by Diane Janes
‘Come on then. Canteen it is.’
NINE
In spite of growing up in the north, Mark had never been to the racecourse at Thirsk before. It was not the first time that his errands for Chaz’s friend had taken him into previously uncharted territory. The first of the bets had entailed him travelling down to Taunton, which while it was a bloody long trek from London, had been nothing like such a lengthy and tedious journey as this one. Next thing they would be demanding that he go to Ayr or Fairyhouse!
At Taunton he had been pleased to discover that from the top of the stands, Glastonbury Tor was visible through his binoculars. The famous tor was one of those places he had always meant to visit. At one time he had been really into myths and legends: that whole King Arthur and Holy Grail stuff. As a boy he’d been a big reader and loved watching those old black and white movies on the telly. Ivanhoe, Robin Hood, it was all good stuff. His older brothers had been into rugby, cricket, tennis and squash. Basically anything physical at which they could beat him. Loads of brothers seemed to spur one another on to be sportsmen – the Lloyds, the Nevilles, the Murrays – there was an endless list of them, whereas his brothers had achieved the absolute opposite, turning Mark into a sofa-bound spectator, inclined to be spotty and podgy, and favouring crisps and Coke over energy drinks. As an adult he had learned to keep an eye on the diet, but in spite of compulsory school sports and his father’s extravagant praise when Monty and Michael had each in turn been selected for the county juniors, Mark had retained his preference for being a film buff, rather than a sportsman.
He did not particularly like putting himself out to travel to these far-flung venues, but when he had commented that it was a long drive to Thirsk, Chaz had only had to raise his eyebrows before Mark had immediately fallen into line, confirming that of course he would be more than happy to place a large bet on a horse running in the 4.15 at Thirsk, at the behest of Chaz’s mystery employer.
It was essential to continue fulfilling these periodic commissions – inconvenient though they sometimes were – until he could access another source of finance with which to clear his debts. In the meantime, it was all about buying time. Time, he thought, was all that he needed. The relationship with Jude was coming along nicely, but it couldn’t be rushed.
It augured well for the future that Jude enjoyed a day out at the races. It had been the good old gee gees which had originally brought them together. A chance fortuitous meeting, when he had literally bumped into her, initially just taking her for a particularly gorgeous specimen, then almost immediately recognizing that she was none other than Jude Thackeray, one-time kidnapped heiress, and now the answer to all his prayers. He had not, however, suggested that Jude accompany him to this meeting, not least because he couldn’t think of a plausible explanation for coming so far, when there was a perfectly good fixture at Goodwood, which would only have entailed travelling a fraction of the distance. Furthermore he wasn’t sure that his overdraft would bear a weekend in a sufficiently luxurious country house hotel, with the racing disguised as an afterthought.
Anyway, he preferred to take her to meetings where they were more likely to bump into mutual friends and acquaintances. Drifting around at racetracks like Billy No Mates wasn’t really his scene. It made his gambling appear less social … more … well … compulsive … sort of. He didn’t have a problem – not really. There had just been a lot of bad luck, followed by that terrible mix-up over the wrongly placed bet at Towcester. He still couldn’t understand how that had come about. Surely … but he got no further, because his train of thought was shattered by the appearance of a familiar face among the crowds of racegoers who were milling in front of the on-course bookies, sizing up the odds for the next race.
‘Chaz!’ He all but yelped the name, such was his shock at seeing his contact approaching. It was unlikely that Mark’s voice would have carried very far above the general hubbub, but it did not need to, for at the same moment in which he cried out, Chaz caught sight of him and immediately changed direction, making for Mark in a way which suggested that this was no accidental meeting. A sickening presentiment of unease slid upwards through Mark’s alimentary canal. Chaz did not normally frequent the meetings at which Mark was commissioned to ‘do his friend a little favour’.
Instead of a greeting, Chaz motioned him across towards the rail, close to the finishing post; an area which was currently deserted, with all the spectators seemingly gone to stand around the parade ring, or look at the betting on the next race.
‘Chaz.’ Mark extended a hand, ignoring the hollow sensation in his guts and summoning up a smile.
