by Joe McNally
He smiled. ‘You’ll be riding for me as long as you want.’
I looked at the big open face, knowing how hard he’d probably had to fight to keep me on. Offering my hand, I said, ‘Thanks, Mister Barber.’
He shook it. ‘I’m only sorry it’s worked out like this, Eddie.’
‘Forget it. I’m sure something’ll turn up in a week.’
‘Hope so.’
Opening the door, I stepped to the ground. ‘See you later, Mister Barber.’
‘Eddie…’
I looked at him.
‘…we’ve decided to run Great Divide in the Gold Cup. If the police find Tommy’s killer by then, you ride.’
I smiled, nodded, not sure what to say. Pushing the door closed I raised a hand in acknowledgement and saw Barber’s smile widen.
I sat in my car listening to the rhythm of the rain on the roof and thinking about a week today. The Cheltenham Gold Cup was the biggest steeplechase of the year, and Great Divide had a strong chance of winning. That would put me right back in the spotlight.
Perhaps the cops could use a little assistance.
I rang McCarthy. We arranged to meet at Sandown next day.
I spent half the evening going through cuttings in the offices of the Gloucester Crier. I knew their racing reporter, Guy Webster.
Tommy Gilmour, an Irishman, had lived in Gloucester since getting married seven years previously. A local hero, there were numerous articles on him, most written by Webster and all churning out the same adulatory prose.
Webster had gone to the pub, though I had strict instructions to return the cuttings to Benny in the Library. Benny was small, thin, bald and doleful looking. He took the folder from me. ‘Find what you wanted?’
‘Afraid not.’
He moved away between the racks and slid the folder back onto its shelf. I called after him, ‘Tell Guy Webster I said thanks, will you?’
He nodded, turning. ‘Was it Webster’s stuff you were going through?’
‘Yeah, some articles on Tommy Gilmour.’
‘The bloke that was murdered?’
‘That’s right. Did you know him?’
Benny stuck his hands in the pockets of his brown cardigan and pulled out a tobacco tin. ‘I didn’t myself, but Webster knew him well. Gilmour was the reason he got his job here.’
‘How come?’
‘Webster’s predecessor wrote a story on Gilmour and they spiked it. He took the hump and walked out.’
‘Spiked?’
‘Binned. Not published.’
‘Why not?’
He shrugged. ‘Dunno.’
‘What was the reporter’s name?’
‘I can’t remember. He was an Aussie. I heard he went back there shortly after chucking the job.’
‘Back to Australia?’
‘So I heard.’
‘Why did he get so upset about one story not being printed?’
He shook his head, frowning as he concentrated on rolling a cigarette. ‘Don’t know. All hush-hush.’
‘You must have heard a whisper of what the story was about?’
The tip of his tongue came out and he drew the paper along, put the cigarette in his mouth and stood up patting at his pockets. ‘What did I do with those matches?’
I waited. He found them and lit up, then said, ‘I think it was something to do with the IRA.’
I went to the pub to find Webster. He remembered the story.
‘Why wouldn’t they print it?’
‘Tommy was our local hero and the piece was just tittle-tattle. Tommy had been stopped by the cops at Fishguard once after he’d been home to Ireland for a family party. During the visit, he’d stupidly gone to see a cousin of his who was supposedly linked with the IRA.’
‘Supposedly?’
‘More than supposedly, I guess,’ said Webster, ‘the cousin was in the Maze when Tommy went to see him.’
‘The Maze prison?’
‘The Maze, Long Kesh, H Blocks, whatever you want to call it.’
‘Was Tommy’s cousin in the IRA?’
‘He’d been convicted of ambushing a military convoy.’
‘So what happened to Tommy?’
‘They held him for the weekend under the Prevention of Terrorism act, took his car apart searching for weapons or drugs or cash then had to let him go.’
‘When did all this happen?’
‘Hmm. Would be about four years back.’
‘Any follow up by the police?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘His cousin still in prison?’
‘Who knows?’
