Tip Off

by John Francome

  ‘No, of course not, and you’ve been a great help to me. I’ll make sure my partner and I find out what happened, and we’ll let you know, without bringing you into it. Now, I shouldn’t take up any more of your time, unless there’s anything else you want to tell me?’

  She stood up too and started to gather up the tea cups. ‘Well,’ she said, thinking hard, ‘I can’t tell you where you can find Steve Lincoln, but I can show you what he looks like, if that’s any use?’

  ‘It certainly is.’

  She put the tea cups down and opened the door of a small sideboard. From this she took out a large brown envelope and pulled out a few photographs and flipped through them. As far as I could see, they were mostly of Toby with various famous people with whom he’d come into contact over the last few years as he himself had become better known.

  ‘I loved seeing him with celebrities,’ Mrs Hackney said fondly. She stopped at one of the photos and handed it to me. It showed three men standing in a row at some kind of ceremony.

  ‘Where was this taken?’ I asked.

  ‘When they started the tippin’ line. They had a bit of a party for the papers and such.’

  One of the men in the shot was Toby, beaming with knowing confidence; one was a top-ranking flat trainer, well-known for turning up at any press event if the envelope of cash on offer was fat enough. I put a finger on the third man. ‘I presume that’s Steve Lincoln?’

  Mrs Hackney nodded. ‘That’s ’im – nasty little shyster!’

  ‘May I take this and have a copy made?’

  ‘Yes, ’course you can.’

  ‘You’ve made some headway.’ Matt sounded impressed as we headed back through the West End.

  ‘Up to a point,’ I qualified. ‘Finding Lincoln isn’t going to be easy. I don’t suppose you fancy cruising the gay bars with his photograph?’

  ‘No more than you. But maybe the other chap will know where to look.’

  ‘You mean Miles, the last boyfriend?’

  ‘Yes. At least we have an idea where he works. There can’t be too many professional ballet studios in London.’

  ‘They won’t be functioning today, though,’ I pointed out. ‘I’ll start on them tomorrow.’

  ‘Fine.’ Matt nodded. ‘But we’ll have to go back to Toby’s now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because,’ he said, about to spell out the obvious, ‘we forgot to pick up our tape this morning.’

  We pulled up outside the grand front door of the building in Hay’s Mews. I rang the caretaker’s bell. There was no answer over the intercom, but a few moments later the door was opened by a burly man in a security company uniform who looked out at us blankly.

  ‘Afternoon, gentlemen. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Is Mr Tilbury there?’

  ‘Mr Tilbury’s been relieved of his duties for a few days. He’s had a bit of a shock recently.’

  Of course, we should have known that events would move on even though it was, incredibly, just seven hours since we’d first arrived at this same door that morning.

  ‘We were here earlier,’ I pressed, not holding out much hope of gaining access to the flat. ‘We found Mr Brown and contacted the police. We’re old friends and would like to take a quick look around his flat again.’

  ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible, sir. We’ve strict instructions not to let anyone unauthorised into the premises for the time being.’

  ‘But we are authorised – by Mr Brown’s next-of-kin.’

  ‘Then you’ll have a document to that effect?’ he asked with exaggerated patience.

  ‘No, of course not. We didn’t think it would be necessary. For heaven’s sake, this man’s taken his own life. His mother wants some of his personal effects. That’s not unreasonable is it?’

  ‘I believe the CID have temporarily removed most of that sort of thing, sir. But anyway there’d be nothing I could do, I’m sorry. I suggest Mr Brown’s mother contacts the CID at Charing Cross Road. Detective Superintendent Howard is in charge of the case.’

  ‘Let’s leave it,’ Matt said to me, recognising the blank wall of official obduracy. ‘He’s not going to budge.’

  ‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘Is Mr Tilbury in his flat?’

  ‘I couldn’t say, sir.’

  ‘Would you mind if one of us just popped down? There was something I wanted to see him about.’

