by Joe McNally
Kavanagh’s face hardened. ‘We need to talk to you Malloy.’
I struggled to push myself upright. Half-grunting, I said, ‘I know you need to talk to me, Kavanagh. I’m going home. Either follow us or come and see me after racing at Nottingham tomorrow. Even better, why don’t you travel with me in Mac’s car and you can do all your questioning on the way over? Help take my mind off the bumpy roads.’
He looked at McCarthy. ‘That okay with you?’
Mac shrugged. ‘Makes no difference.’
They left me to get changed, an exercise which made me think again about leaving hospital. Though my shoulders, back and thighs were heavily strapped and dressed I could feel the wounds pulling and straining at the stitches. Sweating and swearing, starting and stopping, I eventually got myself into Mac’s old cords, a tee-shirt and a jumper.
There was no mirror, but I felt as though I’d lived quite comfortably in these clothes then somebody forgot to feed me for three years. Too sore to open the curtains, I slipped through a gap and shuffled up the ward in a pair of old training shoes. Eyes swiveled from pillow height on either side as the other patients watched me weave along the floor, stooped like some demented hunchback, trying to hold the trousers tight at the waist without them touching my wounds.
I signed the discharge papers and, flanked by my visitors, started slowly down the long corridor, with them hoping silently, no doubt, that they wouldn’t meet anyone they knew and have to explain what they were doing with this ragged shambling lunatic.
30
Mac drove. Kavanagh slid in with me. Thankfully, Mac had remembered to pack the thick blanket I’d asked for to help pad my wounds on the journey. The pain itself was a throbbing pad, and when we hit a bad piece of road I had to stifle a moan. Mac would say sorry and I’d say don’t worry.
I was sweating again, and each time we passed under a street-lamp the orange light showed Kavanagh my twisted glistening face. ‘You okay?’
I nodded, not trusting my ears any more to keep me from crying once they heard how pathetic my voice sounded. Kavanagh said, ‘I’ll wait until we hit the motorway, before I ask you any questions.’
Jaw muscles clenched, I thanked him with my eyes, wondering if I’d stay conscious long enough to reach the motorway. I did and the smooth surface made things, if not painless, a good deal easier. Kavanagh looked at me. ‘Can we talk now?’ he asked.
I nodded. He said, ‘Mister McCarthy said the guy caught you at home, that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Friday night?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did he get in?
‘I don’t know. I’d just got home. There were no lights. I thought a fuse had blown, but when I went to check I saw the power had been switched off at the mains. Then, like, all at once I smelt the ether and felt a gun in my neck and a pad being clamped over my mouth. He was strong.’
‘Big?’
‘I think so.’
‘He say anything?’
‘No.’
‘Did you get a look at him?’
‘He put a hood on me, tied it to a chain collar.’ I swallowed, feeling a mild panic.
Kavanagh said, ‘How long were you unconscious?’
‘I don’t know. I woke up freezing cold, bollock naked…something made me think it was the early hours of Saturday morning but I couldn’t be sure.’
‘Tied up?’
‘Chained by the neck to the leg of a bench or a heavy table. Somewhere outside, an outhouse, a shed, or an old garage, maybe.’
‘You hear any sounds? Traffic? Trains? Aircraft?’
‘Nothing like that, though I was unconscious a lot of the time so there might have been. Just small animal noises, mice, birds and the smell of rotting vegetation. I remember that, you know that sort of sweet sickly smell?’
Kavanagh nodded, though I could see he was clueless. ‘Somewhere in the country, I’d guess,’ I said.
‘Why’d he dump you in a car park in the centre of Hereford, then? He could easily have been spotted. Why not on a country lane? A field? An old barn?’
‘Maybe he didn’t want to shit too close to his nest.’
‘The countryside’s a big place, Eddie.’
‘Look, I don’t know why he didn’t dump me, as you put it, somewhere else, I just don’t know!’
‘Okay, okay, no problem. When did he start on you with the whip?’
The burst of fear I felt when he mentioned it took me by surprise. I swallowed hard. My mouth dried up. I had to detach myself from the memory of it before I could tell him about the whippings. And about the tape loop.
