Warned Off (14 page)

I
was in Cheltenham by nine next morning, drinking coffee in a restaurant
overlooking the broad boulevard in the centre of town. Roscoe had announced the
appointment of his new stable jockey, twenty-one-year-old Phil Greene. I very
much doubted that all he was doing at Roscoe’s last night was signing his
contract.

And who was the little man who’d been
with him, the same one who’d been shadowing Harle at the Duke’s Hotel? The
difference this time was that Greene obviously knew who he was. Harle hadn’t,
or so he’d claimed at the time.

I rang McCarthy’s office and his secretary
said sorry he wasn’t in and who was calling.

‘Eddie Malloy.’

‘Oh, Mister McCarthy did leave a message
that he’d be at Salisbury races this afternoon.’

‘Fine, I’ll see him there.’

It was the warmest day of the year so far
and when I reached the racecourse I decided to have a beer before seeking out
McCarthy.

Carrying the drink to the corner I
tucked myself in to watch the world go by. Part of that world was McCarthy, in
a big hurry. I left my beer and followed him, catching him as he slowed
approaching the weighing room. I touched his shoulder, ‘Mac.’

He turned, looking flustered. ‘Later
Eddie, please. After racing.’

‘Okay. I’ll see you in the car park.’

Standing by the rails I watched the next
race, a decent sprint handicap. I was half a furlong from the winning post and
as they charged past me the whips cracking on rumps sounded like a busy rifle
range.

All around me the crowds were bawling
their horses on to run faster, their jockeys to hit harder. As the winner passed
the post the roar collapsed to a murmur in seconds. I headed back toward the
winner’s enclosure to watch them come in.

Walking steadily on the outside of the
crowd flow I saw Charmain crossing the lawn. Elegantly dressed and beautiful as
ever, moving smartly and staring straight ahead, she looked pleased with
herself. Stepping out of the shuffling line I turned and watched her walk away
and thought about the last time I’d seen her; the Champion Hurdle night party
at the Duke’s Hotel.

A fine party that. One for reflecting
on. Charmain had been there, so had Roscoe, and Harle and our little bumbling
friend who’d visited Roscoe’s with Greene last night. Maybe Skinner had been at
the party too, and Phil Greene.

I remembered her ill-mannered husband, though
I couldn’t recall his name. How had she escaped him today? I doubted he knew
she was parading about at Salisbury races drawing lustful glances from every
heterosexual man she passed.

His name came to me, Stoke, and I
recollected he was a bookmaker. Maybe he was here today. I went to the betting
ring to find out. He was there, standing on his stool but deep in conversation
with someone else I knew, young Phil Greene, Roscoe’s replacement for Harle.
Well, well, well, another ingredient. The pot was bubbling nicely.

Stoke was leaning over, his head close
to Greene’s mouth. His lips weren’t moving so I guessed Greene’s were. He
talked with Stoke a few minutes more then they started getting interruptions
from people wanting a bet on the last race of the day.

A twenty-five-to-one chance won it. The
bookies smiled and got off their stools and the punters grimaced and made for
the exits, dropping crumpled tickets on the way. Stoke forcibly jammed a wad of
notes into the inside pocket of his jacket, peeled a few from another bundle to
pay off his clerk then walked, with Greene, back toward the stands.

I followed them to the car park where
they stopped beside a big sky-blue Mercedes. Charmain was in the back seat,
though neither of the men seemed to acknowledge her presence. Stoke opened the
driver’s door, took off his jacket and slung it in beside his wife.

He got in and looked in the mirror,
fingering his too long hair and his too thin tie. Greene slid in quickly and
closed the door. As they strapped on their seat belts I made for my own car
which was parked near the exit.

Starting the engine I sat waiting for
them but they didn’t move and after five minutes I switched off. As soon as I
did the Merc’s reversing lights glowed and Stoke swung it round for the exit. I
followed. McCarthy would have to wait.

The Merc went a
sensible speed, heading North on the A34 past Oxford. I found myself dropping
farther behind as we got deeper into the countryside. The roads grew narrower
and other cars scarce. Stoke wouldn’t have to be a mastermind to realise he was
being followed. I tried to keep him in sight but it was a tricky game; the
hedgerows were high in places and if Stoke took a turn-off while he was out of
view I’d lose him.

