Читать книгу DCI Warren Jones - Paul Gitsham, Paul Gitsham - Страница 25

Walk a few minutes from Middlesbury Abbey and the fairly affluent neighbourhood overlooking the historic ruins soon turns into a far less salubrious area. Father Nolan’s favoured pub, The Cock and Lion, occupied the corner of Hanover Street and Tudor Avenue.

Ruskin described it as a typical ‘old man’s pub’; warm beer, cheap food and football on the TV. The sort of place where you could make a pint of bitter and a newspaper last all afternoon and nobody minded. Warren tried not to feel slighted; he rather liked the look of the place.

The landlady, a friendly woman in her mid-thirties with a West Country accent, didn’t need to think twice before confirming that Father Nolan had been a regular. She shook her head. ‘So sad. Suicide, they said in the paper.’

News that they were now investigating a murder had not yet been released to the public; Warren wanted a couple more days before the killer was tipped off that their attempts to cover up the killing had failed.

She shuddered. ‘And what a way to go.’

‘How well did you know Father Nolan?’

‘Not very well, he was pretty quiet.’ She tipped her chin towards a corner table, strategically placed to give the best view of the large TV opposite. ‘He’d usually sit there and either watch the footie or read the newspaper. He’d say hello and make polite conversation, but wasn’t exactly a chatterbox. To be honest, I wouldn’t know what to say. I mean what do you talk about with a priest? I failed GCSE RE and have barely been inside a church since my first Holy Communion.’

‘Did he speak to anyone else?’ asked Warren.

‘Not really. Most of the regulars knew him, and he’d express an opinion on whatever match they were watching, but he mostly sat on his own. Once or twice he came down here with other priests, but not often.’

‘I don’t suppose you noticed any change in his mood, recently?’ asked Ruskin.

‘You mean, like if he was suicidal?’

‘It probably wouldn’t be that obvious,’ cautioned Warren.

She thought for a moment before apologizing. ‘I just didn’t know him well enough.’

‘What did he usually drink?’ said Ruskin.

‘He’d usually have a go of whatever guest beer we had in, otherwise whatever bitter we have on tap.’

‘And was he a big drinker?’

She laughed. ‘I wish. Two pints was about his limit, and a packet of cheese and onion crisps if he was feeling peckish.’

‘Would any of your regulars be likely to have noticed anything?’

She thought for a moment. ‘Hard to say. I can ask around if you like.’

‘We’d appreciate that,’ said Ruskin.

‘Why don’t you come back for a drink in a couple of days and I’ll let you know what I’ve heard?’

Warren hid a smile, as Ruskin politely deflected the offer and passed over a card with his number.

‘Blimey Moray, and you weren’t even in uniform,’ teased Warren as they stepped back out onto the street.

The burly Scot shrugged. ‘Not exactly my type. And I’m spoken for, remember.’

‘Let her down gently.’

* * *

If, as Hutchinson had suggested, Father Nolan liked to place the odd bet before his pint, he didn’t have far to walk.

There was something especially sad about a bookmaker’s on a weekday afternoon, decided Warren, as they left the third shop in a street barely two hundred metres long. The woman behind the reinforced glass partition hadn’t recognised Father Nolan’s photograph. Neither had any of the punters, although most of them – scruffy men of varying ages – had barely been able to tear their eyes away from the galloping horses on the banks of wall-mounted TVs, or shift their attention from the ubiquitous fixed-odds betting terminals gobbling money at a rate far faster than the player could possibly earn it.

‘They’re like a bloody cancer,’ muttered Ruskin, as they walked the twenty paces to the next establishment. According to Google Maps, there were another four within half a mile of their current location.

‘You won’t get any argument from me,’ agreed Warren. ‘They’re just a tax on the poor and desperate.’ He waved his hand vaguely towards the surrounding streets. ‘Most of the folks around here haven’t got a pot to piss in, yet these big companies can set up shops opposite each other and there’s still enough business to go around. Tells you everything you need to know about their ethics and in whose favour the odds are stacked.’

‘What is a bloke of working age doing in a bookie in the middle of the day on a Tuesday anyway?’ asked Ruskin.

