Even Money

18

The first race at Towcester’s late-June evening meetingstarted at six p.m. I have always liked to be set up at least an hour before the first in order to capture the early punters, and also to give time for us to sort out any problems we might have with our equipment, in particular flat batteries and poor wireless Internet signal. Consequently, I drove in through the racetrack-entrance archway a little before five and parked in the shade of a large oak tree in the center of the parking lot.

I have always enjoyed going to Towcester Races, and not only because most of their meetings have no admission charge for the public and hence none for the bookies. I also loved the parkland course set on the rolling countryside of the Easton Neston estate, and their recent investments in new facilities that made it an attractive venue for both bookies and punters alike.

As the racetrack was approximately midway between our homes in Kenilworth and High Wycombe, Luca and I had agreed to meet there, traveling in our separate cars, so I unloaded everything myself and pulled it on our trolley into the racetrack enclosure.

The betting ring at Towcester was unusual insofar that it was in the space between the grandstands rather than in front of them, as on many courses. This was due to the stands having been built very close to the track, which I suppose was sensible as it gave a much better view of the racing for the spectators.

Luca was already waiting for me as I pulled the trolley to our pitch.

“Where’s Betsy?” I asked.

“She’s not coming,” he said. “In fact, I don’t think she will be coming again, ever.”

“Oh?”

“She packed up yesterday and moved out of my flat,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” I said, not meaning it.

“I’m not,” he replied.“Not really.” He paused.“I suppose I’ll miss her.” He paused again. “I’ll definitely miss her in bed. Wow, she was so good.” He smiled at me.

“Too much information, Luca,” I said, laughing. “Far too much information.”

We set up the stuff in silence for a while.

“I suppose we’ll need a new junior assistant now,” Luca said.

“Yes,” I said. “Any ideas?”

“There’s a lad at the electronics club who might be good.”

“I don’t want any juvenile delinquents.”

“He’s a good lad at heart,” said Luca. “He just fell in with the wrong crowd.”

“Talking about the electronics club,” I said, “did you tell the police about that microcoder thing?”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “Sorry about that.”

“I should think so too. I nearly got arrested yesterday.”

“God! I’m sorry. I didn’t even know Jim was a copper until after he’d asked.”

“Tell me about it,” I said.

“This chap, Jim, who also helps at the club, he called me up yesterday morning and asked about that black-box device thing you gave me to look at. Jim had helped me to investigate it. He was the bloke who fixed it up to the oscilloscope. So he just casually, like, asks me where I got it from, and I told him that you gave it to me. I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong to say so, but Jim then says his boss will be most interested. So I ask him who his boss is, and he says some chief inspector or something.”

“You could have bloody warned me,” I said, fighting with the catch that held our board up.

“Sorry,” he said. “Jim called right in the middle of my own domestic crisis. Betsy had just accused me, point-blank, of sleeping with her sister, Millie.”

I stopped what I was doing and looked at him in surprise. Perhaps I might forgive him for not remembering to tell me about PC Jim.

“And have you?” I asked, intrigued.

“That’s none of your business,” he said, laughing. “But, no, not exactly.”

“And what the hell does that mean?” I said.

“I kissed her. Only once, mind. At her birthday party. You know, we went there from Ascot. But Betsy caught us.”

“Oh come on,” I said. “Everyone kisses the birthday girl at her own party.”

“Not with tongues,” he said. “And not out in the garden, behind a bush.”

“Ah,” I replied. That explained a lot. Betsy had been cool towards Luca ever since that party, and now I knew why.

“So what are you going to do?” I asked him.

“Nothing,” he said. “Leave things to settle for a while, I think. Then I’ll see how the land lies.”

“She may not have you back,” I said.

“Back? Are you crazy? I just thought I’d better let things calm down before I asked Millie out.” He grinned at me, and I wasn’t sure whether he meant it or if he was just trying to shock his new business partner. Knowing Luca, it was probably both.

It was a lovely summer’s evening at the races with a large crowd, many of them eager to have a flutter on the horses, and most of them in summer-casual dress of shorts and T-shirts. It was a far cry from the morning-dress formality of Royal Ascot, and much more fun. The bars were soon doing brisk business, helped by the unusually warm weather, and before long there was a party atmosphere all around the betting ring.

Luca and I worked continuously, taking bets and paying out winners without a break, one of the disadvantages of not having a junior assistant. But busy as it was, it was still one of those times when being a bookmaker was a real joy.

