Tip Off (27 page)

‘Well,' Richard went on, ‘I phoned the Jockey Club yesterday. He was tested and has been given the all clear.' He paused to weigh his words. ‘There is no way that horse could not show positive.' He stared at us, both calmly nodding our heads. ‘But, for God's sake,' he blurted with an unexpected display of passion, ‘this means that someone is fiddling with the urine samples! Either they swapped his sample on its way to the lab, or someone in the lab fixed it. Don't you see the implications?'

‘Yes, of course,' I said, understanding his reaction to our complacency. ‘It's happened before.' I explained what Sara had told us about the bookmakers sending a sample to the States.

‘But why on earth hasn't all this come out yet?' the vet protested.

‘It will, very likely any moment now, especially since the second winning tipster has gone.'

‘Gone?' Simpson stared at me. ‘What? You mean Connor McDonagh?'

I nodded. ‘I'm amazed it hasn't filtered out already. We went to see Connor this morning and found him in the throes of a diabetic attack. And now he's dead.'

Matt had already gone out for a run round Hyde Park when I came down to the kitchen next morning. While I ate fresh croissants with coffee, I made a few personal calls.

It was a little early for Emma, but I caught Derek de Morlay between lots.

‘Better By Far worked well,' he said through a mouthful of toast. ‘I just wish I could talk you out of this mad scheme to ride him yourself.'

‘But didn't Julia tell you how much I've improved?'

‘Yes, and I didn't believe her.'

‘All right,' I said, not wanting an argument about it now. ‘Just give me an update on his gallops.'

However disparaging Derek may have been about me as a jockey, he gave me plenty of encouragement over the condition of my horse, and I was grateful for that.

As for my riding, I didn't need Julia to tell me I'd improved. I could feel that for myself. The hours spent on a horse without my feet in the irons had been well worth the initial discomfort. My balance, the strength in my leg muscles, everything was coming together, and I couldn't wait to put it all to the test on the race-course.

When I put the phone down, I went downstairs to our small office.

The strange piece of equipment we'd acquired from Tresidder at the races two days before was on the table. I picked it up and turned it around, staring at it, when it came to me suddenly that one of David Dysart's technical boffins might be able to throw some light on the way it functioned or how it had been developed.

I picked up the phone and called Wessex Biotech. Dysart was agreeable, and I arranged for Brian Griffiths to come up that evening at five o'clock.

 

He arrived early and once I'd solicitously settled him in front of the fire in the drawing room, with a Scotch at his elbow, Matt brought Tresidder's contraption up from the office.

‘We were wondering if you could have a look at this thing,' he said, pulling the camera from its bag.

Brian took it and turned it over a few times. We didn't prompt him, but allowed him to inspect it in his own time.

He removed the front lens cap and scrutinised the small aperture. ‘Ah!' he said quietly.

He undid the back and opened it to reveal the miniature gas cylinder. ‘Hmm.' He nodded. ‘That looks very familiar. I take it this is designed to fire some kind of small projectile?'

‘Yes,' Matt said. ‘Dope pellets into horse muscle tissue.'

‘Not at any great distance, I wouldn't have thought, though?' Brian suggested.

‘No. I expect it's good for about ten to fifteen yards, maximum.'

‘Who's been shooting at horses, then?' he asked.

‘I'll tell you in a moment, but first – you say the system looks familiar in some way?'

‘Oh, yes. I couldn't say for certain, but I'd be surprised if this hadn't been developed by the same people who were responsible for the air-propulsion system in our Powderjets – or at least with help from them.'

‘Who was that?' I asked.

‘There's one in-house air systems specialist. He did most of the work.'

On a sudden impulse, I picked up Toby's file, lying on the coffee table in front of me, and fished out the best close-up shots of Tresidder. ‘You've never seen this man, I suppose?'

Griffiths looked at it and slowly nodded his head in surprise. ‘Yes. Have you been following Michael Taylor too, then?'

