The Horse With My Name (12 page)

‘I have an idea.’

‘You don’t even know me, you can’t have an idea.’

‘Starkey, I know
of
you. I looked up your name in the Belfast Who’s Who and it says skirt-chaser.’

‘You liar.’

‘Well.’

‘Was the information I’ve just sent you not first rate?’

‘It will do nicely. But it’s not dirt.’

‘Well give me a chance.’

‘Dan, we’re running out of time.’

‘How? I’ve got all the time in the world.’

‘Well I haven’t.’

‘Meaning?’

‘That they’re closing in. McClean’s got a team of hackers out there. The Horse Whisperer has crashed half a dozen times since Saturday. It doesn’t take that long to get it up and running again, but he’ll be paying top people to
do it and he won’t want to keep that up. What worries me more is my supply of information. If people can’t find the page, or it keeps disappearing on them, they’re going to lose confidence, they’re going to stop
trusting
it. And if they can hack the page to bits, there’s nothing to stop them with a little bit of extra work getting into my e-mails and finding out who exactly has been supplying information. Worldwide. If
that
gets out there’ll be a lot of dead bodies turning up, I assure you.’

I sighed.

‘Dan, I know it’s asking a lot.’

‘No, it isn’t.’

‘If you think going to Aintree is the right idea, then go for it. But please don’t go just because of some . . . girl, okay?’

‘I won’t. I promise.’

‘And the info this morning was good. Well done.’

‘But you need more. You need substance. You need proof.’

‘That’s what I need.’

‘Okay. Let me have a think.’

‘The time for thinking is over. It’s the time for doing, Dan.’

How do you respond to that?

I responded by promising her the world, or at least Geordie McClean, then put the phone down without any better idea of how I might achieve it. Hilda had been making a list of jockeys, apprentice jockeys and trainers who had worked for or had business dealings with McClean, and promised to send it by the end of the day, but I wasn’t convinced that it would be of much help. This whole world of horses and racing and gambling and breeding and blood and arses in the air was so alien that it denied me the chance to use any kind of direct approach, or even a subtle one,
because they could spot that I wasn’t horsey at a dozen furlongs, whatever the hell a furlong was. Even Mandy had creased herself laughing when I’d told her I’d always thought blinkers meant a horse was basically blindfolded and the jockey said
jump
as they approached a fence.

So I did what I always do in moments of stress, when there is no obvious path, when there are no pointer stones marked Arne Saknussemm: I called Trish. She had changed her home number so that I couldn’t contact her and she’d also left instructions on the switchboard at work not to put my calls through, but it was Easter Tuesday and there was no one on the switchboard, and probably no one but Trish in the tax office. She answered the phone.

‘You’re not happy,’ I said. There was silence. ‘You always go into work on holidays when you’re not happy. Tell me you’re not happy.’

‘I was happy, till about five seconds ago.’

‘Not enjoying the sun with Clive.’

‘He’s away on business.’

‘Where, India?’

‘You’re not funny, Dan. What do you want?’

‘I’ve just won the lottery. Ten million. Can I buy you back?’

‘I’m not for sale.’

‘That’s not what I heard.’

‘Dan . . .’

‘Okay. Sorry. How’re you doing?’

‘Okay.’

‘Good.’

‘I’m fine too.’

‘Good.’

‘I’ve met someone,’ I said.

‘Good.’

‘She’s really nice.’

‘Good.’

‘No beard.’

‘I’m very happy for you.’

‘You should get him to shave. It would make a new man of him. Or you could just get a new man.’

‘Dan. You’re calling for a reason.’

‘Just lonely.’

‘I thought you had a new woman.’

‘Girl. She’s much younger than you.’

‘Dan . . .’

‘I was thinking about Little Stevie.’

There was a sigh. ‘What?’

‘That he was beautiful, and I miss him.’

‘I miss him too.’

‘That even though I complained about his ginger hair, and he wasn’t really mine at all, I did love him.’

‘I know you did.’

‘And I didn’t kill him. I really didn’t.’

‘I know you didn’t.’

‘There was nothing I could do. I did my best. But then you always say my best isn’t good enough.’

‘Dan . . .’

‘No. I could have done more. I could have done less. I shouldn’t have got involved with film stars and drugs and gangsters, what have they got to do with me?’

