Aim High (The Eddie Malloy series Book 7)

by Joe McNally

  43

  Throughout the week, the media, in the boring chill of early winter sport, did what they could to ramp up fear for the coming Saturday. The police had made no progress on Kellagher’s killing. Racecourses issued strategy statements on security plans. Bookmakers announced they’d contribute to the policing costs.

  Eddie rode at four tracks between Monday and Friday and the mood in the changing room had a definite edge. They talked about Kellagher’s murder but nobody said much about the prospect of another shooting. Mac found out that Sampson and Blackaby had been ‘quietly advised’ by the police to accept no more rides until the killer was caught.

  But both kept riding.

  They looked scared in the changing room. The other jockeys agreed that either Jordan Ivory had ordered them to keep riding, or they’d taken the decision that staying away would imply they had been guilty as charged at the Old Bailey.

  Saturday’s big race was at Haydock, halfway between Liverpool and Manchester. Dil Grant, Eddie’s employer, had two runners in it. Eddie chose the shortest priced one, Solway Sands.

  Jockeys had been warned to allow an extra two hours for the security arrangements in place at Haydock. Eddie came upon the motorway warning signs flashing well before the Haydock motorway exit.

  Every vehicle was searched. A part of Eddie was reassured, but most of him was pissed off at the delay and what he considered an over-reaction to Kellagher’s murder. The racecourses had risen to the media bait. Inside the course there seemed to be more police and security guards than racegoers. As Eddie entered the weighing room, four armed police were on sentry duty. None of this helped ease the tension in the changing room.

  Calum Kennedy, the Scot who was third in the jockeys’ table watched Eddie dump his kitbag on the bench. ‘Have you had your orifices properly searched, Eddie?’

  Eddie smiled. ‘Way over the top, isn’t it?’

  ‘I was fine till I got here. Had talked myself into it being a one off last week. Then I walk in and see all these hard-faced fuckers with flak jackets and machine guns and I’m shitting myself.’

  ‘At least you’ll lose a couple of pounds easy. Save an hour in the sweat box.’ Eddie said, unpacking his bag.

  ‘Have you seen them? I’d be scareder of them than the guy who shot Kellagher. They all look like they checked their brains in at the gate.’

  Eddie smiled. ‘Scareder? That a Scottish word?’

  ‘Oh, you’re Mister Cool, aren’t you?’

  ‘Daddy Cool. That’s me.’ Eddie said.

  ‘You might be daddy fucking cold on a slab after the big race.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Well, who knows where this guy is? He could be up on the roof just now, running through the colours to make sure he gets who he’s after.’

  Eddie finished with the bag and pushed it under the bench. ‘Stop worrying, Calum. What’s the point? If you were Sampson, you’d have reason to be worried.’

  ‘Say what you like about him, Eddie, he must have balls like a bull to be riding a week after his mate gets shot.’

  ‘Damned if he does, damned if he doesn’t.’

  ‘How do they even expect him to give the horse a ride? He’ll be plastered along the side of it like a Red Indian bolting from the cavalry.’

  Eddie laughed. Kennedy said, ‘I’m away to the toilet, before Sampson arrives and locks himself in there.’

  One notable difference from the two previous big races, was the lack of any threat in the run-up. No sauna confrontations. No indication that Ivory was betting Sampson’s mount. Eddie guessed that this wasn’t to be one of their days. The betting was open. Anything could win. Maybe that was why Sampson looked no more nervous than the rest as they made their way to the start.

  Eddie’s mount drifted badly in the betting, going off at 10/1. Dil had no idea why the market had gone against him. More often than not it’s a bad sign and this time was no different.

  Solway Sands was never travelling well. Approaching the last fence, Eddie was labouring in sixth when the horse took a tired fall. Eddie rolled over twice in the soft, poached ground and lay still until the final squelchy hoof-beats faded.

  As he got up, he heard the same collective gasp from the stands as he’d heard last Saturday, and Eddie looked up the run-in and saw Craig Sampson fall at the winning post. He didn’t get hung up like Kellagher, no pummelling drag along the ground. He seemed to slip gently off as though in slow motion to lie still on the grass, his horse galloping away toward the stables.

