by Joe McNally
‘Let’s hope so.’
5
Con Layton sat smoking in the corner of the changing room, his feet on the bench, drying blood crusting round the tear in his boot. A valet said, ‘Better get that seen to, Con.’ Layton, smiling at me, said to him, ‘That’s evidence in the enquiry. You wouldn’t be wanting me to cover it up.’
I sat down across from him. My cold stare met with a smug smile and a blown smoke-ring which broke up as it looped and twirled like a tossed coin.
Between smoke-rings the smile stayed fixed on his thin lips. ‘What’re you starin’ at, Malloy?’
‘I’m trying to work out why the little arguments we had earlier make you think you’ve got the right to try to kill me.’
He smiled. ‘Ah it’s a big bad world out there, Malloy, where clever words are of no use to you. You must learn to be tough.’
I leaned forward. ‘I think I’m tough enough to handle an idiot who blows smoke-rings that are bigger than his brain.’
The smile disappeared. ‘Malloy, you’ve an awful smart mouth.’ Then he flicked the burning cigarette end straight at my face.
I ducked then got quickly to my feet ready to lunge at him. Layton was rising to meet me when a stern voice brought us up short. ‘Malloy! Layton!’ We turned. One of the stewards’ secretaries stood at the door.
‘Come with me,’ he said, ‘the stewards will see you now.’
Like a frustrated child I considered shouldering Layton aside and marching out first but I decided I’d rather have the bastard in front than behind me.
He headed for the door. I followed and said, ‘Listen, if you come near me in a race again I’ll break your legs.’
‘What was that, Malloy?’ asked the stewards’ secretary.
‘Nothing, sir, I was just asking Mister Layton if he was riding in the next.’
‘Neither of you will be riding in the next if you keep the panel waiting much longer!’
The stewards’ secretary was a tall man, maybe six three, and very thin. His shoulder blades swung at our eye level as we followed him. His name was Claude Beckman. He stopped outside the stewards’ room and told us to wait.
Beckman knocked and took off his trilby as he went in.
We stood in silent animosity. This was my first stewards’ enquiry since coming back. Nothing would have changed. Behind the door Beckman would be briefing the panel of stewards, re-running the video, telling them where he thought the fault lay.
The stewards were unpaid local volunteers, mostly from society’s more fortunate end, lovers of racing but many of them not as well versed in race-riding techniques as they should have been considering our livelihoods often depended on their decisions.
Beckman was a paid official. Stewards’ secretaries were appointed because of their in-depth knowledge of racing. Many had race-riding experience as amateur jockeys. Their job was to help the stewards reach a fair decision. Many secretaries were from military backgrounds. Far too few were ex-professional jockeys, who did the best job of all. But the stewards tended not to trust the ex-pros and preferred the principle that a new brooms sweep clean. Though old ones, I thought, glancing at Layton, knew where the dirt was.
They called us in. Layton went first, limping theatrically. Beckman, impatient, nodded at us to move quicker. The room was almost square; high roof, tatty decoration, poor lighting and bad ventilation judging by the musty smell.
Two men and a woman sat behind a long table. I knew them: Lord Cumbernauld, John Carnduff and the Honourable Clarissa Cover who bred and raced jumpers with some success.
Sitting off to Miss Cover’s right, fingers poised over a grey machine, was the stenographer, Lisa Ffrench. I watched her from the corner of my eye. She didn’t look up.
Beckman was looking down at us now. He was fortyish and totally bald though it added to his imposing look which bordered on fierce. He spoke. ‘We are here to enquire into careless riding in the last race. You will both answer the stewards’ questions truthfully and without the usual tiresome embellishments.’
Video evidence during enquiries often pin-pointed the main culprit but when guilt wasn’t clear it tended to be the more articulate jockey, the best salesman, who won through. Embellishment was understating it, often it was pure fiction. But it was part of the trade, something you tried to learn along with the other skills.
Lord Cumbernauld cleared his throat and asked us to explain our actions. Layton got in first, bowing and scraping, lying. He blamed the problems on his horse hanging badly.
