by Joe McNally
I remembered her ill-mannered husband, though I couldn’t recall his name. How had she escaped him today? I doubted he knew she was parading about at Salisbury races drawing lustful glances from every heterosexual man she passed.
His name came to me, Stoke, and I recollected he was a bookmaker. Maybe he was here today. I went to the betting ring to find out. He was there, standing on his stool but deep in conversation with someone else I knew, young Phil Greene, Roscoe’s replacement for Harle. Well, well, well, another ingredient. The pot was bubbling nicely.
Stoke was leaning over, his head close to Greene’s mouth. His lips weren’t moving so I guessed Greene’s were. He talked with Stoke a few minutes more then they started getting interruptions from people wanting a bet on the last race of the day.
A twenty-five-to-one chance won it. The bookies smiled and got off their stools and the punters grimaced and made for the exits, dropping crumpled tickets on the way. Stoke forcibly jammed a wad of notes into the inside pocket of his jacket, peeled a few from another bundle to pay off his clerk then walked, with Greene, back toward the stands.
I followed them to the car park where they stopped beside a big sky-blue Mercedes. Charmain was in the back seat, though neither of the men seemed to acknowledge her presence. Stoke opened the driver’s door, took off his jacket and slung it in beside his wife.
He got in and looked in the mirror, fingering his too long hair and his too thin tie. Greene slid in quickly and closed the door. As they strapped on their seat belts I made for my own car which was parked near the exit.
Starting the engine I sat waiting for them but they didn’t move and after five minutes I switched off. As soon as I did the Merc’s reversing lights glowed and Stoke swung it round for the exit. I followed. McCarthy would have to wait.
The Merc went a sensible speed, heading North on the A34 past Oxford. I found myself dropping farther behind as we got deeper into the countryside. The roads grew narrower and other cars scarce. Stoke wouldn’t have to be a mastermind to realise he was being followed. I tried to keep him in sight but it was a tricky game; the hedgerows were high in places and if Stoke took a turn-off while he was out of view I’d lose him.
Just after seven they stopped about a mile through a small village called Shipton-on-Cherwell. Stoke pulled up by a bridge near a neat white cottage on the canal and Greene got out. He turned and bowed to speak to Stoke who was revving, sending puffs of grey smoke from the tailpipe. Greene straightened up and slammed the door and the Merc took off over the narrow bridge. He watched it go and was rewarded with a glance and a small secretive wave from Charmain.
I carried on down the road slowing to a crawl as I approached the bridge. Greene was walking along the canal bank by a line of four barges moored in the muddy water.
Two of the boats were completely covered by tarpaulins, another was a shiny varnished brown with brass fittings and a black chimney three feet high. Greene jumped onto the deck of the third barge in line. It was yellow and light green, though the paint was faded and cracked. On the roof were a life-belt, two old tyres and a TV aerial. At the far end was a small chimney. The name on the side was faded, it could have been Lickety Split.
The houses on the edge of the village were in sight. I drove back through the long evening shadows into Shipton, hoping to find a pub where I could ask some questions. Stopping at a garage to ask about a pub I found out, from the garage owner that Greene was just a tenant on the boat.
‘I’ve passed it a couple of times,’ I said, ‘always fancied living on a boat for a year and that one doesn’t look like it would cost that much.’
‘The guy who actually owns it lived on it himself for a few years. He just started renting it out at the back end of last year when he got a new job down in Lambourn.’ The garage man said.
‘Think he’d be open to offers?’
‘You can only try.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got his phone number?’
‘Afraid not. Skinner’s his name. A vet. I heard he’d got a job with a trainer after he’d had, well, a few problems ... least said the better I suppose.’
‘I know Lambourn. I’ve got a few mates there so I should be able to track him down. Thanks.’
‘No problem. Hope to see you back here then, if you get the boat. Good luck with it.’
‘Thanks. You’ve been really helpful.’ I said.
Really helpful.
I stopped at a phone box and called McCarthy.
‘Eddie.’ He didn’t sound delighted to hear from me.
