by Joe McNally
His friend with the hoe hit the horse again then the trainer grabbed one end of the rein and urged the groundsman to drop his weapon and get the other.
With a man each side of his head holding the rein tight at the mouth, Castleford, much subdued, walked back off the course and away behind the stands. Two medics comforted the shocked and bleeding lad till the ambulance, fresh back from delivering the injured jockey to the doctors’ room, rolled up to take him on the same journey.
As soon as the race got under way Stoke left his stool and hurried off in the direction of the unsaddling enclosure. It was the only time I’d seen him leave his pitch during a race. Even his clerk looked surprised.
The race had been over for a while by the time Stoke returned. A handful of punters were waiting to be paid and his anxious clerk looked pleased to see him. When he’d paid out, Stoke made a call from the telephone on the small shelf attached to the rails. The conversation was short and when he hung up I saw him smile.
Three more races were delayed that day and the meeting ran over time by almost an hour. The last result brought a long queue at Stoke’s pitch but he seemed calm as he paid them all before stepping off his stool, leaving the bewildered looking clerk to pack up the gear.
Trailing Stoke to the bar I watched him go in among the soft lights and the smiling faces hazed in blue cigar smoke.
I could have used a whisky myself, chilled by two fat ice cubes. I decided to have it back at the cottage as there didn’t seem much point hanging around watching Stoke drink his usual quota. I hadn’t really learnt much over the last three days and the euphoria from finding the gang at Stoke’s house was seeping away.
I got into the car, already anticipating Jackie’s call that night. Maybe she’d have picked up something worthwhile today. She’d had nothing to report the previous two evenings and in a way I was glad, at least it kept her safe.
The traffic was light. I reached the exit within a minute of leaving my parking space, which was bad news for Phil Greene. If I’d been delayed a while I might have seen him driving in. If I’d stayed for that drink maybe I’d have seen him meeting Stoke in the bar. If I hadn’t gone home when I did it’s just possible I could have saved his life.
Next morning half my face was shaved when the phone rang. As I lifted the receiver it slipped across the shaving cream on my fingers and clattered on the small table.
I picked it up again. ‘Hello?’
‘Eddie.’ The voice was tense.
‘Mac. What’s up?’
‘Have you seen The Sporting Life?’
‘They don’t deliver here in the backwoods.’
‘Phil Greene was killed at Newbury yesterday.’
Logic told me he was mistaken. I didn’t answer.
‘Eddie?’
‘I’m still here. What happened?’
‘He was savaged by a horse. They found him in its stable after racing, ribs smashed, liver punctured, both arms broken, official cause of death, severe head injuries.’
Already it was beginning to come together. ‘Was the horse called Castleford?’
‘How did you know that?’
‘I was at Newbury yesterday. I saw the horse take a mad turn and savage his jockey and his lad.’
‘That’s right. Do you know who owns Castleford?’
‘I don’t know who owned him when he arrived at the track but I’ve a fair idea who owned him when he killed Phil Greene.’
‘Go on.’
‘Howard Stoke.’
‘How the hell ...?’
‘I added two and two and got the right answer, for once.’
I told him about Stoke’s behaviour and how he’d followed Castleford and his trainer as the horse was led away after being caught.
‘Who found Greene?’ I asked
‘One of the groundsmen, checking boxes before leaving.’
‘What time?’
‘About eight.’
‘Have you interviewed Stoke?’
‘One of my men spoke to him late last night.’
‘What’s his story?’
‘He claims he was having a drink in the bar when Greene arrived about six-fifteen and they got talking. He said Greene was boisterous, happy, and drinking large whiskies. Stoke told him about the horse he’d bought, said it was absolutely crazy and there probably wasn’t a man alive who could ride him and all that Wild West stuff. Stoke said he’d had a few too many himself. Anyway, according to him, Greene started boasting that there wasn’t a horse alive he couldn’t ride. He said he would get him out of his box and ride him bareback into the bar.
