Tip Off (15 page)

‘We'll see,' I said, laughing, and put the phone down.

 

During the night, a few faxes spewed out of my machine bearing congratulations on my modest victory and soon after eight in the morning I received the first of half a dozen phone calls.

One was from Toby. It was the first I'd heard from him in over a week.

‘Well done,' he said. ‘He wouldn't have been my nap.'

‘Toby, I hope you haven't been napping anything since you agreed to quit?' I was thinking of Harry Chapman's icy appraisal of Toby's greed.

‘Why? Who have you been talking to?'

‘Harry Chapman.'

‘Look, I don't know what's been happening but if Connor's doing the business – and from what I've heard, he's on the same kind of run as I had – it's got nothing to do with me.'

‘I believe you, thousands wouldn't.'

‘Well, that's their problem.'

‘Where are you now?' I asked.

‘In London – at the flat.'

‘Is that wise?'

‘Of course.'

It shouldn't have made any difference to me what happened to Toby, and yet I did feel somehow responsible for his safety. I also had absolutely no doubt that, having paid Toby a handsome sum, the bookies would be furious if they thought he was turning them over. ‘It's up to you, but just be careful.'

‘Yes, of course.'

He rang off, leaving me wondering why I'd bothered. But he was after all my trainer's son.

 

The next day I sat waiting in the reception area of the Jockey Club. Lord Tintern appeared a few minutes after I'd come in and asked to see him. Although he didn't look pleased to be interrupted without an appointment, he took me through to the meeting room where he had first briefed me two weeks before.

‘I have to tell you, Gerald, I think you were right,' I started.

‘About what?' he asked.

‘About some kind of connection between Toby and Connor. The only thing is, I don't think either of them is aware of it.'

‘If they're working together, then of course they are.'

‘What I mean is, I think someone else is pulling the strings.'

‘Don't be absurd! If they've somehow contrived to influence the results of races, they'd both know how it was being done. At the same time, it seems they've sometimes tipped the right horses, which have won fair and square – like Sox O'Dee on Saturday.'

‘The steward took a blood test from him. Jane told me so.'

‘Yes, I know.'

‘We asked to see the results of dope tests on any of Toby's winning naps that had been tested. That was a couple of weeks ago and we haven't received them yet.'

‘I've got them here,' Tintern said, leafing through some papers in a file he'd brought with him. ‘They were all negative. See for yourself.' He thrust a list of incomprehensible data at me. ‘And if you're trying to suggest that these animals have been systematically drugged, then I'm afraid you're wasting your time. Whatever the answer is, that's not it. Frankly, I'm sure Toby's still directly and wittingly involved, and I was hoping you'd be able to tell me by now why he'd stopped naming horses himself.'

‘I can tell you that,' I said, ignoring Harry Chapman's warning. ‘He's selling his naps to a consortium of bookmakers who are rewarding him better than his phone service.'

Tintern looked annoyed. ‘I don't think that would stop Toby from continuing to earn a bit on the side, though.'

I couldn't see any benefit in arguing about it, although I was almost certain that Toby, acquisitive as he was, was equally keen to avoid risking his own skin.

‘These bookmakers must really be starting to feel the pinch by now,' Tintern went on. ‘So keep your ear to the ground. The last thing we want, for the good of racing, is a string of bankrupt bookmakers.'

‘Presumably, if all the bookies went bust, the punters would just have to use the Tote, like the Pari-Mutuel in France?'

Tintern grunted. ‘Frankly, life would be a lot simpler if they did. I've been helping in the preparation of a Green Paper to go before Parliament with proposals that all betting in this country is channelled through the Tote, with the high street bookmakers simply acting as their agents.'

I nodded. ‘I heard the idea at your lunch party last week. I should think the bookies will fight it tooth and nail?'

‘Well,' Tintern said mildly, ‘they can try, but the time might come when they'll be delighted to be guaranteed a profit for their business.'

