Warned Off (17 page)

The
inquest was on Tuesday; death by misadventure. They buried him on Thursday, a
warm morning under a cloudless sky. The heavy scent of wildflowers from the
field next to the small cemetery drifted across the wreaths around the
graveside.

The Roscoes and Stokes were there. Half
a dozen jockeys turned up. Two lads from Roscoe’s stable stood quietly in the
background, one wearing a violet tie and yellow shirt.

When the final prayers were said the
mourners drifted away in small groups. I made my way over to fall in behind
Skinner’s gathering. I deliberately caught Stoke’s eye, he looked smug. Roscoe
ignored me and Skinner’s returned glance was evil.

I scanned the
Life
each morning
for word on Roscoe’s new stable jockey. His announcement after Greene’s death
had been, ‘We’ll have to wait and see. It’s hardly the first thing on our minds
at this sad time.’

How touching.

And, the reporter had asked, would the
stable’s only patron, Mr Perlman, have a say in the choice of new stable
jockey?

‘Mr Perlman,’ Roscoe told him, ‘leaves
the handling of all his racing affairs to me. I will choose the new jockey.’

As  yet he hadn’t.

Stoke was responsible for Greene’s
death. I wondered if he’d had anything to do with Harle’s or had Greene been telling
me the truth about Harle being killed by his ‘business associates’?

If Stoke was controlling the hit men,
why hadn’t he used them to kill Greene instead of taking a chance himself? I
needed more information on Stoke. What was his past history? Who were his
connections? How had he got his money?

There was one person who should know
Stoke better than anyone, his wife Charmain. I wondered if she’d talk.
She’d  looked drawn and almost haggard at the funeral. If Phil Greene’s
drunken boasts of her being his mistress were true that might explain why she’d
seemed so stressed. But the strains of living with Stoke couldn’t be helping
her either if he often behaved the way he had with me at the Champion Hurdle
party.

He probably beat the hell out of her if
she looked the wrong way at the milkman and when he was away racing she’d be
shut in that big house in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do but watch
the trees grow higher and thicker.

The more I thought of her the more I
reckoned she’d be sick of Stoke’s idea of domestic bliss. I remembered what
she’d been like as a teenager; she wouldn’t have stood Stoke’s treatment for
two minutes back then. God only knows how she’d got herself involved with him.
I wondered how much she knew, how much she’d be willing to tell.

I checked
The Sporting Life
ad
and found that Stoke planned to be at York next Tuesday, Wednesday and
Thursday. A long way from home. I decided that on at least one of those nights
his wife would have some company.

Just after ten o’clock on Friday night,
the day after Greene’s funeral, my phone rang. Thinking it was Jackie, I
hurried to answer.

‘Hello.’

‘Eddie Malloy?’

‘That’s right.’ I didn’t recognise the
accented voice immediately.

‘I have information you may want.’

The same voice I’d last heard shouting
on Roscoe’s answer-phone. ‘Kruger?’ I asked

‘Yes.’

My brain raced. What the hell were these
people up to? I tried to sound cool. ‘Information on what, Mr Kruger?’

‘On the doping ring you are trying to
break.’

‘Why should you want to give me
information on something you are running?’

‘I am not running it, not any more.’

‘They threw you out?’

‘Wrong. I am stepping out. I came into
this to make a profit, not to have people killed. You know that, Mr Malloy. I
am not a murderer.’

‘So who is the murderer?’

‘You must meet me tomorrow.’

‘Sure, so I can be next in the morgue.’

‘Mr Malloy, you do me a disservice, I
told you - ‘

‘You did me a pretty big disservice
yourself five years ago.’

‘That was business. There was nothing
personal.’

‘And isn’t this the same business, Mr
Kruger, only for higher stakes?’

‘They told me when I joined there would
be no killing, now three people are dead. I will not take any further part in
it.’ His voice was calm and measured and he sounded, God help me, sincere. ‘So
what do you get out of it by giving me information?’ I asked.

‘I will give you evidence to convict the
madman in charge and you will keep me out of it. I will be leaving the country
tomorrow.’

‘Why not just leave anyway if you want out?
Why give me evidence?’

‘Because I want to sleep easily in my
bed for the rest of my life. I will be able to do that if I know this man has
been locked up for a long time.’

It was beginning to sound plausible. I
knew Kruger wasn’t the type, as he said, for murder. A con man, fraudster and
all-round crook, but he wasn’t into violence on that scale.

‘If you say I’ll be safe at this meeting
tomorrow then you won’t mind me bringing someone else along, will you?’

‘No police.’

‘No police, but a member of the
Racecourse Security Services.’

‘That is the same.’

‘It’s not. He has no powers of arrest
other than as a citizen and that’s not what I want him for.’

‘Why then do you want him?’

‘I want him to witness a sworn statement
from you that I had nothing to do with that doping ring five years ago.’

He hesitated. ‘Nothing else?’

‘Nothing else.’

‘You will allow me to leave when I have
done that?’

‘Yes.’

‘All right.’

‘Where will we meet?’

‘You know the field which is used as a
car park at Stratford racecourse?’

‘Yes. What time?’

‘Ten o’clock.’

‘Okay.’

He hung up and I rang McCarthy and asked
him to be there for nine-thirty, though I didn’t tell him who we were meeting.
Then I sat down with a very large drink and contemplated seriously, for the
first time in five years, the prospect of riding again.

I was on a real high by the time Jackie
rang at ten-thirty. She sounded anxious. ‘Eddie! I’ve been trying to get
through for ages, is everything all right?’

‘Couldn’t be better. The reason you
couldn’t get through was that I had a call that’s given me the best break of
the case. In fact it’ll probably crack it completely ...’

