Warned Off (5 page)

First
thing next morning I rang McCarthy’s office. He answered the phone.

‘Can’t you afford a secretary?’ I asked.

‘Who is this?’

‘Malloy.’

He wasn’t pleased. ‘What do you want?’

‘Some information.’

‘On what? Is it important?’

‘It is to me.’

‘Look, Eddie, I’m under severe pressure
over yesterday’s Champion Hurdle, The Jockey Club want a report by noon today.
There’s no way -’

‘What about the Champion Hurdle?’

‘Well, nothing ... nothing about the
race itself anyway. But  heads will be rolling because the Queen Mum was
embarrassed at the presentation by the absence of the owner. She didn’t
complain but the course executive look on it as a deliberate insult by this guy
Perlman.’

‘Go on.’

He hesitated. ‘You know something about
this?’

‘Finish your side first.’

‘Okay. We sent someone to interview
Perlman this morning. He can’t be found. His house, or at least the address we
have registered, is empty and has been for a while according to the locals who
also say they’ve never heard of Perlman.’

‘Wasn’t he checked through the normal
procedures before your people cleared him as an owner?’

‘Of course he was! Couldn’t have been
more impressive. A million quid’s worth of country house in Wiltshire, a Rolls
in the drive, we even sent the same guy this morning who interviewed him
initially. The place is deserted.’

‘What happens now?’ I asked.

‘Arses get kicked, our clearance procedure
gets tightened and we keep looking for Perlman.’

‘Have you called Roscoe, his trainer?’

‘Yes. He claims he’s never met Perlman
nor spoken to him. He communicates with the stable by email only and pays his
bills prompt on the eighth of every month. Obviously we’ll be looking further
into that but we’re under the cosh.’

‘If Perlman actually exists then I know
someone who might tell me a few things about him if I buy enough champagne.’

‘Who? And what do you mean if he
actually exists?’

‘Oh, come on, Mac, how many owners do
you know who don’t turn up when they win the Champion? How many have never met
their trainer? The name’s got to be a front for someone, maybe somebody who’s
been warned off in the past.’

‘For what?’

‘How would I know? But whatever it was
he might be doing it again in the name of Perlman.’

There was silence at the other end. I
went on, ‘Anyway, I’ll see if I can find anything out from Alan Harle.’

‘Roscoe’s jockey?’

‘More like this Perlman’s jockey. Can
you remember if Roscoe took Harle on around the same time that Perlman appeared
on the scene?’

‘Not off hand but I can find out. Call
me here this evening.’

‘Listen, I said. ‘I’ll see Harle at
Cheltenham today and ask if he wants to go partying tonight. You find out what
you can about him and Roscoe and I’ll try and ‘phone you around ten.’

‘Right.’

‘Mac, does nothing else about Harle ring
a bell?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like the reported sighting of him with
the men last seen with Danny Gordon?’

There was silence for a few seconds then
McCarthy said, ‘I’ll check it out.’

I
missed the first three races that afternoon and despite the melancholy it had
caused the previous day I decided to watch the fourth from out on the course.
There wasn’t a single space in the crowd lining the rails at the last fence so
I wandered down to the starting gate as the big field of novices lined up.

Harle was booked to ride Craven King for
Roscoe and I tried to pick him out as the jockeys pulled their goggles down on
tense faces. The horses pricked their ears and strained at their bits, some
rolling their eyes back till the whites showed.

     There was a
moment of almost eerie silence. I panned and turned the wheel on my binoculars
to focus on the packed stands and twenty thousand pairs of glinting lenses
looked back at me.

‘Come on!’ yelled the starter, breaking
the spell. The tape snapped upwards, the riders let out an inch of rein and the
ground shook as nineteen novice ‘chasers set off to prove who was champion.

I walked toward the centre of the course
till the commentary was out of earshot and there were no people around. That
feeling of desolation at not being involved was coming back again and I was
trying to fight it. I decided to concentrate on Harle and Craven King in Louis
Perlman’s pea-green colours. They travelled well for the first circuit but
began to tire as they approached the top of the hill for the last time.

Harle wasn’t hard on him but Craven King
repaid him by taking a crashing fall at the third last. I kept my glasses on
them waiting for Harle to rise but he didn’t. Nor did the horse. I was only a
couple of hundred yards from the fence and I ran toward it.

