by Daisy White
“Okay.” It doesn’t make sense to me, but then I know nothing about the business of betting. Surely if you have less contenders you’re more likely to win? But then the bookies and tipsters don’t want you to win, do they? I realise I’ve answered my own question.
Sammy is still talking. “Just you, though, not your reporter boyfriend or anything.” He gives me the address, and I tuck the phone under my chin to scribble it down. “Can you get here by six?”
I tell him I can, and hang up. The fact that Alan Stonehill is actually prepared to talk to me means he must be a seriously worried man. He’s hardly going to be suddenly concerned about his dead daughter’s reputation when he’s been refusing to see me for weeks.
I tell Mary, and she frowns. “Are you sure you’re okay to go alone? Why don’t you take Johnnie?”
“Take me where, angel?”
I explain, but reiterate that Alan is only talking to me on condition that I come alone. “He’s not going to give me any trouble, and Sammy’s going to be there.”
Johnnie looks doubtful. “I was going to pop over to the wholesale warehouse in Shoreham, but I can drop you off if you like. I’m not sure what time I’ll be finished though.”
“It’s fine, I can walk. Mary will be home, so if I don’t get back, you’ll know where to find me!”
“That’s not funny, Ruby.”
“Sorry, but I’ll be okay. I’m not taking risks, and it really is just a chat. If he says anything interesting, I’ll come straight back and telephone DC Little.”
“Alright.” Johnnie glances at his watch. “Eve, can you lock up after Mrs Hayward, and I’ll take Ruby over now.”
I grab my cardigan and bag and walk with Johnnie to his latest toy, a dark red 1962 Daimler. I hardly dare sit on the plush beige seats. Johnnie smooths a loving hand over the paintwork before he gets in. “Isn’t she gorgeous?”
“Lovely, if a bit impractical for Brighton. Aren’t you scared somebody will scrape your shiny paintwork in these narrow roads?”
He deftly negotiates a sharp corner, skimming past a delivery van. “No, darling, not with me driving. Now what’s the address again?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
We pull off Compton Road and halt outside a tired-looking row of terrace houses. Number eight is right at the end, half hidden by a sprawling ash tree. There appears to be an allotment to the side of the houses, and I spot a few large derelict sheds, coated with brambles and moss. Two men are arguing over a box of tools, and they glare at us.
“Be careful, Ruby. Remember, I’ll check at your flat on my way back to make sure you’re home. If you aren’t, I’ll be back down here to find out why not. You tell him that, won’t you?” Johnnie is ferociously protective of all of us, and his turquoise stare is serious, his mouth set in a thin line.
“Of course, and thanks, Johnnie.” I slide out of my luxurious transport and watch him drive away.
Rita’s dad answers my knock on the door immediately. I’ve never seen him, of course, but his small black eyes, like wet pebbles on a beach, are just like Sammy’s.
“Hallo, Ruby Baker. I’ve heard a lot about you. My Sammy has been on at me for a while to speak to you.” Alan Stonehill is an innocuous-looking little man, with a deceptively wide smile. Like that of his sons, his black hair is roughly shorn to shoulder length, and he peers at me through small round glasses. His small lounge is immaculate, with dark wood furniture, a swirly orange carpet and a television set perched on a chest of drawers.
I sit carefully in the chair he offers, and refuse his offer of tea.
“So, I expect you’re wondering why I asked for you?” He watches me, eyes flickering across my face.
“A bit. Sammy said it was about your business. I’m definitely wondering why you wouldn’t speak to me before. I should have said this first, I’m so terribly sorry about your daughter.”
He ignores this, showing no emotion. “It is business. I’ll come straight to the point. I need these trainers back in order, so the punters feel confident enough to start betting, and after that, start having faith in my tips again. No point in me giving tips on a bloody horse that’s missing, or a yard that’s burnt down, is there?”
I agree there probably isn’t, and wait.
We stare at each other for a moment, and I wonder when is going to be the best time to admit that I have failed in this particular investigation and that I’m giving up the case. I should have had the guts to tell Sammy when he telephoned.