‘Sorry I missed you at Salisbury today, I got kind of side tracked.’
‘Anything worthwhile?’
I told him about Greene and the Stokes and that Greene was staying in Skinner’s boat.
‘What do you make of it?’ he asked
‘I don’t know, but it set me thinking about Skinner. Can you remember him when he worked on the racecourse?’
‘Remember him well. It was one of my lads who had to tell him his services would no longer be required.’
‘For betting, wasn’t it?’
‘Yep. They reckoned he was a compulsive gambler.’
‘How long ago did he lose his job?’
‘Must be a couple of years now.’
‘Do you know if Howard Stoke was around at the time? Making a book, I mean?’
‘I can’t remember, but I could find out. What’s the connection?’
‘I don’t know that there is one, yet. But it would be interesting to know if Skinner bet with Stoke and if so, how much. There’s obviously some tie-up between Stoke and Greene and with Greene using Skinner’s boat, well, there could just be a little niche in Roscoe’s set-up where we’ll find Stoke fits nicely. And, last night I saw Greene leaving Roscoe’s with the same little bloke who was trailing Harle in the Duke’s Hotel after the Champion Hurdle.
‘Are you sure it was the same man?’
‘Positive. Small, tubby, very thick round glasses, unmistakable.’
There was silence for a few seconds. I thought the line had gone dead. ‘Mac?’
He spoke. ‘Remember I told you we interviewed Perlman before accepting his registration as an owner?’
‘Uhuh. At his big house in Wiltshire, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right. Did I tell you the physical description as far as my man could recall?’
‘Let me guess, small and tubby with very thick round glasses?’
‘Got it in one.’
‘Well, well, well,’ I smiled.
‘So it looks like there is a Perlman after all,’ Mac said.
‘No chance. The little guy has got to be a decoy. Kruger’s the man, believe me.’
‘Don’t get stuck on Kruger, Eddie, you’re too single-minded with him, you’ve got to allow for other possibilities.’
‘Come on, Mac! I told you about the call Kruger left on Roscoe’s answering machine, I heard it in person, live. Let me remind you what he said, “Who is running this effing show, Roscoe?”‘
‘Well, let me ask you, who do you think Kruger was complaining about in that call? Who’s trying to take over the show?’
’Roscoe. That’s what it sounded like.’ I said.
‘That depends how you interpret it, doesn’t it?’
That made me think. ‘I suppose it does.’
‘You shouldn’t jump to conclusions, Eddie. Don’t discount that little guy.’
‘Okay, I’ll keep him in mind.’
‘I mean it!’
‘Okay, okay.’
‘So, what’s next?’ he asked.
‘Well, Greene seems a cocky little bastard. I think I’ll pay him a visit under the guise of a journalist and butter him up a bit.’
‘I’d say you were a hundred-to-one Eddie. Roscoe or Kruger or whoever is bound to have him well briefed to give you a wide berth.’
‘We’ll see. Remember, officially he’s just signed with Roscoe so they might not have pulled him in yet to whatever racket they�
��re running. Why, for instance, hasn’t Roscoe moved him out of the boat and into Harle’s old place?’
‘Maybe he’s afraid of ghosts.’
‘Maybe he is Mac, maybe he is.’ I smiled.
25
The following evening I was back at the canal-side. I crossed the small bridge onto the footpath. The water was so still I could see insects hopping on the surface. The boat with the brass fittings and polished wood had gone leaving Skinner’s and the other tarpaulin-covered boats. They were motionless as though the green slime surrounding them had anchored them to the bank.
I stepped onto Skinner’s boat and it rolled slightly under my weight. A little tattered red flag hung limp from a thin six-inch pole on the roof.
Above a small entrance door was a Lucas headlamp. It was dirty and a hole had been shot through the C. An air-gun pellet lay flattened behind the glass.
I tried the door. It was locked. Jumping back to the towpath I moved along the side looking through the windows, but dingy curtains blocked my view.
