seemed to be a bus. Masses of big red buses. Most were double-deckers but some were long single-deckers with a bendy bit in the middle. Almost all of them were nearly empty and I thought that much of the congestion in London was due to too many buses with too few passengers.
I turned and sat down on a simple wooden upright chair. Archie clearly did not want his visitors to become too comfortable and outstay their welcome.
I had found it difficult to determine quite how high up Archie was in the Civil Service hierarchy. To have a third-floor office on the corner of Downing Street with a spectacular view of the London Eye would seem to put the occupant into the ‘considerably important’ bracket. However, the threadbare carpet and the sparse furniture that would not have looked out of place in a hostel for the homeless tended to say otherwise.
Although I had been in this office several times, we normally did our business by meeting elsewhere, usually in the open air and well away from listening ears. Archie did not appear to have a secretary or an assistant of any kind. I had once asked him to whom I should speak if I needed something urgently and he was not available.
‘Speak only to me. Only use my mobile, and don’t talk about confidential matters on the telephone,’ he had briskly replied. ‘And don’t use your mobile at all if you don’t want anyone to later find out where you were at the time of the call. And never use the office switchboard.’
‘Surely you trust the Cabinet Office switchboard?’ I had said.
‘I trust nothing and nobody,’ he had declared. And I had believed him.
He cleared his throat.
‘Have you heard about the Gambling Bill that’s making its way through Parliament?’ he asked, getting to the point.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘All the talk on the racecourse.’
The proposals in the Bill were, it seemed to me, designed to make it easier to separate a fool from his money, to provide easier access to casinos and to allow more and more internet gambling sites into every home. Not that I wanted to restrict anyone from having the odd flutter, even many odd flutters. The racing fraternity, however, was deeply concerned about the impact the Bill might have on their industry.
Twenty years before, racing had had almost a monopoly on gambling. Casinos existed but they were ‘members clubs’ and beyond the aspiration of the general public. Then came betting on football and on every other sporting activity. Next the National Lottery took a slice. Now the super-casinos planned for every town might prove the death knell for some of the smaller racecourses.
‘Well,’ he went on, ‘we — that’s my committee and I — are looking at the influences that organised crime may have on the way that licences are issued to new gambling centres. As you might know,’ he sounded very formal, as though addressing a public meeting, but I was used to it, ‘until recently, the issuing of licences for the serving and consumption of alcohol was the remit of a magistrate. Now that duty has been transferred to the local councils.’
It sounded to me as if he trusted the magistrates rather more than the councils, but it was only relative, I thought, since he trusted nothing and nobody.
‘It is our expectation that gambling licences will be issued in the same manner under the control of a new Gaming Board. As always, the bloody politicians are rushing things into law without working out how they’ll be implemented.’
As often seemed to be the case, I thought. Legislation tends to be shaped more by politics than by logic.
Archie went on. ‘There are over three thousand bookmaking permits issued in this country and nearly nine thousand betting shop licences. There’s already lots of scope for corruption and we feel this will only increase.’
Wow, I thought. More bookies than punters at some courses. I hope he didn’t expect me to investigate every one.
‘And that doesn’t include the internet sites, which are breaking out like a rash,’ he said. ‘On-line poker seems to be the latest craze but racing is still the biggest market. Many of the new sites are based overseas and it will prove very difficult if not impossible to license and regulate them.’
He paused and seemed to have run out of steam.
‘What do you want me to do?’ I asked.
‘I don’t really know. Get your antennae working and listen. Ask the right questions. What you usually do.’
‘How long do I have and how many days do you want to pay for?’ I asked.
‘Give it a month. Usual terms, OK?’
‘Fine,’ I said. We had an arrangement that worked well. In the month I might spend about half my time on Archie’s work and I would charge him for twelve days plus expenses. I didn’t know under which budget such work was included and I didn’t ask. Cheques arrived promptly and, so far, they hadn’t bounced.
Archie stood and offered his hand. My audience was over.
Work-wise, the last few weeks had been rather thin but now, like the buses in Whitehall, three had come along at once. Since Friday morning I had agreed to look into the running of Jonny Enstone’s horses, find the murderer of Huw Walker, and now the minor matter of determining if there was likely to be major corruption in the issuing of betting permits and licences due to a change in the system. Piece of cake, I thought, but where the hell do I start?
I decided I could get going on the first two jobs at the same time and, I thought, maybe the third one, too. I went to see Bill Burton.
I collected my Audi from the garage under my flat and drove the sixty or so miles west along the M4 to Lambourn.
I had phoned Bill to make sure he would be in. ‘Come if you like,’ he had said. ‘Can’t think that it’ll do any good.’ He had sounded tired and lifeless, not like the strong Bill Burton who had once helped me through the double trauma of a marriage break-up and a career-ending injury.
It was nearly two in the afternoon when I pulled up the driveway and parked round behind the house near the back door. I could see through into his stable yard from here and all was quiet. A few inquisitive equine heads appeared over the stable doors to inspect the new arrival.
I knocked, then, as is always the way in the racing world, I opened the door and walked straight into the kitchen, expecting Bill’s children to run in to see who had arrived, as they always did.
‘Hello! Hello, Bill, Kate,’ I called out.
An elderly black labrador raised its head from its bed, took a look at me and decided not to bother to get up. Suddenly the house seemed very quiet. Dirty dishes were stacked in the kitchen sink and an opened milk carton sat on the kitchen table.
I called out again. ‘Bill, Kate, it’s Sid, Sid Halley.’
No reply. The labrador stood up, came and sniffed around my legs, then returned to lie down again on its bed.
I went through into the hallway and then into the den, a small sitting room where I knew Bill spent many an afternoon watching the racing on the television.
He was there, lying on a leather sofa. He was fast asleep.
I shook him gently and he sat up.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Didn’t sleep too well last night.’ He struggled to his feet. ‘Fancy a coffee?’
‘Love one,’ I replied.
We went into the kitchen and he put the kettle on the Aga. There were no mugs left in the cupboard so he took a couple from the dirty stack in the sink, rinsed them briefly under the tap, and measured instant granules into them with a dirty teaspoon.
‘Sorry,’ he said again. ‘Kate’s not here. Left with the children on Friday morning.’
‘How long will she be away?’ I asked.
‘Don’t rightly know.’ He sighed. ‘We had a row… another row, but this was a big one. This time, maybe, she won’t be coming back.’
‘Where’s she gone?’ I said.
‘Not sure. To her mother’s I expect, or her sister’s.’
The kettle started to boil and clouds of steam appeared above the spout. He didn’t seem to notice. I stepped
