Tip Off (20 page)

We ate a late lunch of bread and cheese while, still in silence, we carried on processing, examining and sorting the several hundred mug shots we'd accumulated from the most recent race-meetings.

Matt was painstakingly thorough for the first hour while I finished logging the rest and blew up several of them, including a high-resolution scan of the photo Mrs Hackney had given me.

‘Okay,' he announced. ‘I've identified a dozen people who have been at more than one of the races.'

He had arranged a number of the prints side by side. ‘Here's one – at Chepstow, Worcester and Cheltenham.'

I looked at the man – fiftyish and conventionally dressed – and recognised him at once. ‘He's an owner, Michael Penruddock. He's always at the races.'

‘We can't afford to ignore anyone,' Matt said, resenting my dismissive tone.

‘No, of course not, but there are going to be quite a few who crop up more than once.'

‘This guy, for instance,' he said, pointing at another.

‘He's the Jockey Club starter, attached to all three of those courses.'

Matt went on to point at several others – minor officials, trainers' employees, some of the photographers – who cropped up more than once, but always with complete justification.

But it was while we were both studying one of them that he suddenly thumped the table. ‘Look! Isn't that your man Steve Lincoln?'

I picked up the enlargement I'd made a few minutes before and placed it next to the shot Matt had isolated. I swung a big oblong magnifier over them both.

‘What do you think?' Matt asked.

‘No, that's not him. He's similar, but that's all.'

After an hour, we had re-scrutinised every single shot and still found nothing. But we agreed that finding Lincoln and Miles should be our prime objectives.

I was leafing through
Yellow Pages
, looking for dance rehearsal studios where I might start looking for Miles, when the phone on the table rang.

I picked it up.

‘Hello?'

‘Tintern here.'

With just the two words he had made it clear he wasn't at all happy.

‘Good afternoon, sir.'

‘Hardly,' he barked. ‘I've just spoken to Emma at Jane's. She told me what happened to Toby. Why the hell didn't you let me know first thing?'

‘I was planning to give you a full briefing later this afternoon when we find out more about what happened.'

‘That won't be necessary. I've already spoken to Detective Superintendent Howard, who's handling the case. He told me you'd been back to Brown's place this morning without any authority.'

‘We had Jane's authority,' I interrupted.

‘That's rubbish and you know it! Her son's just committed suicide. Do you imagine she wants all the detritus from that picked over by you and your partner?'

‘There is some doubt that it is suicide,' I said.

‘That's not what the police think, and I'm afraid I take their view more seriously than yours.'

‘That's up to you, sir, of course, but we are also bearing in mind our instructions from you on behalf of the Jockey Club.'

‘You can consider those instructions formally rescinded as of now. You'll receive written notification to that effect by fax, first thing tomorrow.'

I felt myself blanch at the news, and the sharpness of his delivery. ‘I see,' I gulped. ‘We'll forward our account and a final report to the Jockey Club as soon as we've received your written confirmation.' I rammed the phone back into its cradle.

Matt looked at me enquiringly. ‘I take it we're off the case?'

‘Yes, we're off it,' I said evenly. ‘Does that mean you're off Toby's too?'

‘I'm sorry, I think it probably does.'

I couldn't argue. Toby and Jane were my friends, not his. And, as he was undoubtedly thinking, we had a business to run.

‘Fair enough,' I said quietly. ‘But I'm afraid I'm going to have to take some time off to deal with it myself.'

‘It can come out of your holiday,' Matt grunted. ‘We've got to get to grips with David Dysart's problem, and I could do with some help there.'

‘There's nothing our regulars can't do to back you up,' I said truthfully.

‘All right,' Matt sighed. ‘If you like, I'll complete our report for the Jockey Club, then if you want to stay on in London to follow up this Lincoln character, I'll take the train back.'

‘Thanks,' I said, genuinely appreciative given the grossness of my blunder over the tape. Then I thought of another angle. ‘I suppose you won't need to keep in touch with Sara now that we're not investigating Chapman?'

‘No,' Matt agreed sullenly. ‘I don't suppose I will.'

I started my search next morning among a group of lithe young women at a ballet school in Hammersmith – the nearest I'd found in
Yellow Pages
. I soon discovered it was well-connected with the handful of other classical dance studios in London.

The assistant principal was a former ballerina, brimming with compassion, who evidently assumed my need to contact Miles was a matter of the heart. I would have liked to put her right about my own sexual orientation, but didn't correct the misconception.

While avoiding too much eye-contact, she sympathetically made two phone calls for me to establish where Miles Wheatley, as I discovered his surname was, could be found. He turned out to be quite well-known in the ballet world. I was told that from an early age he had wanted to be a dancer himself, until it had become clear that his stature would always let him down.

 

A converted Victorian factory in Battersea housed the rehearsal studios of one of London's more avant-garde dance troupes.

When I asked for Miles, my enquiry was once again met with looks of tolerant sympathy, and I was sent along to the studio where he was currently playing accompaniment for the troupe's two leading dancers.

I slipped in and sat on a bench in half-darkness at the back of the room.

While he was still playing, I scrutinised Miles Wheatley from a distance of about thirty feet. He was a small man whose youthful good looks were sharpened by an air of intensity as he played with great skill while always conceding that his function was to accompany.

I'd never paid to see a performance of ballet in my life; I'd always thought it was probably little more than a distraction from good music, presumably evolved for people who found it hard to concentrate on the music alone. But now I watched and listened, transfixed by the stark, graceful and almost violent movements of the company's version of Stravinsky's ‘Rite of Spring'.

When the time came for the dancers to take a short break, I was almost tempted to carry on sitting there in the darkness to see more, but someone drew the piano player's attention to me.

