“You’re done coming around here, aren’t you?” Phyllis sounded genuinely fed up with them as she asked.
Ray and Joseph stood.
“We’ll see,” Ray shrugged.
31.
Cyril Baker was not a man who liked an early drink. Ray and Joseph’s parting question had been when he might be expected in. Phyllis had told them that it wouldn’t be till later in the evening if at all. Cyril only visited the Grazier’s two or three times a week. They’d been lucky to bump into him before. She did say that their best bet would be to check one of the local betting shops.
A couple had sprung up near Woolwich train station since they had been legalised. More prominent locations than those they’d had before, when betting had either been done solely at the racetracks, over the phone or in some of the shadier establishments one might find on the back streets of South London. Back in his uniform days Joseph had been part of a raid on one of those illegal bookmakers. The punters had scattered as the police burst in. There had only been one door into the place and the resultant charge created a bottleneck on both sides of the door. Truncheons had begun to swing. Joseph could still remember the shrieks and shouts of pain from those who had been on the receiving end. The chaos had been the perfect cover for those who had been running the den. As their punters stampeded into the thin, but well-armed, blue line, they had made good their escape. They bolted through an open window, out onto a neighbouring roof, leaving only a handful of notes and coins behind.
Things had changed since. Betting shops had been legalised in 1961 and were still a bit of an enigma. The windows of the shop had to be painted black to ensure that no one walking past would be able to look in and be enticed into parting with their money. Once inside, the blackened windows protected the punters from the prying eyes of the judgmental outside world. Another invitation to dig that little bit deeper.
A bored-looking cashier leaned against a Formica counter, waiting for the next man who felt lucky to come and place his hard-earned or ill-gotten money in front of him. Next to him sat another man, ear pressed to a phone, listening intently to the voice on the other end, hand clasped on his other ear to drown out the quiet chatter of the room. A large chalkboard, larger than those that Joseph could remember at school, had been hung on one wall. A list of races had been written on it, along with the names of the horses. The odds for each horse had been written next to the names, some of which had clearly been changed, the white smear of smudged chalk showing where the gambling world favoured or had given up on a certain steed’s chances.
Cyril Baker stood in the middle of a group of men, who were all looking at the chalkboard, his back to the door where Ray and Joseph had entered. There were no chairs in the betting shop, lest anyone decide that the place felt in any way welcoming. Most of the men held paper slips in their hands, confirmation of where their money lay, gripped tightly in the hope that it was about to become worth much more. Ray and Joseph wandered towards him slowly, stopping just behind him. Ray placed a hand on his shoulder, “Mr Baker?” he announced.
Cyril turned nervously, before recognising the detectives, a smile quickly spreading on his face. “Officers…” he began. He didn’t get any further before being interrupted.
“Gentlemen, the 10:20 from Chepstow is now under starter’s orders.” The voice came from back near the counter. The gamblers, Cyril included, all turned in unison to look at the man, their attention grabbed as if snared by some siren’s song. The race began and the announcer continued in a flat and disinterested monologue. Hardly melodic or engaging. The only saving grace was that it was clear and concise.
“They’re off,” he said with far from the required gusto. Joseph hoped that at least the start of the race might mean Cyril’s attention could be spared for a second, but when he opened his mouth to speak, he was met with a dismissive raised palm pointed his way.
The commentator, still with his ear pressed to the phone, relayed what he heard as the race wore on. It was nothing like the radio commentaries Joseph had listened to when visiting his uncles, both of whom had more than a passing interest in the horses. Even as the race reached its climax, the report remained impassive, disinterested. Perhaps his horse was trailing. Or perhaps when you’re working for the bookie, you can never lose, meaning the race itself lost all interest whatsoever.
With the race over, Cyril shook his head, looking bitterly at his betting slip before the moment passed. “Ah well, there’s plenty more races left in the day.”
“We won’t keep you longer than we need to,” Ray said as Joseph once again produced the pile of photographs. “We just wanted to ask if you recognised any of the faces here.”
Cyril chuckled. “Good job this isn’t the old days. I used to put a fair bit of money in over at you-know-who’s place back in the day.” He wasn’t in any mood to name names, which meant that he had placed bets at probably all the dodgy backstreet bookmakers.
“I didn’t know he had a place,” Ray replied innocently.
“Of course you didn’t.” Cyril took the stack of photos from Joseph and thumbed his way through them, humming and tutting as he did so. “Reckon I know all of these boys,” he said as he handed them back.
“Were any of them the man you saw asking after Gerald Trainer?”
“I’m afraid not,” Cyril shook his head. “But don’t let yourselves be leaving empty-handed. If I were you, I’d put some money on the favourite for the eleven o’clock at Cheltenham.” He grabbed the pile of photos once more, shaking it as if shaking a hand, then he let go, turning away from them and going back to his friends.
“That was a disappointment,” Joseph said as they stepped outside.
“Give me the photos,” Ray ignored the comment. “You’ve not shuffled them around, have you?”
Joseph hadn’t. Ray took the pile and flicked through them, counting as he did. He stopped, pulling a photo from the rest. “The favourite in the eleven o’clock at Cheltenham was five to one. This was the fifth picture.” He brandished it towards Joseph.
“It’s the same chap as Phyllis identified.”
“Then we know who it is who’s been asking after Gerald Trainer. Frederick Thompson. Not the highest rung in Peter’s arsenal, but certainly not just a bottom feeder.”
“So are we going to bring him in?”
“Not yet, there’s one more person I want to talk to first.”
*
Lewisham Hospital was the last place Joseph had expected Ray to take them back to, yet that’s where he had insisted they go. On arrival they made their way to the same ward Harry had been on when they brought him in following his attack.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” the matron smiled at them warmly. She stood with her hands clasped together at the front of the ward like a guard. No less formidable either. She looked at them both as she tried to work out what it was that had brought them back to her ward. “I wasn’t expecting you here this morning. Mr Jones left, as I’m sure you are well aware, and as far as I am aware, all my current charges have been brought in for incidents that I would assume rank far below your usual remit.”
“It’s actually you we’d like to talk to,” Ray replied.
“Oh.” The matron’s eyelids flickered for just a moment, caught out by the reason for their visit.
“Nothing to worry about. We’d like you to look at some pictures. If there’s anyone you recognise, specifically from coming to the ward recently, we would love to know.”
The matron nodded her head slightly and stepped forward. “Of course,” she said smiling, taking the photos. “Would it be remiss of me to be thinking about the time period around when young Mr Jones stayed with us?”
“I wouldn’t want to guide you in a way that narrowed the scope of our investigation,” Ray replied.
The matron nodded again, then looked at the photos. She went through each one slowly and methodically. Finally, with the pile complete, she went back through them, pulling out the photograph of Frederick Thompson.
“Mr Jones’s uncle, I believe.”
“Did he speak with him?” Despite his best efforts, Joseph sounded like a nervous schoolboy, which made Ray sigh.
“He did not. He turned up outside of visiting hours, can you believe it? It’s not like that’s not well advertised. It’s a wonder he managed to get up to the ward. He left a card I believe and a box of chocolates.”
“I would expect nothing less of him,” Ray said. “Thank you, Ms…?”
