Warned Off (6 page)

At
Ascot it was raining. I sat in the bar. Next to me, munching her way
contentedly through a smoked salmon sandwich, was a regular race-goer known
among jockeys as Walk-Over Wendy.

Wendy was washing down the sandwich with
champagne and I was paying for both. She was plumpish, fair-haired and pretty.
No more than twenty, she didn’t have the highest IQ in the world but she was
always happy – and obliging. Ex-jockeys though were off her list. She liked to
stay in fashion that way. Has-beens got nothing except information, for which
they had to pay.

She finished eating and wiped her hands
and mouth with a paper napkin. Cocking her head to one side in what she
imagined to be a coy pose her eyes sparkled as she said, ‘What is it you’re
after?’

‘I want to know if Alan Harle has a
girlfriend at the moment.’

She frowned. ‘Oh, I haven’t seen Alan
for ages, weeks ...  I’d forgotten all about him.’ She talked like he was
a sheep she was supposed to feed along with the rest of the herd.

‘Do you know where he is?’ I asked.

She shook her head slowly, still looking
serious. ‘I haven’t seen him since, when was it? Yes, Haydock, Greenall Whitley
day.’

The girl’s life calendar didn’t run on
dates, it was big races she counted time by.

‘Didn’t you see him at Cheltenham?’ I
asked.

The smile returned to her chubby cheeks.
‘Afraid not, I had Gary all to myself at the festival. I don’t remember much
else.’

She looked far away and grinned at the
memory. ‘Though he’s the same as all you other jockeys, after sex.’ She said.
‘He just pats you on the neck and says, “Good girl! Good girl!”‘

She grinned at me mischievously to see
if I’d got the joke and I smiled and nodded, making her look very pleased with
herself.

‘Do you know if Alan was seeing someone
when you last spoke to him?’

She didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes, he was.’

‘Did he tell you her name?’

‘He didn’t tell me anything.’ She was
trying to look coy again. I poured some more champagne in to her glass and she
emptied it. I waited.

‘She
told me,’ Wendy said.

‘Who’s she?’

‘Her name’s Priscilla. Prissy by name
but not by nature.’

I thought she was going to start
giggling. ‘Do you know where she lives?’ I asked.

‘London. She goes racing quite a lot,
met Alan at Kempton, I think. She said he was a real modern guy.’

I knew what she meant. ‘Is Priscilla a
friend of yours?’

‘Mmm, sort of. I’ve seen her around the
tracks a few times.’

‘Have you got her phone number?’

She lowered her head and puckered up her
nose. ‘I didn’t think you were one for second-hand goods, Eddie.’

‘Strictly business.’

‘I’ll bet. You want to take up where
Alan left off, don’t you?’

‘How do you know he has left off?’

She sat up straight and looked serious.
Maybe I was making it sound too much like interrogation.

‘I don’t, I was just thinking, if Alan hasn’t
been around for a few weeks ... well’

‘Look, Wendy, I’ve got to get in touch
with Alan. It’s a business agreement we need to tie up and time is pressing.’

‘Okay, okay! Keep your knickers on!’ She
dug around in her bag till she found her little black book.

Priscilla
was not enthusiastic about discussing Alan Harle. Cold, would be a fair
description. When I said I had some good news for him her attitude changed. She
agreed to meet me that evening in a pub near her flat.

‘How will I know you?’ she asked.

‘What do you drink?’ I said.

Pernod and blackcurrant.’

‘I’ll order one, it’ll be on the table
beside me.’

The
lounge was quiet. Three men and two women were drinking at the bar. I sat at a
table in the corner. The girl saw me when she came through the door and walked
over without hesitating. The barman nodded and smiled at her.

She was tall, about five-nine and would
have dwarfed Harle. Her dyed black hair swung at shoulder length. She wore
little make-up, and tight trousers as black as her hair. Her heels were
three-inch spikes and a short red leather jacket hung on her skinny torso. She
was at least ten years older than Wendy.

I stood up as she reached the table and
held out my hand.

‘Eddie Malloy,’ I said.