‘I think it’s fair to say that if you are in that position, life isn’t going to plan.’

The two officers finally found what they were looking for in the fourth bookie they visited. So far, almost all of the main chains had been represented in a single stretch of road, with the remainder all within easy walking distance.

The inside of the shop was just a variation on the others they’d already been to. The wall to the left was covered in flat-screen TVs, some showing live horse racing, others a constantly updating series of betting odds and news flashes. The wall opposite was papered with pages from the Racing Post, with desk space below for gamblers to complete the pre-printed betting slips using one of the stubby blue biros. Unlike banks, the shop didn’t feel the need to secure the pens to the desk with a chain, simply supplying containers filled with them. Probably a reflection of the profits made by a typical bookie compared to major high-street banks, Warren thought, his cynicism towards the betting industry having risen steadily over the past half hour.

For those unwilling to miss valuable gambling time by hand-delivering their slip to the assistants safely locked away in their reinforced glass cubicles, bets could be placed directly onto a computer terminal. And if studying form and actually awaiting the outcome for a race was too much, then each of the four fixed odds betting terminals would happily swallow money at a rate of £300 per minute. It was clear to see why they placed a chair in front of the machines.

The person behind the till, a man in his early twenties with a name badge saying ‘Martin’, nodded as soon as they passed the glossy photograph to him.

‘Oh yes, I recognise him. He was a regular.’

‘How regular?’ asked Warren.

‘Probably about twice a week. I work here most afternoons, after lectures finish. He used to come in late afternoon, then head off for a pint.’

‘Was he a big gambler?’

The man paused. ‘Look, do you have a warrant or something? I’m not sure I can just give out information about customers without their permission. You know, data protection and all that. My manager is on his lunch break, perhaps you can call back later?’

‘Father Nolan’s dead,’ said Warren, his eyes flicking towards the copy of the Middlesbury Reporter sitting on the desk next to the cashier; a different, but still recognisable, picture of Father Nolan took up half of the front page.

The man followed his gaze, then looked back at the photograph.

‘Oh … shit, that was him? Guess it doesn’t matter, then.’

‘What sort of a punter was he?’ repeated Ruskin.

The teller glanced over his shoulder, as if expecting his manager to suddenly materialise, then lowered his voice.

‘Just a bit of a flutter. He’d spend a while reading the Post and then put a couple of quid either way on the favourite. He’d stay here for three or four races, if that.’

‘So no more than, ten, fifteen quid?’

‘Probably about that.’

‘Did he pay by cash or card?’

‘Cash.’

‘Was he lucky?’

‘No more or less than anyone, I’d say.’

‘When was the last time you saw him?’

‘Probably about a week ago. I had wondered why I hadn’t seen him for a while. I never thought … shit. Burnt himself to death, they said. Poor bastard.’

‘Did you notice anything different about him? A change of mood, perhaps?’

‘Nothing, but he never really said much. He was polite, and he’d enquire after my health, but it was just chit-chat you know? I can’t say I knew him.’

‘Was he friendly with any of the other regulars?’

Martin snorted. ‘It’s not really that sort of place.’ He discreetly pointed towards a man of about twenty, wearing a baseball cap, a rolled-up cigarette behind his ear, loading money into a gambling machine. He lowered his voice even more. ‘Take that guy. Has two kids and still lives at home with his mum. You can tell when he’s had his dole money because he goes and gets his rings back from the pawnbrokers. He won’t be wearing them by the end of the week. I only know about him because his brother’s the same and I overhear them talking sometimes. You try not to judge, but the guy’s a complete failure and he knows it.’ The young bookmaker sighed. ‘To be honest, this place is pretty depressing. I’m only here because the money’s better than stacking shelves and I’m doing an accountancy degree. I can’t wait to leave.

‘Customers like Father Nolan, who just come in for a flutter and know when to stop are pretty rare. “When the fun stops, stop”, the adverts say.’ His laughter was mirthless, as he angled his chin towards another customer. ‘The fun stopped for most of these guys years ago.’

