Running Scared (The Eddie Malloy series Book 4)

by Richard Pitman

  The harbour was a couple of minutes’ walk from the Police Station. Squinting in the sunshine and trying to take in the mixture of smells carried in from the water I headed for the seafront.

  At the Harbour Master’s office, I had to wait fifteen minutes before a fat white guy serious and uncomfortable looking in a shirt two neck-sizes too small appeared.

  He told me he had information about the Archangel but was reluctant to divulge it to a ‘civilian’. I tried being charming but it didn’t work, so I mentioned DS Jerome Handler and offered the fat man the alternative of spending an hour or so giving a full official statement to him.

  Sweating, he watched me, cold-eyed, wanting to tell me exactly where to go but weighing it against falling an hour behind in his work.

  I said, ‘Give me five minutes and save yourself a lot of time and hassle.’

  He backed away, staring at me, turning only as his heels hit the half-open door leading to what I took to be his office.

  He returned with a blue folder and confirmed that the loss of the Archangel had been reported to him at nineteen twelve last evening.

  ‘Who reported it?’

  ‘The Captain.’

  ‘Mister Dann?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘Did he say if there were casualties?’

  ‘No casualties, all crew and passengers taken off on lifeboats.’

  I tried to see the form he was reading. He slid it further away from me.

  ‘What time did the boat go down?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I’ve got a personal interest.’

  ‘It sank just after eighteen hundred hours yesterday.’

  Right time. ‘And the cause of the sinking?’

  ‘Subject to an enquiry.’

  ‘A big hole in the side?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Caused by an explosion?’

  He gathered his papers. ‘A report is being prepared for the police, Mister Malloy, I suggest you direct further questions through the friend you have there.’

  ‘I think he might want to come over now. I think you will have to drop everything else and do that report for him.’

  His eyes went cold again and he rose and turned away. I said, ‘Can you tell me where to find Mister Dann?’

  He kept walking.

  ‘Please! It’s urgent.’

  He turned and smiled, ‘Ask your friend in the police force.’

  I waited in the car park for Broga and promised myself a pair of sunglasses as, narrow-eyed, I watched him come toward me.

  ‘Any luck?’ I asked.

  ‘Nah. Clemence hasn’t been seen since he came back on Friday and he’s only phoned once.’

  ‘Or so his office tells you.’

  ‘I don’t think they’ve much to hide, Eddie. It’s just a little place that hires out office and secretarial facilities to a number of different people; all they do is take messages. What about you?’

  ‘The skipper reported the sinking at just after seven so it must have been pretty much the first thing he did as soon as the lifeboat docked.’

  ‘But he somehow forgot to mention you were missing?’

  ‘Seems like it.’

  ‘So if it wasn’t an accident, it looks like Mister Dann could have been in on it?’

  ‘He’d sailed with Clemence before on almost every trip. He definitely did not want me to be rescued. But why risk everybody else’s life, including his own?’

  Broga slid his sunglasses up into his thick hair. ‘No risk really, was there? You were what, maybe five hundred metres from shore, two lifeboats, calm sea; you only got into trouble because you tried to save the horses.’

  ‘So if the boat was sunk the boat was the target?’

  ‘Or the cargo, if you’d gone down with it maybe that would have been a bonus.’

  ‘Thanks a bunch.’

  He smiled. ‘Not for me, for whoever’s behind it.’

  ‘What about the cargo then? What else were we carrying?’ He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and we dissected the contents over lunch in a nearby bar. But there was nothing special on board, including the horses, which were regular passengers for several of the carriers who worked the route. Nothing of great value apart from the boat itself.

  The next step seemed to be locating Mister Dann or Clemence but Broga was uneasy about bringing our suspicions into the open while his firm of investigators worked on Clemence.

  I chewed mango flesh. ‘But what if they don’t? It could take months and if he is behind all this God knows what it will have cost by then?’

  ‘True.’

  ‘I mean even if we could link him to Conway, even if it was Conway’s body in that packing case Clemence just has to say he was doing his job, winning orders. He’ll deny knowledge of the contents of the case and any responsibility for losing it over the side.’

  Broga scowled and bit his knuckle absent-mindedly.

  I said, ‘Now what I would like to find out is if any other packing cases left England especially around the time of your break in, your car theft. Where did the paintings and the antiques end up? Where did the Porsche go? What happened to the two horses in your missing horsebox? What’s the chance we’ll see them soon under other names racing round the Garrison? If we can tie any of those down to Clemence then the hardest part’s over, we’ve proved he’s a criminal. That would make it much tougher to deny involvement if Conway’s body was in that packing case.’

  Broga brushed back his hair with his fingers only for it all to slide luxuriantly forward again. He sipped pineapple juice. ‘I’m convinced, Eddie, you’re preaching to the converted but it still doesn’t tell us where we go from here.’

  ‘Well if Clemence is so hard to pin down let’s try for Mister Dann, see what he has to say.’

  ‘Fine, you’re the boss.’

  We went back to see DS Handler, asked him to find out where Mister Dann lived, told him Broga needed him to fill out a report form for his insurance company. Handler said he’d do what he could.

