by Roger Keevil
“Oh. Right. I thought you might be reporters. I’ve already had two on the phone this morning.”
“On the matter of Sir Richard Effingham? We’re making enquiries into his death, sir.”
“Yes, Ed told me it was on the news.”
“Ed?”
“Yes. Ed Short. It’s his betting shop downstairs. He came up and told me what they were saying on the radio this morning.”
“But of course you knew all about it, since you were at Sir Richard’s house last night, weren’t you, sir? And we’d like to ask you some questions about that. So may we come in, please? I’m sure we’ll all be more comfortable than standing here on the doorstep.”
“Oh. Yes. Come on up.” Owen led the way up the stairs into a rather untidy sitting room. “You’d better sit down.” He subsided on to an oversized beanbag.
“So, Mr. Elliott, I gather you’re a jockey,” began Constable, taking a seat on the somewhat shabby sofa as Copper positioned himself behind it, notebook at the ready.
“Huh,” grunted Owen. “I would be if I still had a job.”
“I was under the impression that you rode for the Effingham stables,” said Constable in surprise.
“That’s right, guv,” broke in Dave Copper. “In fact, I saw Mr. Elliott ride not so long ago – I was at Goodwell to watch the Five Thousand Guineas, sir. You won the race on ‘Last Edition’, didn’t you?”
“Something of a triumph, I gather,” commented Constable.
“Yeah, right,” replied Owen. “Well, that just goes to show you can never take anything for granted in racing. Up one minute, down the next. And as for ‘Last Edition’, not my favourite animal at the moment. Brilliant horse, but he’s what got me the sack.”
“Sir Richard had sacked you?” Constable’s attention sharpened. “Would you mind telling us how this came about, sir? And what this had to do with the horse?”
“You know it died?”
“Yes, sir. Some sort of accident, we understand.”
“Well, I wish to god the old man had been as understanding as you.”
“Perhaps you’d care to explain,” said Constable patiently. “We don’t know the full circumstances.”
“It was supposed to be just an ordinary training session.” Owen sat gazing unfocussed into the middle distance, obviously visualising the scene in his mind’s eye. “Well, not even that, really. All the other horses had gone up to the gallops, but ‘Last Edition’ had had a pretty strenuous day at the race meeting the day before, so he got to have a lie-in.” He smiled faintly. “I just went up to see him.”
“You have a car?”
“Scooter. Never got around to learning to drive a car.”
“Go on.”
Owen gave a watery smile. “I took him an apple to say thanks for the win. He was a bit perky, so I thought I’d take him out for a breath of fresh air. Just a gentle trot round the manège – nothing strenuous. But he took it into his head to go over one of the practice fences. It’s a stupid little thing – it’s only a couple of feet high, for goodness sake. But he landed awkwardly for some reason. I’ve got no idea why. He’s been over fences two or three times that height hundreds of times. But his left foreleg went from under him. And I heard a crack as he went down, and suddenly I’m picking myself up and looking at him hobbling around on three legs.”
“So what did you do then?”
Owen sighed. “Nothing much we could do. When something like that happens to a thoroughbred, you just know it’s the end of everything. And there was nobody else about – just me and a couple of the stable lads. So Tina phoned the vet …”
“Sorry, sir,” interrupted Copper. “Tina?”
“One of the lads.”
“Tina’s a lad?” Copper sounded puzzled.
“They’re all lads,” explained Owen dully. “Even the girls.”
“Do go on, Mr. Elliott,” encouraged Constable, with a sideways glance of irritation at his junior. “Tina phoned the vet …?”
“And she also called Sir Richard. And he said he’d come up, but by the time he arrived, it was all over. The vet had got there first, and he said that the horse was in pain and nothing could be done. And that was it.”
“And what was Sir Richard’s reaction?”
“What do you think?” replied Owen bitterly. “He was absolutely fuming. He said the whole thing was my fault, and I had no business taking ‘Last Edition’ out without authority, and he sacked me on the spot. Told me to get out, and if he had his way, I’d never ride again. I tried to explain that it wasn’t my fault, and Tina backed me up, but he was in such a rage he wouldn’t listen. So here I am, inspector. Unemployed and skint. And probably nobody else will touch me. And now you know everything.”
