by Joe McNally
‘Mac,’ I said, ‘I think you’ve cracked it.’
40
Lisa had put her pen down and was watching me. Mac said, ‘You think this guy works at one of these labs?’
‘The opposite,’ I said, ‘I think he raids them. Probably burns them down.’
Mac said quietly, ‘Animal Rights.’
I sat smiling, cradling the phone and doodling. Lisa’s questioning frown asked if she could be let into the secret. Teasing her a while longer, I said to Mac, ‘Makes sense, doesn’t it?’
‘Maybe.’
‘No maybes. I’ll bet each of the victims has been involved with a horse being killed on the racecourse.’
‘That’s not saying much,’ Mac argued. ‘If he was killing people on that basis, we’d be piling the corpses pretty high.’
‘Maybe he’s just started, Mac.’
I could almost hear him shiver down the line. ‘Don’t say that, Eddie.’
I said, ‘Look at the evidence. Let’s assume for a minute I’m correct. What happens when a horse breaks a leg?’
‘It gets destroyed, shot.’
‘Where?’
‘Between the eyes.’
‘Right. Now suppose this madman has decided someone is directly responsible for each horse death. What would be his idea of perfect revenge? Letting them suffer the exact same fate! Break a limb, leave them writhing in agony for about as long as it would take to get a vet there, then put them out of their misery with a bullet in the forehead.’
Knowing it was the best theory so far, we kicked it around a while longer, aware that we had to narrow the field. Mac had a point; anything up to a thousand horses had probably died on racecourses in the past decade. Somehow this guy had to be fining it down. We had to uncover his method of selection.
Watching Lisa as we talked, I saw she’d picked up the thread. She started working through the form books.
Mac asked me to ring Hubert Barber and find out if any of his recent fatalities had been ridden by Tommy Gilmour. He said he’d contact Jeff Rowlands and Donachy’s main retainer with the same question.
He hung up. I held the receiver, ready to phone Barber. I smiled at Lisa. ‘Guess you caught the gist of that.’
‘Uh-huh,’ she said, not looking up from her book.
I said ‘What are you doing?’
She looked at me from beneath her dark eyebrows. ‘Sleuthing,’ she said, ‘Is that what you call it?’
I nodded, smiling, and dialled Barber’s number. He was out. I put the receiver down waiting for Mac to call. Lisa was engrossed in the form book.
‘Sleuthed anything?’ I asked.
‘I have, actually.’
I smiled again, relaxed in her company, happy in the glow of success. Lisa glanced up. ‘You look like the cat that’s got the cream,’ she said.
I nodded. ‘Double helpings.’
She turned another page, tracing a finger down it and said, ‘Shouldn’t start licking my chops just yet.’
‘Why not?’
She closed the book, threw back her hair, tidying it with her fingers, then rested her chin in cupped hands. She said, ‘You want to know how this guy’s targeting people?’
‘Mac should be calling in about two minutes with that info.’ I said.
‘I’ll tell you now, if you want, who he’s going for and in what order.’
‘I’m listening.’
She tossed her hair again. ‘Well, it’s sort of good news and bad news.’
I waited.
‘His target is people involved with horses killed in the Grand National. He’s taking them in chronological order, in reverse. Tommy last year, Donachy’s horse was destroyed the previous year, and one trained by Rowlands, a grey incidentally, hence the “pale horse” quote, the year before that.’
I was staring at her now. ‘Brilliant!’ I said, and moved quickly down beside her. She showed me the pages, carefully marked. I read through. She was right.
‘How did you twig it? I asked.
‘The Grand National’s only about ten days away, it was in my mind. There’s always some sort of protest there anyway, so it was a good bet for the first shot. I hit lucky.’ She smiled, pleased but not triumphant. I’d have been doing handsprings. I felt like kissing her but thought she might consider it patronising.
I tried to get back to a business-like tone. ‘So we also know who’s lined up next?’
‘That’s the bad news.’
I could tell by her eyes. ‘Me?’ I asked.
She nodded.