She touched my hand with her fingers
like it was hanging by a piece of skin and she was scared it would fall off.
‘I’m Priscilla,’ she said, with a false huskiness.

She sat down and I pushed the glass with
the dark liquid toward her. She didn’t thank me, just sipped, half-sucked. 
‘You’re looking for Alan?’ she asked.

‘That’s right.’

‘Does he owe you money?’

‘No, but it’ll cost him money if I don’t
find him.’

‘How come?’

‘A business deal we were working on. I
need to see him to tie it up.’

‘You’re not the smartest guy in the
world, are you?’ She drank again and looked coldly at me.

‘Why’s that?’ I asked.

‘Taking Alan Harle on as a business
partner.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘He’s a lying, scheming, unreliable
bastard.’

I shrugged. ‘Nobody’s perfect. Can I ask
when you last saw him?’

‘What kind of deal is it anyway?’

‘I can’t tell you. Ask Alan.’

‘No, thanks, I’m finished with him.’ She
sipped more Pernod.

‘What’s he done to upset you?’

‘More like what hasn’t he done. He never
turns up when he says he will, never rings, never buys you what he promises,
screws around ...’ She hunched forward glaring at me as though it was my fault.

‘So you’d fallen out?’ I asked.

‘Not as far as he was concerned, but as far
as it goes with me we’re finished.’ She sat back folding her arms. I was
beginning to feel like an agony aunt.

‘Can you remember when you last saw
him?’

‘I haven’t seen him since before
Cheltenham.’ She sulked.

‘And he hasn’t phoned?’

She stared at me, weighing things up.
Finally she said, ‘He phoned two days ago.’

‘From where?’ I asked.

‘Fuck ‘em Farm?’ She waited for my
reaction.

‘Not a place I’m familiar with.’  I
said

‘You sure? Never been to an orgy or
anything there with your mate Alan?’ She was getting angry.

‘Priscilla, I haven’t a clue what you’re
talking about. What did Alan say?’

She stared at me. ‘He said, “Help me,
Priss, I’m at Fuck ‘em farm.” Then I heard him laughing and hung up on the
bastard.’

‘You sure he was laughing?’

She was glaring now, maybe at the memory
or at me questioning her interpretation of the call. She leaned toward me
aggressively. ‘Listen, he was
screeching
with laughter. Fuck ‘em farm!
Big joke, eh? He always thought practical jokes were funny. I never did and that
just egged him on with his piss-taking.’

‘Why would he be laughing after asking
you for help?’

‘I’m telling you! That’s what it sounded
like to me. He was always taking the piss. Probably in bed with some bitch and
thought he’d have a laugh at my expense.’

‘Supposing he was in trouble?’

She looked uncomfortable. ‘What kind of
trouble?’

‘I don’t know. You said he was
screeching?’

‘He was ... It sounded, well you know
that high-pitched kind of ...’

‘Did he sound scared?’

She hesitated then said, ‘I suppose, if
I didn’t know what he could be like, I’d have taken it as sounding scared.’ Her
look hardened again. She said, ‘Is this something to do with this deal you’re
in with him? Has it got him in trouble?’

‘It can’t have done,’ I said, ‘it’s a
straightforward, upfront property deal. All above board.’

‘He never did anything straightforward
in his life.’ She said, slugging down the rest of her drink. I pointed to her
glass. ‘Same again?’  I asked. She pushed the glass away. ‘No, thanks.’

‘Did Alan talk much about his job with
Basil Roscoe?’

‘I think you’re not understanding our
relationship Mister Malloy. I didn’t give a toss about his job with Roscoe so I
never asked about it.’

‘And
he
didn’t say anything about
it?’

‘If he did, he’d have got the rubber ear
from me so I wouldn’t remember.’

‘You ever hear him mention a guy called
Perlman?’

‘Nope ... You think these people have
got something against him?’

I sighed. ‘I don’t know.’

‘What are you going to do now then?’

‘Try and find out where fuck’ em farm
is.’

For the first time she smiled. ‘You’re
serious?’

