by Julia Hughes
Irish’s stool faced the door, her face didn’t change expression as Crombie walked in, but she must have nudged Bill, who glanced up and closed his paper to acknowledge Crombie.
‘Morning Crombie.’ His hand slid over the daily papers, ready to pass one over, many of his regulars mooched in just to have a read of the news. The place was more like a club than a betting shop. Crombie occasionally popped in on Mondays, to catch up with the weekend’s sports’ results.
‘Morning Bill.’
The air towards the back of the shop was fresher, double doors behind the blackboard gaped wide open. Mainly for Irish’s benefit, or rather the cigarette permanently lodged in the corner of her mouth. Probably another reason the little betting shop would be packed out with punters later today.
‘Can we have a chat? Out the back?’ Crombie indicated the small concrete yard.
‘No mate.’ Bill’s easygoing manner hardened, demonstrating just why all his ‘customers’ behaved in his shop even when they were losing the week’s rent.
‘Come through if you like.’ He slipped off his stool to flip open the end of the jump, unlocking the half door beneath, to create a man sized gap.
‘But anything you wanna say to me, say it out front.’
The radio came to life, dully informing of yet another non-runner at rainsoaked Kempton. Irish sprung from her seat to chalk it up, patting Crombie’s arm as she passed.
‘I’ll put the kettle on, we’ll have a cuppa.’ She said diplomatically, trotting into the small washroom where tea making facilities were kept.
Bill plucked the lid off a tin of Golden Virginia, positioned a pinch of tobacco onto a rizla and rolled up. Settling himself on Irish’s vacated stool, Crombie waited patiently watching Bill concentrate on getting the tobacco just so; at times he thought the guy might be a little autistic, the speed at which he settled complicated bets scorning a calculator, his refusal to accept new routine or change all pointed that way.
Finally Bill seemed satisfied with his efforts. ‘What’s up?’
With one eye on the door, Crombie explained he wanted information on Mike Stern’s son, Mikey.
‘Saw him last Friday week, other than that, he hasn’t been in.’ Bill said, rattling his paper, turning his attention back to the film review page.
‘Was he winning? Losing? With anyone? Did he seem agitated?’ Crombie asked with a touch of impatience.
‘Do you take sugar?’ Irish interrupted returning with two mugs, both equally chipped and tea stained. Crombie shook his head no, wondering how Bill Palmer would react to an invitation to accompany him back to the station. Almost gagging as he sipped at the stewed bitter brew, Crombie decided against it. You could lead a horse to water, but you couldn’t make a man remember what he didn’t want to tell you. Not unless you used electrodes anyway. Irish nudged his shoulder, wrestling her cardi from the stool’s back.
‘Usual Bill?’
‘Usual Irish.’ Bill didn’t look up from the paper as Irish ducked under the jump and hurried out the door, almost colliding with two heavy set gents in shiny suits.
‘Won’t be a mo Sid, Bernie, just popping to get Bill’s lunch.’
‘Get us a couple of cream buns while you’re out I,’ the men joshed, Irish waved a fist mock threatening. Her Bill was the only one she ran errands for.
‘Mr. Palmer?’ Crombie tried a more formal approach.
Bill leaned across him to take a couple of betting slips from Sid, laying them by the side of the till ready for Irish’s return.
Sid and Bernie pretended to study the day’s form, although they’d already written their bets and placed their money.
‘Detective Inspector Crombie; I’ve had half of Notting Hill in here since I last clapped eyes on the bloke. I can’t remember, even if I could, I wouldn’t tell you.’ Bill’s lips clamped around his rollie.
Crombie backed down, both he and Bill knew he could make things very awkward for several members of this cosy little shop, not least the owner, the seldom seen AA Draines. But Bill was straight up and down, and held the moral high ground. A man’s losses or gains on the track or in a betting shop was between himself and his turf accountant, Crombie respected that. He realised suddenly that Irish was an awfully long time purchasing a couple of bacon sarnies. Especially as she imperiously jumped queues.
‘I understand. Thanks Bill.’
