“Well, yes, it might be,” she responded. She was taking a risk too. But she reassured herself that it wasn’t only because she was attracted to him. He still might have some information that was of relevance to the murder of Tadek. To keep in touch with him would be in the cause of pursuing their investigation, she told herself with knowing casuistry.
“Thing is, I’m doing a show at the college with some of the Drama students. Wondered if you’d like to come and see it. Then we could have a drink afterwards.”
Again, he made it sound very casual. Quite clever too, Jude thought. Not a direct request for a date. He made it sound as if the main purpose of the invitation was for her to see the show. And hopefully be impressed by it, perhaps warm to him because of his skills as a director. Then have a few drinks and maybe fix to meet again. There was something disquietingly practised about his approach.
“What is the show?” she asked.
“It’s called
“When are you talking about?”
“Short notice, I’m afraid. Show only runs for three performances. Saturday I have to entertain a lot of college bigwigs. So I’m talking about this evening.” Jude hadn’t complained about the short notice, but he still seemed to feel the need to apologize. “Ideally, I’d have asked you further in advance, but I hadn’t met you then, had I? And I do think the show’s something you might enjoy.”
Which Jude considered was a rather bold claim, since he’d had no time to assess her theatrical interests.
“It’s in the college’s new theatre. Building’s worth seeing, apart from anything else. So tell me, do you fancy it?”
Again, he fostered the illusion of distancing himself. It was the show she’d be coming to see, not him. Jude had to acknowledge that his technique, though obviously well practised, was rather good.
“All right,” she said. “I’d like to come.”
? Blood at the Bookies ?
Seventeen
On a day when she had been feeling less good about herself Carole Seddon might have balked at Gerald Hume’s suggestion that their meeting that evening should take place in the Crown and Anchor. The proposed encounter did have elements of a ‘date’ about it, and the pub’s landlord was one of the very few men in Fethering who had ever shown an emotional interest in her. In less certain moods she might have agonized about some awkward scene arising between the two men. But that Friday evening Carole had no qualms about the venue. For a start, her affair with Ted Crisp was long over and their relationship had settled down into an easy friendship. Besides, the Crown and Anchor did have certain advantages. Apart from anything else, she would be on home territory and not far from High Tor, should the meeting prove to be uncomfortable. After all, she knew nothing about Gerald Hume.
He was sitting in one of the alcoves nursing a half-pint of lager when she arrived. Dressed, as ever, in pinstriped suit and tie, his briefcase on the banquette beside him. Carole greeted Ted Crisp immediately, to establish her familiarity with the pub. Now the moment had arisen, it gave her a slight
She sat down while Gerald Hume went to the bar to buy her requested Chilean Chardonnay, and wondered what kind of man he would prove to be. She wasn’t worried about finding out, though, just intrigued.
“Perhaps,” he announced when he had supplied her drink, “I should explain why I wanted to meet up with you.”
Ib her surprise, Carole found herself saying, “I don’t think you need to especially. As you said on the phone, it’s nice for us to have a chance to talk.”
“Yes.”
He hesitated, still seeming to feel he should provide some explanation, so she moved on, “Did you have a good day on the horses?”
“A profit of three pounds fifty pence.” He spoke in a considered manner, as if carefully selecting each word with a pair of tweezers.
“And is that a good day?”
“Would you regard three pounds fifty pence as adequate recompense for five hours’ work?”
“No, I suppose not. So you do think of what you do in the betting shop as work, do you?”
“Well, it’s the only work I have now.”
“I heard a rumour that you used to be an accountant.”
“That’s a very unusual rumour to hear.”
“In what way unusual?”
“Because it’s accurate. Very few rumours in Fethering share that quality.” Carole smiled. He clearly knew the area well. “Yes,” he went on, “I was an accountant with the same company for thirty-six years. They then deemed that I was no longer fit to be an accountant.”
Carole didn’t quite like to ask for amplification, but seeing her reaction he provided it. “No, no skulduggery on my part, no embezzlement of funds. Merely a company policy of retirement at sixty. Drinks with colleagues, a hastily mugged-up speech from my new much younger boss, the presentation of an unwanted carriage clock and ‘Goodbye, Mr Hume.’ So, given the fact that I used to spend eight hours of every weekday in the office, that did leave rather a large gap in my life.”
“Surely there were other things you could have done?”
“I suppose so. I could have set up in private practice. I could have offered my Services as treasurer for various local societies. But such options did not appeal to me. My pension was adequate and I had made some prudent though not very adventurous investments over the years. So I didn’t need to do anything else to make money.”
“Isn’t retirement when people are supposed to devote themselves to their hobbies in a way that they previously never had time for?” asked Carole, reflecting that in her own case this hadn’t worked out. The only hobby she had was being an amateur detective and that was one she had developed after she retired.
“Perhaps. And I am quite a keen photographer. But I can’t do that every day. I get bored, so it remains just a hobby. Spending time in the betting shop, however, does impose some kind of structure on my life. It also enables me to study the vagaries of horse racing over a sustained period.”
“You mean you…‘study the form’? Is that the right expression? And, incidentally, Gerald, I should tell you here and now that, whatever impression I may have given to the contrary yesterday, I know absolutely nothing about horses.”
“That, Carole, was abundantly clear.”
“Oh.” She couldn’t help being disappointed. She thought the way she’d behaved the previous day had been pretty damned convincing.
“Anyway, you asked if I study the form, and yes, I do do a certain amount of that, but I am more interested in the mathematical probabilities involved in the business.”
“Do you mean you are trying to work out a foolproof system to win on the horses?”
Gerald Hume chuckled. “If I were doing that, today’s profit of three pounds fifty pence might suggest that my system is as yet far from foolproof. But you’re right in a way. I am trying to draw some conclusions from the many races that I watch every day. I analyse the results and, yes, there is the hope that such analysis might lead to a more informed pattern of investment.”
“And do you ever have big wins?”
“A few hundred pounds now and then. But such days are rare.”
“I still can’t quite understand why you do it.”
“No, it may seem inexplicable. There is a commonly held view that racing is a mug’s game, that there are too