‘Can’t be,’ I said, lifting the books again. ‘I didn’t ride the year before Rowlands or the year before that.’
‘No fatalities in either of those Nationals,’ Lisa said. ‘In the previous race there were three. You rode one of them.’
My mind rolled through six years... Mylah, big black beast, took a horrible fall at Becher’s, broke his neck.
Lisa arms folded, watched me. ‘Who were the other two jocks?’ I asked.
She glanced at her notes. ‘A. Crawford and M. Pelham.’
I remembered. ‘Alan’s retired,’ I said, ‘Mark is still riding.’
‘Well we’d better get in touch with them pretty damn fast.’
I dialled McCarthy’s number - no answer. I rang Kavanagh while Lisa scanned the paper to see where Pelham was riding today. Kavanagh, as usual, was about as receptive as a rubber lightning rod. I said, ‘Look, it’s the best theory we’ve got by far.’ I told him Pelham was at Sandown and that he’d better organize protection.
Finding Alan Crawford was going to be more difficult. Many ex-jockeys stay in racing but, from what I could remember, Crawford had disappeared altogether. I told Kavanagh what I knew of him, which wasn’t much, and said I’d try and get more info from McCarthy.
I rang him – no answer.
Lisa had the form books open again. I said, ‘Take a break. You’ve done enough.’
She didn’t look up. ‘Might as well keep tracing through the Nationals, see how long a list we’re facing.’
‘I’ll give you a hand,’ I said, and hauled another decade of books off the shelf.
Opening the first one near the middle, I sprayed page-edges off my thumb at a hundred a second until I reached early April and the three-day Grand National meeting.
The next half-hour of searching was interspersed with companionable mumbling and throwaway comments that sought no response stronger than a grunt or an ‘Mmmm’. When another name was added to the list I’d picture the face. Very few were unfamiliar to me. Lisa knew her fair share too.
I rang McCarthy again. Still nothing. Back to the books, silent for a long spell. Lisa stopped once and said, ‘You know Rowlands? I wonder why he killed the trainer rather than the jockey?’
It was a good point. We ploughed on. Making notes, and passing quiet comments. After a while Lisa said, ‘Eddie, I’m tempted to quit my job and take this work up full time.’
I smiled. ‘It doesn’t pay too good. What would you live on?’
‘How about half of the reward money for finding David Cooper?’
‘And how long do you think that’s going to take?’
She brandished a form book. ‘Not long at all because, courtesy of this little book, I know where he is …well, not his exact location, but he’s with the killer.’
I waited.
She said, ‘He abducted David by mistake.’
‘Who did he mean to get?’
‘Rowlands’ horse wasn’t the only one to die in the race three years ago. A Mister D. Cooper’s horse fell at Valentine’s and broke a shoulder. Cooper was an amateur in his early forties. I remember reading an article about him. He retired at the end of that season.’
I stared at her. ‘He’s got the wrong man.’
‘That’s why his corpse hasn’t turned up.’
‘Yet.’
Lisa said, ‘Think he knows about the reward money?’
‘Bound to.’
‘Fifty grand b
uys a hell of a lot of ammunition.’
41
We had a meeting that evening at the Lodge. McCarthy, Kavanagh and Miller came.
It went smoothly apart from the occasional belches of sourness from the two cops, pissed off at being beaten to it. Protection had already been arranged for Mark Pelham. Alan Crawford was tracked down working in a stud in Dubai. The Sheikh who owned the place promised him two bodyguards. Lisa had come up with seven more names from the last ten Grand Nationals; Mac’s department and the cops were trying to trace them.
The debate was whether to give all of them police protection. If the killer stuck to chronological order everyone else was safe until Pelham, Crawford and I were dead.
Kavanagh said with some satisfaction, ‘You’ll need a babysitter too, Malloy.’
Resisting a sarcastic reply, I nodded, ‘Fine.’ Kavanagh rang Sanders, his boss, and told him we wanted to keep the Animal Rights connection from the media for the moment. Sanders gave us forty-eight hours. He was being pressed for results and was anxious to publish news of progress.