“Not quite everything, sir,” contradicted Constable. “We don’t know what took you to Sir Richard’s house yesterday.”
A wary look came into Owen’s eyes. “You know I didn’t get there until after he died, right? I mean, they did tell you that, didn’t they?”
“We do have an approximate list of people’s movements,” said the inspector. “But that doesn’t tell us why you went to the house.”
Owen bit his lip. “Desperation, I suppose. I thought I’d have one last try to persuade him to give me my job back. You know, once the heat of the moment had died down. I wanted to appeal to him. I mean, he’s known me since I was a little kid. I was always up around the house and the stables when I was young because I just loved being with the horses, and I suppose he sort of took me under his wing. And he and Lady Olivia never had children, so I guess he just thought it was nice having a youngster about the place.” A bitter laugh. “What a joke.”
“You’re a local, then? Your family comes from the village?”
“Yeah, mum was a local girl. She died a couple of months back.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”
“Yes. She’d been ill for a while. We were close.” Owen sighed. “Anyway, I thought I’d try reminding Sir Richard about everything, but – well, I never got the chance, did I? I got to the house just before half past eight, and I rang the bell, but it took ages before they answered the door, and then it was Mrs. Carruthers. And she told me about the murder. And then she took me through to the kitchen because she said I looked really shocked and I needed a cup of tea. She wanted to put some brandy in it, but I don’t drink, so she put about five sugars in. I thought, what the hell, I’m not having to keep my weight down any more, am I? And so I sat in there with her until the police came.”
A thought struck Constable. “Remind me, sergeant. I think Mr. Pelham mentioned that Mr. Elliott had made a telephone call to Effingham Hall earlier in the evening. Am I right?”
Copper riffled back through the pages of his notebook. “That’s correct, guv. Around seven, by the look of it. It was just before Mrs. Wadsworth’s call.”
“Mr. Elliott?” Constable looked enquiringly at the jockey.
“Oh. It was just to check that Sir Richard was home.”
“And did you actually speak to him?”
“Yes, but only briefly.”
“And can you tell us what was said?”
“I just told him I needed to talk to him. And he said not to bother, but I decided to go up anyway.”
“On your scooter?”
“Walked.”
“I see. And did you see anyone else as you went?”
Owen frowned. “No. I don’t think so. Why?”
“Oh, I just wondered if there might be someone who could verify your movements, Mr. Elliott. We always like to double-check our facts if we can. So, then, to sum up, you in fact didn’t actually see Sir Richard yesterday at all? And although you were in his bad books, so to speak, after the incident with ‘Last Edition’, you still cherished hopes that you might be able to persuade him to rescind his decision?”
“That’s about it.”
Constable rose to his feet. “Then that probably is about it for the time being, sir.” H
e paused. “Oh, just one thing. I assume that, until recently at least, you would have been quite close to Sir Richard. I’m wondering if you can think of anyone in his circle who might have had any reason to wish him ill.”
Owen shook his head. “Racing’s not really like that, inspector. Okay, there’s a lot of rivalry, but it’s all pretty friendly. Civilised, I suppose you could say. I mean, most of the jockeys could be riding for one owner one day and then somebody else the next.”
“And the owners and trainers? How about the financial side of things?”
Owen gave a wan smile. “I don’t think anyone involved with racing does it to get rich, inspector. The only ones who manage to do that are the bookies. You want to ask Ed Short about that.”
“Perhaps we’ll do just that, sir.”
*
As they stood once again on the pavement outside Owen Elliott’s front door, Dave Copper was intrigued by the speculative look in Andy Constable’s eyes. “Something on your mind, guv?”