No one really becomes a bookie unless they have a bit of the showman in them. I just loved standing on my platform shouting out the odds and bantering with the crowd.

“Come on, mate,” shouted one heavyweight punter at me, “call that fair to have Ellie’s Mobile at only three-to-one?” He looked up at the name at the top of our board. “How can we ‘Trust Teddy Talbot’ when you only offer it at that price?”

“If you’ll ride it, you can have it at tens,” I shouted back at him.

All his mates roared with laughter.

“He couldn’t ride a bike,” one of them shouted.

“Not without bending it,” shouted another.

“Give me twenty on the nose,” said the heavyweight, thrusting a note in my direction.

“Twenty pounds to win, number two, and make it at four-to-one,” I said to Luca over my shoulder. “Special favor.”

“Cheers,” said the man, surprised. “You’re a real gent.”

I didn’t know about that, but, if I couldn’t repay a bit of initiative and color, then I was in the wrong business.

Ellie’s Mobile, the favorite, romped home to win by four lengths at a starting price of three-to-one, cheered with great gusto by the ten-strong band of well-oiled mates, who had stayed near our pitch to watch the race.

“Well done,” I said to the big chap, who was beaming from ear to ear.

“My God!” he said loudly to whoever would listen.“I’ve actually got one over on a bookie.”

“That makes a change,” chipped in one of the others.

They all guffawed, and ordered more beer.

“Weighed in,” sounded the public-address system.

I paid the big man his eighty pounds in winnings plus his twenty-pound stake.

“Cheers,” he said again, stuffing the cash into a pocket. “I’ll trust Teddy Talbot any day of the week.”

Giving him a better price had cost me twenty pounds. But the man and his nine friends more than repaid that amount in losing stakes in the remaining races. And they did so with smiles on their faces.

In fact, the whole evening was fun, with plenty of punters and a good mix of favorites and outsiders winning the races. Our overround, the measure of our overall profit, hovered around nine percent throughout, and both Luca and I were tired but happy as we packed up the equipment onto our little trolley after the last race.

“Where are you parked?” I asked him.

“In the center,” he said. “And you?”

“Up there.” I pointed. “Where are we the rest of the week?”

“Worcester tomorrow afternoon, Thursday evening and Friday afternoon at Warwick, then Leicester on Saturday,” Luca said. He always remembered what we had arranged better than I. We sat down about once every six weeks or so to plan the time ahead, and it was getting near to when we would have to do it again.

“Better put everything in my car, then,” I said.

“Yeah,” he replied. “I’ll give you a hand.”

We dragged the trolley up the hill to the parking lot near the main entrance where I had left my car. All around us were happy racegoers also making their way to their vehicles in the late-evening sunshine. One of the reasons why evening racing was so popular was that, even in southern England, the sun didn’t set until well after nine o’clock for two whole months during midsummer.

“How about your young delinquent friend?” I asked as we pulled on the trolley handle. “Can he come with you sometime this week so I can meet him?”

“I’ll find out,” Luca said. “And he’s not a delinquent. He’s a nice boy, or I wouldn’t even suggest it.”

“OK, OK,” I said, smiling. “Ask him if he’d like to come and watch us one day this week. What’s his name?”

“Douglas,” he said. “Douglas Masters.”

His name didn’t sound like that of a juvenile delinquent, but who was I to know? Kipper didn’t exactly sound like a killer’s name either, but it was.

“Calls himself Duggie. Can I tell him there’s a job?”

“Sure,” I said. “But tell him it’s like an interview. No promises.”

Two large men were leaning on the oak tree waiting for us beside my car. I knew them from a previous encounter. As before, they were dressed in short-sleeved white shirts and black trousers.

I stopped the trolley about ten yards from them.

“What the hell do you want?” I shouted across.

Luca looked at me in stunned amazement.

“Eh?” he said. He obviously hadn’t seen them, or, if he had, he hadn’t realized they were waiting for us.

“Luca,” I said. “These are the two gentlemen who delivered a message to me in the Kempton parking lot.”

“Oh,” he said. Oh, indeed.

I looked down at the men’s feet. Large, steel-toe-capped work boots, same as before.

“We have another message,” one of them said. He was the taller of the two, the same one who had spoken to me at Kempton. Not that the other one was short. They both were well over six feet. The sidekick made up for his slight lack of height by being a good few inches broader than his more wordy companion. And he just stood silently to one side, bunching his fists.

