Warned Off (23 page)

Jackie
got some rope from the tack room and we tied Stoke and Skinner together. She
stayed covering them while I took Roscoe into another room and offered to mediate
with the police on his behalf if he filled in all the missing links for me. By
the time Cranley arrived he’d told me everything and promised to repeat it in
court.

We gave our statements and Cranley,
finally admitting defeat, said I could go. But there were only policemen
milling around, cold and impersonal, so Jackie and I stayed with Charmain’s
body till they collected it.

We sat in quiet companionship waiting
for the ambulance and I tried to come to terms with the fact that it was all
over. I’d expected to feel elated, to be buzzing with the satisfaction of
revenge, but none of it was there.

All I felt was a deep contentment that
Jackie was with me again, a massive happy relief that she hadn’t betrayed me
and a steadily burrowing guilt at having suspected her.

It was almost midnight, but the Red Lion
in Lambourn found us a room and a bottle of scotch. I rang McCarthy and told
him the news. He said he’d be there first thing in the morning.

There was no lovemaking. When the trauma
hit Jackie she got very weepy and I spent half the night comforting her and the
other half coping with my deepening guilt over doubting her. Knowing she would
never forgive me if she learnt of my suspicions, I overcame the urge to
confess.

In the morning I left Jackie asleep and
McCarthy and I walked up on to the Downs. The new jumps season wasn’t that far
away and strings of horses passed us going both ways. To our right, a trainer
was supervising a schooling session for two ‘chasers. We wandered over and
stood by one of the fences.

McCarthy said, ‘Well, are you going to
keep me waiting all morning?’

‘What? Sorry, Mac, I was miles away.’

‘I know, you have been since we left the
hotel.’

‘Mmm.’

‘You said on the phone that Roscoe had filled
in the missing pieces so I’d quite like to hear the full story.’

‘It was more or less as we thought,
except that Skinner was the instigator. He’d run up big gambling debts with
Stoke who was ready to put the bite on him. Since he was sacked by your people
Skinner had been working on his own trying to come up with the perfect dope,
which would have meant revenge on the Jockey Club and an end to his money
worries. He soon realised he had neither the expertise nor the money and when
Stoke started pressing him for payment he offered a deal. Stoke would fund the
research and Skinner would do the work.

‘Skinner remembered Kruger’s case well
and knew how close he’d come to this perfect dope so he contacted him in
Austria. Kruger agreed to come in as a consultant for a set fee and advice on
which horses were to be doped. Apparently Kruger knew Danny Gordon for his lab
work in Newmarket and wanted him involved.

‘Skinner himself put that proposal to
Danny Gordon but Gordon told Skinner he was in deep shit, that Bergmark and
Rask were blackmailing him for an attempted Tote fraud in Sweden years ago.
Skinner said he could solve that problem if Gordon would agree to come in on
the project. Stoke sent his two gorillas to see the Swedes and you know what
happened. Once they were sorted out Gordon tried to renege on his agreement and
Stoke had him killed. Kruger then threatened to pull out, but Skinner told him
it was Bergmark and Rask who’d put the hit out on Gordon.

‘They soon realised they’d need a number
of horses to experiment with under racing conditions and a trainer and jockey
who’d co-operate. Skinner knew Harle and Harle knew Roscoe who’d been training
a couple of horses under permit.

‘So now, as well as setting up a lab and
keeping people on a payroll, Stoke had to come up with the cash to buy a dozen
horses. He had the money to do it but was beginning to think about the risks if
things didn’t work out. Harle’s suggestion to finance the running of the
stables was that Skinner’s lab could be used, in its spare time, so to speak,
for manufacturing heroin.

‘Harle had smuggled the stuff in from
France a couple of times and knew how lucrative it would be to make it and cut
out all the middlemen.’

‘Wouldn’t that be a specialised job,
making heroin from scratch?’ McCarthy asked.

‘Apparently not, if you have the basic
ingredients which, it seems, are more readily available in France. So Roscoe
started sending horses on a fairly regular basis to run at the French
provincial tracks.

‘Either Skinner or Harle would accompany
them and smuggle the necessary raw materials back in the horsebox. Harle was in
charge of the “dealing” side and got a bit too dependent on the stuff himself.
He was also creaming off some of Stoke’s “profits”. Stoke discovered this about
the same time as Charmain admitted that Harle had got her hooked too. Not only
that but he’d seduced her. Stoke sent the boys and Harle paid the price.’

