Tip Off (23 page)

Then, looking harder at him, trying in some way to get to know him from this scanty photographic evidence, I knew I had seen this man somewhere before, maybe in some other context. But, try as I might, I couldn't think where.

 

Jane had been making arrangements for Toby's funeral which had been fixed for the following day. It was obvious that the emotion this aroused had for the time being overwhelmed her. She had been in bed an hour or so by the time I got to Wetherdown around one. It seemed that Emma had been shouldering a lot of the job herself, and she was very glad to see me.

The funeral was being held in the village church. Toby was to be buried in the ancient graveyard there, alongside his father.

‘What's happening afterwards?' I asked Emma as she bustled around, cooking me a very late supper.

‘Jane's laying on a massive reception here. She thinks hundreds of people will turn up and expect a drink or three afterwards.'

‘That's normal enough,' I said. ‘I hope everyone comes back and has a party after I've fallen off for the last time.'

‘Simon! Don't say things like that. Do you know, if you hurt yourself now, I'd be miserable.' Emma widened her green-blue eyes and pulled a doleful face. ‘In fact, I think I'm going to ban you from riding any more.'

I laughed. ‘It's okay – I'm improving all the time. I've had a lot of sessions with Julia de Morlay, and she says my jumping's much better.'

‘I hope that doesn't mean you're thinking about riding Nester again?'

‘I don't know,' I replied evasively. ‘Anyway, we were talking about poor old Toby's funeral. Who does Jane think will turn up?'

‘Obviously most of the racing world, and her family and Toby's father's relations.'

‘Are there many of them?'

‘Not really. But what's worrying her is the gay contingent. She has simply no idea who or how many of them will come.'

‘My God!' I gasped as the thought hit me. ‘Lincoln . . .'

‘He won't turn up here tomorrow, will he?'

I shrugged. ‘We'll just have to wait and see. But, as a matter of fact, this wake of Toby's might give us an opportunity to check out a few other people.'

Emma turned back to the tagliatelle she was cooking. ‘Well, I'm glad it's going to make someone happy.'

‘Come on,' I protested. ‘That's not fair. We're doing this for Jane, remember?'

 

Despite the lack of sleep and the tension of the last twenty-four hours, I was buzzing with adrenaline as I drove over to Reading through a drizzling, dark pre-dawn. I had arranged to meet Matt at seven.

In the office, Monica primed us with coffee while we pored over all the shots again and Matt agreed with my findings. We couldn't do Toby's funeral and the races, so we allocated Larry to the job of checking out the day's nap, focusing on the photographers and Lincoln, if he showed up. There'd been no sign of him at the flat, and Dougie had reported that his car had been clamped, apparently abandoned.

 

The sky was clearing as we drove back over the chalk downs to East Ilsley for Toby's final send-off.

As Jane had anticipated, the crowd of mourners was too big to squeeze into the church and the late arrivals found themselves outside in, fortunately, mild, early-spring sunshine, listening to the service through loudspeakers.

Toby's uncle, Frank Gurney, had arrived from France first thing that morning. He came prepared with a moving eulogy, stressing Toby's skills, talents and enthusiasm.

I had seen photographs of Frank but this was the first time I'd seen him in the flesh. As I listened to the well-chosen words of his affectionate, unsentimental address, I couldn't stop myself from thinking of Emma telling me of her conviction that he and her mother had once been lovers.

Frank was impressive in an understated way. His deep voice was quiet; his well-preserved six-foot frame clad in unostentatious, high-quality Savile Row tailoring. His thick sandy grey hair was cut to a fashionable length and his tanned skin showed few direct blemishes or signs of strain. As he spoke, his candid blue eyes moved around the congregation in the crowded pews, coming to rest more than once on Emma, sitting between me and Jane.

 

Afterwards, back at Wetherdown, where every room on the ground floor had been cleared and opened up to accommodate around three hundred mourners, I searched for Steve Lincoln. I found Miles Wheatley first. He looked as if he'd been crying.

‘Hello, Miles,' I said, as kindly as I could.

