She went quiet. I poured more tea and tried playing it down telling her Vince was just a small-time hood who couldn’t do anything to either of us.
Cathy wanted to believe me but I could see in her dark-ringed nervous eyes that her perception of me had changed too much for things ever to be the same again. Her summary of me had been someone to trust, someone soft enough to take advantage of if needs be, someone who’d never be anything more than a jockey.
Now she feared me.
I was sorry for that. But a bit of me was satisfied. In her mind Cathy had long since bundled me up and slotted me into a category, confident that I was the sum of all my parts and that she knew exactly what they were. Now she’d discovered one more and, even worse, didn’t know which others were hidden.
Looking through the heavy condensation on the window above the sink, I saw a watery sun struggle up and suddenly felt very weary. My headache was back. I needed sleep and a few hours of my own company.
I finished the cold tea and got up. ‘I’ve got to go.’
Cathy rubbed her face and drew her hair back. ‘What time is it?’ she asked.
‘Gone half seven.’
‘Jesus, those horses need feeding.’
‘And I’ve got some that need riding.’
She nodded glumly. I reached for her shoulders and kissed her goodbye. She didn’t smile. She said, ‘What next?’
‘I’m not sure but we’ll soon crack it.’
‘How?’
I looked at her. ‘Somehow. Don’t worry about it, you’ve done your bit, there’s nothing else you have to be involved with.’
‘Are you going to see this other guy, the one Bill saw before Vince?’
‘Maybe. Depends what I can find out about him.’
She looked at me like I was a lost cause but managed to tell me to take care.
In the car, I rang Charles and apologized for missing first lot and told him I’d try and make the second.
He didn’t ask where I’d been.
The yard was quiet when I got back and the second lot were back in their boxes. Charles had gone to Wetherby.
In the big kitchen in Charles’s house, I made toast and coffee and ate in silence. This was the last day of my suspension and I was determined to make the best of it by tracking down the guy Vince had fingered. I wanted everything over with as soon as possible so I could concentrate on my riding again.
Back in my flat I rigged a mini tape recorder to the earpiece of the phone and dialled the number Vince gave me. It rang out a dozen times before a woman answered and thanked me for calling The Allied Bank. Knowing Vince had put me away I was tempted to hang up but thought I might as well ask; I drew a blank.
I banged the phone down and the cable swayed and I wished it was round Vince’s throat and that I was still holding the ends.
I made coffee and settled down once more with my yellow pad and pen. Sketching, doodling, I went over everything I could remember. One certainty was that Vince was the man. If necessary, I’d go back and get him though he’d be much warier and he’d have told whoever he was working for what had happened. Or maybe not. Last night would have been a big embarrassment for Vince and his tough guy image.
He’d been truthful about Bill’s headaches and it restored some of my faith in my late friend. He hadn’t done drugs for the thrill of it. The autopsy had confirmed a degree of brain damage. Wait…I wrote that in block capitals…BRAIN DAMAGE.
Before the season began in August, we’d all had our annual brain scans. It was a requirement, for health and safety. How could Bill’s not have shown damage? I’d had mine in July and I was sure the rest of the lads were around the same time.
I rang Warwick racecourse and they confirmed Doc Clarke was on duty. I drove there at speed.
He was filling in forms in the ambulance room, his arm surrounding them like a kid protecting exam papers. He didn’t look too surprised to see me. He said, ‘Back on Monday, Eddie?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Looking forward to it?’
‘Can’t wait.’
Slowly he took off his reading glasses and stared up at me. ‘You look…impatient.’
‘Good on the spot diagnosis, Doc. Add frustrated and thoroughly pissed off and you’ve got the full picture.’
Putting the glasses down he shifted in his chair. ‘And something tells me it cannot all be laid at the door of your enforced two day rest.’
‘Correct.’
‘And something further, some uncomfortable premonition, leads me to the conclusion that it is I whom you think may be able to help relieve this unfortunate condition.’
