Dead Ringer (The Eddie Malloy series Book 6)

by Joe McNally

  ‘Apparently he gave Jimmy Sherrick the same kind of nonsense a week before he died,’ I said.

  ‘He sacked him?’

  ‘So Bayley says.’

  ‘Did he sack you too when he took Jimmy on?’

  ‘Funnily enough he didn’t. I recommended Jimmy to him so you can have three guesses about how I’m feeling.’

  ‘You think Jimmy killed himself because Watt sacked him?’

  ‘No. Bayley put me up on one of his at Taunton the other day and spun me the same Indian story he gave you and Jimmy. I’m just trying to figure out what’s happening with the guy. Isn’t Kilberg a bit of a weirdo himself?’

  ‘With his lycra and his ballet and his "passion for animals"!’ Lico did a passable skit of Kilberg’s American accent. He said, ‘Passion is one of the most overused and annoying fucking words of the century. Everybody’s "passionate" about what they do and nobody has things happen to them anymore, do they? They go on a "journey". Bring back the old Jockey Club is what I say. At least you knew where you were and nobody was getting a "heads up" or "facetime". Honestly. Kilberg’s a classic example. Big Chief Bullshitter.’

  ‘He was assistant trainer to, who was it, Jeni Chipman?’

  ‘That’s right. When he first came to Lambourn. Then he was supposed to have won a right few quid at Cheltenham. Spent some of it on a hair transplant, new teeth and lasered eyes then a fair lump on his wedding to that Romanian kid who worked for Jeni.’

  ‘I remember now. She was just sixteen, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Correct. And like any sensible teenager, she rapidly spent the rest of old sugar daddy’s money and pissed off back to Romania.’

  ‘And didn’t he follow her and run into a family of gypsies or something over there?’ I asked.

  ‘Her family, apparently. He was on the next flight home, wifeless and potless.’

  ‘Jeez.’

  ‘I know. Can you imagine him and Bayley?’

  ‘I hear Kilberg’s schooling for Watt,’ I said.

  ‘You’re kidding? Bayley Watt has lost the plot. There’s a bit of verse for you. No charge. Fucking hell…this place goes from mad to worse.’

  19

  I had breakfast before daybreak, the Racing Post open on the table. A quiet Thursday. No rides booked, and I couldn’t be bothered driving east to Huntingdon in the hope of picking up a spare. Hanging around the weighing room like a vulture was a shit part of the job. Getting a spare ride usually meant one of your friends was heading for hospital after a bad fall.

  I was due on the schooling grounds at ten anyway, to help with education of three young horses trained by Ben Tylutki.

  It would probably be busy up there on the downs, on the grass gallops laid out like long, wide, three-lane green highways. Miles of white plastic rails criss-crossed a thousand acres, channelling strings of horses on long slopes. Tarmac roads and parking areas were used by vehicles to bring trainers and owners to the low roof of this small world where no opponents waited, no crowds bayed, no bookmakers huddled. A morning place. Above the towns and the jobs and the bills and the worries. A land of hope. And, sometimes, glory.

  As I set off for the gallops, I reminded myself it was also a place where stories were swapped and gossip was born and I resolved to ask no more questions about Watt or his new vet Blane Kilberg.

  There was no doubt in my mind now that Bayley Watt had gone beyond eccentricity. He might have nothing to do with the death of Jimmy Sherrick, but Watt was doing something he shouldn’t be. Changing jockeys, a new vet, no pros riding exercise or schooling. He was hiding something.

  Also, it had dawned on me that within hours of Mister Sherrick telling me that the police planned to visit Jimmy’s place again, the house had been torched. Who else knew of the planned visit? If Jimmy’s phone had been bugged, was his father’s bugged too?

  Ben Tylutki had asked me to meet him on the gallops. He’d have the horses ridden up by lads who would then take a break while I schooled their charges over a line of fences. These were horses who’d raced over hurdles, the small jumps. Now it was time for them to learn a new technique.