Two medics stooped over him waiting for
the ambulance which was speeding toward us along with the vet’s Land-Rover and
the horse ambulance. Craven King lay on his side panting as one of the
groundsmen crouched by his head murmuring words of comfort.

I ducked under the rails. ‘Is he okay?’
I asked as I reached Harle. ‘Just concussed, we think,’ said one of the
ambulance-men as the other undid the jockey’s chinstrap and raised his goggles.
I looked down at the unconscious figure.

It wasn’t Alan Harle.

‘That’s not Harle,’ I said rather
stupidly. One of the medics glanced up at me but didn’t reply. I checked the weight-cloth
on the prostrate horse, number 6. I opened my racecard, definitely Craven King,
trained by Roscoe and due to be ridden by Alan Harle.

The doctor and the vet arrived at the same
time. Hunkering beside the doctor as he eased the jockey’s helmet off I asked,
‘Is he going to be all right?’

His fingers explored the base of the
skull as he lifted the boy’s head and turned it gently. ‘I think so. Just
concussed.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Greene, Philip Greene,’ The doctor said
as he signalled for the stretcher.

They loaded Greene carefully into the
ambulance and it trundled gently off toward the stands. I turned, hoping the
horse was okay, only to see them erecting screens to protect the sensibilities
of racegoers as the vet put a pistol to Craven King’s head and pulled the
trigger. The horse shuddered briefly and lay still.

A man in overalls pulled a length of
chain from the interior of the horse ambulance and looped it round the horse’s
neck. He pressed a button to start the winch and the chain clattered and heaved
as it hauled the body across the muddy hoof prints in the grass and up the ramp
into the darkness.

The vet was heading back to the
Land-Rover, pushing the pistol into a pouch as he walked and talking to a man I
recognised as Mr Skinner, still thermometer thin from smoking too much and
eating too little. Skinner was dark-haired, maybe forty-five and had the blue
face of a twice-a-day shaver. He’d been renowned as a compulsive gambler when
I’d been riding and it had cost him his job. He’d been a racecourse vet but had
been sacked when the Jockey Club decided his obsession with betting was not in
their best interests. What the hell was he doing back in racing?

I fell into step beside him and he
looked up and nodded, not particularly pleased to see me. ‘What was wrong with
him?’ I asked.’

‘Broken shoulder.’

‘It’s a tough business.’

‘You should know,’ he said
sarcastically, still walking toward the Land-Rover.

‘Wasn’t Alan Harle down to ride him?’ I
asked.

‘I’m not the bloody starter,’ he said as
he climbed into the passenger seat. The driver revved the engine.

‘Any chance of a lift back?’ I asked,
but the only acknowledgement was a cloud of blue smoke from the exhaust as they
pulled away.

Back
in the enclosure I made my way through the betting ring to where the reps for
SiS stood. SiS is the racing news service which relays information and live
pictures from the racecourse to betting shops.

There was only one person in the booth
as I approached, a pleasant looking bloke with brown hair and a moustache. He
was speaking on the phone. When he finished I introduced myself.

‘Grenville Riley,’ He said, offering his
hand. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Do you know if Alan Harle has a mount
today?’

He didn’t have to consult any papers.
‘No, he’s not riding today or tomorrow. He was booked to ride two today and one
tomorrow but his trainer told me he wouldn’t be riding for the rest of the
meeting.’

‘Roscoe?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Did he say why?’

‘Said he had a bad case of flu.’

Bad case of a hangover, I thought, ‘When
did he tell you?’

‘About an hour before the first.’

‘Did he say who’d be replacing him?’

‘Young Phil Greene. The poor bugger just
got buried in the last.’

‘I know. He’s all right. I’ve spoken to
the doctor.’

He nodded. ‘Didn’t look too good for the
horse though,’ he said.

‘No, he’s been put down.’

He frowned and shook his head slowly.

‘I don’t suppose you know any of the
vets?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, most of them.’ He pulled a box of
small cigars from his coat pocket.

‘Skinner isn’t back on the Jockey Club
payroll, is he?’

‘You kidding, with his reputation?’

‘I know, but he was out there with the
vet when he put Craven King down.’

‘I heard he works for Roscoe now.’

‘Skinner does?’

