Even Money

15

Imade it to the hospital in time for the last fifteen minutes of the news.

Sophie seemed so pleased to see me and jumped up and threw her arms around my neck when I arrived.

“Oh, I’m so glad,” she cooed. “I thought you must be not coming, as it’s so late.”

“There was a pop concert after racing,” I said. “Masses of people, so it took a long while to pack up and get out.” But it had helped make the traffic lighter, I thought.

I sat down next to her, and she held my hand as we watched the last few items and then the weather. Neither of us wanted to say anything about the results of the assessment. We were both afraid of pre-guessing the result only to then be disappointed. But, from my perspective, Sophie was now as well as I had ever known her over the last ten years.

I realized that for the first time in a long while, I was completely relaxed around her.

Even when she had been home in the past, I had been ultracareful not to do or say anything that might upset her. I had become the true expert at walking on eggshells.

But things seemed different this time. She seemed stronger emotionally. It was almost as if she had been helping me through the ordeal of the previous day’s assessment rather than the other way around. Perhaps it was time to discuss the possible outcome. Time to grasp the nettles of life, and never mind the stings.

“Still no news, then?” I said.

“No,” she replied. “It’s very frustrating. All the staff here can’t understand it. They all think it’s a foregone conclusion that I should go home.”

“So do I,” I said. “Darling, you seem so much better now than for a very long time.”

She smiled at me with genuine happiness, and my heart went flip-flop once more.

“I know,” she said. “I feel absolutely wonderful, and these new drugs are great. Far fewer side effects than before. And I don’t feel so bloated by them.”

Could I really hope that life’s previous bumpy up-and-down roller coaster was now going to run smooth and flat? It was far too soon to believe that, but at least the starting signs were good.

“Have a nice day at Uttoxeter tomorrow,” she said as I stood up to leave.

“I will,” I replied, giving her a kiss.

I debated in my mind whether to worry her about Luca. I really wanted her opinion, and I suppose she had a right to know if I was about to become a fifty percent partner rather than a sole proprietor of the business.

“Luca Mandini wants a full partnership,” I said.

“Does he indeed?” she said. “He’s still very young.”

“He’s twenty-seven,” I said. “That’s not so young. And he’s good. Very good.”

“Do you think you’ll lose him if he doesn’t get it?” she asked.

“Probably. He’ll either start up on his own or go to someone who’ll give him what he wants.”

“But can you afford it?” she asked.

“Yes, I think so,” I said. “I would save on his salary, and it wouldn’t be a whole lot different moneywise. I already give him a sizable share of the profits. But it would mean I’d lose some of my independence. We’ve been doing very well lately with him running the computer. I don’t really know enough of that side of things. If Luca left, I suppose I could always employ another assistant who does, but…”

“But not as good?” she said.

“Probably not,” I said.

“Seems a no-brainer to me, then. Give him what he wants.”

“You really think so?”

“Sure,” she said. “Can you afford not to? Luca won’t be able to simply walk away if he’s a partner, will he? But make sure you tie him down with a contract so it costs him to leave.”

Tie him down with a contract so he can neither leave the business nor destroy it with dodgy dealings, I thought. I had decided against telling Sophie about Internet outages, mobile phones that wouldn’t work and fixing the starting prices. I also failed to mention fists and steel toe caps in the Kempton parking lot. There were still limits to what was prudent.

But I was glad I’d asked her about Luca. Crystal clear business thinking had always been her forte-when she was well, that is-and her current advice seemed as sound as her present mental state.

“Thank you,” I said to her. “I’ll do just that.”

We kissed good night, a joyous, loving kiss.

On this occasion, she was not even fed up at me for leaving her behind. I think we both knew she would be coming home with me on Monday, and a couple more days or so wouldn’t matter.

Dundalk, the Internet told me. Paddy Murphy’s telephone was in Dundalk. I further discovered that Dundalk was some fifty miles north of Dublin on the northeast coast of the Irish Republic, close to the mouth of the Castletown River and not far from the border with Northern Ireland.

My computer also told me that Dundalk was the biggest town in Ireland that was not actually a city, with a population of about thirty thousand. Within the surrounding area, the 42 area code, there were nearly half a million people. I could hardly turn up in Dundalk asking for someone called Paddy Murphy, now could I? If I did, it would probably be me they would be throwing in the loony bin.

