by Joe McNally
I rang the Corish Stud. Fiona answered. I asked how Martin was.
‘Still drinking.’
‘As much?’
‘Almost, though he sleeps a lot now.’ Her voice was flat, robotic.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked.
‘Mmmm.’
I told her I wanted to come and see her to talk about Dunn’s visit. She said she wasn’t going anywhere.
By the time I reached the Corish Stud, the sun was low and insects buzzed among the trees. I stopped at the bungalow and watched the round figure of Fiona gathering washing from the line.
She told me Martin was asleep, passed out. She led the way to Town Crier’s box. Standing in the gloom, the big horse seemed happy to see Fiona, but wary of my presence. I stood outside the box door. Fiona went in and rubbed his nose, clapped his neck, looking as if she was taking more comfort from it than the stallion was.
I said, ‘Think hard about the day Alex Dunn came here, the tall guy posing as the RSPCA man. I need you to try and picture everything he did when he was checking Town Crier over.’
She looked vacantly at me for a while then shrugged. ‘Just what you’d expect; he checked his coat and his teeth, his eyes, legs, feet, ears. He had me walk him round the box a couple of times. He took a blood sample.’ She hesitated, frowned slightly. ‘That did seem odd, seemed to take him longer than normal. Usually they whiz a syringe in under his neck and draw what they want. This seemed to take a few minutes and he worked on the other side of the horse, quite high up, for a sample.’
‘What do you mean, the other side?’
‘The side I couldn’t see.’
‘Were you holding him?’
‘No. I suppose that was a bit strange too. He asked me to tie him up and stand by the door, saying he might get a bit fractious.’
‘Quite high up, you said.’
She nodded, frowning again. Town Crier looked down at her as if to enquire what was wrong. She rubbed his nose. ‘He seemed to be working under his mane.’
I moved into the box. ‘Can you hold him, Fiona?’ She gripped the halter. ‘Which side?’ I asked.
‘Near side.’
I walked round, Town Crier’s suspicious eyes following me, his muscles tensing. Fiona tightened her grip. I put both hands on his neck. He moved sideways. ‘Whoah, boy. That’s a good boy!’ I said quietly, and kept up the horse talk as I ran my hands softly over every inch of his neck under his mane till, high up, just below the ridge where the hard hair starts growing, my middle finger came to rest on a small bump, a node the size of a pea.
I felt it, ran my index finger over it. It gave slightly, like a jelly capsule. We brought the horse out into what was left of the daylight and Fiona held the tuft of mane away. I could see no incision or damage to the hair around the bump, but that could easily have healed. I smiled and asked her to meet me back at the bungalow. By the time she returned, Candy was already on his way to check under the manes of the Sheikh’s stallions.
I sat on the edge of the kitchen table, smiling stupidly. Fiona looked confused. I smiled wider, luxuriating in the feeling of having guessed correctly once again. It was a sensation I rarely experienced. Right on cue, at the height of my self-congratulation, the phone rang.
‘Every fucking one of them! Exact same spot!’
‘Yeehaaa!’
Fiona stared at me as though considering leaving quickly.
I said to Candy, ‘Get them out and get them analyzed.’
‘Already arranged! Results in under an hour!’
‘You sound like an advert for Acme Pharmacies.’
‘I feel like a glass of champagne.’
‘Have one for me. I’ll call you.’
Fiona stood open-mouthed. I smiled at her. ‘You’d best close that before a fly gets in. Tomorrow I’m sending a vet to look at Town Crier. I’ll let you know his name and I’ll make sure he’s carrying ID. If Martin sobers up sufficiently between now and then, tell him I think our problems are almost over.’
51
I left Wiltshire in the dusk and reached my parents’ stud in darkness. My heart sang for most of the trip. The thought that my luck was running out kept entering my mind. I’d long ago learned the folly of tempting fate. But I prayed all the same, prayed that it would hold long enough to nail Kerman, to silence her, to save the secret.
Save the secret.
