It also made me wonder if I’d done the wise thing sending Sholto on the spying mission to Newmarket.
21
Nerves seldom troubled me these days, but as I sat in the weighing room at Chepstow, they were out in force. It was only a novice hurdle but a hell of a lot depended on the outcome. Apart from setting Conway up this horse looked like being Charles’s first star. One top-notch animal could make a trainer and if Charles made a name for himself, it would help secure his future if Broga Cates moved on.
Broga was there in the parade ring, his huge frame protected from the rain by a long grey coat of herring-boned thick wool, beautifully cut. I watched him, thinking that any coat he wore would hang like a tent but this flattered his bulk and I experienced an odd pang of envy at how secure and wrapped up he must feel. Like a child, almost, with no worries. I doubt he felt that way but something bubbled up from my childhood and broke through for those few moments. No doubt it had sprung from past insecurities that would never leave me. Anyway, I shook it off and walked across the paddock to join them.
My nerves were easing as race time drew near but I could tell from Charles’s frequent blinking how edgy he was. Many trainers give you riding orders; some are very specific. Charles just kept hopping from foot to foot and saying to me, ‘Ride your own race, Eddie. You know what to do. Use your judgement. Come back safe. Look after him.’
He wouldn’t or couldn’t shut up. Broga watched him, amused. Charles kept chattering till he legged me into the saddle. I looked down. ‘How much have you got on, Charles?’
He glanced at Broga. Broga smiled. Charles swallowed. He said, ‘I’m scared to tell you.’
I was sorry I’d asked. Charles clutched my ankle as we walked round the parade ring unaware of his tightening grip. As we left to go down the horsewalk I said, ‘Charles, you’re cutting off the circulation to my foot.’
He glanced up, apologized and loosened it a bit. I smiled, ‘Let go or you’ll get dragged to the start along with us.’ He released his grip and stood watching us go through the gate like a mother with her only child on his first day at school.
I had eleven opponents. Cutty Sark, a big slashing bay, was the hot favourite and there were three others better fancied than us. Allesandro was eight to one.
We cantered down and Allesandro didn’t move too well in the heavy ground, couldn’t properly use his smooth action. I could tell it felt strange to him as he made the extra effort to pick his feet up. His ears twitched in confusion.
We circled at the start. The starter’s assistant checked our girths. The starter climbed his rostrum cursing halfway up as his muddy boots slipped on a step. We pulled our goggles down. Horses pricked ears, tensed muscles. Reins tightened. Line formed.
‘Ready jockeys? Come on!’
The tape flew up. Boots clamped. Knees locked. Bottoms rose from saddles and we headed for the first.
I kept him toward the outside, gave him a clear look at the hurdle which came up quickly.
Approaching it, he wasn’t concentrating, fired up to race he seemed more intent on fighting me than on looking at the first jump. I wanted to ease him into a rhythm but the ground sucked at his feet.
I was reluctant to discipline him so early but he’d never have found the right stride on his own so I slapped him down the shoulder with my whip. The response was immediate and thrilling as Allesandro launched himself well out over the hurdle passing three others in the air.
Not wanting to be in front too soon, I settled him to an easy rhythm for the next mile letting him pop away at his jumps without firing him up again.
Soft going at Chepstow taxes the strongest of stayers. When it’s heavy underfoot only the fittest finish faster than a trot. Content to watch the leaders tire themselves in pulling farther away I concentrated on educating my inexperienced horse, confident his class would tell in the end.
But maybe I went too easy on him. We lost more ground on the pack and by the time we entered the half-mile long home straight, mild doubt had become nagging worry. We were fifteen lengths adrift of the leaders.
The others, battle weary in the mud, began dropping away quickly.
Anxious to avoid being caught in the tide of tiring horses I edged Allesandro over to the inside rail until I felt the constant, mildly painful rap-tap-tap of my paper-thin boot against the white plastic.
