by Joe McNally
‘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,’ he yelled, ‘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 shouted. I turned and looked at Charmain.
‘The stuff in that syringe, the stuff she squeezed into her arm cost me half a million pounds…Two liquid ounces…One single ampoule…Five hundred thousand pounds.’
And four lives, I thought.
‘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 returned with the vet, who darted a frightened glance at Stoke.
Stoke looked at me. ‘I believe you’ve met Mister Skinner?’ he said. I didn’t reply. ‘He’s nearly 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?’
He turned his attention to the scowling Skinner.
‘But not smart enough to remember to lock the fucking door behind him!’
That was how Charmain had got in.
Stoke glared at Skinner, who looked away quickly. Stoke turned again 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.’
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 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. 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 liquid. 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 beside Charmain’s body, which was already cold.
‘Now let’s roll our sleeves up.’ He rolled up his shirtsleeves. ‘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 liquid.
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 to the sink unit, he dipped the empty syringe in it and drew the plunger until 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 couldn’t be sure.
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 bent forward. 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 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, gasping.
Roscoe, gripping with both hands, still had the gun leveled. 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 said nothing but I could see the panic rising in his eyes. From beneath the perfectly set fringe, beads of sweat began popping. 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, spluttering, very close to the needle.
‘Shut it!’ Roscoe cried.
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.
‘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 about Stoke. Hire a top lawyer, and you’ll get off with five years, three, with good behaviour.’
He wavered.
‘Roscoe! Shoot him!’ Skinner shouted.
‘Don’t listen to him, Roscoe. Okay, you’ll lose your training licence, but so what? Stoke here, or Perlman, or whatever you 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 tiredness and defea
t.
Skinner moved quickly 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, 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,
‘Don’t even breathe, Mister Skinner. Drop the gun.’
The pistol clattered to the floor, and I opened my eyes to see Jackie resting the 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 and rammed it hard between his buttocks. ‘Now, Mister Skinner, you tell me how it feels to have something unexpected stuck in your arse.’ She looked at me and we smiled.
73
Jackie said, ‘I’ll call the police.’
’No, not yet,’ I said, ‘can you put your hands on some rope? I want to tie them up.’
Jackie brought rope from the tack room and we tied Stoke and Skinner together. She covered them with the gun while I took Roscoe outside, and round the gable end of the sandstone building, ‘Against that wall,’ I said, ‘facing me.’
Roscoe backed up until his heels touched the wall. He looked terrified, and his cheeks reddened. I don’t think he realized he was holding his breath. ‘You’d better breathe,’ I said.
He did.
The night on the road came back to me and I had a fierce urge to punch him full in the face and hear his head bounce off the wall and back for more punches. But I needed a deal. I said, ‘I’m not calling the police, I’m calling Jockey Club Security, Peter McCarthy. When he gets here, you are going to tell us everything, every little detail. Every single thing Stoke has done, and Kruger and Skinner.’
‘You said you’d get me off, then.’
‘I said the cops might take an easier view. Don’t start putting words in my mouth because I’m an inch away from punching you till my knuckles break.’
He held his breath again. It was irritating me. ‘Breathe!’ I yelled.
He breathed. I said, ‘I’ll get McCarthy to negotiate with the cops on your behalf. He’s got a much better chance of getting a deal for you than I have. But you leave out nothing, right?’
He nodded. I said, ‘I’ve put it all together now anyway, so I’ll know if you leave anything out.’
He nodded more eagerly this time. I took him back in and tied him up in a separate room. There was a telephone on the bench in the lab. I called Mac and told him what had happened, ‘Bring two of your guys, three if you can get them, and bring that little Dictaphone thing. Don’t speak to the police.’
‘Have you called them?’
‘No. I’m leaving the glory for you.’
74
In the hour it took Mac and his team to get there, Jackie could no longer listen to the groaning and crying from Stoke, who writhed constantly, driving Skinner crazy. Skinner bitched and yelled. Stoke moaned and howled and Jackie couldn’t stand it. I could. I watched with satisfaction.
Mac’s three men took over the watch while he and I went into the big house. Jackie said, ‘I’ll make some tea.’
I caught her by the arm, ‘No! Your days of running after people are finished. I want you with me. We’re a team.’ We sat at Roscoe’s kitchen table, under the bright lights. Mac said, ‘What’s the proposal you mentioned?’
‘What I said. You get the glory. For you, for your department, for your senior steward. A payback for all that mighty pressure you keep telling me you’ve been under for so long.’
‘And what do you get?’
‘My licence back.’
‘We’d agreed that was conditional on an admission from Kruger, so-’
I grabbed his arm, ‘Mac! it doesn’t matter what we agreed! The game’s changed. That was the old deal. This is the new one.’