Surely I was not to be beaten up again, I thought. Not here at this wonderful parkland racetrack, not with all these people about.

“What message?” I said. There was still ten yards between us, and I reckoned that if they made a move towards me I would turn and run. A ten-yard start should be enough for me to reach the relative safety of a busy after-racing bar in the grandstand.

“Luca,” I said quietly, “if they move, run for it. Run like the wind.”

The look on his face was priceless. I’m not sure he realized until that point that he was in any danger.

“My boss says he wants to talk to you,” the man said.

“You can tell your boss to bugger off,” I said.

“He wants to do some business,” the man went on.

“Still tell him to bugger off,” I said. “I don’t do business the same way he does.”

“He wants to buy you out,” he said, ignoring me.

I stood there looking at the man in complete surprise.

“What?” I said, not quite believing what I’d heard.

“He wants to buy your business,” the man said.

“He couldn’t afford it,” I said.

“I don’t think you understand,” said the man. “My boss wants your business, and he’s prepared to pay for it.”

“No,” I almost shouted. “I don’t think you understand. My business is not for sale, and even if it was I wouldn’t sell it to your boss, whoever he might be, for all the tea in China. So go and tell your boss to get stuffed.”

The man flexed his muscles and began to get red in the face.

“My boss says that you can either sell it to him the easy way or lose it to him the hard way.”

“And who exactly is your boss?” I shouted at him.

He didn’t reply but advanced a stride towards me. My head start had just been reduced to nine yards.

“Stay there,” I shouted at him. He stopped. “Who is your boss?” I asked again. Again, he ignored me. And he advanced another stride. Eight yards.

I was at the point of running when another voice came from behind me.

“Hello, Teddy Talbot. You all right?” I turned and breathed a huge sigh of relief. The big man from the betting ring was staggering up the parking lot towards me, together with his band of brothers. “You in need of some help?” he said, only slightly slurring his words.

I turned back to the two bullyboys.

“That would be great,” I said. “I think these two men are just leaving.”

I stared straight at them, and, finally, they decided to give up and go. Luca and I stood surrounded by the cavalry, and we watched as the two men walked across to a black BMW 4× 4 and drove away through the archway and out onto the London Road. I made a mental note of the number plate.

“Were those boys troubling you?” asked my mate, the large guy.

“Some people will do anything to get their losses back from a bookie,” I said somewhat flippantly. “But, thanks to your lot, they didn’t manage it today.”

“You mean those two were trying to rob you,” said another of the group.

“They certainly were,” I said, but not quite in the way I’d made out.

“You should have said so. I’m a policeman.”

He produced his warrant card from his pocket, and I read it: PC Nicholas Boucher, Northamptonshire Constabulary. Off duty, I presumed, in multicolored tropical shirt, baggy shorts and flip-flops.

“I got their car registration,” I said.

“Good,” said PC Boucher. “Now, what exactly did they say to you? Did they demand their money back?”

“Well, no,” I said. “They hadn’t quite, and you guys turning up must have frightened them away before they had a chance to. And I’m only assuming that’s what they wanted. It wouldn’t have been the first time.”

“Oh,” he said, rather disappointed. His case was evaporating before his eyes.“Not much I can do if they hadn’t actually demanded any money from you. But did they threaten you?”

“They looked quite threatening to me,” I said.

“We can’t exactly arrest people for just looking threatening, now can we?” he said ironically.

“No,” I said. “I suppose I can see that. But I’d love to know who they were so I can watch out and avoid them in the future.”

“What was their vehicle registration?” he asked.

I gave it to him.

“No promises,” he said. “It’s against the rules, really.”

He took his mobile phone from his pocket and called a number.

“Jack,” he said into the phone. “Nick Boucher here. Can you do a vehicle check? Registration victor-kilo-five-five-zulu november-victor.” He waited for a while. “Yes,” he said. Then he listened again. “Thanks,” he said finally, and hung up.

“Sorry. That vehicle is registered to a company, not to an individual, so it won’t really help you.”

“Which company?” I asked him.

“Something called HRF Holdings Limited,” he said. “Ever heard of them?”

“No,” I said. I looked at Luca, who said nothing but shrugged his shoulders. “Thanks anyway.”

“Are you guys going to be all right from now on?” said PC Boucher. “I’ve got to get this bunch of drunks home. I’m the designated driver.”