I smiled as I dragged an old three-legged stool across the room and sat opposite him. Instinctively he lifted the papers he’d been working on and turned them over. He watched me apprehensively. I said, ‘Bill Keating was murdered.’
He stared at me. ‘Says who?’
‘Says me.’
‘Why and by whom?’
‘I don’t know.’
He looked at me. ‘I believe you’ve somehow mistaken me for a police inspector.’
‘The police have already looked at it. I need evidence before I can go back to them.’
He shrugged, obviously baffled. I said, ‘Can you do me a favour and check Bill’s pre-season brain scan?’ I explained about the autopsy.
He reached in his pocket and pulled out a diary. ‘The scan results will be in his file at Portman Square. I’m due there Monday and Tuesday, I’ll try and arrange something then.’
I scribbled my mobile number and handed it to him. He promised to let me know immediately he had something and as we shook hands, I saw that trace of a gleam in his eye, the one Cathy had shown, the spark that said, this is a break from humdrum life, this is exciting. Then I remembered how the reality had affected Cathy and I vowed to try and shield this nice old doctor from it for as long as possible.
15
Next morning on the gallops, Charles was bright-eyed and bullish. Yesterday’s winners had taken his strike rate for the season to thirty-eight percent.
He and Broga had redrawn plans for Allesandro, the big grey New Zealand horse. Instead of going for a small race at Uttoxeter Charles had pencilled in a hot contest at Chepstow on Saturday next.
The reasoning was that among better opposition the starting price would be bigger and the prize money greater. The more work the horse did the clearer it became he was very good indeed.
We were easing off on his exercise now. Charles reckoned he could win at Chepstow around ninety percent fit. The lack of top condition would be obvious to racecourse experts and his price in the betting market would swell accordingly.
Over breakfast, I updated Charles on what had been happening. He grimaced when I told him about Vince and I got the impression he’d much rather not know about any of it. The ringing phone in the hall rescued him and he quickly excused himself. A few minutes later, he returned. He stopped in the doorway, looking pale and worried.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.
‘Kenny Hawkins has been in a bad accident.’
Kenny Hawkins was a friend, a jockey who, like Bill, had been riding for a long time. Charles sat down and repeated what he’d just learned. Kenny lived in Lambourn where, last night on a dark road a couple of miles from the village his car had plunged forty feet down an embankment. Latest reports from Newbury General said he might never walk again let alone ride.
We were always prepared for bad news on the racecourse. When someone was injured elsewhere, it seemed grossly unfair. Fate taking us when our guard was down. I felt sick for Kenny and his family.
I rang the hospital to check visiting arrangements. They said he wouldn’t be fit to see anyone for a couple of days. I was on the verge of telling them not to underestimate the recovery powers of jump jockeys but decided not to tempt fate.
I lay awake wondering if there was any connection between Bill’s ‘accident’ and Kenny’s. They lived within a mile of each other, had b
een riding for about the same length of time and at a similar level of success. Each even had two daughters although Kenny was not divorced.
That was one difference. The other was that Kenny was still alive.
Wincanton got the go-ahead next day after an early inspection and I made the drive south though all I managed from three rides was a second and a fourth. A gloomy atmosphere hung in the weighing room as we reminisced about Kenny and discussed his accident. He’d been well liked. In mid-afternoon, a few started talking and Jeff Dunning suggested doing something for Kenny if the prognosis turned out as bad as we feared.
‘Like what?’ Bobby Craine asked.
‘Sort a race out for him,’ Dunning said. ‘Make sure he comes out with a few quid.’
‘Like a few of us fix it up between us?’ somebody asked. Dunning said, ‘Yeah, why not?’
From the back, a mocking voice said, ‘You fucking daft? You’ll all end up warned-off.’
I recognized Neumann’s tones. Dunning strained to see who was objecting and Neumann worked his way through the huddle. Neumann had a habit of sneering when he spoke making his big nose twitch as his lips moved. His eyes were a cold blue. He said, ‘Give yourself a break, Dunning, you’ll end up screwing up the system for everybody.’
