The Horse With My Name

by Bateman

  ‘We’ll get it later.’

  ‘Are you sure? It’s worth nearly two hundred thousand.’

  ‘Not now it’s not.’

  ‘Oh shit.’

  ‘Relax. It’s too early, we can’t do anything yet. Let the blood-alcohol content reduce.’

  We found a plaster in the bathroom cabinet and carefully applied it to her wounded foot. Then I showed her into the spare room. She thanked me and I closed the door. I returned to my room and tried to get over again. I was just dozing off when I felt the quilt go back and someone climb in beside me. Mandy said, vaguely, ‘Warm,’ then snuggled up beside me and fell asleep.

  It was nice.

  I didn’t try anything.

  I didn’t even object to the boke in her hair, although that probably wouldn’t last much beyond the second or third date.

  The farmer was okay about it, actually, though a little bemused as to how we’d managed to miss the dead sheep mangled under the rear tyres. Mandy was charm itself. She asked him the sheep’s worth, then doubled it and gave him the cash. He got his tractor and towed the Ferrari back from the edge of the stream, across the field and back up on to the road.

  As he did, I said, ‘That was very generous, the sheep.’

  She shrugged. ‘I killed it. Besides, it would cost me three times as much to get a garage to tow it. Once they saw it was a Ferrari you’d see the pound signs in their eyes. To him, it’s just a red car.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘My dad’ll sort it out. Though he’ll probably take the time to kill me first.’

  ‘His car?’

  ‘His car. Fuck.’

  ‘C’mon,’ I said, ‘let’s get some breakfast.’

  She looked at me oddly. ‘Why are you being so nice to me?’ I think she was just getting towards a smile, but then she stopped herself suddenly and frowned. ‘You’re writing that bloody book, aren’t you? You’re going to write about me and the drink and the crash and make it sound like we’re all fucking Hooray Henrys pissing about at the expense of other jockeys who can hardly afford to feed their bloody kids. Well it’s not like that! I swear to God – Daddy doesn’t give me a penny. He didn’t want me to go into the riding at all. He’s done his best to keep me off of it. Do you have any idea how much I earn from this?’

  ‘Enough to pay double for dead sheep.’

  ‘Oh really? Oh really? Well take a look at this?’ She brandished her open purse at me. Apart from a few coins, it was empty. ‘I’ve bugger all. It was just the right thing to do. I killed his sheep. But I’ve nothing left! Do you have any idea how difficult it is for a woman to make her way in this business? Okay, so I’m lucky, my dad begrudgingly lets me ride the odd donkey, but for other owners? Once in a fucking blue moon. Even then – fuck, I get paid eighty-seven pounds a ride. Out of that I’ve to pay a tenner to my agent, another tenner to get my kit cleaned. I’ve to pay fees to the Jockey Club’s accountants and to the Jockeys Association, I’ve to run my own car – it’s a fucking Metro – and drive everywhere. What I’m saying is I don’t make any bloody money at this game and I work my guts out, so if you’re writing about me don’t make me out to be some sort of pampered little daddy’s girl. I give everything to this and I take nothing back, okay?’ She was breathing hard, her cheeks had flushed and her eyes were narrow and intense.

  I felt like hugging her. ‘Is this a convoluted way of getting me to pay for breakfast?’ I asked, instead.

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Okay. Okay. Sorry for getting on my high horse. Literally. I just need . . .’

  ‘To be taken seriously?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll take you seriously. But you can relax. Your father talked me out of writing the book. I’m just here to relax and try to get my own life back together.’

  ‘Honest?’

  ‘Honest injun.’

  As we approached the Ferrari, now sitting forlornly back on the open road, the farmer was just unhooking his tractor. He stood, sucking on a pipe, while Mandy climbed gingerly in behind the wheel. She inserted the key, looked at me hopefully, then turned it. It started first time. Quality. The Metro would have made a long grating noise that sounded like Catch yourself on.