The noise, like a tyre riding the ridged line of a motorway hard shoulder, warned me it was dangerous to move any further in. But things were getting critical now. If I could push the pliable rail out, it would offer Allesandro a strip of fresh turf for the run to the finish.
The noise of my boot on the plastic upset him a bit and quickly pulling my whip through I tapped his shoulder to keep him running on the better ground.
That galvanized him and he found his stride and quickened. But approaching the third last we were still twelve lengths behind and as we came off the rail to meet the jump he felt all wrong and landed sideways so badly I could see his hindquarters.
The leader went fifteen lengths clear. We were in fourth. I pictured Conway watching the race on TV and Sholto in some pub in Newmarket smoking furiously. Avril Hawkins’s pinched desperate face loomed, Kenny slumped in a wheelchair. Charles, blinking uncontrollably…
There was nothing else for it but to ask him for everything though it was against all my instincts. Giving a young horse a very tough race on its debut can sour it for life. Apologizing aloud to Allesandro in advance I let him find his feet again after the mistake, gathered him up and started kicking and pushing and shouting at him.
He responded, increasing speed, trying to get that rhythm again. He quickly found it but just as quickly, I drove him beyond it. This time he adjusted almost immediately, accelerating past two horses. I kept driving, determined not to use my whip till he stopped responding. He jumped the second last well, but still ten lengths adrift of the leader.
But he was getting the hang of it, taking hold of the bit the way he did at home. He continued to quicken and finally found that huge ground-devouring stride. We flew past the second horse and went in pursuit of the leader as he jumped the last where I asked Allesandro for a big leap. He delivered and relief flooded through me.
The leader was still two lengths up but his rider swung frantically back and forth as though trying to slide up a banister. His elbows pumped, the right one breaking tempo to whack his whip down on the bay’s rump.
I glanced across and smiled as we passed him but he wouldn’t return my stare, unwilling to give me the satisfaction of seeing the frustration in his eyes.
Allesandro galloped away without feeling the whip and was travelling more strongly when he passed the post eight lengths clear than he had been at any other stage.
I wondered if Conway had backed it. He was primed now, ready for the next move.
22
Fresh smelling and smooth faced, I turned up at Cathy’s for dinner. Kissing her lightly I said, ‘There aren’t many women I shave twice a day for.’
She smiled. ‘More’s the pity for you.’
She wore a tight black dress, her hair in a different style and some serious jewellery decorated her neck and ears.
‘You look very glamorous,’ I said.
‘Thank you.’
‘You suit your hair up like that. Classy looking.’
‘I’m a classy dame.’
A brief image of her catching horseshit leapt to mind but I suppressed it.
‘A classy dame who’s not cooking tonight?’
‘I thought I’d take you out.’
She hadn’t mentioned this when I returned last night’s call, just confirmed that the insurance pay-out had been cleared. She looked at me and said, ‘Is that okay? Doesn’t damage your male ego or anything, having a woman buy you dinner.’
‘So long as you don’t mind me being underdressed.’ I was in a casual jacket and chinos, a shirt but no tie.
‘You’re fine. Everybody will think you’re my toy boy. Com
e on, we’ll have a drink before we go.’
Her manner had changed. The flippancy didn’t quite hide the fact that she was trying somehow to reassert herself with me. Not that she needed to as far as I was concerned but she was doing it for herself, to get back to happier days when she had money and success and I was only a jockey.
I wasn’t sure she even knew she was doing it but it was almost tangible - let’s forget all that murder nonsense, everything that happened that night at Newmarket, Cathy’s got money again, another chance of success, a new opportunity to pitch herself up there with that social class she’s always aspired to.
That was the way she was and it didn’t matter that much to me, wasn’t worth an argument and if she’d kept it at such a petty level she wouldn’t have got one.
But from the moment we entered the restaurant, she steadily started applying the pressure, suggesting, cajoling and in the end even attempting to browbeat me into quietly dropping my interest in Bill’s death so, ‘everyone could get on with their lives.’
