bookmakers were villains unless proved otherwise, and even then there’d be some doubt remaining.
“Are you absolutely certain that this man was your father?” He stabbed his finger at the driver’s license that sat on the table in front of me, its black-and-white photograph clearly being that of the man I had left lying dead under a sheet at the hospital.
“No,” I said, looking up at the detective chief inspector, “I can’t say I am absolutely certain. But I still think he was. It was not so much what he looked like or what he said but his mannerisms and demeanor that convinced me. He picked at his fingers in the same way I watched my grandfather do a million times, and there was something about his lolloping walk that is somehow reminiscent of my own.”
“Then why is this license in the name of someone called Alan Grady?” he asked.
“I have no idea,” I said. “Is it genuine?”
“We’re checking,” he said.
“Well, I still believe the man in that photograph is my father.” The detective chief inspector clearly didn’t share my confidence. “The DNA will tell us for sure one way or another,” he said. I had been asked for, and had given, a sample of my DNA at the hospital. “And you say he’s lived in Australia for the past thirty years or so?”
“That’s what he told me, yes,” I replied.
“And you believed him?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why not?” I said. “Why would he lie to me?”
“Mr. Talbot,” he said, “in my experience, people lie all the time.” He leaned forward and looked at me closely. “And I think you might be lying to me right now.”
“Think away,” I said. “But I’m not.”
“We’ll see,” said the detective chief inspector, standing up abruptly and walking out of the room.
“Chief Inspector Llewellyn has left the room,” said the detective sergeant for the benefit of the audio-recording machine that sat on the table to my left.
“Can I go now?” I asked.
“Mr. Talbot,” said the detective sergeant, “you can leave anytime you like. You are not under arrest.”
Maybe not, I thought, but I had been questioned “under caution.”
“Then I would like to go home,” I said. “I have to be back at Ascot racetrack at ten-thirty in the morning.”
“Interview terminated,” said the detective sergeant, glancing up at the clock on the wall, “at twenty-two forty- five.” He pushed the STOP button on the front of the recording machine.
“Have you spoken to any of the other people who were there in the parking lot?” I asked him as we walked along the corridor.
“We continue to make inquiries,” he answered unhelpfully.
“Please can I have a photocopy of that driver’s license?” I asked him.
“What for?” he said.
“The photograph. The only one I have of my father was taken before I was born. I would like to have another.”
“Er,” said the detective sergeant, looking around at Detective Constable Walton, “I’m not sure that I can.”
“Please,” I said in my most charming manner.
Constable Walton shrugged his shoulders.
“OK,” said the sergeant. “But don’t tell the chief inspector.”
I wouldn’t, I assured him. I wouldn’t have told the chief inspector if his fly had been undone.
Sergeant Murray disappeared for a moment and returned with a blown-up copy of the license, which I gratefully folded and placed in my trouser pocket alongside the envelope of cash.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said wistfully. “Lost my dad too, about three months ago.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“Thanks,” he replied. “Cancer.”
He walked me to the door of the police station, where we shook hands warmly, the comradeship of those with recently deceased fathers.
“Now, how do I get home?” I said, turning my morning-coat collar up against the chill of an English June night.
“Where’s your car?” he asked.
“In the parking lot at Ascot, I expect. That’s where I left it.” With, I hoped, all our equipment still safely in the trunk. The uniformed boys had helped me load everything in there before insisting that they drive me to the hospital. “You might have a concussion from that kick,” one of them had said. “Better safe than sorry.”
So here I was in Windsor town center at eleven o’clock at night with no transport, and I knew there was no chance of getting a hotel room anywhere near Ascot during the Royal Meeting.
“Where’s home?” asked the sergeant.
“Kenilworth,” I said, “in Warwickshire.”
“Outside our patch,” said Sergeant Murray.
“Does that mean you won’t send me home in a police car?” I asked him.
“Er”-he seemed to be undecided-“I suppose it does. You’ll have to get a taxi.”
“Do you have any idea how much a taxi to Kenilworth would cost?” I asked in exasperation. “Especially at this time of night.”
“I could arrange a lift to Ascot to get your car,” he said.
“It’ll probably be locked in the parking lot,” I said. “Or towed away.”
“Sorry, sir,” he said rather formally. “Nothing else I can do.”
“Don’t you have a spare cell I could use?” I asked.
“We can’t go offering cells as hotel rooms, now can we?” he said sarcastically.
“Why not?” I said. “If I was drunk and disorderly, you’d put me in a cell to sleep it off.”
“But you’re not,” he said.
“I could be,” I said, grinning at him. “It’d be cheaper than taking a taxi to Kenilworth.” And back again tomorrow, I thought. Much cheaper, even allowing for a fine, and more comfortable than sleeping in my car.
“I’ll see,” he said. “Wait here.”
He disappeared into the police station for a few minutes.
“OK,” he said. “On compassionate grounds only. I’ve had to say that you are distraught over the death of your father and in no state to be allowed to go home. And, for God’s sake, don’t tell Chief Inspector Llewellyn. He thinks you’re up to your neck in something dodgy.”
“Well, he’ll know where to find me, then.”
I didn’t sleep very well, but, in fairness, it was mostly due to having a thumping headache rather than the starkness of my surroundings. Understandably, my night’s accommodation hadn’t been designed with comfort in mind, but the kindly night-custody sergeant had provided me with a second blue-plastic-covered mattress from an empty cell next door. It had helped to make the hardness of the concrete sleeping platform almost bearable.
“We’re not very busy tonight,” he’d explained. “Just a couple of drunk drivers from the races. Bit too much of the champers, silly buggers.” He rolled his eyes. “Friday and Saturday nights are our busy times. We sometimes need camp beds and two or more in a cell.”
I was luckier than the two other residents as I slept with the light off and the door slightly ajar. Even though my cell had its own basic en suite facilities in the corner, I was invited in the morning to make use of the more salubrious staff washroom down the corridor, where I found a shower, shampoo and a disposable razor.
I looked at myself in the washroom mirror. It wasn’t a pretty sight. My left eyebrow was swollen and turning a nice shade of deep purple, while my white shirt was decidedly pink around the collar where the previous evening I had unsuccessfully tried to wash out the blood that had run down my neck. It would have to do, I thought. No one really cares how their bookmaker dresses. The pinkish shirt would go well with the green-stained knees of my trousers.
Breakfast was also provided by my hosts.
“We are required to feed the drunks before their court appearances so I ordered you a breakfast too,” said the
