There’d been nobody lurking inside, with or without a carving knife.
Quentin had parked the car on the road outside and come in with me to carry my stuff. It was also the first time he had been to my new flat and I don’t think he’d been particularly impressed as he stepped over the boxes in the hallway.
‘You’re even more untidy than Kenneth, and that’s saying something.’
Kenneth was his son by a previous marriage.
I’d gathered up my laptop computer and some more clothes, which I’d stuffed into a holdall.
I’d never realized how happy I would be to get into Quentin’s BMW and drive away from my home. Not that it had stopped me from insisting that he made two complete circuits of the Hanger Lane Gyratory to check we weren’t being followed.
‘You’re paranoid,’ Quentin had said.
‘You would be too, if you were me. There have been three failed attempts on my life in the last two weeks alone. I have no desire for there to be another one that succeeds.’
I wondered if he was now having second thoughts about having me to stay in his house.
On Monday morning, with my phone and laptop fully recharged, I sat at Faye’s dining-room table and started making calls and replying to the backlog of e-mails that had accumulated in my inbox.
I was back in business.
I e-mailed Paul Maldini, asking for an update of where things stood with respect to Bill McKenzie, and requesting that the investigation be handed back to me.
His response was less than encouraging. A date had been set in the middle of January for a disciplinary panel hearing into the running of Wisden Wonder at Sandown, and also into the betting pattern of Leslie Morris on the same race.
‘But who’s to say that the investigation will be complete by then?’ I said to Paul when I called him.
‘We can always postpone the panel if we need to.’
Maybe, I thought, but it seemed like the wrong way round to me. I was a firm believer in doing a full investigation first, preferably without the target knowing that his behaviour was being looked into.
‘Has anyone interviewed McKenzie or Morris?’
‘Not yet,’ Paul said. ‘But they will have both received the letter by now, requiring them to attend the disciplinary panel. They can be questioned at that time. They have also both been told to produce their phone records for the past six months.’
So Morris would, by now, know that we were on to him. That was a shame. It meant that there was little hope that we would ever learn the identity of the mysterious excluded person for whom he had allegedly been placing bets. Not unless he’d been foolish enough to use a phone to call Morris that was registered in his own name.
Increasingly, all dodgy betting conspirators, together with most other villains and terrorists, used pay-as-you-go mobile phones. Bought for cash with a false name and thrown away immediately after use. Tracing who had made a particular call was almost impossible.
I logged on remotely to the BHA database, which told me that Mr Leslie Morris was a sixty-six-year-old retired accountant, and that he was the registered owner of one moderate racehorse.
An accountant. Now, was that a coincidence?
I also used the database to look up where he lived.
The address on his owner registration was in Raynes Park near Wimbledon, just down the A3 from Sandown Park races, and only a handful of miles from where I was in Richmond.
I wondered if paying Mr Morris a visit might be helpful. He’d probably be on the defensive at the official panel, and would most likely have a lawyer with him to advise what he should say and, more importantly, what he should not say. At home, alone, he might be less guarded, especially if I caught him unawares.
‘Do you ever use a local taxi firm?’ I asked Faye.
‘Where do you want to go?’ she asked in reply.
‘I need to go and see someone,’ I said.
‘Not to do with your work?’
I nodded.
‘But you’re meant to be resting and recovering, not working.’
‘I only want to go and speak with him,’ I said. ‘I’m not going to chase him anywhere.’
At least, I hoped not.
‘Where does he live?’ Faye asked.
‘Raynes Park.’
‘I’ll drive you, if you like,’ she said. ‘I’m not doing anything else.’
My first instinct was to say no. My work was my work and my family was my family. I didn’t mix the two. Largely because Faye would not have approved of everything I did in my work. However, the way things had been going recently, I thought it could be reassuring to have someone waiting for me outside when I went in to see Leslie Morris.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘That would be great.’
To say that Leslie Morris was not pleased to see me would be an understatement. As I introduced myself as a BHA investigator, he tried to close his front door but I had my foot against the frame, preventing it.
‘Move your foot,’ he demanded through the six-inch gap.
I didn’t budge. ‘No.’
‘What do you want?’ he asked, without releasing the pressure on the door.
‘I want to talk to you about Bill McKenzie’s riding of Wisden Wonder at Sandown.’
He didn’t ask me what it was about Bill McKenzie’s riding that I was interested in. He knew.
‘I don’t want to talk to you,’ he said. ‘Now, remove your foot.’
I still didn’t budge.
‘Aggravated trespass is against the law,’ he said.
‘So is defrauding the betting public,’ I replied.
There was no response other than an increased pressure on the door.
‘You’ll have to talk about it sometime,’ I said. ‘Or shall I pass the file over to the police? The Fraud Squad won’t just put their foot in your door, Mr Morris, they will break it down, and then they’ll arrest you. Is that what you want? Do you fancy a cold night in the cells sharing with some drug addicts?’
He was rattled. I could see it in his eyes.
‘Mr Morris,’ I said. ‘This is your last chance. Either you let me in now or you had better go and pack your toothbrush ready for the arrival of the boys in blue. It’s your choice.’
I was pretty sure that the police would not be sufficiently interested to come hotfoot to his door with an arrest warrant, and they certainly wouldn’t have put him in a cell with anyone else, but was Leslie Morris prepared to take the risk?
Obviously not, as he slowly opened the door wide.
‘Who is that?’ he asked, looking over my shoulder towards Faye, who was sitting in the car parked on his driveway.
‘My assistant,’ I said. ‘She’ll wait there for me.’
He led me through to the kitchen.
‘Now, what is all this about?’ he asked, nervously pushing his fingers through his white hair while trying his best to exude an air of innocence.
‘How well do you know Bill McKenzie?’ I asked.
Again, movement in his eyes indicated a rising degree of concern.
‘I’ve heard of him,’ Morris replied. ‘I’ve seen him riding, of course, but I don’t know him personally.’
‘That’s strange, because he seems to know you.’
More concern.
‘I can’t think how,’ Morris said. ‘I don’t believe he’s ever ridden my horse.’
I’d already checked for that in the BHA records.
‘Tell me about the bets you made at Sandown Park races on the Friday of the Tingle Creek meeting,’ I said, changing tactics.
There was a distinct tightening of the muscles around his eyes and his breathing became shallower, sure signs that his rising concern was nearing the slide into panic.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he replied, trying his best to control his breathing.