“I’m DS Hardy from Wiltshire Police,” said Alex. “Mr Watts, is expecting us. Mr Freeman and I have come to interview him. Can we speak to him, please?”
“Freddie Watts, yeah, that’s me. It was about Alan Duncan, wasn’t it?”
“Close the door, Alex,” said Gus. “We don’t want any customers coming in while we speak to Mr Lambert.”
The man on the other side of the bar seemed to crumble in front of his eyes. Gus beckoned to Lenny Lambert, inviting him to sit at a table near the window.
Alex studied the man sat opposite and compared him to Watts's photos from almost fifteen years ago. Gus was right. This wasn’t Freddie. Alan Duncan had removed the only picture of Lambert, The one from Happy Valley. Bob and Elizabeth Duncan could give a brief description but nothing definite. When he and Gus spoke to Max Hughes and Keith Smith, Lenny Lambert’s name came up quite often, but apart from Max saying Lenny was a porker, nobody produced a photograph.
“I think you had better explain,” said Gus.
“Freddie spoke to me about his plans after he retired,” said Lambert. “He’d had his eyes on this place for years. Freddie’s parents brought him to the island when he was a kid. When he went for his annual medical three months before he retired, the medics told him he had cancer. They told him he had a year, tops. Physically, we had both changed over the years. He was still four inches taller than me, but I went on a diet and lost four stones. I needed to for my health. The older we got, the fewer the differences between us. I stayed close to him towards the end at the hospice and told him about my problem. We hatched a plan between us.”
“You became Freddie Watts after he died,” said Gus, “and moved here to take over the pub he’d always wanted.”
“I didn’t need a passport,” said Lambert. “I was surprised by how simple it was in the end.”
“Well, you were hardly going to make waves once you got here, were you?” said Gus. “The whole point was to hide away like Alan Duncan. It’s quiet here. I don’t imagine you advertise this place.”
“So, what was the problem that you shared with Freddie Watts?” asked Alex.
“Come on, Alex, keep up,” said Gus. “Lenny and Alan placed large bets on racecourses around the world. Nobody beats the bookies all the time. You got into debt with the wrong people, didn’t you, Lenny?”
“It was when we were in Dubai back in 2003,” said Lenny. “It was my swansong. I was coming out within twelve months, and I had followed this trainer and his horses for months. I just knew they were holding back that horse for a killing. You see it all the time. They run in nothing races and tell the jockey to hold his horse in check, don’t give the stewards any hint that you’re not trying. Then when the season’s almost over you bring the horse out for one last run. She was nowhere in her last six races. Fifty-to-one she was that evening. I told Alan to pile on with everything he had. We both did.”
“What happened?”
“Finished fifth in a field of six. I could have wept.”
“How much were you in for?” asked Gus.
“The best part of ten grand each,” said Lambert.
“When did Alan come up with the plan?” asked Gus.
“We met up for a drink in Glasgow between Christmas and Hogmanay,” said Lambert.
“Alan proposed that he approached the Russians with information about this country’s nuclear submarines,” said Gus. “I assume he asked for twenty thousand?”
Lenny Lambert gave a wry smile.
“Here’s me spilling my guts because I thought you knew everything already,” he said. “You’ve got it all wrong.”
“What happened then?” asked Gus.
“Alan would never have sold us out, and I wouldn’t have let him. But Alan was a superb draughtsman. He produced drawings that passed muster when we handed them over to a contact he made on the Dark Web via the Tor browser. Alan exchanged the drawings for cash in Moscow the following May. We got the bookies off our backs, I retired, and came here after winding up Freddie’s affairs.”
“When did you learn about Alan’s murder?” asked Gus.
“When your bloke called to arrange this meeting. I was serving a customer when I heard my phone on Sunday at lunchtime. I recognised the 01249 code from the mainland as being familiar. Alan and I swore never to get in touch again. We couldn’t risk it. I wondered who it was calling and why, but they didn’t try again, so I forgot about it.”
“Bob Duncan still had a contact number for Freddie Watts in his diary,” said Gus. “I guess he called, got no reply, and didn’t want to leave a message. Did Alan know Freddie was dying?”
“No. Freddie didn’t want the others fussing around him, pitying him. They were out on patrol when Freddie died. Keeping that quiet from Alan too was all part of the plan.”
“Surely the Russians soon twigged you had conned them?” asked Alex.
“If it took them four years before they sent someone to find Alan, it doesn’t say a lot for their Intelligence people. Alan thought unless they boarded one of our vessels, they couldn’t be certain his drawings were anything but genuine. The longer I lived here without a problem, the more I thought we’d got away with it.”
“Yuri Kovalev was the contact in Moscow, wasn’t he?” asked Gus.
“I never met him,” said Lenny. “Alan travelled to Moscow alone.”
Alex showed Lenny Lambert the photograph of the Russian.
“Alan’s killer,” said Alex. “Kovalev knew what Alan looked like. Do you need to worry?”
“I can’t see why,” said Lenny. “That was the only time Alan met with him.”
“We have colleagues on the mainland