I didn’t care about Guterson any more, or Rossington or Dunn or Capshaw. Or, to my shame, Brian Kincaid. I was obsessed with my own ends. At my parents’ place, the phone was ringing as I turned the key in the lock. I ran inside. It was Candy. ‘Can I come down there now?’ he asked.
‘Sure.’
‘See you soon.’
It was almost midnight when he arrived, but Candy was bright-eyed, elated. He smelled of aftershave. ‘You haven’t shaved, at this time of night?’ I asked.
He smiled, strong teeth white against the tan. ‘Second shave of the day. Got to keep up appearances.’
‘God save me from vanity!’
‘He will.’
We sat down with a full teapot and two mugs, neither of us really wanting to risk a premature celebratory drink. Candy pulled a notepad from the pocket of his yellow polo shirt, and then dug in again to produce a small green capsule, which he rolled toward me. I squeezed it between my fingers. It reminded me of a cod liver oil pill.
Candy said, ‘Filled with a variant on methyl testosterone which Dunn must have concocted himself. They’re still working on it, but the early verdict is that the chemical would lie dormant until set off by a surge of sexual activity, during which the increased testosterone levels play a dual part: they neutralize all traces of the drug in the system and they rapidly sterilize the sperm.’
‘Hence the reason Dunn could pre-plant them in horses that were still racing, knowing they wouldn’t take effect until the horse became sexually active.’
‘Correct.’
‘So yours were done in the racecourse stables as per the old list of visits, matey.’ I smiled.
Candy returned it. ‘You’re a right bloody clever dick, aren’t you?’
‘Now all we need is the motive.’
‘And the perpetrators.’
I nodded.
‘Speaking of which,’ Candy said, ‘our boys picked Rossington up.’
‘Where is he?’
‘They’re holding him at Dunn’s old place at Six Mile Bottom.’
‘Has he said anything?’
‘They haven’t asked him anything. We were sort of waiting for you.’
‘Sort of?’
‘Well, we were. I’m getting a wee bit nervous about it, to be honest. I think it’s time we brought in the authorities.’
‘The police?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not yet, Candy.’
‘Why? We’re in the clear.’
‘You’re in the clear. Your stallions will be operational again. But all we’ve got is one of the mugs. We need to get Guterson and whoever else is involved.’
He waved the suggestion away. ‘Nah, the cops can do that.’
‘The cops might fuck it up and I can’t afford that!’
He looked surprised. ‘Don’t worry, Eddie. I’ll make sure you’re well paid.’
‘I know you will, but it’s not the money. You know I’ve got another interest in this that I can’t tell you about. You can’t dump everything just because your problems are solved!’
He lowered his eyes. ‘Okay. I’m sorry. I forgot. What do you want to do with Rossington?’
‘I’ll go and see him tomorrow. Will those profiles on Guterson and Jean Kerman be ready?’
‘I’ll chase them in the morning.’
‘Okay.’
‘Right.’ He got up. ‘Brilliant. Well done, Eddie.’
‘Save it till the fat lady’s done an encore, Candy, I’m due a turn of bad luck.’
I walked with him to the door and watched him go out into the darkness. I lay in bed, lux
uriating a while longer in the afterglow before settling down for what I hoped would be a rare peaceful night’s rest.
In the middle of the night, the phone rang. Groggy with sleep, I didn’t recognize McCarthy’s voice at first. He had to introduce himself. ‘I thought I’d best ring you straightaway. I’ve just been wakened by a call from Melbourne about your man Rossington.’
‘Uhuh.’ I was struggling to get my brain in gear.
‘Remember, you gave me those pictures of him?’
‘Yes, I remember.’
Mac told me what he’d learned and I extended the chain of early morning alarm calls by ringing Candy, though I gave him more time to come to his senses than Mac had given me.
‘According to McCarthy’s contacts in Melbourne, our man Rossington is a ghost. His real name is Paul Cantrell and his body was found on a road near Melbourne Airport in March last year in a hit and run incident very similar to the one in which Capshaw was killed. I’ve asked Mac to try to find out how positive the identification of Cantrell’s corpse was. What would you like to bet that his face was badly disfigured?’
‘You think the real Rossington was the hit and run victim?’
