Dead Ringer (The Eddie Malloy series Book 6)

by Joe McNally

  ‘I think it’s best if I take another statement from you. I need to pass this to the CID.’

  On the way home I tried to talk myself out of this. Most of my troubles in the past few years had arisen because I couldn’t walk away from something that was eating me. Without a fair bit of luck, my pride and pig-headedness could have got me killed.

  And here I was, back on the same merry-go-round with the hanging corpse of Swinging Jimmy.

  6

  I rose at daybreak feeling irritable, edgy, indecisive. My bedroom window framed the dark wooded hill. Acres of snow told of unchanged temperatures and barren racetracks. The bedroom was warm, the bathroom chilly and I talked to myself under the shower and I talked to myself out of the shower, trying to decide what to do about Jimmy.

  After breakfast I rang Bayley Watt. ‘Bayley, Eddie Malloy. How are you?’

  ‘Eddie, hello. I’m,..I’m all right. How are you?’

  ‘Bored shitless in the snow.’

  ‘We’ll not be seeing much racing this week. That’s global warming for you.’

  ‘Global freezing, more like. You busy?’

  He hesitated. ‘Always busy with eight horses. You know how it is when you’re a one-man-band.’

  ‘I’d be happy to come over and help out. I’m doing nothing here. Only take me half an hour to reach you.’

  ‘Best not chance it, Eddie. Plenty folk getting stuck in the snow round this way.’

  ‘I’ve got a four wheel drive now. I’ll get through.’

  ‘Nah, I’ll be fine, honestly, be done by noon.’

  ‘How about me buying you lunch then?’

  ‘Maybe some other time Eddie, thanks.’

  ‘Listen Bayley, I need to speak to you about Jimmy. Something’s come up.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Best talk face to face, I think.’

  ‘Okay. Well, let me sort a few things out. I’ll call you later.’

  ‘Fine. Speak to you then.’

  A nervous man.

  Watt surprised me by calling back within twenty minutes, inviting me to his place for a ride-out in the snow.

  Mounted, we left Watt’s yard on a track past the barn, cracking the blue-white crust around old hoof prints. ‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

  ‘I thought we’d just hack around the roads for an hour.’

  ‘Look,’ I said, pointing south across snow-covered farmland dotted with copses. Bayley stopped and looked toward the ancient Ridgeway path, Britain’s oldest road set on a chalk ridge once walked by Prehistoric man. ‘Let’s head for the Ridgeway,’ I said, ‘It’ll be like walking across a Christmas card.’

  ‘A Christmas card with gates. You can undo them.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Bayley expertly unlatched his gate without dismounting and I went through. A mile to the south, a hundred metres above lay our destination. I rode a bony, angular iron-grey called Sam Stone. He wasn’t much to look at, but had a decent engine. I’d won on him at Stratford not long after my comeback.

  We’d gone less than a hundred yards at a slow walk when Sam Stone jinked suddenly sideways, dropping me in the snow. Bayley heard me curse and turned, hands on the pommel of his big western saddle. ‘Well, it’s early in the year, but I think you’ve easily won the most embarrassing unseated rider award.’

  I got up, dusting myself down. Instinctively, I’d kept hold of the reins, but my horse was still jittery, rolling his eyes till the whites showed. ‘Hey, take it easy.’ I talked softly, trying to calm him but he backed off ten paces before I could settle him enough to climb back on board. I looked at Bayley. ‘You’ll dine out on this one for a while. What the hell’s up with him?’

  ‘Doesn’t care for getting cold feet, I suppose. Maybe the road would have been the better route.’

  All this without raising a smile from Bayley. If it had happened among jockeys, they’d have been falling off their own mounts with laughter.

  I knew little about this horse, other than how he was in a race. This was a reminder for me that jockeys only saw the finished product and sometimes forgot about all the prep work that’s needed. We stroll into the paddock, jump aboard, ride our race then hand the horse over to the lad who looks after him twenty-four-seven. Or in Bayley Watt’s case, he was the twenty-four-seven man. He had no full time staff.

