Under Orders

CHAPTER 14

There was nothing about any second bullet or the Sid Halley theories on the Chris Beecher page of The Pump on Wednesday morning. I had bought a copy on my way back to the flat after taking Marina to work. Rosie had been waiting for her at the front door and Marina had rolled her eyes at me as she climbed out of the car. I had laughed.

I parked the car in the garage under the building, went upstairs and searched the paper from start to finish. Nothing.

I was beginning to doubt my assessment of Paddy’s character when Charles telephoned me.

‘I’ve just had a call from someone who said that you had said that he could check with me the name of the ballistics professor you had consulted.’

‘Really?’ I said. ‘And did you give them his name?’

‘I couldn’t remember it.’ He laughed. ‘So I made another one up. Rodney is now Professor Aubrey Winterton, retired from the University of Bulawayo — I could remember that bit.’

Aubrey Winterton/Reginald Culpepper, it didn’t matter so long as no one was able to show that he didn’t exist.

‘And did this individual have an Irish accent?’ I asked.

‘No,’ said Charles, ‘he did not.’

‘I wonder who he was.’

‘I dialled 1471 to get his number and then I phoned back,’ said Charles.

‘And?’

‘The number was for The Pump. I got through to the switchboard.’

‘Thank you, Charles.’ I was impressed. ‘If you need a job, you can be my new assistant.’

‘No thanks,’ said Charles. ‘I like to give orders, not take them.’

‘Be my boss then.’

He laughed and disconnected.

Good old Paddy, I thought. I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist telling.

Bejesus, dat was his nature.

I spent the morning writing a preliminary report for Archie Kirk.

I hadn’t actually discovered any link between internet gambling and organised crime but I reported that I did believe there was potential for the craze of gambling on-line, and especially on-line gaming, to be abused by criminals.

The end user of the service, that is the gambler logged on to sites with his or her home computer, is placing a large amount of trust in the website operators to run their service properly and fairly.

For example, a game of roulette conducted on-line requires the player to place stakes on a regular roulette table pattern: numbers 1-36, 0 and 00, red and black, odd and even, and so on. The wheel, however, is a creation of the computer and does not actually exist, and neither does the ball. How can the player be sure that the computer-generated ‘ball’ will move randomly to fill one of the slots on the computer-generated ‘wheel’? It would seem that without this trust between player and wheel the game would not profit, but players of current sites seem to accept this trust without question. I knew that the computers used were extremely powerful machines and, no doubt, they could be used to calculate, as the ‘ball’ was rolling, which number would provide for the lowest payout by the ‘house’ and ensure that the ‘ball’ finished there.

Similarly, in all games of dice or cards, the ‘roll’ of the ‘dice’ or the ‘deal’ of the ‘cards’ are computer images and consequently have the potential to be controlled by a computer and not be as random as the players might hope and expect.

I concluded that, as many of these operations are run from overseas territories, it remained to be seen if regulations there were sufficient. I believed that the current trend for self-regulation left much to be desired.

As to the question of internet ‘exchanges’, as used for betting on horse racing and other sports, I concluded that the scope for criminal activity was no more prevalent than that which existed in regular bookmaker-based gambling. The significant difference was that, whereas in the past only licensed bookmakers were effectively betting on a horse to lose, anyone could now do so by ‘laying’ a horse on the exchanges. It was potentially easier to ensure a horse lost a race than won it. Over-training it too close to a race or simply by keeping it thirsty for a while and then giving it a bellyful of water just before the off, were both sure ways to slow an animal down. Speeding it up was far more difficult, and far more risky.

The Jockey Club and the new Horseracing Regulatory Authority have rules forbidding those intimately connected with horses to ‘lay’ on the exchanges. However, I knew from Bill that ‘there were ways’, even though I had not yet found out how he had layed Candlestick in the Triumph Hurdle. Some trusty friend was all he had needed. Even untrustworthy friends would do it for a cut of the winnings.