Just after seven they stopped about a
mile through a small village called Shipton-on-Cherwell. Stoke pulled up by a
bridge near a neat white cottage on the canal and Greene got out. He turned and
bowed to speak to Stoke who was revving, sending puffs of grey smoke from the
tailpipe. Greene straightened up and slammed the door and the Merc took off
over the narrow bridge. He watched it go and was rewarded with a glance and a
small secretive wave from Charmain.

I carried on down the road slowing to a
crawl as I approached the bridge. Greene was walking along the canal bank by a
line of four barges moored in the muddy water.

Two of the boats were completely covered
by tarpaulins, another was a shiny varnished brown with brass fittings and a
black chimney three feet high. Greene jumped onto the deck of the third barge
in line. It was yellow and light green, though the paint was faded and cracked.
On the roof were a life-belt, two old tyres and a TV aerial. At the far end was
a small chimney. The name on the side was faded, it could have been
Lickety
Split
.

The houses on the edge of the village
were in sight. I drove back through the long evening shadows into Shipton,
hoping to find a pub where I could ask some questions. Stopping at a garage to
ask about a pub I found out, from the garage owner that Greene was just a
tenant on the boat.

‘I’ve passed it a couple of times,’ I
said, ‘always fancied living on a boat for a year and that one doesn’t look
like it would cost that much.’

‘The guy who actually owns it lived on
it himself for a few years. He just started renting it out at the back end of
last year when he got a new job down in Lambourn.’ The garage man said.

‘Think he’d be open to offers?’

‘You can only try.’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve got his phone
number?’

‘Afraid not. Skinner’s his name. A vet.
I heard he’d got a job with a trainer after he’d had, well, a few problems ...
least said the better I suppose.’

‘I know Lambourn. I’ve got a few mates
there so I should be able to track him down. Thanks.’

‘No problem. Hope to see you back here
then, if you get the boat. Good luck with it.’

‘Thanks. You’ve been really helpful.’ I
said.

Really helpful.

I stopped at a phone box and called
McCarthy.

‘Eddie.’ He didn’t sound delighted to
hear from me.

‘Sorry I missed you at Salisbury today,
I got kind of side tracked.’

‘Anything worthwhile?’

I told him about Greene and the Stokes
and that Greene was staying in Skinner’s boat.

‘What do you make of it?’ he asked

‘I don’t know, but it set me thinking
about Skinner. Can you remember him when he worked on the racecourse?’

‘Remember him well. It was one of my
lads who had to tell him his services would no longer be required.’

‘For betting, wasn’t it?’

‘Yep. They reckoned he was a compulsive
gambler.’

‘How long ago did he lose his job?’

‘Must be a couple of years now.’

‘Do you know if Howard Stoke was around
at the time? Making a book, I mean?’

‘I can’t remember, but I could find out.
What’s the connection?’

‘I don’t know that there is one, yet.
But it would be interesting to know if Skinner bet with Stoke and if so, how
much. There’s obviously some tie-up between Stoke and Greene and with Greene
using Skinner’s boat, well, there could just be a little niche in Roscoe’s
set-up where we’ll find Stoke fits nicely.
And
, last night I saw Greene leaving
Roscoe’s with the same little bloke who was trailing Harle in the Duke’s Hotel
after the Champion Hurdle.

‘Are you sure it was the same man?’

‘Positive. Small, tubby, very thick
round glasses, unmistakable.’

There was silence for a few seconds. I thought
the line had gone dead. ‘Mac?’

He spoke. ‘Remember I told you we
interviewed Perlman before accepting his registration as an owner?’

‘Uhuh. At his big house in Wiltshire,
wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right. Did I tell you the
physical description as far as my man could recall?’

‘Let me guess, small and tubby with very
thick round glasses?’

‘Got it in one.’

‘Well, well, well,’ I smiled.

‘So it looks like there is a Perlman
after all,’ Mac said.

‘No chance. The little guy has got to be
a decoy. Kruger’s the man, believe me.’

‘Don’t get stuck on Kruger, Eddie,
you’re too single-minded with him, you’ve got to allow for other
possibilities.’

