Tip Off (6 page)

‘Not all of it,' I admitted.

‘Well, while you've been sniffing around the Honourable Emma Birt, I've arranged for us to see one of the bookies tomorrow. That may give us a new perspective.'

‘Who's that?' I asked, annoyed that he'd stolen a march.

‘Salmon Leisure. We're seeing the chief executive, Harry Chapman.'

 

We were only twenty minutes from our destination by the time I got round to asking Matt for more details of the job we were on. He had fielded the enquiry when it came into the office and had handled all the briefings so far.

‘Basically, the company's developed a piece of equipment that they call Powderjet; it's an alternative to the old-fashioned hypodermic syringe.'

‘That sounds like a useful product. I loathe jabs.'

‘You and most of the population,' Matt observed unsympathetically.

‘I suppose you don't even notice them?'

‘An injection is a classic case of a psychologically induced trauma. The degree of pain is very small. It's the anticipation that causes the grief, not the needle.'

‘I know that, of course, but I still hate them. Anyway, how does this new method work?'

‘They place a small disc on the surface of the skin; the agent to be introduced is released through thousands of tiny holes under very high pressure so that it's propelled straight through the epidermis and into the patient's bloodstream.'

‘And that doesn't hurt?'

‘Not a bit.'

‘Like those nicotine patches that people stick on themselves to stop smoking?'

‘In that the drug is absorbed through the skin, yes.'

‘Sounds a winner,' I said. ‘What's the problem?'

‘Wessex Biotech's main research lab is out in the sticks down here, and kept heavily secure given the money they'll earn from royalties on the product once it comes on stream.'

‘What'll that be worth to them?' I asked to get an idea of the scale of the problem.

‘If the system goes into use world-wide, it will run into hundreds of millions of dollars. Think of it – needles will become a thing of the past. But they can't get a cast-iron world patent on the thing until all the tests are complete. They're nearly there but if any competitors got their hands on the technology now, they could still be pipped.'

‘So, what's happened?'

‘Two complete prototype systems with specially adapted drugs have gone missing. This guy we're going to visit is one of their research scientists. David Dysart, who's his boss and the guy I've been dealing with, thinks our man may have helped himself to them to sell to the opposition.'

‘And we're looking for these samples?'

‘Possibly, but more likely anything that will show the subject's been in contact with rival companies or,' Matt paused significantly, ‘been getting large amounts of cash from other sources.'

‘Will he be on his own?'

‘I hope so, or we'll be wasting our time.'

‘Does he have a wife or family?'

‘Not married.'

‘You like all this, don't you?' I said, seeing that hard profile crease into a grin. ‘But what you seem to forget is that when you were doing it in the army, you were usually dealing with other professionals.'

He laughed. ‘You've led such a sheltered life!'

‘Not any more,' I muttered. ‘Anyway, how did we get this job?'

‘As a matter of fact, you're responsible. Apparently you met Dysart somewhere, told him what you were doing and gave him a card. He's in his early forties, I'd say, very entrepreneurial and full of himself. Ring any bells?'

I shook my head. ‘Not off-hand. I've given away hundreds of cards and I do the sales spiel wherever I go.' In the first few months of establishing the business, and ever since it had got off the ground, I'd networked conscientiously, though not always methodically, using all my old insurance contacts as well as any social ones that were offered. ‘Did he say where we'd met?'

‘No.'

‘We must ask him,' I said. ‘Now I suppose I'd better apply myself to the map and talk you to the target.'

 

The target was a chocolate-box cottage of thatch and stone, nestling in a deep cleft in the eastern slopes of the Mendip Hills.

‘That's a very des. little res.,' I remarked. ‘So our chum is already doing reasonably well for himself. How old is he?'

‘It's all in the profile. He's twenty-nine, and on thirty grand a year.'

‘What's he called?'

‘Brian Griffiths.'

‘Right,' I said, trying to sound positive, ‘let's go and talk to him.'

