by Joe McNally
We were three lengths off them, and closing. With Layton still squeezing out his rival, they were flat to the boards and drifting coming to the last, close together, leaving me more than half the fence. Layton met it spot on. His challenger finally chickened out putting in two short strides, losing impetus.
Cragrock met it dead right, jumping with no wasted effort, and landed running at Machete’s quarters. Layton looked over his shoulder, cursing as he saw me. I smiled.
He knew he was in trouble. The shape of the run-in at Haydock forces jockeys to quickly take a diagonal line left after jumping the last, or risk galloping into a set of wooden gates dolling off the no-entry section.
Layton, believing he was home free, had left himself little time and space to get across. Now I was blocking him.
As the gates loomed, Layton hauled violently at his tired horse, Machete, trying to pull him across.
Machete was tired. So was Cragrock. Both breathing hard, sides heaving, muscles straining, nostrils flaring as they snorted huge lungfuls. I was running out of energy too, panting as I scrubbed and pushed.
But Cragrock ran straight. Machete, with Layton pulling hard on the left rein and desperately hitting him down the neck and shoulder, was unbalanced.
And we closed in on those black and white gates.
I was a neck behind, which gave him a few final seconds of hope before he realized he was trapped. They ran into the first gate and by the sound of his curse and howl, Layton’s right leg had taken the impact. He hit the next three like skittles, only they didn’t fall down.
He stopped riding. I went a length up, feeling a pang of sympathy for Layton’s brave horse. The race was over. I eased Cragrock past the post becoming aware for the first time of the roaring crowd.
Glancing round at Layton as we pulled up, I saw him slip his feet tenderly from the stirrups. His right boot was torn, blood dripping from the toe, staining his horse’s grey foreleg.
I was elated. A couple of hours ago I’d been almost suicidal, now I’d won one of the biggest races of the season, and beaten Layton at his own game.
Barber hobbled to meet us, showing a mixture of relief and annoyance. He said, ‘What were you silly bastards up to?’
‘All down to Layton,’ I said. ‘He did me on the home turn.’
Barber said, ‘And you tried to get your own back! On the bloody run-in of all places!’
‘I held my line, Mister Barber, that’s all.’
Still looking surly he said, ‘You shouldn’t have retaliated.’
‘If I hadn’t you’d probably be leading in the second.’
He nodded then looked up at me again. ‘Other than that,’ he said, ‘you rode a bloody brilliant race!’
I smiled and shook his hand. ‘Thanks.’
We entered the winner’s enclosure to loud applause. I’d forgotten just how sweet it was. As I dismounted, the loudspeaker’s message of “Stewards’ Enquiry” turned the welcoming cheers into sighs.
Barber, seeing his stake money once more in jeopardy, looked worried. ‘I don’t need this, Eddie. Don’t need it,’ he said, as we stopped in the winner’s berth.
I undid the girths and the saddle pad squeaked keenly as it slid from the sweating horse. Turning to Barber I smiled confidently. ‘See you soon for the presentation,’ I said.
‘Let’s hope so.’
5
Con Layton sat smoking in the corner of the changing room, his feet on the bench, drying blood crusting around the tear in his boot. A valet said, ‘Better get that seen to, Con.’ Layton, smiling at me, said to him, ‘That’ll count in the Enquiry. You wouldn’t be wanting me to cover it up.’
I sat across from him. My cold stare met with a smug smile and a blown smoke-ring, which broke up as it looped and twirled like a tossed coin.
Between smoke-rings, the smile stayed fixed on his thin lips. ‘What’re you starin’ at, Malloy?’
‘I’m trying to work out why the little arguments we had earlier make you think you’ve got the right to try to kill me.’
He smiled. ‘Ah it’s a big bad world out there, Malloy, where clever words are of no use to you. You must learn to be tough.’
I leaned forward. ‘I think I’m tough enough to handle an idiot who blows smoke-rings that are bigger than his brain.’
‘Malloy, you’ve an awful smart mouth.’ He flicked the cigarette at my face.