‘I don’t think it will-’
I squeezed his arm hard, ‘Mac! Come on. You owe me here!’ I pointed to my face, ‘Look! Look at this!’ I watched his eyes move from hairline to chin, and he said, ‘But-’
’No more buts, Mac! This is the deal. You get on the phone to the senior steward and sell it to him. He’ll lap it up, you know he will. What difference does it make returning my licence for this rather than for the Kruger confession? There’s no difference, is there? It’s a technicality!’
Mac glanced at Jackie, then looked down at the table, ‘Okay’, he said, ‘I’ll ring him.’
He got up and asked Jackie where the phone was. ‘I’ll show you’, she said.
I called after him, ‘Tell him what I’m giving up here, Mac, remind him of all the shit I’ve had to take from Cranley, and now I don’t get to rub Cranley’s nose in it. That’s a biggie for me, a big sacrifice. He gets the headlines, your man. Tell him that. He’ll be the hero. He’ll win-’
Mac turned and raised a hand, ‘Okay! Okay! I get it!’
Jackie smiled.
75
We untied Roscoe and led him to the house. I’d wanted Jackie with us again for this, but it was too hard for her, and she opted out.
We sat Roscoe down in his own kitchen. Mac set the Dictaphone going and one of his men stood in the corner as a witness.
I said, ‘Right, take it from the start Mister Roscoe.’
He rubbed his mouth, and then his chin and looked down at the table before muttering, ‘I’m trying to remember…’
‘Who assaulted Bergmark and Rask?’
‘Stoke’s boys.’
‘Bill and Trevor?’
He looked sharply at me. The message had got home; I already knew the answers to many of these questions.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘They’d been blackmailing Danny Gordon. Kruger wanted Gordon to work with him and Skinner on the new drug, but Gordon was afraid it would give the Swedes something else on him.’
‘On top of what?’
‘A Tote fraud Gordon had been in on.’
I was tempted to run through the rest of the story myself, but realized it would all need to come from Roscoe. ’So what was the deal for Gordon?’
‘Stoke would get the Swedes off his back, then Danny would be free to help.’
Mac said, ’So who killed Danny Gordon?’
Roscoe glanced at me, then at Mac, ’Stoke’s boys.’
‘Why?’
‘He reneged on the deal. Once he knew the Swedes were completely out of the game, he told Skinner he wasn’t doing it.’
I said, ‘Kruger wouldn’t have signed off on Gordon’s killing. He wasn’t into violence.’
’Stoke told him Bergman and Rask had put the hit out on Danny.’
‘And Kruger believed him?’ I said.
’Stoke can be very persuasive. Kruger came round to it but the crazier things got…well, Kruger knew then.’
I said, ‘Was Rask murdered or did he hang himself?’
‘He hung himself.’
‘How did Stoke get into this in the first place?’ I asked.
‘Skinner. Skinner owed him a lot of money from gambling, and this was his idea to pay it off and make everybody rich.’
Mac said, ‘So Stoke bought all those horses for you?’
‘That’s right.’
�
��So he was Perlman?’ Mac said.
‘I suppose so.’
I said, ‘I warned you about telling everything.’
Roscoe looked sideways at me, then down at the table. I said, ‘The little guy with the glasses who was here that night with Phil Greene. The same guy who was at your Champion Hurdle party in the Duke’s. What’s his name?’
He hesitated, then said, ‘Louis Perlman. But he didn’t own any horses.’
‘So what was he doing, apart from being a decoy?’
I could see by Roscoe’s face he was considering his answer. He said, ‘He spent a lot of time following people, watching them.’
‘Who?’ I said.
‘Danny Gordon, Alan Harle, Greene, Charmain…you.’
Much of what I had been putting down to Jackie’s deception had been my stupidity in not knowing I was being trailed.
Mac said, ‘Where is he, Perlman?’
‘He’ll be at home. I can tell you where.’
I said, ‘Why was Harle killed?’
‘Mostly, for trying to rip Stoke off on heroin income.’
‘Mostly?’ I said.
‘He was sleeping with Stoke’s wife.’
Mac said, ‘Go back to the heroin income.’
‘Harle had been dealing in it small time. He already knew Stoke. Stoke was paying him for information, and for arranging the odd bent race.’
‘So that’s why he got the job riding?’
Roscoe nodded.
I said, ‘And how did you get the job training?’
‘I knew Skinner and Alan. Alan had been providing cocaine for us.’
‘Who is “us”?’ Mac said.
Another hesitation, then, ‘Me…and my wife.’
‘Where is your wife?’ Mac asked.
’Staying with friends.’
’Since when?’ Mac said.
‘Yesterday. We knew we were very, very close to the breakthrough. Skinner had got all the stuff he needed and all the information from Kruger, and he’d been working day and night. My wife knows nothing. I always sent her away when anything was happening here.’
