Tip Off

by John Francome

  ‘Good. So, let’s have some answers. What’s your name?’

  ‘China,’ the man grunted.

  ‘China? China what?’

  ‘Smith.’

  Matt abandoned that line. ‘Who asked you to go to McDonagh’s?’

  ‘I don’t know. There’s a geezer I do a bit of work for – he tells me to go down and put a bit of pressure on McDonagh to stop tipping ’orses.’

  ‘And this geezer didn’t tell you who had asked him?’

  ‘Nah, but it’s got to be fuckin’ obvious, ’asn’t it? Everyone knows the bookies’ve been doing their bollocks over him and the last one.’

  ‘The last one?’ Matt asked. ‘Toby Brown?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Did someone ask you to go and see Toby, too?’

  ‘Yeah, but I never killed him,’ China said quickly. ‘I went round his place Sunday morning. He was brown bread when I got there.’

  ‘How did you get in then?’

  ‘Whoever done it must have left in a hurry; the front door was on the latch, and the door of Toby’s flat was still open.’

  ‘How was he killed?’

  ‘’Anged wasn’t he? Like it said in the papers. But I told my punter I done it, so’s I got my wages.’

  ‘So the bookies, if they’re your clients, think you did it, and that you made it look like suicide?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘They must be very pleased with you. Why do you suppose they wanted to kill Toby when he’d already stopped publishing his naps?’

  ‘I dunno. And they weren’t too happy about it, I can tell yer. I wasn’t paid to kill him, just duff ’im up.’

  ‘Why?’ Matt pushed the billhook a little harder into the sinewy neck.

  ‘I ’eard they done a deal with him to stop, and they reckoned he was taking the piss and just tellin’ the Paddy what to put. But when the winners still keep on coming after he’s dead, they knows they was wrong.’

  ‘And why didn’t they want you to duff up McDonagh?’

  ‘They just said to find out what was happening, like, but when I gets here, he’s out the back, messing around by the dog kennels. When he sees me, he does a runner, right down through the woods then back to the house and bangs hisself in.’ China shrugged. ‘I just gets in by the khazi window and finds him on the floor, groanin’ and pantin’ like a dog. I can see he’s in a bad way, and I want to get out, so I tell ’im I come from some people who want to know who’s tellin’ ’im which’orses to tip. But he just stares at me, like, splutterin’ about some dope he needs, but I can’t ’ear for sure, then you people turn up.’

  ‘And now he’s dead. I suppose if you’re lucky, the coroner’ll find he died of insulin deprivation.’

  ‘Looks like it,’ the man muttered, more confident now, sensing that we had no interest in dealing with the police.

  ‘All right,’ Matt said, suddenly sounding reasonable. ‘You can go.’

  ‘What? Just like that?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, and walked over to open the cellar door.

  China Smith, if that was his name, had no intention of waiting to see if Matt was going to change his mind. He was up the stone stairs and in his car inside half a minute.

  ‘What do you make of that?’ I asked Matt as we locked up Connor’s house and walked away. ‘Do you think it’s Chapman’s consortium?’

  ‘That seems most likely.’

  I agreed. ‘I could see Chapman doing something like that, and it makes sense of Toby’s death.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t. China Smith said he found him dead and I believe it. The way Toby was presented was far too convincing to have been done by a hoodlum like that. And there are still too many other things that don’t add up. We may know how those horses were being doped, but we don’t know who was organising it.’

  ‘I’ll have to get over to the hospital,’ I said, ‘or they’ll be wondering where I am. I’ll drop you at your car and meet you in London later.’

  A policeman was waiting to see me outside the mortuary at Newbury hospital where Connor’s body had been temporarily housed. He was a nervous young constable, manifestly overawed to be dealing with the death of a local celebrity.

  I told him the dead man had been a friend of mine and I’d simply dropped in to see him when I’d found him in the last stages of some kind of attack, and though I knew he suffered from diabetes, I hadn’t known how badly. ‘As soon as I saw him,’ I said helplessly, ‘I realised roughly what must be happening so I phoned the emergency services.’

