by Joe McNally
‘I can probably talk Melling into lending me his car for the day but I’m going to need one long-term.’
McCarthy hauled his coat on and pulled the brim of his hat low. ‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’
‘Okay.’
That night, for the first time in years I closed my eyes with some hope for the morning.
Rising at dawn, I shivered as I dressed. I boiled some water and the coffee mug warmed my hands as I stood at the window. Melling had only four horses in and it didn’t take long to feed them and muck out. I’d known him to have up to ten in at the one time. Horses out of training, ex-point-to-pointers, young unbroken ones, old rogues – they all had one thing in common, problems. Melling tried to sort out the physical ones and he expected me to deal with the mental ones.
I didn’t plan to tell him I was leaving for good. I needed to borrow his car for the day and it was grudgingly lent, as it was. The ten-year-old Saab started first time. Pulling out into the rutted farm road I checked the petrol gauge, half full. A thin drizzle started and I mistakenly tried out the lights and indicators before I found the wipers.
By the time I reached Lambourn the rain was pelting down. I drove through the valley. On the downland gallops trainers would be working their second or third lots of the morning. Up the slope to my right a string of fifteen or more walked steadily along the ridge, their riders in all colours of plastic capes hunched against the driving rain like Apaches coming from an all-night party.
The Red Ox is a white-walled pub by the river Lambourn, its pebbled car park no bigger than a large front garden. I parked beside the only other car there, a brown Volvo. The bar was small, warm and thickly carpeted. On the walls were racing prints and a dartboard.
McCarthy was the only customer. He nodded as I approached.
‘Am I late or are you early?’ I asked.
‘I’m early. I’ve got to be in London for two o’clock, something’s come up.’ He looked across at the barmaid. ‘I’ve ordered sandwiches, will that do?’
I nodded. ‘Sure.’
His briefcase was on the floor beside his seat. He flicked it open and came up with a cardboard file thinner than a folded newspaper. Laying it on the table he looked at me.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘That’s what we’ve got on the case so far.’
I pulled the folder toward me. ‘Bulging with reports, eh?’
‘I told you, our information dried up months ago. That’s the result of only a few weeks’ investigations.’
The barmaid brought the sandwiches and two glasses of beer. She was small and dark haired and she smelled nice.
I took a sandwich, bit into the pink ham and swallowed some beer. McCarthy’s was gone in a couple of bites. ‘There’s not really much else I can tell you. It’s all in there,’ he said.
I nodded.
He said. ‘Since I’m stuck for time would you mind if we didn’t discuss it now? Could you take it away and read it, then phone me with any questions?’
‘Sure,’ I said and he smiled and seemed to relax. I smiled back. He picked up another sandwich.
‘Can I ask you one question just now?’ I said.
He raised his eyebrows, chewed and nodded.
‘How much are you paying?’
‘For what?’
‘For me.’
‘As in?’
‘As in wages, salary.’
‘How does a grand a month plus expenses sound?’
‘Mean.’
‘It’s a hard item to place on the budget, Eddie.’
‘That’s your problem, Mac. I’ve got to live.’
‘How much is Melling paying you?’
‘Melling asks me to break horses, you’re asking me to catch murderers. And Melling throws in board and lodgings.’
He picked at his teeth with a fingernail. ‘I’m arranging that for you, and a car.’
‘Where will I be staying?’
‘A friend of mine has a holiday cottage in the Cotswolds. I should have confirmation this afternoon that you can use it.’
‘And the car?’
‘A hire car will be delivered to you, just tell me where you want it and when.’
‘Melling’s place, 9 a.m. tomorrow.’
‘Okay.’
McCarthy continued working on his teeth and looking at me. ‘We’re agreed on a grand a month then? he said.
‘And a ten grand bonus on Kruger’s conviction.’
He shook his head quickly. ‘You’re kidding, Eddie, there’s no way I can authorise that.’
‘Ten grand is peanuts compared to what it’ll cost if Kruger starts using this drug on the racecourse.’