“I’ve got my eye on one of those lads at Tommy’s. His name’s Barney.”
“Barney? Why?”
“You know him?” He leans forward. “Sammy said you’d been hanging around Tegdown with that reporter boyfriend of yours.”
“I don’t really know Barney, but he’s been friendly whenever I’ve seen him, out, or at the yard. He seems really concerned about Pridey and everything that’s happening.” Instead of wondering how to break the news that I’m dropping the case, I get a rush of hope that actually this might be the breakthrough I need. Barney?
Alan picks up a pack of cigarettes and pushes them towards me across the coffee table. “I reckon he killed Simon Smith, and I reckon he helped steal Basil’s Pride.”
“What! How do you know that?”
He smiles, clearly pleased at my reaction. “I saw him. Barney and Simon were my insiders at Tommy’s, along with Jake and Ben at Moses’s yard. It’s not wrong. They’re just passing information back to me. Who’s doing well in training, who’s off form, which jockey is doing well on the gallops, and who’s turning up late after too many nights out.”
“Why don’t you tell the police?”
“The bastards keep dragging me down the station to ask about my daughter. First they say I beat her, and then they want to know if I’ve been starting fires and stealing racehorses! I tell them where to go each time.” His face darkens, his black brows pull together in a scowl and he stares out of the window. Then he turns back to me. “Some of my business transactions aren’t exactly legal. I don’t want the police involved, and if word gets around that I’ve been speaking to them, telling them who my inside crew are, nobody will want to work for me again, in case I grass them to the coppers. But you . . . Sammy says you’ve been sticking your beak in because he asked you to look at Rita’s murder. The coppers must know you, so whatever I tell you, you can pass on to them.”
“But they’ll still ask where I got the information. You can’t expect DC Little to just go and arrest people on my say-so. He’ll want firm evidence.” I take a cigarette from the pack and frown at him. “Do you think it has anything to do with Rita’s death?”
He meets my eyes, and for the first time, I see a flicker of emotion, but it’s so quick I may have imagined it. “No. Sammy’s wrong there. There is no mystery. The girl got herself in trouble, and took the only way out she could. If I’d known it was that bad, and she’d come to me instead of her brothers, I could have helped. But she didn’t.” He sighs, blowing out a stream of blue smoke that hangs in the air between us. “No, this is about racing, not my girl.”
“Why did the police question you about Rita’s death then?”
“You’ve spoken to Bev and Joanna, haven’t you? The trouble they caused with their tittle-tattle. Look, Rita was my daughter and I was trying to protect her the only way I knew how. So I may have given her the odd slap, what else could I do? The girl was running wild, upsetting her mother, getting into trouble . . .” He shakes his head. “I’m telling you, Rita ending her life is nothing to do with this trouble at Tommy O’Mara’s.”
“Okay. Tell me why you think Barney is involved.”
“They both came to see me. It seems Simon found out that Barney was in debt, but he also found out how the boy was earning extra money. Simon wanted in on the deal. I said maybe, but the debt needed to be cleared before I paid any more to anyone from Tommy’s yard. That’s the only trouble with the racing game, you can get the inside knowledge that the punters d
on’t have, but if the insiders themselves start playing the game, it can get nasty. A tip is never a sure thing.” He smiles again, displaying that big mouthful of sharp, uneven teeth.
“That’s not what you tell the punters,” I say.
“Of course not, girl. I’ve got a living to make, kids to feed.” He gives a harsh bark of laughter. “One less now. Poor Rita,” He still doesn’t seem distressed enough about Rita’s recent demise, although his jaw tightens every time he says her name.
Time to change the subject. “Who doped Seaboy?”
He shrugs. “Nothing to do with me. If they’re in my pay, they’d most likely do the same for others, and more, to make a quick bit of cash. Others who might not be as scrupulous as me. I don’t do drugs — never have. Barney might have got a bit desperate and taken a few notes to do it. I tell you, that kid needs to pay off his debts, and fast.”
