by Joe McNally
‘Horizontal equine quicksand.’
‘The muddy soles of your boots the last thing to disappear. Then the winking stops.’
‘That’s all folks!’
We laughed and said goodbye.
I switched the radio off. My mind was working, processing plans, moving fast, inspecting, rejecting, mulling and finally deciding I should resort to what I did best. Wing it. Kick off and see what happens.
Don’t pre-plan. Don’t go home. Head for Watt’s yard. Now.
24
Watt’s place in the valley was on an unlit road. He’d be at least half an hour behind me, driving his box from Warwick. I rolled two hundred yards past the entrance to his yard and turned, parked on the verge, nosed up to the hedge so I was almost concealed, and switched off the lights.
Blane Kilberg would be minding the place and the horses. I’d wait until Kilberg had gone. I wanted to confront Watt on his own.
I found Gerry Waldron’s name in my contact list and called him. Gerry was a PR man for one of the big bookies.
‘Eddie, good to hear from you. What do you know?’
‘Not much Gerry. How are you?’
‘Passable. Passable. What can I do for you?’
‘I rode a winner at Taunton last week, a horse called Spiritless Fun. Can you find out if there was a run of money for him or any unusual laying of the others?’
‘Give me ten minutes.’
‘Check the first winner at Warwick today too, will you? And maybe get me a general impression from your guys of Bayley Watt’s punting habits.’
‘Will do.’
I waited in the dark, watching the narrow road. Gerry Waldron had been in the game a long time. A lot of PR guys for bookies only lasted a year or two. A few bookies were employing women now in that role; young, photogenic as well as very knowledgeable. But Gerry was an old hand. He had a few people in racing on his payroll. If the favourite for Saturday’s big race stepped on a stone, or coughed in his box at midnight, Gerry would get a call before anyone else.
He’d been around when I’d had my first bite at fame and he’d offered me sound advice regarding the company I was keeping. I decided not to listen because I knew better, didn’t I?
When I got warned off, Gerry never said "I told you so”, he just rang to offer help. I never forgot that.
I’d help him when I could. I might assess a race or tell him if I thought a new young jockey might make up into a champ. I took no payment and I never broke the rules.
I’d thought that turning thirty would set me on a steady slide to oblivion but one of the advantages of aging in this business is that you get to know who you can trust. There weren’t many, but they were all the more valuable for that. Gerry Waldron was one. The vet, Stewart Lico was another.
A light went on upstairs in Watt’s house. I saw Kilberg in the room, passing the window. My phone rang. I answered, keeping my eyes on Kilberg. ‘Gerry. Any luck?’
‘It depends what you were hoping for. There was nothing untoward about either horse on the betting front. Normal betting patterns in both races. And Watt’s not a punter.’
‘Okay. Thanks. By the way, I should have asked, how is your wife?’
‘Stable. She’s doing all right, thanks. Bad period around Christmas but mostly she’s fine. We’re happy.’
‘That’s good.’
‘How’ve you been?’
‘I’m okay. Settled in the bungalow now. Quiet life. Come down when the weather’s better, see my summer house.’
‘Get you and your summer house!’
I smiled. ‘Thanks for the info Gerry. Give me a shout if you need anything.’
‘Take care, young man.’
His glowing name died on the screen. Dark again. While we’d been talking, Kilberg had switched off the light in the upstairs room. What kind of relationship did he have with Watt that let him prowl around up there?
How was Watt getting money on those horses? It was pointless running ringers if you weren’t profiting, and there were just two ways to do that in a race: bet the winner or lay the favourite. Everybody could be a bookmaker now with betting exchanges. If you didn’t think a horse was going to win, you could lay it, taking bets from others who thought it would win.
And where had he found the horse? What was its true identity? Horses of that quality don’t go unnoticed. Spotting raw talent was big business. Good horses never stayed under wraps for long, and this one of Watt’s was high class. He’d raced somewhere before, I’d bet on that.
