‘You made multiple bets on the race where Wisden Wonder was the favourite.’
‘I think you must be mistaken,’ he said.
I took my iPhone out of my pocket and showed him one of the photographs I had taken on that day at Sandown. It clearly showed him in his distinctive blue fedora handing over a substantial wad of cash to a bookmaker. In the background, plainly discernible, was a bookie’s brightly lit price-board showing the names of the eight horses in the race including Wisden Wonder, offered at six-to-four.
‘I am not mistaken,’ I said slowly. ‘You made over thirty large bets on that race. I watched and filmed you.’
I looked around, hoping that his little red notebook in which he’d recorded his bets would be conveniently lying on the kitchen worktop. No such luck.
‘But not a single one of your bets was on the favourite,’ I said. ‘Why was that?’
Now he was really anxious. He showed all the signs of increased adrenalin in his system — wider pupils, bunched muscles, rapid breathing. His body was ready for fight or flight, but his mind was still in control.
‘I obviously didn’t think the favourite would win,’ he said calmly. ‘And it wasn’t good value at such a short price.’
‘I think you are lying to me, Mr Morris. I think you knew that Wisden Wonder wouldn’t win because you had paid Bill McKenzie to ensure it didn’t. Then you backed every other horse in the race knowing that, whichever of them won, you would make a handsome profit.’
He said nothing.
‘Whose money did you use?’ I asked.
He looked slightly baffled by the question. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I calculated that you wagered nearly seventeen thousand pounds on that race. Where did you get that sort of cash?’
He seemed genuinely surprised that I knew the amount.
‘It was my money,’ he said.
I looked around me again. Mr Leslie Morris may have lived in a fairly sought-after part of London suburbia, yet there was nothing about his house or its contents that indicated he would have had seventeen thousand pounds in readies lying around spare to wager on the horses.
The original covert tip-off had indicated that he was placing bets for an excluded person.
‘I don’t believe you,’ I said. ‘Who’s your banker?’
‘I tell you, it’s all my own money,’ he said again with more confidence. ‘I used the lump sum from my pension fund.’
‘How did you know that Wisden Wonder wasn’t going to win?’
‘I didn’t,’ he said.
‘Don’t give me that nonsense,’ I said with annoyance. ‘You and I both know you wouldn’t risk your pension money unless you knew for certain that the horse wouldn’t win. Do you take me for an idiot or something?’
He said nothing.
‘So how did you know that, Mr Morris? How much did you pay Bill McKenzie to make sure he didn’t win?’
He still made no reply.
‘Saying nothing won’t help you at the disciplinary panel,’ I said. ‘Your racing days would be over for good.’
Disqualification as an owner, and exclusion from racing premises for a minimum of ten years was the least he could expect, maybe even for longer. Racing and the BHA were not very good at forgiveness, even for those who admitted their guilt and helped to implicate others.
‘Did you know Dave Swinton?’ I asked.
Full-blown panic now appeared in his eyes.
‘I met him once,’ he said, his voice sounding higher in pitch owing to the tightening of the muscles in his neck. ‘He rode my horse at Ludlow last May.’
I’d also checked that on the BHA database, and he would have known it.
‘His death is such a terrible loss for racing. I liked him.’
‘Did you know him professionally?’ I asked.
‘And what do you mean by that?’ he said, regaining some of his confidence.
‘Were you his accountant?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I was not.’
‘I’ll check, you know,’ I said.
‘Check away,’ he replied. ‘I worked for a small three-man outfit here in Wimbledon. I’m sure the likes of Dave Swinton would be represented by one of the big London firms.’
‘Were you blackmailing him?’
‘I’ve had enough of this rubbish,’ he said suddenly. ‘Get out of my house. Right now. Go on, get out.’ He was almost shouting as he ushered me down the hallway towards his front door.
I was in no position to argue with him as standing my ground may have resulted in a physical assault, something my poor damaged body could ill afford.
‘And don’t come back,’ Morris shouted as I walked out towards the car.
‘I’ll see you at the disciplinary hearing,’ I called back in valediction.
‘I doubt that,’ he replied.
The words sent a chill down my spine. Had he said it because he would not be attending the hearing or because he believed I wouldn’t live long enough to be there myself?
‘Not a very successful visit, by the look of it,’ Faye said as I got back into her car.
‘No,’ I agreed. ‘Let’s go.’
I had been in Morris’s house for less than fifteen minutes but I was exhausted. I leaned my head back on the head restraint and closed my eyes.
‘You need to rest,’ Faye said as we drove away. ‘You must regain your strength.’
She sounded like a character in a Jane Austen novel speaking to the victim of a nasty fever. But I think she was right. I did need to regain my strength if I was going to discover who was trying to kill me.
22
‘But I want to see you,’ Henri said on the phone at Monday lunchtime. ‘I’ll come to Richmond after work.’
To be honest, I’d tried to put her off, although I wasn’t sure why.
Perhaps I was worried about what Faye would think of her. Or maybe it was because Quentin could be so abrupt and offhand that I didn’t want Henri to be offended to the point of never coming back.
‘What’s your sister’s address?’
I told her. Of course I told her. It had been two whole days since she had kissed me goodbye in the hospital on Saturday and I was desperate to see her again.
‘I’ll be there sometime after six,’ she said.
‘Lovely.’
I spent most of the afternoon either on the phone or at my computer.
First, I called Paul Maldini at the BHA offices.
‘How did we find out that Leslie Morris would be placing bets at Sandown on Tingle Creek Friday?’ I asked.
‘We received a tip-off,’ Paul replied.
‘From whom? And what sort of tip-off was it?’
‘I think it came from a CHIS.’
A CHIS was a covert human intelligence source. A racing insider who provided information of possible wrongdoing to the BHA. They were crucial to the integrity of racing. Some were stable staff who had concerns over the legality of things they saw happening, and who then approached the authorities in confidence for clarification. Others were employees of bookmaking firms concerned about the probity of their practices.
Once established, a CHIS would be nurtured and cherished, made to feel important, and encouraged to pass on any snippet of information that might be useful to the Authority.
‘Yes, but which CHIS?’
‘I don’t know. It was anonymous by the time it reached my desk.’
‘Try and find out for me, will you?’ I said.
‘Why?’ Paul said. ‘The information was accurate.’
‘That’s partly why I want to know who provided it. How was the informant aware something was going on unless he was also somehow involved? We were also told he was placing bets on behalf of someone else, an excluded person.’
‘What about it?’ Paul said.
‘Morris claims he used his own money.’