by Joe McNally
‘I’ve told you, I can’t fucking do it!’ Bitter frustration again. I apologized immediately.
‘Forget it, Eddie. I know you’re under pressure.’
‘I’m sorry, Candy. I’ll tell you about it when this is all over.’
‘Eddie, promise me it’s nothing that will affect your confidentiality on this?’
‘I promise. Don’t worry, I promise.’
There was a long pause then Candy said quietly, ‘You okay?’
‘Yeah.’ I didn’t sound okay and I knew it. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow. ’
I flipped the phone closed and laid it on the quilt, then sat rocking back and forth till I ended up elbows on knees, head in hands, almost crying with frustration in this big silent loveless house; feeling my life dry up, feeling this place and my parents sucking the life from my every pore, killing me slowly but just as surely as that terrible sauna had done to Brian Kincaid.
Unable to face the night here, I shoved a few things in an overnight bag and drove into Newmarket, booked a hotel, went on a pub-crawl, got as drunk as ten men and opened my eyes in the morning with a blank mind and a major headache.
Unable to stomach breakfast, I paid my bill and left to take a long walk up to the gallops to try to clear my head. It was one of those hangovers where your brain is two seconds behind everything else that’s happening to you, and after an hour, I decided that the best place for me was bed.
Praying I wouldn’t be stopped and breathalyzed, I drove to my parents’ place. As I approached the stud, I became aware of a flashing blue light through the trees. When I was a hundred yards from the drive an ambulance pulled out from it and, light still flashing, accelerated away. I swung fast and hard into the drive, jumped out and ran, cursing my shaking hands as I tried to separate the front door key from the others.
I leaned on the bell with my shoulder as I fought to find the key. Finally inside, I bolted upstairs. My father’s room was empty, the door open, bedcovers pulled back. If he was gone, Mother would be with him.
Within five minutes, I’d caught up with the ambulance. I trailed it to Cambridge Hospital.
40
Almost certainly pneumonia, but they’d have to run a few tests before offering a prognosis. We settled in the waiting area. Mother looked as though she’d aged ten years. Distraught but silent she stared at the wall, deaf to words of comfort. After a while, I just sat in silence beside her, suffering an appalling thirst and a burning headache and a scorched conscience for not being there when I was needed. Ashamed too that I was sitting with my mother, at this time of the morning, unkempt and unshaven and stinking of booze.
But even at my lowest ebb, I couldn’t find any real sorrow or sympathy for my father. It crossed my mind that he might die and that caused me no dismay, the opposite in fact, which did make me feel a twinge of coldness. But no guilt.
After more than two hours a doctor invited us into a small office and told us that Father would have to stay in hospital for a ‘considerable period.’
‘How long?’ I asked.
‘Six weeks, maybe more. He is very weak. His lungs are badly infected.’
‘Will he die?’ Mother asked. I looked at her to see if she was really prepared for the answer. She gazed at the young doctor with intense concentration.
‘If he responds to treatment, he has an excellent chance of returning to full health.’
‘Is there any reason he shouldn’t respond to treatment?’ she asked.
‘Occasionally it happens.’
‘When will we know?’
He smiled. ‘Within a week or so.’
Mother straightened in her chair. ‘I’d like to stay with him.’
‘I’m afraid that would be difficult, certainly in the early stages. Your husband will be treated in ICU - sorry, the Intensive Care Unit. We simply don’t have the staff to cope with twenty-four-hour visiting.’
I looked at Mother who was staring past him now, into the distance, the future, her eyes clouding with misery. I thanked the doctor and helped her out. Dazed, she leant heavily on me all the way to the car. I took her home, promising to bring her back as soon as she’d packed what she needed. I told her I’d find her a room in a hotel close to the hospital so that she could spend as much time with Father as they’d allow.
This financially rash promise brought to mind my last bank statement. Six or eight weeks of hotel bills. Whatever fee Candy was going to pay would have to be good.
