DCI Warren Jones. Paul Gitsham

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       Chapter 14

      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 СКАЧАТЬ