Warned Off (9 page)

I
skipped breakfast and went straight to the hospital. I wanted to see what
Cranley’s idea of protection was and I nursed a faint hope that Harle might be
fit enough to talk.

The ward sister told me a policeman had
been with the man she now understood was called Harle, all night, though the
patient had not yet regained consciousness.

The young constable sitting by the door
of the small ward looked weary and bored. When he saw I intended to stop by the
door he stood up.

‘Good morning,’ I said.

‘Morning, sir.’

‘I’m Eddie Malloy.’

‘Uhuh.’

‘I brought Mister Harle in.’ He wasn’t
impressed. ‘It was me that arranged protection for him. I spoke to DS Cranley
last night.’

‘That’s right, sir, he told me.’

I put my hand on the door. He gripped my
wrist. ‘I’m afraid you can’t go in there, sir.’

I looked up at him. The grip stayed
tight. ‘I’ve cleared it with sister, don’t worry.’

‘It’s nothing to do with sister, sir,
with respect.’

I let go the handle and he let go my
wrist. ‘Who is it to do with then?’ As if I didn’t know.

‘DS Cranley, sir. No one is to see
Mister Harle until we have a chance to take a statement from him.’

‘But ...’

‘DS Cranley did mention your name in
particular, Mister Malloy,’ he said with finality.

I took a couple of steps back, trying to
conceal my anger. I didn’t want Cranley to have the pleasure of hearing I’d
blown my top at the first obstacle. ‘Okay. Do you know if Cranley’s on duty
just now?’

The constable looked at his watch.
‘Shouldn’t think so, sir. You’d get him around two this afternoon.’

‘Thanks for your help, constable.’ I
turned and started down the corridor.

‘Don’t mention it, sir. That’s what
we’re here for.’

Very funny.

I stayed in town and rang McCarthy. He
was at a meeting, try again in an hour, his secretary said. I had a feeling
this wasn’t going to be my day.

McCarthy was free when I rang back.
‘Mac, things are starting to get complicated.’

He read my tone immediately. ‘What’s
happened, Eddie?’

‘I’ve had to bring the police in.’

‘Why?’

‘To give Harle protection. You were
right. It was a bad idea to drop it on the racecourse that he was out. Even an
idiot would know he had to be in the nearest hospital. There was no way I could
stay with him day and night, so I had to go to the police.’

‘I won’t say I told you so. Did you
mention us, The Jockey Club?’

‘No. I told him Harle was a friend.’

‘Who did you speak to? Maybe I know
him.’

‘God help you if you do. Detective
sergeant Cranley.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘Lucky you, he’s a major pain in the
arse. He’s already stopped me from seeing Harle. The police  want a
statement as soon as he’s conscious. God knows what he’ll tell him.’

‘Eddie, listen, you will have to try and
keep
us
out of this.’ The stress he was feeling came through in each
word.

‘I’ll do my best, Mac.’

‘If you do anything to embarrass
us  ...’

‘Mac! I’m having a bad day and it’s just
started. Don’t wind me up. I’ve told you, the last thing I want to do is
involve you. Now take my word for it and let’s leave it at that. If the shit
hits the fan, just tell them I’m nothing to do with you. I’ll go along with
that.’

‘Okay, Well, wait ...  we’ll see.
Just keep me fully informed, will you?’

‘As and when I can, Mac. Did you find
anything out about Mrs Gordon’s claims?’

‘Not yet. I haven’t had time. And this
Harle stuff complicates any conversations I have with them now. I need some
time to think.’

‘Fine. Look, I might be at Roscoe’s
place tonight. I’ll check tomorrow’s declared runners at noon. Roscoe’s got two
entered at Wetherby, if they run he’ll travel up this evening and ...’

‘Don’t tell me any more, Eddie. Just
keep in touch and don’t mention Racecourse Security Services to the police.
Goodbye.’ He hung up. I banged the phone down and swore.

Several coffees and a car wash later I
went into a quiet little betting shop and checked next day’s racecards:
Roscoe’s were running. I felt a short unexpected thrill – tonight’s visit was
on.

