‘It’s a mug’s game,’ said Charlesworth dismissively. ‘Punters are mugs. Bookies can be mugs as well, but it takes another bookie to do that.’
Seymour laughed, deciding this must be a joke, but Charlesworth didn’t even smile. Seymour wasn’t sure what the subject was but he decided to change it.
‘Nice prints,’ said the young detective. ‘Worth a bob or two if they’re genuine.’
‘They’re what they look like,’ said Charlesworth ambiguously. ‘That’s the most you can say about anything, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so, sir,’ said Seymour, using his interest in the prints as an excuse to rise and study them more closely, with a view to making an early exit.
‘I had a Stubbs once. You know Stubbs?’
‘I’ve heard of him,’ said Seymour. ‘That’d be really valuable, wouldn’t it?’
‘I let my wife take it,’ said Charlesworth. ‘She liked it. My son liked it too. So when we divorced, I let her take it.’
Seymour wandered round the room, showing great interest in long stretches of light green emulsion paint, till he arrived at the team photograph.
‘Is this your son here?’ he said, stabbing his finger at the youth holding the cup. ‘I can see the resemblance.’
‘No,’ said Charlesworth. ‘That’s me.’
Seymour looked more closely. There was no writing on the photograph, but now he looked, he could see that the cut of the shorts, not to mention the hair, suggested a distant era.
‘Rugby, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘Yes. The Mid-Yorkshire cup,’ said Charlesworth.
‘Hold on,’ said Seymour, peering even more closely. One of the figures in the back row, a large solid young man, well-muscled and with the grin of a tiger, looked familiar.
‘That’s never …’ he said doubtfully.
‘Your Mr Dalziel? Oh yes,’ said Charlesworth. ‘We go back a long way.’
‘My God!’ said Seymour, delighted. ‘He hasn’t changed much. I mean, he’s put on a lot of weight, but you can still see …’
‘He’s changed,’ interrupted Charlesworth brusquely. ‘We all change, given the chance.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Seymour. ‘Well, thanks again for your help. I’d best be getting back. It’s a pity, but I think we’ll just have to give up on this one; I reckon it was always a long shot …’
‘You give up easy, son,’ said Charlesworth.
‘Sorry?’
‘There’s no record of this bet, so what you decide is that this bet wasn’t made. Is that the way Andy Dalziel teaches you to think?’
‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ said Seymour. ‘I mean, if there’s no record …’
‘That means there’s no record. It doesn’t mean there was no bet.’
‘I see,’ lied Seymour, resuming his seat.
Charlesworth tossed him another can of lager and smiled. It wasn’t much of a smile, but there was something of genuine feeling in it, a promise of spring in a wintry sky.
‘Two reasons why there should be no record,’ he said. ‘One: the bookie “lost” it. Now this sometimes happens with some bets, with some bookies. There’s a ten per cent tax on all bets. So you can see the incentive to “lose” a few: not only do you cut down on your income tax, you get to keep the ten per cent as well.’
‘But,’ said Seymour, ‘surely there’s no point in a bookie “losing” a winning bet, if you follow me. I mean, what he pays out he’ll want to keep on record, won’t he?’
‘That’s right,’ said Charlesworth approvingly. ‘Mr Dalziel’d be proud of you. So what’s the second reason a bet might not be recorded?’
‘Because,’ said Seymour, screwing up his face in concentration, ‘because it wasn’t placed with a regular bookie!’
‘Right.’
‘You mean, this particular bet might’ve been placed with a street-corner bookie?’
‘There’s a lot of them about. Pubs, clubs, factories, offices; the betting shops drove them out of business to start with, but the ten per cent tax has given them new life. Tax-free betting’s very attractive to the regular punter. This old boy of yours was a regular, was he?’
‘I gather so,’ said Seymour. ‘But it doesn’t help much, not unless we can lay our hands on the joker concerned.’
‘If it’s a street-corner job, then you’ll be pushed,’ said Charlesworth.
‘What’s the alternative?’
Charlesworth shook his head sadly.
‘Things are slipping in this town,’ he said. ‘Time was, we paid the police to do police work.’