‘No. This is a man called Tresidder.'

‘I didn't mean that was Michael Taylor, but I saw him once or twice with Michael in one of the pubs we use near the labs, sometime last year.'

‘Okay,' Matt said, on the edge of his seat now. ‘Who is Michael Taylor?'

‘He's our in-house air-propulsion expert.'

‘Is he now?' Matt exclaimed, impressed.

‘What do you think the chances are that we'll find those missing prototypes at Tresidder's place?' I asked both of them.

‘Let's assume he's more intelligent than that,' Matt said. ‘Anyway, it would have been this man Taylor who'd have done most of the work.'

Griffiths shrugged. ‘Not necessarily. He might simply have handed over a couple of prototypes with all the necessary components for air propulsion to someone who had the technical skill to adapt it to this bizarre camera. Do you happen to know,' he went on, ‘if there are more than one of these?'

‘No, we don't,' I answered. ‘But we took that one from Tresidder on Saturday, after he'd used it; he didn't go to the races yesterday, so we think that means he hasn't got another one.'

‘What on earth's all this about?' Griffiths asked, utterly bemused.

‘I told you those pellets had been aimed at horses?'

He nodded.

‘Okay,' Matt went on. ‘As far as we can tell, small pellets with breakable snouts were shot at racehorses either at the start of a race or close to it, to deliver some kind of mild sedative – Demosedan, or something like it – just enough to slow them down a little.'

‘But surely people would see when the animals were hit?'

‘It's not so obvious,' I replied, ‘if they're hit as they leave the paddock. Horses often jump and kick as they're set free, and the darts seem to leave no external mark.'

‘Hmm,' Brian said, unconvinced. ‘I don't know much about racing, but I know that horses fall often enough.'

‘Obviously, but good tipsters don't nap dodgy jumpers, and once enough punters had clicked that these horses would always win, they were piling their money on, and so far the bookies and the Jockey Club haven't been able to do a thing about it.'

‘Until yesterday,' Matt added drily.

Griffiths left soon after that. He had wanted to take the camera gun with him; we declined, but we didn't stop him taking the helium canister, which was almost certainly the property of Wessex Biotech.

 

‘Emma's on the way over,' I said, walking into Matt's office next morning.

He glanced up. Behind him, the sun was glittering off the wet surface of the motorway and the traffic streamed silently eastward. He looked at his wall clock, which showed 9.30. ‘Have you got time for that?' he asked.

‘She says she's got something that may be relevant to Toby,' I answered mildly, not feeling I had to justify myself further.

Matt had disappeared by the time Emma arrived. She rushed in to my office and gave me a quick kiss, but she was bursting to tell me her news.

‘Dad's called an Extraordinary General Meeting of the shareholders of King George's for tomorrow morning.'

‘Has he indeed? What for?'

‘He wants the shareholders to authorise a loan which is too big for him to ratify alone, under the Articles of Association of the company. They're holding it in London, at the Belgravia King George.'

‘Just remind me who the shareholders are?'

‘There are only four: Lord T, Frank Gurney, David Green and me.'

I'd noticed how, increasingly since Frank had arrived for Toby's funeral, Emma chose to refer to her legal father as ‘Lord T', or even more scathingly, ‘His Lordship'.

‘What's the loan for?'

‘I've spoken to Frank, but he doesn't know.'

‘What about the other shareholder, David Green?'

‘Frank came over with his power of attorney.'

‘If it came to a vote, that could put you in an interesting position.'

‘I've been in a few of those recently,' she said, smiling at me.

I laughed but stuck to the point. ‘Why did you think this would interest me?'

She walked towards the window. ‘I'm not sure. I just thought it might . . . you know, because of my involvement.'

‘Ah, I see.'

‘Well, are you interested?'

‘I could be,' I said slowly. ‘I'd certainly like to know what happens at the EGM.'

