’
‘I found Jimmy dead.’
‘I know that. So you ought to show a bit more respect before saying a horse should have made a difference to him.’
‘I knew him well enough to believe it would.’
‘You did? So you think if he’d sat on that horse he wouldn’t have killed himself?’
‘That’s what I think.’
‘Well, you’re wrong. Jimmy did all his schooling.’
‘What did he say about him?’
‘Jimmy didn’t big things up.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Exactly what it says! Everything with you is shit or bust, Eddie. Always has been.’
‘Sometimes that’s the way it needs to be.’
‘Sometimes, Eddie, not every fucking time. Know your limitations, remember?’
‘I’d better let you get on, Bayley.’
‘I think you had. You’re not the most diplomatic guy in the world considering you want that ride so badly. You need to engage your brain before reaching for your phone. It’s like a sixgun for you in a fucking holster and you think you’re in High Noon.’
‘That’s pretty rich coming from the man with the big western saddle and inside knowledge on the Comanches.’
‘Comanche!’
‘Fucking Comanches! Look it up!’
Call ended.
I laughed. I looked at myself in the mirror above the fireplace and laughed at having committed my own suicide with a trainer, not for the first time. Jimmy’s dad had been right, you can’t change character. I couldn’t change mine and whatever Bayley Watt or Maven Judge thought of me and my flaws they could go and take a flying fuck at a rolling donut.
I zeroed the odometer on the Subaru as I set off for Leicester racecourse. I always did this when driving to Leicester. It fascinated me that it was exactly one hundred miles from the pillars on my driveway to the entry gate at the course.
I had three rides booked. None looked that promising but you never knew. At a hundred and fifty quid a ride, I’d clear maybe three hundred after expenses. A winner would be a bonus. And there was the chance of picking up a spare if some poor sod got injured.
At dusk I pulled out of the racecourse car park, watching the odometer click toward 101. I was winnerless, but had ridden a second and a third when neither had any real right to be placed so I reckoned I’d done a good day’s work.
An hour into my journey, Jim Sherrick called, his voice sounding weak and shaky through the speakers. ‘Eddie, are you able to talk?’
‘Sure. I’m heading back from Leicester. Nobody with me. Are you okay?’
‘I wondered if you might be passing on your drive home? Sergeant Middleton just left. I could do with having a chat with you.’
‘I can be there about half six if that suits?’
‘That’s fine. Good. I’ll put the kettle on.’
Mister Sherrick opened the door a few inches, then unhooked the security chain. He offered his hand, ‘Sorry, I don’t usually use that chain but I’ve been getting more and more shaky since the sergeant left. They want to exhume his body.’
I hesitated. ‘Did he say why?’
‘They’ve been through his phone records and had another fella look at that recording.’
‘What did they find?’
‘He didn’t go into detail but he seems pretty serious about it now. I was kind of relieved when we talked last night, you and me, but now I’m thinking, why would anybody want to kill Jimmy?’
‘Did the sergeant mention ruling out suicide now?’
‘He was ducking and diving. Didn’t really say anything outright and that hasn’t helped me, I don’t mind telling you.’
‘Should we sit down?’ I said.
He smiled wearily, ‘Sorry. Yes, sit down please. I’ll make some tea.’
We settled by the fire with the now familiar yellow mugs. I said, ‘You might find the police a bit less, well, helpful for a while at least. They’ll be conscious of maybe not doing thei
r job properly first time.’ I was thinking too of Sergeant Middleton and my impression he had some degree of suspicion about Mister Sherrick.
‘What did you say when he told you they wanted to exhume?’
‘Why? I asked him why. He told me about you telling him how Jimmy couldn’t really handle technology. He said you mentioned something about Jimmy texting “OK” to somebody?’
I recalled the story where Jimmy had phoned Bill Kittinger to explain that was all he knew how to text. ‘That’s right.’ I said, wondering if the sergeant had also told him of my visit yesterday.
‘Well that was the only text they found on his records. And he said there were some inconsistencies now with the recording Jimmy left.’
‘And did he actually ask your permission to exhume?’