  The man looked doubtful, but his instructions had been to stop anyone from entering Toby’s flat, not from visiting the resident caretaker. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘It’s through there.’ He nodded at the door at the back of the hall which led to the back stairs where we had hidden our recorder.

  I found it and concealed it as best I could under my jacket. On the way out, I shook my head at the guard. ‘No luck. Never mind, I’ll try again another time.’

  As soon as we reached my sister’s house we went down to the office. We’d decided to listen to the tape there, amplified on good speakers and in the best possible listening conditions, so that we didn’t miss any sound or remotely audible nuance.

  Matt sat down at the table, pulled the recorder from its leather case and flipped it open.

  ‘Oh, no!’ He gave an anguished gasp. ‘There’s no bloody tape in here!’

  My blood froze. Two seconds before, I was certain I’d replaced the last tape; now I just couldn’t be sure.

  ‘Oh, God, Matt!’ I spluttered and felt my cheeks burn at the stark shame of knowing I might have mucked up a vital source of evidence.

  He lifted his head and gave me a withering look. ‘Did you put one back in?’

  ‘I’m certain I did.’

  I could see him fighting to control his temper. To his credit, he succeeded. He let out a long sigh that made me feel even worse than I already did.

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Matt. I guess I was in a hurry, maybe I forgot to replace it. I can’t remember.’

  He snapped the machine shut. ‘Oh, well, there it is. If we haven’t got it, we haven’t got it. We’d better take a look at our photographs – if you haven’t chucked all the film or wiped the discs.’

  I couldn’t very well object to his jibe and silently got together all the shots, digital and on film, so that we could make an exhaustive analysis of them.

  We ate a late lunch of bread and cheese while, still in silence, we carried on processing, examining and sorting the several hundred mug shots we’d accumulated from the most recent race-meetings.

  Matt was painstakingly thorough for the first hour while I finished logging the rest and blew up several of them, including a high-resolution scan of the photo Mrs Hackney had given me.

  ‘Okay,’ he announced. ‘I’ve identified a dozen people who have been at more than one of the races.’

  He had arranged a number of the prints side by side. ‘Here’s one – at Chepstow, Worcester and Cheltenham.’

  I looked at the man – fiftyish and conventionally dressed – and recognised him at once. ‘He’s an owner, Michael Penruddock. He’s always at the races.’

  ‘We can’t afford to ignore anyone,’ Matt said, resenting my dismissive tone.

  ‘No, of course not, but there are going to be quite a few who crop up more than once.’

  ‘This guy, for instance,’ he said, pointing at another.

  ‘He’s the Jockey Club starter, attached to all three of those courses.’

  Matt went on to point at several others – minor officials, trainers’ employees, some of the photographers – who cropped up more than once, but always with complete justification.

  But it was while we were both studying one of them that he suddenly thumped the table. ‘Look! Isn’t that your man Steve Lincoln?’

  I picked up the enlargement I’d made a few minutes before and placed it next to the shot Matt had isolated. I swung a big oblong magnifier over them both.

  ‘What do you think?’ Matt asked.

  ‘No, that’s not him. He’s similar, but that’s all.’
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  After an hour, we had re-scrutinised every single shot and still found nothing. But we agreed that finding Lincoln and Miles should be our prime objectives.

  I was leafing through Yellow Pages, looking for dance rehearsal studios where I might start looking for Miles, when the phone on the table rang.

  I picked it up.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Tintern here.’

  With just the two words he had made it clear he wasn’t at all happy.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir.’

  ‘Hardly,’ he barked. ‘I’ve just spoken to Emma at Jane’s. She told me what happened to Toby. Why the hell didn’t you let me know first thing?’

  ‘I was planning to give you a full briefing later this afternoon when we find out more about what happened.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. I’ve already spoken to Detective Superintendent Howard, who’s handling the case. He told me you’d been back to Brown’s place this morning without any authority.’

  ‘We had Jane’s authority,’ I interrupted.

