Tip Off (11 page)

I remembered that he had said he was holding some kind of a party on the Saturday night and for a moment I thought we were going to hear the whole event on tape, but it soon became clear that there had been a change of plan and he was going to the other people's house for dinner.

The banging of a door marked the end of that conversation; we assumed this was ‘Link' leaving. After that, there was a quick one-sided phone conversation in which Toby arranged to have dinner at Le Caprice, rather than at anyone's home. We got the impression he was talking to a woman, but no names were used.

At what the recorder logged as 8.15 on Monday morning, we heard Toby make a call, recording the day's message for his tipping line. From that, we realised he had been away all Sunday.

Then there was nothing until Tuesday evening, when the recorder was activated by Toby playing very loudly a recording of
Rigoletto
. This lasted a frustrating twenty minutes before the phone rang when the music was switched off. We heard him answering.

‘Toby Brown here . . . Oh yes? How can I help you? . . . What about it? . . . If we come to an arrangement, it'll cost you a lot of money . . . All right, as long as you know. Where would you like to meet? . . . Let me write that down . . . Fine, I'll see you then.'

The next sequence must have occurred just a few minutes later, obviously to an answerphone. ‘Hello, Link? It's Toby. I'm sorry, we'll have to cancel our meeting this afternoon. I've made an appointment I've got to keep. I'll speak to you later.'

From what Sara had overheard in her boss's office, she was fairly sure that Harry Chapman had made contact with Toby; it sounded like the meeting which we'd just heard him arranging.

There was nothing else on the tape.

Matt looked at me moodily. We'd learned frustratingly little. And we had no clue to where Toby had gone, or where he was now.

I picked up a phone and dialled all his numbers again. This time, his mobile number answered with a message. I left my name and contact number, and begged him to get in touch as soon as possible.

I was encouraged; last time I'd tried the mobile, it had been switched off. That it was now in answering mode suggested Toby was still in circulation.

Matt, dispelling his gloom, took Sara off to have dinner. I agreed to keep myself on stand-by in case Toby phoned.

I settled down in front of a convincingly real fake log fire in my sister's comfortable, quaintly old-fashioned drawing room on the first floor of the house and watched the early news on television.

I was just thinking about phoning Emma when my mobile rang.

I grabbed it. The caller's number hadn't been displayed. I punched ‘yes'.

A male voice I didn't recognise asked if he was speaking to Thames Valley Protection Services. I told him he was.

‘It's David Dysart here, of Wessex Biotech. I've been dealing with Matt James.'

‘You've come through to his partner, Simon Jeffries.'

‘Simon, how are you?' The voice had the hearty confidence of a man who obviously thought he knew me.

‘I'm fine, thanks. But, forgive me, Matt told me you and I had met . . . I'm sorry to say I couldn't remember where.'

Dysart laughed. ‘At least you're honest. I'll tell you exactly where it was – a party given by Lord Tintern a year or so ago at the In and Out. I think you were a guest of that lovely daughter of his.'

I remembered the party well, and Dysart vaguely now. ‘Yes, of course,' I said. ‘How do you know Lord Tintern?'

‘He's an old friend. His venture capital fund took a stake in our company last year – not a large one, about seven percent.'

‘I didn't realise that, though I know quite a lot more about your company now.'

‘And our personnel.'

‘Yes,' I agreed guardedly.

‘Brian Griffiths was rather upset by your visit. I think possibly I made a mistake asking you to go to his home, but anyway he's accepted it now. The reason I'm phoning was to tell Matt to continue with his investigations. I'd put him on hold for a while, thinking I was making more trouble than was necessary.'

That was the first I'd heard of it; I was glad I'd fielded this call. I reassured Dysart that we would take great care not to antagonise any more of his staff unnecessarily and he rang off sounding as if he'd believed me.