  In a few moments we were motoring back down the road towards the village. I directed her into the car park beside the diner. We went inside and ordered two unoccupied fries.

  ‘This is a bit of a no-no,’ she said when they arrived, looking down at the plates with glee. ‘I’ll be starving myself all week after this.’

  ‘Another ride?’ She nodded. I shook my head. ‘If there’s so much self-denial involved for so few rewards, why bother?’

  ‘Because I love it. Because the greatest feeling in the world is coming into those final few furlongs with the crowd cheering you all the way and then crossing that finishing line in first place, knowing that that special bond between you and the horse is what’s gotten you there. And because this Saturday it’s all going to pay off.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning that that special bond with a horse doesn’t happen very often. But when you train him yourself, look after him night and day, ride him out in the gallops every morning come rain or shine, when no other single human being has anything to do with him but you, when he won’t let anyone else on to him but you, and you know that he’s something special . . .’

  ‘This is beginning to sound a little . . . unnatural.’

  She smiled. ‘Maybe it is. But Dan . . . it’s just, y’know, some horses can be awkward to ride, part elephant, part camel, but on him it’s like sitting in your favourite armchair . . . There’s like plenty of head and neck in front and those big quarters behind . . . he’s deep-girthed and a smooth walker and such a fearless but skilled jumper. He’ll tackle anything you can throw at him, his footwork’s amazing, when he jumps he just kind of arches his back and really goes for it, whereas half the others just blunder through . . .’

  She trailed off, looked down to her plate, a little embarrassed. ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  ‘It’s okay. I’m starting to fall in love with him myself. What’s he called?’

  She looked up, small smile. ‘Dan.’

  I smiled back, although it hadn’t been a hard question. ‘What?’

  ‘Dan.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dan. It’s Dan. Dan the Man. I’m riding him in the Grand National on Saturday.’

  11

  We lingered over our fry. She told me more about the stables and the state of the horses within them than I could ever possibly remember, so it was just as well I was taping it. I had to earn a crust and Hilda had promised me a whole loaf if we got any dirt on Geordie McClean. Mandy was beautiful and fiery, but she was his daughter, so she was completely and utterly off limits. We said a somewhat awkward goodbye. She was walking away when I asked her out to dinner.

  She stopped, she thought for a moment, she turned round. Her face was glum.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said immediately, ‘bad idea.’

  ‘Good idea, but bad timing. I told you. I can’t eat anything else because of the race. We could go for a jog tomorrow morning if you want.’

  ‘Yeah. Okay. That would be great.’

  She smiled and turned away again.

  Jog.

  What on earth was I doing?

  Jog.

  I had clearly taken leave of my senses. Playing football between ciders in the park was one thing, but jogging. Jogging kills.

  I tried to shout after her, but there was only the roar of the Ferrari engine and she was gone.

  Jog.

  I tramped home from home, thinking about jogging and ways I might get out of it. She didn’t have the look of someone who just went for a gentle little run either. She’d glide like a cheetah, barely breaking sweat; I’d be reduced to a puddle by the end of the road, if I made the end of the road.

  Well, hell, she could stick to my pace or she could . . . not.

  The birdshit cleaner’s kids wer
e out playing hurling or something in the middle of the road when I got home. ‘Shouldn’t you be at school?’ I snapped as I put the key in the door.

  They snapped back, ‘At Easter? Y’heathen.’

  ‘Well just . . . just . . .’ I warned them conclusively and sloped inside.

  I took one of fat incoherent lad’s gift beers from the fridge, then sat and spent an hour transcribing the tape. There were a lot of cutlery and chewing sounds, but once they were edited out I e-mailed what was left to Hilda. Then I phoned her. That’s the way e-mail works. Send it, then you make the phone call you would originally have made to make sure the e-mail has arrived. She sounded pleased to hear from me, but it faded slightly when I said I was thinking of going to Liverpool.

  ‘Why for?’ she demanded.

  ‘Because the National’s on Saturday.’

  ‘I know that. What’s it got to do with you?’