I was sitting in my office after another undisturbed night in Station Road.

I remained highly concerned about Shifty-eyes. I was under no illusions that he would have given up in his search for the money. Consequently, I had once again slept with the chair from Sophie’s dressing table wedged under the bedroom door handle. I had also left the cash in the cupboard beneath the stairs just in case he turned up with his twelve-centimeter knife. Perhaps he could then have been cajoled into taking the money without also using my body for target practice.

I looked again at my father’s telephone. I had tried Paddy Murphy’s number a few more times late the previous evening after I had returned from the hospital. I pushed the button once more and heard the familiar ringing tone.

“If you were the Garda, you’d be here by now,” Paddy said, answering. “So I’ll assume you’re not.”

“No,” I said, “I’m not.”

“So who are you?” His Irish accent was stronger than ever.

“I told you,” I said. “I’m Alan Grady’s son.”

“He doesn’t have a son,” he replied.

“Oh yes he does,” I said.

“You don’t sound Australian.”

“I’m not,” I said. “I was born before he went to Australia.”

There was a long pause at the other end.

“Are you still there?” I asked.

“Maybe,” he said. “What do you want with me?”

“How well did you know my father?”

“What do you mean ‘did’?” he asked.

“My father was murdered at Ascot races. In the parking lot. He was stabbed.”

There was nothing but silence from the other end.

“When?” he asked finally.

“A week ago last Tuesday.”

There was another long pause.

“Have they caught who did it?” he asked.

“Not yet,” I said.

“Any suspects?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think so.”

“Don’t they have any leads at all?” he asked persistently. I thought he might be a little scared. Perhaps he had good reason.

“The murderer was a man in his mid to late thirties. Thin build, with shifty-looking eyes,” I said.

“How do you mean ‘shifty’?” he said slowly.

“Slightly too close together for his face,” I said.“Do you recognize the description?”

He hesitated too long. “Could be anyone,” he said.

“But you know who,” I said. It was a statement, not a question.

“No,” he said. But I didn’t believe him.

“Is this man likely to come after you?” I asked.

“Why should he?” he said with a slightly nervous rattle to his voice.

“I don’t know. But you do.”

“No,” he said again rapidly.

“Denying it won’t stop it happening,” I said. “Who is it?”

“Do you think I’m bloody mad or something?” he said. “Even if I knew, I wouldn’t be telling you, now would I?”

“Why not?” I asked him.

“Do you think I’m bloody mad or something?” he said once again. “Because he’d kill me too.”

“He might do that anyway,” I said.

It added to his discomfort.

“Blessed Mary, Mother of Christ,” he said.

“Praying won’t help you,” I said. “But telling me or the police might. And why would this man want you dead anyway?”

He didn’t reply.

“Have you stolen money from him?” I asked.

Still nothing.

“Or is it something to do with the microcoder?” I said.

“The what?” he said.

“The microcoder,” I repeated. “A black box with buttons on it.”

“Oh, you mean the chip writer,” he said.

“Yes,” I said. “Who does it belong to?”

“That depends,” he said. “I thought it was Alan’s.”

“Wasn’t it?” I said.

“I think now that he may have stolen it,” he said.

“From the man with the shifty eyes?” I asked.

“No,” he said with certainty. “Not from him.”

“I thought you didn’t know who he was?” I said.

“I don’t,” he said, but without conviction. “But the chip writer definitely came from Australia. I know that.”

“And Shifty-eyes doesn’t?” I said.

“You’ll be a bloody sneaky little bastard,” he said. “To be sure.”

That may be, I thought, but I still hadn’t gathered much information from this Mr. Paddy Murphy.

“Why did my father come to see you two weeks ago?” I asked him.

“Who says that he did?” he said.

“I do,” I replied. “But why? And what’s your real name?”

“Inquisitive, aren’t you?” he said.

“Yes,” I replied.“And if I don’t get some answers from you pretty soon, I might just go and give your phone number to the policeman investigating my father’s murder. Then you can sit and wait for your Garda to turn up on your doorstep.”

“You wouldn’t be doing that, now would you?” he said.

“Try me.”

Another pause.

“What do you need to know?” he asked.

“What my father was doing in Ireland, for a start,” I said.