  As at Sandown, the Stewards abandoned the remainder of the meeting. Police sealed the exits, although a couple of hundred people had panicked and run through the gates. Security in the car park mopped most of those up and herded them back in.

  Jockeys were confined to the weighing room under armed guard. Once gathered, they all sat in silence for a minute, many with elbows on knees and heads in hands. There was much rubbing of faces and running of fingers through hair as though reality were being checked, some assurance sought that they were still alive.

  Clive Banton broke the silence. ‘What do we do about this?’ he asked.

  Kennedy spoke. ‘It’s not what we do about it, it’s what the BHA does. They need to stand Blackaby down so the rest of us are safe.’

  Aidan Donnelley said, ‘I think you can safely say Blackaby will be standing himself down. Permanently.’

  Banton said, ‘They got Kellagher and Sampson. If Blackaby is on their list, they’ll get him whether he’s riding or not.’

  Prophetic words.

  44

  On Wednesday 14th November, three days after the Haydock shooting, Roland Blackaby set off for Cheltenham racecourse. There was no racing scheduled, but Jordan Ivory had told him to be there at 10.30 for a meeting in Ivory’s private box at the top of the Grandstand. Blackaby had considered not going. He’d spent most of his time since the Haydock shooting looking for places he could run to where the killer couldn’t find him.

  But he had a wife and three children. And if the rumours were true, and Ivory had set up the hits, it was pointless running anywhere. Ivory would get him. Blackaby knew his big mistake had been going along with Kellagher’s idea to scare Broc Lisle. Lisle had threatened to go to Ivory saying all three of them were about to turn Queen’s, and Blackaby was convinced that was what had happened. Ivory hadn’t hauled them in. He hadn’t even asked them about it. He’d just acted the way he always did, thought Blackaby, quickly and effectively.

  And shouldn’t he be travelling to Cheltenham in hope? He was still alive. Ivory could have had him killed anytime. But he’d asked him along to this meeting in a public place, so there was no threat this morning. Blackaby knew there’d be people around, even though there was no racing. A new grandstand was being built at Cheltenham and the work was well advanced. There’d be hundreds on site.

  The man who’d shot Kellagher and Sampson was one of those on site at Cheltenham. He wore blue overalls, a high-vis vest with the contractor’s name on the back, and a safety helmet. He was working below the old grandstand. Five floors above him, Ivory paced his box alone, wondering why Major Aubrey Severson had asked for a meeting in such a public place. Severson rarely left his office, content to do most of his ranting on the phone.

  In the basement of the stand, the man disabled the sump pump in the pit immediately below the elevator at the south side of the building. He turned next to the thick electric cables, and set about diverting the current into the pit, which was already filling with water. Next, he went back upstairs and took from his leather tool pouch a spool of black and yellow tape. He used it to seal off the stairways in the grandstand and he added pre-written notices apologizing for the inconvenience and asking visitors to use the elevator at the south side. He checked his watch: 10.12, and he moved toward the machine room from where he had a view of the south door entry and the approach from the car park.

  At 10.17, he saw Blackaby approaching the building, heading straight for the south entran
ce.

  When Blackaby pushed the button for the top floor, the man took charge of the elevator, sealing the doors and sending the big metal box downward. It registered vaguely with Blackaby that the sensation was of falling, not rising, but he assumed someone in the basement had also pressed the button. He tapped out his impatience with his fingers on the dull metal wall, counting silently. Before he reached eight, the elevator hit the water and the massive voltage consumed the big metal box.

  The man left the machine room and drove away from the track in a white van with false number plates.

  Jockey Club Racecourses, Cheltenham’s owners, confirmed that Mister Ivory had made a special request to use his box for a meeting that morning. A dozen witnesses spoke of seeing Ivory and, later, Blackaby entering the ground floor of the main Stand.

  Jockey Club Racecourses announced that work on the site would cease pending an inquiry and a check of all electrical systems. The police were reluctant to classify the death one way or the other. Given the dead man’s association with the two murdered jockeys, it had to be considered ‘suspicious’. But, had it been anyone else, the only question for the authorities would have been one of negligence on the part of Cheltenham or its contractors.