‘Sorry to hear about Mike Stern. How’s his grandson taking it?’ Now the standoff was over, Bill thawed. Crombie ducked under the shelf back to the shop floor, signifying his official questioning had finished.
‘Grandson?’ Noting Bill didn’t bother to enquire about the son’s feelings, wanting to get away to see if his intuition was correct, vaguely annoyed Bill wanted to chat now.
‘That little blond kid – that’s his grandson ain’t he? Sharp little beggar.’ It seemed Bill also thought Irish had been gone too long, he rung up the two bets as he spoke, waving Sid and Bernie over to collect their receipts.
Crombie waited for them to leave the shop.
‘How do you know him?’
Bill grinned, finally lighting up his rollie. ‘Came in, wanted to put old man Stern’s bet on for the Grand National.’ Bill shrugged. ‘He was in here early. Only saw him the once.’ As though that was a defence for allowing underage gambling.
‘Took a long hard look at the board.’ Bill gestured behind him. ‘We put the odds up bar the favourites the night before.’ Everyone in the country put a couple of quid on the Grand National, the bookmaker’s busiest day.
‘Then he told me the race was under rung.’ Bill stared at Crombie straight faced, Crombie realised he’d been set up, but played along.
‘Under rung?’
A smile spread over Bill’s face, happy to wrong foot Crombie.
‘That’s when the odds aren’t right. If the odds don’t add up it’s under rung – too odds heavy over rought.’ Bill took a drag of his rollie, grimacing as he sipped at his tea and swallowing manfully.
‘He didn’t know the terms, but he told me the odds didn’t add up. Bright little chap. Pleased as punch when I told him what we called it.’
‘Would that make a difference? Be an advantage?’ Crombie wanted to know.
Bill’s lips pursed. ‘Maybe. You’d have to know what you were doing, and it don’t happen very often. But in the National, probably not.’
The Grand National was anybody’s race, open to any steeplechaser qualified by its local hunt. People who never went near a betting shop all year flocked to put their money on, mainly picking a horse by name or stable colours rather than judgement, content to lose their stake in return for taking part in a national ritual. Professional gamblers avoided the race completely; anything could happen.
Crombie pondered for a moment, he’d a vague idea of how the Tote worked and decided Bill was right. You’d have to be a mathematical genius to see then take advantage of an uneven field, in which case, you’d probably emigrate to Las Vegas or Monte Carlo.
‘Right, thanks Bill, thanks for your time, and thank Irish for the tea.’
‘Sorry I couldn’t be more help.’ Bill didn’t sound too sorry, adding ‘If you see Irish tell her to get a wiggle on. Racing starts in an hour.’
Crombie was already motoring out the door and increased his pace now he had confirmation of his suspicions.
Sure enough, an old lady with cauliflower hair puffed impatiently at her ciggie on the bench outside the bakery, ignoring the tuts and dirty looks from a woman on the bench opposite attempting to spoon feed yoghurt to a toddler.
‘Took your time.’ Irish scolded.
‘Bill gave me a lesson on the Tote.’ Crombie explained, tugging down his jacket before sitting next to the deepthroat.
‘My old man saw a bloke who looked like Mikey in Sweeny’s Wine Bar.’ Irish said without preramble. Since Irish’s husband had fled just after their honeymoon (common knowledge) and she hadn’t seen him for nearly forty years, Crombie doubted that bu
t kept quiet, waiting for more.
‘He was bankrolled, and drunk as a lord. Shouting down his mobile. Stan heard everything. Mikey sounded annoyed, said the book was worth a lot more, and he wanted thirty grand.’
Seeing the look of disbelief on Crombie’s face Irish shrugged. ‘That’s what I heard. I mean, Stan told me. Made me laugh too. I mean a book worth that kind of money.’
‘Is that it?’ Crombie asked.
‘More or less. Mikey said “Tell your friend this is his last chance, then I’m going elsewhere.” Whoever he was talking to must have gone off on one. Mikey laughed – you know that kind of false laugh – and he said, “No kidding? Well as long as I’ve got the book, the Brotherhood can go play with themselves. Tell ‘em that from me.” Shortly after that, Stan saw him leaving with a couple of young girls, skirts up to their armpits.’ Casting a quick look over to the other bench, she lowered her voice conspiratorially.
