Aim High (The Eddie Malloy series Book 7)

by Joe McNally

‘Ask for a picture?’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Run it through Google images.’

  Eddie went to the hall and got Sonny’s wallet from his jacket and brought the picture back to Mave. Eddie held it out. Slowly, she raised a hand and took it.

  ‘There’s a scanner beside my laptop,’ Eddie said.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said, and laid the picture on the table in the widened slice of yellow light coming from the hall. She took out her phone. Thirty seconds later she held her phone screen toward Eddie. She’d found several matches for Keki’s image, all of them photo agencies selling royalty rights. Keki was a professional model known as Julian.

  Eddie sat across from her and said, ‘Do you want to tell Sonny, or shall I?’

  She sighed and cupped her small sad face in her hands. ‘Let’s rehearse it,’ she said.

  ‘Me first?’

  ‘You first.’

  ‘Okay,’ Eddie cleared his throat. ‘Sonny, there is no Keki. Nina gave you a copy of a stock photo from an agency.’

  ‘No. She’d never do that. It’s Keki. His father must have sold his image to the agency.’

  ‘You really believe that?’

  ‘Well, if he kidnaps the boy and goes on the run for two years, it’s hardly going to bother him to sell an image to some agency, is it?’

  ‘So you still trust Nina a hundred percent?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

  ‘How much money has she had from you?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  Eddie stopped, and they looked at each other, knowing it was pointless continuing. Mave switched off her phone and pushed it aside.

  ‘Tough love time?’ Eddie said.

  She stared at the table top. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Cold turkey?’

  She looked up. ‘I couldn’t do that to him, Eddie. Three more. I’ll offer him three more tips and tell him that’s it.’

  On the verge of seeking a promise, Eddie bit it back, and just nodded.

  46

  Over breakfast, Sonny took the news much better than Eddie had thought he would. He watched Sonny as Mave laid out the story. She didn’t mention Keki or the picture. She didn’t tell him he was a fool. She just said she was exhausted and needed a long break.

  By the end of her speech, Eddie realized that Sonny hadn’t blown up because Sonny was certain that when the time came, he’d talk her round, as he’d done before. His obsession with Nina Raine had filtered out any emotions he had for Mave. She was a shop girl now, someone who served him when he needed it. Someone who didn’t matter anymore. That was how Eddie read it, and Sonny lost him that morning.

  Eddie wasn’t sure if Mave had sensed the change in Sonny. She was the most logical person Eddie had ever known, but he believed that childhood conditioning creates a world of its own; one where we all want everything to be as it was in the best of times. Mave’s desire was to hold that dear. Eddie’s was to help Mave preserve its best memories before Sonny damaged them beyond repair.

  Sonny flew ‘home’, as he called it, that afternoon. Mave and Eddie took him to the railway station. She waved as the train pulled out, a child again. Eddie’s hands stayed in his pockets. His eyes locked on Sonny’s. And Eddie believed Sonny could tell what he was thinking, and Sonny’s smile said he held the ace of her heart.

  Mave watched the empty track, listening to the ebbing sound of the departing train. She turned slowly to Eddie, then looked at the grey sky. She said, ‘I feel that train is dragging this old year away with it, and the year isn’t putting up any resistance.’

  Eddie put an arm around her shoulder and smiled. ‘That’s as poetic as I’ve heard you, Miss Judge.’

  ‘I don’t feel poetic. I feel sad.’

  ‘Let’s walk,’ Eddie said. The automatic exit doors of the station opened and the wind seemed to suck them out and Eddie pulled Maven closer. She ducked her head against his shoulder and put her arm across his back.

  At home, in the Snug, Mave watched the rain at work in the shallow valley, its western slopes rising gently from the picture window. ‘I’ll make tea,’ Eddie said.

  ‘Don’t. Sit down. Watch.’

  Eddie sat across from her. She looked out on the darkening afternoon and Eddie saw the changes of light reflect in her eyes. She pointed up the hill. ‘Watch how the rain comes over that ridge, through that little channel between the two humps.’

  Eddie moved across to sit beside her and looked where she pointed as the rain gathered and pushed like a power shower through the humps. ‘Mother nature,’ she said quietly.

