Tip Off (21 page)

‘I'm not supposed to talk to anyone,' Tilbury whined.

‘Who says?' I asked.

‘The police, of course. And they put another security bloke on for a few days – so's I won't get hassled by the press, they said.'

‘Were you able to tell them anything useful?'

He glanced at me and pulled a knowing face. I was glad that we had already established our relationship on a business footing.

‘I didn't tell 'em nothing. Jus' that you turned up, and we went up and found Mr Brown . . . like we did.'

‘Was there anything else you could have told them?'

‘You was asking if I was all right for money . . .'

‘Yes, of course, you've always been helpful, and this must have been a terrible shock for you.'

‘Yer, it was an' all. I could use a monkey.'

‘A monkey?' I said, not disguising my surprise that he should be pitching as high as five hundred pounds.

‘Oright, then,' he went on quickly, ‘a couple of hundred'll do.'

I pulled out my wallet, glad that I'd topped up my float that morning, and extracted ten twenties for him.

‘So what could you have told DI Wyndham that you didn't?'

‘Like you asked, I didn't tell him about your little tape machine.'

‘Thank you,' I said. ‘Was there anything else?'

‘An' I didn't tell him about the other people who'd been round Saturday night and yesterday morning, before you.'

‘What!' I was amazed. It had never occurred to me that he'd been holding anything back from us.

‘There was one come round Saturday, about ten.'

Just before Toby had rung to tell me he was worried about something.

‘Who was that?'

‘One of them,' Tilbury said disdainfully.

‘What do you mean, “one of them”?' I asked, though I was fairly sure I knew.

‘You know, one of his boy friends. Steve Lincoln's his name.'

‘How long did he stay?'

‘I don't know, I never saw him leave. I was watching telly.'

‘Why didn't you tell the police?'

‘'Cause when he come, he gives me a score and tells me to keep quiet.'

‘But you've just told me.'

‘Well, you jus' give me two hundred. You outbid him, didn't yer?'

I nodded. ‘So it seems. And you don't know what time he went?'

‘No, I jus' said.'

‘Would you have heard if he'd left very early next morning?'

‘Dunno. Probably. Maybe he was still in the flat next morning.'

‘What? When we got there, and when the police were there?'

‘Yes.'

‘But he can't have been. They searched it. Who else came to see Toby?'

‘I'm sorry, Mr Jeffries. You've used up your two hundred quid.'

‘All right,' I said impatiently, pulling my wallet out again. ‘Another two hundred for everything else you have to tell me. No more doling it out in instalments, or the police'll have you for withholding information.'

‘'Ere!' Tilbury said with another indignant sniff. ‘What do you think I am?'

‘I'd rather not say. Just take the money and talk.'

He turned, pulled out a bentwood chair and sat down at the cluttered table. I remained standing but took a few steps back to give him space.

‘Well, I didn't, like, see the first bloke on Sunday morning – jus' heard him come and go.'

‘What time was that?'

‘Early. 'Bout quarter to seven.'

‘Weren't you surprised?'

‘No. Toby was often up and about early – to go down and see horses on the gallops and that. He made a lot of money, Toby did, but give 'im 'is due, 'e worked bloody 'ard for it.'

‘Yes,' I said impatiently. ‘But how do you know it wasn't Lincoln leaving from the night before?'

‘Because I heard him call Toby's name through the intercom.'

‘What did he say?'

‘Just spoke his name, saying “goodbye”. But it were a toff's voice, like lots of his friends. It wasn't Steve Lincoln, I can tell you that for free.'

‘Okay.' I nodded. ‘And who was the other person who came?'

‘I saw 'im, but I don't know 'im. I didn't 'ear him come, but I seen 'im go. This time I got a bit of a butcher's at him when he went past my door. Shifty-looking cove, 'e was.'

‘What was he wearing?'

‘Jeans, one of them donkey jackets. Little woolly hat down over 'is ears.'

‘Age?'

‘I dunno . . . thirty, forty. 'Ard face, and big.'

‘Was he . . . one of them?'

‘A poof, you mean?'

I nodded.

‘No. Well, not like any I seen.'

From my pocket I pulled a packet of photos that I'd printed off the computer. I spread them out on the single table in Tilbury's cramped living room.

‘Have a look through this lot and tell me if you can recognise him.'

Tilbury seemed anxious to show that he was earning his extravagant fee, and diligently worked his way through the fifty mug-shots. I could see him trying hard to recognise one or other of them, but at the bottom of the stack he turned to me, disappointed. ‘Sorry, guv. None of these are 'im.'

 

I was back at Wetherdown in time for supper.

Emma was cooking. Jane had begged her to stay on for a few more days, at least until after Toby's funeral the following Friday.

While Jane was out in her yard for an hour to oversee evening stables, I'd been able to tell Emma what I'd found out, planning to give Jane an edited version later.

And there was another line of enquiry I wanted to follow.

‘What's the story on your father and Filumena?' I asked.

‘What have they to do with any of this?' Emma asked.

‘Nothing as far as I'm aware. I was being curious,' I added, truthfully. ‘It's just that he doesn't seem to have friends like most people do, not even one, and no visible woman in his life. And even if he's getting on a bit, I'm sure he likes to get his leg over from time to time.'

‘Just the thought of my father getting his leg over, as you so crassly put it, is a bit of a turn off. But as far as Filumena is concerned, I expect you're right. I'd say from the way he treats her, there must be a side to their relationship beyond cooking and cleaning.'

‘That's a shame.'

‘I couldn't care less, personally.'

‘I meant it's a shame because I wanted to ask her if she'd overheard any conversation between your father – sorry, His Lordship – and Toby in the last few weeks.'

‘Why?'

