by Joe McNally
The sergeant had told him just to carry on doing what he always did, stick to his routine. Easy counsel to give in his position, not so easy to carry out when you’re old and tired and scared and alone. I’d been warned to stay away from Mister Sherrick until ‘advised otherwise’.
I ran through my extensive list of curse words aloud, but felt no benefit. Dawn seemed an awful long time away.
At 2 a.m. I admitted defeat. I got up, pulled on a dressing gown and went through to boot up my PC. Mave Judge clicked to accept my video call on the secure link.
‘More nightmares?’
I told her what had happened.
‘That was pretty slick thinking, Eddie.’
‘That’s what I thought. Trouble is I couldn’t do the sensible thing and keep my trap shut.’
‘Don’t be too hard on yourself. Ninety nine percent of people would have done the same.’
‘But you’d be in the one percent?’
‘Depends. What’s the objective?’
‘The objective is not to let the police waste weeks and weeks trying to find Jimmy’s body and the people who took it.’
‘Leave them to it. They’ll blunder around in their own sweet way as all workers in large organizations do.’
‘Mave, forgive me if I don’t get into one of your discussions on management efficiency.’
‘You’re forgiven. What do you want me to do? Oh, by the way, the Comanche stuff Mister Watt was on about seems to hold no water.’
‘I’d kind of guessed that by now, though it hasn’t stopped him spouting it to all and sundry as an excuse for sacking people.’ I suddenly felt the need for coffee. ‘Mave, will you hold? I’m going to put the kettle on.’
‘I’m holding.’
I called out as I walked to the kitchen, ‘What are you working on anyway?’
‘What am I always working on?’
‘Your betting programme.’
‘Correct. ‘
‘Never ending.’
‘That’s the way it was built. Every day you learn a tiny bit more. Tweak, tweak, tweak.’
The sound of the kettle heating made it pointless shouting across the room, through the double doors. I spooned instant coffee from a jar then tore a banana from a bunch and peeled it.
Back at my desk I saw Mave’s fast fingers busy on the keyboard. I chewed banana and said, ‘How many words a minute can you type?’
‘You’re eating.’
‘A banana.’
‘Don’t talk to me when you’re eating. It’s fucking irritating.’
‘Sorry.’ I smiled. I watched her work, finished the banana and reached for the coffee. ‘Can I talk to you when I’m drinking?’
‘So long as you don’t gulp. The sounds of humans consuming or kissing or copulating are among the most slaveringly unwelcome to the ear, especially amplified through a set of speakers.’
‘I’m passing on the kissing and copulating tonight, you’ll be glad to know.’
‘Copulating is a very cold word for the activity it describes, don’t you think? Mechanical. Utilitarian.’
‘I’ve not given it that much thought, Mave.’
‘You are a thirty-three-year old healthy heterosexual male. You should be thinking of copulating about every nine seconds.’
‘I doubt I’d get much done at that rate.’
‘What do you do by way of a sex life then?’
‘Mave. Would I ask you a question like that?’
‘No. You’re a prude. And you respect women too much. You’re too gallant.’
‘Listen, the only part of copulating I’m interested in at the moment is the first syllable. I need to find a way of getting to Bayley Watt without upsetting the sergeant.’
‘Why worry about him? Think he’s worried about you? Ignore him and do your own thing. It’s not against the law for a jockey to talk to a trainer, is it?’
‘I suppose not. How easy would it be to track the tracker? If I got hold of the watch could you tell from the transmitter where it was transmitting to?’
‘I’ll tell you now. It’ll be to a PC somewhere the owner of which will be some poor John Doe who hasn’t a clue it’s been hacked. It’ll be the end PC on a network of thousands your man’s hijacked so he can’t be traced. He’ll be scraping the recordings from it once an hour or something. You won’t catch him like that. Can’t you set him up?’
I sipped coffee, quietly. ‘I’ve been thinking about that, but the easy way is Watt, isn’t it? Whoever gave him the bugged watch for Mister Sherrick is the one we want. This fella’s smart. Watt is not. I want a crack at him first.’