  ‘That’s rubbish and you know it! Her son’s just committed suicide. Do you imagine she wants all the detritus from that picked over by you and your partner?’

  ‘There is some doubt that it is suicide,’ I said.

  ‘That’s not what the police think, and I’m afraid I take their view more seriously than yours.’

  ‘That’s up to you, sir, of course, but we are also bearing in mind our instructions from you on behalf of the Jockey Club.’

  ‘You can consider those instructions formally rescinded as of now. You’ll receive written notification to that effect by fax, first thing tomorrow.’

  I felt myself blanch at the news, and the sharpness of his delivery. ‘I see,’ I gulped. ‘We’ll forward our account and a final report to the Jockey Club as soon as we’ve received your written confirmation.’ I rammed the phone back into its cradle.

  Matt looked at me enquiringly. ‘I take it we’re off the case?’

  ‘Yes, we’re off it,’ I said evenly. ‘Does that mean you’re off Toby’s too?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I think it probably does.’

  I couldn’t argue. Toby and Jane were my friends, not his. And, as he was undoubtedly thinking, we had a business to run.

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said quietly. ‘But I’m afraid I’m going to have to take some time off to deal with it myself.’

  ‘It can come out of your holiday,’ Matt grunted. ‘We’ve got to get to grips with David Dysart’s problem, and I could do with some help there.’

  ‘There’s nothing our regulars can’t do to back you up,’ I said truthfully.

  ‘All right,’ Matt sighed. ‘If you like, I’ll complete our report for the Jockey Club, then if you want to stay on in London to follow up this Lincoln character, I’ll take the train back.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, genuinely appreciative given the grossness of my blunder over the tape. Then I thought of another angle. ‘I suppose you won’t need to keep in touch with Sara now that we’re not investigating Chapman?’

  ‘No,’ Matt agreed sullenly. ‘I don’t suppose I will.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  I started my search next morning among a group of lithe young women at a ballet school in Hammersmith – the nearest I’d found in Yellow Pages. I soon discovered it was well-connected with the handful of other classical dance studios in London.

  The assistant principal was a former ballerina, brimming with compassion, who evidently assumed my need to contact Miles was a matter of the heart. I would have liked to put her right about my own sexual orientation, but didn’t correct the misconception.

  While avoiding too much eye-contact, she sympathetically made two phone calls for me to establish where Miles Wheatley, as I discovered his surname was, could be found. He turned out to be quite well-known in the ballet world. I was told that from an early age he had wanted to be a dancer himself, until it had become clear that his stature would always let him down.

  A converted Victorian factory in Battersea housed the rehearsal studios of one of London’s more avant-garde dance troupes.

  When I asked for Miles, my enquiry was once again met with looks of tolerant sympathy, and I was sent along to the studio where he was currently playing accompaniment for the troupe’s two leading dancers.

  I slipped in and sat on a bench in half-darkness at the back of the room.

  While he was still playing, I scrutinised Miles Wheatley from a distance of about thirty feet. He was a small man whose youthful good looks were sharpened by an air of intensity as he played with great skill while always conceding that his function was to accompany.

  I’d never paid to see a performance of ballet in my life; I’d always thought it was probably little more than a distraction from good music, presumably evolved for people who found it hard to concentrate on the music alone. But now I watched and listened, transfixed by the stark, graceful and almost violent movements of the company’s version of Stravinsky’s ‘Rite of Spring’.

  When the time came for the dancers to take a short break, I was almost tempted to carry on sitting there in the darkness to see more, but someone drew the piano player’s attention to me.

  He bounded up from his stool and walked quickly across the room to me. His light brown hair flopped in a fringe over his eyes and his mouth quivered into an uncertain smile.

  I got to my feet, trying not to look too intimidating.

  When I stepped into the light, he looked me up and down and his eyes turned sullen and wary.