“Yes,” I said. “Thanks.”

“See you next time, Teddy,” said the big guy, staggering a little and giving me a wave. I watched his group lurch over to a white minibus and fall into it. The passengers all waved enthusiastically at me through the windows as poor, sober PC Boucher drove them away. I waved back at them, laughing.

“HRF Holdings,” said Luca. “Do we know them?”

“Not by that name,” I said.

“What, then?” he asked.

“I believe HRF Holdings Limited is a parent company,” I said. “And I think I know one of its children.”

It took me less than an hour to get home, including a few extra trips around the roundabouts to ensure that I wasn’t being followed by a certain black BMW 4× 4 containing a couple of heavies.

I couldn’t see anyone following me, but they wouldn’t have actually needed to. I was sure that whoever their “boss” might be, he would have been able to find out where I lived with ease if he’d wanted to. My name and address were on the electoral rolls, for a start, and I hadn’t bothered to tick the box to keep that information secret.

Consequently, I drove up and down Station Road a couple of times to see if the BMW was parked up somewhere awaiting my arrival. There was no sign of it, but I couldn’t check every street in Kenilworth.

I parked the car in the space in front of the house and made it safely, unchallenged, to my front door.

“Hello,” said Sophie, coming to meet me. “Had a good time?”

“Very,” I said. “I always like Towcester, especially the evening meetings.”

“Hiya,” said Alice, coming out of the kitchen with a glass of white wine in each hand. She gave one of them to Sophie with a smile. I wasn’t sure that drinking alcohol was necessarily a good idea on top of her medication, but I wasn’t going to say so. For now, it was far more important that the truce between the sisters was still holding firm.

They had been out in Alice’s car when I had left for the races, and I thought they might have been to see their parents in spite of telling me that they were off to Leamington Spa for the shopping. However, there was no sign of the agitation that Sophie normally displayed after such a visit, so I wasn’t certain. And I wasn’t going to ask. We went into the kitchen.

“Have you had a good day?” I asked them.

“Lovely,” Sophie said without elaborating.

“So what time did you get back?”

“About seven.”

“Have you eaten?” I looked at my watch, it was now past ten.

“We have,” said Sophie. “But I’ve kept some for you. I know you’re always hungry when you get home after an evening meeting.”

I suppose it was true, but it didn’t mean I always had something to eat. During the past five months, I had more often than not had a stiff shot of Scotch and gone straight to bed.

“And we’ve been at the crisps and dip,” said Alice with a giggle.

And the white wine, I thought, though, to be fair, Sophie seemed pretty sober even if Alice was obviously quite tipsy.

“Do you know anything about a rucksack?” Sophie asked casually as she stood at the cooker reheating my supper.

“What?” I said sharply,

“A rucksack,” she said again. “A man came here. Said he wanted to collect a rucksack. He said you knew about it.”

“What sort of rucksack?” I said, rather flustered.

“A black-and-red rucksack,” she said. “The man told us you were looking after it for him. He was quite persistent, I can tell you. I don’t think he liked it much when I told him I knew nothing about it.”

Oh God, I thought.

“So you didn’t give it to him?” I asked her.

“No, of course not,” she said. “I didn’t even know we had a black-and-red rucksack. Where is it?”

“In the cupboard under the stairs,” I said. “Did the man try and get into the house?”

“No,” she said, slightly perturbed by the question. “Why would he?”

“I just wondered, that’s all,” I said. “So tell me, what happened?”

“I told him to go away and come back when you were at home.”

“We then locked the house up tight, opened a bottle and waited for you to get back,” said Alice with a smile. They were both remarkably calm about the man’s visit. Probably because they didn’t realize the seriousness of the situation. But why would they?

“When was this?” I asked.

“Round eight o’clock,” Sophie said.

“Can you describe the man?” I said to both of them.

“He was rather creepy,” said Alice.

“In what way was he creepy?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “He just was. And he was wearing his hood up, and a scarf. Now, I reckon you’ve got to be up to no good to be doing that on a night as hot as this.”

“Could you see his eyes?” I asked. “Were they set rather close together?”

“Yes,” said Alice, throwing a hand up in the air almost excitedly. “That’s it. That’s exactly why I thought he was creepy.”

So it had definitely been Shifty-eyes, the man that Paddy Murphy had called Kipper. He had found me at last.

“What are we going to do?” Sophie asked loudly, suddenly becoming scared. “I don’t want him coming back here.” In spite of the warm evening, she shivered.

