Even Money

Epilogue

Six months later, Sophie and I went to Australia to look for my sisters, while Luca, my new, fully documented, legal business partner, and his young full-time assistant, Douglas Masters, carried on our flourishing business at home without me.

“Don’t hurry back,” Luca had said the day before I left. “Duggie and I will do just fine. And Millie will help us when she can.” Millie, it seemed, had moved in with Luca, and she hadn’t yet been murdered for doing so by her sister, Betsy.

Since that glorious Monday in July at the Bangor-on-Dee races, I had discovered renewed energy and enthusiasm for my work. Bookmaking had become fun again, not least because Sophie had often stood with me, paying out winning tickets and bantering with the crowds as she’d never done before. She had clearly been taking lessons from Duggie.

It had actually been Sophie’s idea to go to Australia, but I’d jumped at it.

Understandably, she had had one or two problems after the events involving Kipper and the car crash. At the time, I’d been amazed at her calmness, but, according to the psychiatrists, this had been due to her brain bottling up the stress and literally switching off some of her emotions. Only afterwards did the fear and the panic manifest themselves with a physical reaction. I had found her four days later in the middle of the night, lying awake in our bed, shaking uncontrollably and soaked in sweat. It had been a very frightening experience for us both, and she had been returned immediately by ambulance to the hospital in Hemel Hempstead for further treatment.

Fortunately, the panic attack had been short-lived, and she was soon able to return home, but not before yet another full assessment of her condition. Since then, she had been doing really well, with only a couple of minor setbacks. On one occasion, when she had a particularly nasty cold, some of her cough medicine had reacted badly to the antidepressants, and she’d had a bit of a wobble. I had come home, stone-cold sober, from the races, and she accused me of being drunk. That was always the first sign to arrive and the last to leave. I had sat up all that night waiting for the expected decline into full mania, but in the morning she had been fine. The new drugs really were working, and both of us had begun to hope and to make plans for a future.

Slowly, over the months, I had recounted to her the complete story of those three weeks in late June and early July. I told her the full details of my father’s murder, about finding his rucksack and its hidden contents. I told her about Mr. John Smith and the microcoder, about finding him in our house and breaking his wrist. I even told her about Luca and Larry’s little games with the phones and Internet at Ascot, and how I had extracted revenge for the attack on me at Kempton by the big-firm bullyboys.

Once or twice, she told me off for not having contacted the police straightaway, and she was justifiably really quite cross that I had placed myself and her in such danger from a known murderer.

I had tried to explain to her that I didn’t like the policeman in charge of the case, but she, quite rightly, had said that personalities shouldn’t have made any difference. But of course they did. Detective Chief Inspector Llewellyn’s poor opinion of bookmakers in general, and of me in particular, had clouded his judgment in the same way that my antipathy towards him had clouded mine. Even when it was all over, he had still been reluctant to admit that I’d had nothing to do with my father’s murder.

I had been to see him the day following the car crash, at the Thames Valley Police headquarters near Oxford. He’d told me that the driver of the silver hatchback, known to me as Kipper but now properly identified as a Mr. Mervyn Williams, had indeed survived, but he was still in a critical condition and had been transferred to the special head-injury unit at Frenchay Hospital in Bristol. Apparently, according to the police who had attended the scene, he hadn’t been wearing his seat belt at the time of the accident.

“It wasn’t an accident,” I’d said flatly. “The man was trying to shunt me off the road at the time, and I was just lucky that the truck hit him and not me.” I had decided against telling the chief inspector about me making an emergency stop in order to precipitate the crash in the first place.

“But why?” he had asked me.

“Because I think he’s the man who murdered my father. I presumed that he was trying to do the same to me, to eliminate me as a witness.”

“What makes you think it’s the man who murdered your father?” he’d asked.

“I think I recognized him at one point, when he tried to pass me.”

“How very interesting,” the chief inspector had said, and he’d lifted the telephone on his desk.