‘Yeah, private vet to the stable so they
say. If Roscoe’s got any brains he’ll be watching what Skinner jabs those
horses with.’

I smiled. Many a true word…

‘Smoke?’ he offered.

‘No, thanks.’

‘My only vice.’ He smiled, lighting one.

‘You’re lucky. Listen, is Greene
Roscoe’s usual standby?’

‘Not really. I’ve noticed he’s been
riding one or two in the last few weeks for him but before that Roscoe’s used
anyone who was available.’

His mobile phone rang. I slapped his
shoulder lightly. ‘Thanks a lot, you’ve been very helpful.’

He smiled, ‘Anytime, Eddie, any time.’

I thought about going to the trainer’s
bar and asking Roscoe how my pal Alan was but I decided against it in case
Roscoe was smarter than he looked. A phone call to Harle’s hotel might pay
better dividends. The pleasant voice of the receptionist answered on the second
ring.

‘Can you put me through to Mr Alan
Harle’s room, please?’

‘Do you know the room number, sir?’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t.’

‘Hold on please.’

I held on.

‘Hello, sir, I’m afraid Mr Harle left
this morning.’

‘When do you expect him back?’

‘We don’t sir.’

I hesitated. ‘Did you see him leave?’ I
realised as soon as I asked that it was a strange question from her point of
view. She was non-committal. ‘I didn’t start till two o’clock, sir.’

‘Of course. Did he pay his bill?’

‘I’m sorry, sir, we’re not allowed to
answer questions like that about guests.’

‘I understand. Thanks for your help.’

I hung up and headed for the paddock.

Standing around by the weighing room I
waited for a homeward bound jockey. The race in progress on the other side of
the stands had most people’s attention.

A figure came through the glass doors
and started across the lawn. My height, my age, dark hair still wet from the
shower. Falling into step beside him as he passed I said, ‘Hello, John.’

He glanced across at me but kept going.
He walked pretty fast. ‘Hello, Eddie. Heard you were back.’

Jockeys are a strange breed. When you’re
one of them it’s like being a member of some elite regiment in which your
colleagues will do almost anything for you. It’s a profession in which you put
your life on the line every time you pull on a set of silks. Your next ride
could be your last and everyone knows it; but no one discusses it. In a company
of men who are all taking the same risks there is a lot of comfort and
camaraderie.

But as soon as you’re outside that
circle, unless through injury, you become a stranger again, a man in the
street, a passer-by. It is nothing intentional or preconceived, it’s just the
way it is. The way I’d known it would be. But it still hurt.

I didn’t feel like spouting any small
talk and I knew John wouldn’t care to listen to any. Quickening my pace to
match his I asked, ‘Where’s Alan Harle staying now, is he still in Trowbridge?’

‘As far as I know he’s got digs near
Roscoe.’

‘He trains in Lambourn, doesn’t he?’

‘That’s right, Benson’s old place.’

That was all I’d wanted to know. ‘Thanks
John.’ I slowed to let him walk on. He stopped and turned. ‘Harle owe you
money, too?’  he asked.

I played along. ‘Eh, yes, he does. You
too?’

He shook his head. ‘Not me, but he’s had
a few quid from some of the others.’

I nodded slowly, trying to look
resigned.

‘I wouldn’t worry too much,’ he said.
‘He’s paid all of them off in the last month or so. You might be next.’

‘I hope so. Thanks.’

‘Okay, Eddie.’ He smiled and I saw what
looked like pity in his eyes and it made me sick.

It
was dusk when I got back. I cleared last night’s ashes from the grate and
carried logs and fire-lighters from the kitchen.

Fire crackling, one drink finished, I
poured another and went to the telephone. It was just after seven and I
couldn’t be sure if McCarthy would be back from Cheltenham. I decided to give
him another half-hour before ringing and spend the time trying to contact
Harle.

A friend in Lambourn told me Harle was
living about a mile from Roscoe’s stables and gave me his number. I tried it.
Nobody answered.

Half an hour later I was heading south-east
on the A40 with a ten-minute phone call to McCarthy under my belt. I had
washed, shaved and changed into dark comfortable clothes topped with a flat
cap. It was a cloudless night, cold enough for frost and I pushed the heater up
a notch to blow warm air round my ankles. The conversation with McCarthy played
back in my mind.