  It took twenty minutes to marshal these facts into a format acceptable to the procedure-conscious constable, but to my intense relief he took it all at face value and didn’t probe for any inconsistencies he could have spotted.

  I signed the statement in which I was glad to see I hadn’t had to tell any lies, though there were plenty of omissions.

  Later I arrived at the house in Notting Hill to find Matt already there and on the phone. ‘That was Jack,’ he said as he put it down. ‘He says the photographer has just driven away from his house in Windsor and he’s tailing him.’

  This meant that Tresidder hadn’t been to the races, which in turn suggested we now possessed the only example of the ‘camera’ air gun.

  Matt and I sat in our basement office trying to work out a strategy to consolidate the knowledge we had pulled together so far.

  I phoned a racing service to find that Connor’s nap had won again.

  Matt grunted. ‘What are the chances the horse Connor napped today would have won without any outside help?’

  ‘From the indifferent way the other seven horses ran, no worse than evens. But then Connor and Toby only ever picked horses that had a chance. Even if they weren’t in good form at the time, they’d always shown at some point that they had the ability to win, if they could produce it on the day.’

  We carried on reviewing every fact that we’d found and kept coming up against dead ends.

  After an hour, Matt stopped pacing up and down the room. ‘This is hopeless. Even the police are coy about following up what happened to Toby.’

  ‘Enough people turned up at his flat that morning,’ I agreed. ‘But the police don’t seem to have talked to any of them.’

  ‘We’ve got to see Wyndham again,’ Matt said decisively.

  ‘We’d be wasting our time. Why would he tell us anything else?’

  ‘Let’s at least bloody well try!’ he snapped.

  ‘All right,’ I relented. ‘But where do we find him on a Sunday?’

  Matt picked up a phone and dialled a number.

  ‘DI Wyndham, please,’ he asked when his call was answered. ‘Yes, this is Major James of Thames Valley Technical Protection Services.’ He added two telephone numbers where he could be contacted and rang off.

  ‘Not there, then?’ I asked.

  ‘No – at least they say not, but they also say they’ll contact Wyndham and let him know I rang.’

  ‘Why did you bother with all the “Major James” stuff ?’

  ‘Policemen are like soldiers – they react instinctively to rank. Both forces attract people who like order and hierarchy.’

  DI Wyndham hadn’t struck me as a lover of rigid discipline and chains of command, but half an hour later I found myself talking to him on the phone in our office.

  He sounded a lot friendlier than last time I’d spoken to him. When I asked him if he was prepared to talk to us again, he sounded quite happy at the prospect and suggested we should meet right away on the main concourse of Paddington station.

  ‘Why here?’ Matt asked once we’d made contact under the departures board.

  ‘I’ve got a train to catch,’ Wyndham said. His hair had been cut even shorter since we’d last seen him and he looked like a stocky version of Vinnie Jones in a black leather bomber jacket and jeans.

  He led us to a small bar beside platform one. ‘Well, what do you gentlemen want to talk to me about?’ he asked.

&
nbsp; ‘Are you here officially or not?’ Matt asked.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I was having a day off, going down to see my sister, when the Duty Sergeant phoned me. So, here I am. I expect you want to know if we’ve changed our minds about your friend’s suicide?’

  ‘What we want to know,’ Matt said quietly, ‘is why you decided against any more enquiries? You know as well as we do Toby could have been murdered.’

  ‘There was no prima facie evidence of murder, and the powers that be aren’t interested in pursuing marginal cases these days.’

  ‘But surely,’ I protested, ‘there must have been other lines you could have followed before you gave up?’

  ‘Maybe. My Sergeant reckoned it might be worth checking out more background, but there weren’t any real leads and, frankly, in my boss’s opinion it was a cut and dried case.’

  ‘Did the forensic report throw anything up?’

  Wyndham didn’t answer at once. ‘Not as far as I’m aware.’