Mervyn Williams, I discovered at a second meeting with the chief inspector just a week later, was a qualified veterinary surgeon, originally from Chepstow in South Wales, but he had been living in Newbury for the past ten years as some sort of veterinary investigator for the RSPCA. A police search of his house had uncovered a black-and-red rucksack still with an airline baggage tag attached with GRADY printed on it. Results were eagerly awaited for a DNA test of blood spots discovered on the sleeve of a charcoal-gray hoodie from Mr. Williams’s wardrobe and consistent with my description of the Ascot attacker’s clothes. And a further search of the mangled remains of his silver hatchback had also uncovered a kitchen knife of the correct proportions to have inflicted the fatal wounds to my father’s abdomen.

I chose not to ask the chief inspector if they had also found the remote control to my kitchen television, although I could really have done with it back.

“So what happens now?” I’d asked instead.

“That depends on if, and how well, Mr. Williams recovers,” the chief inspector had said. “He’s been formally arrested on suspicion of murder, but the doctors are saying he has massive brain damage, so he’ll probably never be fit to plead even if he survives.”

“What does that mean?” I’d asked.

“If he’s unfit to plead, there would be no criminal trial as such. But there would be what is called a ‘trial of the facts,’ when the evidence is placed before a jury and they would effectively decide if he had done it or not. But, of course, there would be no actual declaration of guilt or innocence and no sentence.”

“So what would then happen to Mervyn Williams?”

“If he’s unfit to plead, he’d technically be a free man, but if he recovers enough so that he becomes fit he could still be tried for murder. There doesn’t seem to be much doubt that he was the man responsible, and the DNA should prove it. Your e-fit was remarkably accurate considering you saw him for only a second or two in the Ascot parking lot, and with his hood up too.”

I hadn’t enlightened him that the fleeting glimpse in the Ascot parking lot hadn’t been, in fact, the only occasion I’d seen the man.

The chief inspector had shown me a photograph of Mr. Mervyn Williams that the police had taken from his home. I looked once more at the man I had known only as shifty-eyed Kipper, with his eyes set rather too close together for the shape of his face, the man I’d last seen laughing at me as he’d tried to overtake me on the road to Leek Wooton.

“So is that it?” I’d said.

“For the moment,” the chief inspector had replied cautiously. “But I still have a niggling feeling you haven’t told me the whole truth.”

He was, I supposed, quite a good detective, really.

Thanks to the nearly six-hundred-thousand-pound generosity of Mr. Henry Richard Feldman, Sophie and I traveled upstairs, in Club Class, from London to Sydney on a British Airways jumbo jet, sipping vintage champagne for most of the way.

It had taken a little while for Tony Bateman (Turf Accountants) Ltd to pay out on the juvenile delinquents’ bets, but they had been persuaded by HRF Holdings Ltd, their parent company, to see sense in the end.

Only two of the thirty had failed to make the bet, instead pocketing the two-hundred-pound stake. They were now ruing their mistake to the tune of four thousand eight hundred smackers, as well as the well-earned derision of the other twenty-eight.

Duggie and Luca had given some of their own winnings to refit the electronics club with new equipment, and I’d spent a couple of thousand of mine on some more comfortable dining chairs for the mental hospital grand salon.

Just in case.

The source of all our riches, the horse Oriental Suite, now running as Cricket Hero, had raced twice more since Bangor-on-Dee, winning easily on both occasions, but at starting prices far shorter than our hundred-to-one bonanza of July. His trainer, Miles Carpenter, also known to me as Mr. Paddy Murphy, had stated in a television interview that he hoped the horse would win at the Cheltenham Steeplechase Festival the following March.

However, according to reports in the Racing Post in early December, Cricket Hero had suffered a massive heart attack at home on the gallops and had dropped stone dead. “Just one of those things,” the paper had said. “Sadly, it happens all too often in racing.”

I, meanwhile, wondered if it had actually been that particular horse which had died, if table-tennis balls had been involved and whether or not he’d been insured for a small fortune.

