by J M Gregson
He nodded to the woman behind the grill he chose, but gave her no greeting: this was not the sort of place where social niceties were important. Nor was the need for any sort of conversational opening. He said bluntly, ‘I want to put a bet on Supreme Nelly in the three thirty at Haydock Park tomorrow.’
It was a ridiculous, comical name, but neither of them even noticed that. She knew the absolute necessity of being accurate in everything she recorded. He was concerned only with the thought of what he might win, of alleviating his mountain of debt with one startling coup. The classic gambler’s delusion; the classic unrealistic ambition which had enticed millions of others before Darren Pearson into deeper and more dangerous financial waters.
She made a note on the pad in front of her, glanced at the card of tomorrow’s races beside her, and said unemotionally, ‘Three to one, sir.’
‘It was fives on Tuesday. Fours at lunchtime today. Seven to two when I rang half an hour ago.’
‘It’s three to one now, sir. Do you wish to place a bet?’
‘I suppose so.’ He looked at her desperately, seeking reassurance where none was to be had, voicing the naïve question which was as obvious as it was futile. ‘The fact that the odds have come steadily down means it must be well fancied, doesn’t it?’
She sighed inwardly, but kept her face studiously blank. The first rule of this job was not to get yourself involved with the punters and their problems. You might upset yourself if you did that; might even end up asking them if they could afford this, advising them against over-committing themselves. You could lose your job that way, and jobs were highly important, when your man had just been laid off. ‘Do you wish to bet, sir?’
‘Yes. Yes, I’ll take three to one.’
‘How much do wish to stake, sir?’
‘Five hundred. No, a thousand, if it’s only three to one.’ He gave her a small, strangely apologetic laugh, then looked automatically round the almost deserted shop to check if anyone had picked up the size of his bet.
‘It’s Mr Pearson, isn’t it?’ The first indication that she had any notion of his identity, though she had known who he was from the moment he presented himself before her. Her enquiry was apologetic, in this place where many people chose to be anonymous.
‘That’s right. I have an account with you. A thousand on Supreme Nelly, please.’
‘Just a moment, sir.’ She turned and disappeared through a door two yards behind her.
Darren Pearson tapped his fingers on the counter in front of him, shifted his weight from foot to foot, tried not to look conspicuous. There were only three other people in the place, two elderly men and a much younger woman. They had problems of their own and no interest whatsoever in the restless figure at the desk, however much he felt this delay was exciting their interest.
The woman came back through the door with a look of determined regret on her face. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Pearson. We cannot accept this stake.’
The ultimate humiliation for a punter: his bet was being refused. He had known in his heart what was going to happen from the moment she asked him to wait at the grill, but some instinct had made him brazen it out as best he could. He felt that he was delivering someone else’s lines, that he was not Darren Pearson but a character in a play he was watching. ‘There must be some mistake. I’m a regular customer here. I have an account with you, as I said.’
‘Yes, sir. The manager’s instructions are that until you clear the arrears on that account, you are not to be awarded further credit.’
‘But I’ve been a client here for years. You’ve made good profits out of me.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. This is not my decision.’
As if she had triggered some electronic device, a man now opened the door behind her and came forward. It seemed to Darren Pearson an additional insult, in the illogical way of these things, that he was a much younger man. This presumptuous fellow could not be more than twenty-five or twenty-six, his fevered brain told him. The man said, ‘It’s all right Mrs Harris, I’ll deal with this. Is there a problem, Mr Pearson?’
He spoke loudly, and Darren was sure now that this exchange was the centre of attention in the shop. He was entirely sober, but he felt like a drunk lurching out of control. ‘A misunderstanding rather than a problem, I hope, for your sake. I am one of your best customers, yet you are refusing a sizeable stake from me.’
The man’s small, insultingly young, mouth twisted into a mirthless smile. ‘Our best customers pay their bills, Mr Pearson. I’m afraid you have exhausted your credit and you owe us an unacceptably large sum.’
The man had used these phrases many times before. Because he knew it was best to be firm and impersonal, he was keeping all emotion out of his voice, speaking as evenly, even dully, as possible.
Darren saw only an over-promoted youngster who seemed to be enjoying this. ‘Look here, young man, you’re representing a national chain with a national reputation to preserve.’
‘Indeed I am, Mr Pearson.’
‘A company which made handsome profits last year.’
The young man hardened his stance a little, sounding more than ever like a machine. ‘It is company policy that we should not allow people to run up more than a certain amount of debt. That is felt to be in the interest of the client as well as the company.’
Darren knew now that he had lost, that no one could win against the faceless battalions of a betting leviathan like Ladbrokes. But pride, the few traces of self-respect he had hardly known he still possessed, made him persist. ‘I am not the sort of back-street gambler who does pound doubles. I am a customer of long standing, with a good income.’
‘That is why you have been allowed the degree of credit you have been afforded, Mr Pearson.’ He glanced quickly to right and left: the British reserve about voicing financial details ran deep, even in a place like this. ‘You have owed the company over fifteen thousand pounds for almost a year now, despite written requests to clear or at least substantially reduce your debt. If we accepted this transaction, your liability to the company would be almost twenty thousand. I’m afraid we cannot allow that.’