At the junction, three hundred yards ahead, I saw beams of light at right angles to the road; they grew brighter then bounced and swung toward me as the horsebox turned left then indicated right to go into the yard.
I jumped out and hurried along the hedge line. Vaulting a gate, I jogged across a field toward the rear of the house as the yard lights came on and reflected in the window at the top of the horsebox as it slowed and stopped.
My shoes and trousers got wet moving through the grass. I’d been hoping to find a gate in the hedge running parallel with the yard, but there was none. The blackthorn was bare and thick, barring my way. I stopped. Watt was speaking. Kilberg answered in his higher pitch, almost effeminate, his accent recognizable even though I couldn’t quite pick out the words.
Sounds of hooves on the ramp, on the old cobbles. A door sliding shut on squeaking rollers. The yard lights switched off. I waited. The lights came on again. An engine started. I hurried toward the end of the hedge to see what I took to be Kilberg’s car pulling out. I went back to the gate, onto the road, thought about picking the strands of grass from my trousers, heard my socks squelch, cursed, and headed for Watt’s door.
He had no spyhole. ‘Who is it?’
‘Eddie Malloy.’
Decision time for Bayley Watt.
The door opened. It led into his kitchen. My eyes had adjusted to the night, and the light almost blinded me, making Watt a silhouette. He opened it fully and stepped back. I went in.
He closed the door slowly then turned to face me.
‘What’s the horse?’ I said.
He just stared at me. Not threatening or aggressive. Not confused. Just unsure. He was very still. His brown suit hung baggy, a noticeable gap between his throat and the collar of the pale blue shirt, yellow tie not yet loosened. His grey beard-shadow framed a gaunt face and I wondered if he too had cancer. I glanced at his wrists and he saw me and he turned his hands up thinking it was them I was watching, then he did that old face-rubbing thing with weariness and surrender. His wrists were still hairless. He dragged a heavy kitchen chair across and sat, elbows on knees. He stared at the grey tiled floor for a few moments then looked up at me. ‘What do you want?’
‘What’s the horse?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Did it matter to Jimmy?’
He just blinked, and kept blinking.
‘Was that what Jimmy wanted to know? Did he ask the question?’
‘What do you want, Eddie? Do you want the ride back?’
‘On a ringer? For a bent trainer? Are you fucking mad?’
He rubbed his face again then said, ‘Money?’
I shook my head. ‘Who killed Jimmy Sherrick?’ I asked.
‘Jimmy killed himself.’
‘Why?’
‘He had cancer.’
‘Who told you that?’ I said.
‘Jimmy did.’
‘Was his watch bugged too?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You know he didn’t make that recording.’
He stared again at the floor, almost bent over, elbows on knees. ‘Who made the recording Bayley?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Do you know anything? Who burned his house down? Who stole his body?’
He shook his head. I moved toward him, pulled out a chair and sat down. He wouldn’t look up.
‘The cops have proof you gave his father a bugged watch.’
No answer.
‘Bayle
y, they were here this morning. Kilberg told you that, didn’t he?’
Nothing.
‘You’re fucked, Bayley.’
No response. No Comanche stories. No idea how to get himself out of this.
‘Who’s got you by the balls? Maybe I can help you.’
He looked up, but without hope. ‘You can’t.’
‘You are not a well man, are you? You look more like a cancer victim than Jimmy ever did.’
He went back to gazing at the floor.
‘Is that what this guy’s got on you, he knows you’re dying? What’s he doing, collecting terminal cancer patients, doing deals?’
No answer.
I got off the chair, hunkered, tried to look up into his eyes but he wouldn’t turn his head. ‘Bayley, if you’re dying, tell me what you know. What’s the horse? What’s happening? Who’s behind all this?’
Blank.
‘Can’t you even tell me to go away?’
Silence from the condemned man. I’d expected a raging argument, denials, bribes…he’d made a half-hearted attempt at that. Maybe because he knew me. But I knew him too, his tantrums, his flare-ups and this wasn’t Bayley Watt. Threats…I’d expected them. But all I faced was a beaten man.