Sophie and I landed in Sydney at six in the morning on a glorious January, Southern Hemisphere summer day just as the sun began to peep over the horizon to the east. I had a wonderful view of the city as we approached from the north, with the still-dark Sydney Harbour Bridge spanning a ribbon of early light reflected from the water beneath.

I was so excited.

I had always wanted to go to Australia, even before I had discovered that my father had been living there. Somehow, to me it still represented the new frontier of man’s occupation of the planet, although I am sure the Aboriginal people would have viewed things somewhat differently.

All the way from England on the airplane, I had read my guidebooks and, by the time we arrived in Sydney, I’d become a bit of an expert on all things Australian.

The very first sighting by a European of what is now Australia didn’t take place until 1606, by which time William Shakespeare was writing and performing his plays in London, and Christopher Columbus had known about the Americas for more than a hundred years. The very first settlers, together with the first convicts, didn’t arrive to set up a penal colony in Botany Bay for almost another two centuries and some twelve years after the United States had declared its independence from Britain.

By European standards, Australia is vast and still rather empty. The land area is nearly twice that of the whole of the European Union while the population is less than a twentieth. If spread out evenly, only seven Australians would live in each square mile of their country, whereas more than a thousand would occupy the same space in England.

But, according to my guidebooks, the Australians are not spread out evenly, with nine out of ten of them living in the major coastal cities. Meanwhile, much of the interior is barren, uninhabited desert, with such original names as the “Great Sandy Desert” and the “Little Sandy Desert.” However, there is also tropical rain forest covering a great swathe of the state of Queensland in the northeast.

In fact, I was astounded by the diversity of physical geography that exists within a single country. But I supposed I shouldn’t have been. Australia stretches from almost the equator in the north to halfway to Antarctica in the south, and is as far across from east to west as the distance from New York to Los Angeles.

How was I ever going to find my sisters in such a huge country?

Sophie and I had planned to spend the first few days in Sydney, getting over jet lag and doing the things all tourists do.

Courtesy of Tony Bateman, we stayed in a magnificent five-star hotel overlooking the busy harbor. I could have happily sat by the window in our room watching the yellow-and-green harbor ferries shuttling in and out of the wharves on Circular Quay, but Sophie was keen for us to walk everywhere and see everything.

First, we climbed the steps to the Opera House and marveled at the shell-like arches of its iconic roof. Then we trekked around the Botanical Gardens and rested on Mrs. Macquarie’s Chair, a seat carved out of the natural rock by the convicts in 1810. The seat has a panoramic view of Sydney Harbour, and, the story goes, Mrs. Macquarie, the governor’s wife, would sit there for hours on end longing to be aboard one of the ships leaving for England and home.

After three days of dawn-to-dusk tourism, including climbing to the very top of the Harbour Bridge, Sophie and I were exhausted, and our sore feet were grateful for the short breather as we flew the hour or so to Melbourne.

Before we’d left England, I had used the Internet to engage a private detective to help in the search for my sisters, and he was waiting for us at Melbourne Airport.

“Lachlan Harris?” I asked a young man holding up a TALBOT sign at the baggage claim.

“Sure am,” he said. “But call me Lachie.” He was short, about thirty, with a well-bronzed face and spiky fairish hair, with highlights.

“Ned Talbot,” I said, shaking his hand. “And this is my wife, Sophie.”

“G’day,” he said in typical Australian fashion. He shook her hand too. “Good to meet you both.”

“Any news?” I asked, eager to hear immediately. I had purposely not called him from Sydney, although, at times, I had been quite desperate to do so.

“Yes,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I have some good news for you. But let’s get out of the airport first. I’m taking you to see your father’s house.” And, with that, he picked up our suitcases and turned for the exit. We followed, but I was rather frustrated by his lack of explanation.

“All in good time,” he said when we were in his car leaving the airport.

“But what’s the news?” I asked him again.

“I’ve found the two daughters of Mr. Alan Grady,” he said.

“My sisters,” I said, all excited like a young child on Christmas morning.

“Yes,” he said. “As you say, your sisters.” He didn’t go on.

“And?” I asked eagerly. “When can I meet them?”