‘He didn’t say go play with themselves – he said the other word. The F word.’
Crombie wondered who had actually been gossiping with Irish, knowing it would be useless to ask. Instead he dug a little deeper:
‘When did all this happen I?’
Irish ground the ciggie out, picking up the stubb and carrier bag containing Bill’s lunch, restless now and anxious to return to her little fiefdom.
‘Doug … I mean Stan only goes to Sweeny’s for "Thank God it’s Fridays", I’d say anytime between ten and twelve.’
Friday night was doubles at singles price night, and it had been Douggie the electrician dishing out the dirty. But it seemed all the information Crombie was about to get, Irish patted his shoulder again in farewell, and hurried back to man her till.
Crombie thought about tracking over to O’Halloran-Montgomery’s builders, but that meant dropping Irish in it, and Douggie probably didn’t have too much to add to her story. Casting a quick glance at the queue now snaking out of the bakery, Crombie decided to make do with a sandwich from the canteen while he wrote out his report.
First though, on his arrival back at the station, Crombie ventured into the basement, where Internet intelligence was gathered. Personnel in this squad were rotated on a frequent basis, with good reason. Five men and three women sat in partitioned booths in front of monitors, their fingers skipping over keys as they peered into the equivalent of the slimmest of pond, searching out and ‘friending’ low lives and wanna bes on social sites. Not one head rose as Crombie entered, searching and failing to find a familiar face. After a minute or two of waiting awkwardly in the doorway, Crombie crept to the nearest desk unwilling to break into the eerie silence of this room on the frontier of cyberspace.
‘When you have a moment, anything you can find on these two names.’ He nudged a slip of paper torn from his notebook onto the youngster’s desk.
‘Sure no probs.’ A chubby freckle splattered face swung round to grin at him, before switching her attention back to the conversation she, or rather her persona "Lady Gaga Gagging" was conducting with someone calling himself "The Geezer" several miles and a different life away.
‘Call me if you find anything.’ Crombie whispered, unwilling to venture into this foreign territory again, doubting even Google would throw up anything of interest based on only two names.
‘Sure no probs.’ She repeated, without looking up this time.
Crombie decided he’d visit the hospital after lunch, although again he doubted if Mike Stern’s "grandson" had anything to add, but it would look as though he’d been thorough in his report, which would recommend surveillance.
Shorthand for “I haven’t got a bloody clue what to do next.”
*
Surprisingly it was WPC Hewes who moved the case forward. Crombie grunted when she plonked her lunch tray opposite him, it wasn’t done for a junior officer to join a senior’s table, Hewes probably wanted to share some station gossip with him. Instead she started talking shop.
‘Any news on the Stern case guv?’
Crombie shook his head, trying to decide why he didn’t like the woman. She ate with her mouth open, but many young people seemed lacking in table manners these days. She always presented well, her uniform seemed fresh out the box, tie perfectly knotted, her make-up unobtrusive, just a smear of blue liner and some pinkish lipstick, and though he was pretty certain her hair colour came out of a bottle, no roots ever showed in the blonde bob.
It was her mouth he thought. The way the top lip lifted away from her teeth, and something about her eyes too, narrow and long, darting here and there but giving no insight into her thoughts.
Realising he was staring, Crombie dropped his gaze to his notebook, and run through his morning’s activities, hoping she'd get the hint and leave.
When she didn't, Crombie excused himself, saying he wanted to catch visiting hours at the hospital, on the off chance young Wren Prenderson could add anything to his cousin's statement.
‘I’ve a couple of free hours Sir, I’ll come with you.’
It seemed churlish to refuse, Hewes didn’t usually volunteer, and Crombie only made the slightest objection.
‘Free hours Hewes?’
‘Well, not free, I’ve got probation reports but I’ll do them at home tonight.’ Standing up as she spoke, whisking both her and Crombie’s tray away Hewes neatly stacked the dirty plates and returned to his side, straightening the strap on her shoulder bag, indicating her eagerness to be off.
Crombie expressed surprise in her interest as they drove to the hospital.