Could he really be telling the truth about Barney and Simon? It does fit. I’m struggling to find a way to put the questions I need to ask without seeming to accuse Alan of anything. He’s pretty amenable right now, and happy to tell me what he wants the police to know, but he could just as easily be playing me for a fool. That flash of anger towards the law just now showed me what he might be capable of, and he has admitted to hitting his daughter. I light my cigarette slowly, thinking hard. “How did you feel about Tommy?”
“What, that he was having it away with my girl? No father’s happy to hear his daughter’s been putting herself about, but I told you, I knew what she was like. I tried so hard, and her mother did too. We wanted her to get married — hell I even found her a bloody husband! She had a good job waiting for her up at the Co-op . . .” He sighs heavily. “But it wasn’t anything personal with Tommy. Besides, I had my business to think of. Got to stay on good terms with the trainers.”
“Go on about Barney and Simon.”
“Well, they left my house, and I was heading up to Lingfield for a meet, so I walked down to the bus stop at the bottom of Church Road. They were in the alley next to the post box, right behind a load of crates, but I recognised their voices, all low and angry. When I had a look, Barney had Simon up against the wall, and he had a knife at his throat.”
“But he obviously didn’t kill him there.”
“No, I sent them off with a warning, told them to take it somewhere else. Clearly they did.”
“One of the other lads said Simon recently bought a gun for protection.”
That shrug again, not dismissive, almost like he’s saying it has nothing to do with him. “Maybe he did. He couldn’t work for me until Barney paid off his debt, so perhaps he was planning on killing Barney and it went wrong, ending up the other way round.”
I sit for a moment, taking this in, trying to equate that likable, friendly lad with a gambler who is desperate enough to kill. “Why would it help to steal Basil’s Pride though? Surely you only bet on a horse that’s actually going to run. You can’t win any money if the animal isn’t there.”
“Well, you have got brains, haven’t you? No, it wouldn’t help him win anything but you can sell a stolen horse, can’t you? He got far too cocky, thought he’d pay back the money he owed me in no time. It wasn’t just my debt either. The kid had got himself into trouble with a few others in the business.”
“He lost money with the bookies?” I don’t know why I’m surprised. When I think of wolfish, good-looking Barney, I can sort of imagine him chasing money and dreams like he seems to chase women.
“Lately, he wasn’t putting the money on with a regular bookie. He chose someone who offered even bigger stakes, and those people don’t take kindly to gamblers who can’t pay their debts. He kept blaming the horses, the jockeys, the trainer. Everything that went wrong, even if the poor animal lost by a short head, he was furious. There is no certainty in racing, and he knows that, but the gambling gets in their blood, and they can’t think about anything else. I’ve seen it before. It takes over lives.” Alan sits back in his chair, folding his arms, waiting for me to speak.
He makes Barney sound like an angry, desperate loser, but could he be setting him up for a fall? His story ties everything up very neatly, without touching Rita’s death. “So you’re saying he is behind everything — the fire, the doping, the shooting — and he might even have stolen Basil’s Pride for revenge or to pay back his debts?”
“Maybe. It’s more likely he found a buyer for him, and thought he’d make money that way. If you get the word out to the right people that you’re prepared to do anything for money . . . Get the horse straight on a private airplane to America, or stick him on the boat to France or Ireland . . . it happens.”
“Are you sure you won’t tell the police any of this?” I picture to myself the interview with DC Little, and sigh. “I’ll have to tell them, you know, and when they ask where it came from, they’ll bring you back in.”
“No they won’t. I told you, if I grass up my lads, and start talking, that’s my business finished. Nobody likes coppers, and nobody wants them poking around.”
“DC Little will come over and ask you questions, at the very least.”
“Which is why you must say you got this information from anyone else but me. If the coppers come calling, I’ll deny ever talking to you.” For the first time, I detect a hint of menace. “And if they give me trouble, I’ll send my boys round on a little visit to your hairdressing salon.”