But first, much as I knew I was probably
stirring up trouble, I was determined to confront Cranley. At five past two I
was tapping on the enquiries desk at the police station. The desk sergeant
returned. ‘I’m afraid Detective sergeant Cranley can’t see you just now, Mister
Malloy, he’s rather busy.’

‘When will he be free?

‘He said if you’d like to take a seat for
an hour or so he’d try to fit you in but he can’t promise anything.’

Bastard. ‘I’ll come back at three.’

Cranley himself was standing at the
enquiries desk when I returned. He looked up, smiling sarcastically. ‘It’s
Mister Malloy! To what do we owe the pleasure of today’s visit, Mister Malloy?
Don’t tell me ... you’ve caught all those villains you were after, haven’t you?
Are they outside in the car? Would you like me to send some men?’

‘What I would like is five minutes of
your time, detective sergeant.’ I was determined to keep calm.

‘Five minutes! For a famous crime-buster
like you? Certainly. No problem. Come this way.’

He led me into the same room we’d used
last night. We both sat down. His smile had gone and the sneer was back.

‘I’m not here for a shouting match,’ I
said. ‘All I want is reasonable access to Alan Harle.’

‘What for?’

‘Because he’s my friend. I’m entitled to
see him.’

‘Why would you want to see him?’’

‘Because I’m interested in his welfare.’

‘Oh don’t worry about that, we’re taking
good care of him. That was what you marched in here demanding last night, was
it not? That we take care of him?’

I stared at him. ‘Why are you making
things difficult for me?’ I asked.

He smiled his cold little smile again.
‘Because I don’t like you, Mister Malloy. Because I doubt your motives. Because
you think you’re a real clever bastard.’

I fought back the rising anger.

‘Would I be right to doubt your motives?
He asked. ‘Why were you trying to find Alan Harle?’

‘I told you, he’s my friend, I was
worried about him.’

‘Very noble. Was that the only reason?’

‘Yes.’

‘What were you doing in Newmarket
yesterday morning?’

I hesitated. ‘I had business there.’

‘What kind of business?’

‘Personal.’

‘Did you visit anyone there?’

‘Yes.’

‘A Mrs Gordon, by any chance?’

‘What if I did?’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘Nothing that would interest you.’

He smiled. ‘You’re lying again, Mister
Malloy. See, that’s another thing I don’t like about you, you’re a liar.’

Once again I was beginning to regret my
haste in coming here. ‘It was me who found Mrs Gordon’s husband after he’d been
killed. I was as much entitled to go and see her as I am to see Harle.’

‘You’re not entitled to interfere with
police business and that’s what you were doing in Newmarket and that’s what
you’re trying to do here and I am not having any of it.’

‘How am I interfering?’

‘Because you told Mrs Gordon you’d catch
her husband’s killer and Mrs Gordon passed that on to my colleague in Newmarket
in no uncertain fashion. In fact, she raved and ranted so much at them in the
station yesterday afternoon that she almost got herself locked up.’

‘Maybe if they’d done their job properly
...’

‘Don’t get yourself in deeper than you
already are, Mister Malloy. I am looking at this whole case and if I can find
anything at all to nail you with, it will give me great pleasure.’

‘You’re in charge of it personally, are
you?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, I haven’t got much to worry about
then, have I?’

His acne got redder. ‘Listen, Malloy
...’

‘I’m finished listening.’

We both got up. ‘And you’re finished
with this stupid crusade or whatever the hell it is,’ he said. ‘What is it,
Malloy, all this amateur detective stuff? Because you found Gordon’s body and
the police haven’t caught anyone yet? Is it some personal vendetta to embarrass
the police?’

‘You don’t need me to do that, you
manage fine yourselves.’

I walked past him to the door and out
along the hall. He followed, calling after me. ‘Listen, Malloy, stay out of
this from now on! If you don’t you’ll end up back in prison, believe me. That’s
a personal guarantee!’

The doors swung closed behind me on his
whining voice.

Roscoe’s
house was in darkness. I had parked the car in a lay-by half a mile away and
cut across fields and fences on foot to reach the stables. The house stood
separate from the stable block and the lads’ hostel.