  As I pulled in to park, Ben waved to me, the corner of his sky blue jacket flapping in the wind. I raised a hand and smiled. As I switched off the engine, my phone rang. No caller ID came up.

  I answered.

  ‘Mister Malloy, it’s Sergeant Middleton.’

  ‘Good morning to you.’

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Are you busy?’

  ‘I’m on Mandown gallops, just about to do some schooling,’

  ‘I’m not far away. Do you mind if I drive up?’

  ‘Can you say what it’s about?’

  ‘I’d rather not. Until I see you.’

  ‘How long will you need me for? I’ve three horses to school.’

  ‘Five minutes. And I’ll be there in under ten.’

  ‘Are you in uniform?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘It’s best if I come to you.’

  ‘Okay. Would you like to meet at your house?’

  ‘Fine. Noon?’

  ‘See you then.’

  ‘Sergeant, is Mister Sherrick okay?’

  ‘As far as I know. I’ll see you at noon.’ He hung up.

  I could see the roof of the police car as I trundled down the track, wipers working noisily in the misty rain.

  The sergeant got out as I turned into the driveway. He pulled his cap on and I remembered someone telling me that a cop had to have his hat on before he could arrest you.

  Coming toward me, he didn’t look that serious.

  We shook hands. ‘Nice hideaway down here,’ he said.

  I looked around at the woods and rising meadows. ‘Not quite the hole-in-the-wall gang, but it’s peaceful enough. Come in out of the rain.’

  He drank black coffee. I had tea. He nodded toward the picture window, ‘Must take some cleaning.’

  ‘It does. When I get round to it.’

  I waited. He’d seemed pretty anxious on the phone. He blew ripples along the surface of the coffee.’ Mister Sherrick told you we planned to visit his son’s house.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did you mention it to anyone?’

  ‘No.’

  He watched me. I held his gaze. He said, ‘Did he tell you we spoke to him about exhuming his son’s body?’

  ‘Yes. And I didn’t mention that either.’

  He nodded once and looked down, his hair misted with fine rain.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I asked.

  He looked up, hesitated, then said. ‘I got a call this morning from the local authority. They’d sent someone to check that the memorial stone had not yet been erected. Their man said the ground had already been noticeably disturbed. We’ve got a team out there now, working behind screens. The corpse has been stolen.’

  I watched him. He sipped coffee. When he realized I wasn’t going to speak he said, ‘They took the coffin too.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Best guess? In the last forty eight hours.’

  ‘Does Mister Sherrick know?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘And that’s why you’re here?’

  ‘Partly.’

  ‘Mainly.’

  He nodded slowly. I said, ‘You want me to tell him?’

  ‘I’ll tell him. I thought it would ease the blow if you were with me. He told me…well, he speaks highly of you, put it that way’

  ‘Okay.’ I said.

  ‘Is it convenient now?’ He reached for his hat.

  ‘Yes.’

  He pulled out his notebook. ‘I’ll ring to check he’s in.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because his phone is bugged or his house is bugged.’

  ‘You know that or you think it?’

  ‘Mister Sherrick tells me you’re exhuming the body. The body’s gone. He rings me to say you’re going to check the house. The house is gone. Jimmy Sh
errick’s recorded suicide note has been patched together from snippets of his conversation, probably taken from his phone.’

  He looked at me and said quietly, ‘I think the wrong man is wearing the uniform here.’

  ‘I think you’ve got a murder inquiry on your hands.’

  20

  We drove to Mister Sherrick’s flat in my car. When he answered the door, I put my finger to my lips, trying not to be too theatrical. I pointed to my car, and gestured for him to follow me. I helped him into the back seat and got in beside him. The sergeant turned, forcing a smile. Mister Sherrick was wide eyed.

  I said, ‘Sorry for the hush hush stuff. We think your flat or your phone might be bugged.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  Sergeant Middleton said, ‘I had a call this morning from the local authority telling me that your son’s grave had been disturbed. The soil.’

  ‘I’ve ordered a stone, maybe the contractor was doing some work or something.’

  The sergeant hesitated then said, ‘We sent a team down to check. I’m afraid your son’s body has been removed.’