The other man ignored the proffered hand. He was wearing the immaculate suit and silk tie of a gentleman racegoer, but Mark knew that the costume was deceptive. Whoever Chaz worked for, it was no gentleman – and neither was he.
‘Plans have changed. We want the stake money back,’ Chaz announced without preamble. No ‘please’. No messing about.
‘What do you mean? How can I put the bet on, if I give you the money back?’
‘Someone else is going to place the bet. Someone more reliable. We don’t want you going anywhere near that bet – you are to going to pick another horse and put your money on that.’
‘But then I’ll lose. You want me to deliberately lose some money?’ Mark’s voice rose slightly as he regarded Chaz in disbelief, not bothering to disguise the fact that he thought the other man was out of his mind. ‘Why would I deliberately set out to lose?’
‘Because you’ve been told to – and keep your voice down.’
Mark glanced around. Chaz’s caution appeared superfluous, since there was no one near enough to hear them. ‘Can’t I just not bet on the race at all?’
‘No. You place a bet. Not betting would be suspicious.’
‘To whom? And why are you putting your boss’s bet on, instead of me, anyway?’
‘I’m not. I’m passing the money on to someone else. In a minute or two, you’re going to walk towards the Hambledon stand and I’m going to walk in the opposite direction and from then on, if you see me again, you’re to keep well out of my way. At precisely 3.30 you enter the Gents closest to the Saddle Room Bistro, wait until the first cubicle is free, go in, stay in there with the door closed for precisely three minutes, then come out, leaving the money sitting on the cistern. Someone will be waiting to follow you in. Don’t acknowledge him in any way, don’t make eye contact, don’t attempt to see where he goes after that.’
‘Suppose the wrong person is waiting?’
‘They won’t be. Do you think I’m some kind of fucking amateur?’ Chaz glowered at him.
‘But why?’ Mark asked again.
‘Because you’re no use to us anymore. You’re being watched.’
‘What?’ Mark looked seriously alarmed.
‘Someone’s interested in you, Marky boy. Someone’s been making enquiries.’
‘Who? Why? How do you know?’ A sickening sense of panic rose up alongside the words. He had known from the beginning that the little errands he had being fulfilling in line with Chaz’s instructions were connected to something shady. When a man knows for a certainty that a rank outsider is going to come in at long odds, such knowledge is unlikely to have been gained via a legitimate tip on Channel Four. He had been around racing long enough to know that people involved in race fixing (he didn’t like to qualify it with those words, but alas they were indisputably the words which came to mind) did not place their own bets, or even use the same people to place their bets every time, because telephone and internet accounts could be traced back, while on-course bookmakers remembered faces that cropped up too often behind unlikely winning tickets, which commanded unusually large pay-outs. He had not done anything dishonest, he reminded himself. He had put on the occasional bet for a friend – nothing more than that.
He realized that Chaz was reading his expression, weighing him up, and he experienced the sense of humiliation which comes from being assessed and
found wanting. Chaz had rumbled him as a coward. Well, why not? No one wanted their features rearranged.
‘Who’s said something?’ he asked again.
‘One of your associates – Matt Blakemore – was approached out of the blue, by some chap at the evening meeting at Windsor. He’d seen Matt having a drink with you and claimed to be some sort of acquaintance.’
‘So what? I have a lot of acquaintances.’
‘It was a fishing expedition. Was it true that your family’s firm was in a bit of trouble? Maybe your own finances weren’t on too steady a footing? All that sort of thing. Wanted to know whether you’d said anything to Matt about this woman you’re seeing – Judy Thackeray – and whether you’d mentioned anything about her having money. It wasn’t exactly subtle, I can tell you.’
‘I have no idea why anyone would be having that conversation. Anyway how did Matt Blakemore come to be telling you about this? I didn’t know that you knew Matt Blakemore.’
‘I know all sorts of people.’