‘Then Greene came in?’

‘That’s right, though not for the money.
Young Greene was a career man and Roscoe promised him he’d be champion jockey
one day if he co-operated. Trouble was, Charmain was hooked by now and needed a
new supplier. She did the seducing this time and was giving Greene money to buy
heroin, and sex for doing the running. Stoke found out and no doubt took a
special delight in manipulating Greene into the box with the killer horse.

‘Who did they plan to replace Greene
with?’

‘Nobody, they knew they were very close
to the perfect formula, that’s why Kruger became dispensable too. Skinner
completed the first phial of the “perfect” dope yesterday morning and rushed
down to the yard to tell Roscoe who immediately contacted Stoke at York. He was
sufficiently excited about it to leave right away and head down here.

‘But they had two pieces of bad luck. In
his anxiety to tell Roscoe, Skinner left the lab door unlocked, probably around
the same time that Charmain was hitting me on the head with a cooking pot.
Harle must have told her they were using the lab for heroin but the stuff had
all been cleared out after Harle’s death. Charmain, in total desperation,
lifted the only bottle that looked like heroin and injected it.’

McCarthy stared at me. ‘Stoke’s perfect
dope?’

I nodded. ‘Every drop ... Though the formula
still exists. Roscoe says he’ll pass it to you to help with his
plea-bargaining.’

‘That’s big of him. Did he happen to say
if his horse was doped when it won the Champion Hurdle?’

‘He claims it wasn’t. Said they couldn’t
risk using the drug till they knew it was flawless, which makes sense. If
Roscoe had been exposed early in a doping scandal it would have scuttled the
whole plan. To give it more credence and build an alibi for Stoke, he took
several decent bets on the horse in the Champion Hurdle, just in case it won,
so it cost him a few quid.’

‘Pretty ironic then that he bought
himself some bloody good horses without even knowing it.’

‘Yeah ... anyway, Charmain lived just
long enough to, inadvertently I think, warn Stoke I was coming.’

‘So you were right, there never was a
Perlman?’ McCarthy said.

‘No, I was wrong. Remember the little
guy with the glasses, the one who claimed he was Perlman when your bloke first
interviewed him? Well, he was. Or at least that was his name. He worked for
Stoke. You know I thought Jackie was tipping them off on my movements?’

Mac nodded.

‘It was little Perlman. He was trailing
me half the time and I didn’t even know it. He also bugged Kruger’s phone.’

‘So Jackie’s completely innocent?’

I nodded, still feeling slightly
ashamed. ‘If you could do one thing for me, Mac, out of all this, don’t ever
tell anyone I suspected her.’

He smiled, but there was a mischievous
glint. ‘Don’t worry, Eddie, soul of discretion.’

We watched two ‘chasers come down the
line of schooling fences. One stood right off and just cleared the fence. I
watched them gallop away.

‘What are you plans now, Eddie?’
McCarthy asked.

‘My immediate plans, if I had my licence
back, would be to show that clown how to school a horse.’

He looked at me. ‘You really miss it
don’t you?’

‘More than you’ll ever know, Mac.’

I turned and started back for the hotel.
McCarthy joined me. The sun was well up now. A lark rose, whistling high as we
walked near its nest. ‘Remember the interview with the senior steward you asked
for?’ McCarthy said.

I looked across at him. He smiled. ‘Next
Tuesday, ten-thirty.’

‘How long for?’

‘Half an hour, as agreed.’

I nodded.

‘Think it’ll do any good?’ he asked.

‘I’ll tell the bastard what I think of
him. It’ll get five years of bitterness off my chest and then I can maybe get
on with my life.’

‘Don’t be too hasty. Remember, Roscoe’s
testimony on Kruger might help you out and, there’s always this ...’ He handed
me a palm-sized black book about the thickness of a cigarette packet.

I stopped and riffled the handwritten
pages. ‘What is it?’

He smiled. ‘Kruger’s diary. From five
years ago.’

I stared at him.

‘It agrees with your side of the story,
more or less. March twenty-third to twenty-eight are the pages you want.’

He smiled smugly and walked on.

