Dick Francis's Refusal (6 page)

Angus Drummond may have had a Scottish-sounding name, after his Scottish grandfather, but he was a West Country lad through and through, with an accent to match.

“Yes,” I said. “Second-last race of the day.”

“What about it?”

“Can you remember why Leaping Gold ran so badly? He started favorite but finished seventh, a long way back.”

“He hit the third fence,” Angus said confidently, “good and proper. Knocked the stuffing right out of him. Wouldn't bloody go after that.”

“How about Enterprise in the two-and-a-half-mile novice hurdle at Ascot the week after?” I asked.

“What's this?” he asked. “Twenty questions?” He laughed.

“I've got a client who is looking to buy a decent horse, and he wanted me to check up on those runs before he parts with any money.”

“Oh,” he said. “Well, you can tell your client that I knows how to ride them if he's looking for a good jockey.”

“But you didn't ride Enterprise very well at Ascot, did you?”

“What d'yer mean?” The laughter had suddenly disappeared from his voice.

“You went off too fast at the start, and the horse ran out of puff well before the finish. You were tailed off and pulled up before the last hurdle.”

“The horse didn't stay,” Angus said aggressively, sticking out his jaw.

“The horse wasn't given the chance to stay,” I said, purposely trying to provoke a response. “I'm surprised the stewards didn't have you in to explain your riding.”

“They did,” he said sheepishly. As I had known they had. “But they agreed that it wasn't my fault as the horse had run away with me at the start.”

Indeed, it had. I'd watched the video. But Angus Drummond was an experienced professional jockey, and horses shouldn't run away in such hands. So had the horse been allowed to run away on purpose?

I decided against asking Angus that question.

For the time being anyway.

•   •   •

P
ADDY WAS WAITING
for me at a high cocktail table in the Champagne Bar after the third race, and he was quite surprised to discover that I was not on my own.

“Paddy,” I said, “this is Marina, my wife, and Saskia, our daughter.”

He wiped the palms of his hands on his trousers, then offered one to Marina. “Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Halley,” he said, showing a nervousness I found quite amusing.

“And you,” Marina said, shaking the offered hand and doing a good job of disguising her shock at hearing another Belfast accent.

“Would you like a Guinness?” I asked Paddy.

“Well, yes, I would, to be sure,” he said. “But they don't serve Guinness in here, so I took the liberty of fetching one, like, from the Long Bar under the grandstand. I was sure you'd pay me back.” He lifted a plastic pint beaker, half full of the black stuff, from the table.

“Is it your first?” I asked in mock accusation.

“To be sure, it is,” he said, smiling and holding the beaker to his lips to take a hefty swig.

I was pretty “to be sure” that it wasn't, but there was not much I could do about it.

I collected a glass of champagne for Marina and two Cokes for Saskia and me. The girls moved away to the next table while I leaned closer to Paddy to speak directly into his ear.

“Now, tell me, Paddy, who else speaks with a broad Belfast accent at the track? Someone who fixes things? Someone who's used to throwing his weight around and getting his own way?”

“Bejesus!” Paddy said, moving back a step or two. “Are you mad? Do you want to get yourself killed now?”

I was absolutely stunned by his reaction to my question. He went quite pale, and I thought he might faint. I looked around me for a glass of water to give him, but instead he took another large gulp of his Guinness and steadied himself against the side of the cocktail table.

“Now, why would you be asking me such a question? What have I ever done to you?”

“Paddy,” I said sharply. “Pull yourself together.”

“No,” he said, still wide-eyed. “You pull yourself together. If I'm thinking it is who you might be after, you've got to be crazy. Either that or just plain bloody stupid.”

“Who is it?” I said directly into his ear.

“Do you not know?”

“Paddy, I wouldn't be asking if I knew.”

“Sid, you've been away too long.”

“All right, maybe I have, but who is it?”

“I'll not be telling you,” he said with fear now in his wide eyes. “I'll not be the one to tell you.”

“Write it down, then,” I said, passing over a pen and my race program.

He looked around him as if checking that no one was looking over his shoulder. Finally, when he was satisfied that none of the other bar patrons were watching, he wrote two words in capital letters on the edge of the program:
BILLY MCCUSKER
.

“And who's he?” I asked, none the wiser.

Paddy took another look over his shoulder to check for eavesdroppers.

“He's vicious,” Paddy whispered. “Don't mess with him.”

I wasn't sure I had any choice in the matter.

“But who is he?”