Seymour decided the time had come to exert his authority. He was fed up of being treated as ‘the lad’. And what the hell was Charlesworth but a jumped-up bookie anyway, and probably bent at that?
‘Look,’ he said. ‘If you know anything, you’ve got to tell me. All right? I mean, it’s your duty.’
It came out much more weakly than he’d intended. Charlesworth suddenly laughed.
‘You really know how to lean on people, son,’ he mocked. ‘All right. I give in. Thirty-two, Merton Street. Down the ginnel back of Inglis’s hardware shop. Take a couple of mates in case you need to kick the door down. And don’t say I sent you.’
It was curious but this last injunction carried more weight than a whole anthology of threats, bargains or appeals.
At the door, Seymour began to say thank you but Charlesworth grunted, ‘Don’t thank me till you know what you’ve got, lad.’
‘All right!’ said Seymour. ‘Shall I come back and tell you if it’s been worth it?’
He didn’t know why he made the offer except that he had a sense of responding to some unspoken request.
Charlesworth’s cold eyes examined him closely as if searching for sarcasm. Seymour did not exactly feel threatened but he certainly felt glad none had been intended.
‘Come if you like,’ said Charlesworth. ‘Why not? Come if you like.’
Rather to Seymour’s disappointment there was no need to kick down any doors. The front door of 32 Merton Street opened at a push. Instructing PC Hector that no one was to leave, Seymour and Sergeant Wield entered a narrow entrance hall smelling of cabbage and cat. A toilet flushed and a man emerged from one of the several inner doors. He nodded in a friendly fashion and, opening another door, ushered them into a smoke-filled room.
Here there was a pleasant social atmosphere. A scattering of comfortable-looking chairs faced a raised television screen on which horses were being walked around a paddock. In one corner a girl was dispensing drinks from a small domestic cocktail bar. In the opposite corner behind a rather larger bar with the protection of a metal grille, a man and a woman were taking bets. There were between twenty and thirty people in the room. It was a scene which Seymour recognized from the old black-and-white pre-war American thrillers he sometimes saw on the box.
‘In you go, lads,’ urged their polite acquaintance, a grey-haired man in his sixties. ‘This your first time? His booze is a bit pricey, but it don’t stop at three o’clock, that’s the main thing, ain’t it?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Seymour, glancing uncertainly at Wield. The sergeant had authorized the raid in Pascoe’s absence, but assured the young detective that it was still very much his show.
‘In fact,’ said Seymour to the grey-haired man, ‘we’re the police.’
‘Pardon?’ he replied, cupping his hand over his ear. ‘You’ll have to shout.’
‘Police,’ shouted Seymour. ‘We’re policemen.’
‘I shouldn’t let it worry you,’ said this amiable old fellow. ‘They’re not choosy here.’
Seymour glanced again at Wield whose craggy face gave no sign of the earthquake of mirth going on beneath it.
‘Who’s the gaffer here?’ demanded Seymour.
‘Gaffer? That’ll be Don you want, him at the counter. I warn you, he’s not keen on credit, but if you really are bobbies, that’ll probably be all right.’
‘Thanks, dad,’ said Seymour.
He pushed his way towards the betting counter. There was some protest as he went to the head of the queue waiting to be served by a benevolent white-haired man with a ruddy farmer’s face.
‘You Don?’ said Seymour.
‘That’s right.’
‘This your place?’
‘Right again.’
‘Police,’ said Seymour, producing his warrant card.
‘Oh aye? That’s buggered it,’ said Don calmly. ‘Just give us a moment, Officer. Mavis, love, it’s police.’
The woman by his side slid off her stool. She was plumply middle-aged, with a stolid expression which didn’t change as she gathered up trays of cash from a shelf beneath the counter.
‘What’s she doing?’ asked Seymour.
‘I don’t know. What are you doing, Mavis?’ asked the man.
She did not reply but turned, unlocked a door behind her and went out.
‘Hey, stop!’ cried Seymour. ‘Where’s she going?’
‘I don’t know,’ said the man. ‘It’s a free country.’
Seymour looked in vain for a way to get behind the counter from this side.
‘If you just wait there, I’ll come round, shall I?’ said Don helpfully.