‘Fantastic! Who was it?’

‘Would you believe the man himself?’

‘Who?’

‘Kruger.’

‘You’re kidding!’

‘Nope ... says he wants to co-operate, have
a meeting.’

‘You be careful, Eddie.’

‘Don’t worry, he’s agreed to McCarthy
coming along.’

‘But who’ll be with this Kruger? He’s
probably not to be trusted.’

‘That’s what I thought at first but I
think he’s serious. I can’t pass up the chance.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He said he was sick of the killing and
wanted out. Says he’ll name the ringleader.’

There was a pause. ‘Jackie ... You still
there?’

‘Yes, I’m here ... I don’t like the
smell of this.’

‘Look, don’t worry! I won’t take any
chances.’

‘What time will you be back? Can I phone
to make sure you’re okay?’

‘We’re due to meet him at ten at
Stratford racecourse but depending on how it goes I might not come straight
back here. Chances are I won’t. Look, don’t worry, ring me tomorrow night at
ten if you can.’

‘Okay.’

We talked for a while. There was nothing
to report at her end except a noticeable lack of grief at Roscoe’s about Phil
Greene’s death. Plans for our future took up the rest of the conversation and I
went to bed confident that it would all soon be over and we’d be together then.

McCarthy
was at Stratford at nine-thirty. So was Kruger, or at least I assumed it was
his car parked two hundred yards away in the empty field.

McCarthy pushed open his passenger door
for me but I declined. ‘Let’s walk. It’ll give me time to tell you what’s
happening.’

We went through the gate toward the big
black Carlton which faced us head-on. I told McCarthy why we were there. He
expressed what are best described as mixed feelings.

From about fifty yards away I recognised
Kruger. He was sitting quietly in the driver’s seat. The engine was running.
McCarthy got edgy. ‘I don’t like this Eddie. Why is he parked head-on with the
engine running?’

‘I don’t know, Mac. Maybe he’s cold and
likes to keep his heater on.’

‘Or maybe, as soon as we’re close
enough, he’ll accelerate and run us down.’

‘If he does, you go left and I’ll go
right. One of us’ll survive.’

‘Don’t be flippant, Eddie, for all you
know - ‘

‘Mac ...’ We were ten yards away now.
‘What’s that sticking through his back window?’

‘Shit!’

We ran to the car. McCarthy yanked the
rubber hosepipe from the small gap in the window and I pulled the driver’s door
open to haul Kruger out. But his skin was cold, his limbs stiff.

My jockey’s licence, which had seemed
only an arm’s length away last night, had now not so much receded over the
horizon as disappeared into space. I had to turn away quickly because I had a
sudden urge to punch Kruger’s cold blue dead face.

McCarthy switched off the engine and
looked at me. ‘Suicide?’ he asked.

‘Suicide, bollocks!’ I said. ‘They doped
him, knocked him out or something and stuck him in there. Probably did it
somewhere else and drove him here last night. His phone must have been bugged.’

McCarthy looked distressed and I began to
wonder if this was the first corpse he’d ever seen. He leaned on the bonnet,
staring down at his big reflection in the shiny paintwork and said quietly,
‘We’d better get the police.’

‘You get the police, I’m going.’

His head snapped up. ‘What are you talking
about, going? You’re staying here to give a statement to the police.’

I marched over to face him across the
bonnet and just stopped myself from grasping the wing and leaving fingerprints
all over it. ‘Mac, who was there when Danny Gordon was found dead?’

‘You were.’

‘And Alan Harle ... ? He didn’t answer.
‘And now Kruger ... ?’

McCarthy shrugged. ‘No matter, Eddie,
you’ll have to stay. It’s not fair ...’

‘Not fair! Mac, grow up! Have you
forgotten detective sergeant Cranley and what he thinks of me? Just tell them
you’d arranged to meet him here to get information on something you were
working on. What the hell difference does it make if I’m here? Kruger’s dead,
he won’t care!’

‘All the same ...’

‘All the same nothing, Mac! If I’m here
when the police arrive Cranley will lock me up for a month just for
questioning! Now, I’m sick and tired of the bastard who’s doing this and I’m
going to find him and kick the fucking shit out of him!’

‘You’re shouting, Eddie.’

‘Who cares?’

‘Now look - ’

‘You look, McCarthy! Look at me leaving
here. Now, you tell the police what you like when they get here but don’t
mention my name! I’m off. I am going to get whoever is doing this and the next
call you get from me will be to tell you I’m holding the bastard by the balls!’

I ran back across the field, got in my
car and drove home at very high speed, still boiling with anger.

I spent the rest of a long day knowing
it must be Stoke. He had to be the top man. Skinner and Greene had been in
terror of him, he’d engineered Greene’s death and probably ordered Harle’s. The
only one I couldn’t positively tie him to was Roscoe but I was certain he was
involved with whatever was going on at Roscoe’s yard.

Seething with rage it was all I could do
not to drive to Stoke’s house and beat him to a pulp. But I had to keep control
until I’d got some evidence. Surely Charmain would know something? And surely,
if she was fully aware just how evil he was, she wouldn’t protect him?

I’d have to get into that house and see
her. Stoke probably wouldn’t leave for York till Monday. This was only Saturday
morning. I wondered if my temper would hold.

The anger bubbled and fuelled
frustration and when Jackie rang that night, full of hope and excitement, I was
sharp with her and we had a row. In the end she hung up. Disgusted with myself
I sat down and tried to get drunk. Half a bottle of whisky later I was still
sober, angry and bitter.

I went to bed and lay in the darkness
regretting the argument with Jackie and thinking how happy we’d been last night
on the phone when I’d told her we were going to meet Kruger.