Warned Off (7 page)

He
was curled up against the inside of the wall below a torn hay net, naked, his
flesh filthy with smeared shit. His knees were pulled up to his chin and his
head lay in a foul patch of stale vomit and dirty straw which clung to his face
and hair. From the bars above him hung a heavy dog chain which was fastened
around his neck. He moaned.

Kneeling beside him I reached to turn
his face toward me but felt myself gagging at the stench. I turned away
quickly, thinking I was going to be sick. I held it down and turned back to
him. He felt my hands on his shoulders and tried to resist, drawing himself
closer to the wall. I eased his head up and he whimpered pathetically. Small
islands of flaked whitewash from the wall stuck to his forehead and a stream of
saliva ran from the corner of his mouth down his chin. His eyes stayed closed.

‘Alan!’ I whispered it and didn’t know
why. No response. I pushed my fingers inside the heavy links around his neck
and he flinched. The flesh was a raw ring where the chain had sawed at him.

I supported his head with my left hand
while my fingers followed the chain round to the back of his neck. I found a
small padlock just below his left ear.

Easing the chain round as best I could
without hurting him further, I picked the lock. The chain end slid smoothly
from his neck and lay in the straw. I raised his eyelids and saw the eyes of a
sick waxwork dummy. The pupils were pinheads and the whites yellowish green. A
sore festered in the corner of his right eye so I couldn’t open it fully.

His knees were still drawn up and I
turned him gently on his back to try to straighten his legs. The foul smell
welled again and I had to hurry to the door to suck fresh air.

His right thigh and lower left leg were
badly scarred but they were old wounds from pin and plate insertions after
fractures. Shuffling through the straw I manipulated his legs and feet one by
one, watching his face for signs of pain. There was none, his joints moved
freely. I worked back up and checked his arms and wrists.

The bones were all right but the skin on
the inside of his left arm at the elbow joint was black with bruising and
needle punctures, some of which were growing scabs. His ribs were all in one
piece, which was easy to see because they showed through his skin individually.
Harle had always been wiry but in a whipcord sort of way, now he looked
emaciated. I doubted if he’d been fed anything but heroin since his capture.

So, no bones broken but he was in a bad
way. I decided to get him to hospital and worry on the journey about the story
I would tell. I checked the yard back and front; the last thing I wanted with
my hands full of invalid was to walk into the men who’d done this to him.

The place was still deserted. I opened
the rear door of the car and went back for Alan.

I scooped him up and tried to support
his head as I walked to the door but couldn’t and it hung over the crook of my
elbow. His lower legs dangled and swung as we moved. I stopped and looked out
again before going into the yard; the rain was at its heaviest.

Carrying him through the downpour the
big raindrops pelted his flesh and ran in rivers through the stinking brown
smears, streaming down the vee shape of his rib cage and gathering in his
crotch till a pool formed, covering his pubic hair.

When I arrived at the Casualty
Department of Cheltenham General Hospital steam was rising from my clothes and
the rank smell filled the car.

I went in and spoke to the receptionist.
Two orderlies came back out with me and slid Harle onto a stretcher, grimacing
as they did so. They covered him with a blanket and hurried inside.

The triage nurse wanted particulars. I
told her his name was Jim Malloy and that he was my brother, a heroin addict
who’d been taking treatment at home but had disappeared two weeks ago. I said
I’d been searching for him and had just found him in a filthy squat, deserted
by his friends.

She gave me sympathetic looks and said
they’d do their best for him, but they’d have to inform the police of his
condition. I told her to save herself a call as I was going to the police
station next to update them having originally reported him missing. She
believed me.

I promised to visit him next day, and I
assured the nurse I would bathe and change, as she suggested, as soon as I got
home. Which was exactly what I did.

I stood on the bathroom floor letting
the sodden clothes slide from my body. Then I stepped out of the dirty soaking
pile and lowered myself into the hot water. Beautiful. I wished immediately I’d
poured a drink and brought it with me.

Promising myself a double when I got
out, I lay back to think things through.

I had no doubt the thugs who’d maimed
Bergmark and Rask were responsible for Harle’s abduction and subsequent
treatment. Did that mean the trainer, Roscoe, was implicated? At the start he’d
claimed Harle was ill, then said he’d walked out. Harle’s disappearance could
have been looked on by Roscoe as voluntary but I had a feeling the trainer knew
all about it.

If so did he know what Harle had been
involved in before they’d caught up with him?

And what the hell
was
Harle
involved in? The whole Perlman-Roscoe-Harle thing stunk of something illegal and
with Skinner the vet involved it looked odds-on to be horse-doping. But where
did the heroin come in? Was it just a personal habit of Harle’s? Was he dealing
in it?

Who had abducted him, Kruger’s men? The
same two he’d been seen talking to? The ones who’d visited Rask, Bergmark and
Danny Gordon? If I could tie Kruger into it more solidly it seemed certain I
was on the trail of the people we wanted.

So where did I go next? Where did
Kruger’s men go next? Could Roscoe help me track them down or should I put my
name about as the one who rescued Harle and let them come straight for me?

I felt distinctly cool about that even
in the warm water. These were imaginative guys, not your straightforward hit
men. They liked a bit of variety in their work: cut-throats, pulped ankles,
chained-up jockeys I wondered what page of their cookery book I’d turn up on.

The prospect of being the fox to their
hounds didn’t enthral me but it didn’t petrify me either. They’d had the
advantage of surprise over their past victims but I would know they were coming
for me. I was also angry that those two could go around maiming and killing
without fear of retribution. They were due back a little of what they’d been
dishing out.