  Eddie stood. ‘Permission to make tea now?’

  ‘Let’s go out in the rain first.’ She looked up at him.

  Eddie nodded. ‘Okay. How wet would you like to get?’

  ‘We’ll walk to those humps.’

  Eddie bowed. ‘That’ll be from the, eh, sodden menu, then madam?’

  ‘That’s fine. I can afford that. Will you join me?’

  ‘How kind! Let me just organize the pneumonia medication for our return, and I’ll be right with you.’

  Halfway up the hill, her hat blew away. They laughed. She took off her coat and flapped it until the wind caught it like a sail, then she let it go, and they laughed louder. She pointed at Eddie and yelled, ‘You now!’

  ‘No chance!’ Eddie turned and ran back toward the house with Mave’s cries of “wimp” and “coward” sweeping past him in the wind.

  Mave took a hot shower, then Eddie had a bath. When he returned to the Snug, Mave’s hair was still wet. She nodded toward the window. ‘My coat came back.’

  It had wrapped itself around the post and rails of the small paddock behind the house, flapping an arm in the dusk. Eddie brought it dripping into the hall. He called to Mave, ‘It weighs more with just water in it than it does with you inside.’

  An hour later, by the fire, they sat in silence, drinking tea. No television. No music. The big window echoed the rain and reflected the firelight. Eddie thought of Sonny, and of Mac and his late wife, and of three dead jockeys and of how the silent presence of ninety-five pounds of humanity within touching distance made the chaos inconsequential. Of how Maven Judge fitted herself to him without touching, and disarmed the buzzing atoms which had given Eddie’s mind no rest through all the years. All she did was be there. All she brought was peace. And that was all Eddie wanted.

  ‘Will you stay for Christmas?’ Eddie asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will you sleep beside me tonight?’

  ‘Beside you?’

  ‘Lie with me.’

  ‘You were going to say lay then, weren’t you?’

  He reddened, and smiled.

  47

  Eddie woke next morning to a text from Mac: “Drop by next time you’re passing. News awaits.”

  Eddie told Mave he’d be back soon, and he drove cautiously on the wet roads knowing that strings of horses would be coming and going at exercise time. Every slow passing of a line of thoroughbreds brought many greetings from riders in that village-sized family that was Lambourn. A family facing another new day, most, despite many disappointments, with hope in their hearts.

  There was hope in Mac’s too, and in his face, Eddie saw immediately as the big man welcomed him with a smile. ‘You look bright on this grey morning, Mister McCarthy. I’m not waiting until the kettle boils for this news. Spill it.’

  ‘Sit down, at least,’ Mac said.

  They sat at the kitchen table and Mac told Eddie he was back in full employment with Jockey Club Racecourses. Eddie shook his hand. ‘So that was what Tim Arango wanted to see you about. Congratulations. Mister Arango has just been added to my very short list of very wise men.’

  ‘Thanks, Eddie. I won’t deny it came as a much needed fillip.’

  Eddie smiled. ‘Fillips are good. I like fillips. What’s the brief?’

  ‘They’ve yet to formalize the title, but essentially it is head of security. A new appointment.�
�

  ‘Prompted by three deaths at their tracks?’

  ‘Tim was frank about that. Everyone else has looked on the past few weeks as something that’s happened in racing, but Jockey Club Racecourses are conscious of the fact that it just might not be a coincidence. They were willing to take a gamble on the shootings, but when Blackaby was killed at Cheltenham, that changed things.’

  ‘So that’s the verdict on Blackaby, no accident?’

  ‘Not for publication, but, yes. Somebody tampered with the equipment and the power lines. He was electrocuted deliberately.’

  Eddie shook his head slowly. The kettle boiled, and Mac rose to make tea. Eddie got up too and leaned against the sink as Mac poured. ‘So Arango thinks that the JCR tracks are meant to be…well, victims, in this, as well as the dead men?’

  ‘Tim and the board simply believe it’s better to be proactive than reactive. They’re hoping they’re wrong and that it’s a coincidence.’

