Running Scared (The Eddie Malloy series Book 4) Read online

  Running Scared

  Joe MCNALLY

  Richard Pitman

  Contents

  Copyright

  Authors’ note

  The Eddie Malloy series

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  The Third Degree

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Thank you

  Copyright © 2015 by Joe McNally & Richard Pitman

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Authors’ note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a work of the imagination of the authors or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental

  Preview of The Third Degree

  For those who monitor the percentage read progress guide on Kindle, please be aware that the first three chapters of book 5, The Third Degree, immediately follow the end of Blood Ties

  The Eddie Malloy series

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  1

  Broga Cates…now there was a man. His first name was from old Anglo Saxon and it meant “terror”. Up until he died, he was well named. After that, he became a pussycat.

  Charles Tunney, a struggling racehorse trainer, had been at Eton with Broga. He introduced me to the big coffee-coloured character in the paddock at Aintree after I’d won a race.

  ‘Eddie, this is Broga Cates. He’s got more sense than money, unfortunately for me as I’m trying to persuade him to buy a horse.’

  About six foot six, with a head of rich luxuriant black hair, Broga would have looked more at home on a rugby field than a racecourse. I shook hands and said, ‘So Charles can’t talk you into burning your cash on these animals?’

  Broga smiled. ‘My daddy told me many useful things, among them was this: “never buy anything that eats while you’re asleep.”’

  I shrugged and turned to Charles. ‘You can hardly argue with that?’

  Charles said to Broga, ‘You need to spend your money on something. No pockets in a shroud and all that.’

  ‘I’m not planning to die anytime soon though Charlie.’

  Well, he got that bit wrong.

  Big as he was, probably pushing twenty-five stones plus, Broga fancied himself as a badminton player. When he heard I used to play the game at school, he invited me to his Cotswold mansion for a match. Charles was to referee it.

  Broga rolled onto court wearing an orange T-shirt half the size of the net. But his belly wasn’t sticking out, and his thighs in white shorts were muscular. Still, at twenty-nine I was fifteen years younger and close to fifteen stones lighter. And I was an athlete wasn’t I, a supremely fit jockey?

  ‘How much are we playing for?’ I asked, cocky.

  ‘You want to bet?’

  ‘You bet I want to bet!’

  ‘I will whup your skinny ass Malloy!’

  ‘Well flash the cash, big man!’

  I glanced at Charles and he was doing that kind of pursed-mouth, head-shaking, wide-eyed thing which was meant to warn me off. But I laughed.

  ‘A hundred a game?’ I offered.

  ‘You’re on Mister Malloy. Prepare to meet my boom.’

  I smiled and served.

  I’m sure he didn’t move his feet. I was aware only of a graceful sway, a low dip, a soft scoop of his racket and the shuttle landing my side about a centimetre from the net.

  It was like one of those times in a race where you cruise up confidently to some old chaser who looks to be struggling, only to find that your horse doesn’t have what you thought it had.

  I failed to win a point and on the last rise of his racket, as he was about to put me out of my misery, Broga grunted, gasped, dropped his racket, staggered back, his arms behind him seeking something solid, then hit the wooden floor. The force with which he landed sent vibrations across the boards to my feet.

  Charles reached him first. He was already doing CPR by the time I got there.

  His heart didn’t work again until twenty-three minutes later when the paramedics jump-started it with a defibrillator.

  Charles and I had kept his heart and lungs doing some kind of job using CPR. It saved his life and changed ours. Big time.

  2

  Broga was a Bajan, born in Barbados to an English father and a mother who described herself as Persian Irish. The Cates family went back a long way in Barbados; they’d owned plantations since the 17th century. Then they got into lots of businesses and ended up with more pies than they had fingers to stick in them.

  Broga was bred to succeed. Educated at Eton and Oxford, he took over the family corporation on his thirtieth birthday, and blasted through it like a Caribbean hurricane. When four men huffed and puffed and hauled him into an ambulance that day, his worth on paper was north of three hundred million sterling.

  He was in surgery that night and out of hospital in a week. The first thing he did was invite Charles and me to his Cotswold estate for what he called a ‘thank you’ dinner. It was close to the end of the season so I could afford a calorie blowout and Broga did us proud.

  But he kept the big thank-you to last. When our cognac glasses were filled and the cigars produced, Broga said, ‘Gentlemen, shall we retire to the bathroom?’

  We laughed. Broga sat still and said, ‘I’m serious. Come on!’ He got up and shoved the cigar between his teeth so he could beckon us with a free hand. Charles and I slid our chairs away and followed him, not questioning this crazy man who’d been transformed by a brief de
ath.