My mother spoke little. She moved silently around the house looking at things, touching small ornaments, gazing through the window across the fields. It was as though she feared she’d never come home again. Eventually she wandered upstairs and I heard her go into my father’s room. I knew then what I had to do.
After five minutes, I walked in to find her sitting in her usual chair, staring at the bed. I put my hand on her shoulder. She didn’t acknowledge me. I said, ‘Come on, Mum, I’ve made some tea. We have to talk.’ I led her gently to the kitchen and sat her down at the big beech table.
I stirred sugar into her tea and pushed it across to her. She stared into the swirling liquid. ‘Drink some,’ I said. ‘It’ll help.’
She lifted the cup and sipped mechanically. After another silent minute, she looked at me and said, ‘It’s the pressure of this that’s killing him.’ We both knew what ‘this’ meant. And although she added nothing, it was implicit in her eyes that she thought I should somehow have done something to prevent it, to catch the people who might expose us, to make the future safe.
I said, ‘I know, Mum. I have to find whoever’s doing this.’
She nodded slowly, robotically, and sipped tea again. When we returned to the hospital, I’d ask that she be checked for shock. I drank some tea then said, ‘Listen, the way we decided to do this, to lie low, make it look as if we’d pulled out - it’s not going to work.’
She raised her tired eyes again to watch me almost like a disinterested observer.
I said, ‘It’s causing too many complications. It could drag on for months and months and I’m not sure Father can stand it that long. I think I’m going to have to go for these people, all out. That way we either stop them quickly or at least we get the painful part over with.’ Her look changed to one I recognized, one that said, You don’t understand, do you?
She spoke. ‘It will never be over with, not if it gets out. People will never let it be over with. It would kill your father.’
I leaned toward her, wanting to take her hand, squeeze some reassurance into it. ‘Mum, it’s killing him now, slowly and painfully. The waiting’s killing him. I’m sure I’ve got enough to go on now to crack this in a couple of weeks at the most.’
That was a lie but I could live with it. She said. ‘Would we have to tell him?’
‘If we didn’t, and the news got out, could you live with it if he thought you’d…’ deceived was the wrong word ‘…kept it from him?’
She gave the smallest of shrugs and her expression changed. She was trying to convey something with her eyes but I couldn’t read it. She spelt it out. ‘Maybe he would think you’d kept it from both of us.’
My heart sank. I said, ‘Will there ever be a point in my life where you’ll want him to see me in a fair light? Is it always going to be me that’s to blame for everything that’s gone wrong in this family?’ She stared stony-faced at me, and I knew that so long as he was alive my father would be all that mattered to her. So I resolved then to do it with or without their approval, knowing that the whipping boy was on another hiding to nothing.
As I left, I saw that the Ascot pictures had come in the post. I picked up the thick envelope and took it with me.
I found a small hotel within a five-minute taxi ride of the hospital, booked my mother in, wrote the wide-eyed proprietor a cheque for a thousand pounds, and promised Mother I’d ring every night at the very least and try to make the visiting hours whenever I could.
I’d cleaned myself up before leaving the stud and
although my hangover still simmered, the prospect of action started the adrenalin pumping again. I felt good. Nervous but good. I called Candy, got him first time.
‘I’m coming out of the closet,’ I said.
‘Meaning?’
‘You’ve got yourself another private dick.’
‘No comment.’
I smiled. ‘Candy, can you arrange an advance on my fee for this?’
‘Sure. How much?’
‘Five grand.’
‘Is that the advance or the fee?’
‘The advance.’
‘You don’t work cheap.’
‘I don’t think it’ll make too much of a dent in the half a million you’ve already spent on this.’
‘True. Very true.’
‘Can you transfer it direct to my bank today? I’d like it to catch a cheque that’s about to drop from a great height.’
‘Give me your bank details.’