  Bayley moved alongside me as we crossed the wide white land. ‘Did you never consider all those offers to get a full licence?’ I asked. Watt had always resisted urging from owners to take out a full licence and train horses for other people.

  Shaking his head slowly, he patted his horse’s neck. ‘I couldn’t cope with the hassle. Never have been able to. People believe optimism and confidence and all the gung-ho “Let’s do it!” bollocks is the way to get things done. But I’ll tell you what’s better, knowing your limitations. That’s how you get things done. Know your limitations.’

  I looked at him, at his sagging jawline which hid much of the thin black helmet strap. When I had ridden regularly for him, Watt had always been big and fit. At first glance you might have thought him twenty pounds overweight but he was a big-framed man. Now he seemed smaller, loose-fleshed and chubby, despite burning through calories at what must have been a high rate looking after eight racehorses. ‘You lost weight?’ I asked.

  He glanced down at himself, blue fleece jacket paunching, almost resting on the horn of the old western saddle. ‘A bit, maybe.’

  ‘Dieting?’

  ‘At my age?’

  I smiled. ‘How old are you now?’

  ‘I’ll be fifty six next month.’

  ‘How old do you feel?’

  ‘Seventy fucking six.’

  I laughed. He didn’t. His dark eyes narrowed. Grey hair curled out from the rim of his battered helmet.

  ‘I get those days myself.’ I said.

  We walked on. I turned in the saddle, scanning the land. Nobody out but us. I smiled. ‘Maybe the Indians are watching from the ridge. Spotted that saddle of yours, think you’re the law in these parts.’

  ‘The old Indians knew a lot more about horses than some of the chancers around here,’ he said.

  ‘No doubt.’

  On we went, leather-creak and crunching snow the only sounds.

  After a minute I said, ‘Jimmy’s dad came to see me the other day.’

  I watched my riding partner carefully. He stared ahead, features set but seeming uncertain whether to turn and look at me, unsure if he should speak. ‘Me too,’ he said.

  ‘About the letter?’

  ‘Break your fucking heart.’

  We covered a hundred yards without speaking then Watt said, ‘A week before Jimmy died, I had to tell him he was finished here.’

  I looked at him.

  Watt said, ‘He stared at me like…like I’d told him a firing squad was waiting outside for him. I tried to explain, laid out my reasons which were clear and logical to my mind. But Jimmy just kept staring at me. He never said a word.’

  ‘Did he mention that in his letter?’

  ‘He said he didn’t blame me and that I wasn’t to feel guilty and that he knew he was coming to the end of everything anyway.’

  The horses were climbing more steeply now toward the ridge. I adjusted my balance, leant forward into the slope. Watt stayed loose in his big saddle, resting a hand on the ivory horn, gripping as the horse rocked.

  ‘Did he say what it was that pushed him over the edge?’

  He shook his head. ‘Just said he didn’t want me to feel guilty.’

  ‘But you do?’

  He looked at me. ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  I shrugged. His story was the opposite of Jimmy’s, but I played along. ‘I don’t know, Bayley. I don’t know what the reasons were and I’m not asking you to tell me. Plenty jocks have had the same bad news without going on to…do anything drastic.’

  He lowered his chin and I couldn’t tell if he was nodding at what I said or if his head was bobbing to the stride of his cli
mbing horse. He didn’t speak again until we topped the Ridgeway and turned westward. For the first time that day I noticed a chill breeze on my face. Watt clicked his horse and mine responded too. They broke into a trot. We went about five hundred yards at that pace, me standing in the stirrups, Watt rocking and rolling in his deep polished saddle the colour of horse chestnuts.

  Walking again, this snow covered chalk spine seemed endless against a sky the same colour. The fields fell away on both sides, a copse here, a farm there, frozen streams. A hundred yards on, Bayley stopped. I pulled the grey to a halt and did a half turn to face him. He said, ‘What was it that you rang me about? You said something had come up about Jimmy.’

  The breeze was keener now. His eyes watered. He wiped them. I said, ‘He took cyanide.’

  ‘He hung himself! I…I was told he hung himself in the cellar.’

  ‘They found cyanide in the autopsy.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘His father told me. The police told me.’