‘He said it would make it easier. Quicker.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I told him they should do what they felt was best.’ He put the mug on the hearth and began rubbing his brow.
‘When are they going to do it?’
‘I don’t know. He said there were arrangements to be made with the council and the church.’
‘Did he ask if you wanted to be there?’
‘Yes.’
I waited. He was staring into the fire. ‘Do you?’ I asked.
‘I don’t want to be, it’s a matter of whether I should be. He’s still my son.’
I watched him. ‘Jimmy wouldn’t want you distressed.’
He nodded. ‘I know. It’s a matter of whether I’ll be more distressed being there or not being there.’
‘If you decide to go, I’ll be more than happy … Well, not happy, that’s the wrong word, but you know what I mean. I’ll come along with you if you want me to, if you believe it would help.’
He turned his gaze from the fire and looked at me. ‘You were a good friend to Jimmy. You’re a good friend to me. I appreciate it.’
I nodded and smiled. I thought about the police. The sergeant had gone from an admission of sloppy procedure to sudden action. Even on the back of my veiled threat about police negligence, he’d acted much quicker than I thought he would. I wondered if they’d discovered something other than what he’d told Mister Sherrick. ‘Would you mind if I go back to Jimmy’s place tomorrow for another look around?’ I asked.
‘The Sergeant took the keys. That’s what they’re doing.’
‘When?’
‘He didn’t say.’
They hadn’t treated it as a crime scene, now the Scene of Crime Officers were being sent in, as the sergeant had mentioned. But Jimmy had been dead for over two weeks and somebody had already reorganized the evidence.
Jimmy’s PC had been replaced, and a long section of the cellar floor had been well cleaned.
‘They might be closing the stable door an awful long time after the horse has bolted.’ I said.
‘You definitely believe Jimmy was killed then?’
I felt uncomfortable, awkward. ‘I don’t think he recorded that message and I’d bet he didn’t order cyanide online. Somebody went to a lot of trouble making that recording. The only way they could have done it was by bugging Jimmy’s phone and recording everything he said.’
‘Maybe they bugged the house?’
‘Maybe. But he lived alone for what, the past year or so? He’d not have much to say at home.’
‘Depends who his visitors were.’
‘True. Did he have many?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know. I’m just trying to look at it from a different angle, if you see what I mean.’
‘Fair comment. Maybe his house was bugged, and his phone.’ I said.
‘Should I ask the sergeant about that when he brings the keys back?’
‘It would do no harm. Once you get the keys, I’ll have another look around the house.’
‘Do you want me to call him tomorrow and ask when he’ll be finished with them?’
‘Best not. My relationships with the police tend to head rapidly downhill when I start poking my nose in. They’ll want to go there sooner rather than later and do everything they should have done the day Jimmy died.’
He nodded slowly, his gaze back on the blue and yellow gas flames. ‘They might find something.’
I stopped myself from saying that I doubted that very much, and I was proved right. Mister Sherrick told me next day he’d been awakened in the early hours by two fire engines and how odd it had felt to find out they’d been on their way to his son’s blazing house.
18
It wasn’t big news, the burning of an empty house. I didn’t hear about it until I got to Fontwell where I had two rides booked, and I wondered why Mister Sherrick hadn’t rang me. I left the weighing room and returned to the car to call him.
‘I heard about the fire,’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. I’m okay.’
‘Is there somebody with you, Jim?’
‘No.’
‘What’s up?’
‘I think it would be better if you took no more to do with this, Eddie. I’ve not been fair with you. I shouldn’t have rang you yesterday. It’s not your problem.’
‘I don’t see it as a problem, Mister Sherrick. Jimmy was a friend. You’re a friend.’
‘I know, and I’m glad to be, but I think I’ve overstretched that friendship by making you feel obliged to do something about all this. ‘
‘I don’t feel obliged to anybody, believe me. I feel pissed off at the police taking everything as done and dusted just because it looked neat, and because it meant they didn’t have to do much work. And I’d still like to know what Jimmy was so keen to tell me that night. It’s beginning to look like somebody wanted it kept quiet. Don’t feel you need to cut me off now to protect me. I’m into this and I’m staying with it.’