  ‘McClean will be going. His daughter’s a ride.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I said, his daughter’s riding in the National.’

  ‘You did not.’

  ‘I did too.’

  ‘You . . . Oh Jesus, Starkey, have you been drinking?’

  ‘Not really.’

  There was a sigh, then a silence. Then a diplomatic ‘Surely it would be better to take advantage of McLean’s absence to infiltrate his organisation.’

  ‘What’re you suggesting, burglary?’

  ‘Whatever it takes.’

  ‘Hilda – please. I want to find out who killed Corkery as much as you do, but I’m not a burglar. I’d impale myself on something if I tried to break in anywhere. Besides, those stables are secure, I wouldn’t have a chance. Anyway, I have an in already. His daughter’s taken a shine to me. I’m getting it straight from the horse’s daughter’s mouth. Let me follow her to Aintree, you never know what’ll develop.’

  ‘I have an idea.’

  ‘You don’t even know me, you can’t have an idea.’

  ‘Starkey, I know of you. I looked up your name in the Belfast Who’s Who and it says skirt-chaser.’

  ‘You liar.’

  ‘Well.’

  ‘Was the information I’ve just sent you not first rate?’

  ‘It will do nicely. But it’s not dirt.’

  ‘Well give me a chance.’

  ‘Dan, we’re running out of time.’

  ‘How? I’ve got all the time in the world.’

  ‘Well I haven’t.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘That they’re closing in. McClean’s got a team of hackers out there. The Horse Whisperer has crashed half a dozen times since Saturday. It doesn’t take that long to get it up and running again, but he’ll be paying top people to do it and he won’t want to keep that up. What worries me more is my supply of information. If people can’t find the page, or it keeps disappearing on them, they’re going to lose confidence, they’re going to stop trusting it. And if they can hack the page to bits, there’s nothing to stop them with a little bit of extra work getting into my e-mails and finding out who exactly has been supplying information. Worldwide. If that gets out there’ll be a lot of dead bodies turning up, I assure you.’

  I sighed.

  ‘Dan, I know it’s asking a lot.’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘If you think going to Aintree is the right idea, then go for it. But please don’t go just because of some . . . girl, okay?’

  ‘I won’t. I promise.’

  ‘And the info this morning was good. Well done.’

  ‘But you need more. You need substance. You need proof.’

  ‘That’s what I need.’

  ‘Okay. Let me have a think.’

  ‘The time for thinking is over. It’s the time for doing, Dan.’

  How do you respond to that?

  I responded by promising her the world, or at least Geordie McClean, then put the phone down without any better idea of how I might achieve it. Hilda had been making a list of jockeys, apprentice jockeys and trainers who had worked for or had business dealings with McClean, and promised to send it by the end of the day, but I wasn’t convinced that it would be of much help. This whole world of horses and racing and gambling and breeding and blood and arses in the air was so alien that it denied me the chance to use any kind of direct approach, or even a subtle one, because they could spot that I wasn’t horsey at a dozen furlongs, whatever the hell a furlong was. Even Mandy had creased herself laughing when I’d told her I’d always thought blinkers meant a horse was basically blindfolded and the jockey said jump as they approached a fence.

  So I did what I always do in moments of stress, when there is no obvious path, when there are no pointer stones marked Arne Saknussemm: I called Trish. She had changed her home number so that I couldn’t contact her and she’d also left instructions on the switchboard at work not to put my calls through, but it was Easter Tuesday and there was no one on the switchboard, and probably no one but Trish in the tax office. She answered the phone.

  ‘You’re not happy,’ I said. There was silence. ‘You always go into work on holidays when you’re not happy. Tell me you’re not happy.’

  ‘I was happy, till about five seconds ago.’

  ‘Not enjoying the sun with Clive.’

  ‘He’s away on business.’

  ‘Where, India?’

  ‘You’re not funny, Dan. What do you want?’

  ‘I’ve just won the lottery. Ten million. Can I buy you back?’