‘What did it say?’ McCarthy asked.
‘It said, “Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling.”
Mac said, ‘Is that from the Bible?’
‘It’s worth checking,’ Kavanagh said, then, ‘We’ve got a real weird bastard here. What was the voice on the tape like? Would you recognize it again?’
‘Yes, but it wouldn’t count for anything, it was one of those put-on voices, like an impersonation of the devil, deep and sort of growly at the back of your throat. Something you’d do to scare the kids.’
Kavanagh said, ‘And the guy himself never spoke once?’
‘Not a word. Just grunts. He grunted hard and fast when he was really going at me, just before I passed out each time. I couldn’t make up my mind whether it was exertion that was making him grunt, I mean, or, well, it sounded almost sexual.’
‘A deviant,’ Kavanagh said.
‘Look, I’m just telling you the impression it left on me, which might not be all that dependable on account of me thinking I was being beaten to death. You could hardly say I was of sound mind at that particular point.’
Kavanagh nodded slowly and was quiet for a while. Then he said, ‘Know what? I don’t think this is our man.’
Mac said, ‘He’s got to be! Exact same modus operandi as Gilmour and Donachy. The note, the ether, the biblical stuff. Nobody else could have known about that. None of it’s been released to the press, has it?’
Kavanagh said it hadn’t. McCarthy asked me, ‘Have you mentioned it to anyone, Eddie?’
‘Not a soul.’
‘Well,’ McCarthy said, ‘the only person I’ve told is my boss, who probably told the senior steward. So unless it’s one of those two beating the shit out of you over the weekend then it’s got to have been our man.’
Kavanagh said, ‘A major difference in the guy’s m.o. from Gilmour and Donachy...he didn’t break Malloy’s leg and put a bullet through the middle of his forehead.’
‘There must be a reason for that,’ McCarthy said.
‘Yeah,’ Kavanagh said, ‘the reason is it’s not our man.’
McCarthy said, ‘No I just can’t agree with you. What do you think, Eddie?’
‘I’ll tell you one thing, when that ether pad went over my mouth and I remembered Gilmour and Donachy, I thought it was him all right! I thought I’d breathed my last.’
Kavanagh asked, ‘You still think it’s him?’
‘I don’t know. Did I tell you about the threat I received before the Gold Cup?’ They looked mystified. ‘The note?’ I prompted. Nothing. Obviously I’d forgotten to mention it. I filled in the details.
Kavanagh was angry because I hadn’t called them as soon as I’d read it. I was too sore and weary to argue, but we discussed the note and none of us could make up our minds whether it was connected with the murders, my abduction or anything else. Things were becoming more confusing.
Mac favoured the theory that it had been the killer who’d kidnapped me.
Kavanagh shook his head. ‘Nah, sorry, but it just doesn’t fit.’ He looked at Mac, catching his eyes in the rear-view mirror. ‘Do me a favour, Mister McCarthy, and just check with your boss and the senior steward if you can, if they’ve mentioned the notes or the ether to anyone else.’
Mac said, ‘I’m sure they won’t have.’
‘I’d be grateful if you’d
check, all the same.’
I couldn’t see Mac’s lips in the mirror, but his eyes told me they’d be pursed.
Kavanagh asked Mac to stop at a service station. Miller followed us in and Kavanagh transferred to his car, promising he’d send the forensic boys to the Lodge in the morning to pick up the Cheltenham note, and check the place over. He warned us to disturb as little as possible when we got back.
It was dark when we drew up at the Lodge. I cursed as I remembered I had no key, but Mac clicked the thumb-latch and the door, undisturbed since Friday night, creaked open.
My stomach turned over; I had to steel myself to follow Mac in. I told him where the mains box was and he fumbled his way forward, leaving me holding on to the door jamb in the blackness.
A heavy click then flaring lights blinding me. I narrowed my eyes and looked around. Nothing disturbed. Bag on the floor where I’d dropped it. No signs of a struggle. Then again, I hadn’t put up much of one.