‘Nothing. But you always do get involved, it’s your nature. What’re you involved in now?’

‘Horses.’

‘And how’re you involved?’

‘Geordie McClean’s become a big number in horses.’

‘Never liked him. So what if he’s become a big number in horses?’

‘He might have had someone killed. An old colleague. Mark Corkery?’

‘The creepy one?’

‘He wasn’t creepy.’

‘Yes he was. He was always sidling up to people and asking impertinent questions. That’s the word I think of when I think of him,
sidling
. I didn’t know he was dead. What happened?’

‘Car accident.’

‘What’d Geordie do, fail to pay out on the insurance or something?’

‘He might have dropped a car on him.’

‘He doesn’t look that strong.’

‘Believe me. He is.’

‘So what’s your problem?’

‘I don’t know what I’m doing, is the problem. I know bugger all about horses.’

‘It isn’t about horses. A horse didn’t kill anyone. It’s about people.’

‘I know more about horses.’

‘No you don’t. You’re good with people. Women especially.’

‘With the exception of you.’

‘Yes, well . . . Who’s the girl?’

‘What girl?’

‘The girl you’re sleeping with.’

‘I’m not sleeping with anyone.’

‘Having sex with, then.’

‘I’m not having sex with anyone apart from myself.’

‘Then who’re you talking about?’

‘I was just trying to get you jealous.’

‘Dan.’

‘Okay. She’s just a girl I met. We’re going out for a jog.’

‘Jesus. It must be love.’

‘Yeah, well.’

‘Who is she. Anyone I know?’

‘She’s Geordie McClean’s daughter.’

‘Oh shit.’

‘Exactly.’

‘I didn’t even know he had a
wife
.’

‘He doesn’t. At least not any more.’

‘And you’re all confused because you don’t want to be sleeping with the daughter of the man you’re trying to do for murder.’

‘I’m not sleeping with her, but yes.’

‘You never go for anything simple, do you, Dan?’

‘No. Not by choice.’

‘I know. It’s just the way you are. Well, if you don’t want to go through the daughter, metaphorically speaking, why not go through the wife?’

‘Because as far as I’m aware she’s been off the scene for years.’

‘Dan. Believe me. We’re elephants. And I don’t mean fat and grey, though no doubt I’ll get there. We never forget. And if we don’t know something, we make it our business to find out. Remember Margaret, way back when? What started us down this shitty path? How do you think I tracked her down? Show me a wronged woman, and I’ll show you Miss Marple. If there’s any info to be had on Geordie McClean, an ex-wife is the place to start.’

‘Do you know something?’

‘What?’

‘I love you.’

‘I love you too.’

‘Do you really?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Why don’t we get back together then?’

‘Because the police are busy enough without another murder on their hands.’

We were silent for a few moments. I had a killer to catch
and Trish had people to tax, but neither of us knew how to finish it. Perhaps neither of us wanted to. But then fate or providence stepped in; I heard glass breaking down below.

‘Those hurley fucking bastards!’ I hissed into the phone.

‘
What?
’

‘Nothing. Kids. I’ll have to go.’

‘Okay. Good luck.’

‘Thanks. I’ll be in touch.’

She hesitated, then said, ‘Okay.’

It wasn’t much, but it was something. I put the phone down and hurried along the hall. I’d murder in mind as I took the stairs three at a time, and it remained there, only turning 360 degrees when the man in the white suit stepped out of the cloakroom, raised a pistol and said something in Chinese which didn’t require translation.

12

There were three of them, though thankfully only one wore a white suit. They were all of Oriental extraction. They all bore serious demeanours and callous mouths. One checked out the house, one tried to access my laptop, while the third, he of the white suit and pistol, tied me to a chair, which is a difficult enough thing to do with a pistol in your hand. I didn’t put up a fight. I never do put up a fight if I can help it. I rely on the aforementioned rapier-like wit and a lot of tears.

When I was tied secure, White Suit stood back, glared at me some more, then said, ‘Don’t try anything stupid, Horse Whispara.’