‘You sound pretty definite.’
‘I am. What did the police say to you? Are they asking you to get me to back off?’
‘No. The sergeant wasn’t too pleased that I told you I’d given him the keys, but, well, he didn’t ask me to warn you off or anything. I think he wants to talk to you himself.’
‘He’ll be wondering if it was me that torched Jimmy’s place. If he’d done his job properly at the start he wouldn’t need to be talking to me. Or you. And what about the house now? What are you going to do? You were planning to sell it, weren’t you?’
‘That doesn’t matter. I kept the insurance up.’
‘Well you can bet they’ll give you a hard time when they find out it was arson.’
‘Probably. I’ll worry about that when I have to.’
‘Okay. Want me to drop by on the way home from Fontwell?’
‘No. Thanks. I’m fine. I’m supposed to be playing dominoes tonight. Best to try and stick to some sort of routine.’
‘It is. Forget your troubles for a while.’
‘That’s it. My troubles. Remember that.’
‘I will. They’re not troubles to me Mister Sherrick. Puzzles, frustrations maybe but no troubles. None at all.’
My first ride was in a three mile steeplechase on Fontwell’s unusual figure of eight track. The ground was sticky and tiring for the horses and we went very steadily, just six of us, trying to make sure stamina would hold out.
We chatted among ourselves on the way round, going quiet in the final few strides before each fence to mentally count our horses into the take-off point. Barry Copland was alongside me on a mud-speckled grey, his red and black silks fluttering in the breeze. Barry had ridden that loser for Bayley Watt at Taunton. I asked him if Watt had booked him for any more rides.
‘Not a jot. That was my first ride for him. He didn’t look delighted with the result.’
‘I wouldn’t worry. He’s never been predictable. Probably offer you a retainer out of the blue.’
‘Ha! I doubt it.’
‘Have you done any schooling for him or ridden out?’
‘Nothing. Never b
een asked.’
‘I wonder who’s helping him now Jimmy’s gone? He’s got eight horses. He can’t be doing everything himself, especially exercise and schooling.’
We were pretty closely grouped in the mid part of the race and I called out to the others asking if anyone knew who was helping Watt. It was common for jockeys to ride exercise or school for different trainers. Many did so in the hope of picking up the odd ride for a yard, but jockeys would often help just as a favour.
Even though Watt had only eight horses, he’d want to work them in pairs at the very least. Bill Kittinger said he’d heard that Blane Kilberg was riding out for Watt.
I moved my horse alongside Bill’s. ‘Blane Kilberg, the vet?’
‘That’s the man. That’s what I heard.’
‘Who told you?’
‘Pete Cheaney.’ Pete was a farrier based in Lambourn. He was popular, and would be shoeing and fixing feet in a number of yards. Bayley’s was probably one of them. As we turned into the straight and my horse began tiring, I wondered why Bayley Watt was using a local vet as a work rider when there were plenty willing jockeys within twenty minutes of his yard.
Pete Cheaney would be in The Malt Shovel pub in Upper Lambourn. If he didn’t have a horse’s foot in his hand, he filled it with a Guinness glass. I headed back via The Malt Shovel where Pete told me he had seen Blane Kilberg schooling a horse at Bayley Watt’s yard three days earlier.
When I reached home, I called the man who used to be Bayley Watt’s vet, Stewart Lico.
‘Long time, no hear.’ Lico said
‘Well, like everybody else, we only call our old friends when we need a favour.’
‘You’re a credit to your much maligned profession Mister Malloy, a non-beater about the bush. What can I do for you?’
‘Are you still working for Bayley Watt?’
‘Watt. Not. I am semi-sorry to say. It was good while it lasted but he’s a fucking fruitloop.’
‘Did you jump or were you pushed?’
‘Pushed very clumsily with some daft story about Indians making sure that a different medicine man always attended their sick horses or some such bollocks. I can’t quite remember the detail as I was too busy wondering if your man was losing it altogether.’