‘You’ve got Kruger hung out to dry and you haven’t even opened that file.’ He reached for another sandwich.
‘It was you that said Kruger was the chief suspect,’ I reminded him.
He drank and chewed. ‘Only on the evidence we’ve got. Anyway, he’s supposed to be your big motivation, not the money.’
‘You said last night you had the budget for it.’
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Not that sort of money, for God’s sake!’
‘Listen, Mac, at the end of this, if I’m not dead or crippled I’m going to have to live on something till either my licence is returned or I find another job. Trainers will hardly be queuing up to sign me. Even with my licence it’s going to be a long road back.’
He shook his head again. ‘Can’t do it, Eddie, not ten grand.’
‘Okay.’ I pushed the file toward him. Let’s forget it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean forget it, I’m not doing it, I don’t want the job, it doesn’t pay enough.’
‘We can’t forget it, where does that leave me?’
‘Get your own guys to do it.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
He looked away without answering. Getting up, I walked round the table and leaned over him. ‘Why not, Mr McCarthy?’
‘They’re too busy.’
‘Bullshit.’
He forced himself to look up at me. ‘Tell me why, Mac, tell me why your boys won’t do it?’
He looked away again.
‘Then I’ll tell you why – because they’re scared. Isn’t that right? Bergmark’s crippled, Rask’s blind, Danny Gordon’s dead and your guys are shit-scared!’
He was still avoiding my eyes. I went on. ‘I was thinking about things as I drove here and the one thing that bothered me was the reason the RSS boys weren’t dealing with this themselves.’ I straightened up and walked slowly to the window. ‘I can’t believe I took in all that crap you gave me last night. Made a fool of myself in my hurry to take this on. You must have been pissing yourself laughing all the way home.’
‘Don’t be daft man! I was there to try and do you a favour.’
‘Bollocks. You were there to try and get me to take the chances your boys wouldn’t because I’m a worthless has-been and it doesn’t matter if I go the same way as the other three.’
I walked back to the table and stood in front of him. ‘Am I right, Mac?’
‘I am having a bit of trouble getting someone to take it on,’ he mumbled. We were silent for ten seconds then McCarthy spoke quietly, ‘I’ll pay the ten grand if you still want the job.’
I sat down. He pushed the file slowly toward me. I let him stew for a minute before picking it up.
‘Good,’ he said, smiling as he rose. He slung a business card across the table. ‘Call me at that number around ten tonight and I’ll give you details of the cottage.’ I slid the card into my top pocket and drank some more beer.
‘Must rush,’ McCarthy said. ‘I’ll pay the bill on the way out.’
He walked toward the bar but stopped after about five paces, turned and came slowly back. ‘Eddie,’ he said quietly. I looked up, smiling smugly, expecting an apology. ‘Eh, you won’t be wanting that last sandwich will you?’
&
nbsp; 4
It was mid afternoon when I got back home and Melling was in the yard bawling at someone. His teenage son stood scowling in front of him, a broken halter trailing from his hand.
Melling was pushing him, thumping his chest with his open hand, shouting each word that synchronised with the blows. Knowing I could wind Melling up at the same time, I decided to rescue the boy before he got bumped into the next county.
‘Mr Melling, sorry to interrupt the family get together but can I have a word?’
Melling spun and faced me. He was an ugly sod with an uncommonly large head covered with more hair than a man his age was entitled to.
‘What is it?’
He was still almost shouting but was concentrating on me rather than the boy, who took the opportunity and made a swift exit.
‘Holidays,’ I said. His scowl had been pretty bleak but he dug hard and came up with another wrinkle on his forehead. ‘What?’
‘Holidays, Mr Melling.’
‘What about them?’
‘I’d like some.’
‘Don’t be daft.’ He turned, looking for the boy. ‘Benny!’ he yelled.
The only reply he got was a slight echo from an open box at the bottom of the yard. ‘Benny! Don’t you show your face back here without that filly!’