I disputed it and told them it was deliberate. Layton, who’d been chummily calling me Eddie, acted horrified at this claim.
‘May I suggest we see the film, sir?’ I said. Every race is filmed from a camera patrol and from a head-on view in the straight. It wasn’t often that film evidence was badly interpreted and I was confident the panel would find in my favour.
The Chairman glanced up at Claude Beckman who reddened slightly as he said to me, ‘It is not a jockey’s place to decide when a film should be viewed, that decision rests with the stewards. Unfortunately, in this instance, we’ve had a technical problem which means the film will not be available. This case will be decided on the evidence of our own eyes and the testimony of those involved.’
Pompous bastard.
I noticed that Lisa Ffrench’s fingers went silent on her keyboard before Beckman finished speaking. I glanced at her. She looked bewildered for a second as she stared at Beckman before tapping in his last few words.
They listened as we put our cases: I as quietly and sensibly as I could and Layton increasingly dramatically as he felt the verdict slipping away (at one point he asked if he could sit down on as his injured foot was killing him).
They sent us out while they made their final decision. I’d been confident going in that the video evidence would clear me. I knew the main thing in my favour now was Layton’s reputation. Many of the stewards believed he was crooked, they just couldn’t prove it.
Five minutes later we were still waiting. Jockeys were weighing out for the next. The officials were anxious to present the prize for the Greenalls. People were getting worried. I was one of them.
The door opened and Beckman motioned us in. He didn’t look pleased. I stood in front of the panel trying to guess from their faces. Deadpan.
Lord Cumbernauld spoke. ‘Without video corroboration we’ve had to take both your stories with a large pinch of salt and have made our decision on our own’ – he glanced, rather coldly I thought, at Beckman – ‘and Mr Beckman’s recollection of the race. There is no doubt, Malloy, that you made the best of the situation after the last and that you had no intention of allowing Layton a clear run. However, you did keep a straight course and we’ve decided that Mister Layton’s problems were of his own making. The result stands.’
Layton breathed sharply through his nostrils. I smiled at the panel and said, ‘Thank you.’ The chairman nodded and as we turned to leave said, ‘And Layton, since your injured foot is causing you so much pain we’ve also decided that you must pass the doctor before riding again.’
Layton cursed. I managed to suppress my laughter till I got outside where Layton went through his full repertoire of bad language leaving me in no doubt I had an enemy for life.
Pulsing with energy, feeling great, I changed into the black and red colours of my next mount pausing only to shake hands and accept congratulations from the lads, especially the little team in my own corner. If there was hope for one of us there was hope for all.
Amid the laughter and horseplay and leg-pulling I felt as good as I had for five years. Gradually, over ten seconds or so, I was aware of the room becoming steadily quiet. From near the entrance down to where we were the noise just sort of dried up like taps being turned off.
Along with everyone else I looked up toward the main door. Bob Carter, the senior valet, a big imposing man, stood there white-faced, mouth open looking at us. When there was complete silence Bob said, ‘The police just
found Tommy Gilmour’s body. He’s been murdered.’
An excerpt from Blood Ties, book 3 in the Eddie Malloy series
1
In the dying days of the old jump season, after the toughest five months since my comeback, I got a phone call.
‘Malloy?’
‘Yes.’ I didn’t recognise the voice.
‘You don’t know me but you’ll get to know my voice.’
I hoped not. It had a sniggering, know-it-all tone. I said nothing.
He said, ‘You’re riding right through the summer?’
‘Who’s asking?’
‘Just listen. You’re riding through the summer.’ No longer a question.
‘Maybe.’
‘No maybe. You will be.’
Stern now. Commanding. Certain. I felt a nervous ripple in my gut.
He said, ‘Over the next few months I’m going to call you a few times - probably on the evening before you ride something fancied. I’ll give you riding instructions and you’ll stick to them.’
Trainers gave riding instructions, very occasionally owners would, complete strangers were a new one on me. But I held my tongue, held my breath.
