DCI Warren Jones. Paul Gitsham

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СКАЧАТЬ nodded as soon as they passed the glossy photograph to him.

      ‘Oh yes, I recognise him. He was a regular.’

      ‘How regular?’ asked Warren.

      ‘Probably about twice a week. I work here most afternoons, after lectures finish. He used to come in late afternoon, then head off for a pint.’

      ‘Was he a big gambler?’

      The man paused. ‘Look, do you have a warrant or something? I’m not sure I can just give out information about customers without their permission. You know, data protection and all that. My manager is on his lunch break, perhaps you can call back later?’

      ‘Father Nolan’s dead,’ said Warren, his eyes flicking towards the copy of the Middlesbury Reporter sitting on the desk next to the cashier; a different, but still recognisable, picture of Father Nolan took up half of the front page.

      The man followed his gaze, then looked back at the photograph.

      ‘Oh … shit, that was him? Guess it doesn’t matter, then.’

      ‘What sort of a punter was he?’ repeated Ruskin.

      The teller glanced over his shoulder, as if expecting his manager to suddenly materialise, then lowered his voice.

      ‘Just a bit of a flutter. He’d spend a while reading the Post and then put a couple of quid either way on the favourite. He’d stay here for three or four races, if that.’

      ‘So no more than, ten, fifteen quid?’

      ‘Probably about that.’

      ‘Did he pay by cash or card?’

      ‘Cash.’

      ‘Was he lucky?’

      ‘No more or less than anyone, I’d say.’

      ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

      ‘Probably about a week ago. I had wondered why I hadn’t seen him for a while. I never thought … shit. Burnt himself to death, they said. Poor bastard.’

      ‘Did you notice anything different about him? A change of mood, perhaps?’

      ‘Nothing, but he never really said much. He was polite, and he’d enquire after my health, but it was just chit-chat you know? I can’t say I knew him.’

      ‘Was he friendly with any of the other regulars?’

      Martin snorted. ‘It’s not really that sort of place.’ He discreetly pointed towards a man of about twenty, wearing a baseball cap, a rolled-up cigarette behind his ear, loading money into a gambling machine. He lowered his voice even more. ‘Take that guy. Has two kids and still lives at home with his mum. You can tell when he’s had his dole money because he goes and gets his rings back from the pawnbrokers. He won’t be wearing them by the end of the week. I only know about him because his brother’s the same and I overhear them talking sometimes. You try not to judge, but the guy’s a complete failure and he knows it.’ The young bookmaker sighed. ‘To be honest, this place is pretty depressing. I’m only here because the money’s better than stacking shelves and I’m doing an accountancy degree. I can’t wait to leave.

      ‘Customers like Father Nolan, who just come in for a flutter and know when to stop are pretty rare. “When the fun stops, stop”, the adverts say.’ His laughter was mirthless, as he angled his chin towards another customer. ‘The fun stopped for most of these guys years ago.’

      Dressed the same as the youth at the gambling machine, the man could easily have been forty years older. His face was a mass of deep creases, and his half-open mouth, with its tongue stuck out in concentration, had less teeth than his right hand had fingers. At his feet, the thin plastic of a white carrier bag did nothing to hide the two unopened cans of extra-strength lager, or the two others crushed in the bottom.

      ‘Take that bloke over there. He self-excluded from here for six months last year; broke down in tears as I helped him fill in the form. Reckons he sold his grandkids’ Christmas presents. It took three attempts to get him to bring in a passport photo; he knew he should do it, but his heart wasn’t in it. I tried to get him to do it for the full five years, but he just said he needed to get back on track. Thing is, I’d still see him coming out of the shop across the way, so what was the point? As soon as the ban expired he was straight back in here. Prefers the atmosphere, apparently.’

      ‘Did Father Nolan try and offer any, I don’t know, pastoral care to customers?’ asked Warren.

      ‘No, he pretty much kept himself to himself. To be honest, I doubt it would be received very well. I don’t think he ever really spoke to anyone.’ He paused. ‘Actually no, tell a lie, a few weeks ago, he was in here a bit later than usual, and he recognised one of the regular after work crowd. The guy seemed a bit surprised to see him here. A bit embarrassed, actually.’

      ‘Do you know the man’s name?’

      The young man’s face screwed up, ‘No, sorry, I can’t remember. I haven’t seen him since. I think he was a bit ashamed to be seen in here. A pity really, he was one of our regulars. Not a great judge of form, if you get my drift.’

      ‘Can you be more precise about when you saw him?’

      ‘After the new year, maybe a month ago?’

      ‘Can you describe him?’

      The man glanced upwards, as if the answers were written on the ceiling.

      ‘Middle-aged, grey hair, white. Skinny build, I guess. Sorry.’

      ‘What about his clothing?’

      ‘Jeans, T-shirt. Sometimes he wore a fleece. Green, I think. Sorry, I’d know him if I saw him, but like I said, he hasn’t been in since.’

      ‘Well, thank you for your time, Martin. If you remember anything else, please call me on this number.’ This time Warren handed over his card.

      As they headed out, Martin suddenly called out, ‘I’ve just remembered, he had a name badge on with the logo from the abbey. That must have been where he knew the priest from.’

      ‘Can you remember what the name badge said?’ Warren held his breath. If Martin couldn’t recall the name, he’d ask him to come down the station and look at some headshots.

      The young teller suddenly clicked his fingers. ‘Got it, I remember now because you don’t see that name very often. I guess it was because of that old comedy, you know, Only Horses …’

      ‘Only Fools and Horses?’ asked Warren.

      ‘Yeah, Rodney was his name.’

      * * *

      ‘What are the odds that two different people called Rodney are at the heart of the same investigation?’ asked Warren.

      The question was rhetorical, but Ruskin couldn’t resist suggesting that they ask the next bookie that they entered.

      According to Google, СКАЧАТЬ