 

We were in the cottage for an hour. Our instructions were to make exploratory investigations only, at this point, and in no way to antagonise a key member of Dysart's research team.

As I looked around the small sitting room of his house, I was struck by the quality of the furniture and the pictures on the walls. From my patchy knowledge of eighteenth-century equestrian paintings, I judged that one of them, at least, was worth twice its owner's annual salary.

During a lull in Matt's questioning, I remarked on it.

‘Yes, it's nice, isn't it? It's a Herring, as a matter of fact.'

‘Must be worth a lot?'

Griffiths looked at me a little primly, as if I'd just committed some social gaffe, which, I supposed, I had.

Matt wasn't put off. ‘I see you've got one of the new Range Rovers outside, too?' The subtle approach wasn't his style.

Griffiths looked at him like an owl through his big tortoiseshell glasses. ‘I do a lot of hill walking. It comes in handy for getting up to good start points.' He stood up. ‘Now I think I've told you all I can about the missing systems and I've some work to catch up on. So, if you wouldn't mind . . .?'

 

‘What a complete bloody waste of time!' Matt fumed as we drove back towards Berkshire.

‘Well, we discovered something.'

‘Like what?'

‘Like he has a painting on his wall that's worth at least fifty or sixty grand.'

Matt turned his head to look at me. ‘As much as that? Where would he get money like that to spend on a picture?'

‘Maybe he didn't.' I shrugged. ‘Maybe he was left it.'

‘Maybe, but I didn't think much of him. Did you notice how he kept putting his finger inside his collar and lifting his chin – almost as if it was too tight? That's a sure sign of lying.'

‘That doesn't prove anything, though.'

‘At least it gives us something to report, and I suggest next time we go there when Griffiths is out.'

The following morning, on the way to see Harry Chapman in London, Matt and I talked about Jane's family connections with Gerald Tintern, and how her brother, Frank Gurney, was a long-term shareholder in Tintern's King George Hotel Group.

‘Salmon Leisure own a chain of hotels too, so I imagine Chapman must know Lord Tintern.'

‘If he didn't before, he does now.'

‘Was Chapman one of the bookies who complained to the Jockey Club?'

‘Salmon Leisure are one of the four largest operators. They always show a united front whenever anything threatens their interests. The rest of the time they do everything they can to trample on each other.'

‘A metaphor for the human race,' Matt said drily.

‘If it's philosophy, it must be Thursday,' I laughed. ‘But what still worries me is why Tintern decided to hire us to do the job, given that he doesn't think I'm good enough for his daughter?'

‘I thought we'd established that he came to us because you know Toby well enough to get close to him without having any particular loyalty towards him.'

‘How the hell would he know whether or not I felt any loyalty? I think he just wanted to protect Toby from any heavy-handed stuff from the in-house security people. He's his godfather after all. I expect he thought we'd be more gentle.'

‘Not necessarily,' Matt said with a wolfish grin.

 

The head office of Salmon Leisure Plc was in a handsome old building in Hanover Square. Inside, it was decorated with low-key paintings and furniture of a quality that suggested it had been chosen to contrast deliberately with the vulgar way it had been gained.

A pretty dark girl sat behind the long sweep of polished elm that faced the main entrance. With East End chirpiness, she pointed us to the lift which went straight up to the chief executive's office on the fourth floor. There we were directed into an ante-room hung with large equestrian canvases, where another girl, even more striking than her colleague on the ground floor, looked up. After a momentary frown, she broke into a glowing smile that instantly encompassed both of us.

For once, I heard a faint stutter in Matt's voice as he introduced us. ‘Matthew James and Simon Jeffries,' he murmured, ‘on behalf of the Jockey Club, to see Mr Chapman.'