Dressed in my best burgling clothes and
wearing soft silent boots I crept toward the front of the house and stopped at
the main entrance. It was like a porch with an American-type screen entrance
guarding the main door.

The front was long with three windows
either side of the porch. Stopping, I leaned against the wall and listened. The
wind rustled the hedges and pushed clouds across the moon. Away in the
stable-yard at the back a dog barked; another answered, louder and longer. Then
they were quiet. Turning to the porch I was through both doors and in Roscoe’s
hallway in less than a minute.

I stood waiting for my eyes to adjust.
Shafts of half-light came through the windows when the clouds passed the moon
and I caught shadowy glimpses of the shape of the hall.

Although I had a flashlight I only
wanted to use it when absolutely necessary. I started walking but the crepe
soles on my shoes came off the floor at each step with the sound of sticky tape
being peeled. I took off the shoes and carried them.

Passing the dark shapes of furniture
against the walls, I was ten steps from the door at the bottom when I froze
mid-stride, the breath I’d just taken locked in my lungs.

Someone was standing in the corner by
the door. He was small, narrow and motionless. I waited, letting the breath
trickle slowly through my nostrils, hearing my heart beat, feeling the
adrenaline racing ... I was aware of my eyes straining, staring in complete
concentration.

More than a minute passed. Neither of us
moved. I could not hear him even breathe. The doubts crept in. Bringing the
flashlight up quickly I pointed it at his eyes and pressed the button. A shiny
painted face smiled back at me. A life-size statue of a jockey wearing red and
blue silks. When the tension rushed out I almost laughed.

I looked round the rooms, paying more
attention to the study and the library than the others, but I found nothing you
wouldn’t expect to find in a trainer’s house.

Trophies, photographs, paintings and
bronzes of horses, copies of
The Racing Calendar
, entry forms, bills,
vet’s certificates for two new horses, expensive writing paper and a gold pen.
On his desk, ironically, was a glossy brochure showing burglar alarms. Two
separate systems had been ringed in ink and marked ‘cottage’ and ‘house’. I
wondered if the cottage was Harle’s place.

I found nothing that linked Roscoe to
anything other than training racehorses. I sat down at his desk for one final
check through his papers and that’s when the phone rang and scared me half to
death.

After three rings an answering machine
clicked on setting off Roscoe’s rather monotonous voice asking callers to leave
a message after the tone. The tone bleeped. I waited. An accented voice, the
anger barely subdued, said, ‘Roscoe! Who the fuck is running this show? I want
a meeting and I want it fast!’

He hung up. The machine clicked and the
tape rewound. I sat there in the darkness smiling as I wondered what had upset
the caller, the normally calm Gerard Kruger.

Standing by the porch door I let the
night air cool my face. Sweat ran from my armpits down my ribs. Moving along
the wall to the corner of the building I listened before cutting across the
narrow road. All was quiet. The wind had dropped. The sky was clear.

I vaulted the fence into a small apple
orchard waking a pair of wood pigeons who flew off in panic, their wings
slapping like rifle-fire, and I quickened my pace through the orchard into the
meadows. They were grazing fields and empty of livestock though the grass was
fairly short. I jogged in the direction of the car, casting a short bobbing
moon-shadow as I went.

My mind was buzzing. Just when it had
looked like I’d get nothing on Roscoe, Kruger’s phone call had implicated him.
Roscoe had to know something about Harle’s abduction.

Slowing to a walk as I reached the
lay-by I was breathing quite heavily. I needed more exercise.

An owl hooted as I opened the car door. And
good night to you too I thought as I slid into the seat. Leaning over I opened
the glove compartment and put the flashlight inside. When I straightened up
someone in the back seat pushed a cold metal tube under my ear. It pressed
against my jawbone and my heart almost burst through my shirt.

The courtesy
light was still on. I looked in the mirror; he was wearing a dark balaclava
with two eye-holes and no mouth-hole. Someone sat silent beside him.