I ducked, then rose, ready to lunge at him. Layton was rising to meet me when a stern voice brought us up short. ‘Malloy! Layton!’ We turned. One of the stewards’ secretaries stood in the doorway.
‘Come with me,’ he said, ‘the stewards will see you now.’
Like a frustrated child I considered shouldering Layton aside and marching out first, but I decided I’d rather have the bastard in front than behind me.
He headed for the door. I followed and said, ‘Listen, if you come near me in a race again I’ll break your legs.’
‘What was that, Malloy?’ asked the stewards’ secretary.
‘Nothing, sir, I was just asking Mister Layton if he was riding in the next.’
‘Neither of you will be riding in the next if you keep the panel waiting much longer!’
The stewards’ secretary was a tall man, maybe six three, and very thin. His shoulder blades swung at our eye level as we followed him. His name was Claude Beckman. He stopped outside the stewards’ room and told us to wait.
Beckman knocked and took off his hat as he went in.
We stood in silent animosity. This was my first Stewards’ Enquiry since coming back. Nothing would have changed. Beckman would be briefing the stewards, re-running the video, telling them where he thought the fault lay.
The stewards were unpaid local volunteers, mostly from society’s fortunate section, lovers of the sport, but not as well versed in race-riding techniques, as they should have been considering our livelihoods depended on their decisions.
Beckman was a paid official. Stewards’ secretaries were appointed because of their in-depth knowledge of racing. A few had race-riding experience as amateur jockeys. Their brief was to help the stewards reach a fair conclusion. Many secretaries had military backgrounds. Far too few were ex-professional jockeys, who did the best job of all. But the stewards tended not to trust the ex-pros and preferred the principle that a new broom sweeps clean. Though old ones, I thought, glancing at Layton, knew where the dirt was.
They called us in. Layton led, limping theatrically. Beckman, impatient, nodded at us to move quicker. The room was almost square; high roof, tatty decoration, poor lighting and bad ventilation judging by the musty smell.
Two men and a woman sat behind a long table: Lord Cumbernauld, John Carnduff and the Honourable Clarissa Cover who bred and raced jumpers with some success.
Sitting to Miss Cover’s right, fingers poised over a grey machine, was the stenographer, Lisa Ffrench. I watched her from the corner of my eye.
Beckman was looking down on us. He was fortyish and totally bald, although it added to his imposing look which bordered on fierce. He spoke. ‘We are here to enquire into careless riding in the last race. You will answer the stewards’ questions truthfully and without the usual tiresome embellishments.’
Video evidence during Enquiries usually pinpointed the main culprit, but when guilt wasn’t clear, it tended to be the more articulate jockey, the best salesman, who won through. Embellishment was understating it; often it was pure fiction. But it was part of the trade.
Lord Cumbernauld cleared his throat and asked us to explain our actions. Layton got in first, bowing and scraping, lying. He blamed the problems on his horse hanging badly.
I told them it was deliberate. Layton, who’d been chummily calling me Eddie, acted horrified at this claim.
‘May I suggest we see the film, sir?’ I said. Every race is filmed from a camera patrol and from a head-on view in the straight. It was rare for film evidence to be poorly interpreted, and I was confident they would find in my favour.
The chairman glanced at Claude Beckman who reddened as he said to me, ‘It is not a jockey’s place to decide when a film should be viewed, that option rests with the stewards. Unfortunately, in this instance, we’ve had a technical problem which means the film will not be available. This case will be decided on the evidence of our own eyes and the testimony of those involved.’
Pompous bastard.
I noticed that Lisa Ffrench’s fingers stopped on her keyboard before Beckman finished speaking. I glanced at her. She looked bewildered for a second as she stared at Beckman before tapping in his final few words.
They listened as we put our cases: I as quietly and sensibly as I could, and Layton increasingly dramatically as he felt the verdict slipping away. At one point he asked if he could sit down as his injured foot was killing him.