  Matt glanced up and down the platform, then turned back to him. ‘Look, Inspector, we think we’ve spoken to a man who might well have been involved in this. He’s admitted to us that he was in Toby’s flat that morning, though he says Toby was dead when he got there. I don’t know if that’s true. I think it probably is, but he could tell you a lot more.’

  ‘I told you, we’ve closed the case already. New fish to fry.’

  ‘But who should we tell, then?’

  Wyndham shrugged. ‘If someone decides to re-open the case, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘But, for heaven’s sake, there hasn’t even been an inquest yet!’

  ‘The inquest’ll only find what we’ve told the coroner’s court.’

  ‘Is there really nothing else you can do?’

  ‘Sorry, lads, I’d love to help but there it is. And I’ve got to go now.’

  We watched as Wyndham caught his train.

  ‘Well,’ Matt said, ‘what the hell do you suppose is going on?’

  ‘God knows. The police must have their own agenda and priorities.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s as simple as that.’ Matt shook his head. ‘But I dare say we shall see.’

  While he was speaking, my mobile rang.

  ‘Hello, Simon?’ The voice was vaguely familiar. ‘It’s Richard Simpson here. Jane Brown gave me your number.’

  I searched my memory for a lead on the name.

  He obviously sensed it. ‘I’m Jane’s vet,’ he prompted.

  My immediate reaction was that one of my horses had had an accident. ‘There’s not a problem with old Baltimore is there?’

  ‘No. It’s nothing to do with your horses. It’s about Sox O’Dee.’

  ‘What?’ I asked, wondering why on earth he should be calling me about one of Tintern’s horses.

  ‘Jane suggested I talk to you about it. Are you around later?’

  ‘I’m in London,’ I said wearily.

  ‘I know. I’m coming up anyway for the theatre.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Come here, then.’ I arranged to meet him at 6.30 and gave him directions to the house in Notting Hill.

  Richard Simpson was a slightly dull, but competent and totally dedicated veterinary surgeon. He was the sort of man one could trust implicitly.

  He arrived at the house and came in diffidently, almost apologetically. I took his coat, gave him a large drink and sat him down in front of the fire while Matt and I remained standing.

  ‘It was very good of you to take the trouble to call in,’ I said.

  ‘No trouble,’ he assured us. ‘I wanted to see you as soon as possible.’

  ‘So, what’s it all about?’

  ‘I think you know – Sox O’Dee should have shown up positive for traces of Dermobian after he won at Towcester the other week.’

  ‘Yes, I saw the girl who does him the next day. She was in a terrible state, and told me all about it.’

  ‘Well,’ Richard went on, ‘I phoned the Jockey Club yesterday. He was tested and has been given the all clear.’ He paused to weigh his words. ‘There is no way that horse could not show positive.’ He stared at us, both calmly nodding our heads. ‘But, for God’s sake,’ he blurted with an unexpected display of passion, ‘this means that someone is fiddling with the urine samples! Either they swapped his sample on its way to the lab, or someone in the lab fixed it. Don’t you see the implications?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said, understanding his reaction to our complacency. ‘It’s happened before.’ I explained what Sara had told us about the bookmakers sending a sample to the States.

  ‘But why on earth hasn’t all this come out yet?’ the vet protested.

  ‘It will, very likely any moment now, especially since the second winning tipster has gone.’

  ‘Gone?’ Simpson stared at me. ‘What? You mean Connor McDonagh?’

  I nodded. ‘I’m amazed it hasn’t filtered out already. We went to see Connor this morning and found him in the throes of a diabetic attack. And now he’s dead.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Matt had already gone out for a run round Hyde Park when I came down to the kitchen next morning. While I ate fresh croissants with coffee, I made a few personal calls.

  It was a little early for Emma, but I caught Derek de Morlay between lots.

  ‘Better By Far worked well,’ he said through a mouthful of toast. ‘I just wish I could talk you out of this mad scheme to ride him yourself.’

  ‘But didn’t Julia tell you how much I’ve improved?’

  ‘Yes, and I didn’t believe her.’