  ‘You went to the police?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  He wiped his eyes again while I was trying to read him. He was on the verge of something and a crazy thought came to me that if I’d been downwind of him I could have smelled what it was. But he squeezed his horse into a walk again and the moment passed. He said, ‘Listen Eddie, I want you to ride one or two for me once racing’s back on.’

  ‘That’s not what I came here for Bayley. I’m not saying it hasn’t crossed my mind since Jimmy died, but it’s not why I wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘No matter. I’m offering. You don’t need to accept.’

  ‘I accept. Look, I’m not being ungrateful, I just don’t want you to think I’m some kind of mercenary cashing in on Jimmy’s death.’

  He turned on me, eyes fully open and blazing. He shouted. ‘We’re all fucking mercenaries! What are you talking about, man! We’re all in it for what we can get! That’s how life fucking works!’ It startled his horse who jinked sideways and almost lost its footing though Watt was unfazed by the slip, automatically gathering rein and, like a puppeteer, lifting the horse onto an even keel. He glared at me, daring me to challenge him. I held his gaze until the fire in his eyes went out and he said quietly, ‘I’m sorry. It’s been a shit week.’ And he turned his horse on the right rein heading north again, downhill, hock-deep through unbroken snow toward home.

  7

  In Bayley Watt’s bright kitchen we drank tea and he explained. ‘You know me. I like to experiment. It’s one of the reasons I won’t train for anyone else. I read an article a month ago and did some more research on it and that led me to telling Jimmy he was finished.’

  He seemed confrontational again. I waited. He sipped coffee, still looking at me, then he said, ‘The Indians or native Americans or whatever you want to call them, knew nothing about horses until the Spanish shipped them into Mexico. The Indians stole them and experimented, and learned. Then the tribes started competing, especially on the Great Plains. Comanche Indians ended up owning about thirty five horses each.

  ‘They discovered that a horse’s spirit stayed more competitive the greater number of different riders it had. Most tribes believed that a horse would do its best for someone it knew. The Comanche went against that and they claimed they were right. I’ve decided to try it. That’s why I sacked Jimmy. That’s why I’m telling you I can offer you the odd ride but not all of them.’

  I nodded and sipped tea. ‘Fine.’

  Still he stared at me, waiting for a challenge. He said, ‘If Jimmy had told me he was going to do himself in because of it, I wouldn’t have changed my mind.’

  ‘Jimmy wouldn’t have said that. Even if he was planning suicide.’

  ‘I’m just saying.’

  ‘And, I’m just saying, Bayley! What do you think I’m going to do, slag you off? Tell you you were wrong? It’s your business. You were straight with Jimmy, you’ve been straight with me. I’m not making any judgements. Cool it.’

  The stressed look eased. He lowered his head, massaged his face, a habit he had, and I was glad to see it back on display, although two things struck me as his fingers worked his closed eyes and his brow; the chubbiness of his hands, and his smooth hairless wrists. I’d known Bayley Watt for years. I’d watched him do the face rubbing routine a hundred times and the wrists stretching from his shirt cuffs had always had a noticeable covering of dark hair.

  I remembered him telling me it was the main reason he did not wear a wrist watch. He carried an old silver watch in his pocket.

  He stared at the table for a while. When he spoke again, the gritty edge had gone from his tone. ‘I’m sorry, Eddie. Things have been building up. I’m getting paranoid, snowed in here, not seeing anybody.’

  ‘I’d best not give you that DVD of The Shining I’ve got in the car, eh?’

  He smiled. ‘Sometimes I could make Jack Nicholson look like the soul of sanity.’

  I raised my coffee mug to toast him. ‘Heeeerrrre’s Bayley!’

  He smiled but he looked sad. He said, ‘I’ve been an arse today. Apologies.’

  ‘Forget it. We all have those days.’

  I took my leave and headed home wondering why Bayley Watt had turned from a simple eccentric into a paranoid, unhappy man. Maybe the loss of muscle and hair signalled nothing more than the onset of old age, and that was affecting his mood too. I recalled his grim reaction when I asked how old he felt, and I wondered if he might be ill.