  The bathroom wasn’t much smaller than the badminton court. There were two shower areas, a sauna, steam room, a sunken bath and two other old-fashioned baths on legs. He led us to the sunken bath, tiled in sky-blue, yellow, and big enough for a swimming gala. ‘Get in,’ Broga said.

  Charles and I looked at each other then at the big man. Charles said, ‘No chance. We get in and you turn on the taps or blast some water through the floor or something.’

  ‘I won’t. I promise,’ Broga said, holding out his right hand toward the steps.

  I said, ‘Should we take our drinks and cigars in?’

  ‘Please do.’ That big white-toothed smile.

  I went first. Charles, shaking his head, followed and we sat on the second of the four tiered steps. Broga towered over us and, half-drunk, I was reminded of some old Frankie Howerd film about Roman senators and crazy parties.

  ‘Close your eyes gentlemen.’ Broga said.

  We were too far in to question it. When Charles closed his, I closed mine.

  We heard Broga’s heels click, then footsteps returning. ‘You can look when you want,’ the big man said and as we opened our eyes, a waterfall of bank notes tumbled over us, each sharp-edged and new. The smell, the crispness, the sheer volume engulfed us, setting us laughing and dancing as they steadily filled till we waded knee-high, kicking them up in clouds, throwing up armfuls to open like fragmented parachutes and drift down on us.

  When the deluge stopped, the six smiling girls who’d been emptying huge bags, the type builders use for rubble, threw the three empty bags in the air and joined us in laughter till the room echoed as though some mad orchestra had been let loose.

  Broga helped us out. He looked happiest of all of us. ‘If you haven’t seen five million pounds in brand new tenners, you have now. I’m going to gather it all back up and you…’ he turned to Charles, ‘…are going to take it and buy me a stable full of horses, and you Mister Malloy, are going to ride them all for me.’

  Charles gazed up at him and said, ‘I told you I’d nag you to death to buy a horse!’

  So Broga gave Charles a free hand in setting us all up for next season. He started by purchasing two hundred acres of Shropshire countryside surrounding a failed holiday complex. That appealed to Broga. He said that once we were settled he might resurrect the holiday side and build luxury cabins.

  In the meantime, he converted a barn overlooking the stableyard, into a block of apartments for Charles’s staff. I got first pick and chose The Penthouse, as Broga called it, giving me views over ancient woodland as well as into the heart of the yard below. The sounds and smells of racehorses were only an open window away.

  Charles lived in the old manor house at the south side of the quadrangle of stableblocks. At night, when the horses were quiet, the sounds of Mahler’s music, of laughter and often the clink of whiskey glasses could be heard. I learned to treasure those days and evenings of that first summer. I’d be thirty soon and was becoming conscious of time moving faster, of life getting away from me.

  Racing had taught me the dangers of complacency, of tempting fate. But a couple of drinks with Charles as twilight blanketed us on a still and scented evening in the garden, would lead me to dwell on the belief that things had finally turned for me. For me, for him, for all of us lucky enough to be in that blessed place at that blessed time. Maybe my troubles were over.

  Will I ever learn?

  3

  I knelt on the Worcester turf watching consciousness return to one of my old friends, Bill Keating. He’d hit the ground a few seconds after I had fallen at the fence farthest from the grandstands. As I rose, cursing, to watch my mount gallop away, Bill pulled his horse up on the way to the next jump. As he slowed the big gelding to walking pace, he slid off and lay still. I ran to him.

  The ambulance, which always follows us in a race, had passed, only the roof in view through its dust wake as it tracked the galloping pack turning for home. They’d slowed when I fell but I’d risen quickly and waved them on.

  As I crouched over Bill, everyone’s focus would be on the finish of the race, but the Stewards would want to know why Bill had pulled up a horse travelling well, especially as it had started a short-priced favourite.

  He stared at me. I eased his goggles off. Still he struggled to recognize me, to work out what was happening. ‘Bill. Bill. It’s Eddie.’

  I saw my reflection in his pupils on this bright late September day. I undid his helmet strap. ‘Eddie,’ he said, ‘what happened?’

  ‘You fell off. You looked like you were pulling him up then you just slid off and hit the ground like a sack of spuds.’

  ‘Fuck. Get me up.’

  ‘Lie there for now. The medics will be here in a couple of minutes.’

  ‘No! Get me up, Eddie, get me up!’ He tried to turn on his front and push himself onto hands and knees, his blue and white checked silks smeared with dirt.

  ‘Lie there, you daft bugger! This has been going on for too long. You need to get some help!’