16
My ride at Sandown next day finished unplaced, and I didn’t hang around the weighing room afterward. I was hoping McCarthy would have something for me. We sat in a little office-cum-store-room, uncomfortably warm. McCarthy, sweating, tried to open a window but it was jammed. He took off his jacket, loosened his tie and sat down, belly straining at his shirt buttons.
‘Thought you had clout,’ I said. ‘Couldn’t you get a better place than this?’
‘It’s not mine. We don’t have an office on-course, we need to take whatever’s free.’
‘Only winding you up, Mac, take it easy.’
He looked tense.
‘So the cops have nothing to go on?’ I asked.
‘Not a jot. Most murders are domestic, committed by someone known to the victim. If they can’t pin it down within that framework, it gets pretty tough for them.’
‘Hence the reason they’ve been hassling me.’
‘I wouldn’t take it personally.’
‘You would if you were the one getting hassled.’
‘Don’t get paranoid, Eddie.’
I hadn’t told him about Gilmour and the IRA story. There seemed to be nothing in it and exposing it would probably stir up trouble for Tommy’s widow.
I said, ‘I think you should ask Inspector Sanders to run his fine-tooth comb over Gilmour’s belongings again. His car, his clothes and bags, his hotel room.’
‘What for? It’s all been done.’
‘Because until such time as it is proved otherwise, I’m assuming the note through my door came from the murderer. And, as I said to the cops, a guy who writes cryptic notes for one quite probably does for all.’
‘I don’t disagree with you, Eddie, but they’ve looked and can’t find.’
‘Tell them to look again.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Wasn’t there anything else?’ I asked. ‘What was the exact gun model? Was he only shot once? Had he tried to fight back?’
McCarthy, sweating freely, said, ‘They found ether in his lungs. His right leg had been broken at the knee.’
‘Had been broken or was broken in the struggle?’
‘Broken deliberately, they think, with a blunt instrument, a few minutes before he died.’
Frowning, I looked at Mac. ‘What the hell would anybody want to do that for?’
Mac shrugged. ‘Who knows? Maybe Gilmour was fighting back?’
‘So why didn’t the guy just shoot him?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I mean, if he wanted to make Gilmour suffer for some reason, why not break his leg a few hours before shooting him?’
‘Eddie, I don’t know. I wish I did.’
‘What about the ether, can’t the forensic boys trace the source?’
‘Ether’s ether. Tell me a brand name you know?’ Mac ran his shirtsleeve across his hot wet brow. ‘God, I need to get out of here.’
‘Lose some weight,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t sweat so much.’
‘Give me a break, you’re as bad as Jean.’
‘Did I ever tell you that story about the country hick who became an American football star?’
‘The one where he says, Gee, you sure don’t sweat much for a fat broad?’
‘I told you it.’
‘More than once.’
‘It’s a true story.’
&
nbsp; ‘Apocryphal, Eddie, apocryphal.’
‘Bless you.’
‘Very funny. Are you ready?’
‘As I’ll ever be.’
I smiled. Mac rose and reached for his jacket. He said, ‘You’re pretty jaunty for somebody holding a threatening note from a murderer.’
‘I’m planning to get him before he gets me.’
‘Well you’d better hope he doesn’t have that Beretta stuck in his waistband.’
‘I’ll be careful.’
We went out into the March wind and Mac sighed with relief at the cool air. Together we walked to the car park.
I said, ‘Have you seen Mrs Gilmour yet?’
‘I’m seeing her on Tuesday.’
‘Have the police spoken to her?’
‘Of course.’
‘Bet they didn’t ask if Tommy got a strange note in the post during the past few weeks.’
Mac, flush-faced, looked at me. ‘I’ll find out.’
Driving home, I cursed myself for my stupidity in handing over that note and diary. I should have photocopied every page. There could have been something in there, something as cryptic as the note itself, and I had barely skimmed it.
