‘Of course I can. I subscribe to a service. We all do. Gotta see how good we look and how lousy the others are.’
‘What do the tapes show, just the race?’
‘Nah, you get the horses in the ring beforehand and then coming back after, the owner smiling, the works.’
‘I want you to get the tape of the race before the one they say you were trying to fix.’
‘I didn’t have a ride in it.’
‘Does that mean you can’t get it?’
‘No, but… ‘
‘Just do it, Tommy, and bring it around here. When can you get it?’
‘I can have a courier deliver it tomorrow morning, first thing.’
‘Okay. I’ll expect you here about ten.’
It isn’t in the rule book, but sometimes the client has to do some of the work, take some of the risk. I knew Tommy’s habits pretty well. He was a gregarious type who liked to hang out with other jockeys and talk. He told a good yarn and was excellent company and the racing fraternity would be rallying round him to some extent. I knew he wouldn’t lack for company that evening and that he wouldn’t be able to keep completely quiet about the latest development. Tommy would spend some time in a club or a pub or both where he’d have one drink, two at the most before switching to mineral water, and talk.
The next morning I was parked outside Tommy’s flat in Clovelly. Tommy and his wife of ten years or more had no children and didn’t seem to feel the lack. Racing was Tommy’s life and his wife was a keen golfer. Tommy played golf occasionally and his wife sometimes went to the races. They had it worked out pretty well. The flats were in a big block that featured a swimming pool and other comforts. If I sold my house and took out a mortgage I might just have been able to afford one. I drank coffee and listened to the radio and saw the courier arrive. A little while later Tommy emerged from the car park in his white Merc. I waited. Sure enough, a dusty Pajero with mud smeared over the numberplates fell in behind him. I joined the procession.
Tommy took the logical route to Glebe and I hung back, making sure that the occupants of the Pajero were concentrating on what was in front of them and ignoring the rear. At Centennial Park I called Tommy on his car phone.
‘Hey, Cliff, what’s up? I’m on my way.’
‘I know you are, mate. I’m not far behind you and there’s a blue Pajero in between us that’s been on you since you left home. Don’t look!’
‘Shit. What do I do?’
‘Chatted to a few people last night, did you?’
‘Christ, yes, I guess so. I’m sorry, Cliff, I… ‘
‘It’s okay. We can get something out of it with a bit of luck. Drive to the bottom of Glebe Point Road. Right down to the water. Have you got anything with you apart from the video? A book or something?’
‘Fuck, you think I carry War and Peace around with me. I’ve got the Gregory’s and the form guide for Canterbury.’
‘That’ll do. Wrap the paper around the Gregory’s and walk a bit to the left as if you’re going to throw it in. We’ll see what happens. And don’t worry, I’ve got a gun.’
‘I never worry about guns, just the fuckers that use them.’
He sounded shaky but he did all right, drove normally. There were two men in the Pajero. I got close enough to take a look and didn’t like what I saw. The driver was a big, dark guy, maybe a Maori, with a calm, professional air; the other man was smaller, smoked continuously and looked edgy. I was edgy too. We reached Redfern before I realised that I’d had the radio on the whole time-Andrew Olle and Paul Lyneham had run through their routine-and I hadn’t heard a word. I switched it off and considered ringing Tommy again. Decided against it. Didn’t want to rattle him.
The peak traffic had passed and Glebe Point Road was flowing smoothly. The Pajero was one car back from the Merc and I was one back from it. Tommy stopped at the Bridge Road lights and I thought again about calling him and telling him to shake off the Pajero. Last chance. I didn’t do it. I told myself we were in my territory and that I had the edge. We passed the Valhalla cinema and the only butcher shop left in Glebe. There used to be three or four, maybe five. The crazy thoughts you have when you nerves are stretched.
Tommy headed for the bottom. I turned at Federal Road, stopped, unshipped the. 38 and ran through the park past the new bit of garden, down towards the big Moreton Bay fig. The Pajero had turned and parked, pointed back up the road. I was still moving fast but I could see Tommy strolling towards the water with a package in his hand. The smaller man got down from the 4WD. I was close enough now to see that he was carrying a weapon, assault rifle or shortened shotgun. That was enough for me. I shouted for Tommy to get down and I fired at the Pajero.
The armed man crouched and took in the situation quickly. Tommy was twenty metres away, I was a bit further. He swivelled and pointed the weapon in my direction. I lengthened my stride and threw myself behind the tree that was big enough to stop a mortar shell. I heard the blast of the shotgun and a sound like hail hitting the leaves high above my head. I sneaked a look around the tree; Tommy was flat on the ground and the shooter was piling back into the 4WD. The driver took off with a squeal of rubber that left a trail of blue smoke in the air.
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
