“Right,” I said. “I’ll see you on Friday afternoon.”
I sat in my office for a while wondering who I should tell. I expect the police would want to know, but was I required to inform them? And should I tell my grandmother that her son’s funeral was on Friday? Perhaps not, I thought. It would be far less distressing for her if I didn’t.
And how about Sophie?
We had never really discussed my parents as I’d never had any memories of either of them. She still thought they had both died in a car accident when I was a baby. Should I now explain to her that Alan Charles Grady, the man who had owned the black-and-red rucksack, the man who had been murdered in the Ascot racetrack parking lot, had actually been Peter James Talbot, my father? Not dead for the past thirty-seven years, as Sophie had thought, but dead for just fifteen days? And did I tell her that my mother had also not died in a car crash but had been strangled on the beach under the pier at Paignton? And did I further tell her that it had been my father who was responsible?
I decided that I would, in time, tell Sophie all about the events of the past two weeks, but not just yet. She had enough to deal with at the moment, having just come home from the hospital. I certainly didn’t want to upset the balance of her life, not while she was still adapting to her drug regime.
I decided I would go to my father’s funeral alone.
Luca arrived at Station Road, Kenilworth, at noon, and he had a spiky-haired boy with him. Douglas Masters, I presumed. He looked about sixteen. He was wearing a red-checked shirt with rolled-up sleeves, fawn denim trousers that looked like they were about to fall down off his hips and dirty white trainers over yellow socks.
“Hello,” I said cheerfully, holding out my hand.
“Hi,” he replied without any humor. He shook my hand but warily, leaning forward to grasp it.
“Is he old enough?” I asked Luca. Eighteen was the minimum age for working as a bookmaker or as a bookmaker’s assistant.
“I’m eighteen,” the boy assured me.
“I’m sorry to ask, but I’ll have to see some ID,” I said.
He pulled a dog-eared driver’s license from his pocket and held it out to me. According to the license, he was indeed eighteen and two months. The photo on it made him look about thirteen.
“OK, Douglas, thank you,” I said. “And welcome.”
“Duggie,” he said. “Or Doug. Not Douglas.”
“OK,” I repeated. “Duggie it is.”
He nodded. “How about you?” he asked.
“Call me Mr. Talbot for now,” I said.
“And him?” he said, nodding at Luca
“That’s up to Mr. Mandini,” I said.
“Luca will be fine,” Luca said.
He nodded once more. “Just so I know,” he said.
I think it was fair to say that young Mr. Masters was economical with his words and his expressions. I raised my eyebrows at Luca in silent question.
“Duggie will be fine,” said Luca, sticking up for his young friend. “I think he’s just a little shy.”
“No, I’m not,” said Duggie with assurance but no grace. “I’m just careful. I don’t know you.”
“Are you always careful with people you don’t know?” I asked him. My dying father had told me to be careful of everyone.
“Yup,” he said, being ultracareful.
“Good,” I said overexuberantly. “That’s exactly what’s needed in bookmaking. You can’t be too careful because you never really know your customers or what they might be up to.”
He looked at me, cocking his head to one side. “Are you taking the mick?” he said slowly.
“Something like that,” I replied.
He smiled. It was a brief smile, but a vast improvement while it lasted.
“That’s all right, then,” he said.
“Come on, let’s go,” I said with a smile, “or we’ll be late.” The three of us loaded up into my Volvo, with Luca sitting up front next to me and Duggie in the back. Sophie came to the door to wave as we set off for the Worcester races.
“How’s she doing?” Luca asked me, waving back at her.
“Fine,” I said, not really wanting to discuss things in front of Douglas, but the young man was very quick on the uptake.
“Is she ill?” he asked from behind me.
“She’s fine at the moment, thank you,” I said, hoping to end the conversation at that point.
“Cancer, is it?” he said.
“No,” I said.
“My mum had cancer,” he said. “It killed her in the end.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said wistfully. “Everyone’s sorry. Doesn’t bring her back, though, does it?”
There was no answer to that, so we sat in silence for a while, and I warmed to the boy.
“Duggie,” I said, “how well do you know the others in the electronics club?”
“I know some of them,” he said. “Why?”
“Are you careful of them as well?” I asked. “Or would you trust them?”
“Maybe I’d trust them not to grass to the cops, none of them is snitches,” he said. “That’s about all.”
“How many of them are there?”
“Dunno,” he said. “Quite a lot.”
“There must be sixty of them at least, if you count them all,” said Luca. “But they’re not all there on any one night. Most come out of choice these days, but some still don’t come unless they are told to by the courts, and others disappear from time to time, you know, when they get sent off to young offenders’ institutions.”
“So how many of those sixty would you actually trust, Duggie?” I asked.
“With what?” he replied.
“With some money,” I said. “Say, to go and buy something for me or to place a bet.”
“Maybe half,” he said.“The rest would just spend it on themselves. On drugs, mostly.”
Half of them would be enough, I thought.
“Would you know which are the ones to trust?” I asked him.
“Sure,” he said with confidence. “The ones who are my mates.”
“What did you do, Duggie?” I asked, changing the subject. “To be sent to the club?”
There was a long pause.
“Stole cars,” he said finally.
“For money?” I asked.
“Nah,” he said. “For fun.”
“Do you still steal cars?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“Do you have any recorded convictions?” I asked.
There was another long silence from the back of the car.
“Duggie,” I said. “I’m not asking so that I can judge you myself, but I need to know under the conditions of my bookmaking license.”
Under the terms for the issuing of licenses in the mammoth Gambling Act 2005, prior convictions did not, in themselves, mean an individual was not a fit and proper person to hold a bookmaker’s license. Equally, they didn’t preclude someone from working as a bookmaker’s assistant. But I needed to know. Convictions for violence would be a no-no.
“Yes,” Duggie said.
“Just for stealing cars?” I asked.
Convictions for fraud were also not permitted.
“Yes,” he said reluctantly. “But I never really done it. I was told to plead guilty.”