‘You listening, Malloy?’
‘Keep talking.’
‘I know something about you. You do what you’re told or I give it to Kerman.’
Jean Kerman was a ruthless tabloid journalist specialising in dirt-digging in sport - she’d ruined at least a dozen apparently solid careers.
I’d been shamed and scorned enough in my life. There was only one thing left, one secret, and I said a brief intense prayer against his knowing it.
He spoke again.
He didn’t know it. The sudden relief cushioned the shock of what he did say. I stayed silent, trying to gather my thoughts.
He said: ‘You’ve gone all quiet and shy, Malloy.’
‘Just run it past me again.’
‘Don’t mess me around! You heard.’
‘I just want to be sure I’ve got everything right.’
There was a pause then he repeated everything in an impatient monotone, like a teacher with a backward kid. ‘You and Martin Corish are conning breeders. Town Crier isn’t covering the mares you say he is. You’re using a cheap ringer and charging the full fee. Now, if that gets out, do you want a point by point lesson on how it will affect your career? Or a written declaration of what it will do to your nice little stud business?’
Just over a year ago I’d invested everything I had in becoming equal partner with Martin Corish in the stud he had started. I didn’t have a clue what this guy was talking about but he sounded very convincing. I said, ‘I think we’d better meet.’
‘I think you’d better get your cheating boots on. I’ll be in touch.’
‘Listen . . .’
He hung up.
I rang Martin. His secretary-cum-groom was evasive, defensive. She told me he wasn’t around.
‘When will he be around?’
‘Ummm . . . I’m not really sure.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Maybe if you call this evening . . .’
‘Where is he?’
‘I’m sorry Mr Malloy, I can’t say.’
‘Look, don’t make me drive all the way down there.’
‘I’m sorry'. I’m just to say he’s uncontactable. That’s what I was told.’
‘Where’s Caroline?’
‘Mrs Corish isn’t well. She’s lying down.’ The girl was obviously agitated, her voice rising. It wasn’t fair to take out my frustrations on her. There was obviously something wrong at the stud. I told her I’d see her in an hour, clicked the answerphone on, grabbed my jacket and pointed the car toward Wiltshire.
I’d been sucked into enough whirlpools in recent years to sense another one when it was still some way off. I was already feeling the pull of its vortex.
2
It was dusk when I reached the farm. As I swung the heavy wooden gate open insects hummed in the greenery and swarmed toward my car headlights which illuminated the sign reading: THIS GATE MUST BE KEPT CLOSED AT ALL TIMES. It wasn’t unusual for a horse to get loose somewhere on the enclosed three hundred acres. If you could keep them off the roads you stood a good chance of getting them back unharmed.
Martin Corish and his wife lived in a big farmhouse close to the stableyard. The house was in darkness as I pulled in by the low wall. I got out. The dusk had deepened. The outlines of mares and their foals in the nearby paddock merged into single shapes. No dogs barked.
Something was wrong.
I stood still, listening. Nothing but the sounds and smells of a warm June night in the country. Insects. Musky flower scents. Quiet whickering from horses. Away across the fields the eerie cry of a vixen. Shut your eyes and you’d bet you weren’t within a hundred miles of humanity.
I walked into the yard. Halfway across it I heard a phone ringing. After half a dozen rings a light came on inside the office in the corner of the yard and glowed yellow through the barred window. Along with the moths and their brethren I moved quietly toward it.
The top part of the uncurtained window was open about three inches. I listened to Corish’s secretary. She sounded much more aggressive with this caller than she’d been with me an hour and a half ago.
‘When? . . . Soon’s not good enough. It’s been “soon” for the past nine months! . . . Oh, it’s different all right! It’s worse!’
She was shouting. The other party must have told her to cool down.
‘Why should I? ... I won’t wake Caroline! She’s out of her head as usual and I can see why she does it! . . . Why should I? Give me one good reason!’