‘Come on, Mac! I told you about the call
Kruger left on Roscoe’s answering machine, I heard it in person,
live
.
Let me remind you what he said, “Who is running this effing show, Roscoe?”‘

‘Well, let me ask you, who do you think
Kruger was complaining about in that call? Who’s trying to take over the show?’

 ’Roscoe. That’s what it sounded
like.’ I said.

‘That depends how you interpret it,
doesn’t it?’

That made me think. ‘I suppose it does.’

‘You shouldn’t jump to conclusions,
Eddie. Don’t discount that little guy.’

‘Okay, I’ll keep him in mind.’

‘I mean it!’

‘Okay, okay.’

‘So, what’s next?’ he asked.

‘Well, Greene seems a cocky little
bastard. I think I’ll pay him a visit under the guise of a journalist and
butter him up a bit.’

‘I’d say you were a hundred-to-one
Eddie. Roscoe or Kruger or whoever is bound to have him well briefed to give
you a wide berth.’

‘We’ll see. Remember, officially he’s
just signed with Roscoe so they might not have pulled him in yet to whatever
racket they’re running. Why, for instance, hasn’t Roscoe moved him out of the
boat and into Harle’s old place?’

‘Maybe he’s afraid of ghosts.’

‘Maybe he is Mac, maybe he is.’ I
smiled.

The
following evening I was back at the canal-side. I crossed the small bridge onto
the footpath. The water was so still I could see insects hopping on the
surface. The boat with the brass fittings and polished wood had gone leaving
Skinner’s and the other tarpaulin-covered boats. They were motionless as though
the green slime surrounding them had anchored them to the bank.

I stepped onto Skinner’s boat and it
rolled slightly under my weight. A little tattered red flag hung limp from a
thin six-inch pole on the roof.

Above a small entrance door was a Lucas
headlamp. It was dirty and a hole had been shot through the C. An air-gun
pellet lay flattened behind the glass.

I tried the door. It was locked. Jumping
back to the towpath I moved along the side looking through the windows, but
dingy curtains blocked my view.

As I walked toward the back of the boat
a man came along the towpath about a hundred yards away running fast in my
direction, accelerating as he closed on me. I stopped and waited.

He came faster, sprinting. Reaching me
he ran past and slowed down to stop at the front of the boat. He bent forward,
hands on knees, and I walked toward him. He wore a black tracksuit of heavy
cotton. Sweat dripped from his forehead and cheekbones and shone on the back of
his neck. His face was red and he was panting hard. His name was Phil Greene.

I sat on the edge of his boat. He didn’t
look up. All he would see from there would be my knees and shoes. ‘In training for
the new season, Phil?’ I asked.

He nodded and pearls of sweat bounced
and swung from his curly hair.

‘Tough going,’ I said.

He looked at me. ‘I can handle it.’

I smiled. ‘I’m sure you can.’

He straightened till he was looking down
at me. ‘What can I do for you, Mister ...?’

I could see he knew exactly who I was.
‘Malloy,’ I said. ‘Eddie Malloy.’

‘I thought I’d seen your face
somewhere.’ His breathing was almost back to normal. Squatting, he reached to
the side of the path and plucked some of the longer blades of grass. ‘You used
to be a jockey, didn’t you? He said.

Used to be ... It always struck home,
made me feel bad. I wondered when I’d grow out of it.

‘A long time ago,’ I said.

‘Couldn’t have been that long ago.’

‘Long enough. You can be a has-been in
this game in six months.’

‘If you’re a mug you can.’ He darted a
childish little smile at me.

‘Or if you get your neck broken.’ I
smiled back.

He didn’t read the tone or he ignored it.
‘That’s for mugs too, riding dodgy novices. No more of that for me.’ He smiled
his smile again. I was beginning to dislike it. ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘A
cushy number for you this season, riding for Roscoe.’

‘And for a few seasons after that if
I’ve got anything to do with it.’

‘Which is exactly what I came here to
talk to you about.’

He looked up from where he was squatting
like a kid, absent-mindedly rolling the blades of grass he’d plucked between
his palms.

‘How do you mean?’ he asked.

‘Ever read the profiles of racing
personalities in
The Sporting Life
?’

‘Uhuh.’