‘Stoke says he stopped all the kidding at this point and told Greene there was no way he was to go near the horse. Greene wouldn’t let up and Stoke, quote, had to get serious and threaten him to stay away for his own good.
‘Apparently Greene then calmed down but ten minutes later he disappeared, supposedly to the toilet. He never came back. Stoke reckons he was determined to bring the horse out, just to show he could do it. My man said Stoke seemed very upset.’
Your man is easily led, I thought.
‘Did he ask Stoke why he bought the horse?’
‘Yes. Stoke claims he didn’t want to see the horse put down, but he didn’t want it to race again either, in case it savaged anyone else.’
‘Did your man believe him?’
‘I think so.’
‘You’ve got some gullible people working for you, Mac.’
‘That’s not exactly fair comment, Eddie, we had no reason to suspect Stoke was involved.’
‘Listen, as soon as Stoke bought that horse the first thing he did when he came back to his pitch was make a phone call which was, very probably, to arrange for Greene to come to Newbury.’
‘Eddie ...’ He started back on the defensive.
‘Mac, I’m sorry. You’re right. Your man didn’t know enough of what was going on. Forget what I said.’
‘Okay.’
‘Have the police interviewed Stoke?’
‘They saw him last night. I spoke to them just before I called you. They said it’s unlikely they’ll be looking for anyone else but they’d wait for the verdict from the inquest.’
‘Mmm.’
‘As far as they’re concerned, Stoke’s alibi, if he needed one, is cast iron. There were at least thirty people in that bar when Greene went out and with all the noise that had come from the table most of them probably noticed that he’d left and Stoke was still there.’
‘Why do you think Stoke was generating the noise?’
‘Well, that’s a thought.’
‘A thought! ... Do me a favour, Mac, if I’m still in one piece when this is over point me in the opposite direction from Racecourse Security Services and tell me not to stop till I clear the horizon.’
He didn’t reply.
‘Do you know when the inquest is?’ I asked.
‘Probably early next week. I’ll contact you as soon as I have the details.’
‘Okay.’
‘Right, I’ll leave you to it then.’
‘Mac, before you go, how did Greene get access to the racecourse stables, where were Security?’
He cleared his throat. ‘We’ve identified a breach there which is being investigated.’
‘Cut the official crap, Mac. What happened?’
‘Last day of the meeting. Stoke’s was the only horse still there.’
‘And?’
‘The guy on the gate skived off for a drink.’
‘One of your people?’
‘It’ll cost him his job.’
‘It cost Greene his life.’
30
The inquest was on Tuesday; death by misadventure. They buried him on Thursday, a warm morning under a cloudless sky. The heavy scent of wildflowers from the field next to the small cemetery drifted across the wreaths around the graveside.
The Roscoes and Stokes were there. Half a dozen jockeys turned up. Two lads from Roscoe’s stable stood quietly in the ba
ckground, one wearing a violet tie and yellow shirt.
When the final prayers were said the mourners drifted away in small groups. I made my way over to fall in behind Skinner’s gathering. I deliberately caught Stoke’s eye, he looked smug. Roscoe ignored me and Skinner’s returned glance was evil.
I scanned the Life each morning for word on Roscoe’s new stable jockey. His announcement after Greene’s death had been, ‘We’ll have to wait and see. It’s hardly the first thing on our minds at this sad time.’
How touching.
And, the reporter had asked, would the stable’s only patron, Mr Perlman, have a say in the choice of new stable jockey?
‘Mr Perlman,’ Roscoe told him, ‘leaves the handling of all his racing affairs to me. I will choose the new jockey.’
As yet he hadn’t.
Stoke was responsible for Greene’s death. I wondered if he’d had anything to do with Harle’s or had Greene been telling me the truth about Harle being killed by his ‘business associates’?
If Stoke was controlling the hit men, why hadn’t he used them to kill Greene instead of taking a chance himself? I needed more information on Stoke. What was his past history? Who were his connections? How had he got his money?