“There’s a slight problem,” he said.

“What problem?”

“They don’t believe you’re their brother.”

“What?” I cried. It wasn’t something that I had even considered. “Why not?”

“They say they have documentary evidence that shows their father, Alan Charles Grady, was born in Melbourne in March 1948. I’ve checked with the State of Victoria Record Office,” Lachie said. “Alan Charles Grady was indeed born in the Royal Melbourne Hospital on March 15, 1948. I’ve got a copy of his birth certificate.” He removed a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it over.

Mr. John Smith, or whoever he was, had told me in my car near Stratford that my father’s “Alan Grady” birth certificate had been genuine, but I hadn’t really believed him.

“It must be a fake,” I said. “Or else my father must have stolen the identity of the real Alan Grady.”

“I’ve checked in the register of deaths,” Lachie said. “No one called Alan Charles Grady who had that birthday has been recorded as dying.”

“Perhaps he died somewhere else, not in Australia.” I said. “Maybe on the ship where my father worked.”

I looked at the birth certificate. Both of Alan Grady’s parents were named, together with their addresses and occupations.

“How about these parents shown on the certificate?” I asked.

“Both dead,” said Lachie. “I checked. It seems they both died in the swine flu epidemic that struck Melbourne in 1976. They were quite old by then, in their seventies. You know, they were elderly parents even when their son was born.”

“Did they have any other children?” I asked him.

“None that I could find.”

“So where does that leave me?” I asked, somewhat deflated.

“I didn’t say the Grady daughters wouldn’t meet you,” he said. “Simply that they don’t accept that you are their brother.”

“Oh,” I said. “That’s all right, then. I’ll just have to convince them.”

Lachie Harris drove Sophie and me to Macpherson Street, in Carlton North, and pulled up outside number 312.

It was the middle property of a terrace row of single-story houses, all with verandas and elaborate wrought-iron railings.

“Victorian,” Lachie said. “That’s Victorian by era rather than by the state we’re in.” He laughed at his little joke. “These types of properties are known as ‘Boom Homes,’ as they were built during the boom time of the nineteenth century. After the gold rush of the 1850s.”

“They’re very pretty,” Sophie said. “But they must be dark inside.”

The houses were long and thin from front to back, and, as terrace homes, they had no windows down the sides.

“Can we see?” I asked. “I’ve got the keys.” I showed him the ring and the three keys that had been in my father’s rucksack.

“Ah,” said Lachie apologetically, “I’m afraid we can’t.”

“Why?” I asked. “I am his son.”

“His daughters have taken out an injunction to prevent you entering the property.”

“They’ve done what!” I was astounded.

“Sorry,” said Lachie. “These types of property are worth quite a lot these days, and the Grady daughters tend to believe that you are only here because you are after their inheritance.”

I sat there with my mouth open.

“I don’t want money,” I said, exasperated. “I want family.”

“Nevertheless,” Lachie went on. “This whole business is going to be a legal can of worms. Alan Grady left a will, and, as we all know, where there’s a will, there’s a disgruntled relative.” He laughed again.

“But if there’s a will, then what’s the problem?” I said. “Surely he would have left everything to his daughters anyway.”

“The will is in the name of Alan Charles Grady,” Lachie said,

“and, according to the registry here, he’s not dead. You, meanwhile, claim that the man who owned this house was your father, a Peter James Talbot, now deceased, but it doesn’t say that on the property deeds.”

Now it was me who laughed. Absolutely nothing about my father was as it appeared.

“Can’t we just go and have a quick peep inside?” I said. “No one would ever know.”

“I’m afraid we can’t,” he said. “Those keys might work in the door locks, but they won’t be any good for the padlocks the court has had applied as well.”

“Oh,” I said, peering closely at the house, but it was too dark behind all the lacy ironwork to see the front door properly.

The earlier excitement of my arrival in Australia had evaporated completely. I felt dejected and lost. “So what’s next?” I asked miserably.

