‘I’ll look after her,’ said Rosie.
‘Do that,’ I said.
I went down and retrieved my car from under the gaze of a traffic warden with just one minute remaining of my time. He didn’t look happy.
I drove round the corner and stopped to ring Frank Snow at Harrow.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’ll be in the office on Thursday and you are welcome to come and see me. What is it about?’
‘A former pupil,’ I replied.
‘We don’t discuss former pupils with the media,’ he told me.
‘I’m not media,’ I said.
‘Who are you then?’
‘I’ll tell you on Thursday. See you about nine?’
‘Make it ten.’ He sounded unsure. ‘Come for coffee, if you must.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Coffee at ten on Thursday. Thanks. Bye.’
Instead of going back to the flat, I went to the races. I needed a street corner to ring my bell and shout from.
Towcester Racecourse is set in the beautiful surroundings of the Easton Neston Estate to the west of Northampton. My spirits were high, as was the sun, as I turned through the impressive arched and pillared entrance into the car park. I chose my parking space carefully, not only to avoid another confrontation with Andrew Woodward, but also to make a physical ambush between car and racecourse entrance more difficult. I had been caught out like that once before.
I went in search of my prey. As always, he was in the bar nearest to the weighing room in the ground floor of the Empress grandstand.
‘Hello, Paddy,’ I said.
‘Hello, Sid, what brings you all the way to Northamptonshire?’
‘Nothing much. How come you’re here?’
‘Oh, I lives just down the road. This is me local course.’
I knew, that’s why I had come. I was pretty sure he’d be here, and I was pretty sure he’d be in this bar before the first race.
‘Now what can I do for ya, Sid?’ he asked.
‘Nothing, Paddy.’
I looked around the bar which was filling up with those looking for a drink and a sandwich before the entertainment began.
‘Are ya going to buy me a drink?’ said Paddy.
‘Now why would I want to do that?’ I replied. ‘It’s high time you bought me one.’
‘Don’t ya want to ask me anything?’
‘No. What about?’
We stood for some time in silence and I could tell that I would die of thirst before Paddy put his hand in his pocket so I ordered myself the ubiquitous diet Coke and stood there drinking it.
‘Well, why are ya here then?’ said Paddy.
‘I’m meeting someone,’ I replied.
‘Who?’ he asked.
‘Never you mind.’
‘What about?’
‘It’s none of your business.’
Paddy’s antennae were almost quivering and he could hardly contain himself. He absolutely hated not being ‘in the know’ about everything. He finally bought a Guinness to calm his nerves.
Charles came through the door at the far end. I had called him on the drive north, had very briefly explained to him my little game and he had eagerly agreed to help. He had brought with him a distinguished-looking white- haired gentleman in a tweed suit and a dark blue bow-tie.
‘Ah,’ I said and walked over to greet them, leaving Paddy at the bar.
‘Hello, Charles,’ I said. ‘Thanks so much for coming.’
‘Sid,’ he said, ‘meet Rodney Humphries.’
We sat down on some chairs at a table. I checked to see that we were still in Paddy’s view and caught a glimpse of him staring at us. We spoke with our heads bowed close together and, from Paddy’s position, it must have appeared quite conspiratorial.
‘Rodney lives down the road from me,’ said Charles. ‘He was keen as mustard to come.’
‘Any excuse not to do the gardening,’ said Rodney with a smile.
‘Well, Rodney, if anyone asks you, which they probably won’t, you can give a fictitious name and say that you’re a retired professor of ballistics.’
‘Professor of ballistics, eh? I like that. Retired from anywhere special?’ he asked.
‘Anywhere obscure that no one could check up on.’
He thought for a moment. ‘Professor Reginald Culpepper from the University of Bulawayo, in Rhodesia. In the good old days of UDI, which is when I was out there. That should do. No one will be able to check on that now that it’s Zimbabwe.’
‘Perfect,’ I said, ‘but I hope you won’t need it.’
I watched Paddy out of the corner of my eye. He was a good sort and I felt a little guilty treating him in this way but it was important.
‘Why don’t you just tell… what’s his name?’ said Charles.
‘Paddy, Paddy O’Fitch.’
‘Well, why don’t you just tell Paddy O’Fitch what you want him to know?’
‘Because I want him to tell the right person what he knows and, unless he thinks it’s a secret, he might not do that.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Charles.
‘Secrets burn holes in Paddy’s brain until they reach his mouth. The more secret a thing is, the more likely he is to tell someone. It’s not that he’s malicious, it’s just that he absolutely loves to know something that others don’t and he can’t resist telling them.’
‘So who’s the right person?’ asked Charles.
‘A journalist called Chris Beecher.’
I could see Paddy moving over towards us. He obviously couldn’t resist any longer.
‘So Professor,’ I said loudly, so Paddy would hear, ‘what is your expert opinion?’
Before Rodney/Reginald could say anything I made great play of putting my finger to my lips.
‘Good afternoon, Admiral,’ Paddy said, arriving at our table. He had known who Charles was, but there again, Paddy knew everything. Well, almost everything.
‘Good afternoon,’ replied Charles, getting up.
Neither Charles nor I made any move to introduce Rodney. Charles sat down again and the three of us waited in silence. Paddy eventually seemed to get the message and moved away.
‘See you later then, Sid,’ he said.
‘Right.’
He went off towards the door but couldn’t resist a backwards glance as he went through it.
‘I bet you a pound to a penny that he will be hanging around outside to catch me when I leave.’
‘But I still don’t understand,’ said Charles. ‘Why do you need him to tell this journalist? Why don’t you tell the journalist yourself?’
‘If I went and told Chris Beecher something directly then he probably wouldn’t believe me in the first place and, even if he did, he wouldn’t write it in the newspaper because he would think that I only told him because I wanted him to. This way, if Paddy extracts the secret from me, which I will let him do eventually, and moreover if I tell him that under no circumstances to repeat it to anyone, he’s bound to go and blabber it to his neighbour, who just happens to be Chris Beecher, and Beecher will put it in his newspaper solely because he thinks I don’t want it