I stood up. ‘Time for the sixgun Bayley.’ I pulled out my phone and pointed it at him.
‘Who do you want me to call first? Sergeant Middleton? Peter McCarthy?’ McCarthy was head of integrity services at the BHA. Watt would be warned off for life for running a ringer.
I got McCarthy’s contact details on my phone. No signal. ‘I’ll call from outside. You’d better concentrate on coming up with some kind of defence other than the fifth amendment.’
He did. As I opened the door and stepped out, he grabbed something very heavy, and all I remember was a moment of surprise at the blinding pain of the blow that shut me down for the night.
25
I came to in the dark, wondering where I was and what had happened. I realized I wasn’t at home. The floor I lay on was cold and hard and I had a serious headache.
My memory returned.
Before trying to rise, I touched my face and head lightly, searching for blood…none. I bent my knees, dragging my heels along the tiles, then raised my hips, flexed my arms, stretched them.
No pain below my neck. He must have hit me once and left me. I reached up into the blackness, checking that I wasn’t beneath a table or something. I’d been downed on the threshold. Watt must have dragged me inside.
Slowly, I sat, then turned and got to my knees. I didn’t want to risk standing up in the dark in case I keeled over.
I half crawled until I touched a skirting board then used the wall to help me up. I rested against it. The moon showed briefly giving me a fix on the kitchen window and the big table Watt had been sitting at. I moved and felt along the wall for the light switch. Found it. Closed my eyes before clicking the light on. My head felt bad enough without risking a sudden flash.
My eyelids opened a millimetre at a time. The kitchen was empty. A cast iron frying pan, Watt’s weapon, sat on the stove. I cursed myself for complacency. I’d been certain he was a beaten man. I had eased down before the winning post and got caught on the line. Painfully.
I reached for my phone…gone. Car keys. Gone. I closed my eyes and cursed. My watch. Still there. Ten minutes to twelve. At least I knew by the darkness outside which end of the day I was at. I went looking for Watt’s house phone. The wire had been cut.
I leaned on the door handle. Locked. The back door too was locked. I knew by then that Watt had gone. All he’d wanted was to buy time.
I climbed through the kitchen window and set out to walk home against a rising wind, under deep cloud and a full moon that played frustrating peek-a-boo in the rural blackness.
My house keys were safe in my jacket and I fingered them as I passed Rooksnest and headed downhill on the rutted road, tiny rain streams bubbling in the narrow gullies. I slowed. I’d been walking a long time, nursing a pounding headache.
I sat at my table with a lamp burning. A search in my laughably sparse ‘medical box’ came up with a paracetamol hot lemon drink. The warmth of the mug in my hands was comforting. Two thirty. That had been a slow walk. What now? It was pointless dialling 999. Watt could be out of the country by now. I switched the PC on and pinged Maven Judge and told her what had happened.
‘You got auto-wipe on your phone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Best log on and wipe it.’
‘He’ll have dumped it in a field or something Mave. There’s nothing on there he can use.’
‘If he’s dumped it, all the more reason to wipe it.’
‘Okay.’
‘Do it now. And report it stolen or someone will run up twenty grand on your sim. I’ll be here. Gimme a shout.’
I did as she said, then topped up my drink and returned to the PC.
I reopened the window that showed Mave’s left profile, monochrome, lit only by her screen, shadows under her cheekbone, darkness below her chin as though her head floated there. Her webcam was offset tonight. She’d need to turn about seventy degrees left for me to see her face properly. But she seldom looked at the webcam. I was used to watching only her fingers and skinny arms, or her heavy black keyboard or her T-shirt logo. You never knew where the camera would be.
She turned and glanced at me, stern. ‘Done it?’ she asked.
‘Yep.’
‘Now what?’
‘I’ll finish this drink. Try and get some sleep. Call the sergeant in the morning.’
‘I’d have thought you’d have had enough sleep.’