“Don’t try and threaten me, Mr Stonehill. None of this matters to me. Your son asked me to investigate your daughter’s death, but I don’t actually have to play along and act as your puppet. What does it matter to me if Tommy’s yard goes bust?” I can’t believe how stupid he’s being. Of course I have to tell the police where the information is coming from, or I’ll end up in trouble myself.
I lean forward until we’re almost nose to nose. His hand jumps out and grips my wrist, his fingers biting into my flesh. I don’t even flinch, glaring back at him, meeting his anger with my own.
Unbelievably, he lets go of me and sits back, laughing. “You’re a feisty piece, aren’t you? You remind me of Rita. Don’t worry, I’m not going to slap your legs for being a naughty girl.” He lights another cigarette, good humour restored. “I’m telling you because, like I said, I want this sorted, and because Sammy’s been talking about you and how you fix things. He’s half in love with you, in case you hadn’t noticed. Oh, not like that! You look like Rita, and act like her too. Sammy doesn’t want her gone, so he’s found you. Women are good at poking their noses in, and good at getting things done, so off you go and get things moving. That conscience of yours won’t let you sit on this, and you know it as well as I do. If you do let slip to the coppers that you talked to me, well, I’m thinking of taking a little holiday and I might just go early. Scarborough’s nice this time of year.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say grudgingly.
“You do that, girl. Now get out of my house. I’ve got places I need to be, and a suitcase to pack.”
Glancing at my watch, I see that I’ve only been talking to Alan for an hour. That leaves plenty of time to get down to the police station. If I drop in on Mary on the way, I can reassure her I’ve left the Stonehills’ house unscathed.
There’s a bus stop about a mile down the road, so I head briskly in that direction. I walk past a patch of wasteland, bright with weeds and poppies, before I reach the edge of the town proper. There is nobody else around, and as I pass the next houses, a man calls out from the shadows.
“Ruby! Come here quick.”
His voice is familiar, but his body is in shadow. He’s hiding in one of those long thin alleys that finish in steep steps. This one must be a shortcut to South Street. I blink in the bright sunlight, my heart hammering, undecided.
“Ruby, please. I really need to talk to you.”
I walk into the shadows.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I follow Sammy until we’re facing each other in the sour-smelling little alley.
“Did my dad tell you about Simon and Barney?”
“Yes. He doesn’t think Rita’s death was murder, though. He wouldn’t really talk to me about her at all. He told me that everything that’s happened is down to Barney.”
Sammy considers this, his black eyes narrowing, tapping his fingers against the brick wall behind him. “What, he didn’t say anything about Rita at all?”
“Not really. Only things I already know, like she was a bit wild, and about the marriage he arranged. I know you’ve said he used to hit Rita, but he played it down and just said he gave her the odd slap.”
He frowns, looking at the ground, scuffing his boot against the cobbles.
“Sammy, if there’s something you want to tell me, now is a good time. I’ll have to go up to the police station and tell them everything your dad just told me. I suppose you should know he threatened me if I tell them that the information came from him, but I’ll have to let them know.”
“Why?”
“Why not? I’ll tell them exactly what he said, including the fact that if they question him, he’ll deny everything. It’s up to them what they do with the information. I need to get a move on, or DC Little will have left for the day.”
Still he lingers, and eventually says, “My dad’s gone out now. I saw him. He left just after you.”
“And?”
“Come back to my house for a bit. There’s something I want you to see.”
I glance at my watch, and back at his face. He’s smaller than me, and a bit weedy looking. I could probably take him in a fight. Unless his brothers are hiding in the house ready to ambush me . . . Logic tells me this would be ridiculous, and curiosity overrides my caution. “I need to hurry though, because the Derby is this weekend and if it is Barney, who knows what he may have planned? I assume you know all this?”
“Yeah. It doesn’t matter though. Rita is the only thing that matters. Proving she was murdered is far more important than some stupid lad who’s gambled his way into debt. He won’t be the last loser to do that.” We walk back past the wasteland and he kicks a stone which clatters across the road.