‘What’s wrong, Cathy? Do you think I might turn something up that will have the insurance people asking for their money back?’
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out and I knew I’d nailed it.
23
Next morning two CID officers came to see me. My first thought was that Sholto had been dumped dead in a ditch somewhere but they were just following up my ‘complaint’ about the sabotaged Jeep and the threatening call.
They’d come up with nothing despite interviewing all the car park attendants at Cheltenham and asked if the wheel nuts could have been cut through elsewhere. Had I stopped at services? Could it have been done at the yard? Had I had any more calls?
Everything they asked confirmed they were at a loss for leads. I couldn’t tell them about Conway, not until after the sting.
They left none the wiser and I had lunch with Charles. He was still on a high after Allesandro’s victory and he and Broga had sat up late, discussing plans for him, vintage champagne helping them plot a course for the Cheltenham Festival.
One of the benefits of the horse’s success was that Broga had decided to bring forward his new purchases so there was a job for Sholto as soon as he liked. I’d enjoy giving him the news - if he ever got back in touch.
By dusk, I’d still heard nothing from him and I was seriously worried. He was due to see Conway again in forty-eight hours to set up the next stage. He knew we had to have another meeting before he saw him. Even if he’d been unable to track Vince down, he should have phoned me.
What if Vince had twigged he was being trailed? What if Vince was Conway’s accomplice, partner, whatever you want to call it and they’d trapped Sholto?
Come five fifteen I couldn’t wait any longer. I set the answerphone and headed for Newmarket.
The first place to try was the pub I’d seen Vince in though this time he was the last person I wanted to meet.
Just one bouncer on the door tonight. Still dark and smoky inside but not so crowded. I bought a drink and drifted around as the music boomed, wondering what would happen if Vince suddenly appeared. I was confident he hadn’t seen my face that night but since then someone might have marked his card.
At the far end of the room along the rear wall, half a dozen tables fronted a padded bench-type seat.
A few dark figures, couples, groups, sat close together.
Trying to look casual, I worked my way among them. Then I saw him slumped against the wall by the window. I went over. His eyes were closed. He was breathing heavily. On the table stood an empty beer glass and two whiskey glasses. A corner of the long velvet curtain lay half across him like a cloak. I nudged him. ‘Sholto!’
He moaned and moved away from me. I gripped his arm. ‘Sholto!’ shaking him gently. Slowly he came awake, eyes unfocused, drunken. ‘Eddie,’ he said quietly staring at me like a dumb animal. His eyelids drooped again. I looked around to see if we were being watched. Nobody bothering.
I shook him again. ‘Sholto! You okay?’
His green eyes opened again, unusually dull. He said, ‘Sorry, Eddie . . . Sorry.’
‘Don’t worry about it. Come on, let’s get you home.’
I helped him up and we weaved across the floor. I didn’t want it to look like I was rescuing him; it would make too many people remember it. So I played drunk too, arm around his shoulder, laughing, spouting garbled banter and slapping him playfully.
I eased him into the car and fixed his seatbelt. By the time I turned the key he was asleep again.
At home, it took a while to rouse him and I almost had to carry him upstairs. I laid him on my bed and drew the quilt across. He moaned quietly. I switched the lamp on and sat with him for half an hour, unsure if he was sleeping off a drinking session or trying to recover from something more sinister.
Finally, with a third late night playing on me and my eyes heavy I eased him onto his side fearful of him vomiting and choking. I returned to the living room and leaving the central column of the gas fire burning against the dark and the cold, I lay on the couch and drifted into sleep.
Next morning, dazed but unhurt, Sholto was a bedraggled sight. Over coffee and toast he explained that he’d been unable to track Vince down, a task he’d seen as an almost do or die mission. He’d kept holding off from phoning me in the hope Vince would appear. The longer he went without finding him the more of a failure he felt.