Chaz sounded so pleased with himself that Mark, who normally avoided any kind of violence, was gripped by the urge to slug him. During the brief silence which followed, the cogs turned and he got it. There had been rumours a year or so back that Matty Blakemore was in a bit of trouble – an expensive divorce, a run of bad luck – no doubt the suave, persuasive Chaz had introduced himself into the picture with promises of temporary financial assistance to ‘see him through a bad patch’ in return for some ‘little favours’, one of which was presumably appraising Chaz of any potentially harmful gossip about his friends. The fact that Matt seemingly knew that he, Mark, was a person of interest to Chaz, merely served to increase his sense of humiliation all the more. He began to wonder how many other people in his circle were spying on one another, because they had somehow become indebted to Chaz’s anonymous employer.
Though he was facing away from the track, the sound of approaching hooves, beating against the turf, told him that the runners for the next race had begun to gallop down the course towards the start.
‘Better go and put your bet on,’ Chaz instructed. ‘And don’t forget – 3.30.’ He turned to go, but Mark impulsively grabbed his sleeve.
‘Get your hand off my jacket.’ Chaz’s voice contained an unexpected note of menace, which demanded instant obedience. Though Mark immediately let go as instructed, his impulsive gesture had momentarily arrested Chaz’s progress, and it gave Mark the chance to ask, ‘Who was this guy who was asking about me? What was he like?’
‘Matt said he’d never seen him before. Average kind of bloke – average height, brown hair, brown eyes, sounded like an Essex boy attempting a Hollywood accent.’
‘It’s Jude’s brother. I bet it was Jude’s brother. There’s nothing at all in that for you to worry about, Chaz.’ The words were tumbling out, far too fast. ‘It’s got nothing at all to do with our business. Let me put the bet on for you.’ He put pride aside, heard himself begin to plead. ‘How can I put things right and repay the debt, if you won’t let me put the bets on any more?’
‘Not my problem, old chap. We’ll be in touch … over the debt.’
‘It’s Robin Thackeray,’ Mark called after Chaz’s departing back, heedless of any listeners nearby. ‘He’s just asking around because he worries about who’s seeing his sister …’ He trailed into silence, as he realized that his words were making no impression on Chaz, who had continued to stride out of earshot.
‘It’s that fuckwit, Robin Thackeray,’ Mark said more quietly, all but choking on the words. Jude Thackeray was supposed to be his Master Plan, but instead his involvement with her had just made things much, much worse.
TEN
Detectives Betts and McMahon had left off talking about the Thackeray kidnap over lunch. It was often better to take time out, have a proper break and come back to things afresh. Jerry Wilkins had joined them and the conversation had turned to his date with the latest ‘incredibly fit girl’ of his acquaintance. ‘So I took her to that new place that’s opened, where the Grapevine used to be. Big mistake.’
‘Too expensive?’
‘Bit on the pricey side, but that wasn’t the real problem.’
‘Which was?’
‘Entire menu was in bloody cookery-ese. A tian of apple and Wensleydale. I mean what the fargo is a tian, when it’s at home? Partridge in a game reduction. A game reduction! I ask you. It sounds like what happens when your team gets docked three points for fielding an ineligible player. Talking of which, I see your lot did all right against Crystal Palace at the weekend.’ Jerry addressed this latter remark to Peter. The new season had just begun and it was well known that Bettsy followed the fortunes of Arsenal FC.
‘What I don’t get,’ Hannah said, ‘is how you can claim to support a team that you’ve hardly ever been to see in person. I mean, most turncoats who choose not to follow their local side join the Manchester United mob. Why the Arsenal, for goodness sake?’
It was a well-trodden conversational path, along which Peter always gave as good as he got. ‘You have to admit that there’s not much street-cred in supporting a team which has a carthorse on its badge and is known as the Tractor Boys,’ he said.
‘At least I’m loyal to my origins – and don’t forget that last time Ipswich won the cup, they beat Arsenal, one nil.’
‘Ancient history,’ Peter said. ‘We’ve won it seven or eight times since then.’
‘Not against Ipswich.’
‘Yeah, right … and didn’t Ipswich also win the title once, and even the UEFA Cup – also before either of us was born?’
‘Real supporters stay true to their roots. They even go to games, shifts permitting.’
‘Yeah,’ Jerry put in with a grin. ‘Mind you, I bet it’s a bit easier to get tickets for a game at Portman Road, than it is to get them for the Emirates Stadium.’