They sent us out while they debated. I’d been confident going in that the video would clear me. The main thing in my favour was Layton’s reputation. Many of the Stewards believed he was crooked; they just couldn’t prove it.
Five minutes later we were still waiting. Jockeys weighed out for the next. The officials milled around, anxious to present the prize for the Greenalls. People were getting worried.
The door opened and Beckman motioned us in. He didn’t look pleased. I stood in front of the panel trying to guess from their faces. Deadpan.
Lord Cumbernauld spoke. ‘Without video corroboration we’ve had to take both your stories with a large pinch of salt and have reached a decision on our own’ – he glanced, rather coldly I thought, at Beckman – ‘and Mister Beckman’s recollection of the race. There is no doubt, Malloy, that you made the best of the situation after the last and that you had no intention of allowing Layton a clear run. However, you did keep a straight course and we’ve concluded that Mister Layton’s problems were of his own making. The result stands.’
Layton breathed sharply through his nostrils. I smiled at the panel and said, ‘Thank you.’ The chairman nodded and as we turned to leave said, ‘And Layton, since your injured foot is causing you so much pain we’ve also decided that you must pass the doctor before riding again.’
Layton swore quietly. I managed to suppress my laughter until I got outside where Layton ran through his repertoire of curses.
Pulsing with energy, feeling great, I changed into the black and red colours of my next mount, pausing only to shake hands and accept congratulations from the lads, especially the little team in my own corner. Hope for one meant hope for all.
Amid the laughter and horseplay and leg pulling, I felt as good as I had for five years. Gradually, over ten seconds or so, I was aware of the room becoming steadily quiet. From near the entrance, all the way down to where we were, the noise dried up like taps being turned off.
Along with everyone else I looked toward the main door. Bob Carter, the senior valet, a big imposing man, stood white-faced, mouth open, looking at us. When there was complete silence Bob said, ‘The police just found Tommy Gilmour’s body. He’s been murdered.’
6
Tommy had been shot once, between the eyes. A jogger had found his body in thick woods a mile from his hotel. It was a morbid group that filed out to ride in the next.
I’d been away from racing for five years. All I knew of Tommy Gilmour was that he was a nice guy, a solid pro who’d worked hard for the breaks. A quiet family man, who rarely socialized, he was liked and respected by everyone, but nobody seemed to know him well.
As we lined up at the start, my feelings were confused. I was the only one who’d benefited from Tommy’s death. I should have felt dreadful but didn’t.
There was sadness for him, but I couldn’t make it overcome the pleasure I felt from winning, and the new hope it had brought. And the schemer in me was hatching plans to try to take Tommy’s place at Barber’s.
The least I should have been able to find was a helping of guilt, and I realized how desperate I’d felt these last few months, how much my character had changed, how right Jackie had been about me.
Jackie. I hadn’t even phoned her with the good news. Maybe she’d have seen it on TV. I hoped not, that would make things worse. I resolved to ring her as soon as I got back in.
The starter raised his flag and we raced off into the gathering gloom.
Mine finished a distant seventh, and I dismounted the weary chestnut and headed for the warmth of the weighing room. The jag from stones through my paper-thin boot soles reminded me I’d had so few rides this season my feet hadn’t toughened. Perhaps all that would change now. Today might be the turning point.
Halfway across the tarmac, I saw someone approaching in a hurry. A couple of strides from me he said, ‘Eddie Malloy?’
I stopped. ‘That’s me.’
‘Good. I’m Clive Bannatyne from The Globe. Can I ask you a few questions?’
‘What about?’ I asked.
‘Winning the Greenalls.’
‘Sure.’
He said, ‘How does it feel to have won under such circumstances?’
‘Under what circumstances?’
‘The murder of the bloke who was supposed to ride the horse, you know, Gilmour, Tommy Gilmour?’
‘Who did you say you work for?’ I asked.
‘The Globe. Big circulation.’