Where were Gilmour’s things, his clothes and stuff? Maybe they’d been returned to his wife. Would she let me search them? What about the hotel room, perhaps I could get in there for a look around? If McCarthy introduced me to this big shot inspector, that might help.
I phoned him when I got in. He said it couldn’t do any harm and that he’d arrange a meeting.
17
Detective Inspector Sanders agreed to meet McCarthy and me on the Sunday. Mac picked me up and we headed north.
Sanders was macho and handsome; six foot two, fiftyish but athletic looking, with short iron-grey hair and matching precision-trimmed moustache, perfect eyebrows, square jaw, high cheekbones and eyelids one-third closed over striking brown eyes. I’d bet he’d had some women trouble in his time.
He led us into his office which was immaculate and smelled of polish. Above his desk was a picture of Sanders shaking hands with the Prime Minister. He took my coat and hung it on a wooden stand in the corner. He wheeled two comfortable seats up for us, then a young cop brought a silver tray with tea on it.
Sanders, smiling thanked the kid then, anxious to reinforce his “I might be a big shot who looks like a movie-star but I’m really just one of the boys” image, he poured tea for us, insisting on doing the milk and sugar too.
McCarthy explained about me and how I was involved, and Sanders, finger and thumb stroking his moustache in opposite directions, smiled and nodded, sharing his attention between Mac and me as he listened.
Sanders said to me, ‘I believe you’ve met two of my men, DS Kavanagh and DS Miller?’
‘I’ve had the pleasure twice,’ I said.
‘Fine policemen,’ he said.
‘I was impressed,’
He nodded, ignoring the sarcasm. ‘And you’re giving The Jockey Club some help on this one from their side?’
Which meant be a good boy and stay out from under our feet. Mac and I glanced at each other and I said to Sanders, ‘I’ve got a vested interest as you probably know, but we were sort of hoping that the police and The Jockey Club could work together.’
He straightened and tilted his head back. ‘Of course. We’d be glad to have any input from you.’
Mac, to his credit, stepped in. ‘Absolutely, Inspector, but we would be seeking reciprocation. Two heads, after all, are better than one, even if they’re sheep’s heads, that’s what I always say.’
The inspector’s eyes hardened. I don’t think he cared for the farmyard comparison. Just as well McCarthy hadn’t made it pigs. He dug up a condescending smile and said, ‘We’ll help wherever we can.’
I said, ‘Can I ask if you’ve had a chance to go over Tommy Gilmour’s things again?’
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘in search of the elusive note?’
I nodded.
‘If your involvement with this case lasts any great length, Mister Malloy, I think you’ll find that I have one of the most thorough and professional teams in the country.’
‘I don’t doubt it, but you wouldn’t expect them to be perfect, would you? Something could have been missed first time round.’
He considered me. The smile was still on his mouth but his eyes hardened. ‘I don’t think so, Mister Malloy, but I’ll bear your suggestion in mind.’
I sat up, leaned forward and said, ‘I hate to be a nuisance but I’m convinced there’s a very strong chance that there is another note. Would you have any objection to me going through Gilmour’s things? His car, hotel room?’
He looked at me, long and hard. Mac shifted nervously. Sanders said, ‘I don’t think that would be the best idea right at this moment.’
‘With respect,’ I said, ‘I don’t have a lot of time to waste. Unless I can do something by Thursday morning to prove I was not involved with Gilmour’s death, then I can probably say goodbye to what remains of my career.’
That made him smile properly. He said, ‘You have my sympathy but my career depends on catching criminals, not rehabilitating jockeys back into the community.’
Police-speak for helping ex-jailbirds and he knew I knew it. I didn’t see much point in humouring him or trying to be Mister Nice-Guy anymore. I said, ‘Well, I hope I have the chance some day of influencing your career.’
He smiled, ‘I do think that’s most unlikely, Mister Malloy.’
The meeting ended shortly after that with Sanders, courteous again, accompanying us to the main door. Halfway along the corridor, I realized I’d forgotten my coat and went back for it.