There was one person who should know Stoke better than anyone, his wife Charmain. I wondered if she’d talk. She’d looked drawn and almost haggard at the funeral. If Phil Greene’s drunken boasts of her being his mistress were true that might explain why she’d seemed so stressed. But the strains of living with Stoke couldn’t be helping her either if he often behaved the way he had with me at the Champion Hurdle party.
He probably beat the hell out of her if she looked the wrong way at the milkman and when he was away racing she’d be shut in that big house in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do but watch the trees grow higher and thicker.
The more I thought of her the more I reckoned she’d be sick of Stoke’s idea of domestic bliss. I remembered what she’d been like as a teenager; she wouldn’t have stood Stoke’s treatment for two minutes back then. God only knows how she’d got herself involved with him. I wondered how much she knew, how much she’d be willing to tell.
I checked The Sporting Life ad and found that Stoke planned to be at York next Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. A long way from home. I decided that on at least one of those nights his wife would have some company.
Just after ten o’clock on Friday night, the day after Greene’s funeral, my phone rang. Thinking it was Jackie, I hurried to answer.
‘Hello.’
‘Eddie Malloy?’
‘That’s right.’ I didn’t recognise the accented voice immediately.
‘I have information you may want.’
The same voice I’d last heard shouting on Roscoe’s answer-phone. ‘Kruger?’ I asked
‘Yes.’
My brain raced. What the hell were these people up to? I tried to sound cool. ‘Information on what, Mr Kruger?’
‘On the doping ring you are trying to break.’
‘Why should you want to give me information on something you are running?’
‘I am not running it, not any more.’
‘They threw you out?’
‘Wrong. I am stepping out. I came into this to make a profit, not to have people killed. You know that, Mr Malloy. I am not a murderer.’
‘So who is the murderer?’
‘You must meet me tomorrow.’
‘Sure, so I can be next in the morgue.’
‘Mr Malloy, you do me a disservice, I told you - ‘
‘You did me a pretty big disservice yourself five years ago.’
‘That was business. There was nothing personal.’
‘And isn’t this the same business, Mr Kruger, only for higher stakes?’
‘They told me when I joined there would be no killing, now three people are dead. I will not take any further part in it.’ His voice was calm and measured and he sounded, God help me, sincere. ‘So what do you get out of it by giving me information?’ I asked.
‘I will give you evidence to convict the madman in charge and you will keep me out of it. I will be leaving the country tomorrow.’
‘Why not just leave anyway if you want out? Why give me evidence?’
‘Because I want to sleep easily in my bed for the rest of my life. I will be able to do that if I know this man has been locked up for a long time.’
It was beginning to sound plausible. I knew Kruger wasn’t the type, as he said, for murder. A con man, fraudster and all-round crook, but he wasn’t into violence on that scale.
‘If you say I’ll be safe at this meeting tomorrow then you won’t mind me bringing someone else along, will you?’
‘No police.’
‘No police, but a member of the Racecourse Security Services.’
‘That is the same.’
‘It’s not. He has no powers of arrest other than as a citizen and that’s not what I want him for.’
‘Why then do you want him?’
‘I want him to witness a sworn statement from you that I had nothing to do with that doping ring five years ago.’
He hesitated. ‘Nothing else?’
‘Nothing else.’
‘You will allow me to leave when I have done that?’
‘Yes.’
‘All right.’
‘Where will we meet?’
‘You know the field which is used as a car park at Stratford racecourse?’
‘Yes. What time?’
‘Ten o’clock.’
‘Okay.’
He hung up and I rang McCarthy and asked him to be there for nine-thirty, though I didn’t tell him who we were meeting. Then I sat down with a very large drink and contemplated seriously, for the first time in five years, the prospect of riding again.
I was on a real high by the time Jackie rang at ten-thirty. She sounded anxious. ‘Eddie! I’ve been trying to get through for ages, is everything all right?’