I shrugged. ‘I’ve got nothing else to
do, especially if this deal falls through.’

‘So you think Alan will still be at this
fuck ‘em farm, eh? Like, mucking out the whores or something?’

It was my turn to smile. ‘Maybe.’

‘Good luck with that and do let me know
if you find him so I can twist his little balls off.’ She got up.

I looked at her. ‘I thought you were
worried?’

Hoisting her bag strap on the shoulder
of the red leather jacket she looked down at me and said, ‘Life’s too short.’

Fuck
‘em Farm. Maybe it was a nickname for some brothel or other. If Harle knew it
by that name, other jocks would too. Most jockeys are highly-sexed.
Psychologists will tell you it’s all linked to the danger and adrenaline and
the ‘today-could-be-my-last’ culture. I rang three riders that I knew had the
same appetite for women as Harle did.  None of them had heard of the
place.

I sighed and did some physical and
mental head-scratching. Supposing Harle had been abducted. I had to assume it
was by the two men who’d smashed up Bergmark and blinded Rask and maybe killed
Danny Gordon. Harle had last been seen at Cheltenham races. If these guys
wanted to get him, they’d have known they could intercept him on the way back
from the racecourse.

Harle lived in Lambourn but would
probably have been staying over in Cheltenham for the three-day race-meeting. I
knew he hadn’t because the receptionist had told me he’d checked out of his
hotel on the Wednesday morning, the second day of the meeting. Whatever had
spooked him, must have happened at the party on the Tuesday night, or after it.

Assuming he was running for home after
leaving the hotel, he’d have travelled south west toward Lambourn. The area
around Cheltenham had its share of quiet country roads and most jockeys knew
the short-cuts.  I needed a road map to try and figure out the route Harle
might have taken. I headed for Cheltenham to buy one.

Driving into town along the A46 I saw
the
Library
sign and quickly turned left. They’d have maps, and parking
spaces. The smiling young man at the desk said they didn’t have ‘your standard
road map’, but the reference section did have ordnance survey maps for the
whole of the UK.

Juggling a plastic cup of very hot
coffee from the machine I sat down with OS Map 163, Cheltenham and Cirencester.
I smoothed out the area to the south west: one of the benefits of the OS map
was that it included every road, right down to a pig track. From the centre of
town, I searched the possible routes Harle would have taken if he’d planned to
go home. Three cups of coffee later I was bleary-eyed and no wiser and I began
chiding myself on the basis that I hadn’t a bloody clue what I was doing.

They could have got him anywhere.
Stepping into the car at The Duke’s Hotel, arriving home at his remote place in
Lambourn and any point in between. I got up and began folding the map to hand
it back when something caught my eye; an area to the east of Cheltenham
coloured green on the map, shaped like a pair of thin legs wearing different
size boots - Puckham Woods.  Slowly, I sat back down keeping my eyes fixed
on the spot in case I lost it. Opening the map again, I traced with my finger a
narrow dead-end road on the north west side of Puckham Woods. Where the road finished
sat some small closely-grouped buildings with the name Puckham Farm.

From the throat of a desperate man to
the ear of an angry woman how easily misheard? I noted the road numbers and
directions and hurried to the car.

It was only half an hour’s drive. The closer
I got to it the narrower grew the roads and the sparser the houses. Just after
one o’clock I passed through the last village on the map and out into open
country. The road climbed and the surface worsened. Bushes on the overgrown
verges scratched at the Rover as we sped along. In that twenty minutes a blue
van passed me going in the opposite direction; that was the only vehicle I saw.

It began to rain.

I turned at the no-through-road sign, knowing
the farm should be at the end of it. The track dipped steeply like a ramp in
the first fifty yards. It ran between trees and broken rusted barbed wire
fencing and I could hear the tyres sloshing through the rain-softened surface.

The fields on either side were empty.
The trees grew denser the further I went till I seemed to be driving in a
tunnel. I broke out of it into daylight and a farmyard, so suddenly that I ran
past and had to reverse to a point where I faced what looked like the main
house.