‘It’d be a one-off,’ Dunning said, ‘For Kenny.’
Neumann scoffed, ‘Fuck Kenny. Let his little brother look after him. He’s got more than enough…private jet, two Rollers and more houses than a fucking Monopoly set. Kenny can go to him for charity.’
Everybody looked at Dunning. He said, ‘He shouldn’t have to rely on hand-outs.’
Neumann said, ‘What do you think yours would be?’
Dunning stared at him knowing Neumann had a quicker mind and a sharper tongue. Neumann smiled slyly.
Fixing races wasn’t something that appealed to me but at least Dunning had proposed it in good faith. I was suspicious of Neumann’s hard stand against it. What difference did it make to him?
I said, ‘What’s your beef, Neumann?’
His smile disappeared. The others watched him. He said, ‘Like I said, why get dropped in the shit for Kenny Hawkins?’
‘Who’s going to drop us in it?’
He flushed then tried to bluff. ‘Didn’t know you were into bent races, Malloy.’
‘I’m not but I have the choice. I can say yes or no to Jeff’s idea same as the others can, same as you can so why the big song and dance? If you’re not interested just say so.’
‘I’m not, I—’
‘Well stay out of it then. You’re a non-runner. Nobody else wants your advice. If you’re not in the team you don’t get a say in the tactics.’
He grew redder. ‘So you’re in, Malloy, is that what you’re saying?’
‘Maybe, maybe not but why’s it getting you so het up? You running some little scam of your own? Scared of somebody queering your pitch?’
Everybody watched him. He started blinking rapidly. He said, ‘You’re out of order, Malloy.’
‘Says who? You the only one that can voice an opinion?’
‘You better not repeat that to anybody.’
He didn’t sound convincing. I said, ‘Tell you what, you keep your opinions to yourself in future and I will too. Deal?’
Aggressively pushing away his fringe of fair hair Neumann, unable to forgive or forget the fact I’d got his job said, ‘Isn’t Cates paying you enough?’
‘Everything between me and you comes down to that doesn’t it? If that chip on your shoulder gets any bigger you’ll have to start declaring overweight on every ride.’
The others laughed. Neumann’s pale face reddened. ‘I hope you all get fucking caught!’ He turned away. Jeff Dunning called after him, ‘If we do we’ll know who snitched!’
He didn’t look back.
After my final ride, I showered, dressed hurriedly and rang Doc Clarke from my car. He had said he’d be at Portman Square in London, Jockey Club HQ, checking Bill’s scan.
The receptionist said he was in a meeting. I left a message and headed north. An hour later, he hadn’t returned my call. I rang again and was told he was still unavailable.
At 5.25, fearing they’d close up for the night without passing the Doc my message I phoned again. The receptionist was there but the Doc had gone. I asked if she’d passed my message on. She was evasive at first but said she had.
At home, I sat by the phone and kept my mobile switched on too. At 8.20 p.m., it rang. I answered. A familiar voice said, ‘Eddie?’
It was Peter McCarthy, an old friend of mine who worked for the Jockey Club Security Department. ‘Mac! How’re you doing?’
‘Under pressure, Eddie.’
I mouthed it as he said it - his stock reply to the question.
‘Social call or business?’ I asked.
‘Business.’
‘Uhuh?’
‘You’ve been calling Doc Clarke today?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Do me a favour . . .?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t call him again.’
That familiar little thrill zinged through me - the one that said the next jigsaw piece was about to slot neatly into place.
‘Why, Mac?’
‘I can’t say just now.’
‘You’ll have to say just now or I put this phone down and call the doctor and keep calling him till I hear what I want to hear.’
‘Which is what?’
‘Which is what did he find in Bill Keating’s brain scan that suddenly means I’m persona non grata?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Mac, come on, it’s Eddie you’re talking to.’