‘How’d you like to be a subject?’

‘Who’d want to read about me?’ he asked
in a silly, coy, girl-like manner that made me want to throw him in the canal.

‘People are always interested in the young
hopefuls,’ I said through gritted teeth.

He stopped rubbing the crumpled grass
between his hands, opened them and let the small green cigar come to rest in
his right palm. Raising his hand to his lips he blew a short hard breath and
the grass disappeared. Only his eyes moved to stare at me. The annoying smile
was still on his face but there was a sudden hardness, a greedily protective
element now. ‘I’m no hopeful, Malloy, I’ve arrived.’

I didn’t like the look and I didn’t like
him calling me Malloy. He was a punk who wouldn’t normally last five minutes. I
felt like slapping him around.

‘Okay, you’ve arrived, I’m not arguing.
But you must be thinking already of your first championship, riding a Gold Cup
or a National winner?’

‘That’s only a matter of time.’

‘One thing you need in this game is
confidence and you’re not short of that.’

‘You bet I’m not. There’s only one way
I’m going and that’s to the top.’

As if to reinforce it he stood up. I
stayed sitting while he walked up and down the towpath, ten paces each way.

‘A full page in the
Life
isn’t
going to do your career prospects any harm, is it?’

‘I know it isn’t. That’s why I’m going
to let you do it.’

‘Good. When suits you?’

‘Now, if you like.’ He was still pacing.

‘Fine. Why don’t you get changed and
we’ll go and have a few drinks and outline the structure of the piece.’

‘Okay,’ he said and sprung past me onto
the deck.

The
pub Greene chose was only ten minutes’ drive away, though it was a long ten
minutes for me. He didn’t stop talking about how well he was going to do in the
new season, how much his riding had matured, how good horses would let him show
his real worth.

Still, his boasting had its benefits. If
Roscoe had indeed warned him to avoid me it seemed likely he’d ignore the
trainer and rely on his own judgement. And he’d already decided I was a nobody.

We pulled in at a white-walled building
with a thickly thatched roof. Greene nodded and smiled at a few people as we
walked to the bar.

‘What would you like?’ I asked.

‘Canadian Club on the rocks.’

‘I’ll have a bottle of beer, please.’

‘Certainly, gentlemen,’ said the barman
who was all dickied up with a nice white shirt and black bow tie.

He brought the drinks and I paid.

‘Let’s go out in the last of the
sunshine,’ Greene said.

‘A bit noisy for interviewing.’

‘Break your concentration?’ he said
snidely.

I sat at a table by the window and took
out a mini tape-recorder .

‘No, just might drown out your highly
intelligent and interesting answers.’

He took it as a compliment, smiled and
sat down. It wasn’t hard to fill a tape. It got to the stage where he was happy
to keep talking, knowing the machine would pick it up, while I got us another
drink.

He stayed with the clear-coloured whisky
and the more he drank the more he talked. The more he talked the more obvious
it was how big a hit the guy was for himself.

Calling a halt around 9.30 I switched
off the tape.

‘Are you sure that’ll be enough?’ he
asked.

‘Could write a book from that, never
mind a profile.’

He smiled, linked his hands behind his
head and lay back in the corner of the sofa-type seat. ‘Maybe someday I will
write a book,’ he said. ‘Might even let you ghost it for me.’ He nodded toward
his empty glass. ‘If you buy me another drink, that is.’

‘My pleasure,’ I said. It was far from
it. He’d already drunk more than a camel at an oasis. Still, it was suiting my
purpose. I brought the drinks back and steered him onto a general discussion
about racing.

When the bell rang to signal time Greene
objected, shouting for more whisky. The barman ignored him and moved around
clearing up glasses, putting towels over beer pumps and empty bottles in
crates.

Greene was getting abusive. Standing up
I reached across the table with my right hand. ‘Come on, Phil, we can go back
to my place for a drink.’

He stared a while longer, or tried to,
at the barman. His eyes were rolling slightly and his speech was slurred. Still
looking at the barman he took my hand, and I helped him up.’ Your place, Eddie!
Good lad. No problem!’ As he stood up and gained his balance he suddenly looked
at me very seriously.

‘Got any Canadian Club at home?’