As I walked toward the back of the boat a man came along the towpath about a hundred yards away running fast in my direction, accelerating as he closed on me. I stopped and waited.
He came faster, sprinting. Reaching me he ran past and slowed down to stop at the front of the boat. He bent forward, hands on knees, and I walked toward him. He wore a black tracksuit of heavy cotton. Sweat dripped from his forehead and cheekbones and shone on the back of his neck. His face was red and he was panting hard. His name was Phil Greene.
I sat on the edge of his boat. He didn’t look up. All he would see from there would be my knees and shoes. ‘In training for the new season, Phil?’ I asked.
He nodded and pearls of sweat bounced and swung from his curly hair.
‘Tough going,’ I said.
He looked at me. ‘I can handle it.’
I smiled. ‘I’m sure you can.’
He straightened till he was looking down at me. ‘What can I do for you, Mister ...?’
I could see he knew exactly who I was. ‘Malloy,’ I said. ‘Eddie Malloy.’
‘I thought I’d seen your face somewhere.’ His breathing was almost back to normal. Squatting, he reached to the side of the path and plucked some of the longer blades of grass. ‘You used to be a jockey, didn’t you? He said.
Used to be ... It always struck home, made me feel bad. I wondered when I’d grow out of it.
‘A long time ago,’ I said.
‘Couldn’t have been that long ago.’
‘Long enough. You can be a has-been in this game in six months.’
‘If you’re a mug you can.’ He darted a childish little smile at me.
‘Or if you get your neck broken.’ I smiled back.
He didn’t read the tone or he ignored it. ‘That’s for mugs too, riding dodgy novices. No more of that for me.’ He smiled his smile again. I was beginning to dislike it. ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘A cushy number for you this season, riding for Roscoe.’
‘And for a few seasons after that if I’ve got anything to do with it.’
‘Which is exactly what I came here to talk to you about.’
He looked up from where he was squatting like a kid, absent-mindedly rolling the blades of grass he’d plucked between his palms.
‘How do you mean?’ he asked.
‘Ever read the profiles of racing personalities in The Sporting Life?’
‘Uhuh.’
‘How’d you like to be a subject?’
‘Who’d want to read about me?’ he asked in a silly, coy, girl-like manner that made me want to throw him in the canal.
‘People are always interested in the young hopefuls,’ I said through gritted teeth.
He stopped rubbing the crumpled grass between his hands, opened them and let the small green cigar come to rest in his right palm. Raising his hand to his lips he blew a short hard breath and the grass disappeared. Only his eyes moved to stare at me. The annoying smile was still on his face but there was a sudden hardness, a greedily protective element now. ‘I’m no hopeful, Malloy, I’ve arrived.’
I didn’t like the look and I didn’t like him calling me Malloy. He was a punk who wouldn’t normally last five minutes. I felt like slapping him around.
‘Okay, you’ve arrived, I’m not arguing. But you must be thinking already of your first championship, riding a Gold Cup or a National winner?’
‘That’s only a matter of time.’
‘One thing you need in this game is confidence and you’re not short of that.’
‘You bet I’m not. There’s only one way I’m going and that’s to the top.’
As if to reinforce it he stood up. I stayed sitting while he walked up and down the towpath, ten paces each way.
‘A full page in the Life isn’t going to do your career prospects any harm, is it?’
‘I know it isn’t. That’s why I’m going to let you do it.’
‘Good. When suits you?’
‘Now, if you like.’ He was still pacing.
‘Fine. Why don’t you get changed and we’ll go and have a few drinks and outline the structure of the piece.’
‘Okay,’ he said and sprung past me onto the deck.
The pub Greene chose was only ten minutes’ drive away, though it was a long ten minutes for me. He didn’t stop talking about how well he was going to do in the new season, how much his riding had matured, how good horses would let him show his real worth.
Still, his boasting had its benefits. If Roscoe had indeed warned him to avoid me it seemed likely he’d ignore the trainer and rely on his own judgement. And he’d already decided I was a nobody.
We pulled in at a white-walled building with a thickly thatched roof. Greene nodded and smiled at a few people as we walked to the bar.