‘Couldn’t be better. The reason you couldn’t get through was that I had a call that’s given me the best break of the case. In fact it’ll probably crack it completely ...’
‘Fantastic! Who was it?’
‘Would you believe the man himself?’
‘Who?’
‘Kruger.’
‘You’re kidding!’
‘Nope ... says he wants to co-operate, have a meeting.’
‘You be careful, Eddie.’
‘Don’t worry, he’s agreed to McCarthy coming along.’
‘But who’ll be with this Kruger? He’s probably not to be trusted.’
‘That’s what I thought at first but I think he’s serious. I can’t pass up the chance.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said he was sick of the killing and wanted out. Says he’ll name the ringleader.’
There was a pause. ‘Jackie ... You still there?’
‘Yes, I’m here ... I don’t like the smell of this.’
‘Look, don’t worry! I won’t take any chances.’
‘What time will you be back? Can I phone to make sure you’re okay?’
‘We’re due to meet him at ten at Stratford racecourse but depending on how it goes I might not come straight back here. Chances are I won’t. Look, don’t worry, ring me tomorrow night at ten if you can.’
‘Okay.’
We talked for a while. There was nothing to report at her end except a noticeable lack of grief at Roscoe’s about Phil Greene’s death. Plans for our future took up the rest of the conversation and I went to bed confident that it would all soon be over and we’d be together then.
McCarthy was at Stratford at nine-thirty. So was Kruger, or at least I assumed it was his car parked two hundred yards away in the empty field.
McCarthy pushed open his passenger door for me but I declined. ‘Let’s walk. It’ll give me time to tell you what’s happening.’
We went through the gate toward the big black Carlton which faced us he
ad-on. I told McCarthy why we were there. He expressed what are best described as mixed feelings.
From about fifty yards away I recognised Kruger. He was sitting quietly in the driver’s seat. The engine was running. McCarthy got edgy. ‘I don’t like this Eddie. Why is he parked head-on with the engine running?’
‘I don’t know, Mac. Maybe he’s cold and likes to keep his heater on.’
‘Or maybe, as soon as we’re close enough, he’ll accelerate and run us down.’
‘If he does, you go left and I’ll go right. One of us’ll survive.’
‘Don’t be flippant, Eddie, for all you know - ‘
‘Mac ...’ We were ten yards away now. ‘What’s that sticking through his back window?’
‘Shit!’
We ran to the car. McCarthy yanked the rubber hosepipe from the small gap in the window and I pulled the driver’s door open to haul Kruger out. But his skin was cold, his limbs stiff.
My jockey’s licence, which had seemed only an arm’s length away last night, had now not so much receded over the horizon as disappeared into space. I had to turn away quickly because I had a sudden urge to punch Kruger’s cold blue dead face.
McCarthy switched off the engine and looked at me. ‘Suicide?’ he asked.
‘Suicide, bollocks!’ I said. ‘They doped him, knocked him out or something and stuck him in there. Probably did it somewhere else and drove him here last night. His phone must have been bugged.’
McCarthy looked distressed and I began to wonder if this was the first corpse he’d ever seen. He leaned on the bonnet, staring down at his big reflection in the shiny paintwork and said quietly, ‘We’d better get the police.’
‘You get the police, I’m going.’
His head snapped up. ‘What are you talking about, going? You’re staying here to give a statement to the police.’
I marched over to face him across the bonnet and just stopped myself from grasping the wing and leaving fingerprints all over it. ‘Mac, who was there when Danny Gordon was found dead?’
‘You were.’
‘And Alan Harle ... ? He didn’t answer. ‘And now Kruger ... ?’
McCarthy shrugged. ‘No matter, Eddie, you’ll have to stay. It’s not fair ...’
‘Not fair! Mac, grow up! Have you forgotten detective sergeant Cranley and what he thinks of me? Just tell them you’d arranged to meet him here to get information on something you were working on. What the hell difference does it make if I’m here? Kruger’s dead, he won’t care!’