  ‘And you’re hoping they’re right and it’s a chance for you to make a name for yourself.’

  Mac shrugged as he added sugar to his tea. ‘Well, I wouldn’t deny that, Eddie. Three men are dead. Whatever the motive was, if I can help find the killer or killers, then I’m thankful for the opportunity.’

  They sat and sipped. ‘No pastries?’ Eddie asked.

  Mac slapped his belly. ‘Back in the saddle again. Need to look after myself.’

  Eddie smiled. ‘That horse has long bolted.’

  ‘Never say die, Edward.’

  ‘So what’s the next move? I take it JCR will be announcing your appointment formally?’

  ‘Today.’

  ‘One in the eye for the BHA and Mister Nicholas Buley, wherever the bastard is. Get them to add that to your job description, finding out where Buley disappeared too.’

  ‘I’m including it anyway, given that he could be considered a suspect, albeit an unlikely one.’

  ‘Buley could have all the motive in the world, Mac, but he ain’t got the guts to go with it. It would be nice if word got out that he’s in the frame for this, but I wouldn’t be wasting too much time on it.’

  Mac stopped mid-sip. ‘Just make sure you’re not the one who lets slip anything about Buley.’

  Eddie held up his hands. ‘Mac, it took you a long time to trust me enough to talk so openly, so I’m hardly likely to piss you off for the sake of that little prick. Soul of discretion, as always.’

  ‘Good. Doubtless your ear will be to the ground in your general peregrinations. I’d be grateful for any titbits.’

  Eddie smiled, shaking his head slowly. ‘Peregrinations, eh? You’re in sparkling form this morning, Mac. Once you tell me what it means, I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Travels. Wanderings. The latter perhaps more appropriate in your case.’

  ‘Indeed. But I do like peregrinations. As in peregrines, falcons, do you think? The way they fly so easily from place to place?’

  ‘I hadn’t considered the etymology, but, yes, you might well be right.’

  Eddie got up. ‘Etymology…Mac, I’m all worded out for the day and it’s not nine o’clock yet. I’d better go before my brain seizes up. Let me know if you latch onto anything. It will be good to be helping each other again.’

  ‘My thoughts, exactly!’

  48

  On Boxing Day, Mave travelled with Eddie to Kempton, consoling him when he got moody about not having a ride in the King George VI Chase, one of the biggest races of the season.

  When they reached the racecourse, the stewards and the clerk of the course were out on the track. Marcus Shear and Broc Lisle were with them and the large group huddled in a small area covered in a man-made racing surface called Polytrack. It was a feature at Kempton, a strip of ground from the all-weather track that crossed the turf course on the bend turning out of the home straight.

  Eddie stood with other jockeys watching the unusual gathering. There was talk among the jockeys of a hoax caller, a bomb threat. The group of officials filed away, back toward the stands and before they reached the office, word was out that the race-meeting had been cancelled.

  The unofficial word was that a mid-morning anonymous phone caller had insisted that the clerk of the course should walk the track again. The call was ignored, and an hour later the caller rang again offering enough detail to persuade the posse of officials to head out to the area mentioned. Below the sandy surface, a pit had been dug then covered. It easily took the weight of a man, but a field of horses would have smashed through the roof of it and plunged in.

  By the end of the afternoon, the press conference staged by Jockey Club Racecourses revealed nothing more than plans for a full inquiry both by the BHA and Jockey Club Racecourses.

  As they drove home, Mave took a call from Sonny. One of her selections had been due to run at Kempton. Eddie could hear most of what Sonny said about how much they’d been depending on that, how much it would have meant to Nina, and, most importantly, when would the next tip be? Eddie’s anger made him want to grab the phone and rant at Sonny.

  Mave fielded questions with a patience that wore thin only when Sonny asked for the third time how soon it might be before the next tip. ‘Sonny, I can give you a horse tomorrow. It’ll be a seventy-five percent horse rather than ninety-five percent one, but the choice is yours. Quantity or quality?’

  Eddie thought there could be only one answer to that, but Sonny told Mave he’d speak to Nina and call back.