Pause.

“He was delivering something,” he said at last.

“What?” I demanded. “And to whom?”

“To me,” he said.

“What was it he was delivering?”

“Just something I’d bought from him,” he said.

“What was it?” I asked him again.

There was another pause. This was taking an age, I thought.

“Something for a horse,” he said.

“An electronic identification tag?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said slowly without elaborating.

“And a horse passport?”

“Yes,” he said slowly again.

“A forged horse passport and ID tag?” I asked.

Another pause.

“Come on,” I said loudly with frustration, “tell me.”

“But why should I?” he said.

“Because with Shifty-eyes on the lookout, I may be the only friend you have, Mr. Paddy Murphy, or whatever your real name is.”

“But why would he be after me?” he said.

“You tell me. You’re the one who knows who he is.”

“I can’t,” he wailed.

“Yes, you can,” I said. “And you must. Suppose he kills you too. You would want to know that he was then caught, wouldn’t you?”

“But I don’t know his real name,” he said.

There were so many people using false names, it was becoming ridiculous. Even I had effectively told Paddy Murphy that my name was Grady.

“Well, what do you know?” I asked him.

It was like getting blood from a stone.

“I know he kills horses,” he said.

“What!” I exclaimed. “How?”

“In all sorts of ways. I know he killed one by putting table-tennis balls up its nostrils so it began to suffocate. Horses can’t breathe through their mouths like we can, and it caused this particular horse to drop down dead from a heart attack.”

I shuddered at the thought.

“But he always kills them in a way which looks like it was an accident. For the insurance money.”

I did some quick thinking.

“So you switch a bad horse for a good one,” I said, “kill the bad one and claim the insurance money on the good one?”

“Exactly,” he said.

It was a much safer bet than selling the bad one and taking the chance that someone does a DNA check on his new purchase.

“What happens to the good horse?” I asked.

Now that he had started to tell me, it came easier. He was almost bragging at the cleverness of the scheme.

“It goes into training under the name of the nag, the bad one,” he said. “If we’re lucky, we can also make a killing backing it when it first runs in poor company, and wins easily at long odds.”

It was clever, I thought. But risky too. Making a horse’s death appear accidental wasn’t easy, and surely the insurance company would be suspicious.

“How about the insurers?” I said. “Don’t they check?”

“To be sure, they do,” he said. “They even have a special investigator who researches all horse deaths on which someone has made a claim in order to determine that they are genuine accidents.”

“So how come you can get away with it?” I asked.

“The insurer’s special investigator has his eyes set rather too close together.”

Much to my surprise, and his, Betsy was with Luca when they turned up at my house at ten to eleven.

“She just turned up at my place this morning as if nothing had happened,” Luca said to me while she was in the bathroom. “I can’t believe it. She hasn’t said a word about it.”

Perhaps she wasn’t so dumb after all. Luca was surely a catch worth pursuing. He, meanwhile, seemed quietly laid back about it. But I also thought he was secretly rather pleased.

The three of us set off for Uttoxeter just after eleven in my old Volvo, with Luca sitting up front as usual and Betsy in the back. As always, she was soon listening to her iPod through her white headphones, resting her head against the window and dozing.

“I’ve thought about what you asked,” I said to Luca.

“And?” he said, unable to disguise his eagerness.

“I’m prepared to offer you a full partnership in the business under certain conditions.”

“What conditions?” he said warily.

“Nothing too onerous,” I said. “The same conditions would apply to both partners.”

“What sort of conditions?” he asked again, using a tone of voice full of suspicion and disagreement.

“Hold on a minute,” I said. “There’s no need to get on your high horse. Look at it from my point of view. I’d be giving up half my business-and half the profits, remember-and for what? I need assurances on a number of things. You need to show your commitment to the business in the long term, for a start. That means we need a contract that would tie both of us to the business for at least five years, with penalties on either side for early departure. After five years, you would have fully earned your partnership with no financial input needed from you. But we do need to agree that within that five-year period, I have a deciding vote when there is no agreement between us.”

“Agreement about what?” he asked.

“The way in which the business develops,” I said. “I can see that you are eager to push the boundaries.” And go beyond them, I thought, but decided not to say so.

“Yes,” he said.