‘I'll let you know as soon as it finishes.'

I looked at my watch. ‘Right. I'm sorry but I've got to get on.'

‘Where are you going?'

‘Windsor. I want to see if there's anything more to learn about Tresidder.'

‘I'll come with you.'

I thought for a moment. ‘Why not? I could probably do with some help.'

 

Cherry Tree Close was a quiet and moderately expensive-looking cul-de-sac close to Windsor Great Park and within sight of the mighty Copper Horse that dominated the skyline to the south.

Emma came with me up the short front path to knock on the door. I'd thought this would look less threatening if there was anybody in.

We rang and knocked, but heard nothing from inside. I looked at Emma. ‘We'll go next door.'

We walked down the path, along the pavement twenty yards and up the next front path.

This time my knocking produced a small balding man of fifty or so. My immediate impression that he was foreign was confirmed as soon as he opened his mouth.

‘Yes? What can I do for you?' He had a strong mid-European accent, perhaps Hungarian.

‘My wife and I were wondering if the house next door was to let? We'd heard that it might be.'

‘You had? Who from?'

‘I can't quite remember. We've been asking around the town, you know, at most of the agents.'

‘Well, it might be. I own it but there is still a tenant for the house,' he said. ‘Unfortunately, he left this weekend without telling us.'

I nodded sympathetically. ‘Where did he go?' I asked, trying to show a polite interest.

‘To Spain, I think. He said he owned a house there. He was a freelance photographer, though he said he was in the army before, posted here in Windsor for a while many years ago.'

‘Perhaps we could have a look round the house?' I asked tentatively.

I could see he couldn't really be bothered to show us at this stage. I pressed him. ‘Just a quick look. If you let me have a key, my wife and I could have a swift glance, so at least we could tell you if it was totally unsuitable?'

He took a deep noisy breath through his pudgy nose, then nodded. ‘Okay.' He disappeared, returning with a pair of keys a few minutes later.

‘Tell me what you think when you bring them back,' he said, glancing out of the window. ‘Your car is the Audi, yeah?'

‘That's right.'

 

‘ “My wife and I”,' Emma giggled as we let ourselves into the house next door.

‘But it worked,' I said. ‘Let's get stuck in – any papers, objects or anything that might have something to do with his activities round the race-courses.'

‘Okay. I'll do upstairs.'

I went into the drawing room and made straight for a small cheap repro bureau.

Most of the drawers were empty. They looked as though they'd simply been tipped out, dust, scraps and all. There were a few bills in the cubby-holes, but nothing of interest.

Next I tried a small chest of drawers, mainly full of dining room utensils which I guessed came with the house. There was nothing to give any clue to the identity of the last occupants. But my eye was caught by something protruding from behind the bureau, where it had evidently slipped to the floor between the back and the wall. I pulled out a framed photograph. The moment I looked at it, I knew I'd seen it before.

It was the same regimental shot we'd found at Toby's flat, including, among the seated officers, Gervaise Brown and The Hon. Gerald Birt. Standing behind them was a Sub-lieutenant Rupert Greeves – another name that rang a bell – and, among the other ranks, a thin, sharp face that stared back at me, very little changed in the thirty-five years since the photo had been taken – that of the recently departed tenant of 9, Cherry Tree Close: Sgt. F.W. Tresidder.

The first time I'd seen our surveillance shot of Tresidder, I'd had a nagging feeling I'd seen that face somewhere before, and now the connection fell into place. Greeves had known Tresidder from his regiment; Tresidder had fired the darts; Greeves worked at the Equine Forensic Lab.

I put the photograph back. I knew I could get Toby's copy from Jane. I carried on searching for another ten minutes until Emma came down with a disappointed expression.

‘Did you find anything?' she asked.

I told her about the photo. She saw its significance right away.

‘Rather suggestive.'

‘Exactly. Right, we'd better take the keys back and tell the man next door that this place is too small for us and our four children.'