Roscoe had been training Perlman’s
horses for just over a year. Before that he had trained under permit which
meant he could train only horses owned by himself or his immediate family. In
Roscoe’s case his father had provided the horses, two of which were still in
training along with ten of Perlman’s. No other owner had horses with him.

Harle had never ridden for Roscoe while
he was a permit trainer. He’d been appointed stable jockey within a month of
Perlman’s horses joining the yard. Some said Perlman was simply being
philanthropic, others suspected that Harle would be much easier to manipulate
than a top jockey if the stable had any skulduggery in mind.

Harle appeared to be doing all right
from the arrangement. McCarthy discovered Roscoe was paying him a retainer of
twenty grand on top of his normal percentage of winning prize money.

Whatever outside rides Harle was getting
had dried to a trickle over the last three months; he was riding almost
exclusively for Perlman now. As for Perlman, McCarthy was no further forward in
finding out where he was or who he was. The RSS man who’d screened Perlman
could remember only that he was short and round and he didn’t talk much.

I told McCarthy about Harle’s sudden
disappearance. It didn’t make him happy. I told him I was going looking for him
and if that made him any happier he didn’t show it.

Most of the training yards in Lambourn
were set fairly close together, but Roscoe’s was high on the downs about three
miles from his nearest neighbour. The Rover moved smoothly along the recently
resurfaced track.

The moon was full, silver and bright and
high. You could almost have driven under it without lights. Somewhere along
here was Harle’s cottage; I kept my speed down and my eyes sharp.

It lay back from the road. Turning off
the new tarmac onto dirt I cut the engine and killed the lights as the car
rolled to a halt. The cottage was small, fronted by a neat lawn. Between two
chimneys the roof sparkled under a layer of frost. The building was in
darkness.

Skirting the lawn I walked up the centre
path to the front door which had a large brass knocker in the shape of a bull’s
head. Raising the heavy ring I let it fall and it hammered and bounced twice on
the brass plate; there was no sound from inside. I waited. High in the trees
behind me an owl hooted.

I went to the window. Below it was a
yard-wide strip of soil. Keeping my feet on the cement I leaned on the
windowsill. The moon was so bright I saw my reflection loom toward me as I
peered through the glass. The curtains were open but I could see nothing.

I went back to the car for my flashlight
and lock picks then followed the path to the back of the house. There was one window
and a door. I tried the handle; no luck. Taking a slim metal rod I bent to the
keyhole, slid it into the lock and silently started counting. At seven it
clicked open. Not bad for an amateur. The trouble with prisons is the inmates
have nothing better to do than teach tricks to newcomers.

The living-room looked cluttered and
untidy in the sweep of the flashlight beam. There were newspapers on the floor,
a footstool on a rug in front of the fireplace, two fat fireside chairs and a
short matching couch.

On the wall opposite the window was a
glass display cabinet which held a dozen or so trophies. There were  many
framed photographs around the room; Harle on horses, Harle jumping, Harle
galloping, Harle with friends – all Harle’s pictures were here, but he wasn’t.

I searched both bedrooms but found only
an unopened pack of condoms.

Back in the living-room I considered
switching on the lights but decided not to. It should have been safe but I was
on edge.

Against the wall opposite the fire was a
big roll top-desk. It was locked but the small brass catch took only a few
seconds to click open. The wood-ribbed cover rode up silently revealing a broad
writing surface and eight pigeon-holes. Sitting in the leather-seated revolving
chair, I went through Harle’s stuff. I found two foil-wrapped syringes but that
didn’t teach me anything new.

 Leaving by the back door I
relocked it.

The moon was lower in the sky but still
bright and a frost was forming on the lawn. The cottage seemed to stare at me
in cold, composed silence, pleased that it hadn’t given up any secrets.

Harle stayed stubbornly missing. I spent
the next week looking for him, visiting racecourses, speaking to mutual friends
or should I say acquaintances as it soon became apparent Harle didn’t have any
real friends.

Nor had he any family. I remembered he’d
been an orphan but thought there might be a brother or sister somewhere. If
there was, nobody knew of them. The press had shown an interest initially but
Roscoe told them Harle had walked out on him after an argument and he didn’t
know where he was and ‘frankly, didn’t care’.

Someone did not want Harle found. There
was only one more thing I could think of to try and trace him, one last card.
On the Saturday I went to Ascot and played it.