  He reached for me, looking desperate. ‘Just this once, Eddie, please! Please! I won’t ask again.’

  I helped him to his feet. He swayed, eyes closing again. I grabbed his arms. ‘I’m okay, honest, I’m okay.’

  ‘You’re not okay. What’s wrong? You’re the colour of boiled shit and have been for weeks. Blakey told me he found you staring at your car keys yesterday. Then you asked him what they were for. Tell me what’s wrong with you.’

  ‘I’ll tell you, Eddie. I will. I just need you to stick up for me in the Stewards’ Room.’

  ‘Lie for you, you mean.’

  He put his hands on my shoulders as though trying to get my full attention, but he had much of his weight on them and I had to brace to stop from being pushed back. He was like a drunk, but he held my gaze with his brown eyes. ‘I’d do it for you, Eddie.’

  I knew he would. ‘Okay mate.’ I said.

  He smiled, that familiar four-tooth gap in the centre of his much battered mouth, and I softened. In his face, I saw my own in ten years’ time. And I saw Bill’s life. His two decades of riding steeplechasers, mostly moderate ones, setting out with the same dreams of stardom we all had, then, with each dragging season, with every poor-jumping slowcoach plodding through cold mud and freezing rain, those stars drift further and further away until they’re beyond reach.

  And you quit.

  Or you stay. You stay because all the excitement you’ve known, every burst of adrenaline, has come from riding horses over jumps. The men who have surrounded you each day in changing rooms up and down the country, are the closest and most understanding of friends. You’ve never needed to explain your life to them because it is their life too, all consuming. What is there left when you can no longer ride?

  Whatever was wrong with Bill Keating, my bond with him was strong. He’d mentored me as a kid and he’d revelled in my success. As I had galloped on through my early career, my stars still within reach, there had been no envy, no regrets from Bill, just warmth and congratulations.

  With my arm around his waist and his over my shoulder, we started the long walk to the weighing room. As we crouched to go under the rail onto the ambulance track, I grabbed a small rock and used it to scar the right lens of Bill’s goggles.

  In the Stewards’ Room, I told the officials I’d seen a large clod of earth fly up from the hooves of the group Bill was following. I said it had hit Bill in the face. Bill produced his scratched goggles and said there’d been a big stone in the clump of turf. Our final joint lie was telling them Bill hadn’t lost consciousness. If you’re knocked out in a fall, you get an automatic suspension. Bill had recently divorced and could ill afford the loss of a few riding fees.

  So I covered up for Bill Keating. After racing, I walked with him to his old Fiat. It was an effort for him to hoist his kitbag onto the seat. ‘Bill, you look like death warmed up. Why don’t you come back with me? You can sleep at my place?’

  Leaning on
the wing of his car, Bill reached out and squeezed my arm. ‘Thanks Eddie. Amy’s eight today. I promised I’d be there for her party tonight.’

  ‘Then, I’ll drive you to Lambourn.’

  He smiled wearily, ‘I’ll be fine, honest. I’ll stop if I need to but once I’m sat down, I’ll feel better.’

  ‘Look, do you want me to arrange for a doctor to see you privately? I’m owed a few favours. It’ll be no names no pack drill, I promise.’

  He looked at me for a while and I realized he knew what was wrong with him. ‘I’ll think about it, Eddie. Thanks. And thanks for today. I know who my friends are.’

  Bill pulled away through the car park dust into the late afternoon, and I never saw him alive again. His birthday girl, daughter Amy, found him dead that night in the stall of a horsebox.

  4

  I heard the full story in the sauna at Plumpton next day. Blakey said, ‘He was at his kid’s party but he drove the van up to Curland’s place to collect a couple of horses he was supposed to be taking to Yorkshire today for Cathy.’

  ‘I thought they were divorced?’ Neumann asked.

  ‘They were,’ Blakey said, ‘Bill still helped Cathy out.’

  ‘He wanted to get back with her, was what I heard.’ Paul Thorn said.

  Blakey shrugged, ‘Maybe, but listen. The cops are already mentioning suicide. But those two horses were in the van when they found him. The horses were dead too. No way would Bill Keating have killed a horse. No way.’

  Neumann said, ‘How do you know? Bill lost it a long time ago. You told me he didn’t even know what his fucking car keys were for the other day. He could have loaded those horses and forgot they were there five minutes later. The old hose through the window and his troubles are over.’

  I turned to Neumann who sat above me on the bench behind. ‘You think Bill just kills himself, simple as that, two horses in the back at his daughter’s birthday party? His eight-year-old? Give her something to remember on all her future birthdays, eh?’