The commission-based exchanges appeared to be such high-profit businesses, without there being any risk of ‘losing’ on a big gamble, that the temptation for them to meddle with results, and hence punter confidence, seemed to be minimal. But regulator vigilance was essential as there would always be those who would try to beat the system unfairly.

I finished the report by saying that my investigations of individual on-line gambling operations would continue and a further report would be prepared in due course.

I was reading it through when the phone rang.

‘Is that Sid Halley?’ asked a Welsh voice.

‘Yes,’ I replied.

‘Good. This is Evan Walker here, see.’

‘Ah, Mr Walker,’ I said. ‘How are things?’

‘Not good, not good at all.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘Did Bill Burton kill my son?’

‘No, I don’t believe so, but I’m still trying to find out who did.’

‘They won’t let me have Huw’s body for burial. Say they need it until after the inquest. I asked them when that would be and they said it could be months.’ He sounded distraught. ‘Can’t stop thinking of him in some cold refrigerator.’

I wondered whether it was worse than thinking of him in the cold ground.

‘I’ll have a word with the policeman in the case,’ I said. ‘Perhaps he can give me a better idea of when you can have a funeral.’

‘Thank you. Please phone me as soon as you find who killed him.’

I assured him that I would. And I’d shout it from the roof-tops, too.

I arrived to pick up Marina from Lincoln’s Inn Fields at half past five.

I’d spent the afternoon doing chores around the flat and getting my hair cut around the corner. Such was my desperation to move my investigation forward that I had a crazy idea of collecting hair off the floor of all the barbers in London to test for a DNA match with Marina’s attacker. Then I had remembered that Marina had said I would need the follicles too so cut hair was no good. Back to square one.

I had called Chief Inspector Carlisle at the Cheltenham police station but he was unavailable so I left him a message asking him to call me on my mobile, and he did so as I waited outside the Research Institute for Marina to appear.

‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘but we can’t release Walker’s body for a while longer in case we need to do more tests.’

‘What tests?’ I asked him. ‘Surely you’ve done all you need in nearly two weeks?’

‘It’s not actually up to us. It’s the coroner who makes the decision when to release a body.’

‘But I bet he’s swayed by the police.’

‘The problem is that in murder cases there have to be extra tests done by independent pathologists in case there’s a court case and the defence require further examination of the body. In the past, bodies have sometimes had to be exhumed for defence tests.’ He made it sound like a conspiracy.

‘But you might not have a court case for months or even years.’

‘The coroner has to make a judgement call and two weeks is definitely on the short side.’

‘But surely there’s no doubt as to the cause of Huw Walker’s death?’ I asked.

‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Carlisle. ‘I’ve known defence lawyers insisting that the victim died of natural causes just before he was shot, stabbed or strangled by the defendant. If it was up to me, I’d sentence some lawyers to the same term as their clients. Conniving bastards.’

I was somewhat amused by his opinion of the English legal profession but I supposed, in his job, all trials came down to conflicts of us versus them, with truth and justice as secondary considerations.

‘So can you guess when Huw’s father can have his son’s body for burial?’ I asked. ‘He wants to make plans for the funeral.’

‘Maybe a week or two more,’ said Carlisle. ‘The inquest into Burton’s death will open next Tuesday in Reading. After what you told me on Monday, the inquest will be adjourned but, nevertheless, the coroner in the Walker case may then make an order which will allow his burial to proceed, though he won’t allow a cremation.’

‘I think Mr Walker is planning for a burial,’ I said. ‘He wants to put Huw in his local chapel graveyard next to his mother and brother.’

‘That’s good.’

‘So you did take some notice of what I told you on Monday?’

‘What do you mean?’ he said.

‘You said the Burton inquest will be adjourned.’

‘Well, I did have a word with Inspector Johnson. He took a little convincing but at least he’s considering it.’

‘What?’

‘That Burton may have been murdered.’

‘That’s great,’ I said.

‘Don’t get too excited. He’s only considering it because, as one of the first on the scene, you’re bound to be called as a witness at the full inquest and he knows you’ll raise it. So Johnson is considering it so that he won’t be surprised by the coroner’s questions. He is still pretty convinced that Burton killed himself.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘And are you?’