‘I just wondered if he ever warned Toby that the bookies might start getting heavy. When he told me Toby was his godson, it occurred to me that he actually wanted me to protect Toby in some way.'

Emma looked doubtful. ‘I shouldn't think my father takes that relationship very seriously. He's got half a dozen godchildren. His secretary has a sort of standing order to produce cards and presents on birthdays and Christmas – and that's about it.'

‘But do you think he might have wanted to warn Toby somehow, when the line really took off and it looked as if he could get into trouble?'

‘I suppose it's possible. Anyway, I don't think you'd get much out of Filumena. But I might. I'll see what I can do.'

We sat down with Jane around her kitchen table to eat. She seemed to be coming to terms with her bereavement but was still convinced Toby's death wasn't self-inflicted.

‘Is it possible that the chap who went to see him on Saturday night . . . did it?' she asked in a whisper.

I shrugged. ‘It's possible, but the police said he'd only been dead an hour or so.'

‘But, Simon, do the police know about this visitor?' Jane asked.

‘I presume so,' I lied; I'd decided for the time being not to tell her about the others; I didn't want to stir up her imagination any more. ‘But they don't seem interested. They said there was no evidence of a third party being involved.'

 

Emma stayed with Jane when I went home.

The following morning, I arrived at our office car-park at the same time as Monica. She pumped along on her chubby little legs to keep up with me as we made our way up to the office, and prattled on about her boy friend's misdeeds in a Reading club the night before.

Despite my own preoccupations, I found myself laughing with her, but as soon as we reached the office we were brought down to earth by Matt's grim expression and a curt request for us to get on with it.

When I sat down with him in his room, I almost dared to hope he might still agree to help track down Toby's killer, but after I'd briefed him on everything I'd learned the day before, he came to the rational conclusion that the most obvious thing to do was to pass it on to the police.

‘Their resources are infinitely greater than ours – especially as we lost the benefit of our bug,' he added pointedly. ‘If you seriously want to find out what happened, let them get on with it.'

‘But they were so sure of their opinion.'

‘So? Now you've got new information.'

‘Why on earth didn't they take the trouble to find it themselves then?'

‘As you discovered, old Tilbury was holding out for a higher bidder, and he knew he wouldn't get anything from the police. I bet you, if you go back, he'll be wanting more from you.'

‘You're probably right, but – I don't know. I'd really rather not go to the police; not until it's clearer what happened. I'd much prefer to keep the details of Toby's life under wraps, for Jane's sake.'

‘Look, Simon, there's going to be an inquest. It's inevitable that'll produce a mass of sordid detail.'

I thought for a moment. ‘Do me a favour, Matt. Would you go and talk to Wyndham and try to establish why they've made so little effort to investigate any other possibilities?'

The following evening, after a fruitless day spent photographing everyone who had come within spitting distance of Connor's nap at Uttoxeter, I collected Emma from Wetherdown. We drove over to Matt's house in Henley, where he'd invited us to join him and Sara for dinner.

When we arrived Sara was already there, looking a different woman in jeans and jumper. She sat buried in a vast, old-fashioned arm-chair with her shoeless feet tucked up under her in front of a pile of flaming apple logs on a big open grate.

Matt himself was busy in the kitchen. He had produced what smelled like a challenging lamb curry, a suitable dish to counteract the endless wet winter going on outside.

We sat down around an oak refectory table to eat it with some Rioja I'd brought.

‘Now you're both here,' Sara said, ‘I suppose I'd better tell you what's been going on at the office.'

‘I've already heard most of this.' Matt nodded at me with his mouth full. ‘But go on, Sara.'

She made a face at his interruption and carried on. ‘It's been terrible really, the last few days. Everyone's been on edge and swearing at each other and nobody can decide what to do. I know some of the board want to sell off the Atlantic Hotel chain. There's obviously a punter for it out there because someone's been hoovering up any Salmon Leisure shares that come on the market, but Harry won't even consider it.'

‘Do you know why not?' Matt asked.

‘I can tell you that.' Emma suddenly joined in the conversation, turning to me. ‘I would have twigged ages ago but you never mentioned the firm you've been dealing with was Salmon's. I should think the hotels are far closer to Harry Chapman's heart than the bookies ever were.' She laughed. ‘The connection between Harry Chapman and Atlantic Hotels is part of my family history. It's ironic really that Harry should have gone to the Jockey Club for help and ended up with my father organising it.'

‘Why's that?'

‘It goes back a very long way – it almost amounted to a family feud at the time, though my father would never admit it.'

‘How?' Matt asked sharply, leaning forward in his chair.

‘The thing is,' Emma paused, ‘my great-grandfather, Arthur Birt, actually founded Atlantic Hotels.'

‘Good Lord!' I laughed in surprise. ‘You never said it was Atlantic Hotels – just that he'd built up a great chain, and your grandfather lost the lot gambling.'

‘Yes, that's the point – he lost it all to old Morrie Salmon. My father never forgave Grandfather, or Salmon's, and it was all made much worse by the fact that my grandfather had a crooked solicitor who led him by the nose and talked him into selling off the hotels, piecemeal, to pay his gambling debts, all to a secretive private company controlled by an old witch called Constance Chapman – Harry's mother.'

‘But how did the hotels end up with Salmon's?'

‘It's all coming back to me now. Morrie Salmon died without an heir to carry on running the show, and Salmon's was taken over by a gang of young thrusters. They immediately started looking for some major assets to bring into the business. I suppose they wanted somewhere to sink all the money that came flooding in once regulations came off in the sixties. They must have wanted Atlantic Hotels very badly; they had to pay a lot of money for it – old Connie Chapman made sure of that.'

‘Was she still there then?'

‘Yes, she was over eighty but still in control, and she insisted her son had to be boss of the new group. Salmon's directors agreed and I should think he's been in charge for the last twenty-five years.'