“It’s all right, my love,” I said, putting a reassuring arm around her shoulders. “I’m sure he won’t come back tonight.”

The doorbell rang, and we all jumped.

“How sure?” Sophie said, looking worried.

“Ignore it,” said Alice. “Then he’ll have to go away.”

We stood silently in the kitchen, listening.

The doorbell rang again, and there were also some heavy thumps on the door.

“I know you’re in there,” shouted a voice from outside. “Open up.”

I went out of the kitchen into the hallway.

“Who is it?” I shouted through the wood of the front door.

“Mr. Talbot,” said the voice. “I think you may have something of mine, and I want it back.”

“What?” I asked.

“A rucksack,” he said. “A black-and-red rucksack.”

“But the rucksack belonged to Alan Grady, not you,” I said quickly without stopping to think first. Dammit, I thought. Why hadn’t I just denied any knowledge of any rucksack? He might then have gone away, but he wouldn’t do so now.

“I’m calling the police,” said Sophie, coming into the hallway. “Do you hear me?” she shouted loudly with a tremor in her voice. “I’m calling the police.”

“There’ll be no need for the police,” said the man calmly through the door. “Just give me the rucksack and I’ll go away.”

“Give him the rucksack,” Sophie said to me imploringly, her panicky eyes as big as saucers. “Please, Ned, just give him the damn rucksack.”

“OK, OK,” I said.

I went to the cupboard under the stairs and fetched it. It was still full of my father’s things.

“Give it to him,” Sophie urged me again, her voice quivering with fear.

I lifted the rucksack and turned to go upstairs with it.

“Where the hell are you going?” Sophie almost screamed at me.

“If you think I’m opening the front door with him there, you must be…” I didn’t finish the sentence. “I’m going to throw it to him out the window.”

I went up to our bedroom and opened the same window through which I had witnessed the departure of Mr. John Smith from my house only one week previously.

The man was close to the door, and I couldn’t see him as he was standing under the overhanging porch.

“Here,” I shouted.

He moved back into my sight. He appeared just as I had seen him the first time in the parking lot at Ascot racetrack: blue jeans, charcoal-gray hoodie, with a black scarf over the lower part of his face. I couldn’t tell if he was wearing the same black army boots he had used to split my eyebrow and I wasn’t about to go down there to find out. As before, all I could see were his eyes, set rather too close together for the width of his face.

I held the rucksack out through the open window at arm’s length.

“What’s your name?” I asked him.

“Drop the rucksack,” he said, ignoring my question. He didn’t have a strong regional accent, at least not one I could notice.

“What’s your name?” I repeated.

“Never you mind,” he said. “Just give me the rucksack.”

“How did you find my house?” I asked him.

“A little birdie told me,” he said.

“Which little birdie?”

“Never you mind,” he said again. “Just drop the rucksack.” He held up his arms ready to catch it.

“It’s only full of Mr. Grady’s clothes,” I said. “I’ve searched it. There’s nothing else there.”

“Give it to me anyway,” he said.

“Who are you working for?” I asked.

“What?” he said.

“Who are you working for?” I repeated.

“No one,” he said. “Now, give me the bloody rucksack.”

“Who’s John Smith?” I asked.

In spite of only being able to see his eyes, I could still tell that there was no recognition of the name. He didn’t know a Mr. John Smith, but, then, that wasn’t his real name, now was it?

“Give me the bag,” he hissed at me in the same way as he’d hissed at my father at Ascot. “And give it to me now or I’ll break your bloody door down.”

I opened my hand and dropped the rucksack. In spite of having his hands up, he failed to catch it before it hit the concrete path, but he quickly snatched it up and was off, jogging down Station Road in just the same manner as I had previously seen him do in Paddington near the Lancaster Gate tube station.

I wondered how he had found out where I lived. If he had obtained the information that I had given the coroner at the inquest, then why had it taken him so long to arrive at my door? I thought back to what I had done over the previous twenty-four hours. Perhaps his little birdie had been at Banbury police station yesterday, or somewhere else in the Thames Valley Police. That e-fit would have been sent right around the force, and perhaps someone recognized the face, someone not completely honest, someone who had then told Kipper, who had made it.

I would never know exactly how he had found me, and I hoped that this would be the last time I would see him, but, somehow, I had my doubts.

