I ran down to where Tommy was picking himself up. He was wearing a cream safari suit and it was grass-stained from neck to knee. ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘What was that?’
I tucked the gun away and looked around. The action had taken only a few seconds and the sound of the shots hadn’t attracted any attention. It’s a noisy area with occasional crashes from the container wharf across the water and a high background level from the bridge construction. I helped Tommy up.
‘Let’s get out of here before anyone else asks that question.’
‘Fuck it, we want the cops. We could’ve been killed.’
I thought about that as we walked back towards the tree. The shooter had passed up the chance of an easy shot at Tommy and had fired high at me. Metal glinted under the tree and I stooped to pick up a pellet. I looked at it, then flicked it away.
‘Bird shot. They weren’t out to kill, just to frighten.’
‘They fucking succeeded,’ Tommy said.
Back at my house I made coffee and added a slug of brandy to both mugs. A shottie discharged in anger in your vicinity justifies a drink, even if it’s before ten in the morning. I explained things to Tommy as we drank the coffee and before we watched the video.
‘Those four took too much care to look as if they hadn’t come into money. One by one it looked all right, but put it all together and it’s obviously contrived.’
‘Come again.’
‘Fixed. Faked. I was getting a smell of it, then I learned about Bartlett and Kelvin Johnson. Bartlett hated Johnson’s guts and the race before the one you got done for cleaned him out good.’
I hit the play button and we watched the tape. I didn’t know enough about racing to see anything wrong, but Tommy bent forward almost as if he was in the saddle, watched intently and nodded and clicked his tongue. ‘Play it again,’ he said as soon as the winner passed the post.
‘Hold it. I want to see the next bit.’
The camera followed the horse back and showed the winning owner and trainer along with their losing counterparts. It was only a flash but this was more my sort of thing and I caught it: Rex Goot had won the race on a rank outsider. Just as he neared the enclosure he lifted his whip and almost covered a wink in the direction of a man with a dimple in his chin-a younger version of Bruce Bartlett. As well, a couple of the owners and trainers looked more than a little unhappy. I ran the tape three more times and we pointed out to each other what we’d seen.
‘Comes down to this,’ I said. ‘Bartlett and the four riders fixed that race and took Kelvin Johnson to the cleaners. Then they cooked up the story about you to deflect any attention away from the race. Tommy Herbert, race fixer, made a much bigger splash than a few doubts about a minor race.’
‘Shit, yes,’ Tommy said. ‘It fits. Goot made his report just as we were getting ready. Know why? Because I was doubtful about riding. I felt crook from wasting, but I decided I was jake right at the last minute.’
Tommy accepted another coffee with brandy and lit a cigarette. He brushed at the grass stains and smiled. ‘I don’t know what Sharon’s going to say about my suit. Have to get it to the dry-cleaners before she notices. Trouble is, it’s just come back from the bloody dry-cleaners.’
‘Tommy. You know this game better than me. We’ve got these suspicions and theories and a bit of evidence on tape if you want to see it our way, but it’s not solid. What do we do now?’
He sucked in smoke, drank some coffee and pulled the telephone towards him. ‘We talk to all the right people,’ he said.
Tommy set up a meeting with the owners and trainers of horses involved in the two races and certain of the jockeys. The meeting took place at his flat and Sharon had laid on the works- drinks and eats, cigarettes and cigars. Tommy had a huge video screen and he’d run the race film so many times he could pause, reverse, freeze frame and slow advance like an expert. The trainers and owners ate and drank heartily; the jockeys smoked and drank coffee. Everybody swore a lot. They listened to me and they listened to Tommy. I’d been back to the park and collected a couple of the bird shot pellets.
The upshot was a report to the stewards by two owners and their trainers and an enquiry to which the four jockeys who’d accused Tommy were summoned. Bruce Bartlett was also requested to appear but he happened to be out of the country at the time, likewise his son. The processes that followed were slow and secretive. The racing game was in the midst of a major shake-up involving jockeys ‘tipping’ and being paid for their tips. The authorities didn’t need a major race-fixing scandal and nothing about it leaked out. Rex Goot announced his retirement from riding owing to weight problems. The other three jockeys found rides hard to get and two of them relocated to Singapore.
Bruce Bartlett was prosecuted for tax evasion. He was fined, received a suspended sentence and his bookmaking licence was revoked. Tommy’s suspension was reduced to a minimum period and he confided that he had received a generous ex gratia payment by way of compensation and in return for an agreement to keep mum. He did and pretty soon afterwards he gave up riding to go into partnership as a trainer. He’s got a two-year-old called Cross My Heart that he keeps urging me to back, but for some reason I’m not betting these days as much as I used to.
Christmas Visit
‘They’re letting him out for Christmas. Jesus, I can’t believe it. Christmas Day for Ronnie was just an excuse to get more pissed earlier than on the other 364 days. I need help, Mr Hardy.’
Fran Phillips had phoned me on 20 December and made an appointment for the next day. She didn’t have to tell me that I wasn’t her first choice as a private detective. The big agencies and most of the smaller ones closed down or didn’t accept new business that close to Christmas. I had no plans for the festive season beyond a few days off, some time at the beach and Christmas lunch with Frank and Hilde Parker and their son Cliff, named after guess who. I was trying to persuade an old girlfriend to go with me but so far not succeeding.
Ms Phillips was thirtyish, blonde with an intelligent face and a good figure. She had married ‘Flash’ Ronnie Phillips ten years before when she was a fashion model and he had told her he was a banker. The only business Ronnie ever did with banks was robbing them, along with armoured cars, grog shops and anything else worth his while. He was reckless and lucky for quite a while and he and Fran lived well on the proceeds. They had twins, a boy and a girl. Then a job went wrong, Ronnie lost his nerve, drank too much and knocked his wife about. He was drunk on the next job, a factory payroll snatch. He wounded a policeman, took a bullet or two himself and got twelve years, of which he’d served four.
‘I should’ve divorced him but I never got around to it,’ Fran said. ‘And I can’t shoot through because the kids are in a pageant thing got up by the parents of one of their friends. They’re looking forward to it like mad.’
‘You could get some sort of injunction,’ I said. ‘He abused you…’
She shook her head. ‘It’s years ago and I never reported it at the time. He’s convinced some idiot social worker that he’s reformed. They say he’ll be eligible for release in a year or so and this visit is a step towards his rehabilitation. It’s incredible! He shot a policeman, for Christ’s sake. What d’you have to do to serve ten years?’
I knew a lot of people who’d agree with her. I did myself in a way. Most of the people in gaol don’t belong there at all, and those that do should be there longer for the protection of the community. Fran Phillips wasn’t whingeing, she was angry, an emotion I can sympathise with.
‘So, what’ve you got in mind?’
The look of relief that came across her strong, handsome face made it worthwhile saying something I hadn’t intended to say.