‘Yes?’
‘I just phoned it myself. It’s a betting shop called Klondyke Alley.’
‘So?’
Fox kept his eyes on the list. ‘It’s just... we didn’t know he was the betting type, did we?’
James got Anne Briggs’s attention. She slipped off her headphones as he asked her the question.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Partner told us that — he’d have a regular bet on the horses.’
‘Enough to get into trouble?’ Fox enquired.
‘I didn’t get the feeling they had money worries.’
‘Malcolm has a point, though — we need to look at Mr Chatham’s bank accounts.’
‘I don’t recall bookmakers being quite so fierce,’ Briggs said sceptically, ‘even with punters who owe them big.’
‘No stone unturned, Anne,’ James warned her. He had turned his attention to the cold-case file, the one Rebus had delivered. Fox had given him a two-minute briefing on it, and James hadn’t seen any cause to prioritise it at this stage.
‘I could go take a look at Klondyke Alley,’ Fox offered. ‘I checked and it’s on Great Junction Street, not a ten-minute walk from here.’
James studied him. ‘What’s your thinking?’
‘Could be Chatham placed bets in person as well as by phone.’
James considered this. ‘Ten minutes, you say?’
‘Each way,’ Fox corrected him. ‘I can bring back milk.’
‘And biscuits,’ Briggs called from her desk.
‘And biscuits,’ Fox agreed.
Klondyke Alley sat between a café and a charity shop, with a bus stop directly outside. Its brightly lit window showed an oversized one-armed bandit, its reels turning slowly and constantly. Fox stepped inside. It was almost identical to Diamond Joe’s and Diamond Joe’s Too — one bored-looking cashier; a few glazed-eyed punters seated in front of their favoured machines; TV screens fixed to the walls. Fox stood in front of the cash desk, waiting for the bulky man behind the glass to finish the text he was composing on his phone. It took a while. The cashier gave Fox an unwelcoming look.
‘Help ye?’ he barked.
‘I don’t meet many novelists,’ Fox said, gesturing towards the man’s phone. ‘I assume that was a chapter you were finishing.’
‘I’m going to guess you’re not here to place any bets.’
‘You’d be right.’ Fox held out his warrant card in one hand and a recent photo of Robert Chatham in the other. ‘Know this guy?’ he asked.
‘Nope.’
‘He was a customer here.’
‘Doubt it.’
‘He phoned in a bet every Saturday lunchtime.’
‘Then show me a picture of his voice.’
Fox gave a humourless smile. ‘He never came in?’
‘Not on my watch.’
‘His name was Robert Chatham.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘You won’t be taking any more bets from him.’
The cashier sighed and typed Chatham’s name into his computer. ‘He had an account,’ he confirmed.
‘How was he doing?’
The man studied the screen. ‘Breaking even, more or less.’
‘So does he owe you or do you owe him.’
‘Nineteen quid in credit. You should let his next of kin know.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Fox said. ‘But he never placed bets in person?’
‘Always by phone.’
‘How about online?’
The man scanned the screen again. ‘No sign of that.’
Fox turned the photograph over. On the back he had scribbled the mobile number, the one Chatham had texted all those times. ‘How about this?’
‘Is it supposed to mean something?’
‘It’s not a number you recognise?’
The man shook his head. ‘We done here?’ he asked. Fox realised there was a punter behind him, needing change. He nodded his agreement, pausing by one of the machines and sliding home a pound coin before realising it only gave him a single credit. He pushed the button and waited. When the reels stopped, he had done something right, because a light was flashing to ask him if he wanted to gamble or collect. He pressed gamble and the reels spun at a slower rate than previously. The machine wanted him to decide when to stop each one, so that was what he did. The light was flashing again. He decided to collect and was surprised when coins started coughing out into the metal tray beneath. Pound coins. Twenty of them.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ the punter at the cash desk complained, as Fox scooped up his winnings and left.
He bought multi-packs of Kit Kats from the supermarket, as well as a litre of semi-skimmed, even splashing out fivepence on a carrier bag. Outside again, he paused and crossed to the opposite pavement, heading back in the direction of Klondyke Alley. He focused his attention on the unwashed windows of the flat above. The flat was accessed from a scuffed door between Klondyke Alley and the charity shop. How many companies had Sheila Graham told him were registered there? Fox crossed the road again and tried the door. It was locked. There was a bashed-looking intercom, but it boasted only flat numbers rather than the residents’ names. With the remaining coins weighing heavily in one pocket, he started back in the direction of Leith police station.
He took the stairs two at a time. A discussion was happening among the Major Investigation Team. Oldfield was on kettle duty again.
‘You spoil us, ambassador,’ he said, as Fox produced the Kit Kats.
‘What have I missed?’ Fox asked, directing the question at James.
‘Fitness trainer at Mr Chatham’s health club. He’s not a great one for gossip, but he felt we should know.’
‘Know what?’
‘That the deceased was quite friendly with a female client.’
‘How friendly?’
‘Cosy drinks together in the café after they’d finished their workouts. Trainer thought it quite a coincidence how often their visits to the club coincided.’
‘We have her name and address?’
‘We do now.’
‘And phone number?’ Fox watched James nod. ‘Can I see it?’ he asked.
James had it written on a pad of paper. Fox studied it, then brought out the photo of Robert Chatham, turning it over.
‘Are you some sort of magician, Malcolm?’ James said.
‘Chatham texted her four times as often as his partner.’
‘So why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I got distracted by Klondyke Alley.’
‘Speaking of which...’
Fox shook his head. ‘Phone bets only. They actually owed him a few quid at time of death. What’s her name?’ He was studying the phone number.
‘Maxine Dromgoole. Heard of her?’
‘Should I have?’
James turned towards Sean Glancey. ‘Tell the man, Sean.’
‘Quick internet search only throws up one Maxine Dromgoole.’ Glancey paused, bunching his handkerchief in a meaty paw. ‘With a link to the Amazon website.’
Fox couldn’t help but look quizzical.
‘She’s a writer, Malcolm,’ James explained. ‘Non-fiction, mostly crime.’
‘Including unsolveds,’ Anne Briggs chimed in.
‘The Maria Turquand case?’ Fox understood now. ‘She’s the reporter who got Bruce Collier’s road manager talking?’
‘The very same, it would seem.’
‘Which means she was responsible for the cold-case review — the one headed by Chatham.’
‘And that’s why I’ve taken Rebus’s folder from your desk and given it to Wallace.’
Wallace Sharpe tapped the folder to underline the point.
‘Did you try calling her?’ Fox asked.
‘Did you, Malcolm?’
‘Automated answering service.’
‘Well, we could ring again and leave a message,’ James said. ‘But we do have her address. And seeing how you’ve just generously donated all those lovely Kit Kats... how do you fancy a wee trip?’