"I need to be going,” Jones said impatiently. “Do you have something for me?”
Connor took out an envelope and handed it to Jones. Though they had Jones by the short and curlies they always paid him for his information. Connor would have preferred not to but he didn’t argue with the Chief.
Jones took the envelope and stuffed it in his coat. He expected it to contain two thousand pounds but wasn’t going to count it in the park. Though he had many of the trappings of success, a new car, a four bedroom detached house and children who had been educated at private schools, working for the government did not pay well. He was putting these payments towards his retirement fund.
"Will that be all, now?” Jones asked, eager to get away.
Connor didn’t bother replying. He simply turned his back and walked away. He realised why he hated Jones. It wasn’t just that he was a Brit or his offensive sexual preferences. It was because he was a fucking tout. He'd pulled the trigger and kneecapped a tout one time. Been glad to do it. It was the least the Judas deserved for running to the Brits with bits of information, for a miserable few quid. Jones was the lowest of the low in Connor’s eyes. Touts ranked below even perverts.
Sam Murphy had never been in a betting shop in her life. Her image of them was of seedy places inhabited by a combination of weird old men and losers spending money they should be giving their wives, instead of frittering it away on the horses. Or at least that was how she thought it was back home. However, she was surprised to find that Ashdown Racing was nothing like she’d imagined. It was a bright well lit room, with a large television screen in the middle of one wall and comfortable chairs for watching. There were other smaller screens spread around the shop and a long counter where you placed your bets. The walls were painted in pleasant pastels and there was almost a coffee shop feel to the place. Not the least bit dingy as she had imagined.
She’d recognized Ashdown from the newspaper pictures as soon as she entered. He was behind the counter with a young looking man and a middle aged woman. He was taking bets and sometimes handing out winnings, which he seemed to do with remarkable cheerfulness, considering it was presumably his money he was dishing out. She noticed that most people seemed to know each other and all of them knew Ashdown. As new people entered the shop they were going up to him and congratulating him. There was loads of hand shaking and pats on the back. It sickened her to see how everyone was treating the bastard like some kind of hero. Didn’t they know he had almost killed her brother?
On initially entering, she’d glanced around and spotting newspapers on the wall that detailed the day’s racing, had pretended to read them. She felt conspicuous as there was only one other woman in the shop, who was probably three times her age. From the moment she’d entered, she’d been getting a fair number of what she thought were appreciative stares, from various men of all ages. She assumed she wasn’t the typical customer they expected to see in their shop.
She wasn’t entirely sure what she would achieve by coming to Brighton but had felt a compelling need to do so. Now she was here, she was getting a real buzz from being in the same space as the man she hated. She’d heard her father say you must know your enemy. He had a saying to cover most situations. Well she knew her enemy and now all that remained was to decide on her revenge. She’d given it some thought on the way down from London. Her brother was going to spend a very long time in jail. The most fitting revenge would be to put Ashdown away for a similar time but the question was how to achieve that.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?”
Sam turned quickly on her heels, recognizing the voice instantly. She looked startled.
“It’s on the house,” Tom said, smiling. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
“Err, thanks,” she said. “I don’t mind if I do.”
“You’re not a reporter by any chance?”
“A reporter?” Sam queried.
“Only we’ve had a few of them in here today.”
“No, I’m not a reporter. Why would you think I am?” Sam was suddenly very conscious of her Irish accent.
“Firstly, you’ve been in here ages and haven’t placed a single bet. Secondly, you look out of place. I doubt you know a yankee from a trixie.”
“I promise I’m not a reporter,” Sam said with conviction and trying to tone down her accent.
Tom gave her a look that suggested he wasn’t entirely convinced but she seemed harmless. “Fair enough then. How do you take your coffee?”
“Just black please.”
Ashdown moved away to fetch coffee and Sam breathed deeply to get her pounding heart under control. It was the thought of coffee that prompted her idea for revenge. She knew that the drugs from South America were often shipped alongside coffee, as it made it impossible for the sniffer dogs to detect. It was a simple plan but she had been taught that simple plans were often the best. Eduardo Garcia was always chasing her. He wasn’t exactly her type but he would be able to put her in touch with a supplier. Then all she had to do was plant the stuff on Ashdown and make a call to let the police know.
Ashdown reappeared with the coffee. “Thanks,” she said. “By the way, why is all the racing from France?”
“English racing is all cancelled,” he answered. “Because of the terrible weather.” He made it seem an unnecessary explanation.
She could see that her lack of racing knowledge had once again pricked his curiosity. “I’m really not