I smiled. ‘I prefer the type that comes on naturally through weariness after a long day’s work.’
‘As against the instant repose that results from being whanged on the nut with a skillet the size of a bin lid. You’re never happy, Eddie. Usually when we’re talking at this time, it’s because you’re moaning about not being able to sleep. Somebody offers you a solution and you’re bad mouthing him. Poor Bayley Watt.’
‘He’s a worried man. It’s not just me he’s running from. I’d bet on that.’
‘Did you check his PC?’
‘Shit! No, I didn’t.’
‘Was it still there?’
‘I don’t know. Never thought to look. I was trying to find keys to get out.’
‘Can you go back to his house before you phone the cops?’
‘I suppose I could.’
‘I take it all the horses were still there?’
‘They were. The horsebox too.’
‘A lot of bloodstock to abandon.’
‘He’s scared.’
‘Must be. What about Kilberg? Maybe he’ll call him and tell him to get round there?’
‘Depends how much Kilberg knows.’
Mave was concentrating. Her frown had deepened. The click rate on the keys had increased in volume and speed. Then she slowed and said, ‘Why don’t you drop out of this now? There’s nothing in it for you but hassle. Nobody knows you went to Watt’s place, do they?’
‘No.’
‘He’s legged it, leaving behind a fortune in assets if you add the house to the horses? You said you thought he might be dying anyway, and he’s so scared he won’t even stay there to die in peace? Whoever he’s afraid of must score pretty high on the terror scale. You ought to hand in your dance card at this point Eddie, and bow out.’
‘I know.’
‘Listen. Seriously. I know what you’re like and you feel for old Mister Sherrick and you were Jimmy’s pal and you don’t like people to think he killed himself and all the rest, but apply logic for once. Drop all the white knight crap and apply some hard logic. It is worth nothing to you. Absolutely zero. If you were up against some amateur or some knucklehead, okay. But this guy is serious shit. Whoever he is, he is serious shit. Don’t you think?’
‘Probably.’
‘Probably! I can tell by the way you said that one word you’re already
working out how you’re going to try and nail this guy. You’re as mad as he is only you’re soft mad, crazy. He’s hard mad as in psychotic. P-S-Y-’ she hesitated, ‘C-H-O-T-I-C.’
I smiled and sipped the hot lemon. ‘Had to think then, didn’t you? A brain the size of the moon and you can’t spell psychotic without a breather.’
She wouldn’t look at me, but she smiled wide and worked on. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘head over there in a taxi. You got a dongle? A memory stick?’
‘Somewhere.’
‘I’m going to email you a file, save it on the stick then put the stick into Watt’s PC.’
‘He’ll have a password on it.’
‘Doesn’t matter, this programme will break it and pull some info in for me. You put the memory stick in yours and send me the file. I’ll have a look at his PC from here before the cops take it.’
‘Okay.’
Half an hour later I was in a taxi, telling the driver my car had broken down and I was heading back to it to wait for the recovery service. I had my spare car keys and a pay as you go phone I kept for emergencies.
Watt’s place was as I’d left it. But it was much tougher getting in through the window than it had been getting out.
His PC was a big old unit with the dusty cobwebbed USB ports on the rear. I used a shirt from his wardrobe to handle the PC box, turn it round without leaving any prints. I put the stick in and hit the power button.
Five minutes later, the machine closed itself down. Mave had told me that’s what would happen. I wished I could check that everything had saved to the stick but I couldn’t. Before leaving by the window again, I checked the ledge and the kitchen floor for my footprints. My shoes had been soaking when I’d first arrived at Watt’s place. The prints were easy to see.
I considered cleaning up because it was in my mind not to contact the police at all, to let them find out in their own time, keep myself out of it.
But that would have meant making sure I’d left no trace. It would also mean the horses being left unattended. I didn’t know what the arrangement was with Kilberg.
Maybe he only turned up to mind the place when Watt was away racing. Best call the sergeant come daybreak.