He looked up guardedly. ‘Hi. Sorry, I must look a bit of a sight.'

‘I'm sure we all do,' I said. ‘A lot of people were very fond of Toby.'

‘Not many of us here, though,' he said.

‘No,' I agreed. ‘Most of these people are from racing. That chap over there, for instance,' I said conversationally, pointing out Connor McDonagh, ‘is the man who's taken over as the infallible tipster since Toby died.'

This didn't appear to mean much to Miles who glanced at Connor and shook his head.

‘No sign of Steve Lincoln,' I remarked.

‘Thank God!' Miles spat.

‘Do you think he might have had something to do with Toby's death?'

‘I'm sure of it.'

‘Why?' I looked at him hard.

Miles thought for a moment. ‘I don't really know, but I'm sure he was part of it. He's just that sort of person.'

I spent a few more minutes trying to prise out more information but finally gave up and excused myself when I saw Frank Gurney standing a few feet away.

I caught his eye. ‘I'm Simon Jeffries – a friend of the family's. Aren't you Jane's brother, Frank?'

‘That's right,' he said affably. ‘And I know who you are. Amongst other things, you own one of Jane's star chasers, Better By Far.'

‘I'm afraid you're not completely up to date. I had to move him.'

‘Why was that? Not paying your bills on time?' he laughed.

‘No. Gerald Tintern sent Purple Silk to the yard and that produced a conflict of interests.'

There was a momentary stillness in Frank's lively eyes. ‘Did it indeed?' he said. ‘Tintern getting his own way as much as he ever did, then?'

‘I haven't known him long enough to say,' I answered innocently.

‘I have,' Frank said, but in a way that made it clear that he wasn't going to elucidate – not then, anyway. ‘By the way, I wanted to talk to you in rather more detail about what Toby was up to. I gather you found him?'

‘That's right.'

‘I didn't want to discuss it with Jane. I thought it would only upset her.'

‘I'd be glad to,' I said.

‘Let's go to the office; it's the only place that won't be crawling with people.'

In the comparative quiet of the small, book-lined room, Frank listened with complete attention and few interruptions to my resumé of everything Matt and I had unearthed so far.

When I'd finished, he nodded slowly. ‘I'm not surprised Jane's reluctant to talk about it; coming to terms with your own son's homosexuality must be awfully difficult, especially as he seems to have been involved with some fairly tacky characters.' He pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘And there's a nice irony in the fact that it was Harry Chapman who paid him to close his line, when Gerald Tintern had asked you to investigate it.'

‘Emma told me there wasn't much love lost between them,' I remarked.

‘You can say that again! I've known Gerald for forty years and I can tell you that his prime motive for building up the King George Hotel Group was to get his own back on Salmon's for taking Atlantic Hotels from his father.'

‘He doesn't seem to have made a bad job of it,' I said. ‘And you're a shareholder, aren't you?'

‘That's right. I'm not complaining. But Gerald still hasn't got the London flagship hotel he's always wanted – a Ritz or a Dorchester – to give the King George Group the same status as Atlantic, and he won't be happy until he has.'

‘That's interesting,' I said, making a connection. ‘The other day I bumped into a property agent who deals with him. I got the distinct impression that something big was due to happen, something that would make Gerald very happy, apparently.'

‘You must mean Daniel Dunne?'

‘That's right.'

‘Very indiscreet of him.'

‘Why? What's happening?'

‘It's just that Gerald is close to securing a very large site in Buckingham Gate.'

‘Do many people know about it?'

‘I very much doubt it. I'm certainly not supposed to. Gerald's a naturally secretive operator; it's the sort of thing he likes doing best. He's bought almost all the freeholds and leases that make up the block through a series of different property companies and Jersey investment trusts, and left them occupied by tenants who are still trading – at least for the time being. I should think he's moving very cautiously now so the last few leaseholders won't twig what's going on and hold the whole deal to ransom.'

Frank nodded knowingly.

I sensed his disapproval. ‘Isn't this an official King George Hotel deal, then?'