I called McCarthy next. ‘Thought you’d died,’ he said when he heard my voice.
‘Felt like it when I woke up this morning.’
‘Mister Booze?’
‘That’s the man.’
‘Well, you should be sleeping it off so why are you calling me?’
‘I’m back on the Brian Kincaid case.’
He sighed. ‘Eddie, the case is that the police could find no evidence of suspicious circumstances.’
‘On account of that evidence being reduced to a very fine grey ash.’
‘Maybe, but what were they supposed to do next?’
‘What I’m about to do, if you can give me a little help, Mac?’
‘A little or a lot?’
‘I need the names of all the valets working at Stratford that day, just by way of a double check.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I want to speak to them.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I think I might learn something,’
‘You’re in one of your determined moods again, aren’t you?’
‘Make a bulldog look meek.’
He promised to call me within a couple of hours. It took a bit longer, but by early evening I had eight names, six of whom I knew well. I reckoned at least four of the eight would be at Uttoxeter next day. I’d turn up at the track and see how they reacted to a few informal questions.
41
I don’t think I can remember going to Uttoxeter on a dry day. The rainclouds must see my car coming and hurry over to the course to guarantee the usual wet welcome. Today was no different, though trainers and owners travelling in the same direction would have little complaint about the weather. It had been a long dry summer of firm racing ground.
Most trainers preferred good or soft going before risking their horses. Galloping and jumping on jarring ground can damage a horse’s legs.
As I pulled into the car park, I checked the back seat to make sure I’d brought my riding gear. I’d nothing booked but it paid to come prepared. There were still two hours before the first and most of the valets would be fairly relaxed. Their job is to look after a jockey’s kit, make sure it’s kept clean, that saddles, girths and stirrups are safe, that the correct amount of weight is loaded into the saddle ‘cloths’ if necessary.
They also act as friends, confessors, marriage guidance counselors, hairdressers, denture finders, bankers, and God knows what else. The camaraderie in the changing room can be as addictive as the most powerful drug. Many valets are ex-jockeys, hooked for life.
Half a dozen of them were already there making preparations. Two of them had been at Stratford. I filled three Styrofoam cups from the tea urn and went to join them in the corner.
We chatted for a while then I steered the conversation round to Brian Kincaid’s death. They were happy to talk about that day at Stratford and answered my questions openly, but neither had seen anything they’d have called suspicious; no strangers hanging around, no odd behaviour from any of the other jocks. And neither could remember any particular racecourse official showing his face.
While we were talking, two of the other valets who’d been at Stratford turned up, and I managed to grab five minutes with each of them. But I learned nothing new. Before leaving I spoke to all four again, asking who had been last to leave the racecourse that day. Pete Crilly, who was my valet, said the only person still in the weighing room when he’d left had been Ken Rossington, also known as Oz.
I didn’t know Rossington as well as the others. He’d been a valet for just over a year after arriving in Britain from Australia. He was a bit of a practical joker, always looking to create a laugh at someone’s expense, but he seemed a nice enough guy. Crilly said Rossington told him on Monday he was having a few days off but that he was fairly sure he’d be at Bangor tomorrow.
Something about Rossington came to me. That day at Stratford when Brian had moved aside to let Tranter past, he’d stood on Rossington’s foot and the valet had made a considerable song and dance of it. If Rossington had been that close, there was every chance he would have heard Brian say he was planning to use the sauna after racing.
I picked up a spare in the fifth that finished nowhere but jumped well enough for me to enjoy the ride round. The riding fee more than paid my expenses for the day, and the rain stayed off during the race only to resume as I drove home, wipers swishing at double speed.
Ten minutes from the yard, my mobile rang. It was Candy. He had the reports on both Capshaw and Dunn. ‘Anything interesting?’ I asked.
‘Not really, unless you can see something I haven’t spotted.’
‘Are the reports actually in written form?’
‘All neatly typed. Six pages on each.’