‘I don’t get paid to think about other coppers’ cases. But, if I were a betting man, which I’m not, I’d bet on your instinct over his.’

It was quite a compliment and I thanked him for it.

‘I haven’t yet been asked to appear at the inquest,’ I said.

‘Tuesday will only be the preliminaries. The Reading coroner will open and adjourn until a later date when the investigations are complete. You’ll be summoned then.’

‘Could you speak with the Cheltenham coroner’s office about Huw Walker’s body?’ I asked ‘I’ll enquire,’ he said, ‘but I won’t apply pressure.’

‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘Any news on the bullet I gave you?’

‘Same gun,’ he said. ‘Forensics came back with the confirmation this afternoon. No real surprise.’

‘No,’ I agreed, but I was relieved nevertheless.

*

Marina and I spent a quiet evening at home in front of the television eating ready-made and microwaved shepherd’s pie off trays on our laps.

‘You know those street corners I was going to ring my bell on?’ I said.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, tomorrow’s Pump may have a certain ding-dong about it.’

‘Are you saying that I should be extra-careful tomorrow?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And always.’

‘Rosie hardly leaves my side.’

I wished that Rosie were a seventeen-stone body-builder rather than a five-foot two size six.

‘I think I’ll go and get The Pump now,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow’s papers are always on sale at Victoria Station about eleven at night. They’re the first edition that normally goes off to Wales and the west of England.’

‘You be careful, too,’ said Marina.

I was. I avoided dark corners and kept a keen eye on my back. I made it safely to the news-stand outside the station and then back to Ebury Street without incident.

There was no need to search this paper. You would have had to be blind to miss it. They must have been short of news.

Under a ‘Pump Exclusive’ banner on the front page was the headline ‘MURDER OR SUICIDE?’ with the sub-headline ‘HALLEY ORCHESTRATES THE INVESTIGATION’. The article beneath described in detail everything I had revealed to Paddy. They ‘quoted’ Professor Aubrey Winterton as saying that the bullet definitely came from the same gun that had been used to kill Bill Burton. They even managed to state that Sid Halley was confident that an arrest was imminent. I put that down to Paddy’s tendency for exaggeration.

‘That’s what I call shouting from a street corner,’ said Marina. ‘Is it true?’

‘Not about the arrest. And some of the rest is guesswork.’

No one could be in any doubt that I had blatantly ignored the message that Marina had received the evening she was beaten up. Even I had not expected my game to work so well that it would make the front page. I thought a paragraph in Chris Beecher’s column or an inch or two on the racing page would have been all I could have hoped for. This much coverage made me very nervous but it was too late now; The Pump printed more than half a million copies a day.

I double-checked the locks, removed my arm and went to bed. Neither Marina nor I felt in the mood for nookie.

In the morning we took extra care going to the car. I had reiterated to the staff downstairs at the front desk that no one, repeat no one, was to be allowed up to my flat without their calling me first. Absolutely, they had agreed.

I dropped Marina at work, though not before taking a few detours to see if we were being followed. Rosie, the petite bodyguard, was waiting for Marina in the Institute foyer. She waved at me as I drove away.

I pointed the Audi towards north-west London and went to see Frank Snow.

Harrow School is actually in Harrow on the Hill, a neat little village perched, as its name suggests, on a hill surrounded by suburban London. It seems strangely isolated from its great metropolitan neighbour as if it has somehow remained constant throughout its long history whilst life changed elsewhere around it. The village is mostly made up of the many school buildings with the Harrow School Outfitters being the largest store in the High Street.

I eventually found the right office under a cloister near the school chapel and Frank Snow was there, seated at a central table sticking labels on a stack of envelopes.

‘For the old boys’ newsletters,’ he said in explanation.

He was a tall man with a full head of wavy white hair. He wore a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows and looked every inch the schoolmaster.

‘Would you like a coffee?’ he asked.

‘Love one, thank you.’