‘Reverse,’ he said. The voice was even,
calm. I started the engine, switched on the lights and as I turned to look
through the rear window he moved the gun from my right ear to the same position
behind my left. My heart was hammering but I’d handled the initial shock. I
reversed the car into the road, facing the way I had come.

Sliding the gearstick to neutral I
waited for directions. He moved the gun back to its original position.

‘Drive.’

I slipped into gear and drove, trying to
force my mind to work on the problem, to analyse it, suggest a solution. But it
kept veering off. How did they know I was here? Had they followed me? How long
have they been watching me?

I tried to be conversational. ‘Where are
we going?’

No answer.

We were less than a mile from the main
road when a warning light showed on the dashboard. The temperature gauge was in
the red section and climbing. I clutched at the straw. ‘We’re overheating
badly,’ I said. ‘We’ll have to stop.’

‘Stop,’ he said in the same level voice.
Pulling in to the side I switched off the engine.

The back door clicked open and he began
sliding out, but the gun stayed in contact with my skin. He stood outside now,
though his hand was still inside holding the gun against my neck.

‘Get out.’

He stayed behind my door so I couldn’t
bump him as I opened it. I stepped out. His friend got out the other side. The
gun went to the nape of my neck. ‘Open the bonnet,’ he said. I thought I
detected a West Midlands accent but couldn’t be sure.

‘The lever is inside the car,’ I said.
He nodded to the other one who got in the driver’s door and fumbled under the
dash till he sprung the lock. I walked to the front, released the catch and
opened the bonnet.

‘Prop it up,’ he said.

I felt for the metal supporting rod and
fitted it. The radiator hissed steam from tiny openings.

‘Put a hand on each wing,’ he said.

I did so slowly, wondering what the hell
he was up to. He changed position behind me, moving slightly to the right. I
sensed him switching the gun to his left hand but it never lost contact with
the upright hair on the back of my neck. I could just see him reach inside his
army-style jacket and bring something out. I couldn’t see what it was.

‘Open your legs.’

I did. I was now half bent over the
radiator, arms and legs spreadeagled. He started pushing down on the back of my
head with the gun. ‘Bend.’

When I realised what he was going to do
I felt nauseous.

A man must have instincts to help him
survive, especially when the brain is caught by surprise or unable to function
and as my face was forced nearer and nearer to the boiling radiator surface,
Instinct tried to take over from Brain. But although my ears were clanging
every alarm bell in my body as they listened to the bubbling, spitting water
Brain knew the consequence of resistance was a bullet in the head.

The gun barrel pressed against the
protruding bone at the base of my skull now, hurting. My face was ten inches
from the hot grey metal.

A bead of sweat fell from my forehead
onto the radiator and I watched from six inches as it sizzled into vapour. I
felt my fingers grip the wings of the car as my feet slid wider on the loose
gravel.

My eyes were three inches away. They
were already burning. I closed them. Gritting my teeth I tried to turn my head
sideways so my left cheek would make contact first. He stopped pressing down.
He held steady. I was looking at the radiator cap an inch away. The steam
inside was under terrible pressure, hissing and bubbling, it seemed deafening.

He spoke. ‘Stay away from Harle and
Roscoe.’ His voice was still calm. I had not heard mine for a minute. Mine
would not be calm. I thanked God or whoever was up there that they were
settling for a warning and not frying my face. I thought of Harle and how far
away from him I’d be staying in future. I wondered when he would let me
straighten up, things were pretty uncomfortable.

Then I saw a hand. The other man’s hand.

It was moving slowly, very slowly toward
my face at eye-level. It was inside a thick grey industrial glove and it crept
over the top of the radiator and came to rest on the cap. The sickness returned
quickly.

An inch from my eyes the hand pressed
down on the cap. I watched as it slowly unscrewed it. The captive steam sensed
freedom and the hiss became a roar in my left ear. I was a rabbit. The hand was
a snake. I was transfixed with horror.

The final seconds were a blur. On the
last turn of the cap the hand disappeared. The cap burst off and steam and
boiling water rushed upwards as my face was pushed over the scalding eruption. I
opened my mouth to scream but I don’t remember hearing any sound. I don’t
remember anything else except the moments of searing pain before I blacked out.