  That evening I locked the doors, stoked the fire, poured whiskey over ice and settled at my PC with a notepad and pen.

  Google produced plenty on losing weight and losing hair but I went with my earlier instinct that Bayley might be ill. The changes I’d noticed matched some side effects of chemotherapy.

  Bayley was a private man. He’d never married. He didn’t socialize on the racetrack or in the village. The rules of racing stated that, with eight horses, he should have at least two grooms working for him. Bayley registered a couple of names but he’d always believed he could do most of it himself. Even when he went racing, he just locked everything up and left the remaining horses on their own. So he had nobody to talk to on a daily basis. If he had cancer, I reckoned it would be highly unlikely he’d have anyone to tell, even if he wanted to.

  I resumed my doodling.

  One definite connection between Jimmy Sherrick and Bayley Watt: a trainer and his employee. Another very tenuous possible connection: Sergeant Middleton had told me he had seen Jimmy’s medical records. Had he been seriously ill? Was Watt?

  I found myself drawing a checkered cap and a blue light and writing "Police".

  Why hadn’t Watt asked me why I’d gone to the cops about Jimmy’s death? That would have been a natural question, especially for someone so closely linked to Jimmy.

  Supposing Jimmy had been lying to me about chucking it… maybe Watt was simply feeling guilty about sacking him and wanted to get off the subject. That might also have led to his sour mood and his outburst up on the ridge.

  Watt had said he’d given Jimmy the news about his sacking a week before he killed himself. But I’d seen Jimmy a dozen times after that and he’d said nothing. Nor had I noticed any change in his demeanour.

  The first time he’d mentioned anything was in that call in the car the day before he died.

  I sketched a few small envelopes…what had been in Jimmy’s letter to Watt? How many letters had Jimmy written and to whom? Had his father found them all? Maybe there were still some letters in the house? Jimmy had kept a diary. His father had told me he’d got my number from it.

  I reached for my phone. I’d saved Mister Sherrick’s number and I scrolled and found it, then stopped for a quick consultation with common sense. I’d need to be careful. Jimmy’s dad would wonder why I was asking questions.

  His phone rang out to voicemail. I didn’t leave a message. Before my screen went off, he called back. ‘Mister Sherrick?’

  ‘Eddie. Sorry, didn’t get
to my phone in time.’ His voice sounded shaky.

  ‘How are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Ahh, not bad, been laid up in bed since yesterday. Think I’m coming down with something.’

  ‘Sorry Mister Sherrick, I’ve got you out of your sick bed. It’s not important. It can wait. I’ll let you go. Apologies.’

  ‘No, no, not at all. I’m all right and stop calling me Mister Sherrick for God’s sake! Call me Jim.’

  ‘Thanks. Listen, I just noticed my Leatherman tool is missing. I wondered if I might have left it in Jimmy’s cellar?’

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘Leatherman. It’s one of those little multi-tools, screwdriver, knife, that sort of thing. It was in a black leather pouch. Be no bigger than three inches or so. I wondered if you maybe saw it when you were there tidying things up?’

  ‘I didn’t, Eddie, sorry.’

  ‘No worries.’

  ‘Do you want to pick the keys up and go and have a look? I’d meet you there but I-’

  ‘No, no, not at all! Honestly. Don’t worry. It’ll turn up.’

  ‘Well you’re welcome to drop by and get the keys, more than welcome.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well I will then, if you don’t mind. I’ll call over in the morning about ten if that suits?’

  ‘Any time. Earlier if you want. I don’t sleep late these days.’

  ‘Do you need anything? Any shopping? A paper?’

  ‘Nah, nothing. I’m well stocked up and I stopped reading the news years ago. It’s all bad.’

  ‘That’s true, very true. Look, I’ll let you get back to bed and I’ll see you at ten.’

  ‘Good. See you then. Good night.’

  ‘Good night.’

  I switched the phone off, put the pen down, pictured Mister Sherrick climbing wearily into bed to face a long night alone, old and unwell. Then I watched the dying log-embers and listened to the silence. I tried to picture myself in forty years’ time and had an intuitive flash that I wouldn’t live that long.