Dressed the same as the youth at the gambling machine, the man could easily have been forty years older. His face was a mass of deep creases, and his half-open mouth, with its tongue stuck out in concentration, had less teeth than his right hand had fingers. At his feet, the thin plastic of a white carrier bag did nothing to hide the two unopened cans of extra-strength lager, or the two others crushed in the bottom.

‘Take that bloke over there. He self-excluded from here for six months last year; broke down in tears as I helped him fill in the form. Reckons he sold his grandkids’ Christmas presents. It took three attempts to get him to bring in a passport photo; he knew he should do it, but his heart wasn’t in it. I tried to get him to do it for the full five years, but he just said he needed to get back on track. Thing is, I’d still see him coming out of the shop across the way, so what was the point? As soon as the ban expired he was straight back in here. Prefers the atmosphere, apparently.’

‘Did Father Nolan try and offer any, I don’t know, pastoral care to customers?’ asked Warren.

‘No, he pretty much kept himself to himself. To be honest, I doubt it would be received very well. I don’t think he ever really spoke to anyone.’ He paused. ‘Actually no, tell a lie, a few weeks ago, he was in here a bit later than usual, and he recognised one of the regular after work crowd. The guy seemed a bit surprised to see him here. A bit embarrassed, actually.’

‘Do you know the man’s name?’

The young man’s face screwed up, ‘No, sorry, I can’t remember. I haven’t seen him since. I think he was a bit ashamed to be seen in here. A pity really, he was one of our regulars. Not a great judge of form, if you get my drift.’

‘Can you be more precise about when you saw him?’

‘After the new year, maybe a month ago?’

‘Can you describe him?’

The man glanced upwards, as if the answers were written on the ceiling.

‘Middle-aged, grey hair, white. Skinny build, I guess. Sorry.’

‘What about his clothing?’

‘Jeans, T-shirt. Sometimes he wore a fleece. Green, I think. Sorry, I’d know him if I saw him, but like I said, he hasn’t been in since.’

‘Well, thank you for your time, Martin. If you remember anything else, please call me on this number.’ This time Warren handed over his card.

As they headed out, Martin suddenly called out, ‘I’ve just remembered, he had a name badge on with the logo from the abbey. That must have been where he knew the priest from.’

‘Can you remember what the name badge said?’ Warren held his breath. If Martin couldn’t recall the name, he’d ask him to come down the station and look at some headshots.

The young teller suddenly clicked his fingers. ‘Got it, I remember now because you don’t see that name very often. I guess it was because of that old comedy, you know, Only Horses …’

‘Only Fools and Horses?’ asked Warren.

‘Yeah, Rodney was his name.’

* * *

‘What are the odds that two different people called Rodney are at the heart of the same investigation?’ asked Warren.

The question was rhetorical, but Ruskin couldn’t resist suggesting that they ask the next bookie that they entered.

According to Google, there were several more bookmakers within walking distance for a reasonably fit older man, including more branches of chains that they had already visited. None of them recognised the photo of Father Nolan.

‘Should we ask if anyone recognises Rodney Shaw?’ asked Ruskin.

‘No, let’s keep it to ourselves for now. If word gets back to Shaw that we’ve been asking questions about him, it may spook him. Besides, I doubt we’ll get much out of them without a warrant and it’s still looking a bit circumstantial at the moment.’

‘It seems a bit strange that Father Nolan was so open about going to the bookmaker’s. Isn’t gambling a sin?’

‘According to what I’ve read on the internet, apparently not. As long as it is a true game of chance, and there’s no cheating, then gambling itself isn’t prohibited. Besides, if they took a blanket approach to banning gambling, church fetes would make a lot less money, and the manufacturers of raffle tickets would go out of business.’

Ruskin smiled politely, but Warren could see the young man was troubled.

‘I can’t believe the government doesn’t regulate the industry more. Surely the taxes aren’t worth the suffering it causes? I mean, fancy selling your grandkids’ Christmas presents.’

‘Like I said before, it’s a tax on the poor and desperate. Cheap business rates aren’t the only reason these places set up shop in the poorer parts of town, rather than the wealthier.’