“I’m just thinking,” replied the inspector. “Maybe Mr. Elliott’s suggestion wasn’t such a stupid one. It occurs to me that somebody like a bookmaker needs to have the inside track on what’s going on in the world where he makes his money. If he hasn’t got all the right information at his fingertips, he could easily catch a cold by offering silly odds on dead certs, or what have you.” He laughed. “I haven’t a clue what I’m talking about, really. All this world of betting is a completely closed book to me. But I’ve got an instinct that somebody like this Mr. Short might have a knowledge of the sort of gossip which could fill in a few gaps in the formal statements. It’s worth checking out.”
“You, going into a betting shop in the middle of an investigation, guv?” grinned Copper. “You’d better hope that never gets out. Well, after you.” He pushed open the shop door and held the plastic slashed curtain aside to allow his superior to enter.
The establishment was devoid of customers. Above a shelf littered with pens, odd pieces of paper, and untidily discarded daily newspapers, a bank of television screens, volumes reduced to a murmur, provided mumbled commentaries on various sporting events. A large and complex-looking electronic gaming machine, tones warbling in an endless barrage of sound, flashed a persistent and repetitious invitation to play its game in the hope of winning enticing amounts of cash. And behind a grille, a young woman looked up from her task of filing a scarlet talon, manoeuvred her chewing gum to the side of her mouth, and directed a well-practised mechanical smile towards her visitors. “Afternoon, gents. Come to put a last-minute bet on today’s big event?”
“Not exactly,” said Constable. “We were wondering if it would be possible to have a word with Mr. Short.”
“He’s not available,” came the automatic reply. “Who wants him?”
Constable produced his warrant card. “My colleague and I are from the county police. And we hoped that Mr. Short might be free for an informal chat.”
“Oh.” The woman was clearly thrown off balance. “Um. Let me see if I can find him.” She eased herself off her stool and picked up a wall phone at the rear of her booth. “Hello, Ed,” she muttered into it, obviously attempting to keep her voice as low as possible. “There’s a couple of blokes out here from the police. They want you. What shall I tell them? … Oh. Okay.” She hung up the phone and turned back with a further attempt at a carefree smile. “That’s lucky. He was in the office after all. He’ll be out in just a sec.”
A door at the rear of the shop opened, and a figure emerged. “Officers of the law come to see me? Well, that’s a pleasant surprise. Come into the office, gents, and we’ll see what we can do to help.” A gesture invited the detectives to enter his sanctum.
Ed Short was as far from the conventional image of a traditional bookmaker as it was possible to be. No loudly-chequered suit straining across a squat chubby frame, no cheery rubicund face, no fairground barker’s accent, no fat cigar jammed into the corner of the mouth. Tall, something over six feet, and cadaverously thin, his pasty complexion and dark charcoal grey suit made him look more like an undertaker than anything else. The voice was unschooled, with a carefully-applied veneer of cultivation. “So, what have I done to attract the attentions of the police?” he enquired, with a toothy smile which did not quite reach his eyes, as he settled back into the large and capacious leather chair behind his desk.
“Nothing at all, sir, as far as I’m aware,” responded the inspector comfortably. He took a seat opposite the bookmaker on one of the bentwood chairs which seemed to have been designed specifically to make any visitor feel ill-at-ease. “Let me introduce myself and my colleague.” He did so with the accompanying presentation of warrant cards. “We are looking into the death of Sir Richard Effingham, and we hoped you might be able to assist us with some additional information.”
“But I don’t know anything about it, other than what they said on the news,” protested Ed.
“I’m sure that’s true, sir,” said Constable. “No, it’s more the facts around the periphery of the case where we thought you might be able to contribute.”
“How do you mean?”
“I find myself slightly surprised that your shop is here at all, Mr. Short.” Constable declined to tackle the subject directly. “I freely admit I know very little about the world you inhabit, but I should have thought that in these days of online betting, a business like this in a country area would be struggling against the odds for survival.”
“Oh, very amusing, Mr. Constable,” said Ed. A thin smile. “We do enjoy a good pun around here. Hence the name of the shop. Just my tiny joke. And some of my customers like to call me Short Ed. What with the horse-racing, you see.”
‘The long winter evenings must just whiz by,’ mused Constable, but he wisely kept the thought to himself.