  Struggling to keep up at times as Broga teased me, I followed his silver Merc in the Mazda tooting as I passed the coconut man who’d given me a lift.

  Late that afternoon Handler rang. Mister Dann’s address was care of Clemence’s office who claimed they had no personal information on the skipper other than next of kin, a sister living in Virginia, USA.

  He had to be somewhere on the island. He was a sailor and I reckoned if I spent long enough hanging around the harbour bars there would be a fair chance of finding out more about him.

  Endell Parsons, brother of the fiery Kari volunteered to take me on a pub-crawl in Bridgetown that evening. He drove a little red sports car expertly avoiding potholes, even in the darkness that early sundown brought to Barbados.

  He was almost as fine featured as his sister though his eyes were set much wider apart. Short dreadlocks moved like tiny snakes as he talked animatedly. He had strong white teeth and a general look of natural cheeriness. About five six, he’d have weighed no more than eight stone.

  He wore pink shorts and a multi-coloured beach shirt. Yellow flip-flops slapped against the driving pedals.

  He told me about the racecourse where I was due to ride next week, about all the characters, the horses, his ambitions, his women, which brought me onto the subject I really wanted him to talk about, his sister.

  He was reluctant at first, protective, but as the night wore on and we moved from bar to bar alcohol loosened his tongue and I learned about Kari Parsons.

  The scar she had was cut into her left cheekbone by her father when she was thirteen. He’d wanted Kari to work as a prostitute and she’d refused. The father had abused them throughout their childhood and Kari, a year older than Endell, had been the strong one, the one who, finally sick of the treatment they were getting at home, led Endell away when he was fourteen.

  They went on the run moving each time their father caught up. They only settled whe
n he was stabbed to death in a fight six months ago. That was when they got jobs at Broga’s estate.

  That was as productive as the night got. Endell talked to a few people and one mentioned a place called the Southern Parish Club where Mister Dann sometimes drank. We went there and stayed till 2 a.m. but he never showed.

  39

  Next day Broga asked me to represent him at the races. The stable had three runners; Endell was to ride. I travelled in with him. Kari accompanied Amory in the horse trailer.

  Endell cheered me up on the drive to the track, bumping through potholes, tooting at every pretty girl we passed followed by suitably suggestive calls and gestures. All the girls took it in good part.

  Endell explained. ‘See, what yuh gotta unnerstan’ here, Eddie, is that sex is big fun. Big fun. It’s out in the open. People talk about it an’ do it an’ enjoy it. Pregnan’ woman she got status here, guy with loadsa kids is a big hero.’

  ‘And that’s the kind of hero you want to be?’ I said.

  He laughed. ‘Workin’ on it, man, workin’ hard!’

  The racetrack was laid out on The Garrison Savannah a parade ground where British forces drilled in the early part of the century.

  Its main business now was sport, mostly racing. We got there two hours before the first race and, with great enthusiasm, Endell showed me around, taking pride in acknowledging all who spoke to him, showing off to me how many friends he had.

  To each he introduced me as ‘big time jock from Englan’, gonna be champ nex’ year’. Most said they’d heard of me, some out of politeness and others because they thought they should have. I had more invitations for drinks than I could handle and I was impressed by the friendliness and lack of formality.

  There was very little social segregation, no sour faced gatemen or strict dress codes.

  Endell had a ride in the first and left me with instructions to go and join the horse’s owners in the bar but I thought I’d wander on my own for a while.

  The stands filled quickly. So did the free area in the middle. Punters themselves had the same outlook the world over. Happiness, hope and anticipation - until the first crumpled ticket was binned and the search for excuses started.

  There was a real buzz about the place as people drank rum and beer from bottles, laughed and planned and argued the case for their fancies.

  The track was tight and constantly turning, six furlongs round and narrow, the turf well watered. A sand training strip ran alongside.

  The horses came out for the first and I watched them canter to the start, the jockeys crouched and stylish like the best Americans. Many steered with blue, orange, yellow or red bridles adding to the general brightness. Anyone flying over this tight circle would be looking down on a moving kaleidoscope of brilliant intensity.

  I wandered past the stables area where horses were being walked, saddled, and groomed. One tiny black lad held a hose spouting a powerful jet of water over the leg of a narrow bay horse, the spray creating a rainbow.

  Four men sat at a white table balanced unevenly on the grass. A dozen open beer bottles stood on the tabletop. The men wrestled with newspapers and flourished racecards in each other’s faces arguing loudly.

  Smiling at the prospect of what this place would be like come the last race, I moved away but some familiarity in one of the voices clicked the tumblers in my memory bank.

  I turned. His big broad back was toward me. I walked closer, coming in from the side. I’d last seen him with a gun in his hand, wanting to shoot Old Nick.

  It was George, the big sailor from the Archangel and there had to be a very good chance he knew where Mister Dann was.

  40

  It was busy and the group didn’t notice me as I circled the table at a distance. I wanted to see if I recognized any of George’s partners from the boat.

  He was the only one.

  Decision time. Should I approach or just hang around and follow him after the races? The correct choice depended on another crucial question, one I didn’t have the answer to: was George implicated in the sinking? He was the only crew member besides Mister Dann who’d sailed with Clemence previously.

