and saying, 'OK, cards on the table. Why don't you tell me exactly what's going on?'
Except that Mrs. Oto was there before him, uttering those precise words as she filled his cup with tea.
'Sorry?' said Joe.
'You aren't really a baggage handler, Mr. Sixsmith. Or if you are, Zak ought to ask for a refund. I asked a few questions round the shops this morning. Only Sixsmith anyone had heard of that came close to you was some private detective. You he?'
'Yes, I am,' admitted Joe. 'Though I don't have a system of snouts like you, Mrs. Oto. Maybe we can come to an arrangement?'
She smiled. She had a quality of stillness, like a queen on public display, so when she smiled, it was like being invited behind the scenes.
Well, that was where he wanted to be.
He smiled back and said, 'Your daughter's hired me, so I can't tell you anything she doesn't want me to tell you. But you've brought her up to be a lovely girl, so I'm sure she'll come clean if you ask her when she gets home.'
Mrs. Oto said, 'No need to try and flatter me about my children, Mr. Sixsmith. I know exactly what each of them is, and I don't need any help from outside to make me love them. What kind of trouble is Zak in?'
Joe felt himself wriggling inside and tried not to let it show.
He said, 'No trouble, just some people trying to use her.'
'Use her? How?'
Joe drew in a deep breath, still uncertain what words were going to come out of it.
The door opened and Eddie came in. Joe saw at once he'd been listening because his face wore exactly the kind of I-haven't-been-listening face he himself assumed when he had.
In his hand were some computer print-outs.
'That stuff you wanted,' he said, handing them to Joe.
'Thought you were working for my family. I didn't realize you'd got my family working for you,' said Mrs. Oto.
'Just some figures Eddie said he'd run through his computer,' lied Joe. 'I don't understand these things.'
He glanced down at the print-out and realized the reason he'd been able to lie so glibly was that he wasn't altogether lying. The figures he'd got here meant nothing to him. He'd need the boy's help to interpret them.
'Let me see!' commanded Mrs. Oto.
Joe hesitated.
The woman said, 'Mr. Sixsmith, this is my house and there's nothing comes out of my son's machine that I'm not entitled to look at.'
He handed over the sheet. She glanced down it.
To Joe's amazement she said straight off, 'So what's the race?'
'I'm sorry?'
'I work at Stan Storey's, Mr. Sixsmith. I know a numbers sheet when I see one. Only this has got the runners coded. So what's the race?'
Stan Storey was Luton's best-known bookie, who by sharp odds and appeals to local loyalties had managed to survive the attempts by the big national firms to squeeze him out. So this was Mrs. Oto's little job which she'd kept on to preserve her independence. He tried to see her in the context of a betting shop, but couldn't.
'It's Zak's race at the Plezz,' said Joe.
'Zak's race? But that's crazy.' Her face tightened. 'Eddie, you tell me exactly what these figures mean, you hear me?'
At least she had the sense not to ask me, thought Joe.
The boy said, There's a lot of money going on the race. On Zak losing.'
'Where is this? Singapore?'
'Mainly. Other places out East too, but mainly Singapore.'
'Why'd you say that, Mrs. Oto?' asked Joe.
'Because you can get odds on anything out there. Sometimes folk come to Storey's wanting to bet on something Stan can't see his way to making a book on. So he'll get odds from Singapore, give himself a margin, accept the bet and lay it off East.'
'Nice one, Stan,' said Joe. 'Where's this money coming from, Eddie?'
'UK, mostly,' said the boy.
'But none of it through Storey's?' said Joe.
'What are you saying?' demanded Mrs. Oto.
'I'm just saying you'd have noticed if there'd been a lot of betting against your daughter through the place you work at,' said Joe placatingly.
'Yes, I'd have noticed and I'd have been asking, what the hell's going on? Which is what I'm asking now, Mr.