‘Plenty,’ I lied. I knew by the time we
got there that either the notion would have worn off him or he would drink
anything. I hoped for the latter. The bigger his hangover, the better the
chance of my plan succeeding.

He was
surprisingly quiet for the first few miles of the trip and I glanced across
occasionally to make sure he was okay. His eyes were half shut and his head
nodded slowly and unevenly like one of those toy dogs in the backs of cars.

We must have been halfway there when he
said, unprompted and staring straight ahead, ‘I’ve got a mistress, you know.’

I slowed involuntarily but didn’t
respond. My first thought was that ‘mistress’ was an odd word for him to use.

‘She’s beautiful and I love her and when
I’m champion jockey she’s going to marry me.’

‘What’s her name?’ I asked. I saw his
finger go to the side of his nose and try to tap it but it was more like
stroking.

‘Secret,’ he said. ‘Big secret.’

I didn’t answer. There was nothing for
ten seconds or so then he said, ‘Her husband’s a bastard, a real bastard.’ He
turned toward me. ‘She married him for money, see, she never really loved him.’

‘Sure.’

‘Sure ... Sure’s right ... Sure is
absolutely right ... She never did.’

I wondered if he looked on marriage for
money as a virtue when he was sober.

‘Can you take me to her now? He asked in
a pathetic, begging tone. ‘Please?’ he added.

‘Where does she live?’

‘Suffolk. Somewhere in Suffolk.’

‘Where in Suffolk?’

‘Somewhere, okay? ... Somewhere ... None
of your business anyway.’

‘I thought you wanted me to take you
there?’

‘I do want it but I can’t. Her husband’s
home tonight. I am not allowed to go when he’s there.’

‘Back to my place then, you can have
another drink and forget all about her.’

‘I’ll never forget her ... Never!’

I thought I heard a sob but couldn’t be
sure. He dozed off two minutes later and didn’t wake till I leaned in and shook
him, having already stopped in the trees and checked the cottage for unwanted
visitors.

I helped him inside and sat him down by
the dead ashes of yesterday’s fire. Taking off my jacket I pulled on an old
sweater and poured Greene a drink. His hand came up for it automatically. ‘Is
it Canadian Club?’

‘Sure it is. On the rocks.’

‘That’s all I drink, you know.’

‘So they tell me.’

‘That’s right.’ he said.

I cleared the grate, dropped in a couple
of firelighters and some logs and set it burning. I washed my hands, poured a
whisky and sat opposite Greene.

I switched the lights off and shadows
flickered on the walls as flames circled the logs.

I watched him. He sat in that loose way
drunk men do in easy chairs, as though his bones were all an inch long and
they’d folded and settled on one another.

Staring into the fire he held the glass
in his right hand, though he seemed to be barely touching it.

‘Take a drink.’ I said.

His arm moved automatically to bring the
glass to his lips, his head ducked forward noticeably to drink but his eyes
never strayed from the flames. He gulped some whisky and settled back to his
previous position.

‘Romantic, isn’t it?’ I said.

He nodded slowly. ‘I miss her, you know
... I miss her badly ... She’s the only woman I ever loved ... and she’s in
trouble.’

I let it ride for half a minute, but he
wasn’t adding to it. ‘What kind of trouble?’ I asked.

‘Deep,’ he said. ‘Deep, deep trouble.’

‘With the police?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Why don’t you tell me about it? Maybe I
can help.’

He shook his head. ‘I’ll help her, I’m the
only one.’

He went silent again for a while.

‘Drink up,’ I said and he did, draining
the glass. His arm came down again and the empty glass swung into position
between his thumb and fingers. I reached and refilled it.

‘We’re going to buy a cottage by the sea
when I’m champion.’

‘You and Charmain?’ I asked.

‘Yes, just the two of us.’ I watched as
his memory tried to plough through the forty per cent proof haze in his brain.
His eyes moved from the flames and he looked quizzical, ‘You know Charmain?’

‘Sure met her a few times. Beautiful
woman.’

‘Beautiful ... Beautiful ...’ He seemed
happy with that. I played on. ‘How’s Howard, her husband?’

‘A bastard’s her husband, she married
him for money ... she didn’t love him ... understand?’

‘Sure.’