  ‘I’m not for sale.’

  ‘That’s not what I heard.’

  ‘Dan . . .’

  ‘Okay. Sorry. How’re you doing?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I’m fine too.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I’ve met someone,’ I said.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘She’s really nice.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘No beard.’

  ‘I’m very happy for you.’

  ‘You should get him to shave. It would make a new man of him. Or you could just get a new man.’

  ‘Dan. You’re calling for a reason.’

  ‘Just lonely.’

  ‘I thought you had a new woman.’

  ‘Girl. She’s much younger than you.’

  ‘Dan . . .’

  ‘I was thinking about Little Stevie.’

  There was a sigh. ‘What?’

  ‘That he was beautiful, and I miss him.’

  ‘I miss him too.’

  ‘That even though I complained about his ginger hair, and he wasn’t really mine at all, I did love him.’

  ‘I know you did.’

  ‘And I didn’t kill him. I really didn’t.’

  ‘I know you didn’t.’

  ‘There was nothing I could do. I did my best. But then you always say my best isn’t good enough.’

  ‘Dan . . .’

  ‘No. I could have done more. I could have done less. I shouldn’t have got involved with film stars and drugs and gangsters, what have they got to do with me?’

  ‘Nothing. But you always do get involved, it’s your nature. What’re you involved in now?’

  ‘Horses.’

  ‘And how’re you involved?’

  ‘Geordie McClean’s become a big number in horses.’

  ‘Never liked him. So what if he’s become a big number in horses?’

  ‘He might have had someone killed. An old colleague. Mark Corkery?’

  ‘The creepy one?’

  ‘He wasn’t creepy.’

  ‘Yes he was. He was always sidling up to people and asking impertinent questions. That’s the word I think of when I think of him, sidling. I didn’t know he was dead. What happened?’

  ‘Car accident.’

  ‘What’d Geordie do, fail to pay out on the insurance or something?’

  ‘He might have dropped a car on him.’

  ‘He doesn’t look that strong.’

  ‘Believe
me. He is.’

  ‘So what’s your problem?’

  ‘I don’t know what I’m doing, is the problem. I know bugger all about horses.’

  ‘It isn’t about horses. A horse didn’t kill anyone. It’s about people.’

  ‘I know more about horses.’

  ‘No you don’t. You’re good with people. Women especially.’

  ‘With the exception of you.’

  ‘Yes, well . . . Who’s the girl?’

  ‘What girl?’

  ‘The girl you’re sleeping with.’

  ‘I’m not sleeping with anyone.’

  ‘Having sex with, then.’

  ‘I’m not having sex with anyone apart from myself.’

  ‘Then who’re you talking about?’

  ‘I was just trying to get you jealous.’

  ‘Dan.’

  ‘Okay. She’s just a girl I met. We’re going out for a jog.’

  ‘Jesus. It must be love.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’

  ‘Who is she. Anyone I know?’

  ‘She’s Geordie McClean’s daughter.’

  ‘Oh shit.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I didn’t even know he had a wife.’

  ‘He doesn’t. At least not any more.’

  ‘And you’re all confused because you don’t want to be sleeping with the daughter of the man you’re trying to do for murder.’

  ‘I’m not sleeping with her, but yes.’

  ‘You never go for anything simple, do you, Dan?’

  ‘No. Not by choice.’

  ‘I know. It’s just the way you are. Well, if you don’t want to go through the daughter, metaphorically speaking, why not go through the wife?’

  ‘Because as far as I’m aware she’s been off the scene for years.’

  ‘Dan. Believe me. We’re elephants. And I don’t mean fat and grey, though no doubt I’ll get there. We never forget. And if we don’t know something, we make it our business to find out. Remember Margaret, way back when? What started us down this shitty path? How do you think I tracked her down? Show me a wronged woman, and I’ll show you Miss Marple. If there’s any info to be had on Geordie McClean, an ex-wife is the place to start.’

  ‘Do you know something?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you too.’

  ‘Do you really?’