It was cold. Mac built a fire and offered to make tea. I settled for a glass of water and some painkillers. Mac had agreed to spend the night in the Lodge. It was too far to drive to Lambourn, I suggested, but the real reason was that the memory of Friday made me scared. I needed someone with me.
Mac searched all the rooms and found a broken window at the side.
He got me upstairs and helped me undress. I was grateful for that and for his company.
He offered to sleep in the chair by the bed but he’d only have nagged me about wanting to ride next day so I sent him to his own room, took a sedative and slept restlessly until 8 a.m.
31
Along with my riding gear, I packed strong painkillers, determined not to take any until just before my first mount. After half an hour’s driving I was so sore I couldn’t lean against the soft velour.
I stopped, adjusted the seat and set off again perched on the edge, grimacing and sweating like a chronic constipation case. My pig-headed self was insisting I ride today, while my logical self laughed uproariously at the absurdity of the idea.
Nottingham racecourse is a flat, fair course with no tricky fences. I reckoned I had a good chance of getting Barber’s two horses home safely; maybe not in front but in one piece.
If I did have a fall, I hoped it would be soft. A fall I’d get up and walk away from, one which wouldn’t make the course doctor want to examine me. If he saw the state of my skin he’d ground me until it healed, and once I was grounded I was out of a job.
Standing by the weighing room I sipped black tea and watched my hot breath mist the air. From the top of my spine to the lowest wound on my right calf the soreness was pulsing now and I was trying to take my mind off it.
Things around the weighing room were getting busier; most of the jockeys and valets had arrived and I set about planning the best way to hide my injuries from them.
Tipping the last half-inch of tea onto the grass I turned to go inside when I heard Barber’s voice.
‘Eddie!’
Slowly I did an about-face and saw him hobbling toward me, his over-long white hair billowing like hovercraft skirts beneath his cap. He looked anxious. I cranked up what I hoped was a disarming smile.
He was red-faced, puffing, unbuttoning his long army coat to let the cooling wind in. ‘You okay?’ I asked.
‘Put in a bad weekend, Eddie, a bad weekend.’
I waited.
He went on. ‘I feel as if I’ve been fighting battles for you for years rather than bloody weeks and you’re never there to support me. Delaney’s been mouthing off again. He’s ringing round my other owners. They know what he’s like, which is lucky for you, but some of them are beginning to question my judgement.’
Up until now I’d been prepared to wing it, give Barber enough bullshit to try to get his commitment again, but I saw in his face hurt and puzzlement that I should keep letting him down. It was hardly my fault but Barber wasn’t to know that.
It came home to me that he had a life too, a career which no doubt meant as much to him as mine did to me. I was helping wash his down the tubes along with my own.
A combination of guilt and the brutal pain pushed me into a full confession. We went and sat by the empty parade ring and I told him exactly what had happened over the weekend, along with most of the other stuff, though with Kavanagh’s warning in mind I didn’t mention the notes or the ether.
As I talked I watched the trainer’s expression change down through aggravation, wonderment and relief, to sympathy.
He said, ‘Jesus, Eddie, I knew there had to be good reasons. I knew you wouldn’t just have let me down.’
‘It’s the last thing I’d want to do. Look, you’d better book someone else for these two of yours today.’
‘You’re feeling that bad?’
I nodded. ‘I could just about stay on them, I think, but there’s no way I could give them a proper ride. I’ve messed you about long enough, Mister Barber, you’ve got yourself and your owners to think about.’
The relief in his eyes, the acknowledgement that he needn’t argue me out of it, told me I’d done the right thing.
He gently squeezed my arm. ‘Take some time to recover, Eddie, I’ll keep the job open. How long do you think before you heal?’
‘A week maybe, I don’t know.’
‘No problem. A week, two weeks, whatever, don’t worry.’
‘Thanks, Hubert.’
I’d no doubt he meant it, but the man who said a week’s a long time in politics ought to be told it can be a bloody eternity in racing. In the course of a week, Barber might have twenty runners. If whoever took my place rode a few winners, Barber would be under strong pressure from his owners to keep the new guy on.