He busied himself with an electric kettle in the corner while I wandered round looking at the rows of framed photographs on the walls. Many of them were faded black-and-white images of serious-looking, unsmiling boys in straw boaters. Others were more recent, in colour, of sports teams in striped jerseys with happier faces.

‘Milk and sugar?’

‘Just a little milk, please,’ I said.

He pushed the pile of envelopes to one side and placed two steaming mugs down on the end of the table.

‘Now, how can I help you, Mr Halley?’

‘I was hoping you could give me some background information on one of your old boys.’

‘As I explained to you on the telephone,’ he said, ‘we don’t discuss old boys with the media.’ He took a sip of his coffee.

‘As I explained to you,’ I replied, ‘I’m not from the media.’

It was not the most auspicious of openings.

‘Well, who are you then?’ he asked.

I decided against telling him that I was a private detective as I thought that might have been even lower on his scale than the media.

‘I’m assisting the Standing Cabinet Sub-Committee on Legislative Outcomes in their consideration of internet gambling as part of the new Gambling and Gaming Act.’

If you can’t blind them with science, I thought, baffle them with bullshit.

‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.

I repeated it.

‘I see.’ He didn’t appear to.

‘Yes. One of your old boys runs an internet gambling website and I was hoping you might be able to tell me about his time at Harrow.’

‘I’m not sure that I can. Our records are confidential, you know.’

‘Don’t worry about the Data Protection Act,’ I said. ‘This is an official inquiry.’

It wasn’t, but he wouldn’t know that.

‘I can assure you, Mr Halley, that our records have been confidential far longer than that piece of legislation has been on the statute book.’

‘Of course,’ I said. I had been put in my place.

‘Now who exactly are you asking about?’

‘George Lochs,’ I said. ‘At least, that’s what he calls himself now. When he was at Harrow he was — ’

‘Clarence Lochstein,’ Frank Snow interrupted.

‘Exactly. You remember him, then.’

‘I do,’ he said. ‘Has he been up to no good?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘No reason.’

‘What can you tell me about him?’ I asked.

‘I’m not sure. What do you want to know?’

‘I heard that he was expelled for taking bets from the other boys.’

‘That’s not exactly true,’ he said. ‘He was sacked for striking a member of staff.’

‘Really?’ I said. ‘Who?’

‘His housemaster,’ he said. ‘As you say, Lochstein and another boy were indeed caught taking bets from the other boys and, it was rumoured, from some of the younger, more avant-garde members of Common Room.’

He paused.

‘Yes?’

‘It was in the latter days of corporal punishment and the headmaster instructed the boys’ housemasters to give each of them a sound beating. Six of the best.’

‘So?’

‘Lochstein took one stroke of the cane on his backside and then stood up and broke his housemaster’s jaw with his fist.’ Mr Snow stroked his chin absentmindedly.

‘You were his housemaster, weren’t you?’

He stopped stroking his chin and looked at his hand. ‘Yes, I was. The little swine broke my jaw in three places. I spent the next six weeks with my head in a metal brace.’

‘So Lochstein was expelled,’ I said. ‘What happened to the other boy?’

‘He took his beating from his housemaster.’

I raised my eyebrows.

‘No, not me.’

‘And the boy was allowed to stay?’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Snow. ‘His father subsequently gave a large donation to the school appeal which was said by some to be conscience money.’

‘Do you remember the boy’s name?’

‘I can’t recall his first name but his surname was Enstone.’

‘Peter Enstone?’ I asked.

‘Yes, I think that’s it. His father was a builder.’

Well well well, I thought. No wonder the Enstones had known George Lochs for ever. And, I thought, Lochs has a history of punching people in the face.

Frank Snow had little else of interest to give me. Harrow had done its best to keep the whole matter out of the Press and, at the time, had closed ranks. Lochstein was not even in the official list of old boys that Frank showed me.

We spent a companionable ten minutes or so together and he gave me a short tour of the photographs on the walls.