The girl's black hair was cut in a short bob, setting off high cheekbones and slightly angled, electrifying blue eyes which lingered on Matt for a moment before she glanced down at the desk diary in front of her. ‘Yes,' she said. ‘Mr Chapman's expecting you. He'll be free in a few minutes.' She stood up. She was wearing a short black skirt that rode up a little over the dark nylon of her tights and I saw a twitch of approval on Matt's face at the sight of her well-filled blouse. ‘Coffee?' she asked.

‘Er . . . yes, please,' Matt muttered and I nodded.

‘Take a seat,' she said, waving towards a cluster of squashy sofas around a low table. She disappeared through a small door behind her desk. We sat down. I looked at Matt.

‘Which do you fancy most, the pictures or the staff?' I asked, sensing that he was unusually uptight.

‘No contest,' he answered curtly and tried to relax back on to the sofa. It gave more than he expected, until he found himself almost supine. He heaved himself back and sat on the front edge, making a face; he hated to look foolish.

The girl came back in carrying a cafetière and two cups on a tray. A pleasing aroma of strong fresh coffee wafted through the air as she bent over to place it on the table.

‘Thanks,' Matt said. ‘Where would you like to have dinner?' he added hurriedly.

I was astonished; I'd never seen him move so fast. The girl straightened her back and considered the question.

‘Tonight?' she asked, swinging her bobbed hair to one side.

‘Of course,' Matt said clearly, having evicted the frog from his throat.

‘Harry's Bar.'

Before Matt could reply, a deep voice resounded from an intercom on the desk. ‘Sara. I'm free now.'

‘I'll bring your coffee through,' she said with a mischievous smile.

 

Harry Chapman's office was so big, it could have been a small ballroom. Perhaps once it had been.

The chief executive of Salmon Leisure stood up behind his desk, with his back to a tall window that overlooked the bustling, rain-drenched square below.

But no outside sounds penetrated the room, and the deep quiet matched the subdued grey-green and heather colours of the decor.

As Harry came round the desk, his features became clearer. He was a tall man, not dissimilar in build to Lord Tintern. Facially, he could scarcely have been more different. His rubbery flesh was the pale pink of a peeled prawn, his nose bulbous and cheeks chubby. Beneath a mop of fluffy grey hair and heavy lids, his eyes radiated a wily charm. He held out his hand and shook Matt's then mine with flamboyant gusto.

‘Good morning.' There was a hint of South London in the gravelly voice. ‘Let me guess which of you is which,' he cut in as I was about to tell him my name. ‘I've had a look at your company profile, and I see that Mr James was one of those covert heroes who do so much to protect our liberty. That would be you,' he said, looking at me.

So forceful were his gaze and conviction that I almost quailed from contradicting him. ‘Nearly right, Mr Chapman,' I muttered. ‘In fact, I'm Simon Jeffries.'

The big man let go of my hand and roared with laughter. ‘Nearly right,' he guffawed. ‘Very good.' He turned to Matt. ‘Sorry. Someone once told me you SAS chaps all look like university professors. Very wise, I should think. But you look more of the James Bond type. Anyway, have a seat.'

He sat down before us in a large easy chair, while we sat opposite on another over-filled sofa. Sara came in with our tray and poured coffee. I saw her glance at Matt with a quick smile.

‘So, what have you boys come to see me about, exactly? I see you're a client, Mr James.'

‘It's nothing to do with that,' I said hurriedly. ‘I understand that you approached the Jockey Club on behalf of the Bookmakers' Association, to register your concerns over Toby Brown's tipping service?'

Chapman nodded. ‘Yes, I did. And I'd have gone to them with or without the other members of my association. I don't know how he's doing it, but it's costing all of us millions. It can't go on.' He stopped and looked at us squarely, as if we were the culprits, to add more emphasis to his words. ‘It's giving racing a terrible name, and those pompous old buggers in Portman Square weren't doing much about it when it's clearly their responsibility. As you know, anything to do with racing in this country comes under their jurisdiction. If Brown were being palpably fraudulent, we could bring the police in, but we have nothing to go on and, as far as I can see, the powers that be have done little to mobilise their internal security people.'