‘Just me left now,’ he said. ‘I was an only child and Glynis lost touch with her brother when he moved to Australia. Didn’t even come back for her funeral although he could have afforded to. Successful businessman, apparently.’
Evan stood up and turned to me. ‘It says in that damn rag that you’re a private detective,’ he said. ‘I remember you as a jockey and a bloody good one too. I often wondered what Huw would do when he gave up riding… doesn’t matter now… Anyway, what I meant to say was, will you find out for me who killed my son?’
‘The police will do that,’ I said.
‘The police are fools,’ said Evan forcefully. ‘They never found out who killed our Brynn. Hit-and-run, you see. Never really tried, if you ask me.’
I noticed that Marina’s eyes had filled with tears. Just how much pain could a single man take?
‘I’ll pay for your time,’ he said to me. ‘Please… find out who killed my Huw.’
I thought of the desperate messages Huw had left on my answering machine.
‘I’ll do my best,’ I said.
How could I say no?
CHAPTER 5
I lay awake for much of the night thinking nasty thoughts about what I would like to do to Chris Beecher and his young snapper and, sure enough, the Monday edition of
So much for keeping my relationship away from the Press and a secret from those persons who might look for ‘pressure points’.
I had created a reputation amongst the racing villainy that Sid Halley would not be put off by a bit of violence to his body. Such a reputation takes a while to establish and, unfortunately, quite a few had already tried the direct route. One such incident had resulted in the loss of my left hand. It had by then been useless for some time but I was still attached to it both literally and metaphorically. Its loss to a poker-wielding psychopath had been a really bad day at the office.
These days there were those who would stoop to different methods to discourage me from investigating their affairs. Consequently, I had tried to keep Marina’s existence a secret and I was frustrated that I had been so glaringly unsuccessful. Perhaps I was getting paranoid.
Marina, meanwhile, seemed more concerned that the photographer had captured her with her mouth open and her eyes shut.
‘At least they haven’t got my name,’ she said, trying to make me feel better.
‘They’ll get it. And your life story.’ There were always those who would ring up a newspaper if they had a snippet of information. Too many people knew Marina at her work.
‘Just take care,’ I warned, but she didn’t really believe that she would be in any danger.
‘You work for the Civil Service,’ she said. ‘How dangerous can that be?’
There was nothing ‘civil’ about some of those I had separated from their liberty or from their ill-gotten gains. But that had been before I had encountered my Dutch beauty at a friend’s party and invited her first to share my bed, then my life.
If I were honest, I would have to admit that nowadays I tended not to take on the sort of work that I had revelled in five years ago. Regular safe jobs provided by Archie Kirk filled most of my time. Boring but profitable. Hardly a threat to be heard, except from the tax man over my expenses — ‘a new suit to replace the one ruined due to lying in a wet ditch for two hours waiting for a certain Member of Parliament to complete an amorous assignation with a prostitute in the back of his Jaguar — you must be joking, sir’. I hadn’t shown him the pictures.
Finding Huw Walker’s killer might prove to be a little more dangerous.
Marina and I slipped out of the building through the garage in case there were more telephoto lenses awaiting our appearance through the front door. She took the tube to work while I walked along Victoria Street to Archie’s office in Whitehall.
‘
‘Ignore them,’ I replied. ‘Then they might go away.’
‘Are they still going on about that other time?’
‘The Press don’t like being in the wrong,’ I said, ‘and they have very long memories. But that time there was an agenda. This time I think it is just one particular journalist and his warped sense of humour. He doesn’t like me because I won’t tell him anything for his gossip column. This is his way of getting back at me. Ignore it. I have broad shoulders.’ Actually I didn’t, but so what.
I stood by the window in Archie’s office looking out at the traffic. Every second vehicle going down Whitehall 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.’