Hurrying through the rain to the car, we set off toward the M6. Mac’s car was at my place. I was driving.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘bet that was worth coming all the way from Lambourn for?’
‘The only decent bloody meal Jean cooks these days is Sunday lunch. To think I missed it to sit listening to that pompous bastard. And you did your usual, wound him up. He might not have been so bad if you hadn’t.’
‘What’d you expect me to do? He’s sitting there as though he has all the time in the world to catch this guy. What am I supposed to say? Come on, Mac!’
‘You’ll have to learn some diplomacy.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘Enough said.’
Mac moped. The only sound was rain on the roof and the sloshing of tyres, then he realized we were travelling east. Spotting a road sign through the swinging wipers, he said, ‘You’re going the wrong way.’
‘I know.’
‘We want to go south.’
‘Not yet we don’t.’
He said wearily, ‘Eddie, where are we going?’
‘To a place that does a very nice lunch. And if you promise not to moan at me too much, I won’t tell Jean you broke your diet.’
‘I haven’t.’
‘You will.’
18
The Green Manor Hotel was only a couple of miles from Haydock Racecourse. It was the last place Tommy Gilmour had stayed. As I turned the car through the gates, tyres crunching across the gravel, Mac said, ‘Please tell me you’re not planning what I think you’re planning?’
Swinging the car into a parking spot, I smiled. ‘Needs must when the devil drives.’
He moaned softly and got out.
McCarthy ordered lunch while I found a phone and called Lisa Ffrench.
Over thick, grilled fillet steaks, McCarthy tried to convince me it was most unwise trying to get into Gilmour’s room.
‘It might not be a good idea but I’m going to do it, and if I don’t find anything, I’m going to Tommy’s house tonight to check out his car and his personal gear.’
‘The police will still have that stuff.’
‘Uh-uh,’ I mumbled, mid-chew. ‘They returned it to Mrs Gilmour last Friday.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘One of the lads told me.’ I had to k
eep Lisa out of this, for her sake.
He shook his head. ‘There’s no way they’ll let you into Gilmour’s room.’
‘Want to bet?’ I smiled.
‘You’ve got one of your stories cooked up.’
‘Better than that.’
He saw the mischief in my eyes and said, ‘I don’t think I want to know.’
I chuckled. ‘How’s your steak?’
‘It tastes great. It’s the indigestion that’s worrying me now.’
‘Relax, I’ll make sure you come out squeaky clean.’
‘I make a point of being wary of people who advise me to relax.’
‘Could’ve been worse. I might have said, trust me.’
He chewed in silence until his curiosity beat him. ‘How do you plan to get in?’
‘You still carry that nice big fountain pen?’ I asked. Puzzled, he nodded slowly. ‘Can I borrow it a second?’
‘What for?’
Reaching into my jacket pocket, I took out a piece of folded paper and pushed it across to him. He shook it open; it was blank except for the official heading of the Greater Northern Police Force. McCarthy closed his eyes for a few moments, his head sinking steadily.
When he looked up again I smiled and said, ‘Remember when I forgot my coat?’
‘You stole this from Sanders’ office?’
I shrugged. ‘It was lying around. I was tidying up.’
‘I didn’t see anything lying around.’
‘Top drawer, right hand side,’ I said, smiling.
Eventually I persuaded Mac to lend me his pen. He gave it to me with his ritual ‘I am washing my hands of this’ look.
Leaning on the wine list I wrote the request to the Duty manager, and signed it “Inspector Eric Sanders”.
‘Want to see this?’ I asked McCarthy.
‘No, thanks. If you get caught, you’re on your own.’
‘Mac, whatever happens, you know I wouldn’t drop you in it.’
He got up, ‘I’ll be in the bar.’
I was wearing my only suit with a white shirt and navy tie. Clean-shaven and sombre looking, I handed the note to the duty manager whose badge said his name was Christopher.
He turned to the girl behind the desk, ‘Anyone in two-ten, Joanna?’