‘A very convenient way to exchange identities. Cantrell was wanted by the police when he “died”.’
‘What for?’
‘Armed robbery.’
‘Shit!’
‘Are your guys contactable at Dunn’s place?’
‘On mobile.’
‘I think you’d best warn them Cantrell’s a lot more dangerous than we thought.’
52
Exhaustion caught up with me and I slept late next morning, Candy’s phone call rousing me at ten. ‘Kerman and Guterson. We’ve got a connection by the look of things.’
‘Uhuh?’ I was still half-asleep.
‘Should I bring the reports?’
‘Sure, yeah, sure. I’ll have a bath,’ I said stupidly.
He arrived while I was still soaking and shouted through the letterbox. I wrapped a towel around me, let him in and told him to put the kettle on while I got dressed. He told me Rossington or Cantrell, whoever he was, was still securely locked up.
With my hair still wet, I sat at the table looking at the highlighted parts of the two reports Candy had brought.
Jean Kerman’s maiden name was Prior. She was the daughter of Simeon Prior, the Triplecrown Chairman. Candy also had a breakdown on Triplecrown’s business. They did everything from arranging matings to selling the subsequent foals, and in the past three years, turnover and profit had been on the slide.
When Bob Guterson acquired his 20 percent stake in Triplecrown, Simeon Prior had bought a 25 percent share in Guterson’s Gloves.
I read it through again. ‘Motive?’ I said.
‘Let me try this time,’ Candy said, beaming. ‘Triplecrown Bloodstock rose to prominence in the years when the Arabs were buying from them. They made millions. But now the Arabs are spending less and less as they build up their own breeding operation. Not only that, they’re starting to do everything in-house and offer their facilities to other breeders. So Triplecrown hasn’t lost only the Arabs’ custom; all their other customers have the option of doing their business with the Arabs instead.’
I nodded, smiling. Candy went on, ‘Simple solution for Triplecrown: smother the Arab operation at source by taking out the stallions.’
I applauded softly and Candy looked chuffed. ‘Now prove it,’ I said.
‘Rossington will snitch to save his skin.’
‘I doubt it. He’s none to save. It’s likely he’s killed three men, at least. No plea-bargain there.’
Candy looked flustered. ‘Okay, but he won’t take the rap on his own. He’ll take the others with him.’
I smiled. ‘“Take the rap?” You’ve been watching those old Edward G. Robinson films again, haven’t you?’
‘Well, you know what I mean.’
‘I do, and you might be right, but we can’t chance it and the police won’t just take his word for it anyway. We’ll need something more concrete, something that definitely incriminates Guterson and Prior.’
‘Surely there’s enough circumstantial evidence?’
‘Where? All you’ve laid out is based on assumption, pure theory. There isn’t a single piece of solid evidence linking Guterson, Prior or Kerman.’ I said.
‘It’s obvious that Triplecrown would have the strongest of motives to—
‘And what about Town Crier and Heraklion and the other half-dozen stallions at the smaller studs? Where’s Triplecrown’s interest there?’
He shrugged, confused. ‘Red herrings. Decoys set up for exactly this type of situation, so they can use it in their defense. You know how well they’ve planned this, Eddie!’
‘I know I’m only playing Devil’s Advocate. You’re probably right but how do we prove it?’
‘We’ve got to get this guy Rossington, or whatever he’s called, to talk.’
‘But how?’
The phone rang. It was Martin. I was surprised. He sounded bright and sober. ‘Fiona tells me we might be out of the woods,’ he said.
‘Not quite. We can see the edge of the trees.’
‘How long do you reckon?’
‘I don’t know. Soon. A couple of days, maybe.’
‘Anything I can do?’
The question provoked a sudden surge of anger in me. Martin had been unable to hack it when things got tough. Now here he was offering help because he thought it was almost over. I was tempted to concoct something dangerous and ask him to deal with it, but I resisted. ‘If there’s anything I can think of, I’ll call you. It might be best if you stay off the booze for a day or two in case I do need you.’
He laughed. ‘Sure. Keep me informed, eh?’