‘Mac!’ I called after him. ‘How long
have you had this?’

He stopped and turned. ‘I found it on
Kruger’s body the morning you ran out and left me to explain his death to the
police. Remember?’

‘You could have told me!’

He shrugged and smiled. ‘Completely
slipped my mind. See you on Tuesday.’ He turned again and walked down toward
the valley. I opened the diary and slowly turned the pages telling of Kruger’s
past and, I hoped, my future.

1

On
a Saturday in early March I sat in the jockeys’ changing room at Haydock Park
knowing that by dusk my career would be over. This was my first season back
riding after losing my jockey’s licence five years before. Last time round I’d
been Champion Jockey.

Before deciding to quit I’d agonised for
weeks, as though it were a complicated equation. It was simple: I wasn’t
earning enough to feed myself. I owed money to banks, garages, saddlers my
landlord, and Jackie, my girlfriend.

My credit had run out. It was time to
find a proper job. Time to leave the only career I’d known, riding racehorses
over jumps. The galling thing was that I was good at it, one of the best.

Still, owners and trainers had chosen to
ignore that. Maybe they were taking revenge, paying me back for past sins.
Whatever, there was nothing I could do to change their minds.

I looked around me. One thing I wouldn’t
miss was these cold gloomy corners. The pecking order in the changing room
classified me fourth division now, along with the has-beens and never-will-bes.
Our own little clique, losers one and all but too terrified to admit it. So we
buoyed ourselves with empty banter and hollow camaraderie, scared to drop the
façade on our big failures, our small lives.

I was here for one ride, a no-hoper in
the novice hurdle. As soon as the race was over I would shower, change and
leave the racecourse for the last time. I could probably sell my boots and
saddles for the price of a month’s rent. On Monday I’d start looking for
something else.

The changing room was beginning to buzz
with jockeys and valets preparing for the day’s racing. It was Greenalls Gold
Cup day, the last major meeting before the Cheltenham festival. As usual there
was a quality field for the big ‘chase. I heard someone say the favourite,
Cragrock, was a certainty. Rewind the tape five years and I’d probably have
been riding it.

I couldn’t suffer any more of the happy
chatter and the atmosphere of anticipation. My ride was two hours away. There
was no need for me to stay in here till then so I got up and headed for the
door.

Things went suddenly quiet among the
group over to my right, eight or nine jockeys in various stages of undress. Con
Layton’s Irish accent rose from their midst. ‘And did yer mammy iron your nice
clean underpants for you before you came out? I’ll bet she still wipes yer
little bottom too? Is that right ... ? Come on, don’t be shy, you can tell your
Uncle Cornelius ...’

I could only see the back of Layton’s
head. Stepping to the side and squinting through someone’s crooked elbow I saw
the reddening face of the Irishman’s latest target, a newcomer named David
Cooper. The boy was only nineteen but already had the makings of a top jockey.
Well, he had the skills; I wasn’t sure his heart was in it.

He was a quiet kid, didn’t mix and
didn’t speak much, mostly I suspected because he was painfully self-conscious
about the distinct ‘th’ for ‘s’ lisp which made his upper-class accent sound
staged and effeminate.

A few strained chuckles rose from
Layton’s audience as they watched him tormenting the boy. The Irishman wouldn’t
be doing it just for fun. Young Cooper had a fancied ride against him in the
big race, this was Layton starting to psych him out.

Layton had built himself a reputation as
a bully and genuine ‘hard-man’. He was also a crook who arranged and rode in
fixed races. The Irishman was just a journeyman jockey but he made a nice
living from his schemes.

Since I’d come back I’d had little to do
with Layton, though he had thrown the occasional taunt in my direction. I’d had
more to worry about than rising to the bait.

He was stooping close to young Cooper
now, face to face. He said, ‘D’ye still sleep with yer mammy?’ The boy’s
flushed face couldn’t hold Layton’s gaze any longer. His eyes, begging without
hope for someone to intervene, flitted sideways and upward at the ring of faces
watching him.

Layton said, ‘What does she look like
with no clothes on?’

Tears welled in the boy’s eyes. No more
chuckles from the audience. A couple turned away shaking their heads. The room
was silent waiting for the kid’s reaction. Some of them would want to step in
but they knew the youngster had to handle it himself if he wanted to survive.
He was learning how hard a world it was.