  ‘Hello,’ I said blandly, offering my hand. ‘I’m Simon Jeffries. I wanted to talk to you about Toby Brown.’

  The wariness in his eyes became more pronounced. ‘What about him?’

  ‘I’m afraid something’s happened to him and I need your help.’

  The apprehension in his eyes turned to surprise, then fear. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting you do – please believe me. Look, is it possible to go out somewhere and talk for a few minutes?’

  He pursed his lips, looked at me for a few seconds then nodded. ‘I’ll just tell Madame I’m taking five. She’ll forgive me.’

  He took me out of the warehouse to a handsome and well-preserved nineteenth-century pub on the opposite side of the road. I bought him the bottle of Grolsch he asked for and myself a pint. There weren’t many customers at eleven in the morning, and we found a quiet corner table.

  ‘So,’ he said challengingly, ‘what’s Tobes done now?’

  I strained to tell from his voice, his body language, his shifting eyes, whether or not he was acting. If he was, he was very convincing.

  Although the morning papers hadn’t run the story, I knew that it was already on the front page of the first editions of the Evening Standard.

  ‘I found him at his flat yesterday.’

  Miles tensed at the word ‘found’, but said nothing.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s dead.’

  I watched his fingers suddenly tighten their grip on the frosty beer bottle. ‘How?’ he whispered.

  I had to gulp to get the word out. ‘Hanged.’

  ‘Himself ?’ Miles whispered.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘that’s what it looks like, but the police haven’t said for certain.’

  ‘What else could it be?’

  ‘Toby’s mother doesn’t believe he’d commit suicide – she thinks he must have been murdered.’

  ‘But then, why don’t the police think it’s murder?’

  I shrugged. ‘They say there was no sign of any intruder.’

  ‘Do they know why he did it?’

  ‘They don’t. There was no suicide note, but media reports are hinting it was because he’d been . . . jilted.’

  Miles gave a bitter laugh. ‘Toby – jilted? That’ll be the day!’

  ‘I’d heard it was you who walked out on him?’ I said quickly.

  ‘You what? Let me tell you, it was him who let
me down. Badly. He was going to help me set up my own rehearsal studios . . .’ He stopped abruptly, and took another swig from his bottle.

  ‘Well, what happened?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, ’specially not now.’ He drained the bottle and plonked it on the table.

  ‘Do you want another?’ I offered.

  Miles nodded dejectedly.

  When he had a fresh bottle in front of him, I tried another angle. ‘What about Steve Lincoln? Didn’t he chuck Toby?’

  Miles looked at me as if I were supremely ignorant. ‘Of course not! Everyone knew Steve Lincoln was a right little hustler who only got what he deserved.’

  ‘What did he get?’

  ‘Sweet F A – which was more than he deserved, come to think of it.’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Depends what you mean by know. Toby’d seen him very comfortable for a few months while he was supposed to be helping with the tipping line. Steve said it was his idea, but it’s not as though no one else was doing it and all the tips were Toby’s. Anyway, when Toby’d had enough of him, he cut off the money, had to change the locks and everything, but Steve seemed to think he should still have some of the profits from the line. Toby had just shut down the one company and started up another. Legally there wasn’t a thing Steve could do. Toby was very good at that sort of thing.’

  I could imagine he was. And this made sense of the phone calls and squabbles Matt and I had heard through our bug. ‘But when did Steve move out of Toby’s life?’

  ‘About a month or so ago, when I came on the scene.’

  ‘So it was before Toby started napping all those winners?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Had Steve anything to do with Toby after he’d gone?’

  ‘Yes.’ Miles’s nostrils quivered in outrage. ‘Steve didn’t want to let go – Toby was his meal ticket.’

  ‘So, he was very bitter about what Toby had done?’

  ‘Yes.’ The little pianist nodded eagerly. ‘He started making all sorts of threats.’

  ‘But the locks were changed so Steve couldn’t get in unless Toby asked him? Would Toby have invited him in?’

  ‘No way.’