  Mave ended the call and raised a hand as she turned and saw the fire in Eddie’s eyes. ‘I know. I know. Just leave them to it, Eddie. Let’s get the last three tips to them and wrap everything up.’

  Eddie wanted to say many things, but decided to keep quiet.

  Shortly after they got home, Sonny rang to say Nina would take the seventy five percent horse. Mave sat at the kitchen table watching steam rise from her coffee, and she glanced at Eddie then said to Sonny, ‘Seriously?’

  She opened her left hand and raised her eyebrows at Eddie as she listened to Sonny’s reply. She said, ‘Sonny, you’ve got three tips left, remember? Don’t you think you’d be better waiting for the best I can give you?’

  It turned out that whatever Sonny thought, Nina wanted a horse for tomorrow. Mave ended the call and looked up at Eddie. ‘Queen Nina rules,’ she said.

  Eddie shrugged. ‘A day closer to freedom for you.’

  She folded her arms and stared again at the hot black pool of coffee in the mug. Eddie’s phone chirped with a message from McCarthy: “Call when free, please.”

  Eddie looked at Mave. ‘Mac. Wants me to call him.’

  She opened her hands and tilted her head in a “who’s stopping you?” gesture. Eddie stood up and began pacing as he waited for Mac to answer. ‘Eddie, thanks for the quick response. I just wanted some feedback on today. What’s the chat in the changing room?’

  ‘Everybody’s pissed off that one of the biggest paydays of the year’s been lost. No more than you’d expect. A few of the guys, as usual, had sacrificed Christmas dinner to make the weight for today. I needn’t tell you their opinion.’

  ‘Are they behind us though, from a safety viewpoint? There was no choice but to cancel. Lives were at risk.’

  ‘I think in the cold light of day, everybody accepts that. But you know a jockey’s general approach to risk…”It won’t happen to me, or if it does, I’ll deal with it”.’

  ‘Did Jack Shawcross come and speak to you?’ Shawcross was the CEO of the Professional Jockeys’ Association.

  Eddie said, ‘I didn’t see him.’

  ‘Would you do me a favour and call him and ask what his plans are regarding a formal statement to the media?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You needn’t be too specific.’

  ‘No worries. I’ll call him now.’

  Eddie rang Jack Shawcross, a former jockey who’d retired just as Eddie was coming into the sport. ‘Jack. Eddie Malloy.’ How are you doing?’

  ‘I’ve had b
etter days, Eddie, if I’m honest. What can I do for you?’

  ‘You planning to make a formal statement about safety at Jockey Club tracks?’ Eddie asked.

  ‘Your mate McCarthy ask you to call?’

  ‘He’s curious.’

  ‘I’m sure. Wherever JCR move the fan, the shit still seems to find it, dead centre. Tell McCarthy we’ve a board meeting set for tomorrow to discuss it.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘About what we should do?’

  ‘What you should do as boss of the PJA?’

  ‘I think I’ve learned since my time as a jockey that the number of people who believe their opinions on things like this ought to count more than anyone else’s never ceases to amaze me.’

  ‘Jack, you lost me in a blitz of double negatives, or something. Do you think jockeys should be asking if it’s no longer safe to ride at the Jockey Club’s tracks?’

  ‘Eddie, I used to think that what I thought was all that mattered, since I was chief exec and was in charge. It took me about a week in the job to learn that most of the people who see themselves as being in power, and you can imagine me doing that little quote marks in the air thing there, don’t give a flying fuck what I think. And if you believe I should stand by the tatters of whatever principles I have left and resign, I can tell you that the next guy will be no different. So I’m going to suck it up, as our American friends say, and try to go the long way round, which is the only way you have any chance of getting anything done.’

  ‘Er, I think I’ll leave you to it.’

  ‘Please do. How old are you now?’

  ‘Thirty four.’

  ‘You’re a personable guy. The camera likes you and you speak well. Get yourself in with the TV folks and maybe when you retire you won’t have to consider taking a job in racing politics.’

  ‘I’d last maybe three days before shooting myself fatally in both feet.’

  ‘Hmm. Feel free to add "keen self-awareness" to that list of characteristics I mentioned.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And tell your pal, he can call me direct in future. I don’t bite.’