  ‘All right,’ I said, not wanting an argument about it now. ‘Just give me an update on his gallops.’

  However disparaging Derek may have been about me as a jockey, he gave me plenty of encouragement over the condition of my horse, and I was grateful for that.

  As for my riding, I didn’t need Julia to tell me I’d improved. I could feel that for myself. The hours spent on a horse without my feet in the irons had been well worth the initial discomfort. My balance, the strength in my leg muscles, everything was coming together, and I couldn’t wait to put it all to the test on the race-course.

  When I put the phone down, I went downstairs to our small office.

  The strange piece of equipment we’d acquired from Tresidder at the races two days before was on the table. I picked it up and turned it around, staring at it, when it came to me suddenly that one of David Dysart’s technical boffins might be able to throw some light on the way it functioned or how it had been developed.

  I picked up the phone and called Wessex Biotech. Dysart was agreeable, and I arranged for Brian Griffiths to come up that evening at five o’clock.

  He arrived early and once I’d solicitously settled him in front of the fire in the drawing room, with a Scotch at his elbow, Matt brought Tresidder’s contraption up from the office.

  ‘We were wondering if you could have a look at this thing,’ he said, pulling the camera from its bag.

  Brian took it and turned it over a few times. We didn’t prompt him, but allowed him to inspect it in his own time.

  He removed the front lens cap and scrutinised the small aperture. ‘Ah!’ he said quietly.

  He undid the back and opened it to reveal the miniature gas cylinder. ‘Hmm.’ He nodded. ‘That looks very familiar. I take it this is designed to fire some kind of small projectile?’

  ‘Yes,’ Matt said. ‘Dope pellets into horse muscle tissue.’

  ‘Not at any great distance, I wouldn’t have thought, though?’ Brian suggested.

  ‘No. I expect it’s good for about ten to fifteen yards, maximum.’

  ‘Who’s been shooting at horses, then?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll tell you in a moment, but first – you say the system looks familiar in some way?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I couldn’t say for certain, but I’d be surprised if this hadn’t been developed by the same people who were responsible for the air-propulsion system in our Powderjets – or at
least with help from them.’

  ‘Who was that?’ I asked.

  ‘There’s one in-house air systems specialist. He did most of the work.’

  On a sudden impulse, I picked up Toby’s file, lying on the coffee table in front of me, and fished out the best close-up shots of Tresidder. ‘You’ve never seen this man, I suppose?’

  Griffiths looked at it and slowly nodded his head in surprise. ‘Yes. Have you been following Michael Taylor too, then?’

  ‘No. This is a man called Tresidder.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that was Michael Taylor, but I saw him once or twice with Michael in one of the pubs we use near the labs, sometime last year.’

  ‘Okay,’ Matt said, on the edge of his seat now. ‘Who is Michael Taylor?’

  ‘He’s our in-house air-propulsion expert.’

  ‘Is he now?’ Matt exclaimed, impressed.

  ‘What do you think the chances are that we’ll find those missing prototypes at Tresidder’s place?’ I asked both of them.

  ‘Let’s assume he’s more intelligent than that,’ Matt said. ‘Anyway, it would have been this man Taylor who’d have done most of the work.’

  Griffiths shrugged. ‘Not necessarily. He might simply have handed over a couple of prototypes with all the necessary components for air propulsion to someone who had the technical skill to adapt it to this bizarre camera. Do you happen to know,’ he went on, ‘if there are more than one of these?’

  ‘No, we don’t,’ I answered. ‘But we took that one from Tresidder on Saturday, after he’d used it; he didn’t go to the races yesterday, so we think that means he hasn’t got another one.’

  ‘What on earth’s all this about?’ Griffiths asked, utterly bemused.

  ‘I told you those pellets had been aimed at horses?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Okay,’ Matt went on. ‘As far as we can tell, small pellets with breakable snouts were shot at racehorses either at the start of a race or close to it, to deliver some kind of mild sedative – Demosedan, or something like it – just enough to slow them down a little.’

  ‘But surely people would see when the animals were hit?’