‘I’ll be at the yard shortly. Can you fax them to me?’
‘Is that safe?’
‘If you make sure you dial the right number it will be.’
‘Okay, what is it?’
I told him.
The reports were hanging from the fax machine when I got to my flat, and I read while the kettle boiled. Candy had been right. Nothing was of any real interest, just gossip, mostly about Capshaw. Dunn seemed to have led a solitary life. His father had also been a compulsive gambler who had achieved ‘the impossible’ by quitting for good after a major win. Dunn hadn’t been so lucky.
I called Candy.
‘Well?’ he asked.
‘Dross.’
‘I thought so. What next?’
‘Good old-fashioned legwork.’ I told him about Rossington the valet and that I was hoping to see him at Bangor. Then I talked again about my gut feeling that Capshaw was the key to the way forward. I’d been putting a scheme together in my mind over the last twenty-four hours. I told Candy what it was, and advised him to begin preparing for it. He said, ‘You know how to make a bloke nervous, Eddie.’
‘All in a good cause. Start practicing. And listen, I need you to look through some pictures of the people Capshaw was with at Ascot, see if you can identify any of them.’
‘Fine, whenever you’re ready.’
42
I was at Bangor by noon and found Rossington already in the weighing room, spit-polishing a boot slipped over his arm.
‘Hi,’ I said.
‘Hi, Eddie, how are you?’
‘I’m okay. You?’
‘Good fettle.’ He swiped a shine into the long black boot with the red-banded top. ‘Don’t know why they don’t make these buggers all the one colour, you know, life would be a damn sight easier for us guys.’ He stopped polishing, leaned forward, his sandy-coloured fringe dropping into his eyes as he winked at me. ‘Not that I’m complaining, Eddie, know what I mean?’
I wasn’t quite sure I did but I let it go. ‘Did you have a good break?’ I asked. He looked puzzled. ‘Somebody mentioned you were taking a few days off.’ For a microsecond, I thought anger sparked in his eyes, though I couldn’t be certain. He polished harder. ‘Just caught up on my kip,’ he said. ‘Too many late nights, early mornings and long trips. To racecourses, I m
ean.’
I hadn’t thought he meant anything else. Rossington seemed nervous. It was the first time I’d said more than hello or goodbye to him, and I didn’t know whether he was always like this when the lads weren’t around to be entertained or if he was hiding something.
I asked him about Stratford and Brian Kincaid. He polished faster, his voice flat as though making a conscious effort to keep it steady. And he wouldn’t meet my eyes.
After a minute talking about Brian, he seemed to settle again, become calmer.
‘Did you see him go into the sauna?’ I asked.
‘Can’t say I did, I’m afraid.’
‘Were you around quite late that day?’
‘Not that I can remember, no later than usual.’
‘Weren’t you the last to leave?’
‘No, definitely not. Pete Crilly was still there when I left, I’m sure he was.’
That wasn’t what Pete had said. Rossington still wouldn’t look at me. He knew something. I thanked him, and left to call Candy but got his answerphone. I hung around the weighing room for a while, saw Pete Crilly and briefly considered checking with him if he was sure Rossington was the last man left at Stratford.
But he’d been certain on Thursday and I didn’t want him asking Rossington to confirm it. The Australian seemed nervous enough already.
Candy rang. I told him about Rossington and asked him to find out what he could about the guy, not forgetting he’d spent most of his life in Australia. ‘That might take a while.’ Candy said.
‘I ain’t doing anything else in the meantime.’ I said.
‘Okay.’
‘What about our other cunning little plan, have you spoken to the boss?’
‘He’s given the go ahead.’
‘Good, I thought he might. When do we start?’
‘Monday. Windsor. I’m not looking forward to it.’
‘Into every life a little rain must fall.’
‘Except that this time every other bastard’s going to be under cover watching me get wet.’
‘Pack your shampoo. You can wash that lovely hair of yours.’