“But as regards the business,” went on Ed, “in fact, you couldn’t be more wrong. We’ve got quite a lively clientèle here. I’m the only turf accountant for miles around, and people do like to come in for a chat and to swap a few tips. We get pretty busy, specially on big race days. People tend to like to watch in a crowd, even if they lose.”
“Misery loves company, I suppose,” murmured Constable in an undertone. “And there would be the additional local interest, I imagine,” he went on aloud. “With the village being the home of a prominent trainer.”
“That’s true, inspector. It certainly doesn’t do any harm. And of course, I was a great fan of Sir Richard’s anyway.”
“Sir?”
“His books, inspector. If there’s one thing I enjoy, it’s a good murder mystery, and I loved the ones Sir Richard wrote. I didn’t actually know he was the author when I first discovered them, because he wrote under another name, and you could have knocked me down with a feather when I found out. In a way, he was good for business – you know, raising the general level of interest in horse-racing meant that more people were inclined to have a flutter now and again, so me buying his books was just returning the favour, in a way. And now, poor man, he’s in a murder mystery of his own. I suppose it is a mystery, inspector? I mean, you don’t know who did it?”
“Not as yet, Mr. Short,” said Constable. “Which is why we’re interested in gleaning any additional facts from wherever we can.”
“I don’t see how I can help,” said Ed, shrugging. “I had next to no dealings with Sir Richard personally.”
“Ah, but your tenant upstairs is a very different matter, sir. We gather that Mr. Elliott and Sir Richard had a great deal to do with one another.”
Ed shook his head sadly. “Owen? Yes, he’s a talented boy. He’s made quite a lot of money over the years.”
“I wasn’t aware that jockeys were particularly well-paid.”
“No, I meant that he’d made money for the owners and trainers. Prize money and the like. And of course, if a stallion is successful, there’s no limit to what it can make in stud fees.”
“But surely some of this must have come Mr. Elliott’s wa
y. And of course, knowing the horses he was riding, he must have been able to clock up some appreciable winnings from people like yourself.”
“Oh no, inspector. You’re quite wrong. Jockeys aren’t allowed to bet. Or trainers, for that matter. Not that some of them don’t, and I could name one or two where they’ve caught a pretty big cold as a result.” Ed cleared his throat, realising he was teetering on the edge of an indiscretion. “Naming no names, of course. No, the rules are very strict. Mind you …” A crafty look came over the bookmaker’s face. “… there’s nothing to stop jockeys passing a few words of advice on to their friends. Purely unofficially, of course. Helps to set the odds, if nothing else. Well, there’s no chance of that with Owen in future. It’s a shame. He’s won a lot of races for Sir Richard, and I think it’s very unfortunate that it’s ended as it has.”
“You knew Mr. Elliott had lost his job, then?”
“Oh yes, inspector. You can’t keep secrets in a place like this.”
“I hoped that might be the case, Mr. Short,” smiled Constable. “And therefore, you may be able to tell me - strictly confidentially, of course,” he added quickly, as Ed seemed about to interrupt, “whether, unlike yourself, there might be anyone else in the vicinity to whom we might usefully speak.”
“I hope you aren’t inviting me to indulge in vulgar gossip, Mr. Constable.”
“Nothing was further from my mind,” the inspector reassured him. “I’m thinking more in terms of local colour.”
“Well …” Ed hesitated. “You could have a word with Sarah Wadsworth. She knew Sir Richard quite well, by all accounts.”
“We have, in fact, spoken to Mrs. Wadsworth, sir. I think we’re fairly clear on the situation there.”
“Oh.” There was obvious disappointment in Ed’s tone. “Well, in that case, I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm to talk to Susan.”
‘Another one?’ thought Constable. “And this would be Susan …?” he enquired.
“Susan Robson-Bilkes. She’s the local solicitor,” explained Ed. “Her office is just across the road. I don’t know for sure, but she’s probably got her finger on the pulse of most of what goes on around here. Mind you, after the row about the book, she and Sir Richard might not have been on the best of terms.”