‘Well, this case is a bit out the ordinary Guv,’
*
The children’s ward was in chaos. Kids were running riot bouncing on beds, swacking pillows against each other and generally having a ball.
While Hewes shrilled for order, Crombie cornered a dumpy little nurse, who looked close to tears.
‘Wren Prenderson – He’s been discharged. His auntie collected him not twenty minutes ago. Just before.’ She waved a hand despairingly around, then plunged back into the fray.
Crombie sneaked off, leaving Hewes to recover her hat from a giggling twosome now playing piggy in the middle. Enroute to Rhyllann Jones’s house, Crombie placed a few phone calls using the hands free, curious to discover the real reason for Hewes’s new found enthusiasm for unpaid overtime.
Chapter Seven
Safely indoors, the cousins gave into the giggles they’d struggled to contain through the streets.
‘Christ – being a woman is torture! Never again!’ Rhyllann hiccupped, collapsing on the stairs, pulling off mum's sandals and massaging his pulsating feet.
‘Oh, I don’t know – suits you!’
Rhyllann aimed a blow at him. Then stiffened as the doorbell rang. They looked at each other wide eyed.
‘Who …?’ Wren started
‘Shush! Quiet. Be quiet.’ Rhyllann hissed creeping forward, praying it wasn’t some busy body from school. Before he could fix an eye to the spy hole a voice boomed.
‘Crombie. Open this door please.’
Rhyllann ducked down. ‘Shee-it! It is Crombie! He must have been lurking. What are we gonna do?’
Wren looked bewildered. ‘Crombie? Crombie who?’
‘Jeez – you don’t wanna know. Detective Inspector Crombie of the Met Police. A throwback!’ Rhyllann hissed fiercely, despite his best efforts to forget the guy, an all too vivid image rose in his mind of those sharp blue eyes.
Wren didn’t seem sufficiently worried. ‘Quick – upstairs! Get changed. I’ll stall him.’
‘But he’s seen me like this!’
‘Hello in the house! Everything alright?’
‘Upstairs. Quickly.’ Wren ordered with a new note of authority.
‘Open this door, or I’ll assume you’re in trouble and break it down!’ Crombie bellowed almost making good his threat as the door bulged under his hammering.
Passing Wren his crutches, Rhyllann spun to race upstairs.
‘Hang on – sorry – just a moment!’
Wren yelled back.
Rhyllann ran in and out the shower, throwing on some track bottoms and a t shirt before hurtling into the lounge. Crombie’s hair had been gelled back in an attempt to control it. But he could do nothing about the large frame spilling from his suit emphasising the Neanderthal appearance.
Wren studied his plaster cast, flicking glances of alarm upwards, as the detective paced the room.
‘Yeah, my wife broke her ankle, playing golf. Fell down the bunker. Impossible to live with for weeks.’ Crombie said, attempting small talk.
Wren’s head shot up: ‘Annie! There you are!’ The relief in his voice far too obvious. ‘Detective Crombie’s here!’ Grabbing Rhyllann’s arm, he tugged him further into the room, using him as a shield.
‘Hello son – bet you’re glad Mum’s back!’ Crombie said, adding ‘Can you call her? I need a word.’
‘Umm. No sorry, she’s not here.’ Rhyllann muttered.
Crombie frowned. ‘Yes she is. I’ve just seen her wheel your cousin into the house.’
‘Erm. She just popped to the shops quick. We’re out of milk.’
Crombie repeated slowly. ‘Popped to the shops for some milk. Shouldn’t be too long then?’
‘Erm. She said she might drop into the garage, pick up her car. She’ll probably go for a drive – make sure its working okay now.’ Rhyllann didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up. Even to his own ears, it sounded lame and he could feel his face burning.
Wren listened wide eyed, head turning from one to the other. Catching Rhyllann’s glare, finally getting the message, he struggled to his feet.
‘Excuse me please, Detective Crombie Sir. I’m exhausted. Annie, can you help me upstairs?’
‘Of course. Detective Crombie – shall I get mum to call you when she’s home?’ Rhyllann smiled hopefully.
‘Sit down.’ Crombie growled.