Leaning toward me across the table, squinting against sunlight through the window and grabbing earnestly at my sleeve he said, ‘Eddie, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to let you down. That’s what made me do it. You don’t know what it’s been like the last three years . . .’ He looked desperate. I said, ‘Forget it, Sholto; I know what you’re talking about.’
He went on as though he hadn’t heard me. ‘I was good, Eddie. They talked to me on the telly, wanted me for interviews when I rode winners . . .’
When he finally ran out of words and self-pity, his green eyes were wet and I think I felt sorrier for him than he did for himself.
Pouring more coffee, I reassured him that I was simply glad he was alive and unhurt. I told him about the job that was waiting for him and moved him as calmly as possible toward tomorrow’s appointment with Conway.
Making him aware of the dangers, I warned him it was imperative that the meeting take place in public: Conway mustn’t have the chance to harm him.
He tried to shrug that off, determined to take risks, happy to. He saw it as a way of redeeming himself.
When half a dozen cups of coffee failed to get him back to his old self, I suggested another couple of hours’ sleep before he called Conway.
It was early evening when he finally woke and after a shower and a light meal he seemed much more level headed. Time to call Conway. I fixed up the recorder, dialled and handed Sholto the receiver. The number rang out. No answer.
We kept trying without success. Sholto was getting frustrated. I said, ‘Forget it, call him at the clinic in the morning and arrange it for the afternoon.’
Sholto was concerned, ‘I still think he’ll get suspicious if I insist on meeting him in the park. Why don’t you drive me and I’ll go in and tell him my friend’s waiting outside in the car?’
‘He’ll get even more nervous then, wondering how many people know about his scam.’
‘No, no. I’ll just tell him it’s someone who’s given me a lift; say all he knows is that I’m trying to arrange a brain scan, all official like.’
I thought about it. ‘What if he walks out with you and sees me?’
‘Park fifty yards up the road.’
It was worth considering. Conway might well be suspicious of Sholto’s motive for insisting he saw him in a public place. I said, ‘Let’s sleep on it.’
‘Okay. Fair enough.’
We did and decided Sholto’s idea was best. We had breakfast with Charles who got Sholto enthusiastic about working for him. ‘When can you start?’ he asked.
&nb
sp; Sholto looked at me. I said to Charles, ‘We’ve a bit of business to tie up in London today, after that Sholto’s pretty much his own man. I might have to beg him off you for the odd afternoon here and there but not for much longer.’
Sholto looked mildly disappointed at this news. Charles didn’t find it hard to resist asking what our business was. After the car incident, he’d wisely taken a conscious step away from what he called my ‘outside interests’.
Just before nine, we set off for London. There was only one jumps card today up at Carlisle and, for the first time this season, I’d refused the offer of a ride. Just one, in the novice chase, which looked to have little chance. I hated turning anything down and I was as diplomatic as possible with the horse’s trainer.
I dropped Sholto outside the clinic and drove fifty yards along where I double-parked, engine running.
Fifteen minutes later, he was back, smiling. Watching him approach in the mirror, I scanned the doorway of the clinic to see if anyone followed him.
He got in pulling the door closed with twice the force needed, something I’d noticed when we left this morning.
I said, ‘Short ’n’ sweet.’
He beamed. ‘The way I like it.’
‘It went well?’
‘Brilliant.’
‘Did he bet Allesandro?’
‘Not for much but he backed it and he is keen for more,’ he chuckled, ‘he is begging for more!’
‘What did he say about doing your scan?’
‘Prefer to delay it a bit, was what he said. Would rather wait until all the information had been given, till every horse had won.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Argued a bit to make it look good then agreed to give him four more. Couldn’t stop his fat little tongue coming out to lick his lips. I’d love to play poker with him.’
I laughed, as happy for Sholto as I was for my own plans. All we needed were three more good winners before the big one.
Over the next six weeks or so, we had no need to visit Conway again. Working together with Jeff Dunning and the northern boys, we managed to tip him three winners, priming him for the sting in early January.
Running Scared (The Eddie Malloy series Book 4) Page 9