‘No! I mean… look, don’t move. I’ll come round to you … no …’
‘Look, lad, if I was going off somewhere, I’d have gone by now,’ said Don. ‘This is all my stuff in here; I’m not going to go and leave this lot to nick it, am I?’
It sounded reasonable.
‘All right,’ said Seymour.
He returned to Wield who was leaning against the door, blocking any attempt to leave, though to tell the truth most of those present were more concerned with the television where the horses were just coming under starter’s orders.
‘He’s coming round,’ said Seymour.
‘Is he?’ said Wield.
‘Should I go and see if Hector stopped the woman?’
‘You don’t imagine Hector’s suspicions would be aroused by the sight of a woman carrying a pile of cash trays, do you?’ said Wield. ‘Anyway, she’ll likely have gone off another way. Mind you, it’s just a precaution.’
‘Precaution?’
‘Aye. Fifty quid fine’s the most they’ll get for this lot, I should think.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Seymour in disgust. ‘It’s hardly worth our bother, is it?’
‘Listen, son,’ said Wield in what passed for his friendly tone. ‘Never forget the object of the exercise, right? That’s the first rule.’
Behind him the door opened against his back and the venerable white head appeared.
‘Shall I come in?’ asked Don.
‘No. We’ll step out,’ said Wield.
In the smelly entrance hall, the ugly sergeant put his ruin of a face close to the other man’s open, honest features and said softly, ‘This is an illegal betting shop you’ve got here, Don. No, listen. It’s also a fire risk. You’ve boarded the windows up, haven’t you? Only one door. Bit of panic in there, caused by something like a police raid, say, and there could be a lot of damage. I don’t just mean people. I mean, people mend. But fixtures. Furniture trampled, television smashed, bottles broken, bar pulled down; ruined; I’ve seen it.’
‘Oh aye,’ said the man. ‘But there isn’t any panic.’
‘No,’ said Wield. ‘Let’s keep it that way shall we? Friday afternoon last. A win-treble. Red Vanessa in the two-ten at Cheltenham, Usherette in the two forty-five …’
‘And Polly Styrene in the three fifty-five,’ completed Don. ‘Aye, I remember that. Three hundred and ninety quid it cost me!’
‘Three ninety?’ said Wield. ‘You remember the punter?’
‘An old boy. Calls himself Tap, I don’t know his real name. He’s in a lot, fifty p. stuff mainly, chances a quid now and then if he feels lucky. He hadn’t been in all week, might’ve been saving up for this one I reckon. He puts a fiver on. Well, they’re all fair horses, good on heavy ground, but there’s plenty of good competition and over the sticks in the rain’s always a bit of a lottery. But it’s his lucky day. We all deserve one, don’t we? Here, it’s not him who’s put the bubble in, is it? Why’d he do that, now?’
‘No,’ said Wield. ‘It wasn’t him. When you paid him out were there a lot of customers about?’
‘A few,’ said Don. ‘Hold on. He’s never been robbed, has he? Is that what this is about?’
‘Mebbe,’ said Wield. ‘Tell me about the other customers.’
‘Listen, I’ll tell you what I can,’ said the man. ‘But I’m not daft. An old boy wins that amount, I take a bit of care. If he wants the world to know that he’s got it when he’s got it, that’s his business. But when I saw the bet come up, I got his winnings counted out in tenners and fivers, put ‘em in an old envelope. He was fly too; he hung back till the end of the pay-out queue. It was the last race, so most people had drifted off. Then he comes and collects.’
‘You mean he didn’t count it?’ said Wield disbelievingly.
‘Oh aye, he stood there and went through it. But still in the envelope, you understand. He was excited, I could see that, but he wasn’t going to shout it out from the rooftops.’
‘Right,’ said Wield. ‘But some people have sharp eyes and sharp ears, so we’ll need to be knowing who was about.’
‘I’ll try my best,’ said the white-haired man. ‘But what does Tap himself say? I mean, it’s him that’s lost the money, isn’t it?’
‘More than money,’ said Wield quietly. ‘He’s lost a lot more than money.’