It had to be Corish on the other end and he must have given her a few good reasons because she shut up for a full minute and when she spoke again all the fire had gone out of her. The tone was one of weary resignation.
‘But what do I tell Eddie Malloy? . . . But what if he does turn up, Martin, what do I tell him?’
Melodramatic by nature, I was tempted at this point to burst in and grab the phone so he could tell me personally. But I thought I might learn more by staying put.
She said, ‘When? . . . Where? . . . What if he asks for your number? . . . Martin! . . . Martin!’
He must have hung up. The girl did the same then started working through every swear word she knew in a steady monotone, as though reciting tables at school.
I went in. She was sprawled in a swivel chair, long red hair unkempt, blue eyes tired and puffy. When she saw me she gasped and reached toward her groin, pulling frantically at the open zip on her tight beige jodhpurs, trying at the same time to get to her feet and turn her back on me.
In a TV sitcom it might have looked funny but I felt an instant pang of regret and shame, almost as though I’d assaulted her. I didn’t even manage to redeem myself by catching her as she collapsed in a dead faint. On the way down her head smacked hard against a metal filing cabinet.
By the time I was on my knees beside her she was already bleeding.
The wound was on her scalp and not dangerously deep. Blood trickled across her temple forming a small pool in her ear. Her pulse was steady, her breathing even.
Making a pillow of my jacket I gently raised her head and eased the makeshift cushion underneath. In the corner of the office was a small sink. As I got up to fetch a wet cloth I noticed the girl’s white swollen belly exposed by the gaping fly of her jodhpurs. Red pubic hair curled over the pink waistband of her pants. Looking around for something to cover her, I scooped a purple fleecy jacket from the back of the swivel chair and laid it across her midriff.
I checked her pulse again and was wondering whether I should call an ambulance when her eyes opened and tried to focus on me. I moved away, not wanting to seem threateningly close. I sat on the chair. Her face remained calm. She reached up slowly to feel her head.
‘Fiona, are you all right?’ I asked.
She looked at the sticky blood on her fingers.
‘
Just a flesh wound,’ I said.
Puzzled, she stared at me. ‘You hit your head on the cabinet,’ I explained. ‘My fault for barging in like that and scaring you. I’m sorry.’
She made to get up. I was caught between helping her and saving her embarrassment as the jacket covering her bare middle slipped away. She grabbed at it. I stood up. ‘I’ve got a first-aid kit in the car - won’t be a minute,’ I said, and went out into the cool darkness.
When I got back she was sitting at the desk sipping water from a cracked cup and sobbing quietly. I said, ‘Fiona, look, I’m sorry for scaring you like that. I didn’t mean to.’
She wiped at her eyes with the blood-stained cloth I’d been using on her head. Opening the green plastic first-aid box, I handed her a clean dry pad. She took it and carried on wiping.
‘Got some good painkillers here,’ I offered.
She shook her head slowly.
I spent the next fifteen minutes asking questions. Where was Martin Corish? Where were the rest of the staff? Who was tending the horses? I told her I’d overheard her telephone conversation - where had he called her from? Although tempted, I thought it best not to question her about the stallions, Town Crier especially. Martin Corish was the man with the answers but if Fiona knew his whereabouts she wasn’t saying. She didn’t speak a single word, just sat dabbing at the now dry wound and staring at the desk. Her Snoopy watch read eleven o’clock when I gave up.
Footfalls deliberately heavy on the cobbles, I crossed the moonlit yard wanting to convince Fiona I’d given up in disgust. I started the car, drove about a few hundred yards then pulled in, jumped out and ran back.
Outside the office once again I listened for the frantic return call to Corish but all was silent. Either she’d made it just after I’d left or she genuinely didn’t know where he was.
I waited twenty minutes. Nothing.
I was tempted to visit Town Crier’s box. I knew the horse well and reckoned it would take a pretty good ringer to fool me. But like a number of stallions he wasn’t the friendliest beast in the world toward humans, particularly, I suspected, the kind who intrude in the hours of darkness. I decided to leave it till next morning.