‘These,’ he said indicating the black-and-white ones, ‘are from before the First World War. Harrow was a pretty severe place then so I suppose they didn’t have much to smile about. These others are the rugby teams I used to coach, the Under 16s. They were my boys and some of them still come in to see me. Makes me feel so old to see how they’ve changed. A few even have their own boys here now.’

I thanked him for his time and for the coffee. He seemed disappointed that I didn’t want to see more of the hundreds of pictures he had stacked in a cupboard.

‘Perhaps another time,’ I said, moving towards the door.

‘Mr Halley,’ he said.

‘Yes.’ I turned.

‘I hope you do find that Lochstein has been up to no good.’

‘I thought Public Schools stood up for their former pupils, no matter what.’

‘The school might, but I don’t. That one deserves some trouble.’

We shook hands.

‘If you need anything further, Mr Halley, don’t be afraid to ask.’ He smiled. ‘I still owe Lochstein a beating — five strokes to be precise.’

Revenge was indeed a dish best eaten cold.

On my way back to central London I made a slight detour to Wembley Park to take a look at the Make A Wager Ltd office building. I had their address from the Companies House website but nevertheless it took fifteen minutes of backtracking around an industrial estate to find it. I must get satellite navigation, I thought. Perhaps on my next car. I parked round the corner and walked back.

The office building was pretty nondescript. It was a simple rectangular red-brick structure of five floors with a small unmanned entrance lobby at one end. An array of mobile phone masts sprouted up from the flat roof and there were security cameras pointing in every direction.

A notice next to the entrance intercom stated that visitors for Make A Wager Ltd should press the button and wait. Visitors, it seemed, were not encouraged.

There was little to show that it was the headquarters of a multi-million-pound operation other than the line of expensive cars and big powerful motorbikes in the small car park opposite the door. I looked at the cars. The nearest was a dark blue Porsche 911 Carrera with GL21 as its number plate. So George was in.

Shall I be bold? I asked myself. Shall I go in and see him? Why not? Nothing to lose, only my life.

I pressed the button and waited.

Eventually a female voice said, ‘Yes?’ from the speaker next to the button.

‘Sid Halley here to see George Lochs,’ I said back.

‘Just a minute,’ said the voice.

I waited some more.

After at least a minute, the voice said, ‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘I was passing and I thought I would drop in to see George. I know him.’

‘Just a minute,’ said the voice again.

I waited. And waited.

‘Take the lift to the fourth floor,’ said the voice and a buzzer sounded.

I pushed the door open and did as I was told.

George/Clarence was waiting for me when the lift opened. I remembered him from our meeting in Jonny Enstone’s box at Cheltenham. He was lean, almost athletic, with blond hair brushed back showing a certain receding over the temples. But he was not wearing his suit today. Instead he sported a dark roll-neck sweater and blue denim jeans. He hadn’t been expecting guests.

‘Sid Halley,’ he said, holding out a hand. ‘Good to see you again. What brings you to this godforsaken part of north London?’

Was I suspicious or was there a hint of anxiety in his voice? Or maybe it was irritation?

‘I was passing and I thought I’d come and see what your offices looked like.’

I don’t think he believed me, but it was true.

‘There’s not much to show,’ he said.

He slid a green plastic card through a reader on the wall that unlocked the door to the offices on the fourth floor. He stood aside to allow me in.

‘Have you been in this building long?’ I asked.

‘Nearly five years. At first we were only on one floor but we’ve gradually expanded and now we occupy the whole place.’

There were thirty or so staff sitting at open-plan desks along the windows, each with a computer screen shining brightly in front of them. It was quiet for a room with so many people. A few hushed conversations were taking place but the majority were studying their screens and tapping quietly on their keyboards.

‘On this floor we have our market managers,’ said George in a hushed tone. ‘Have you seen our website?’

‘Yes,’ I said, equally hushed.

‘You know then that you can gamble on just about anything you like, just as long as you can find someone to match your bet. Last year, we managed a wager between two young men concerning which of them would get his respective girlfriend pregnant quickest.’ He laughed. ‘We ended up having to get doctors’ reports to settle it.’

‘That’s crazy,’ I said.