Darren descended to personal insult, the drunk’s last throw in a contest he has lost. ‘You seem to forget that you’re speaking for Ladbroke’s, not some old-fashioned small bookie. I’m not going to accept the decision of a jumped-up skivvy. I shall take this matter further.’
The man behind the grill was young, but certainly not inexperienced. He recognized this threat to pursue the argument with his superiors as the last futile move in an unpleasant but necessary exchange. ‘That of course is your prerogative, Mr Pearson. I’m sure you’ll find that my decision is confirmed.’
The rain outside was falling more heavily. The March wind of the early evening was bitter now, slanting the wetness hard into his face. Darren Pearson struggled defeated to his car, the dark beast of his dejection filling his mind with wild and desperate thoughts.
SEVEN
The British newspapers hadn’t arrived in Dubai yet. Jim Capstick had the result of the match, but still couldn’t read about the victory of Brunton Rovers in the cup tie replay.
He hadn’t brought his laptop with him and he wasn’t going to pursue computer information in the room downstairs; the result was all he needed at this delicate stage in the negotiations. He didn’t want to move out of his room more than was strictly necessary. The sheikh was a powerful man, with a huge staff and a taste for intrigue. Jim was sure that any actions he took, any sign that he was anxious about events at home, would be reported back to his host.
If the truth were told, Capstick had himself a taste for secrecy, having found it an aid to most of his activities. And only at this moment did he acknowledge to himself that he was not intensely interested in the progress of Brunton Rovers, now that there was a real prospect that he would be selling his investment on. Negotiations to dispose of the club were proceeding nicely; progress was more rapid since he and his mysterious buyer had got beyond the
stage of dealing through a third party.
But the Rovers’ victory suited him, as far as it had any importance at all. Success in the short term could only boost the value of his asset, particularly with a buyer who had the millions needed to develop it. His potential buyer seemed to have little knowledge of football and none at all of the history of the game and of the proud place of Brunton Rovers within it. In his experience, Arabs weren’t much interested in history. There seemed no reason why he should enlighten him; football history could only get in the way of negotiations.
He paused for a moment and looked through the big window at the terrace outside. The area was deserted save for the sheikh and the three men who had come here with him. None of them were speaking, even though he had left them on their own. Jim Capstick assumed the men were bodyguards. He had supposed one of them might be some sort of financial adviser, but there was no evidence of conferral. He wondered if the powerful man at the centre of the group had demanded that the terrace be specially cleared for their meeting. It seemed odd that with the hotel more than half full, there should be no guests sitting or strolling here, as the sun dropped and the day moved towards its very brief twilight.
The thought of dealing with such absolute power made him uneasy. But perhaps he was imagining things. In any case, the fact that a man had such control could only make him a better prospect as a buyer, surely? Jim was used to making deals on his own ground, with support at his elbow and a detailed knowledge of the financial background of anyone who came to his negotiating table. He understood the need for secrecy – indeed, he had insisted upon it himself, from the beginning of this. But he felt at a disadvantage meeting this man, who had infinitely more wealth and power than he had, in this alien place and without any of his own supporters to balance the numbers.
Capstick took a deep breath and moved out to join the party at its table. He gave the sheikh a smile he hoped was confident but respectful. ‘That’s all arranged. You probably know that the process of examining confidential financial details is referred to as “due diligence” in Britain. That material will be made available to you very quickly. I shall give the orders as soon as I am back in England.’ He wondered if the man would question why he had not already set the process in motion. The sheikh was accustomed to exercising absolute power and might deride people without it. He could scarcely explain that he would need to make some explanation of what he was about before he ordered the release of sensitive information, that he wanted to keep this secret until the last possible moment. But the man in the long robes merely nodded his acceptance of these arrangements.
Jim wanted to ask the man opposite him to take off his dark glasses, but knew he must not do that. He had never had to negotiate with anyone behind shades before; he was surprised how difficult it made it to see what a man was thinking when you could not see his eyes. The sheikh looked at him for a few seconds, so that Jim thought he was going to question these arrangements. Then he gave a curt nod and said, ‘My representative in the UK may need to bring certain queries to you when we have perused the figures. It will speed up the process.’
‘Of course. Would you like to give me his name and telephone number?’ Capstick produced his diary and silver-cased ballpoint.
‘That will not be necessary. He will contact you in due course if we have queries.’
‘Very well. Is there anything more we can do today?’
‘Nothing at this stage, Mr Capstick.’ He pronounced the strange name carefully, as if it was important to him to fix it in his memory.
‘Then I shall fly home tonight and give the necessary orders to my staff.’
‘Excellent. You have a seat reserved?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very well. I look forward to doing business with you.’
‘And I with you.’ Capstick hesitated, then thrust forward his hand. He thought he caught a sharp intake of breath from one of the men at the table, but after a second the sheikh took his hand and shook it firmly.