  No one called out the rescue services that night so maybe the whole crew was involved...but there was blind panic after the explosion. If they’d known it was going to happen everyone would have been ready, the lifeboat would have been prepared. Instead, they’d jammed its ropes in their haste.

  I watched George. The man next to him was engrossed in study, his racecard close to his face. George stole his beer and drank it.

  Assuming George wasn’t involved in the sinking, could he lead me to Mister Dann, and would I be able to get the information from him if he did? I came up with an idea as the first race went off and when it was finished and George’s group had thrown away losing tickets and settled down for the post mortem I wandered across to the table and stood at his shoulder.

  Seeing the eyes of his friends look up he turned, took a moment to recognize me then gave me a welcome heartier than our acquaintanceship deserved. That told me he’d never expected to see me again. Or maybe he was planning to hit me for money before we parted.

  I asked George to come and have a drink with me. He was out of his chair so fast he knocked it over.

  He told me Mister Dann had assured everyone on the lifeboat I was safe, because he’d watched me launch the other lifeboat. He hadn’t seen Mister Dann since.

  I could tell George was anxious to begin the process of milking me for cash, talking about a ‘sure thing’ in the next race, claiming he knew the jockey.

  I promised to invest in it and have some on for him too and his big eyes sparkled and widened and he slopped some beer down his pale green shirt. I said, ‘George, my boss says I’ve got to buy another boat here. He says I should get Mister Dann to help me find one.’

  He frowned and shook his head, ‘No need, Mistah Malloy. I de man fuh boat buyin’. Mistah Dann spen’ too much. Bad luck too, askin’ Mistah Dann. Yuh boss doan’ wan’ bad luck on new boat.’

  It took me five minutes to persuade him it had to be Mister Dann. He finally agreed when I promised him a job as first mate.

  After all that and two more rounds of drinks it turned out he didn’t know where Mister Dann was or where he lived, said he moved from woman to woman. But he did know his favourite drinking hole where Mister Dann played dominoes three nights a week.

  The Southern Parish Club, the place Endell and I had spent hours in last night.

  I gave the big man twenty dollars to bet his ‘sure thing’ and told him there’d be another hundred if he could find Mister Dann for me. ‘Don’t speak to him. Just call me at this number if you find out where he is.’

  He took the piece of paper I’d torn from the racecard and I left him to finish his drink.

  I hurried down the steps and stood against a pillar, waiting. George came out ten seconds after me in a hell of a hurry. We moved against the flow of the crowd wending its way back to the stand as the runners for the second cantered to the start but George’s height made him easy to follow.

  He was rushing to crow to his buddies, whooping, shouting, waving the money I’d given him, kissing the notes three or four times before sitting down again to no doubt kiss them goodbye.

  Endell rode a fine race in the second, making all the running to hold on by half a length after his horse had tried to duck out at the tight bend by the stables. It was customary for the winning owner and trainer to lead the winner in past the stand.

  With Endell smiling widely in the saddle, Amory and I did the honours.

  The stable’s other runner was beaten in a photo finish. After racing, Endell was keen for us to stay on and party. He told me he’d picked out a couple of girls. I told him I wasn’t interested as I was hoping to persuade his sister to have a drink with me that evening.

  He looked puzzled. ‘En’ one fuh you, anyway,’ he said, meaning the girls he’d spotted, ‘both fuh me!’ We laughed and I left him to it,
intending to go to the stables and find Kari but she found me first, running straight into me as I left the paddock area.

  In cream shirt, black breeches and tan boots she looked wide-eyed, excited, the scar on her cheek standing ridged as though engorged with blood.

  ‘Mistah Malloy, where’s En’ll?’

  ‘He just left. Is something wrong?’

  She looked up at me, unsure whether I was the first who should be told. She licked her beautiful full lips and said, ‘De trailer gone! Somebody stole ’er!’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now! I tek Capricorn aroun’ to load ’er up, trailer gone!’ Capricorn was the last of our three to run. ‘What about the other two horses?’

  Opening her arms and shrugging helplessly, she said, ‘They gone, too.’

  ‘Where’s Amory?’

  ‘Donno.’

  Amory turned up safe. The horses didn’t. They were found that evening at the bottom of the cliff near Headlands. The eight hundred foot drop had mushed their bones and they lay across the rocks like thickly padded horsehair covers. The neck of Sentimentalist, a beautiful grey filly was speared by part of the trailer axle. The trailer itself, a big American type, thirty grand’s worth, was a wreck of matchwood and twisted metal.

  The police were baffled. Broga was shattered. Kari was devastated. Sentimentalist had been hers in that she groomed the filly and she’d lost one in the fire last Friday. When DS Handler turned up to take her statement she shouted and cursed at him damning to hell Handler and all his colleagues for being unable to stop the mayhem.

  Her brother, Endell had to haul her away. Handler said he’d return later. Endell stayed with Kari all evening.

  Broga Cates arranged to buy dinner for an influential politician in the hope he could chivvy police investigations along and I spent several uncomfortable and fruitless hours parked outside the Southern Parish Club hoping to catch Mister Dann.