I sat in the car
watching for some sign of life. The yard, rutted and puddled, was about the
size of two tennis courts and seemed to envelop the house in a grasping
semi-circle of black muck.

The dark grey stone walls were pitted and
dirty. The front door was not in the centre of the building but well to the
left like it was trying to sneak around the back. Mustard coloured curtains
sagged in tatters behind the two windows, one of which had a smashed pane. The
other had a crack which spread each leg to touch a corner of the wooden frame.
What was left of the glass was filthy.

Broken guttering hung from the roof and
rainwater streamed over the green moss clinging to the end of it onto the mud
below. Enough grey tiles were missing to make the roof look like a big wet
crossword puzzle.

As I got out of the car the wind
snatched at my collar and rain peppered my face. I hurried toward the house,
hands deep in pockets, gathering my jacket close round me. I stood at the door.
The dark green paint was cracked and blistered, tiny pools over-flowing from
the open paint bubbles.

I knocked hard. Nobody came. I tried the
handle. It turned half an inch, no further. Going to the window I squatted to
look through the hole in the pane but the dirty curtains hid whatever was
inside. In the glass I saw the reflection of something move quickly behind me.
There was a slapping, rustling sound. I spun to see a plastic rubbish sack
blowing across the yard.

I realised I was holding my breath.

My pulse was pounding.

The black muck sucked at my boots as I
skirted the side of the building, trying to be cautious. I’d decided to adopt
the lost tourist routine if anyone was round the back but I realised it
wouldn’t fit with the way I was slinking along, so I straightened and strode
out boldly till I reached the yard behind the house.

A barn-type block with a huge brown door
joined the house at the far side. The door was fixed on runners top and bottom
and I grasped the handle and leaned back, pulling. It wouldn’t budge. Using
both hands, I tried again – solid. For a derelict property things were kept
pretty secure. I stepped away from it ready to turn toward the back door of the
house when I heard a noise. I stopped; it came again ... moaning, like an
animal, long and low and guttural.

Whatever was making the noise was behind
the sliding door. I looked up. There were two small windows, both too high to
see through.

Along the wall beneath a broken
drainpipe was a metal beer barrel lying in the gutter. I hauled it out. It was
so heavy I thought it was full. I rolled it through the mud toward the big
door.

The rain fell steadily and by the time I
got the barrel across the yard I was mud-splattered and soaked. My hair clung
flat and rivers of water ran down my face and neck inside my collar. My
trousers and hands were filthy and though the jacket I wore was waterproof the
rain streamed from it onto my thighs till my trousers stuck to my skin

I climbed onto the barrel with the
thought that whatever was in here would probably get the fright of its life
when it saw me. It also occurred to me that if anyone came out of the house now
I was going to have a hard time convincing them I was a lost tourist.

My hands clasped the ledge and I looked
in. There were three stable boxes, each with its own door. Metal bars ran from
the ceiling into the front wall of each box. From the bars of the middle box
hung an empty hay net.

I heard the moan again. It was long and
painful and, I decided, human. I jumped down, two arcs of mud splashing away from
my feet as I landed.

Going back to the door I looked more
closely at the lock. The keyhole was large and empty. I went to the car and got
the lockpicks. The mechanism, though heavy, was crude and it clicked open in a
few seconds.

Leaning back on my heels I pulled at the
handle and the door trundled on its runners, sounding noisy as a train in a
tunnel. I took an anxious look round the yard before going inside.

The first thing I noticed was the smell.
It brought back vivid memories of a bad fall I’d taken on the schooling grounds
years before. I heard the horse’s neck crack as he came down behind me and
rolled over to rest on my lower legs. I lay trapped, my feet under his belly as
he shuddered into death. In his final throes his bowels and bladder opened and
emptied six feet from my head – the smell was similar to what was in my
nostrils now.

It grew worse as I left the fresh air.
It was old and stale and dank and held more ingredients than any horse’s
bowels. I followed the stench to the end box where the door lay open. Stepping
through onto dirty wet straw I found what was left of Alan Harle.