‘What? Oh bugger,’ said the white-haired man feelingly. ‘The poor old sod.’
He fixed Wield with his patriarchal eye and said earnestly, ‘It’s not worth it, is it? What’s the point of money if it brings you that kind of trouble? It’s just not worth it.’
Wield said to Seymour, ‘Hark at him, lad! You didn’t know you were raiding a charitable institution, did you? Get Hector and take the names and addresses of all them refugees in there.’
And to Don he said, ‘You come along with me, Dr Barnardo. You’re nicked.’
Chapter 21
‘I have opened it.’
Charley Frostick sat in the passenger seat of Pascoe’s car and stared morosely out of the window at the passing scene.
‘How do you like the Army, Charley?’ inquired Pascoe.
‘It’s all right,’ grunted the youth.
Pascoe sighed. He could see that the War Office might well rate the social graces a little way below rifle practice, but surely someone there acknowledged that a young soldier might want to talk to the occasional stranger before shooting him?
But now Charley, who was basically a nice lad and not unappreciative of Pascoe’s kindness in rescuing him from the hotted-up emotionalism of his home by his offer to run him round to Welfare Lane, roused himself from his lethargy and resumed, ‘It’s right enough. I’ve got some grand mates and you can have a bit of a laugh. It’s a bit boring sometimes, some of the things they make us do; but most things are sometimes, I reckon. And it’s better than being out of work. I was pig-sick of that. In the end it was either the Police or the Army and I didn’t fancy running into bother with my old mates.’
‘Rather shoot strangers, eh?’ laughed Pascoe.
‘I don’t want to shoot anyone,’ protested Charley with great indignation.
‘Sorry,’ said Pascoe.
‘Except mebbe the bastard who killed my granda. I’d shoot him soon enough, no bother.’
He glared defiantly at Pascoe, who said gently, ‘Everyone feels like that when someone they love’s been hurt, Charley. But it just means that you get yourself in bother and probably leave someone feeling the same way about you.’
Charley didn’t look as if he accepted this argument and said grumblingly, ‘Any road, you’ve got to find the bastard yet, haven’t you? Have your mob not found out anything yet?’
Pascoe tried to look as if he were bound by a vow of silence but he was
all too conscious that he had very little to be silent about. The possible boot prints were too vague to be a significant clue. Fingerprints abounded, but none that showed up in the records, and the process of elimination of all those whose prints were legitimately in the house was slow and likely to be inconclusive. It was his personal view that their best, if not their only, hope of making an arrest would be if the killer attempted to sell the medals or the watch.
‘Charley, I was asking your mam about money. She was able to give us a good idea of what things had been stolen, but money’s more difficult. I mean, you’ve got to have some idea how much there was there for a start.’
‘What did Mam say?’ asked the youth.
‘She didn’t know of any cash there might be lying around, any more than what you’d expect, I mean. But someone said something about your grandfather helping you out, when you wanted to buy an engagement ring …’
‘I paid him every penny back after I signed on!’ exploded the young soldier angrily. ‘Every penny! Anyone who says different is a liar!’
‘Yes, I’m sure they are, Charley,’ said Pascoe placatingly. ‘It’s just a matter of where the money came from, that’s all.’
‘He weren’t badly off, my granda,’ said Charley. ‘He had money in the Building Society, did you know that?’
‘Yes. I’ve seen his book,’ said Pascoe. ‘That’d be a help too. When was it you got engaged, Charley? There’ve been a few withdrawals in the past year and it’d be useful to see whether he went along and drew the money out to loan you for the ring, for instance. How much was it, by the way?’
‘A hundred quid,’ said Charley. ‘I were on the dole and there was no way I could manage that amount. But it were the ring that Andrea wanted.’
His voice had the flatness of withheld emotion. Jesus Christ! thought Pascoe angrily as he considered the mentality of a girl who could demand a hundred pound engagement ring from her boyfriend on the dole. He must put it to Ellie, though he could guess her response. It was men who created the marriage-obsessed, pretty-stone-greedy girl; they shouldn’t complain when she went over the top. On the other hand, he asked himself, who was it who created this poor lad soft enough to let himself be browbeaten into giving her the ring?
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