He grunted and started walking toward the house. I fell into step with him. ‘About the holidays, Mr Melling ...’
He didn’t stop. ‘I don’t pay you to take holidays, son.’
‘I need a month off.’
‘I can’t afford to give it to you and you can’t afford to take it.’
‘What does that mean?’
Stopping at the front door he turned to look at me. ‘It means, Malloy, that the first day you don’t show in this yard for work, you pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and get your arse out of my caravan.’ He smiled and went into the house, slamming the door in my face.
Leaving in the morning was going to be a pleasure.
Reading the RSS file on the case didn’t take up much of my evening. The evidence against Kruger was far from conclusive. It was based mostly on my allegations of his connection with my case five years ago, a reported sighting of one of his henchmen speaking to Danny Gordon a month before he died and a strong rumour that Kruger had been in Austria for the last two years (his son, who worked for a large drug company, controlled a research lab in Vienna).
A report confirmed that Kruger hadn’t been seen in England for two years, that the henchman had disappeared since last seen talking to Danny Gordon and that neither the crippled Bergmark nor the blinded Rask would answer ‘relevant’ questions. On the two suspected murderers there was little information; brief physical descriptions which, in essence, said, both big, fit, white and English. The only recent clue to their whereabouts was an unconfirmed report that they’d been seen leaving Sandown racecourse three weeks ago with a jockey called Alan Harle.
I knew Harle, he’d been one of the journeymen jockeys when I’d been riding. Racecourse Security Services had not yet interviewed him so he looked the most promising lead. The rest of the file consisted of reports on the assaults on Bergmark and Rask and on the murder of Danny Gordon. There was a photograph of his body. Suddenly a grand a month plus expenses seemed as crazy as Russian roulette with five bullets.
At ten o’clock I walked to the pub and phoned McCarthy.
‘Eddie. Been through the file?’
‘Uhuh.’
‘Any questions?’
‘Yes, am I mad?’
‘No, just desperate.’
He was right. ‘If I end up dead, scatter my ashes at Cheltenham.’
‘Don’t be morbid.’
‘Tell that to Danny Gordon.’
He tried to change the subject. ‘The car’ll be there in the morning.’
‘What about the cottage?’
‘I’ll tell you about it ...’
McCarthy had said the place was isolated, he wasn’t kidding. It lay in the heart of a thick wood, the track leading to it barely wide enough for the silver Rover he’d hired for me.
The cottage had grey stone walls and a small garden, one bedroom, one kitchen, one living-room all furnished and decorated in greens, browns and greys. Faded cushions covered the slate seats of a deep inglenook fireplace.
A hand-written note was propped on the mantelpiece. ‘Firelighters in kitchen cupboard. Logs in shed outside. Chimney may need swept.’
The next few days were spent organising. The phone needed reconnecting, the chimney had to be swept, I bought logs for the fire, food, some new clothes and footwear. When everything was done I started looking for more to do, more mundane necessities, and I realised I was just putting off the moment when I’d actually have to do what I was being paid for –’investigating’, but I didn’t know where or how to start.
I thought back to the last time I’d tracked down Kruger. I’d just been running around crazy then, asking everyone anything till I got what I needed. This time I couldn’t work that way.
I sat down to think. It was dusk, windless but still cold. I built a fire and the clean chimney sucked at the firelighter flames and wrapped them round the ash logs. I washed the paraffin film from my fingers, poured a large whisky, with ice, and sat down by the fire.
I drank and tried to plan. The only links at the moment apart from Harle, were Bergmark and Rask. They hadn’t volunteered anything to McCarthy’s people and there was no reason for them to treat me differently, but I had to try. I’d learnt from the file that Bergmark lived with his widowed sister, near Nottingham. I would visit him tomorrow then go to Kent the day after to see Rask.
Even if I came up with nothing from those two at least I’d have made a start. I drank some more and thought some more and wondered about what was to come. The fire burned hot now and I eased off my shoes and closed my eyes.