  The good news, as far as jockeys were concerned, was that they could ride races without the fear of a stray bullet or a mistaken identification of colours costing someone his life.

  Another good thing, from Eddie’s selfish viewpoint, was that the death of Blackaby finally put Ivory under the police spotlight. Ivory had paid retainers to the three dead jockeys. That was above board; it made him nothing more than their employer. But Ivory had no name to offer for the supposed mystery man he was due to meet at Cheltenham, and he denied knowing that Blackaby intended to be at the track.

  Between the death of Sampson at Haydock, and the electrocution of Blackaby, Blackaby had taken no rides. Whoever the shooter was, he’d have known that pulling off another public ‘spectacular’ wouldn’t be possible after Blackaby formally announced his retirement.

  Once Eddie had read all the papers, he called Mac. ‘Your moles in the BHA heard anything on this?’

  ‘If they have, they’re not telling me. But oddly, I had a call from Tim Arango half an hour ago, asking for a meeting.’

  ‘He’s the big shot at Jockey Club Racecourses, isn’t he?’

  ‘Chief Exec.’

  ‘Well, don’t be letting him pick your brains free of charge. Remember what I said last time, you’re a consultant now.’

  ‘So you tell me. Unfortunately, you’re the only one who seems to view me in that light.’

  45

  Come Sunday, Eddie had racked up six winners. His confidence was high, and he was enjoying the atmosphere in the changing room again. Three men were dead, but their threats and their air of menace had died with them. Nobody was afraid anymore.

  A heavy police presence still dominated each race meeting, but that was just a precaution on the part of the tracks and the word was that the big off-course bookmakers were now paying all security costs.

  Had it not been for the Old Bailey association among the dead men, then racing would have been suspended across the country. The bookies would have been out of pocket, and Britain’s sixty racetracks would have been closed.

  The media coverage faded, and with it the pressure on the police. Nobody seemed upset or embarrassed that everything was returning to normal.

  Eddie hoped that the meeting with Sonny Beltrami would be another item ticked off his list. If Eddie could make Sonny see sense, it would take the pressure off Mave. She seemed determined to ditch the betting programme and that would suit Eddie. Everything that had happened since summer could be tidied up and a new start made without any lasting damage.

  Except, of course, to three dead jockeys, and, perhaps, Nic Buley, who came back to Eddie’s mind…and lingered. How convenient that Buley disappears, shamed by incompetence and haunted by the dealings of Kellagher, Sampson and Blackaby, and then, one by one, they die. Eddie considered it…Nah. Incompetence was the watchword. There was no way Buley could pull off three killings. Eddie could not visualize him lining up rifle sights, although he wouldn’t discount Buley seeking a gun for hire. Maybe worth discussing with Mac.

  First, there was Sonny to sort out. Eddie checked his watch. Mave’s train was due to arrive at Newbury forty minutes before Sonny’s. Eddie set off for the station. It would be good to see Mave in his house again. He wasn’t so sure he felt the same about Sonny.

  Travelling back in the car, Sonny’s mood improved as he talked about Nina. He sat in the passenger seat. Mave was in the back, her feet up, half lying down, seatbelt askew. Sonny told them he and Nina were living in a flat in Istanbul. ‘I don’t see her much, though. She’s forever on the trail looking for Keki. You wouldn’t believe the dedication she has to that boy.’

  Eddie held his tongue. It wasn’t the time to be digging for ulterior motives.

  When they reached Eddie’s place, Eddie offered to cook for them. Both rejected food in favour of whiskey. Eddie had left the fire burning, and enough embers remained to kindle three more small logs. They settled in the Snug, and Eddie waited for them to unwind and speak their minds. But Maven couldn’t overcome her lifelong respect for Sonny, who stayed hidden behind his wall of delusion that Nina Raine was a saint in search of her lost son.