Among those that liked sleaze with Sunday breakfast, I thought, but I would have to give him an answer. ‘I feel terrible for Tommy and his family. We all do, but we’re professionals and the only satisfaction I take from the race is that I did my job well.’
‘But it takes the shine off, is that what you’re saying?’ He stared at me, smiling and nodding in that inane way that reporters think encourages you to talk.
‘Of course it takes the shine off! You don’t see anybody celebrating, do you?’
He was scribbling. ‘Why would anyone want to kill Tommy Gilmour?’
‘How should I know? Why don’t you find who did it and ask him?’ I walked away. He fell in beside me and asked, ‘What do you think of the guy that did it?’
I stopped and glared at him, but he just stood, pencil poised, like a robot waiting for the next component. I said, ‘What do you think of him? He must be a lunatic!’
He nodded. ‘And do you think he’ll strike again?’
‘If he does I hope you’re there to witness it first-hand, which should save you asking people silly questions.’
I showered and changed before heading home. The victory party had, understandably, been cancelled. I concentrated on blocking thoughts of Tommy and decided to pick up a couple of bottles of champagne to surprise Jackie. It would be surprise enough for her to see me come in with a smile on my face. I’d phoned her before leaving the course, but the line was engaged. At least that meant she hadn’t left me.
We lived in an old hunting lodge in Leicestershire, leased to us by Henry Kravitz, an owner I rode for occasionally. He’d been very understanding about the rent.
The Lodge lay in flat countryside about three hundred yards off the main road. The wide drive leading to it was uneven and badly pot-holed in places. I bumped along through the darkness, pulling up quietly by the side wall of the building.
The only light through the windows was from a lamp in the living room. Softly I turned the handle on the heavy door. It was locked. That wasn’t like Jackie. I reached for my key.
The silence told me she’d gone. The phone was off the hook. The note was under the lamp, her looping handwriting in a pool of yellow light. “I looked in the mirror, Eddie, and a thirty-five-year-old woman stared back. You were killing me. I didn’t know it until this morning, and maybe you didn’t know it, but it was happening. I just want to be twenty-one again. I don’t have to be happy, I just want not to be dying. Jackie.”
Over the top as usual, typical Jackie. I smiled and folded the note, letting it flutter onto the table. She had an awful temper and became overwrought about the smallest things. Then she’d recover and go the other way, smotheringly loving. The mercurial highs a
nd lows had troubled me at first, but I was getting used to them. Confident she’d return in a day or two, I poured a drink, flopped into the chair and thought of our nine months together.
Last summer, we’d met when she’d discovered me lying in the road, badly wounded. I’d been helping The Jockey Club Security Department in a criminal case, one that helped me win back my jockey’s licence. She was eight years younger than me, and I’d warned her I could be a sullen bastard, hard to put up with when life wasn’t going right, but she reckoned she could change me.
I sat in the pale lamplight, in the cold of that big twelve-roomed house, consoled by the silence. I’d grown used to Jackie fussing around, usually in an effort to cheer me up after another bad day, but I found the hush, the peace, surprisingly welcome. I was alone again as I’d been for most of my life. Normal service resumed.
Then I felt guilty. She hadn’t much money…where had she gone? To her mother’s in Ireland? Did she have the fare? I could ring her there. It might be best to wait a few days, until we were missing each other. It would be easier then.
As I opened a fresh whiskey bottle, the phone rang.
7
The caller was Lisa Ffrench, the stenographer. ‘How’d you get my number?’ I asked.
‘Mutual friend. You heard about Tommy Gilmour?’
Her tone put me on the defensive. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I couldn’t believe it.’
‘Nor can Susan, his wife.’
‘You’ve seen her?’
‘I’m with her now. At her house. I came straight here from Haydock. She’s under heavy sedation.’
‘I didn’t realize you knew the Gilmours.’
‘I knew Susan before she met Tommy. We were at school together.’
I felt awkward. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘it must have come as a hell of a shock. They’ve got a couple of kids, haven’t they?’
‘One’s four, the other’s only two. We haven’t told them yet.’