Enjoying the boy’s humiliation Layton
said, ‘Come on, son, what does she look like? All the boys would like to know.’

I was standing twenty feet away. I said,
‘That how you get your kicks, Layton?’

Everyone turned. Layton pushed through them
and came toward me. Young Cooper watched, unable to hide his relief.

Layton stopped a couple of paces away.
About five seven, three inches shorter than me, he was rat-like. His
reddish-brown eyebrows were thick and met over his big nose.  His white T shirt
was blotched with water and he had a hand on each end of the yellow towel
hanging round his neck. He said, ‘A voice from the gallery, Malloy. I didn’t
quite catch what you said, now?’

‘I said is that how you get your kicks?
Is that what turns you on, getting young boys to talk about their mothers? Or
is it just the bullying that gives you the big charge?’

It was Layton’s turn to redden. ‘You
sayin’ I’m a bully, Malloy?’

‘Either a bully or a pervert, take your
pick.’

His fists balled, jaw muscles clenched,
eyes went cold but I could see he wasn’t sure what to do. It must have been the
first time in years he’d been challenged. Even worse, he didn’t know the
strength of his opponent.

A fight could leave him with a broken
jaw which, apart from the loss of face, would mean he wouldn’t be riding for a
while.

Feet apart, hands by my sides, I stood
calmly watching him try to make a decision. Though I’d told no one yet that I
was quitting he knew if it came to a brawl he had more to lose.

His hands relaxed and he clasped them
behind his back and put on a sly little smile. ‘You’ve an awful insolent mouth
on you, Malloy.’

‘I can live with it. Better than a mind
like a sewer.’

Now he knew he wasn’t going to win a
battle of words. Taking a couple of steps toward me he leaned forward till I
could see the tiny blue veins in the whites of his eyes. He said, ‘You and me
must get together some time soon.’

I held his gaze. ‘Anytime. Just give me
a couple of days’ notice so I can arrange a vaccination.’

A few laughed. There was one outright
guffaw and I saw in Layton’s eyes he knew he had to do something. With our
faces so close I guessed it would be a head-butt and I moved just as he tried
it, stepping aside as he over-balanced.

I hit him in the ribs then again in the
kidneys. He grunted and went to his knees. Grabbing the towel, I looped it
around his neck and pulled a tight strangle-hold while I stood on his left calf
to stop him rising.

He gurgled, clutching. I leaned close to
his ear. ‘How does it feel, Layton? What’s it like to be on the receiving end?’
I jerked the towel tighter and his tongue came out, his eyes watered.

I let go and he slumped forward, his
head on the bench, saliva dripping from his gasping mouth, onto the dark tiles.
I stepped away. There were maybe twenty people looking on, most watching me,
some staring at Layton.

I turned to leave and heard Layton
trying to rise. Looking round I saw him sprawled against the bench now face up,
still breathing hard but glaring at me. ‘You’re a fucking dead man, Malloy,’ he
hissed.

‘Top marks for perception.’ I said.

Layton looked puzzled as one of his
buddies, Meese, helped him away to the toilets.

The buzz of conversation resumed. Colin
Blake came up and squeezed my arm. ‘Nice one, Eddie, but you’ve done yourself
no favours there, mate.’

I smiled at him. ‘You’d be surprised.’
The confrontation had given a quick boost to my self-esteem, though I wasn’t
sure how much of the bravado had come from the knowledge that after today I
would never be in a changing room with Layton again.

On my way out a couple of the lads
slapped my back and said well done. I almost felt as if I’d won a race.

In his father’s  luminous yellow
and red colours young Cooper was sitting on the scales, weighing out for the
first race. Still embarrassed, he glanced at me and I could see that his
discomfort stemmed from the realisation that he’d had to be rescued, that he
couldn’t cut it himself.

Not wanting to make him feel obliged I
smiled briefly and walked on, but he stuck out a hand to grip my arm as I
passed. I stopped. ‘Thank you,’ he said, avoiding the shortened version so he
wouldn’t have to lisp the ‘s’.

‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘Good luck today.’

He smiled weakly and nodded, causing the
scale needle to bob between ten stone ten and ten twelve. I left him with his
own troubles and took mine outside.