‘What would you like?’ I asked.
‘Canadian Club on the rocks.’
‘I’ll have a bottle of beer, please.’
‘Certainly, gentlemen,’ said the barman who was all dickied up with a nice white shirt and black bow tie.
He brought the drinks and I paid.
‘Let’s go out in the last of the sunshine,’ Greene said.
‘A bit noisy for interviewing.’
‘Break your concentration?’ he said snidely.
I sat at a table by the window and took out a mini tape-recorder .
‘No, just might drown out your highly intelligent and interesting answers.’
He took it as a compliment, smiled and sat down. It wasn’t hard to fill a tape. It got to the stage where he was happy to keep talking, knowing the machine would pick it up, while I got us another drink.
He stayed with the clear-coloured whisky and the more he drank the more he talked. The more he talked the more obvious it was how big a hit the guy was for himself.
Calling a halt around 9.30 I switched off the tape.
‘Are you sure that’ll be enough?’ he asked.
‘Could write a book from that, never mind a profile.’
He smiled, linked his hands behind his head and lay back in the corner of the sofa-type seat. ‘Maybe someday I will write a book,’ he said. ‘Might even let you ghost it for me.’ He nodded toward his empty glass. ‘If you buy me another drink, that is.’
‘My pleasure,’ I said. It was far from it. He’d already drunk more than a camel at an oasis. Still, it was suiting my purpose. I brought the drinks back and steered him onto a general discussion about racing.
When the bell rang to signal time Greene objected, shouting for more whisky. The barman ignored him and moved around clearing up glasses, putting towels over beer pumps and empty bottles in crates.
Greene was getting abusive. Standing up I reached across the table with my right hand. ‘Come on, Phil, we can go back to my place for a drink.’
He stared a while longer, or tried to, at the barman. His eyes were rolling slightly and his speech was slurred. Still looking at the barman he took my hand, and I helped him up.�
� Your place, Eddie! Good lad. No problem!’ As he stood up and gained his balance he suddenly looked at me very seriously.
‘Got any Canadian Club at home?’
‘Plenty,’ I lied. I knew by the time we got there that either the notion would have worn off him or he would drink anything. I hoped for the latter. The bigger his hangover, the better the chance of my plan succeeding.
He was surprisingly quiet for the first few miles of the trip and I glanced across occasionally to make sure he was okay. His eyes were half shut and his head nodded slowly and unevenly like one of those toy dogs in the backs of cars.
We must have been halfway there when he said, unprompted and staring straight ahead, ‘I’ve got a mistress, you know.’
I slowed involuntarily but didn’t respond. My first thought was that ‘mistress’ was an odd word for him to use.
‘She’s beautiful and I love her and when I’m champion jockey she’s going to marry me.’
‘What’s her name?’ I asked. I saw his finger go to the side of his nose and try to tap it but it was more like stroking.
‘Secret,’ he said. ‘Big secret.’
I didn’t answer. There was nothing for ten seconds or so then he said, ‘Her husband’s a bastard, a real bastard.’ He turned toward me. ‘She married him for money, see, she never really loved him.’
‘Sure.’
‘Sure ... Sure’s right ... Sure is absolutely right ... She never did.’
I wondered if he looked on marriage for money as a virtue when he was sober.
‘Can you take me to her now? He asked in a pathetic, begging tone. ‘Please?’ he added.
‘Where does she live?’
‘Suffolk. Somewhere in Suffolk.’
‘Where in Suffolk?’
‘Somewhere, okay? ... Somewhere ... None of your business anyway.’
‘I thought you wanted me to take you there?’
‘I do want it but I can’t. Her husband’s home tonight. I am not allowed to go when he’s there.’
‘Back to my place then, you can have another drink and forget all about her.’
‘I’ll never forget her ... Never!’
I thought I heard a sob but couldn’t be sure. He dozed off two minutes later and didn’t wake till I leaned in and shook him, having already stopped in the trees and checked the cottage for unwanted visitors.