He bounded up from his stool and walked quickly across the room to me. His light brown hair flopped in a fringe over his eyes and his mouth quivered into an uncertain smile.

I got to my feet, trying not to look too intimidating.

When I stepped into the light, he looked me up and down and his eyes turned sullen and wary.

‘Hello,' I said blandly, offering my hand. ‘I'm Simon Jeffries. I wanted to talk to you about Toby Brown.'

The wariness in his eyes became more pronounced. ‘What about him?'

‘I'm afraid something's happened to him and I need your help.'

The apprehension in his eyes turned to surprise, then fear. ‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘I'm not suggesting you do – please believe me. Look, is it possible to go out somewhere and talk for a few minutes?'

He pursed his lips, looked at me for a few seconds then nodded. ‘I'll just tell Madame I'm taking five. She'll forgive me.'

He took me out of the warehouse to a handsome and well-preserved nineteenth-century pub on the opposite side of the road. I bought him the bottle of Grolsch he asked for and myself a pint. There weren't many customers at eleven in the morning, and we found a quiet corner table.

‘So,' he said challengingly, ‘what's Tobes done now?'

I strained to tell from his voice, his body language, his shifting eyes, whether or not he was acting. If he was, he was very convincing.

Although the morning papers hadn't run the story, I knew that it was already on the front page of the first editions of the
Evening Standard
.

‘I found him at his flat yesterday.'

Miles tensed at the word ‘found', but said nothing.

‘I'm afraid he's dead.'

I watched his fingers suddenly tighten their grip on the frosty beer bottle. ‘How?' he whispered.

I had to gulp to get the word out. ‘Hanged.'

‘Himself ?' Miles whispered.

‘Well,' I said, ‘that's what it looks like, but the police haven't said for certain.'

‘What else could it be?'

‘Toby's mother doesn't believe he'd commit suicide – she thinks he must have been murdered.'

‘But then, why don't the police think it's murder?'

I shrugged. ‘They say there was no sign of any intruder.'

‘Do they know why he did it?'

‘They don't. There was no suicide note, but media reports are hinting it was because he'd been . . . jilted.'

Miles gave a bitter laugh. ‘Toby – jilted? That'll be the day!'

‘I'd heard it was you who walked out on him?' I said quickly.

‘You what? Let me tell you, it was
him
who let me down. Badly. He was going to help me set up my own rehearsal studios . . .' He stopped abruptly, and took another swig from his bottle.

‘Well, what happened?'

‘It doesn't matter, 'specially not now.' He drained the bottle and plonked it on the table.

‘Do you want another?' I offered.

Miles nodded dejectedly.

When he had a fresh bottle in front of him, I tried another angle. ‘What about Steve Lincoln? Didn't he chuck Toby?'

Miles looked at me as if I were supremely ignorant. ‘Of course not! Everyone knew Steve Lincoln was a right little hustler who only got what he deserved.'

‘What did he get?'

‘Sweet F A – which was
more
than he deserved, come to think of it.'

‘Did you know him?'

‘Depends what you mean by know. Toby'd seen him very comfortable for a few months while he was supposed to be helping with the tipping line. Steve said it was his idea, but it's not as though no one else was doing it and all the tips were Toby's. Anyway, when Toby'd had enough of him, he cut off the money, had to change the locks and everything, but Steve seemed to think he should still have some of the profits from the line. Toby had just shut down the one company and started up another. Legally there wasn't a thing Steve could do. Toby was very good at that sort of thing.'

I could imagine he was. And this made sense of the phone calls and squabbles Matt and I had heard through our bug. ‘But when did Steve move out of Toby's life?'

‘About a month or so ago, when I came on the scene.'

‘So it was before Toby started napping all those winners?'

‘Yes.'

‘Had Steve anything to do with Toby after he'd gone?'

‘Yes.' Miles's nostrils quivered in outrage. ‘Steve didn't want to let go – Toby was his meal ticket.'

‘So, he was very bitter about what Toby had done?'

‘Yes.' The little pianist nodded eagerly. ‘He started making all sorts of threats.'

‘But the locks were changed so Steve couldn't get in unless Toby asked him? Would Toby have invited him in?'

‘No way.'

I thought this must be wishful thinking on Miles's part, remembering the conversation between Toby and Steve which the bug had picked up.

‘And you? Did you ever go back once you'd split up?' I asked.

Miles took a long swig from his bottle. He put it down and looked at me. ‘I don't have to tell you anything. You're not the police – you're just some busybody sticking his nose in. I've got nothing to hide.' He pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘Thanks for the drinks.' He turned and headed straight for the door.

I didn't attempt to stop him or call him back. I hadn't any more questions for him anyway.

 

Half an hour later, I'd found a parking space near Hay's Mews. I went to the front door of Toby's block and rang, not his bell, but the caretaker's flat.

‘'Allo?'

It was Tilbury.

‘Hello, Mr Tilbury. It's Simon Jeffries here. I just called by to see how you are? I know you were very upset and everything and you're having some time off. I just wanted to be sure you were all right for money and so on.'

It wasn't a subtle approach, but I didn't have time to pussy-foot around.

‘Come to the side door,' the speaker crackled back at me.

I looked along the building and spotted a small black door, down a few steps and set in a brick wall. ‘Right.'

As I reached the door, he opened it before I could knock. He hadn't shaved and looked seedier than ever. He ushered me in quickly and led me along a short corridor where he opened another door into a stuffy sitting room, with a small window set high on one wall and a single-bar electric heater set in front of a cheap wooden-armed easy chair. The contrast with the opulence of the apartments he tended was almost offensive.