The Wokingham Stakes was the fourth race of the day on Royal Ascot Saturday, and it was one of the most lucrative races of the whole meeting for us bookmakers. It was also a popular race with the trainers, with the number of runners limited only by how many starting stalls could be accommodated across the width of the racetrack.
But it was not only a cash cow for the bookies, it was fun as well. While it was true that most bets tended to be smaller than for some of the group races, there were plenty of them, and it seemed like a happy race, with no one placing white-knuckle wagers that they couldn’t afford to lose.
Betsy went to sleep in the back and Luca looked through the Racing Post as I drove.
“Thirty runners again today,” he said. “They reckon here that Burton Bank will start favorite at about six- or seven-to-one.”
“Who trains him?” I asked.
“George Wiley,” Luca replied.
“Wiley trains in Cumbria, doesn’t he?” I said. “That’s quite a way to come. He must think he’s a good prospect. How about the others?”
Luca studied the paper. “About ten with a realistic chance, I’d say, but the Wokingham is always a bit of a lottery.” He smiled.
“How about the Golden Jubilee?” I asked. The Golden Jubilee Stakes was the big race of the day. Like the Wokingham, it was also run over a straight six furlongs and was for three-year-olds and upwards.
“Eighteen runners this year,” he said. “Pulpit Reader will probably be favorite, but, again, it’s anyone’s race. Always the same in the sprints.”
We discussed the afternoon’s races and runners for a while longer. I thought we would need the unpredictability of the Wokingham and the Golden Jubilee Stakes after the first two races of the day. The Chesham Stakes and the Hardwicke Stakes were both renowned for producing short-priced winners favoring the punter.
The previous day’s rain had swept away eastwards into the North Sea and the sun had returned, bringing out the Saturday crowd, which was streaming into the racetrack by the time we had negotiated the traffic jams and parked the car. It looked like being another busy day at the office.
Detective Chief Inspector Llewellyn and Detective Sergeant Murray were waiting for me in the betting ring.
“That was quick,” I said to the sergeant before either of them could say a word.
“What was quick?” he asked.
“Didn’t you get my message?” I asked him.
“No,” he replied blankly.
“Oh,” I said. “I left one for you this morning at Windsor Police Station.”
“What did it say?” he asked.
“Just to call me,” I said.
“And what exactly did you want to speak to my sergeant about?” the chief inspector asked in his accusing tone.
“Nothing much,” I said. “Forget it.”
I had wanted to ask Sergeant Murray for more details about my mother’s demise, but I wasn’t going to ask his boss. I didn’t want to give the chief inspector the pleasure of refusing to answer, as I was certain he would.
“We need to ask you some more questions,” he said.
I hoped the questions weren’t about bundles of cash in a missing rucksack.
“What about?” I said. “Can’t it wait until after I’ve finished work?”
“No,” he said with no apology.
“Sorry, Luca,” I said. “Can you and Betsy set things up?”
“No problem,” Luca said.
The policemen and I wandered down away from the grandstand to a quieter area.
“Now, Chief Inspector,” I said, “how can I help you today?”
“Did your father tell you which hotel he was staying at in London?” he said.
“No,” I replied truthfully, “he did not.”
“We have been unable to find any hotel where someone called Grady or Talbot checked in,” he said.
“He told me that he’d only recently arrived from Australia, but not exactly when. Perhaps he arrived that morning and came straight to the Ascot races.”
“No, sir,” said the chief inspector. “British Airways have confirmed that he arrived from Australia on one of their flights, but that was the previous week.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but the first time he contacted me was on the day he died.”
“According to the airline, when he arrived at Heathrow, he had a piece of hold luggage with him,” the chief inspector said. “We have been unable to trace it. Did he give you anything? A luggage receipt, for example?”
“No,” I said, “I’m afraid not. He gave me nothing.”
Why, I wondered, didn’t I just tell them I had the luggage? And the money, and the other things. There was something that stopped me from doing so. Maybe it was a hope that my father was not, in fact, a murderer as everyone seemed to think, and the only chance I might ever have of finding out was somehow connected with the dubious contents of that rucksack. Or perhaps it was just down to my natural aversion towards policemen in general and Detective Chief Inspector Llewellyn in particular.
“Do you have any further recollection of the person who attacked you?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said. “But I am sure he was a white man, aged somewhere in his mid to late thirties, wearing a charcoal-gray hoodie and a dark scarf. And he wore army boots.”
“How about his trousers?” the chief inspector asked.
“Blue jeans,” I said.
“A distinctive belt or buckle?” he said.
“Sorry, I didn’t see.”
“Any distinguishing marks, scars or so forth?”
“None that I could see,” I said, again truthfully. “I think he had fairish hair.”
“How could you tell if his hood was up?” asked the chief inspector.
“Thinking back, I believe I could see it under the hood.”
“Long or short?” he said.
“Short,” I said with certainty. “It stood upright on his head.”
“Mmm,” he said. “You didn’t say that on Tuesday night.”
“I hadn’t remembered on Tuesday night,” I said. Or seen it, I thought.
“Could you do an e-fit for us?” he asked.
“An ‘e-fit’?”
“A computer-made image of the killer,” he explained.
“So he did actually kill my father?” I said somewhat sarcastically. “The post-mortem results are in, are they?”
“Yes,” he said. “According to the pathologist, your father died from two stab wounds to his abdomen, one on each side of his navel. They were angled upwards, penetrating the diaphragm and puncturing both his lungs. It was a very professional job.” To my ears, it sounded like the chief inspector almost admired the technique employed. There was certainly no sorrow in his voice that it had resulted in the loss of my parent. To him, I suppose, a murderous villain had got his just desserts after thirty-six years on the run.
“So what happens now?” I asked.
“About what?”
“My father,” I said. “Can there be a funeral? And how about any family he may have in Australia? Have they been informed?”
“I understand the Melbourne police have been to his home address,” he said. “They found no one there. It seems your father lived alone, under the name of Alan Grady.”
“But he told me he had two daughters from a previous marriage,” I said. “Has anyone told them?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” he said. His tone indicated that he didn’t consider it in the least important. And he might have been right. According to my father, even he hadn’t seen my sisters for fifteen years. They could be