  After half an hour, Eddie filled glasses for the fourth time and said, ‘The time has come, the walrus said, to talk of other things…’

  He shifted back against the arm of the couch and half-turned so he could see them both. ‘Sonny, it was me who suggested this meeting. I say Mave’s burning herself out. She says she ain’t. I say, how long are you both going to carry on here pumping money and energy and time into this?’

  Sonny looked at him, and Eddie saw disdain in his eyes. ‘For as long as it takes,’ Sonny said, ‘as far as I’m concerned anyway.’ He turned to Mave for support. She said, ‘I can’t go on forever, Sonny.’

  ‘It won’t be forever. We’ll get a break soon. Nina’s confident.’

  ‘Where’s that break going to come from?’ Eddie asked.

  ‘It could be from anywhere, Eddie,’ he said Eddie’s name as a reprimand. ‘We’ve got lawyers, we’ve got local politicians, we’ve got a few people on the payroll, hotel staff, taxi drivers, people on the street.’

  ‘You’re convinced the boy’s in Istanbul?’

  ‘Keki’s father told Nina they’d never find them in the big city.’

  ‘And might he have been bluffing…to put her on the wrong scent?’

  ‘She’s convinced he wasn’t.’

  ‘What do you think?’ Eddie asked.

  ‘I believe in Nina. I always will.’

  Eddie nodded and drank and said, ‘Okay. What about the local press? Have they got his picture? You paying anyone there?’

  ‘Nina doesn’t want him paraded in the papers for all to see. She thinks it would increase the chance of kidnap by a stranger, and a ransom demand.’

  ‘So what about the hotel workers, the taxi drivers, have they got a picture?’

  ‘Of course!’

  Eddie nodded, watching him, convinced Sonny’s anger was with himself. Sonny had been duped and the only way he could find to feel better about it was to keep trying to convince himself he hadn’t been. Eddie said, ‘Have you got a picture with you?’

  ‘In my jacket.’

  Eddie went into the hall and brought back Sonny’s jacket. From the inside zipped pocket, Sonny took a wallet.

  The picture was of a fair-haired dark-eyed boy; a striking contrast. It wasn’t hard to see Nina Raine’s bone structure in his face. ‘Can I see it?’ Mave said.

  She held it toward the lamp in the corner. ‘Nice looking kid. Happy looking. When was it taken?’

  ‘Three years ago. Not long before the break-up.’

  Maven looked again. ‘He’ll have changed a bit. Maybe a lot.’ She leant across and Sonny stretched to grasp t
he photo, saying, ‘That’s right. He could have changed a lot. Another reason not to put it in the papers.’ He slugged back the rest of his drink by way of punctuation, and put the picture away.

  Eddie picked up his glass. ‘Same again?’

  ‘No, thanks. It’s been a long day.’ Sonny said, looking up at Eddie, his eyes softening. ‘I’m sorry for snapping at you, Eddie. I’m worn out.’

  Eddie smiled. ‘Better days ahead. You want to get some sleep?’

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ he edged forward preparing to get to his feet then looked at Mave. ‘You okay if I run out on you again? I promise I’ll be in better form in the morning.’

  She smiled at him, raising her glass. ‘Sleep well.’

  He grunted as he rose then took the few steps to where Maven sat, and he bent to kiss her on the cheek. ‘Goodnight, Jo.’

  ‘Goodnight, Uncle Sonny.’

  He’d used the name he’d called her as she’d grown up. Maven Judge was one she’d chosen in her late teens. She had been christened Jolene in honour of her father’s favourite song.

  Eddie led Sonny to his room, and for the next half hour Mave and Eddie swapped hushed small-talk by the fire. Close to midnight Eddie asked her to come into the kitchen, well out of Sonny’s earshot. They sat at the big table. Mave flinched and cursed when Eddie switched on the main light. Eddie turned it off again. ‘Sorry. I forgot you were a creature of the night. I’ll put the lamp on.’

  ‘Just leave it. The light from the hallway’s plenty.’

  They settled in the semi-darkness, facing each other, hands on the table. Eddie said, ‘Had you seen that picture before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You never asked, did you?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘If Sonny came to you, and you’d never met, and he offered you cash to help find Keki, what would you do?’