“New kid on the block,” Paddy said. “Now in his early forties. Grew up in West Belfast during the Troubles. His father ran a big construction firm and was murdered by the IRA for doing building work for the British Army. By the time young Billy was twenty, he was commanding a breakaway, hard-line Protestant group called the Shankill Road Volunteers, and his sole aim was to kill Roman Catholics who he believed lived in the wrong place. He also didn't like Protestants who had anything to do with the Catholics. No proof, of course, but there's little doubt that McCusker is responsible for over a dozen murders as well as scores of punishment beatings.”

“Nice,” I said.

“Not really,” Paddy said. “He was jailed for life in 1996 for the particularly gruesome murder of a young Protestant teenager whose only mistake was fathering a child with his Catholic girlfriend, but Billy was soon released under the terms of the Northern Ireland Peace Agreement. Not that he's a reformed character or anything. He's been involved in racketeering and extortion ever since. And he still hates all Roman Catholics, who he blames for killing his da.”

“So when did he come over to the mainland?”

Paddy looked around once more and was satisfied that there was still no one else listening. “About six years ago. It seems the Shankill Road Volunteers fell out with another Protestant paramilitary group over money, and a turf war ensued. Billy's side lost, so he and his mates were run out of West Belfast in a hurry. Word is, they had to leave so quickly that they were left with only the clothes they were wearing at the time. They transferred to Manchester, but they hadn't left so fast that they forgot to bring their nastiness with them.”

“So how did McCusker get into racing?” I asked.

“He quickly got involved with a Manchester-based bookmaking outfit, inappropriately named Honest Joe Bullen. Perhaps Billy bought Honest Joe out or maybe he took possession by force. Either way, he now controls the business, and it has expanded rapidly since then by buying up other independent betting shops in and around Manchester and Liverpool.”

“Or bullying them into submission,” I said.

“Far more likely,” Paddy agreed.

“How does a convicted terrorist get a bookmaker's license anyway?” I asked.

“Perhaps it was some deal over the peace agreement, sectarian convictions struck from the record or something, or maybe it's not him who holds the license. I don't know, but, no matter, Billy McCusker definitely calls the shots at Honest Joe's, and he's not making any friends, to be sure.”

“But why are
you
so frightened of him?” I asked.

“Because I'm a Roman Catholic.
In nomine Patris, et Filii
,” he said, suddenly crossing himself, “
et Spiritus Sancti
.” Paddy finished his sign by pointing one of his slender fingers at my chest. “And you should be frightened of him too. Everyone should. Word on the street is, he eats Catholic babies for breakfast. Like I tells you, don't mess with Billy McCusker.”

I wasn't.

But was he the one messing with me?

M
arina, Saskia and I waited outside the Weighing Room after the last race, and I caught Jimmy Guernsey as he emerged to go home.

“Well done, Jimmy,” I said as I stepped into stride alongside him, with Marina and Saskia hurrying along behind. “Good win in the last.”

“Huh, thanks, Sid,” he replied almost in a monotone. “I should have won the two-mile chase as well if that bloody horse Podcast could jump. Stupid lump of dog meat. Tripped over the sodding last with the race at his mercy.”

“Nice, easy fall, though,” I said, remembering back to how Jimmy had rolled over twice on the turf and then jumped up quickly. Fortunately, for him, there had been no following horse to land on his outstretched left palm with a razor-sharp horseshoe to slice through muscle, bone and sinew, as there had been in my career-ending last race.

“My pride was hurt more than my body,” he agreed. “What brings you here, then? Haven't seen much of you lately.”

“Actually, I came to speak to you.”

“Really.” He seemed surprised. “Never heard of the telephone?”

“Much better in person,” I said.

“What about?”

“Red Rosette.”

“What about him?”

“His run at Sandown last month,” I said. “In the novice chase. Same day as the Mercia Gold Cup.”

He shook his head slightly. “Can't remember. I ride lots of horses. I know he didn't win. I'd have remembered that.”

“No,” I said, “he didn't win. Made a hash of the last fence. You asked him to take an extra stride, but there wasn't room. He got in too close and plowed his way through. Do you remember now?”

“Yeah, I believe I do. Silly mistake of mine. I thought he was too tired to stand off, and I misjudged the distance.”

“Yeah,” I echoed. “And how about Martian Man in the novice hurdle here at Newbury on the same day as the Hennessy? Was that a silly mistake as well?”

Jimmy stopped walking.

“What are you implying?” he asked, not looking at me.

“I'm not implying anything,” I said, although it was clear I was. “I just wondered if you had a theory of why a horse that on all his previous runs had been a front-runner with no noteworthy sprint finish had been held up for so long at the back of the field on this occasion that he'd never had a chance to overhaul the leaders in the straight.”

“I did nothing wrong,” he declared.

“Didn't you?” I asked pointedly.

“Leave me alone,” he said, setting off again at an even faster pace.