He had an hour to get to the airport. He took a shower and changed his shirt for the flight, finding the one he took off wet with sweat. The shower relaxed him; he had not realized quite how tense his muscles had become. He picked up the phone and had a call put through to his home. The tone buzzed six times in his ear before it was answered.
‘Brunton eight-three-seven-two-zero-five.’ The voice was not that of Helen but of Wally Boyd. Calls went through to the driver’s flat over the garage when they were not answered in the main house.
‘It’s me, Wally. I’m about to leave the hotel in Dubai. My flight is due to land at Ringway at four twenty a.m.’
‘I’ll be there, sir.’
‘Bloody unsocial hour. I’m sorry about that.’
‘Can’t be helped, Mr Capstick. I was expecting it. Won’t be much traffic, at that time. Let’s hope you land on time.’
Jim paused for a moment, then said as casually as he could, ‘Mrs Capstick out, is she?’
‘Yes, sir. Left this morning, sir. Didn’t give me any idea of her plans for the day.’
‘Do you think she’s gone to the same place?’
‘Couldn’t say, sir. I couldn’t ask her where she was going, could I? I hoped she’d drop something casually about her destination, but she didn’t.’ He paused, picturing his employer’s face, trying to estimate the degree of anxiety at the other end of the line. ‘I could check the mileage on the Mercedes, sir. I have the figure that was on the clock when Mrs Capstick left here.’
‘Do that, will you? And try to get her story about where she’s been, if you can do it without raising suspicion.’
‘I will, sir. It’s easy to check the mileage clock, once she puts the car in the garage. And if she’s in the right mood, Mrs Capstick often volunteers information about where she’s been.’
Wally Boyd rang off and looked at his watch. It must be nice to be really rich, like Jim Capstick. It gave you fast cars and people to meet you at the airport in the middle of the night and a glamorous, younger wife. But it obviously brought problems with it, as well.
In Dubai, Jim Capstick was thinking grimly that his chauffeur-bodyguard could also add spy to his job description.
DCI Peach left the two young men in the separate interview rooms for fully ten minutes before he moved to interview them. ‘Which of these two beauties do you prefer?’ he asked DS Blake.
Lucy shrugged. ‘Whichever one you recommend. I don’t know either of them.’
‘I’ll take Ahktar, then. He’s the bugger who came at me with the knife. You take Malim. Take Brendan Murphy in with you and give him a verbal bashing. You know the situation?’
‘Yes. We hope they don’t realize it, but there isn’t going to be a court case against them. I gather Peter Forsyth was a bit too keen for his own good and went looking for evidence where he shouldn’t have.’
‘He did. I gave PC Forsyth a mild rebuke about it yesterday.’
Lucy Blake, who had bought coffee for the limp and shell-shocked Forsyth in the police canteen, smiled grimly and forbore to comment. ‘I’ll see what Brendan and I can get out of Malim.’
‘And the big lad and I will see what we can get out of Ahktar.’ Peach glanced at his watch. ‘Right. Let’s go!’
Wasim Ahktar was as apprehensive as Peach had hoped he would be after his wait in the interview room. He looked up in nervous anticipation as the man he had attacked ten days earlier bounced like a rubber ball into the room. ‘You remember me, no doubt: DCI Peach. And this is DC Northcott.’ He nodded happily at the man who was sitting down beside him.
Ahktar’s anxiety was doubled rather than diminished. Peach had not exaggerated when he called his companion ‘the big lad’. Clyde Northcott was six feet three, tall and lean, and gave the impression that all was bone and muscle beneath a tightly stretched skin. That skin was a very deep shade of black. Ahktar, who had previously thought that if things got really tough he would play the race card, now felt that even that rather desperate opti
on had been removed.
Peach had the air of a rather hungry lion approaching a tethered goat. ‘Good of you to come into the station voluntarily to help us with our enquiries, Mr Ahktar. The cooperation of the public is always appreciated.’
‘Voluntarily? I never—’
‘No more than the duty of a good citizen, of course, but appreciated nevertheless. Especially from someone as deep in the doo-dah as you are.’
‘Now look, I don’t—’
‘I always like to assist someone who recognizes his public duty and wants to help us. But there is a problem. The question I have to ask myself is whether I can do anything useful for someone who caused an affray, pulled a knife on me, and tried to cut my throat. Would you think there was anything useful, DC Northcott?’
‘Nothing at all, sir, that I can see. We could perhaps visit him in prison in due course, but that wouldn’t do him any good with the rest of the men in there.’
Percy shook his head in sad agreement. ‘You’re probably right. Nasty sort of men you get in these long-term prisons, nowadays. In that case, I wonder if we could do anything for this lad before he gets there. Whether we might even keep him out of the can altogether.’
Northcott was well used by now to being Peach’s straight man. He pursed his lips thoughtfully and said doubtfully, ‘I can’t see how that’s going to be possible, sir, with the serious charges you have detailed. I have to say that I think you’re being a little too charitable in this case, sir.’
Wasim Ahktar felt both threatened and bewildered by this strange pincer movement. He said desperately, ‘I didn’t pull a knife on you, Mr Peach! Not on you personally. And I’d never have cut your throat!’