I decided to let them know through the
grapevine what I’d done and take my chances when they came looking. A visit to
Roscoe’s still might prove fruitful though, especially if I called when he
wasn’t at home. I would have to plan it.

But firstly, I decided, a chat with
Danny Gordon’s widow might throw up something. I’d go and see her next morning.

I
called the hospital before leaving for Newmarket and learned Harle had suffered
“a restless night”. Not half as restless as his previous three or four, I’d
bet. I rang McCarthy and told him about Harle and my planned visit to see Mrs
Gordon.

‘Did the hospital contact the police?’

‘I asked them not to.’ I said.

‘Why?’

‘Because, well, they’ll drag things out
for months or years. Look at Danny Gordon’s death, are they any further along
with that?’

‘It’s only been three months, Eddie’

‘I’ll tell Mrs Gordon that, shall I?’

He sighed, ‘Look, the less the police
get involved, the better for us too. We don’t want the publicity. But we’ve got
a relationship to maintain with them so we need to strike a balance.’

‘You think Harle is going to tell on
these guys? Did Bergmark? Did Rask? Come on Mac.’

‘I know but, still ...’

‘Listen, would it be easier if I just
didn’t report back to you till I’ve definitely got something?’ I asked.

‘No. I need to know what’s happening.
Just, well, just be a bit more circumspect.’

‘What does that mean Mac, circumspect?’

‘Er, discreet.’

‘Why didn’t you say discreet? I
understand most short words. I’m only an ex-jockey you know. Two syllables is
my limit.’

‘You’re a lot smarter than you make out
Mister Malloy.’

‘I hope you’re right. Now can you find
Mrs Gordon’s address for me?’

She lived in an upstairs flat just off
the High Street but either she wasn’t in or she wasn’t answering the door to
strangers. I turned to go back down the stairs just as a plain, tired looking
woman started climbing them.

She stopped and stared up at me, pulling
her coat closed over what looked like a track suit. ‘Morning,’ I said, ‘I’m
looking for Mrs Gordon.’

‘I’m Mrs Gordon.’

I walked down to where she stood and
held out my hand. ‘My name’s Eddie Malloy. I wondered if you’d mind answering a
few questions about Danny?’

She stared, frowning, unsure. I
continued. ‘I think the people who killed him are trying to do the same to a
friend of mine.’

Still holding her coat closed with one
hand she reached out tentatively with the other and shook mine. ‘Did you say
your name was Malloy?’

I nodded. ‘Eddie Malloy.’

‘Are you the man that found Danny?’

My mind went back to that freezing
morning. ‘That’s right.’

The frown disappeared but she seemed to
stoop as a long sigh deflated her. She looked very weary.

‘Come upstairs.’ She said.

The flat was dark, depressing and
untidy. Mrs Gordon put the kettle on then moved around silently and steadily
picking up kids’ clothes and toys and sweet wrappers. I sat in a chair by the
unlit gas fire on top of which was a half-empty bottle of Valium tablets.

‘Milk and sugar?’ she called from the
kitchen.

‘Just black, please.’

She brought two mugs. Mine had a greasy
smudge on the rim and I turned it and drank from the other side. Mrs Gordon sat
opposite me, still in her coat, and pushed the light brown hair back from her
face. She wore no make-up and sipped her coffee carefully to avoid a large
cold-sore on her top lip. Her hazel eyes should have been her best feature but
they looked dull and lifeless.

‘I’m sorry about Danny.’ I said quietly.

She nodded slowly but said nothing. ‘It
takes a lot of getting over.’ I said, feeling awkward and slightly ashamed that
I didn’t really want to be there.

‘What was he like when you found him?’

I shifted, uncomfortable, uncertain.

She said, ‘I never went to see him ...
to see his body. I wanted to, but they said it would be best if his father identified
him. I lie awake now knowing I should have seen him ... to say goodbye ... I
miss him.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, feeling helpless.

‘Tell me what he was like?’  She
persisted. Her eyes were vacant. I didn’t know whether her thoughts were back on
that frozen deserted golf course or the Valium had dulled her mind. And I
didn’t know how to answer.

‘He was ...’ I began. ‘It was very cold
that morning ... He was ... white. The frost made him look ... peaceful.’ I
waited. She stared, but looked less tense. ‘There wasn’t much blood, was
there?’ she asked.

I didn’t know which way to go. If I
painted too bland a picture she might berate herself more for not going to see
the body. But I couldn’t bring myself to describe to her anything like the real
horror of it. ‘No, there was very little,’ I said, which was no lie as
virtually all the blood had drained from him.

She shook her head slowly, still miles
away. ‘I think you did the right thing,’ I said. ‘He wouldn’t have wanted you
to see him ... He looked very calm, as though he’d made his peace with the
world.’

‘You think so?’

‘I’m sure he did.’

She pursed her lips. ‘You didn’t find
any letters in his pockets or anything?’

I shook my head, reluctant to tell her I
hadn’t looked.

‘I thought he might have written one to
me ... you know, to say goodbye?’

I nodded, desperately sorry for her. All
the more so because the Valium seemed to have killed the emotion she should
have been showing as she spoke. The drugs just channelled her feelings into a
monotone.

‘I asked the police,’ she went on, ‘but
they said they didn’t find anything either. They’re fucking useless.’

The curse, completely lacking in anger,
took me by surprise. She continued in that flat voice. ‘I told them who killed
him but they did nothing.’

‘Who killed him?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know exactly who did it but I
know who had him killed.’

‘Who?’

‘Two men called Rask and Bergmark.’

I concentrated on keeping the excitement
out of my voice. ‘Do you know why?’

‘They’d been trying to blackmail him and
Danny got his friends to beat them up.’