‘Then you’d best figure out what this guy has got on him or how much he’s paying him. Start with money. Money. Sex. Revenge. Three horse race. Trust me.’
‘And money’s favourite?’
‘Odds on.’
‘Except I’ve got not a single thing to go on.’
‘Tell him you know the Comanche stuff is bullshit. Ask him why he really sacked Jimmy or if he really sacked him. Somebody killed Jimmy Sherrick. What did Jimmy do? He rode horses for Bayley Watt. Jimmy was either doing something he wasn’t supposed to or he wasn’t doing something he was supposed to. Watt was pissing him off or he was pissing Watt off, or, more likely, whoever’s controlling Watt.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. But when I lay all that out to Bayley Watt you know what he’s going to say, don’t you?’
‘I can guess.’
‘So can I.’
I finished the coffee and returned to bed.
With little more than a couple of hours sleep, I was in a foul mood as I looked in the bathroom mirror and prepared to shave. I glared at myself, still pissed off with my grandstanding last night. If I could have taken the guy in the mirror outside and thrashed him I’d have done it. That sudden thought made me smile. ‘You daft bastard,’ I said aloud. ‘Get shaved, get showered, and get on with it.’
22
I listened to the ten o’clock news in the car, bound for Warwick. I resisted calling Mister Sherrick. I knew he’d be nervous enough now about any calls, about acting naturally while the police tried to track down whoever was bugging him.
I had three rides at Warwick, a left handed track with tight turns and tricky fences. I’d seen some bad falls here. Walking from the car park to the weighing room with my kitbag, I saw Bayley Watt leading a heavily rugged horse toward the stables. I stopped and watched until he was out of sight.
I usually read the racecard the night before to get a handle on the opposition and start working out how to exploit their weaknesses during a race. But with all the hassle last night, I hadn’t checked. Unless the sergeant had turned up early to interview Watt, he’d have missed him. That gave me a chance.
In the changing room, I joined in the usual banter as I walked to my peg. Franny Scotton was reading the Racing Post. ‘Franny, what’s Bayley Watt got today?’ I asked.
He riffled through. ‘Er … One in the first, against you. Newcomer, Fissure Splint. You’ll be hoping he’s got a splint, give you a chance of riding a rare winner.’ He smiled, unembarrassed by pink gums no longer serving any purpose after numerous kicks in the face from flying hooves. ‘A rare winner.’ He repeated.
‘Put your teeth back in Franny, you’ll scare the horses.’ I said. Splints are small bony growths which can cause lameness. A fissure splint I’d never heard of and I wondered if Bayley had named the horse or bought it already named. I unpacked my bag. Doubtless he’d spin some tale about a fissure splint being to the benefit of Comanche horses.
I was riding Helios against Bayley’s. It was trained by Ben Tylutki, the trainer I’d schooled for yesterday. He’d given me a good feel on the way to the start, and Ben was pretty confident he’d win. Like Watt’s horse, Helios was having his first race in this Novice Hurdle.
We lined up at the tape, pulled our goggles down against the strengthening January wind and twelve of us set off. The next four minutes or so galloping through this stic
ky ground would be important for most of these horses. For the debutants, their experience here would colour how they approached future races.
My job was not just to win if I could, but to teach this young horse that racing would cause it no anxiety. If I was lucky, Helios would enjoy this, and the next time he was led toward the horse box from his stable, he’d be excited about racing again. A nicely made, well balanced gelding, black except for a white star between his eyes, he was favourite to win.
Halfway through the race Helios was traveling well and had jumped the first four hurdles slickly. But Watt’s horse, Fissure Splint was just ahead of us, simply cantering on a loose rein. That’s very unusual for a horse on its debut run. Many young horses pull and race keenly, carried away by the excitement and the galloping herd.
But Fissure Splint had an impressive, smooth action, he reminded me of the gelding I’d ridden for Bayley Watt at Taunton, less than a week ago.