I walked a few steps after him but then stopped and called out to him instead. “Is that what you said to Billy McCusker?”

There was an almost imperceptible break in his stride, only for a split second, but I'd noticed. He recovered quickly and walked away towards the racetrack exit without looking back.

“Who is Billy McCusker?” Marina asked.

“I think he may be the man on the telephone with the Northern Irish accent.”

•   •   •

“
C
ALL THE POLICE,”
Marina demanded.

“I will,” I said, “when I'm sure it's him.”

We were sitting in our Range Rover, having safely negotiated the return trip across the parking lot.

“But who is he anyway?”

“A former Belfast paramilitary thug who's now a bookmaker in Manchester.”

It wasn't the answer that Marina had wanted or expected.

“My God!” she said. “That's all we need. A bloody terrorist after us.”

“Mommy!” Sassy shouted from the backseat. “That's a naughty word.”

“Shush, darling,” I said.

But it wasn't Marina's use of the naughty word
bloody
that I found disturbing, it was the word
terrorist
. I was about to start the engine when I suddenly had visions of booby traps and car bombs.

“What on earth are you doing?” Marina asked in irritation as I slipped out of the driver's seat and went to look under the Range Rover's hood. I also checked all around the vehicle, and underneath it as well, but there was nothing out of the ordinary, at least nothing I could see.

“Just checking,” I said with a smile as I climbed back in, but there remained a certain degree of unease in my mind when I did finally push the start button.

Nothing happened. Of course nothing happened, nothing other than the twin-turbo V6 3.0-liter diesel engine coming smoothly to life.

I silently rebuked myself for being so melodramatic. The situation was tense enough already.

Nevertheless, I spent almost as much time watching the rearview mirror as I did the road on the fifty or so miles up the A34 to home, but, if a car had followed us, I couldn't spot it.

I was also careful when we arrived back at the house, leaving Marina and Saskia in the locked car while I checked for unwanted guests lurking in the undergrowth.

“We can't go on living like this,” Marina said in desperation when we were all safely inside and I'd relocked all the doors. “I can't get you to search the garden every time I need to put the dogs out.”

“No,” I agreed, “but the dogs will bark if they hear anything.”

“But what are
you
going to do about it?” she asked.

“What can I do?”

“Get the police to stop this McCusker man terrorizing our lives. They can arrest him for kidnapping Sassy from school, for a start. Go and call them now.” It was not a request but a demand.

“OK,” I said, “I will.”

I went into my office and Marina followed. I called the number on the chief inspector's business card.

“Detective Chief Inspector Watkinson, please,” I said to the person who answered.

“He's off duty,” came the reply.

“Could you please ask him to ring Sid Halley?”

“Oh, hello, Mr. Halley. This is Detective Sergeant Lynch. I came with the chief inspector to your house on Thursday afternoon. Can I help?”

“I may know the identity of the man on the phone, the one with the Northern Irish accent.”

“Who is it?” D.S. Lynch asked.

“A man called Billy McCusker, from West Belfast.”

“You say you think he may be the one?” said the sergeant. “Or he may not be?”

“I can't be certain.”

“I can't arrest a man for kidnapping if you only think he may be responsible, now can I? What evidence do you have?”

What did I have? Only Paddy O'Fitch's Guinness-fueled rambling and a brief break in Jimmy Guernsey's stride when I'd called out the name Billy McCusker. Even I could see it didn't amount to much.

“Not much,” I conceded, “but surely it's a name worth pursuing?”

“I will make a note of it and discuss it with the chief inspector on Monday.”

“What about us?” I interjected strongly. “My family and I feel that we are living under a threat from this man, and the police aren't taking our security seriously. He's taken my daughter once from her school, and I have absolutely no intention of letting him take her again. We need some police protection.”

Marina was nodding in approval alongside me.

“I will also discuss that with the chief inspector.”

“What about over the weekend?” I said.

“Mr. Halley, I'm sorry but we simply don't have the manpower to provide you with a personal bodyguard. I advise you to keep all your doors locked and call me again if this man McCusker contacts you. The chief inspector will be sure to call you on Monday.”

I felt I was being fobbed off and my genuine concerns for our safety were being underestimated or dismissed. But I was not surprised. I'd had lots of dealings with the police over the years, and it was always my belief that they were much happier investigating serious crimes than they were trying to prevent them in the first place—look at the number of violent crimes committed by those out on bail, awaiting trial for previous violent offenses.

“Well?” said Marina, who'd only been listening to my side of the conversation.

“The sergeant said he'll discuss it with Chief Inspector Watkinson, and they'll let us know on Monday.”

“Monday!” she screamed. “We might all be dead by Monday.”

