‘That’ll explain it then.’
‘Explain what?’
‘The police. They called. They’re sending round a bobby this afternoon. I’m to be on hand. Bloody cheek. I might get plastered in the Bay Horse and miss ‘em, eh?’ Reardon belched slightly indicating with little doubt that it would not be his first visit to the Bay Horse that day.
Dryden could recall precisely the details on the betting slip. The question was, when was the race run and did Tommy Shepherd win? The police clearly didn’t think the details vitally important – a ‘bobby’ sounded pretty routine. But Dryden wanted to know whether the nineteen-year-old thief died a winner or a loser.
They took a gamble, appropriately, on Tommy’s death being soon after his disappearance in the summer of 1966. They also took a gamble on his last bets being waged on a race at Newmarket. Reardon fished out some leather-bound record books. The cartridge paper creaked with age. Dryden checked his watch – it took Reardon six minutes to find the first entry. Bridie’s Heart had run in October 1966. It was unplaced despite being the clear favourite.
‘Now that’s odd, isn’t it?’ said Reardon.
Dryden nodded, not knowing why.
The ex-jockey checked a reference book. ‘Now here she is. That’s why. She’d won that year already. July 30 – Daily Mail Stakes. Fifty to one outsider – that’s more like it, eh?’
July 30 – the day of the Crossways robbery. Had Shepherd set up the bet as part of an alibi – an alibi that wouldn’t stand up in the face of a set of fingerprints found at the scene of the crime? Did he ever get to spend his winnings?
Reardon tracked down the card for that day’s racing. Ayers Rock – also at 50–1 – had won the three o’clock. At the precise moment Amy Ward had crumpled to the floor, Ayers Rock had ambled over the finishing line, a clear winner by two lengths.
‘How much did yer man put on ‘em?’
‘A fiver each to win.’
Reardon whistled. ‘Five hundred and ten pounds – including the stake back. Not bad. Not bad at all.’
‘A fortune,’ said Dryden, noting the speed of the jockey’s mental arithmetic. The picture of Tommy as a luckless suicide looked less substantial by the minute.
‘That’s a win,’ he said, winking.
It is, thought Dryden. But you’re still not getting a tip. Then he thought again. Perhaps an afternoon in the Bay Horse might give him a half-day lead on the police investigation. He gave him a fiver and told him not to drink too much.
Dryden walked briskly back to the car counting en route the number of remarkably small men he passed on the street. It was like a day out in Lilliput.
Humph was juggling with a pair of large fluffy dice – the kind usually reserved for the front window of the Ford Capri. Luck was a subject of fascination to the cab driver – or in his case, the lack of it. The cab was fitted out with an array of rabbit’s feet, and a horseshoe had been fastened above the rear-view mirror. It obscured just enough of the rear view to invite an accident.
Dryden banged the dashboard. ‘Lidgate. Chop chop.’
They set out through the plush villages in the hills above the town, villages in marked contrast to the damp-soaked drabness of the Fen towns. Clear of the peat of the Fens medieval buildings had survived the centuries. Whitewashed stones bordered trim village greens.
They were at Stubbs Senior’s country house at 3.50 p.m. Humph, exercising discretion, parked the decrepit Capri round the corner. Dryden walked in, round the camomile lawn and the magnolia tree, and up a sweeping gravel drive. The house was an old manor farm. To one side were stables topped off with a clock tower.
Who says crime doesn’t pay, he thought.
A small fish pond was frozen solid. A large off-colour goldfish was lying belly-up just below the surface.
An elderly man appeared from the side of the house, two red setters at his heels, a third appearing from the lilac bushes.
Stubbs Senior stood his ground and waited for Dryden. Distinguished was the word. And tweed was the material. He had a head like a cannonball and no neck. His eyes were as dead cold as any in an identikit. He looked nothing like his son – except for the antiseptic cleanliness. Dryden guessed he was seventy – perhaps older.
‘Mr Dryden?’
Stubbs carried two sticks but Dryden noticed he took both off the ground to point out the distant gallops on Newmarket Heath. Most surprising, in an ex-deputy chief constable, were the extravagant laughter lines around the eyes. His handshake was enthusiastic too, even warm. If this was an act, thought Dryden, it was the result of a lifetime’s practice.