5
I found Bergmark at a run-down house on the outskirts of Nottingham. The gate was broken and swung both ways as I pushed through it. Bergmark watched me from his wheelchair at the front door, a heavy coat and flat cap protecting him from the cold and an old blanket covering his legs. Allowing for his three or four days’ beard growth he looked to be in his mid-forties.
As I walked up the path toward him the door opened and his sister came out carrying washing in a red plastic basket with a vertical split in one side which opened and closed like a fish’s mouth as she came down the short ramp.
When she saw me she stepped in front of her brother’s wheelchair, shielding him.
‘What do you want? she asked.
I stopped a few yards from her. ‘Is it okay if I have a word with Mr Bergmark?’
‘No, he’s not seeing anybody.’ She was big and serious, maybe five years older than her brother.
‘It won’t take long. I’ve come all the way up from London,’ I lied.
‘Well just turn round and go all the way back,’ she said. Bergmark spoke. ‘It’s okay, Margaret, let him in.’ I saw his hand on her hip, easing her aside. She scowled and stamped back into the house. I offered my hand. ‘Eddie Malloy.’ He shook it.
‘Thought I recognised the face.’
There was the trace of a foreign accent. ‘Walter, isn’t it?’ I said.
‘That’s right.’
‘How have you been?’ I asked
‘I remember you, you were a fair jock.’
‘Thanks. Look, I’m doing a favour for a friend and ...’
‘Used to ride Sandown well, as I recall.’
‘Yes, thanks ... Listen, Walter, I ...’
‘You got sent down, didn’t you?’ He was staring into the distance and hadn’t looked at me once.
‘That’s right,’ I said.
‘Got you in the end, eh?’
His questions were rhetorical. I might as well not have been there.
‘Walter, do you remember the man who did this to you?’
‘I landed a real nice touch on your horse at Sandown once, Wh
itbread day it was.’
I sat on the ramp beside his wheelchair. Our eyes were on the same level. ‘Look Walter, I’m trying to help catch these guys, I need ...’
‘Wasn’t it the big race? You finished second, didn’t you? Got it on an objection?’ I spent another five minutes on the same lines with no result. Either he was putting on a hell of a good act or they’d screwed the guy’s mind up. He was still rambling when I left. ‘They’d give her a gallop too many, too, by mistake and she still won easing up ... funny old game, eh?’
Yes, Mr Bergmark, a funny old game.
I decided to drive to Kent and find out if Kristar Rask would be any more helpful. It was pointless putting it off till tomorrow; the time with Bergmark had been wasted and I didn’t want to waste any more.
Rask lived right on the shore. I got there just after 7 p.m. It was dark and the wind blew cold off the sea as I approached the unlit cottage. The curtains were drawn on the front windows. The doorbell was a mechanical pull type. The chimes sounded, slow and hollow. I waited.
I rang again. Nothing. I went round the back. The rear windows were heavily curtained and I tried looking for gaps, searching for some light inside. There was none. Not my day for meeting people.
I was surprised Rask wasn’t at home. As far as I knew he lived alone except for his new guide dog. Mac’s file had said Rask had become a virtual recluse since being blinded. He’d dropped what friends he’d had and if he went out at all it was only to walk on the nearby beach.
Where was he then? I decided to find a pub and pass a couple of hours before coming back to check again.
The landlord of the Ancient Mariner had enough time on his hands to be throwing darts at the board in the corner. He had no opponent. Only two other men were in the bar. One was slumped in a chair by the gas-fire either asleep or dead and the other sat eating nuts and reading The Times. The owner put down the darts long enough to pour me a whisky, fold the fiver I gave him into a wad in his pocket and give me change. He came back my side of the bar and resumed his mechanical throwing.
‘Fancy a game?’ he asked.
‘Don’t play it,’ I said.
He threw quickly. ‘Pity,’ he said, recovering the darts.