I left him, I thought, reasonably confident that Matt and I would get to the bottom of it. On my way out I asked the receptionist, using Lord Tintern as my authority, to send us a list of all the personnel at the Equine Forensic Laboratory at Newmarket.

 

Armed with a digital camera and a conventional one with black-and-white film, I drove out of London and headed for Worcester, where Connor's selection was running in the last race.

My mind was seething with the ramifications of the bizarre events spawned by Toby's three weeks of spectacular success.

I felt as if I were gazing at one of those jumbled pictograms that appear in the Sunday magazines from time to time, from which, by looking at it for hours through squinting eyes, one is supposed to be able to extract a view of a totally unexpected three-dimensional object. I found that I kept snatching glimpses of a hard-edged image, but the moment I lost concentration, the picture melted into invisibility once more. But I was at least encouraged to believe that these rudimentary glimpses were leading me in the right direction.

‘There was something on Teletext this morning about Salmon Leisure's share price,' Matt said. ‘Anything in the business sections?'

The day after I'd seen Tintern at Portman Square, Matt and I had set off in good time to go racing at Cheltenham. Emma had come with us and Matt drove while she and I looked through the papers.

I leafed through to the back of the
Telegraph
. ‘You're right! They've dropped from four-thirty-seven to two-eighty-two in the last ten days. And no one's likely to come to the rescue as long as they're losing money.'

‘They're certainly going to have to do something. If Connor's naps keep coming up, there's going to be absolute carnage. What do they say about that?' Matt asked.

I turned to the racing pages, read a few lines and laughed. ‘They hate to admit it, but now Connor's named nine out of ten, they can't pretend it isn't happening.' I read on a bit. ‘They don't like it. They're as good as saying they can smell a very large rat. And they almost sound sorry for the bookies.'

‘Hypocrites!' Emma said. ‘They're jealous, that's all. Though God knows why they should take the bookies' side – they've been winning since time began, and now at last the tables have turned, they're whinging like spoiled brats. Anyway, what are you two looking for today?'

‘Same as yesterday. I'm going to photograph everyone in sight, anywhere near the horse, around the paddock and down at the start.'

‘What's the horse called again?'

‘Free Willy.'

‘Oh, dear,' she groaned. ‘Why do people do things like that?'

I laughed. ‘It's quite a good horse.'

About thirty seconds after the start, Free Willy looked like the right name for the horse. ‘Free' was what he was as soon as he had deposited his jockey at the second fence and, to the delight of the bookmakers, galloped home alone.

 

After we'd left Cheltenham two hours later, I wanted to get straight back to London to start processing the films in Catherine's dark room. Matt dropped me at Swindon station and took Emma on to Ivydene.

Once I was in London, I settled down in semi-darkness in Notting Hill to develop all the shots we had taken over the last few days. Once I'd got that going, I transferred all the digital shots on to our computer and started to sort through the prints for any matches from the five napped races we'd already covered. I reckoned I had five hours' work ahead of me to do the job thoroughly, and Matt and I had both accepted that this was our only jumping off point – until something better presented itself.

Rerunning the videotapes of the races hadn't given us the spread or depth of coverage we needed, which was why we'd chosen this old-fashioned, laborious, but ultimately reliable way of surveying the crowds in particular locations.

I stopped occasionally to pour myself a drink or make a sandwich, and thought jealously of Matt taking Emma home.

A little before nine, I was making good progress and thinking of talking to Emma myself, when the phone rang.

I picked it up almost unconsciously as I concentrated on rinsing off a batch of prints.

‘Hello.'

‘Oh, hello.' A soft, attractive female voice, which I didn't recognise at once. ‘I'm sorry to ring now, but I was looking for Matt.'

‘I'm his business partner. Can I help you?'

‘Oh, hi, Simon. It's Sara here.'

