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 round Bill and took the kettle off the heat, closing the lid on the Aga. I poured the boiling liquid into the mugs.
‘Haven’t you tried to call her?’ I asked. I sniffed the milk. It was off.
‘I did call her mother’s number,’ he replied. ‘I’ve never got on with my mother-in-law and she predictably put the phone down on me. I haven’t bothered to try again. Kate knows where I am if she wants me.’
I put a steaming mug down beside him on the kitchen table. ‘It’ll have to be black, the milk’s off,’ I said, taking my mug and sitting down on a kitchen chair.
‘Oh, there’s more in the fridge,’ he said but made no move to get it. He just sat down with another sigh.
‘It hasn’t been very good for a while, not since Alice was born, that’s my youngest. Three she is now.’ He paused briefly and smiled. ‘We’ve been married twelve years. Bloody marvellous it was at first. I was the envy of the jockeys’ room.’
I remembered. We had all fancied Kate who was the elder daughter of the successful trainer for whom Bill rode. We had all thought it had been strictly ‘hands off’ if he wanted to continue riding for her dad, so it had been a big surprise when Bill, twenty-eight at the time, had announced one day that he was going to marry Kate who was six years his junior. It had been the wedding of the year in Lambourn.
‘We were so in love,’ he went on, ‘and I was proud as proud could be of my beautiful wife. We both wanted masses of children and she got pregnant as soon as we tried. She came off the pill on our honeymoon and “bingo” first bloody time.’
I knew — I’d heard this story numerous times before.
‘That was young William. Then there was James and Michael, and finally we had Alice. Always wanted a girl.’ He smiled broadly at the thought of his lovely little daughter.
‘But since then, things have been going wrong,’ he said. ‘When I was riding it was easy. I went to the races, rode what the guv’nor told me to, and came home again. Or ended up in hospital. You know. Never had to bring work home. Easy.’
I remembered that, too. I agreed with him. It was easy if you were one of the top jockeys with plenty of rides, and plenty of money, as we both had been.
‘This training lark is much tougher. Always kowtowing to the bloody owners. You try telling them that their horses are useless and only good for the knackers without upsetting them to the point of them taking my advice and having the bloody things put down. Then where would I be? No bloody horses and no training fees.’ He stopped to take a gulp of his coffee, made a face and fetched the fresh milk from the fridge.
‘Then there are the entries, the orders and the staff.’ He sat down again, leaving a second opened milk carton on the table. ‘You wouldn’t believe how unreliable staff can be. They just pack up and leave whenever they feel like it, usually immediately after pay-day. Someone offers them a job with a bit more money and they’re off. I had one lad last week told me he was leaving while we were in the paddock at the races. There and then. After the race he was gone. Didn’t even turn up to take the horse back to the racecourse stables. I tell you, staff drive you