‘No. Or at least, not yet. Gerald certainly doesn't know that I know about his activities. But whether he's intending to put the site together on his own account then sell it on to the group, or planning to set up his own hotel there, I couldn't say.'

‘How do you know about it then?'

‘He's borrowed a lot of money to do the deal, using his King George shares as collateral, and it just so happens that Alec Denaro, the chairman of the bank who's lent him most, is a very old friend of mine. In fact, although Gerald's probably forgotten it, I introduced them.'

I was surprised by the equanimity with which Frank seemed to accept the position. I thought of Lord Tintern, in the next room, doling out words of wisdom to everyone around him. ‘But doesn't that concern you?'

‘Not unduly,' Frank said. ‘What he's doing isn't illegal or strictly speaking even unethical. I've got nothing to complain of in Gerald's performance so far; I backed him when he started in the fifties, and he's done me very well. My original investment has appreciated several hundred times over.

‘Now,' he said with a change of tone, ‘I've probably told you more than I should have and ought to get back and support my sister. Please be discreet but feel free to get in touch any time if you think I might be able to help somehow. I'd dearly like to see Toby's death properly resolved, for Jane's sake.'

 

Later, I said goodbye to Jane and promised I'd come round again soon to see her. Emma was staying to the bitter end. I kissed her goodbye, resigned to another night on my own.

Matt and I had arranged to meet up with Larry and get reports from Dougie in London. As we drove back to Reading, I thought of Frank and realised that the reason he'd looked so familiar was that there were mannerisms and physical features in him I'd already seen in Emma. I thought that perhaps her theory about her parentage had some basis in fact after all.

Back in the office, Jason greeted us gloomily. He had already logged all the reports that had come in and there had been no sign of Lincoln all day, or indeed any other visitors to the scruffy little flat in West Kensington.

Larry had been more successful at the races. His trip to Ascot had thrown up sightings of the photographer and the same suspicious character I'd spotted at Plumpton and Hereford.

Obeying orders, Larry had done nothing about the photographer, but had tailed the other man back through the race-course after Connor's nap had run. But once he had disappeared into an office at the back of the stand, Larry had lost him – at least, he didn't reappear inside the next hour – and when finally Larry had knocked on the door, there had been no reply. He discovered afterwards that the office interconnected with several others and anyone entering could easily have left by a different exit.

We arranged that the next day we would all be on duty, wherever that might be, to monitor this man and the photographer.

On my way home, I found myself thinking back over everything Frank had told me about Gerald Tintern, and his almost obsessive ambition to own a major London hotel. I decided to take a detour by Buckingham Gate.

The site Frank had described was directly opposite the southern entrance to the palace. It was a long Victorian terrace of shops and offices that didn't look as if they had seen a paint brush in years. Most of the shops were closed and unoccupied; only three were still operating. One was a newsagent, one a launderette, and the other a bookmaker. Above the window, on a familiar dark blue sign, was the name ‘Salmon Racing'.

I sat and stared at it for a few minutes before I drove on, turned into the Mall in front of Buckingham Palace, and headed straight for Hanover Square and Harry Chapman's office.

In the morning I arrived at our office just before nine. Matt was already there with Sara. As it was a Saturday, neither Jason nor Monica was in and I had the impression Sara and Matt had been taking advantage of the empty office. I evidently didn't hide my surprise well enough.

‘What's the matter with you?' Matt asked brusquely.

‘I just didn't expect to see Sara.'

‘Sorry,' she said with wide-eyed self-deprecation.

‘Listen to what she's been telling me,' Matt said.

‘Salmon's have formally announced that Atlantic Hotels is for sale,' she said. ‘I think it's just a smoke-screen to show the licensing authorities they're doing something to secure their position but everyone's screaming at the Jockey Club for not pulling their fingers out, and telling them they should bring the police in. But the Jockey Club say they haven't got a single scrap of evidence of any criminal activity. And listen to this – you know I told you the bookies were going to get one of Connor's winners dope-tested over in the States?'