‘He found nothing.’
‘Mac! Why lie to me? You know I won’t give up.’
I heard the long familiar sigh of submission. ‘Eddie, I’m not lying. The doctor found nothing because Bill Keating’s brain scan was not there.’
‘Not where?’
‘In the files. It’s missing. Disappeared.’
16
Just after ten next morning, I met Mac at a service station on the M5. His dark curly hair had picked up a few more strands of grey since I’d last seen him and his cheeks were chubbier, as was the rest of him. We sat by the window, traffic whizzing past fifty feet away. Mac was halfway through a fried breakfast, forkfuls stoking his eighteen stone bulk.
I said, ‘You’re getting to the age where you ought to be watching your heart.’
He chewed, swallowed and said, ‘My great granddad ate this every day and lived till he was ninety-seven.’
‘Yeah, but I’ll bet he wasn’t a two hundred and fifty pound ball of stress who never went jogging.’
Spearing half a sausage he said, ‘You’re the only one who ever sees me stressed, Eddie. You’re the only one who causes me so much grief.’
I smiled, ‘If it wasn’t for me, you’d be a nobody.’
Chewing he said, ‘If it wasn’t for you, I’d be head of security.’
Mac had been involved in the serious cases I’d got tangled up with. We’d bailed each other out an equal number of times and built mutual respect on a guarded friendship.
When he finished eating, we sipped coffee and sort of mentally circled one another looking for an advantageous opening.
Eventually Mac said, ‘Doc Clarke told me what you talked about on Saturday, do you want to give me the latest?’
I did, withholding nothing. At no point of the story did he look surprised. ‘Have the police been back to you about the Jeep?’ he asked.
‘Not yet.’
He brandished his pen. ‘Who’s handling it?’
‘Can’t remember. I’ve got his name at home.’
‘No matter.’
I said, ‘Have you called the police in yet?’
‘Nope.’
‘When do you plan to?’
‘We don’t.’
‘Come on, Mac, you’ve got more than enough to give them with what I’ve just told you nev
er mind the stolen file.’
‘Stolen file?’
‘Bill’s scan.’
‘Who said it had been stolen?’
Irritation rose. ‘You’re not going to say it’s just been lost.’
‘Misplaced. Temporarily.’
‘Mac—’
‘Eddie, there are hundreds of scans stored in that room.’
‘Don’t try and tell me it’s been misfiled or something. You said last night it had disappeared.’
‘We’ll have to wait till everything’s been searched at least once more. Even then, how can we call in the police for a missing file? We’d be a laughing stock.’
‘It’s the missing file of a man who died in suspicious circumstances. A man whose headaches were so severe he risked drug addiction to relieve them. The headaches came from a brain injury. Now who is hiding something here?’
Mac spread his hands, open, innocent. ‘Nobody’s hiding anything, we—’
‘Trying to protect some stupid bastard who made a wrong diagnosis? Didn’t spot the problem when he should have?’
‘Supposing somebody did make a mistake, it wouldn’t be the first time. Why would we indulge in all this subterfuge you’re accusing us of?’
‘To protect your interests!’
‘Whose interests?’
‘The Jockey Club’s. The medical guys. The ones who could probably be sued for millions for letting a brain-damaged jockey ride.’
He shook his head slowly, that irritating half-smile and downward glance telling me I was being silly. He said, ‘Look, every one of those scans is examined scrupulously. The doctor who checked Bill’s is absolutely certain it was one hundred percent healthy.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Of course it does! Who is he?’
Four women eating together stopped chattering and, as one, looked curiously in our direction. Mac smiled and nodded to them without effect. Their necks remained craned.
Mac, bending low, said quietly, ‘I can’t tell you. Don’t get annoyed.’
I gritted my teeth. ‘There must be a copy of the scan somewhere.’
He sipped coffee shaking his head.
Running Scared (The Eddie Malloy series Book 4) Page 6
