Blood at the Bookies. Simon Brett
a matter of moments anyone, armed only with an internet connection and a credit card, could have the capacity to lose money at will in the privacy of their own home. Jude was glad she didn’t have an addictive personality. Bankruptcy had never been so readily available.
But she only used her new account to put on Harold Peskett’s bets that weekend. Once the betting shop reopened, she thought it quite possible that she’d never log on again. She felt comforted to have the account, though. It was a convenience. If she fancied the name of a horse she saw in the paper or suddenly wanted to have a punt on the Grand National … well, the facility was there.
The regulars were in their allotted places when she arrived that Monday afternoon shortly before one. And they greeted her as one of their own. Nor was there any tasteful reticence about bringing up the subject uppermost in all their minds.
‘So, who’re you going to murder this afternoon, Jude?’ asked Wes.
‘Surprised they’ve allowed you out,’ said Vic. ‘On bail, are you?’
Sonny Frank came to her rescue. ‘Leave the lady alone. She might still be in a state of shock.’
‘I’m not, actually. But thanks for the thought, Sonny.’
‘Well, from what I see on telly, with all those Poirots and Morses and what-have-you,’ Wes went on, ‘the one the police always go for is the one who found the body.’
‘So I’m supposed to have stabbed the poor bloke outside, am I? Before I came in here?’
‘You could have done,’ said Vic wisely. ‘You’re the only one of us who’s a suspect, Jude. You found the body.’
‘All right.’ Jude held up her arms in mock-surrender. ‘I did it. What are you going to do – call the cops again?’
‘No, we’ll let you get away with this one,’ Wes conceded generously. ‘But you murder someone else and you’re in trouble.’
All of this dialogue was lightly conducted, humour as ever diluting the awkwardness of an unpleasant situation. None of them was unaffected by the stranger’s death; they were just finding ways of coping with it.
‘Have any of you had follow-up calls from the police?’
None of them had. ‘Thank goodness,’ said Pauline. ‘My old man always told me to keep clear of the police. If you don’t talk to them, they can’t twist your words in court, he always said.’
‘But I heard you speaking to them on Thursday,’ said Jude.
‘Hadn’t got much choice, had I? They come in here and asked us all to stay. If I’d legged it right then, they’d have thought I was well dodgy.’
‘Suppose so. Well, I must do these bets for old Harold.’ Jude moved across to the counter. Nikki was seated at a table checking through sheaves of betting slips. Ryan came to serve her. ‘Presumably they asked you if you recognized the dead man?’
‘Yes,’ the manager replied.
Characteristically, he didn’t volunteer any other information, so Jude prompted him. ‘And you said you’d never seen him?’
‘That’s right.’
He turned away, wanting the conversation to end there, but Jude persisted. ‘But you do normally check out everyone who comes through the door?’
‘Yes. Part of the job. There are some villains about. Head Office sends us photos of the ones we got to watch out for. So I look at everyone.’
‘And you didn’t recognize him either, did you, Nikki?’
The girl looked up at Jude from her betting slips, her beautiful eyes blank. ‘Wossat?’
‘I was asking if you’d ever seen the dead man before?’
‘Nah,’ she replied. ‘I never.’
‘But do you normally check who comes in and out of the betting shop?’
Jude received one of those curious looks that the young reserve for the old and mad. ‘Nah. Not my job, is it? Ryan does that. I just do what I have to do. Take the punters’ bets. I don’t have to notice who they are.’
Jude was inclined to believe her. She noticed the girl sported an engagement ring. And no doubt she made some young man very happy … so long as his demands didn’t stretch to the intellectual.
‘Know anything?’ asked Sonny Frank, as Jude returned from the counter.
‘About the murder or the horses?’
‘Let’s stick with the horses. A murder’s a nine-day wonder, but horse racing is forever.’
‘Well, I’d give you the same answer if you were talking about the murder or the horses. No, I don’t know anything. How about you? And I am talking about horses. Know anything?’
He screwed up his round face into an expression of dubiety. ‘Dunno.’
‘Come on, Sonny, you won me a hundred quid on Thursday. You’ve got a reputation to keep up. Give me another tip.’
‘All right. Here’s a good ’un.’ He beckoned her forward and whispered into her ear. ‘“A successful gambler doesn’t bet more than he bets.”’
‘Meaning?’
‘The successful ones know when to stop. When they have a big win, they leave it for a while, wait to see how things go, ignore all the nearly-good ones, wait for the really-good one. They don’t bet on every race.’
Jude shook her head ruefully. ‘Then I’m afraid I’ll never make a successful gambler. In spite of what happened afterwards, I’m still flushed with the thought of that hundred quid I won last week. I’m sure my luck’s on a roll.’
‘That’s another thing you’ll never hear a successful gambler say. No such thing as luck. Graft, application, weighing up the variables – that’s how you make money.’
‘I’m never going to make much then.’
‘No, darling, I’m afraid you’re not. And I’m not going to make any today either.’
‘What do you mean, Sonny?’
‘I been through all the cards. There isn’t a single nag I fancy.’
‘So you won’t have a bet?’ He shook his head. ‘Then why are you here?’
‘Because I like racing, Jude. Can’t get round to the courses like I used to do these days, but I can sit in here and see the lot. Coo, what my old man would have thought of a place like this, where you can sit in comfort and have all the racing come to you. He spent his entire life dragging from one racecourse to another, lugging his boards and boxes about. Setting up in the rain, standing there all afternoon, shouting the odds. He’d have thought he was in heaven in a place like this.’
Jude didn’t think she could do what Sonny did, just watch the races. So far as she was concerned, take away the gambling and the whole exercise became a bit dull.
She looked up at the screen displaying the runners and prices for the next race, the 1.20 at Fontwell Park, the nearest racecourse to Fethering. She had been there once or twice, so that already gave her a sense of special interest. And then she saw there was a horse in the race called Carol’s Duty. ‘I’m going to do that,’ she said to Sonny.
‘Why?’
‘I’ve got a friend called Carole – spelt differently but near enough, and she’s got an overdeveloped sense of duty, so it was clearly meant.’
‘What was clearly meant?’
‘That the horse is going to win the race.’
Sonny Frank shook his head in exasperated pity. ‘That is no way to pick a horse. You could make up some kind of personal reference to any one