I could see grooms exercising some fine racehorses, and stewards and owners gathered in small groups to observe the spectacle. To the north was a paved yard full of horse boxes and cars.
The shooter sprinted across to the stables, and I realized that our chase was attracting more and more attention. People all around looked our way, surprised and puzzled by the frenetic action taking place in the yard. I heard people burst through the doorway behind us, and when I glanced over my shoulder, I saw the steward from the gate leading a couple of security officers. They were all shouting at me to stop. The steward called out to his colleagues ahead of me.
“Stop him!” he yelled, pointing at me, and more stewards and course personnel moved in my direction.
Ahead of me, the shooter barged through a door leading into the stable block and I followed. I stopped instantly when I realized I had the man cornered in a tack room. We were surrounded by saddles, bridles and other riding gear. I eyed him coldly as I shut the door behind me, and very deliberately slid the bolt closed.
The shooter took off his jacket as I stepped away from the door. There was hammering from the other side of it and a clamor of voices, which I ignored.
I removed my suit jacket and squared up to the man who’d shot Justine, eager to fight.
Chapter 32
He crossed the paved floor and threw a jab, which I dodged. Another right and then a left hook, which all found nothing but air. He was fast and a skilled fighter. I got the impression he was feeling me out, trying to get the measure of me as we moved around the tack room.
The noise from outside grew louder, and I heard people hitting the door with something so heavy that it shook in its frame.
The shooter stepped forward and caught me with a front kick to my shin, which hurt a lot. I tried to shake it off, but he didn’t give me a moment and came at me with a flurry of punches. As I covered up to protect my face, he went for my body. He was powerful and quick. Punches were expertly delivered to my ribs and kidneys, but he had no idea I wanted him close and had lured him in.
When I had my chance, I grabbed his shoulders and pulled him into a head butt, my forehead connecting viciously with the bridge of his nose and making it crack. He tried to stagger back and I helped him on his way, dropping my shoulder and charging him into the wide wooden support that held up a mezzanine balcony encircling the tack room. He grunted as his back hit the beam and the air was forced from his lungs. With my head down, I punched his soft, yielding gut, driving my fists against him with all my strength. The support meant his body had no give and he took the full force of my blows. I felt him wobble as his legs lost their strength, but his arms caught me with a lucky one — two punch in the ear and cheek and I had to disengage and step back to let the pain subside.
He took the opportunity to run up the stairs onto the balcony and I chased him, trying to grab his ankles. I caught him when he was on the penultimate step. He stumbled and fell onto his hands and knees. He thudded into the thick boards, and, eager to press my advantage, I ran to seize him, but he kicked out and his foot found my face, heel connecting with my chin. I tumbled back down the stairs.
Battered and bruised, my ego wounded, I got to my feet and shook off the impact. I looked up to see him sprinting along the balcony toward an alcove.
I thundered upstairs and followed, but when I rounded the turn that had obscured my view, he was nowhere to be seen.
A small window to one side was hanging open. I peered through and saw him running across the roof of the neighboring single-story structure.
I climbed through the window and ran after him, matching him stride for stride.
When he reached the end of the building, he jumped without hesitating and I saw him sprint across the packed parking yard beneath. I followed, making the same leap and falling onto a narrow grass verge. I rolled, got to my feet, and as I ran after him, saw the shooter jump into a BMW 5-Series, gun the engine and speed toward the gate.
“Stop him!” I yelled, running up the drive in futile pursuit. “Stop him!”
My words must have been lost to the distance because the guard on the gate raised it and allowed the powerful car through.
I heard a vehicle race up behind me and thought about commandeering it, but when I turned, I saw it was a course security van. It screeched to a halt. Four guards spilled from inside and tackled me to the ground.
My cheek pressed against dirt, I was restrained forcibly with the four guards yelling at me to stay down. Through their legs, I saw a group of stewards and more guards running toward me, and behind them was Andi, her eyes full of dismay.
Chapter 33
Leopardstown’s holding room was an eight by twelve feet cell in the main administration building. It was bare apart from a metal bench, bolted to the floor. The walls were gloss-painted and a single strip light was recessed into the ceiling behind a sturdy metal grille.
The security guards had frog-marched me from the owners’ parking lot to the rear entrance of the administration building and manhandled me through the first door along. I guessed this cell was used to cool off any particularly troublesome drunks, or, as in my case, secure a person safely until the Garda arrived. There were police on site and nearby, providing crowd control and directing traffic, so I doubted I would have to wait very long.
Sure enough, I soon heard footsteps outside, and the heavy lock clicked open at the turn of a key. The door swung wide. I rose from the bench, expecting to be taken away, but instead I was surprised to see the man who had been at the heart of the shooter’s close protection detail. He entered the room like he owned the place. There was no sign of any of his bodyguards.
“Good morning, Mr. Morgan,” he said, offering me his hand. “My name is Lawrence Finch.”
I didn’t shake it. He shrugged and presented me with my phone and wallet, which had been confiscated by the security guards.
“I believe these are yours.”
“Thank you,” I replied, pocketing them. “Do you work here?”
He smiled. “No. My horses race here. I sit on the board as a non-executive director. I’d like to know why you were chasing Sam.”
“Sam?” I asked.
“Sam Farrell,” he said. “He’s part of my security detail. Or at least he was until he bolted like a hare chased by a hound.”
This man had the easy confidence that came with money and power. His two-piece double-breasted blue herringbone suit had been tailormade and hung perfectly from his muscular shoulders. The gray flecks in his dark brown hair and the wrinkles around the corners of his eyes suggested he was in his mid-forties.
“How long has he worked for you?” I asked.
“Three months,” Lawrence replied. “He was with the Garda in their serious crime unit before that. Impeccable references.”
So Farrell was a cop, I mused inwardly. That would explain how methodical the shooter had been and how he might have been able to disembark the plane without detection. He probably had contacts at the airport. His profile also fit Propaganda Tre’s usual modus operandi, which was to recruit people in positions of power and authority. I wondered if I was looking at a fellow member now or whether Lawrence Finch was a mark, the target of Sam Farrell’s plans. Either way, I knew I couldn’t trust him.
“What line of business are you in, Mr. Finch?” I asked.
“Construction,” he replied. “Horse racing is just a passion of mine. An expensive one.”
“I can imagine,” I said.
“I’ve spoken to the course management and they have agreed not to involve the police,” Finch said, “but I really must insist that you answer my question, Mr. Morgan. What did you want with Sam? And why did he run?”