He was still holding my arm, looking sympathetic. I smiled, ‘Go and book someone for those two horses, Mister Barber, or you’ll be too late.’
‘Right. Fine.’ He stood up, glad to be escaping. ‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do, Eddie. Keep in touch.’
I sat still, the pain fading as the realization of what I’d done sunk in. Unless Barber’s yard suddenly hit a bad patch, I’d probably just offered my resignation as stable jockey.
Back to square one. And what a bloody lonely square it would be.
I felt better having come clean with Barber, but even that satisfaction was tainted with the knowledge that by race time I wouldn’t have been able to get into the saddle anyway. As the day had worn on, the pain had worsened, bringing cold sweats at visions of someone back slapping to wish me luck or congratulate me.
Slowly, I stood up. What the hell, I was alive, still breathing. Square one wasn’t exactly unfamiliar territory. I’d survive.
Wearily, achingly, I set off to pick up my kit, swallow some painkillers and try to gee myself up for the drive. My skin creaked and stung as I walked and I promised it two days of me lying motionless on my front if only it would ease off.
I told my valet I wasn’t feeling too good. He helped me get my stuff together and I thanked him by deftly dodging his sympathetic hand aimed at my shoulder. Mumbling something about a jarred collarbone, I apologised and headed for the door. As I reached to open it, someone came through from the other side. It was the course doctor. He was in a hurry.
‘Sorry!’ he said as he rushed past then, stopping quickly, ‘Eddie! You’re the man I’m looking for.’
I knew Doctor Donnelly well enough to recognize his suspicious look. I had a brief stab at a defence, ‘Sorry, Doc, but I was off home... can it wait?’
He half-smiled. ‘Just a few minutes of your time, Edward.’
I walked alongside the doctor to the ambulance room. He had hollow cheeks and a wide, light brown moustache stained in the centre by nicotine. He spoke. ‘Unlike you to leave early, not feeling well?’
‘Felt better.’ I was about to plead flu but realized it was hopeless.
‘Where are you living now?’ he asked.
‘Leicester. Henry Kravitz’s old place.’
‘God, I haven’
t seen Henry for ages, how is he?’
‘Haven’t seen him myself for a while.’
We went into the warm room, all drab greens and browns rather than hospital whites, but the smells were there. Doctor Donnelly closed the door.
‘Sit down,’ he said.
Trying to hide the pain, I lowered myself into a hard plastic chair, resting on the edge. He looked at me. ‘Sit back, Eddie, relax.’
I looked at him. ‘All right, Doc, who told you?’
‘That’s not important.’
‘It is to me.’
‘It’s for your own good, Eddie.’
‘I know what’s for my own good, that’s why I’m taking a couple of days off.’
‘From what I’ve heard you might need longer.’
He sat comfortably, legs crossed, arms folded, honest brown eyes waiting for my next weak offering.
‘I’ll be okay in a day or two,’ I said.
‘You sure?’
‘Positive.’
‘You won’t mind if I take a look then?’
‘Doc, listen-’
‘Eddie,’ his voice softened, ‘it’s my job. Your job is riding horses, mine is trying to make sure you don’t kill yourself in the process. Jockeys are not of sound mind. You know that and I know that. Now, I have to take a look at your back.’
I hung my head, rubbed my eyes, stared at the floor. ‘I don’t think I can get my shirt off.’ I said quietly.
‘I’ll help you.’
I’d put on two shirts in case blood leaked from the bandages. It had, in big patches on both shirts and through to my sweater. After calling me a crazy, crazy bastard several times, he managed, with the help of a pain killing jab, to change my dressings.
Then he took my medical book and stood me down for fourteen days, no argument. ‘Get a lot of rest, make sure the dressings are changed every forty-eight hours, and come and see me in two weeks.’
The Grand National was in two weeks. Not that I was likely to be offered a ride. Not now.
‘Doc, do me a favour, tell me who reported me?’
He shook his head. ‘Someone who obviously had your best interests at heart.’
