Exit lines

'You give up easy, son,' said Charlesworth.

'Sorry?'

'There's no record of this bet, so what you decide is that this bet wasn't made. Is that the way Andy Dalziel teaches you to think?'

'I'm not sure what you mean,' said Seymour. 'I mean, if there's no record…'

'That means there's no record. It doesn't mean there was no bet.'

'I see,' lied Seymour, resuming his seat.

Charlesworth tossed him another can of lager and smiled. It wasn't much of a smile, but there was something of genuine feeling in it, a promise of spring in a wintry sky.

'Two reasons why there should be no record,' he said. 'One: the bookie "lost" it. Now this sometimes happens with some bets, with some bookies. There's a ten per cent tax on all bets. So you can see the incentive to "lose" a few: not only do you cut down on your income tax, you get to keep the ten per cent as well.'

'But,' said Seymour, 'surely there's no point in a bookie "losing" a winning bet, if you follow me. I mean, what he pays out he'll want to keep on record, won't he?'

'That's right,' said Charlesworth approvingly. 'Mr Dalziel'd be proud of you. So what's the second reason a bet might not be recorded?'

'Because,' said Seymour, screwing up his face in concentration, 'because it wasn't placed with a regular bookie!'

'Right.'

'You mean, this particular bet might've been placed with a street-corner bookie?'

'There's a lot of them about. Pubs, clubs, factories, offices; the betting shops drove them out of business to start with, but the ten per cent tax has given them new life. Tax-free betting's very attractive to the regular punter. This old boy of yours was a regular, was he?'

'I gather so,' said Seymour. 'But it doesn't help much, not unless we can lay our hands on the joker concerned.'

'If it's a street-corner job, then you'll be pushed,' said Charlesworth.

'What's the alternative?'

Charlesworth shook his head sadly.

'Things are slipping in this town,' he said. 'Time was, we paid the police to do police work.'

Seymour decided the time had come to exert his authority. He was fed up of being treated as 'the lad'. And what the hell was Charlesworth but a jumped-up bookie anyway, and probably bent at that?

'Look,' he said, if you know anything, you've got to tell me. All right? I mean, it's your duty.'

It came out much more weakly than he'd intended. Charlesworth suddenly laughed.

'You really know how to lean on people, son,' he mocked.'All right. I give in. Thirty-two, Merton Street. Down the ginnel back of Inglis's hardware shop. Take a couple of mates in case you need to kick the door down. And don't say I sent you.'

It was curious but this last injunction carried more weight than a whole anthology of threats, bargains or appeals.

At the door, Seymour began to say thank you but Charlesworth grunted, 'Don't thank me till you know what you've got, lad.'

'All right!' said Seymour. 'Shall I come back and tell you if it's been worth it?'

He didn't know why he made the offer except that he had a sense of responding to some unspoken request.

Charlesworth's cold eyes examined him closely as if searching for sarcasm. Seymour did not exactly feel threatened but he certainly felt glad none had been intended.

'Come if you like,' said Charlesworth. 'Why not? Come if you like.'

Rather to Seymour's disappointment there was no need to kick down any doors. The front door of 32 Merton Street opened at a push. Instructing PC Hector that no one was to leave, Seymour and Sergeant Wield entered a narrow entrance hall smelling of cabbage and cat. A toilet flushed and a man emerged from one of the several inner doors. He nodded in a friendly fashion and, opening another door, ushered them into a smoke-filled room.

Here there was a pleasant social atmosphere. A scattering of comfortable-looking chairs faced a raised television screen on which horses were being walked around a paddock. In one corner a girl was dispensing drinks from a small domestic cocktail bar. In the opposite corner behind a rather larger bar with the protection of a metal grille, a man and a woman were taking bets. There were between twenty and thirty people in the room. It was a scene which Seymour recognized from the old black-and-white pre-war American thrillers he sometimes saw on the box.

‘In you go, lads,' urged their polite acquaintance, a grey-haired man in his sixties. 'This your first time? His booze is a bit pricey, but it don't stop at three o'clock, that's the main thing, ain't it?'

'I suppose so,' said Seymour, glancing uncertainly at Wield. The sergeant had authorized the raid in Pascoe's absence, but assured the young detective that it was still very much his show.

‘In fact,' said Seymour to the grey-haired man, 'we're the police.'

'Pardon?' he replied, cupping his hand over his ear. 'You'll have to shout.'

'Police,' shouted Seymour. 'We're policemen.'

'I shouldn't let it worry you,' said this amiable old fellow. 'They're not choosy here.'

Seymour glanced again at Wield whose craggy face gave no sign of the earthquake of mirth going on beneath it.

'Who's the gaffer here?' demanded Seymour.

'Gaffer? That'll be Don you want, him at the counter. I warn you, he's not keen on credit, but if you really are bobbies, that'll probably be all right.'

'Thanks, dad,' said Seymour.

He pushed his way towards the betting counter. There was some protest as he went to the head of the queue waiting to be served by a benevolent white-haired man with a ruddy farmer's face.

'You Don?' said Seymour.

'That's right.'

'This your place?'

'Right again.'

'Police,' said Seymour, producing his warrant card.

'Oh aye? That's buggered it,' said Don calmly. 'Just give us a moment, Officer. Mavis, love, it's police.'

The woman by his side slid off her stool. She was plumply middle-aged, with a stolid expression which didn't change as she gathered up trays of cash from a shelf beneath the counter.

'What's she doing?' asked Seymour.

'I don't know. What are you doing, Mavis?' asked the man.

She did not reply but turned, unlocked a door behind her and went out.

'Hey, stop!' cried Seymour. 'Where's she going?'

'I don't know,' said the man. ‘It's a free country.'

Seymour looked in vain for a way to get behind the counter from this side.

‘If you just wait there, I'll come round, shall I?' said Don helpfully.

'No! I mean… look, don't move. I'll come round to you… no…'

'Look, lad, if I was going off somewhere, I'd have gone by now,' said Don. 'This is all my stuff in here; I'm not going to go and leave this lot to nick it, am I?'

It sounded reasonable.

'All right,' said Seymour.

He returned to Wield who was leaning against the door, blocking any attempt to leave, though to tell the truth most of those present were more concerned with the television where the horses were just coming under starter's orders.

'He's coming round,' said Seymour.

'Is he?' said Wield.

'Should I go and see if Hector stopped the woman?'

'You don't imagine Hector's suspicions would be aroused by the sight of a woman carrying a pile of cash trays, do you?' said Wield. 'Anyway, she'll likely have gone off another way. Mind you, it's just a precaution.'

'Precaution?'

'Aye. Fifty quid fine's the most they'll get for this lot, I should think.'

'Bloody hell,' said Seymour in disgust, it's hardly worth our bother, is it?'

'Listen, son,' said Wield in what passed for his friendly tone. 'Never forget the object of the exercise, right? That's the first rule.'

Behind him the door opened against his back and the venerable white head appeared.

'Shall I come in?' asked Don.