‘Okay.’ I returned to the table. Candy had been thinking. ‘Maybe it is just Guterson. Maybe it was his stake in the company that made him set this up.’
‘So how come Prior’s daughter so effectively removes three of the possible stumbling blocks to the success of the whole thing in Campbell, Summerville and the EFU vet guy, what do you call him?’
‘Spenser.’
‘Yeah.’
Candy looked thoughtful. ‘Good point.’
‘I know, but having said that you can bet your boots Prior’s kept his own hands lily white. Jean Kerman and Guterson will have done the high-level dirty work and Rossington the basics.’ We sat around for an hour trying to figure some way to trap Guterson and the others. Martin’s offer of help sparked an idea. I called him. He’d gone to the pub. I spoke to Fiona. ‘Do you remember that guy Spindari, the one we had you make a phone call to when he was trying to blackmail us?’
‘I remember.’
‘Do you still have his phone number?’
‘I’m not sure. I can probably find it.’
‘Good, here’s what I want you to do.’
Fiona called back within half an hour. ‘He’ll be here at two-thirty.’
‘Fine. We’ll see you then.’
53
When Candy and I walked into the office at the Corish Stud, the tall, dark and handsome Simon Spindari seemed to lose some of his Latin colour, not to mention his composure. He turned on Fiona. ‘You little bitch! You said you had a good story for me!’ Smiling, I said, ‘We have, Simon, we have. Sit yourself down.’ Glowering, he sat on the chair by the desk and swept the thick hair away from his eyes. ‘Thanks, Fiona,’ I said, and she left without looking at Spindari.
I explained that we knew everything about his blackmail attempt way back at the beginning, and he agreed to cooperate if we promised not to tell the police what he’d been doing. He admitted having ‘investigated’ a couple of other cases for Jean Kerman and said she still contacted him from time to time.
I told him what he had to do and watched as he made the call to Kerman, telling her he had a brilliant story for her about a guy named Paul Cantrell who was impersonating a certain man on British racecourses, and that if Ker
man wanted the details she should meet Spindari in a pub in Newmarket and he’d take her to Cantrell.
‘Incidentally,’ he said, acting it out well. ‘The guy he’s impersonating is probably dead! How’s that for an exclusive?’ As I’d expected, Kerman didn’t ask too many questions. She agreed the time and place, a popular pub on a country road not far from Dunn’s place at 7 o’clock. Spindari arranged to meet her in the beer garden.
By 6.30 McCarthy, Candy and I were concealed in the woods behind the beer garden. Spindari sat at a white table sipping lager in the evening sunshine and reading a newspaper. At 6.50, a big blue BMW with smoked glass windows purred into the car park of the pub. Jean Kerman, wearing a tight black two-piece, got out of the back and walked toward Spindari’s table. He saw her coming, smiled and reached into the pocket of his jeans as though to go and buy her a drink. Kerman shook her head and spoke animatedly.
Spindari pointed to the half-full lager glass and sat down again. Kerman turned to look at the car. The passenger door opened and a fat man in a dark grey suit hauled himself out and hurried forward. He was completely bald. Mac whispered, ‘Guterson.’ Candy and I smiled.
We crept backward through the trees to where our car was parked, and then headed for Dunn’s place.
Within ten minutes of our arrival, we watched from inside the bungalow as the BMW slowed and pulled into the driveway. Each of us moved into position. I stood by the edge of the curtains at the side window, hidden, I hoped, from view.
Car doors clunked closed. ‘Two heavies,’ I warned everyone. In the corner, Phil and Don grinned. I watched Spindari, still smiling and playing the fool a bit, chatting to them as he approached the porch door. He knocked loudly. McCarthy was behind it and opened it almost immediately.
We could hear his voice along the hall and I could see reactions on some of the faces: bafflement, shock. I heard Mac say, ‘Mister Guterson, how nice to see you again.’ And I watched Guterson offer a very tentative hand. Mac shook it and stepped aside. ‘And Mrs. Kerman, always first on a hot story. Do come in.’ Kerman turned and glared at Spindari.