We decided not to tell Jack Cooper about his son in case he hired a posse to round up every known AR activist in the country.
Beckman’s name was mentioned, but McCarthy was confident he’d never shown any leanings toward Animal Rights.
Miller told us about a special department at Scotland Yard which had a file called ARNI, Animal Rights National Index. ARNI held details of all AR people known to the police. Miller and Kavanagh planned to go there next day for a full briefing.
‘Can we have another meeting after you’ve been there?’ I asked.
Kavanagh said, ‘We’ll see,’ but his cold look meant, no, we can’t. I suggested asking Mark Pelham to help us trap the murderer by pulling his bodyguard away and having a team follow him unobtrusively.
‘Why don’t you be the stool-pigeon, Malloy?’ Miller asked, ‘you’re pretty good at volunteering others for dangerous jobs.’
I said, ‘I’d be happy to, but if the guy’s working in strict chronological order backwards then he’ll try for Pelham before me. He was last to fall.’
Mac said, ‘You really think he’ll be that thorough?’
I shrugged. ‘He’s been pretty precise so far. Breaking the exact bone each horse had broken, leaving them to suffer for about as long as it would take to get a vet there. He even chose a quote for Rowlands that fitted the colour of the dead horse. I think we’re dealing with a very picky man.’
Overruling my protests that they might at least consult Pelham, they threw the idea out, though they did agree to my shadowing Pelham for the next few days.
McCarthy thought that was a bad move. ‘You’re offering the killer two birds with one stone.’
‘There’ll be a bodyguard there too, Mac,’ I reminded him, ‘it won’t be easy to take three of us.’
‘But you obviously think he’ll try, or you wouldn’t be tagging along.’
I shrugged. ‘It’ll pass a day or two until we’ve got some solid information together on the Animal Rights people.’
He didn’t like it any better, but said no more. He was tired and hungry and wanted to get home. By eleven, they’d all gone. I called Lisa to give her an update and mentioned I felt guilty she’d had no credit for her detective work.
‘Don’t be daft,’ she said, ‘you sussed what the motive was, not me. I only filled in a few blanks.’
‘Still,’ I said, ‘I’d like to have told them tonight how brilliant you were. I’m, well, I don’t mean this to sound patronising, but I’m proud of you.’
There was silence for a moment then she said quietly, ‘I know what you mean, Eddie. I’m proud of you too. I’ve had more satisfaction, I was going to say fun but it’s not really the right word, more... fulfilment out of this than from anything I’ve done in my life.’
‘Well, I’d still have been blundering blindly if it wasn’t for you.’ I was about to tell her she was a wasted talent sitting typing out the crap that’s spouted in Enquiries, but it wouldn’t take much to push her into quitting her job, a dangerous decision to make on the back of seventy-two hours of adrenaline.
‘Do you intend to stay with Mark Pelham, sort of, twenty-four-seven?’ She asked.
‘Probably. We’ll need to see how it goes. I’ll keep you up to date as best I can.’
‘I’m not worried about that. I’ve got some plans. I’ll spend tomorrow morning with Susan and in the afternoon I’ll ferret out, if that’s the right word, my local Animal Rights Group and see if they want a new member.’
‘Lisa, no, look-’
‘Eddie. Shhh! I’m doing it. I’m in now. I faxed my resignation across this afternoon.’
42
I drove to Haydock next day, reaching the course as Mark Pelham went out for his third ride.
I watched him throughout the race, crouched nervously behind his mount’s head in a much lower style than usual. Vehicles using the M6 were easily visible from the far side of the track, and the thought of what a particularly loud backfire might do to Pelham’s sphincter brought a smile.
He finished third, and I moved down from the stand to walk in alongside him. Seeing me he nodded briefly. His tightly strapped riding helmet gave him premature forehead wrinkles and squeezed a few dark curls out behind his ears. Nervously, he studied the faces in the crowd. A couple of times he turned to glance behind. Veins stood out in his neck, and I could see the clear beat of a pulse there. His white breeches bore mud and grass-stains, which told me he’d had a fall.