“Marina, my love, calm down,” I said, trying my best to soothe her anxiety. “If necessary, I will have to do what this man asks—at least until Monday.”

•   •   •

I
SPENT
most of the evening at my computer in my office researching the Troubles in Northern Ireland in general and Billy McCusker in particular.

I was surprised to find that far more British soldiers were killed in Northern Ireland during the Troubles than have died in both Iraq and Afghanistan put together. More than seven hundred British servicemen lost their lives as a result of Irish terrorist action between 1969 and 2001, but none of those deaths could be laid at the door of Billy McCusker.

According to Paddy, Billy had left the security forces well alone and had concentrated on killing members of the minority Catholic community.

Even though there was a mass of information on the Troubles, there were only two short references I could find to any Billy McCusker. The first was a brief account in official court papers of the outcome of a trial for murder at Belfast Crown Court, where McCusker had been convicted of killing one Darren Paisley by nailing him to a wooden floor in a disused factory and leaving him there to die of thirst. According to the report, McCusker claimed to have informed Paisley's father where to find his son, but Paisley Senior denied ever having received such a message.

There was a small picture accompanying the report, a police mug shot of McCusker taken soon after he'd been arrested. I studied the image intently. It was nearly twenty years since it was taken, but the features were very distinctive—high cheekbones and a low, protruding brow that gave his eyes a deep, sunken appearance.

The second mention was in a list of prisoners released from the Maze prison under the terms of the Good Friday Peace Agreement. Billy McCusker had walked free after serving just two and a half years of a life sentence by somehow convincing the government of the day that his murder of a fellow Protestant was a sectarian offense.

Other than that, there was nothing else. I searched through the online archives for Northern Irish newspapers from the
Belfast Telegraph
to the
Carrickfergus Advertiser
, but there was not a single mention of anyone called Billy McCusker. He had obviously been very proficient at keeping his name out of the media.

Honest Joe Bullen appeared several times in the Manchester and Liverpool dailies, especially in reports of betting-shop takeovers, but there were no references to Billy McCusker as being the owner of the company.

Could Paddy O'Fitch have been wrong?

I doubted it. Paddy was a walking encyclopedia when it came to racing matters, and his fear of McCusker had been genuine and unquestionable.

The phone on my desk started to ring.

I looked at my watch. It was a quarter to midnight—just as before.

“What do you want?” I said, answering.

“Ah, Mr. Halley,” said the now familiar voice. “How good of you to answer your phone. Did you have a good day at Newbury races?”

“That's none of your business,” I said.

“Oh, I think it is,” he said in his condescendingly humorous tone. “Everything about you is now my business.”

“And how about the other way round?” I said. “Are
you
also my business?”

There was a slight pause. “Mr. Halley,” he said, all humor having disappeared, “you will find out that I will very much be your business if you don't do as I tell you.”

“Why would I do what a kidnapper and a murderer says?”

“Who says I'm a murderer?”

“I'm sure Darren Paisley's father would, for one.”

There was a much longer pause from the other end of the line. I wondered if it had been wise to declare my hand so early. Once upon a time, I'd managed to defeat another particularly nasty villain only because he had underestimated me as a foe. There would be no chance of that now.

“I will send you a report. Sign it.”

“I will not,” I said. “I only sign reports I write myself.”

“Make it easy on yourself. Sign the report now and save yourself a lot of grief. You'll sign it eventually.”

“On the contrary,” I said, “you can save
yourself
a lot of grief by leaving me alone and going back to West Belfast.”

“I'm warning you, Mr. Halley,” he said.

“And I'm warning you too, Mr. McCusker.”

I hung up. There was little point in carrying on what would quickly descend into name-calling.

I sat at my desk looking at the telephone and, sure enough, it rang again.

“Now, listen to me, you bastard,” I said, picking it up, but it wasn't him. Another voice, an English voice, cut through what I was saying.

“Mr. Halley, this is Detective Sergeant Lynch.”

“Who?”

“Detective Sergeant Lynch,” he repeated. “I was listening in to your call.”

I'd forgotten about that.

“If the man calls again, try and get him to confirm that he is indeed Billy McCusker. Then we can issue a warrant for his arrest.”

“Don't you have enough already?” I asked. “He didn't deny it.”

“He probably wouldn't deny it even if you were wrong. To throw us off on a tangent.”

“Get off the line, then, in case he calls again.”

I sat at my desk, watching the phone, for well over an hour, but without it ringing, before going quietly up the stairs to bed.

Marina was asleep in Saskia's room again, so I lay in our bed alone with the lights out, thinking about what I should do next.

The chief inspector had said that involving Sid Halley was comparable to our friend poking a hornets' nest with a stick. I now felt that I had well and truly poked a hornets' nest of my own.