‘People who support a team known as Swindon Town Nil, have no business ganging up with an Arsenal supporter,’ Hannah protested.
‘I support Swindon because somebody has to,’ Jerry said. ‘Now then, children. Some of us have to get back to work.’
The point was acknowledged by all three pushing back their chairs in unison.
Graham Ling had set aside a small, first-floor room where his two chosen officers could concentrate on the Thackeray review without too many interruptions. As they climbed the stairs from the canteen, Hannah got back on topic, by raising the lamentable lack of forensic evidence at their disposal. ‘Was he clever?’ she asked, ‘or just damned lucky?’
‘A combination of both, I’d say. He was careful not to have sex with her for several days before the intended murder. During the kidnap he wore disposable gloves, which he duly disposed of. He burned the van that he’d used to transport her to the woods, probably destroying the pay-as-you-go mobile at the same time. He appears to have washed the towels and bedding they’d been using, and thoroughly cleaned the house. There’s no single sample of DNA which can definitely be said to belong to him. The bin men had been the day before he took her away from the house, taking away whatever food containers etc, had been used.’
‘That’s an amazing touch,’ Hannah mused. ‘Taking the wheelie bin up to the road, while you’ve got the owner of the house, tied up in a cupboard under the stairs.’
‘He had an eye for detail,’ Peter remarked drily.
‘And he was lucky, because unlike a lot of houses, where hardly anyone but the occupiers had any cause to be in there, the Thackerays had let Laurel Cottage to holidaymakers in the recent past, leaving SOCO with traces of unidentified DNA all over the place – absolutely impossible to eliminate them all. We’ve got lots of DNA, but none of it necessarily even belonging to him. What’s more, if we ever do put a name to him, you can bet your bottom dollar he’ll run a defence that his DNA got into the place because he once visited some friend or relative who was holidaying there.’
Peter ignored the optimistic leap ahead towards an arrest and successful prose
cution, saying instead, ‘He also chose his victim well. She leads a fairly solitary life – doesn’t have many really close friends or family. Relatively few people ever saw her out with his guy, which leaves us with hardly anyone who can describe him. How many on our list of witnesses?’
There was a pause, while Hannah located a document, before commenting wearily on the vagaries of identification evidence. ‘It’s the usual story. Everyone looks at the same person, but sees someone different. The staff who waited at the places where they went out for a couple of meals were useless. The one girl made the guy out to be a dead spit for Robin Thackeray – who she’d probably seen in the papers or on television after the case made the news – while the guy who served them in the Italian actually thought Mr X was blonde – which isn’t how anyone else describes him at all. Later on, this chap, Guido – his English wasn’t that great and I do wonder if something got lost in translation – said he thought the chap’s hair might have been dyed, but that’s obviously crazy, because Jude Thackeray would have noticed if her boyfriend suddenly decided to dye his hair for the evening.’
‘Quite. Wasn’t there also a sighting in the lane?’
‘Yup. Some of Jude’s neighbours were out walking their dog …’
Peter groaned. ‘Of course, the dog people. I remember them now.’
‘They saw Jude driving her car,’ Hannah continued inexorably. ‘They’d not long set out to walk their dogs, when Jude’s car passed them in the lane. It would have been the same day that the new boyfriend suddenly turned nasty, decided to tie Jude up, forced her to give him her pin numbers, and started to systematically raid her bank account. They’re sure of the day, because it was the same day that their grandchildren arrived to stay, and we’re sure of the day, because the first cash withdrawals were made in the early hours of the next morning.’
‘Which is good evidence in theory,’ said Peter.
‘But doesn’t help us much in practice,’ Hannah finished for him. ‘According to Mr and Mrs Andrews, they stepped back onto the verge to let the car go by. Mrs Andrews said she was a bit surprised, because Jude didn’t acknowledge them at all. Jude was driving the car and they were walking on her side of the lane, so they didn’t get much of a look at the guy in the passenger seat. Mrs Andrews said she thought the man and Jude Thackeray both looked annoyed about something, but she admitted that it was only a passing glimpse. Mr Andrews said he was paying more attention to one of their dogs, because it was off the lead and he had to catch it by the collar when he saw the car coming, as the dog’s a bit unreliable.’