Standing by the entrance to the winner’s enclosure, Kavanagh watched Pelham come in on the dark, steaming horse. Then Kavanagh saw me and looked perplexed, though he didn’t speak. Pelham guided his mount into third spot and vaulted down. His trainer and the horse’s owner asked him how it had gone, and must have been surprised to find him clutching their arms and gathering them around him in a human shield.
I hoped for Pelham’s sake that whatever was in store would happen soon. His nerves wouldn’t take many more days like this. I drifted over and stood beside Kavanagh. He spoke from the corner of his mouth looking at me.
‘What do you want, Malloy?’
‘Just wondered if all was quiet on the Western Front. Pelham looks a bit nervous.’
‘And you’re so cool.’
‘That wasn’t what I meant.’
‘Listen, you shouldn’t be talking to me. For all you know the killer could be watching.’
‘So?’
‘He might suss that I’m a cop.’
‘Think that would make any difference?’
‘Piss off, Malloy.’
‘What about my protection?’
‘Stick with Pelham until we get a chance to talk. His bodyguard’s the guy across there in the dark coat and glasses.’
‘With the silvery tie?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Fine. I’ll stay by the weighing room and wait for Mark.’
I stood it for about two hours then realized why Pelham’s nerves were shredded. Kavanagh and the bodyguard behaved as though they expected the gunman to walk round the next corner, step from a doorway, spring from behind a tree, drop from the roof, pop up through a drain. The tension stretched between them like a fraying hawser. Sooner or later it had to snap.
If this was what protection did to you, I told Kavanagh, I didn’t want it. He made me sign a disclaimer and I left at five and returned to the Lodge.
I rang Lisa. No answer. Something else for me to worry about. I moped for a while wondering about the wisdom of refusing a bodyguard. With Pelham being watched closely, the murderer might take the easy option and come for me.
He had a gun. At least one. What did I have? A metal baseball bat. It could crack your skull, cave your ribs in, but I wouldn’t swing it quite so fast with a bullet in my head. Or with my lungs full of ether.
The sweet pungency came back to me.
Where was Beckman?
Why did the killer use ether? You stick
a gun in someone’s face, they tend to be reasonably obedient. Why knock them unconscious?
Maybe he had to set them up in a certain position for limb breaking. What did he use, a hammer? He’d have to put his gun down then, I suppose, to hit them. Was that why he used the anaesthetic?
I unhooked the bat from the coat stand, comforted by the heft of it in my palm, squeezing the rubber grip. Opening the door, I took it outside and walked to the rear of the building twirling the bat as I went, watching the sun glint off its swollen stainless-steel end.
Only twitches of pain now from the ten-day-old wounds. I widened the arc of the swing, gripping one-handed then double, turning and crouching, imagining a bone-rending connection with the murderer, or Beckman. I had to get Beckman whatever else happened.
By the shed in the garden lay a heap of bulging black refuse sacks. I brought the bat down hard on the top one and it burst, spraying out long-dead leaves.
The wind helped suck them through the gaping hole, then blew them in all directions. I spun and whirled, turned and dived, swinging the bat at the flying leaves like a maniac trying to swat a swarm of locusts, keeping it up until all the leaves had gone.
I stood panting, laughing, half-moaning as my back ached and the wind ruffled my hair then patted it down as though saying, try again some other time, little boy.
Evening. Alone in the Lodge. Waiting. I couldn’t settle. It seemed strange without Lisa. Where was she? How was she? How was Pelham?
This was hopeless. I couldn’t suffer it, the hanging around, the tension. I rang McCarthy to tell him I was home.
‘Who’s with you?’ he asked.
‘Nobody.’
I told him about dumping the bodyguard and signing Kavanagh’s disclaimer.
‘You’re crazy,’ he said.
‘I know, but I’ve decided to take my own precautions.’
‘If they’re illegal, I don’t want to know.’
‘They’re not. I’m just going to make myself hard to find. I’ll move out of here for a while, stay off the racecourse. If this guy wants me he’ll have to come looking.’