I thought about Dysart for a while after that. I found I could recall his face quite clearly now: a youngish-looking forty, ungreyed dark blond hair, with the eager, unsophisticated manner of an entrepreneurial scientist. Clever, bold and imaginative, I wondered why he was a friend of Gerald Tintern's.

My phone rang again.

‘Simon?'

I recognised Toby's voice at once and my pulse raced with relief.

‘Toby! How are you? We've all been worried shitless.'

‘Have you?' He sounded surprised but grateful. ‘I'm sorry. I thought it would be best if I took off for a few days after the line closed.'

‘I'm not surprised, but what happened?'

There were a few moments of silence before he answered, ‘Simon, there was a lot of money at stake, you know.'

‘That's obvious. So, are you going to tell me about it?'

‘I'd rather not talk now.'

‘I understand, of course,' I replied, trying to disguise my impatience. ‘Where are you?'

‘Mother says there are still reporters hanging around the cottage, so I'm staying with some friends – out of London. I just thought I'd let you know. My mother seemed to think you were keen to get hold of me.'

‘Yes, thanks. And, listen, if you get any problems that Matt and I can help you with, just ask.' Again, he didn't answer at once. I guessed he was weighing up my motives. ‘After all, you and I go back a long way,' I added, cringing at my own insincerity.

‘Yes,' he said, accepting my offer at face value. ‘Thanks, I will.'

The following afternoon, as the last light was fading, I parked outside the grand but graceful red-brick front of Ivydene House.

The front door was opened by Filumena, the dark woman who had brought us coffee the Sunday before. I was struck by how exceptionally good-looking she was and couldn't help thinking that her duties in the household must be broader than merely domestic.

She smiled warmly. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Jeffries. I'm afraid Lord Tintern is at the keeper's cottage,' she said in fluent English with a hint of an Italian accent. ‘But he knows you're coming so I take you to his study.'

She showed me across the chequer-board hall and ushered me into a small library. ‘Coffee?' she asked.

‘Yes, please.'

She left me in the handsome room, not quite closing the door. I walked round behind Tintern's large walnut desk to look at a vista which led the eye up a fine avenue of chestnuts to the sweep of the chalk downs beyond, glimmering pink in the dying light. I admired the scene for a moment then turned to face the desk which dated, like the house, from the time of Queen Anne. Two telephones and a pen rack stood on the far side of the polished surface.

Guiltily, I found my eyes swivelling down to the shallow stack of papers lying on a large leather-cornered blotter.

I glanced at the door and listened for a moment before turning over the first few pages. There were letters about Jockey Club business, House of Lords arrangements, confirmations of transactions from stock brokers. Nothing that seemed of major importance to such a busy man as Tintern.

I was just shuffling the papers back into place when I heard a car crunch across the gravel in front of the house.

I walked briskly from behind the desk and sat in an armchair with a copy of the
Field
in my quivering hands, in time for the housekeeper to come back to the study with the promised cup of coffee on a tray.

As she went out, I heard footsteps in the hall and Tintern came in. I stood up to hold out a hand, which he shook perfunctorily before going to sit behind his desk, in front of the pile of papers I'd just been inspecting.

He put both hands flat down on either side of the pile, gazing apparently at the top sheet, evidently suspicious that I'd been prying.

After what seemed like minutes but was probably only four or five seconds he looked up and his eyes bored straight into mine. I couldn't help quaking a little as I awaited a rebuke.

Abruptly, he smiled. ‘It was good of you to come, Simon,' he said, turning on the charm.

‘Not at all,' I muttered. ‘We just thought it would be sensible to put this Toby affair to bed.'

‘Quite right,' Tintern agreed. ‘But are you sure he's closed down for good?'

‘I got the impression it was a permanent arrangement,' I said truthfully.

‘You've seen him, have you?'

‘I've spoken to him.'

‘Did he tell you why he's stopped his line?'

‘No, but I imagine he's made enough money and is getting out before his luck runs out.'

‘Well, let's just hope he's given up for good. It's been a blessed relief to be able to tell the bookies that the affair is over.'