“Well, that has to be done by agreement. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not totally against change, and I will look at any suggestion you make, but, for the next five years, I will have the final say about how we change if we do.”

“How about after that?” he said.

“Well, after five years, as full partners, we would have an equal say in how the business was run. If we couldn’t agree, then the partnership would have to end, but I can’t see that happening. We would have to both give and take a little.”

“But for the next five years, it would be me that does the giving and you the taking?” he said.

“Well, if you put it like that, then, yes, I suppose so.”

“That doesn’t seem much different from now,” he said with resignation in his voice.

I was losing him.

“Yes, it is,” I said. “You are asking for quite a lot here, Luca, and I’m prepared to hand over half of a highly profitable business to you at no direct cost to yourself. You would stop being an employee on a salary and become entitled to half the profits instead. But you would also be liable for half the losses if things went wrong, and I am trying to ensure they don’t. I believe in you, Luca, but I also believe you need guidance until you’ve had a little more experience. I could be asking you to buy a fifty percent share in the business from me but I’m not. I’m giving it to you for free but over five years.”

He sat in silence, thinking.

“I honestly think it’s a great deal,” I said. “And you don’t have to make a decision right now. Think about it. Talk it over with Betsy and with your parents, if you like. We can go on just as we are for as long as you want. Forever, if that’s what suits you.”

He remained sitting silently beside me, studying the road in front, for quite a long way.

“Can we call it ‘Talbot and Mandini’?” he said finally.

I wasn’t sure that I would go that far.

Larry Porter was at Uttoxeter, feeling very sorry for himself, and while he was not literally spitting blood from his damaged ribs he was still spreading hate and venom all around.

“Bloody bastards,” he said to me and anyone else who would listen. “Who do they think they bloody are, beating up innocent people in racetrack parking lots?”

I was the innocent one, I thought, not him.

“Calm down, Larry,” I said. “You’ll give yourself a stroke.”

“But aren’t you angry as well?” he said.

“Of course I am. But I’m not going to just get mad-I’m going to get even.”

“Now you’re talking,” he said.

“Who were they anyway?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Some bullyboys or other.”

Not too easy to get even, I thought, if we didn’t actually know who had been responsible.

I have a message from my boss, one of the bullyboys had said. Don’t mess again with the starting prices.

It was a fair bet, therefore, that the message had come from one of the big bookmaking firms. They were the only ones who would have suffered from Luca and Larry’s little game at Stratford races. But which big firm? There were half a dozen or so who might be in the frame, but I would have been surprised if one or two of those had resorted to beating people up in racetrack parking lots. Conversely, it was exactly the behavior I would have expected from a couple of the others.

“I hear you’ve been talking to Luca,” Larry said. “About our amusements.”

“Yes, I have,” I said sharply. “Larry, you really should know better.”

“Yes,” he said, “perhaps I should. But I’m that fed up with being treated like an irritation by these big corporations. I refuse to be swatted like a fly and muscled out of my job. They are all now having their own pitches at the races as well, so they can manipulate the odds even further. It’s not just us who should be angry. The betting public shouldn’t stand for it either.”

“Oh come on,” I said.“You must be living in cloud-cuckoo-land if you think the betting public are ever going to feel sorry for us.”

“Yeah,” he replied, “I suppose you’re right.”

Damn right, I was. My grandfather always used to say that bookmakers could expect about as much sympathy as house-breakers: both were trying to rob other people’s belongings, only the bookmakers were doing it legally.

I didn’t actually agree with my grandfather, as gambling surely involved free choice, but it was an opinion that I knew was held by many of those with whom we did daily business.

“So what are you going to do about it?” Larry demanded.

“About what?” I asked.

“Getting even.”

“I’m not sure yet. But first, I’m going to find out whose orders those thugs were following. And, Larry,” I said, looking him straight in the eye, “no more little games. Understand?”

“Why are you being so bloody self-righteous all of a sudden?” he said.

“Because I recognize when not to poke a hornet’s nest with a stick. Let us wait and bide our time, and let’s not get stung again in the meantime.”

“OK,” he said with resignation, “I suppose so.”

Larry wasn’t happy. He wanted to lash out at those who had hurt both his body and his pride. But lashing out at a great big grizzly bear would simply result in another claw swipe to the head.

Getting even required far more cunning than that.