  He stared at the sergeant. ‘Not by you, you mean? Not by your people?’

  The sergeant shook his head. ‘It’s been taken. The coffin too. We’re treating it as a crime scene.’

  Mister Sherrick seemed stunned. He turned to me but said nothing. I said, ‘Remember you told me about the plans to exhume Jimmy’s body, and that the police intended to visit the house again?’

  He nodded. ‘Did you mention that to anyone else?’ I asked.

  ‘Nobody. No. Not that I can remember.’

  ‘There has to be a fair chance that your conversations are being monitored,’ said the sergeant.

  ‘How?’

  ‘We don’t know yet, but hopefully it shouldn’t be too difficult to find out.’

  Mister Sherrick seemed to deflate, to slump slowly. His head went back, resting on the seat-top until he was looking at the roof. We watched him. A tear crossed his temple and ran into his right ear. The sergeant pursed his lips. Mister Sherrick said quietly, ‘I’m done.’

  I got Mister Sherrick’s mobile phone from the flat, and locked the door. He agreed to come to my house.

  The sergeant used my PC to type a note requesting permission to inspect the old man’s flat for ‘listening devices’. Mister Sherrick signed it. I followed the sergeant to his car. ‘When do you plan to do it?’

  ‘The sweep?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘As soon as I can get it arranged.’

  ‘He’ll want to get home.’

  ‘I know.’

  He looked stern, tired. It seemed to me a thankless job he had and I wondered why he did it. I said, ‘Have you considered leaving the bug in place if you find it?’

  ‘It crossed my mind. I’ll need to speak to DS Wilmslow.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘CID. This is his case.’

  ‘What about Mister Sherrick’s mobile phone?’

  ‘I’ll have the guys check that first. Can I call you when they are on their way?’

  ‘Sure. And they’ll go from here to the flat?’

  ‘That’s the plan,’ he said.

  ‘What if whoever planted the bug is watching the flat?’

  ‘Will it matter? The damage is done, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘I’ll call you,’ he said.

  An hour later, two men in plain black overalls arrived at my house. They showed ID before I asked for it and were gone within five minutes.

  Mister Sherrick sat looking at his mobile phone. ‘Feeling any better?’ I said.

  ‘At least they didn’t bug my phone. I’d rather they’d bugged the flat than the phone. It seems kind of less personal.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  By nightfall there was still no word from Sergeant Middleton. Mister Sherrick was beginning to fret. Just before six I saw the bumpy rise and fall of headlight beams through the window and went outside. It was a liveried police car. Mister Sherrick came and stood at my shoulder as Sergeant Middleton approached.

  ‘Did you find it?’ Mister Sherrick asked, sounding eager now.

  ‘Your flat is clean Mister Sherrick. They swept it twice and found nothing.’

  The three of us stood in the wide bright spot of the security light like stage actors who’d forgotten their lines. Mister Sherrick looked at me. The sergeant looked at both of us then took off his cap and asked if we could talk inside.

  I made hot drinks. We sat at the big pine table in the kitchen. The sergeant had unbuttoned his jacket, perhaps to help ease the tension. He said he wanted us just to talk as three men, to forget he was a policeman.

  ‘Informal, off the record, whatever you want to call it,’ he said.

  ‘Fine by me,’ I said.

  Mister Sherrick nodded. The sergeant said, ‘My name is Geoff.’

  On some sort of autopilot, Mister Sherrick reached to shake his hand. ‘Jim,’ he said.

  I shrugged. ‘Eddie.’ We all smiled.

  Geoff Middleton ran a hand through his thick greying hair. ‘We need to work out how this fella is getting the information. There’s no bug in your flat Jim, nothing in your phone. You don’t have a car, do you?’

  ‘I don’t need one. I hire one if ever I need one.’

  Geoff nodded and turned to me. ‘There is a possibility that it’s your phone that’s been bugged.’

  ‘They’d need to have broken in here or got into my car at the racecourse.’

  ‘Unless they’re monitoring your calls remotely.’