And he won like him too.
We finished second, a long way back. In the unsaddling enclosure I took a close look at the winner. He was very similar in size and colour to Spiritless Fun, the horse I’d been begging to ride again. The only difference was a white sock on his near fore. Spiritless Fun was a solid colour with no markings.
Now, it’s not at all unusual for a trainer to favour a certain type of horse. Quite a few will go for those which, to their eye, make an ideal model. Some admire big rangy horses, the type that another trainer might avoid in the belief that the bigger the horse the more likely it is to suffer an injury.
This one of Watt’s was sixteen hands, compact, more solidly put together than you might think if you only glanced at him. He’d probably weigh as much as some horses who were a couple of inches taller.
Spiritless Fun had been exactly the same make and shape and colour, bar the white sock. Bleaching six inches of hair on a horse’s leg would be simple. I watched Watt wash the horse down. He was frowning, grunting as he reached underneath with a long sweep of the sponge. The jockey, Jack Morrin, seemed bemused, smiling and shaking his head in what looked like wonderment, as he slung girths over saddle and headed for the weighing room.
I finished talking to the owners of Helios and to Ben Tylutki, and I followed Jack, but I stopped beside Watt’s horse. The trainer saw me and hesitated until he realized I wasn’t going away. Slowly, he turned toward me, bucket still in hand. I looked into his eyes and he looked into mine and we knew at that moment that the game had changed.
23
I set the phone on hands-free and dialled Sergeant Middleton’s number. As it rang, I pulled out of Warwick’s car park and headed south in the dusk.
‘Mister Malloy, what can I do for you?’
That was interesting, he’d added me to his contacts. ‘Sergeant, hello. I just wondered if you’d managed to interview Bayley Watt yet?’
‘I went there this morning. He wasn’t at home. His assistant said he was at the races. I’m hoping to speak to him tomorrow.’ That suited me, but I didn’t want to show it. ‘Sergeant, forgive me, but this guy looks like he could be implicated in Jimmy Sherrick’s death. Is it normal to let something like this drift across a couple of days?’
During the pause that followed I tried to picture the look he was framing. He said, ‘What Mister Watt appears to have done is passed on a watch from Jimmy Sherrick to his father. It could be more than that, but I’m fairly sure that is what he will claim. And he might even deny he had anything to do with the watch. It would be Mister Sherrick’s word against his.’
‘So what’s the next move if he does deny it?’
‘I think we’ll wait and see what Mister Watt has to say tomorrow.’
‘We?’
‘Detective Sergeant Wilmslow and myself.’
‘What about Jimmy, his corpse? Anything on that yet?’
‘No.’
‘Any CCTV at the cemetery?’
‘None. In any case it would need to have had infrared capability.’
‘It was done at night?’
‘I’m not certain, but I think it’s a reasonable assumption.’
His tone was hardening. There was no point in antagonizing him. ‘OK. Fair comment. I’ll let you get on.’
‘Mister Malloy…You’ve been helpful, more than helpful. But as I said to you last night, I’m limited in what I can tell you as this progresses. You have no legitimate interest, in the informal sense of the word, but you know what I mean. I’m sorry.’
‘That’s okay, no worries. Best if I go through Mister Sherrick from here on then, I suppose?’
‘I think so. Unless you get information that could help in the investigation then, by all means give me a call.’
That sparked me. A couple of years earlier I’d have lit up with a tirade about the police giving nothing but wanting everything, but I counted to five and realized that what the sergeant might be doing was giving me some sort of informal wayleave to do a bit of nosing around myself. ‘I will, of course.’
‘Thanks. Goodbye.’
‘Sergeant, one last question. It won’t compromise you.’
‘Go on.’
‘You said you spoke to Bayley Watt’s assistant.’
‘That’s right.’
‘What did he, or she, look like?’
‘Male. Late forties, early fifties, North American accent, five ten, about twelve stone, dark brown hair, almost certainly dyed, very white teeth.’