“Well, let’s look on the bright side,” he said. “The Grady girls have agreed to meet you, and I have set up the meeting for tomorrow. It’s Australia Day, and we are going to the races.”

“Horse racing?” I asked.

“Yes, of course,” he said. “I’ve arranged for us to meet them at Hanging Rock races tomorrow afternoon.”

“Are they married?” I asked, eager for knowledge. “Do they have children?”

“Not married,” Lachie said. “Can’t say about children, but I don’t think so.”

“Didn’t some schoolgirls once go missing at Hanging Rock?” Sophie said. “During a picnic.”

“That was in a film,” said Lachie. “But it wasn’t a true story.”

“What are their names?” I asked.

“What, the girls in the film?” Lachie said.

“No, silly, the Grady daughters.”

“Patricia and Shannon. Patricia’s the elder. She’s twenty-nine. Shannon is two years younger.”

I was absolutely astounded. My much-maligned but innocent father had apparently named his first Australian daughter after his murdered English wife.

Lachie picked up Sophie and me from our hotel at eleven o’clock the following morning and drove us the hour and a half northwest of the city to Hanging Rock races.

“It’s been a dry summer,” said Lachie as he drove past mile after mile of scorched brown farmland. “There’s a serious bushfire risk at the moment. I’m quite surprised they’re even racing at Hanging Rock. They ran out of water last year and had to transfer the races to another course at Kyneton.”

“Why exactly are we meeting my sisters up here?” I asked.

“They live up this way.” It seemed like a good reason.

“How many meetings do they have a year?” I asked him.

“At Hanging Rock?”

I nodded

“They race only two days. New Year’s Day and Australia Day. It’s country racing. Quite small. It’s not like Flemington.” Flemington was where the Melbourne Cup was held each November.

Hanging Rock racetrack was indeed no Flemington nor Royal Ascot either. But it was lively and bustling with people on their Australia Day out. Most of the buildings were temporary hospitality tents, and, like Bangor-on-Dee, there was no grandstand other than a natural bank from which to watch the racing.

The racetrack was within the Hanging Rock Recreation Reserve and was dominated, as its name might suggest, by the hanging and other rocks of a five-hundred-foot-high volcanic outcrop behind the enclosures. Unlike Leicester racetrack, this one did have trees in the middle. Lots of them. Eucalyptus gum trees that would at times obscure the horses on the far side from the crowd.

And from the stewards, I thought.

Overall, it was a delightful setting, with great elm trees providing shade for the punters as they gathered around the bookmakers like the proverbial bees around the honeypot. Gambling was gambling, the same on both sides of the globe.

Lachie had obviously spun some yarn to the Hanging Rock Racing Club because we were met at the entrance by a small delegation.

“Welcome to Hanging Rock races,” said Anthony, the club chairman, shaking my hand. “Always a pleasure to welcome a fellow racing enthusiast from England.”

“Thank you,” I said, shaking his hand back and feeling like a bit of a fraud.

And they had laid on lunch for the three of us in one of the tents.

“What on earth did you tell them?” I said to Lachie in a quiet moment.

“I told them that you ran one of the biggest bookmaking firms in the UK and were looking to possibly expand over here.” He smiled broadly. “It got us a free lunch, didn’t it?”

“But how about my sisters?” I said.

“They’ll be along later,” he said. “I couldn’t get them the free lunch as well, now could I?”

The lunch itself was excellent and would have easily rivaled anything served at Royal Ascot. There was even a country-and-western band, appropriately called, in this land of poisonous snakes, the “Original Snakeskins,” who wandered amongst the tents making music and entertaining the happy crowd.

We were at a table laid for ten that included the club dignitaries as well as the chairman, who was seated on the far side of Sophie. I, meanwhile, had been placed next to an official from the Australian Racing Board, who, I discovered during the meal, was the head of their security service.

“I wouldn’t have thought there was enough skulduggery going on at Hanging Rock to warrant the presence of the head honcho,” I said, smiling at him.

“I hope you’re right,” he said. “But I have a holiday home just down the road in Woodend. So this is my local course. And I’m not working today. I’m here simply to enjoy myself.” He took a swig of his beer.