  ‘In which case, maybe it’s Jim’s calls they been monitoring,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe. We need to get yours examined all the same.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He checked his watch then said, ‘I can get the guys back out here now, if you want?’

  ‘Sooner the better.’

  He stood to make the call, pacing the kitchen, buttoning his jacket as he spoke, as though his superiors could see him.

  ‘About half an hour,’ he said as he sat down again and drank coffee.

  ‘We’re pissing in the wind here,’ I said. ‘Even if they don’t find anything in my phone, somebody could still be listening in, couldn’t they?’

  ‘Very possible.’

  ‘How do they do that? Do they hack the line or something, or the computers at the phone company?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll ask the guys when they get here.’

  The guys turned out to be one technician who used a headlight with a magnifying glass on it and told me my phone was clean. He said there were numerous ways of eavesdropping on calls and the best protection was use pay-as-you-go sim cards and change them regularly.

  ‘That’s not an option for me,’ I told him.

  ‘Best be pretty careful what you talk about on the phone then.’ That triggered something. I turned to Mister Sherrick. ‘Remember when you told me Jimmy’s body was going to be exhumed?’

  He nodded. I said, ‘It was in your flat you told me, wasn’t it? You didn’t mention it on the phone, you just asked me if I could call in on the way home from Fontwell.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  I turned to the sergeant. ‘So it has to be in the flat,’ I said. The technician was closing his bag. He didn’t look up, he just said, ‘The flat’s clean. We did two runs.’

  ‘You might have missed something,’ I said, trying not to sound as annoyed as I felt.

  ‘We didn’t.’

  ‘What, you swept every inch?’

  He stopped and stared at me. He’d have been about my age. I guessed by his attitude that he believed in his skills as much as I believed in mine, and it looked like he didn’t report to Geoff Middleton.

  ‘Every relevant inch,’ he said, unblinking.

  ‘So you checked down the toilet?’ My temper was rising.

  He glanced at the sergeant as if to say "Who is this guy?", then said, ‘No, we didn’t check
down the toilet. A listening device needs a power source. You don’t find too many of them down toilets.’

  ‘So you only checked sockets and stuff in the kitchen?’

  ‘We swept the flat. Twice. And no, we didn’t check just the sockets, we checked everywhere a battery-powered device could have been left.’

  ‘Everywhere?’

  ‘Everywhere. Now I’ve got three more jobs to do. Do you mind?’

  I sipped tepid coffee and held my tongue. The sergeant thanked him and showed him out. When he returned, I said, ‘Sorry, Geoff. It’s been a long day.’

  He smiled. ‘It’ll do him good. Cocky little sod.’

  Mister Sherrick said, ‘Do you mind if I go home now?’ He looked at his watch, turning the bracelet to see the face which glinted under the light and ignited my tired brain.

  The watch Bayley Watt had given him. The watch he’d have been sure Mister Sherrick would always wear as a last present from his son. The watch with a power source.

  I grabbed my notepad and quickly wrote, ‘Don’t speak. Go outside and call your tech guy. Tell him to get back here now.’

  21

  Impulsive behaviour. I’d regretted it before and I knew, as I lay awake, I would this time. The bug was in the watch. The watch was on the wrist of Jim Sherrick. The ball was in the court of the cops and I was in limbo.

  I should have kept my mouth shut and got Mave to find me someone to check the watch. But I’d been set on showing off how clever I was, determined to put the hotshot technician in his place. Now I couldn’t confront Bayley Watt. I’d have to let the police handle it. The sergeant was a nice guy, but he wasn’t the brightest.

  He’d said he would visit Bayley in the morning along with a detective. I hadn’t asked if he would tell me what Watt said, because it wouldn’t be ‘call me Geoff’ anymore. It was formal now. Maybe he wasn’t so simple after all.

  I lay listening to the silence and tonight it wasn’t comforting, not in the least. I’d stupidly cut myself off, and put more strain on poor Jim Sherrick. He too would be lying awake, wearing a watch that was sending every sound to Watt or whoever the trainer was involved with.