‘I'm sure it has been, sir,' I said earnestly.

‘Of course, we still want to know what was actually going on. We don't want someone else suddenly popping up and doing the same again.'

‘I don't think that's at all likely,' I said.

‘Even so, I'd like you to continue your investigations.'

I nodded. ‘We still don't have any leads on what he was doing out of the ordinary to score his winners. The more I've looked at it, the more I think it was just a lucky run.'

Tintern sighed philosophically. ‘Maybe, I don't know. But give it a bit longer.'

I finished my coffee and put the cup down. ‘I'm sure I've taken up enough of your time already. I'll be off. I'll keep you in touch with any further developments.'

‘Before you go,' he said, ‘there was something else I wanted to discuss with you.'

I had been about to stand up but sank back into my chair, hearing a new, more personal note in his voice.

‘How's Better By Far?'

‘He's fine, thanks. Derek de Morlay's training him now.'

‘I know, but how is he?'

‘He's sound at the moment.' I shrugged my shoulders. ‘I'm just keeping my fingers crossed he stays that way.'

‘If he wins at Cheltenham, I'll sue my vet.'

I couldn't tell if he was being serious or not. Knowing him as I did, I guessed he was.

‘We'll see,' I said as lightly as I could, and not wanting to encourage this conversation further, I said goodbye and left.

 

Three hours later, I walked from one of the courts at the squash club in Goring, sweating like a glacier in a heat wave but very happy. I'd just given my partner the most serious trouncing he'd received in months. I guessed this might have been a side-effect of the lessons I'd been having with Julia and all the new leg exercises.

Despite his antipathy to losing, Matt took it fairly well. ‘I suppose that means I have to buy you gallons of beer now,' he said disparagingly, to underline his own abstemious taste for Perrier water.

‘A couple of pints will do.'

When we were sitting down in a quiet Thames-side pub, he became more communicative. ‘Frankly, I'm not surprised Tintern's asked us to carry on with the job. I'm sure he didn't expect serious results inside a fortnight – investigations like this take months, not days – and the fact that Toby's packed up anyway doesn't mean we've failed.'

I had to laugh. ‘You should take up spin-doctoring! Anyway,' I went on, ‘we've got to keep our eyes open, just in case Toby decides to get behind someone else.'

‘Since he packed up, I've been monitoring all of them. The only tipster showing a profit now is Connor McDonagh.'

‘Oh, no!' I groaned.

‘You know him, don't you?'

‘Yes,' I said, ‘but not that well.'

‘Well enough to slip him some subtle inside information about one of Jane's runners?'

I nodded slowly as I saw where he was going. ‘Yes, as it happens, I do.'

‘Excellent! So, if there was anything from Jane's yard due to run that on its form looks like winning but which you happen to know is off peak . . .?'

‘That's asking a lot. For a start, Jane won't run a horse unless she thinks it's got more than just a good chance.'

‘But there must be times when owners are pressing for a run?'

‘Yes, I suppose there are. Or,' I'd had a sudden thought, ‘I might be able to persuade Gerald Tintern to run one of his against Jane's better judgement. He's about the only person she'd do it for.'

‘Work on it,' Matt said.

‘Hang on a minute. Let's wait and see how long he carries on winning. He might stop tomorrow.'

‘Okay, but you start getting it lined up.'

‘Talking of working on it,' I said, just to remind him we were equal partners in our business, ‘I haven't told you about my conversation with David Dysart last night.'

Matt looked uncomfortable. ‘What did he say?'

‘He said he'd told you to drop the case last weekend.'

‘He didn't actually tell us to drop it,' Matt muttered, caught on a back foot for once.

‘Okay,' I conceded, ‘he said he wanted it put on hold . . .' I enjoyed watching Matt squirm for a moment ‘. . . but I persuaded him to let us carry on.'

‘Oh, good,' Matt said, showing more relief than he'd intended. ‘Well done.'