There was enough of the kung fu’s about his accent to suggest he hadn’t just stepped off the ferry from Nanking. He was close enough for me to see a reddish spot dried into the lapel of his jacket. I was well acquainted with blood stains, and it wasn’t one of those. Further down I noted several grains of rice on one of his fake Gucci loafers. In downtown Dublin, I suspected, there’d be someone waiting a little longer for lunch.

I looked at him blankly and said, ‘Horse
what
?’

He cracked the barrel of the gun across my nose. I let out a yelp and started to bleed. One of his comrades came up with the laptop under his arm and said something in Chinese. White Suit snapped, ‘Password, Horse Whispara!’ at me.

‘I’m sorry, but one never reveals one’s––’

He hit me with the gun again. This time with the butt, to the forehead, and I toppled backwards. From my prone position I groaned, ‘Dalglish.’

They looked confused.

White Suit stood over me. ‘Spell.’

I spelled it, he repeated the letters after me in primary fashion, then allowed himself a smile of recognition. ‘Ah. Dalg-lish. Inspector. Pee Dee James.’

‘No. Dalg-lish. Liverpool. Blackburn. Newcastle. Celtic and God knows where else.
Football
.’

‘Ah.’

They left me on the carpet while they set the laptop on the dining table and gathered around it. They chatted excitedly amongst themselves as the password was accepted, then took a few moments out to glare menacingly at me before returning their attention to my files.

‘If you’re looking for porn,’ I said, ‘I never take it across international boundaries.’

There was no reaction. They were scrolling through my e-mails. Then my files. There was more jabber, though now markedly less excited. White Suit turned from the table while the others continued their useless search. I knew it was useless because there was nothing for them to find. I remained on the floor, bleeding, while he towered over me. He wasn’t, in truth, very tall, but even a midget is tall to a tied man on his back on the carpet.

‘Where you keep the money, Horse Whispara?’

‘It’s Whisper-
er
.’

‘Tell us now, Whispara, save yourself trouble, you will wank us later.’

‘I’d really rather not.’ It was time to shut up, to leave them alone, and God knows I’d enough racial tics of my own, but I was on a panicky roll. It was an attempt to stave off impending doom, although with my luck it would probably serve only to hasten it. It was difficult to tell. ‘It’s all about
diction
,’ I continued at speed, ‘keep saying Whisp-
ara
and people will dismiss you as a Johnny Foreigner. You have to assimilate these days if you’re going to get on in life and not get treated like a fucking boat person. And that’s before I even get into the wanking.’

He hesitated, rapidly blinking several times while he decided whether he was dealing with a nut, which was the reaction I was hoping for, then kicked me hard in the ribs, which was the reaction I was not.

‘You owe us big money, Whispara, and we gonna find it
now
.’

The other two turned from the computer, shaking their heads. I had a notion things were going to turn even nastier, and not a clue how to get out of it. They were welcome to all the money I had, but I doubted it would satisfy them. I had heard of Chinese water torture and didn’t relish the thought of it. I’d already experienced Irish water torture. You just drink it, the limescale nearly kills you.

White Suit removed a blade from his pocket.

I said, ‘I don’t have any money.’

‘You rip us off big style, you can’t spend that much in two week.’

‘I’ve never met you. I don’t know who you are. If it’s an unpaid restaurant bill I’ll happily settle up.’

He kicked me again. This time to the head. To the ear, to be more precise. It was extremely sore. I managed to croak,
‘I don’t know what you’re . . .’ before closing my eyes and feigning unconsciousness.

They brought me round by holding a cigarette lighter to the sole of my right foot, having first thoughtfully removed the shoe and sock. I yelped and tried to pull my burning flesh away, but they held it in place. I yelped some more.

‘Where the money?’

‘I don’t––!’

‘Where the money?’

‘Please . . . !’

‘Where the fucking money!’

I was on the verge of blacking out. I screamed, ‘Okay, okay . . .
okay
. . . !’ and they finally removed the flame from my smouldering foot. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,
fuck
. . . !’

‘The money.’ White Suit flicked the lighter again.

‘The money . . .’ I blinked helplessly at him. ‘I’m not the Horse Whisperer. My name is Dan––’

I screamed as he held the flame back to my flesh. I flexed against the flex holding me in place. There were tears rolling out of my eyes and snot dripping down off my chin. ‘For . . . Jesus . . . fuck . . . I don’t . . . know . . .’