‘And did he introduce himself as Watt’s assistant?’
‘Assistant trainer.’
‘He’s a vet. His name is Blane Kilberg.’
‘You think he was lying?’
‘Not necessarily. There’s nothing to stop vets becoming assistant trainers.’
‘It would seem a sensible secondary occupation.’
‘It would. But not many trainers with a handful of horses need an assistant trainer. And knowing Kilberg, his ambitions would run to working with one of the big guns. I’d have thought he’d be embarrassed to admit he was working for a permit-holder like Watt.’
‘Interesting. Anything else?’
‘That’s it. For now.’
‘Have a safe drive home.’
‘Thanks.’
So Kilberg was not only schooling for Watt, he was his assistant. Things were beginning to stack up, and hold steady.
If Watt’s horse today was a ringer, if it really was Spiritless Fun, my Taunton winner, running in another name, then Kilberg would fit very nicely into the deception.
Every racehorse has a computer chip implanted in its neck. That chip carries the horse’s details, its colour and markings. The chip is scanned by security staff at the track and compared with the details in the horse’s paper passport. How difficult would it be to remove the microchip from Spiritless Fun and replace it with the chip assigned to Fissure Splint? Apply dye or bleach to get the markings to agree with the passport, and a very nice betting coup could be landed.
Stopped at a set of traffic lights, I found Stewart Lico’s number. It rang a dozen times before he answered. ‘My my, Malloy, I don’t hear from you for months then two calls in a week. What do you want this time?’
‘I won’t insult your intelligence with small talk Stewart.’
‘Well that’s good to hear because I am staring at the winking vulva of a very valuable mare. Another minute of it will see me drop into a trance. Can I finish what I’m doing here and call you back?’
‘Never let it be said that I kept you away from a winking vulva. I’ll wait.’
‘Call you soon.’
I was still smiling when he called me back five minutes later.’Vulva sorted?’
‘For now. It’s an odd one. She’s not in oestrus but frequently appears as though she is.’
‘Can’t help you there, mate.’ I said.
‘Well how can I help you this evening?’
‘Tell me about microchips. Did you implant any when you were working for Bayley Watt?’
‘Two or three, ma
ybe. They’re mostly done at foal stage.’
‘But there’s no problem implanting in a mature horse? Well, a three-year-old or four-year-old?’
‘Not really, no.’
‘Run me through the procedure.’
‘We get the chip from Weatherbys and insert it in the Nuchal ligament, halfway along the left side of the neck, about two inches down from the mane. Injection with a bigger than normal needle but a simple job. No anaesthetic.’
‘And the chip carries details of the horse’s conformation and markings etcetera?’
‘Nope. All it has in it is a fifteen-digit number which is then copied into the horse’s passport. The passport holds all the markings and stuff and, if a horse has any injuries or surgery which leaves scars, the passport should be updated to show them.’
‘What about removing a chip?’
‘There shouldn’t be any need.’
‘If there ever was?’
‘Simple incision, a pair of tweezers and a steady hand, I’d imagine.’
‘Good. Thanks. I owe you a drink.’ I said.
‘I won’t ask you any questions.’
‘Very wise,’ I said.
‘And you, as ever, will be the soul of discretion should my name ever come up in conversation.’
‘The heart and soul my friend. You know that.’
‘I do know it. I do. The number of people I trust in this world could be counted on the fingers of one foot. But you are chief among them.’
‘Likewise, Stewart. Tell me one more thing, do you recall when Watt stopped using you? He’d been your client for a few years, hadn’t he?’
‘About four years, I’d say, going on five. He gave me the medicine man bollocks in August, just before I went on holiday.’
‘Did he have any new horses in when you last did any work there?’
‘No. Same handful as last season.’
‘Thanks. That’s all for now.’
‘Be careful,’ he said.
‘I will. You be careful. A large winking vulva might swallow you up. You’ll stick your arm inside and it’ll be like equine quicksand. Sound about the same too.’