‘But most of our markets are less personal than that. The staff here look at the incoming bets and try to match them if the computer doesn’t do it automatically. And there are always special events that need a human brain to sort out. Computers can be very clever but they like the rules to be absolutes. Just yes or no, no maybes.’

‘Where are the computers?’ I asked, looking around.

‘Downstairs,’ he said. ‘The first and second floors are full of computer hardware. We have to keep them in climate-controlled conditions with massive air conditioners.’

‘My computer’s forever crashing,’ I said.

‘That’s why we continually back up everything. And we have more than one main-frame machine. They check on each other all the time. It’s very sophisticated.’

I could sense that George was bragging. He was clearly enjoying showing me how clever he was.

‘Do you do on-line gaming as well as exchange wagering?’

‘Yes, but not from this office. We have a Gibraltar-based operation for that. More cost effective.’

I suspected it was also more tax effective.

‘Why the interest?’ he asked.

‘No real reason,’ I said.

‘Is there anything specific you came here to find out?’

‘No. I’m just naturally inquisitive.’ And nosy.

I wandered a little further down the office.

‘Is this all the staff you have?’ I asked.

‘Nooo,’ he said, amused. ‘There are lots more. The accounts department is on the floor below here and there must be fifty personnel there. Then we have the technical staff who live amongst the machines on the lower floors. Then the ground floor has the company security staff, and a canteen.’

‘Quite a set-up,’ I said, sounding impressed. And I was.

‘Yes. We operate here twenty-four hours a day every day of the year. There are always duty technicians on standby in case of problems with the machines. We can’t afford for the system to go down. It’s not good for business. Now, is there anything else you want, Sid? I’m very busy.’

His irritation was beginning to show through more sharply.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Sorry. Many thanks for showing me around.’

And, oh yes, by the way, could I have a hair, please?

I followed him to the door and could see no convenient blond hairs lying on his dark sweater, and none helpfully sticking up from his head just waiting to be plucked out. This wasn’t as easy as Marina had suggested, especially one-handed.

We stopped in the doorway.

‘I see you’re on the front page of The Pump today,’ he said.

I hoped he couldn’t see the sweat that broke out on my forehead.

‘So I saw,’ I replied, trying to keep my voice as normal as possible.

‘Are you having any luck with your investigation?’ he said.

‘I’m making steady progress,’ I lied.

‘Well, I hope you get to the bottom of it. I liked Huw Walker.’

‘How well did you know him?’ I asked.

Suddenly it was his turn to have a sweaty brow. ‘Not very well. We spoke a few times.’

‘What about?’ I asked.

‘Nothing much. About his chances, you know, in passing.’

‘It’s not very sensible for a man in your position to be asking jockeys about their chances in races, is it?’

He was beginning to get rattled. ‘There was nothing in it, I assure you.’

I wasn’t convinced that I could take his assurances at face value.

I applied more pressure. ‘Are the Jockey Club aware that you ask jockeys about their chances in races?’

‘Now look here, Halley, what are you accusing me of?’

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘It was you who told me that you had talked to Huw Walker about his chances.’

‘I think you ought to go now,’ he said.

He didn’t hold out his hand. I looked into his eyes and could see no further than his retinas. Whatever he was thinking, he was keeping it to himself.

I wanted to ask him what he had been doing last Friday evening around eight o’clock. I wanted to know if he had scratch marks on his neck beneath the high roll collar of his sweater. And I wanted to know if he had ever owned a.38 revolver.

Instead, I rode the lift down and went away.

Back at Ebury Street, I parked the car in the garage. Instead of going straight up to my flat, I walked to the sandwich bar on the corner to get myself a late lunch of smoked salmon on brown bread with a salad.

I was paying across the counter when my mobile rang.

‘Hello,’ I said, trying to juggle my lunch, the change and the telephone in my one real hand.

A breathless voice at the other end of the line said, ‘Is that you, Sid?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, then with rising foreboding, ‘Rosie? What is it?’

‘Oh God,’ she said, ‘Marina’s been shot.’