I stopped what I was doing and tried to concentrate. ‘Sara, I'm sorry, I didn't recognise your voice. I'm afraid Matt's not here. I can give you his number in Henley, he should be back there later.'

‘I don't need to talk to Matt necessarily. Either of you will do. Can I come round?'

‘Sure. Do you have the address?'

‘Yes.'

‘If you haven't eaten, I'll buy you dinner, if you like?'

‘Thanks. I'll be there in about twenty minutes.'

When she'd rung off, I tried Matt's number myself but only got the answerphone. Similarly on his mobile. I reluctantly dialled Ivydene, and found myself talking to Gerald Tintern.

‘Emma's gone off to dinner with that partner of yours,' he answered my query with some satisfaction. ‘I don't know if I'll be around when she gets back, of course, but I could leave a message for her?'

‘No,' I said, ‘it's not important.'

 

It was half an hour before the door bell rang. I went to open it and found Sara standing there.

Her blue eyes shone beneath her bob of windblown black hair. A wry, conspiratorial smile dimpled her cheeks and made me suddenly aware of her attractions. I had to remind myself that she was the first girl in recent history that my partner had visibly fancied. As I gave her a welcoming kiss, I tried to think of Emma.

I waved her through the door and down to our office. ‘Can I get you something from the company drinks cupboard?'

‘If there's anything in it.'

There wasn't a lot, but we finished off a bottle of Chardonnay while Sara leaned back in the only comfortable chair and told me, with more than a hint of nervousness, why she'd come.

‘Harry's going crazy. McDonagh's skinning us alive and Harry's convinced that Toby's the cause of it all. He thinks he's behind McDonagh. You know Harry bought Toby off the tipping line?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, he's hopping mad now – thinking he's been conned.'

‘But I told him Toby wouldn't dream of double-dealing. For a start he's far too much of a coward. But do you know if Harry's contacted Toby yet anyway?'

‘No – I'm not sure I know where he is. Do you?'

‘Not any more,' I said, trying to dismiss the sudden thought that she'd been sent by Chapman to get a fix on Toby.

‘That's just as well,' Sara said, to my relief, and I decided it was time to go out to eat.

Over a quick dinner in a small, old-fashioned Italian restaurant, Sara carried on questioning me, but now it was about Matt. She was a good-looking girl, but any temptation I might have felt was easily dispelled by her obvious reciprocation of Matt's interest; I just hoped he was behaving as well as I was.

I dropped her back at her flat in Fulham, and said goodbye with no more than a fleeting kiss on the cheek. Feeling virtuous and frustrated, I went back to my job in the dark room, and spent the next few hours wondering about Toby and Harry Chapman.

 

Shortly after midnight, when I was thinking about packing up, the phone rang again. This time it was Matt.

‘Hi,' he said, ‘just checking in to let you know your girlfriend has been watered and fed.'

‘So has yours,' I replied gleefully.

‘What?' he asked sharply.

‘Sara came round with some fresh news. We couldn't track you down. Your mobile was switched off,' I added starchily. ‘It's lucky it wasn't anything urgent.'

 

When the empty 6.30 Intercity pulled out of Paddington next morning, I was on it. Matt had arranged with David Dysart that we would be at Wessex Biotech at 8.30 for a demonstration of his Powderjet injection system. He had insisted that we should have a proper look at the equipment we were supposed to be investigating.

Matt was waiting for me at Bristol Parkway. Quietly, and without embellishment or omission, I filled him in on exactly what Sara had told me the previous evening, and how she had spent most of dinner asking about him.

‘Did she say what Chapman and his friends were going to do?'

‘No, I don't suppose she knows. Anyway, there's not a lot they
can
do, is there?'

‘If they're desperate enough, they'll do anything. This isn't some tin pot little business we're talking about. They turn over hundreds of millions a year.'

‘I've told Toby to let us know if they start giving him a hard time,' I said. ‘But I think Chapman's a bit above ordering beatings up. Did you discuss any of this with Tintern last night?'