He would certainly find that the microcoder and the glass-grain RFID chips were missing from the rucksack as Mr. John Smith now had them. And I had also kept back the three house keys on their ring and the passports, the two photocopied equine ones, and both of those with my father’s picture in them.

However, if Paddy Murphy was to be believed-and there was absolutely no guarantee of that-then it would be the stash of money that the man would be more concerned about. If he knew where to look, Kipper would find the three blue-plastic-wrapped packages of banknotes back in their original hiding place underneath the rucksack lining. But, if he inspected them more closely, he might spot that the packages had been opened and then carefully resealed using clear sticky tape. And, if he then counted the cash, he might also discover that he was two thousand pounds short from each package.

It had seemed a good idea at the time. But now I wasn’t so sure.

What the hell was all that about?” Sophie demanded when I went down the stairs.

She and Alice were standing in the hall, looking up at me with concerned but expectant expressions on their faces.

“Just an impatient man who wanted something I had,” I said to them, trying to make light of the encounter.

“But he was horrible,” said Sophie. “Why did you give it to him?”

“But it was you who told me to,” I said, slightly exasperated.

“Whose rucksack was it anyway?” she asked.

“It belongs to a man called Alan Grady,” I said. “He gave it to me to keep safe.”

“Who’s Alan Grady?” she asked.

“Just a man from Australia that I met at Royal Ascot.”

“He’s not going to be very pleased with you for giving his rucksack away to someone else.”

She seemed to have completely forgotten the fear and panic that had gripped her when the man had been standing outside our front door.

“I don’t think he’ll mind too much,” I said without elaborating further. I smiled at the two of them. “Now, what’s for supper?”

“He won’t come back, will he?” Alice asked nervously as I ate my macaroni and cheese, the three of us sitting around the kitchen table.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “He’s got what he came for.”

At least he got most of it, I thought. But would he come back for the rest? There was no doubt that he now knew exactly where I lived, and, even though I had been half expecting him to turn up, it was still rather a shock that he had.

After my supper, I went up into my little office to log on to the Internet while the girls took themselves off to bed.

HRF Holdings Ltd was indeed a parent company, and one of the businesses it owned I knew very well. Tony Bateman (Turf Accountants) Ltd, to give it its full title, was one of the big-five High Street betting shop chains. Their shops were presently mostly confined to London and the southeast of England, but the business was expanding rapidly north and westwards.

I made a search of the Companies House WebCHeck service and downloaded the most recent annual report for Tony Bateman (Turf Accountants) Ltd and for HRF Holdings Ltd. They were both private limited companies, and the report recorded the names of the directors and the company secretaries, as well as a list of the current shareholders, of each entity.

Just as there is no longer an individual called William Hill in charge of the William Hill bookmaking company, there was no sign in the report of anyone actually called Tony Bateman either as a director or as a shareholder at Tony Bateman (Turf Accountants) Ltd. It must have been a name from the past, I thought, possibly the company founder or maybe an individual bookmaker who was, at some distant time, bought out by a bigger concern.

I did, however, recognize one name prominent amongst the list of both the directors and the shareholders of the company. Henry Richard Feldman was well known on British racetracks. Now in his late sixties, he had made his money in property development, specifically in the docklands of both London and Liverpool, although there were reports that a recent fall in house prices had hit him hard. For the past twenty years or so, he had been a prolific and successful racehorse owner, mostly jumpers. He was also the sole shareholder of HRF Holdings Ltd.

But why did he or, more precisely, why did Tony Bateman (Turf Accountants) Ltd want to buy my business?

Ever since betting shops were made legal in Britain in 1961, the big firms had been expanding their domains by buying out the small independent bookies. But mostly it had been the individual town-center betting shops they had been after. However, more recently they had also been turning up in the betting rings on the tracks, using their influence to further control the on-course prices.

Now, it would seem, it was the turn of my business to be in their sights whether I liked it or not. Tony Bateman Ltd wasn’t so much after me and Luca, or even our customers; they were after our lucrative pitch positions at the racetracks. And, it appeared, they were prepared to resort to threats and intimidation to get them.

Sophie was fast asleep when, well after midnight, I finally went along the landing to bed. As always, coming home from the hospital had completely exhausted her.

I crept quietly into our bedroom and, last thing, with both shifty-eyed Kipper and the bullyboys from HRF Holdings still out there somewhere, I put Sophie’s dressing-table chair under the door handle.

Just to be on the safe side.