“Busman’s holiday?” I said.

“Exactly.”

We ate in silence for a while.

“Do you have any undercover staff in the security service?” I asked him quietly while the others at the table were deep in conversation. “Any secret investigators?”

“A few,” he said, draining his beer glass and purposely not giving me any details.

“How about an Englishman?” I asked. “Someone called John Smith?”

It was his turn to smile at me. “Now, Mr. Talbot, there are lots of Englishmen called John Smith.”

“This particular one was principally interested in something he called a ‘microcoder.’”

The smile disappeared from his face but only for an instant.

“Anyone for another beer?” he said suddenly, standing up from the table, holding his empty glass.

“Lovely idea,” I said, also standing up.

We walked together down to the bar at the end of the tent, leaving the others at the table.

“What do you know about a microcoder?” he asked me intently. The busman’s holiday was over. This was now a workday after all.

“That it is used to write fake RFID identification chips.”

“Oh God,” he said, clearly disturbed. “Do you know where it is?”

“Not anymore,” I said. “I did have it in England, but I gave it to this Mr. John Smith.”

I could tell that the head of Australian racing security wasn’t at all pleased to hear that. Not one little bit. “For God’s sake, why did you give it to him?”

“Because he told me he worked for you,” I said in my defense. “But he also told me you’d deny it.”

“I do deny it,” said the security man. “If he’s the person I think he is, then he did use to work for us. At least, we thought he did, but about a year ago we began to suspect that he’d been abusing his position by investigating only those people who wouldn’t pay him handsomely to overlook things. There probably wouldn’t have been enough hard evidence to win a court case, but we fired him nevertheless, and we also banned him from all Australian racetracks. We’ve since discovered that he was involved in a group that was switching horses using fake ID chips. Horses were being killed.”

“For the insurance money?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, surprised that I knew. “Some illegal off-course bookmakers were also involved in the scam.”

I decided that it would not really be a good time to tell him that my father had been one of those illegal bookmakers.

“We fear he is up to the same tricks back in the UK,” the security man said. “And now you’ve just confirmed it.”

“What’s his real name?” I asked.

He was clearly reluctant to tell me. His very occupation was one of investigation and secrecy, and he was plainly much more accustomed to gathering information than releasing it. “We’re still investigating the affair here, and we are trying desperately to recover the device before it’s used again.”

“I wouldn’t bother if I were you,” I said.

“Why on earth not?” he demanded somewhat crossly.

“The microcoder doesn’t work anymore.” I smiled at him and thought back to how Luca had taken his box cutter to the printed circuit boards. “I made some significant and incurable alterations to its circuitry before I gave it away.”

“But why?” he asked.

“Because I didn’t altogether trust Mr. John Smith.”

The head of Australian racing security thought for a moment and then smiled back at me.“I think you mean you didn’t altogether trust Mr. Ivan Feldman.”

“Ivan Feldman,” I repeated slowly almost to myself. So that was Mr. John Smith’s real name. “I wonder if he’s any relation to Henry Richard Feldman of HRF Holdings Limited.”

I decided that he probably was. A son, maybe.

My sisters were to join us in the tent for afternoon tea, and Lachie went away after lunch to collect them. Presently, I saw him waiting in the doorway. Most of the official party had left by this time, gone off to do other things like watch the races, make presentations to the winners or chase the kangaroos away from the finishing stretch.

I waved Lachie in, and he was followed closely by two young women, both of them with brown hair and high cheekbones, just like me.

I didn’t need to convince them that I was their brother. They both knew instantly that it was true. The three of us looked so much alike. Introductions weren’t necessary. We simply hugged one another and cried.

Finally, I managed to introduce them to Sophie, who was also in tears.

“Ned has always wanted sisters,” she said to them, wiping her eyes.

I was simply too overcome with emotion to say anything.

Sophie turned to me. “And they’re going to be aunties as well,” she said, crying huge tears of joy. “Because I’m pregnant.”