Debbie lifted the net curtain and saw her husband and Temple walking up the garden path to the front door. She was just about to go out and was irritated. She'd wasted the whole morning, so far. Now, she would be delayed still further.
"What's happened?" She asked, slightly alarmed by their unexpected appearance.
"Nothing, love, we've called in to see whether there have been any messages for us."
"As a matter of fact, there was one. I waited in all morning and I was going out to do some shopping, when the phone rang. It was about ten minutes ago. I tried ringing you at the police station but no one could find you."
"You didn't leave a message, did you?" Temple enquired anxiously. The last thing he wanted was for Baker to be tipped off.
"Of course not! You made it clear that I was only to speak to you or Tom. I do listen, you know!" She frowned at him.
"Well, we've got to be careful, Debs, that's all we meant." Cantwell intervened. He knew that his wife could sometimes take offence where none was intended. "What did she say? I assume it was Brenda Ellacott who left the message for us."
"Oh it was her alright. Talked rubbish, if you ask me. But I wrote it down for you. It makes no sense at all." She went to the sideboard and picked up a notepad. "Here it is. I'm going to the shops now."
"Hang on just for a moment, Mrs Cantwell. Just till we've read the note."
Debbie tutted but sat down on the settee clasping her handbag.
"Shall I read it, Gov?"
"Yes, good idea." Temple stood by the window and listened as Cantwell struggled to read his wife's writing:
"She says 'Reggie took her to Holly House. She'll be staying there for a week. Sandy is helping her to look after the shop. She said she walked to the village to get a packet of fags and no one minded. She's used the phone box on the green. She'll be at the shop tomorrow probably between midday and one o'clock.'" He handed Temple the notepad.
"Is that all she said?" Cantwell asked his wife.
"Yes! She wasn't one for small talk. She said she'd only put a small amount of money in the box." Debbie summoned up her courage and said, "Will I get paid for this?"
"Debbie!" Cantwell flushed with embarrassment.
"No, she's quite right to ask, Cantwell. Why should she do this for nothing. Look, Mrs Cantwell, I can't pay you right at this moment. However, I promise I'll see you're paid for your time. Just keep a record of how long you spend waiting around for a call and how many calls you actually take." He glanced at Cantwell. "However, it wouldn't look good if word got out at the station. So neither of you is to say one word of this. I'll put you down as Informant A. That's all anyone else needs to know."
"Remember that, Debbie, don't say a word about this."
She tossed her head and got up from the settee:
"As long as I'm paid, I don't want to know the details. Anyway, I'll be off now, Alright?" She looked at Temple.
"Of course. Oh, thank you, Mrs Cantwell."
When she had gone, Temple glanced at the notes and thought about what Brenda Ellacott had said. He was already planning ahead for the next day.
"Want a cup of tea or coffee, Gov?"
"A cup of tea would be good, thanks."
Cantwell went out into the kitchen leaving Temple in the front room. It was a small terraced house with two bedrooms and with the lounge and kitchen downstairs. The house smelled of wax furniture polish and every surface was bright from constant polishing. The mantelpiece had two brass candlesticks at either end. A small display cabinet housed a collection of toby jugs. Three blue plaster swallows hung, as if in flight, across one wall. A large brass plate and several horse brasses hung on the opposite wall. Several family photos were on a side table in the alcove of the bay window.
It was all very mundane, Temple thought. But it all indicated a family home that was cared for and valued. He compared it with his own flat; no pictures, no ornaments and just one photo of his daughter. Certainly there was no smell of polish. His furniture hadn't felt the touch of a duster for some weeks. For a moment, he regretted the path his life had taken. Then he remembered the friends he had lost at Anzio and put maudlin thoughts from his mind. He straightened his shoulders and took in a deep breath 'It's your road, son, you walk it.'
"I've got some bourbons, Gov. Like a nice bourbon with my tea."
"I'm sure you do, Cantwell," Temple laughed. "I'm sure you do." He sat on one of the chairs and drank his tea. He watched Cantwell dunk his biscuits in his cup and suck out the chocolate filling. "We'd better discuss this message of Brenda Ellacott's and how we plan to arrange the meeting tomorrow."
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
On the Carpet
Temple arrived at the police station early on Monday morning. He hadn't bothered with breakfast in his flat, mainly because there was nothing to eat. He had forgotten to go shopping on Saturday morning and by the time he remembered, the shops were shut. He made do with a pie from the fish and chip shop for Sunday lunch. So, he was pleased to have a cup of coffee and a bacon sandwich in his office.
Cantwell arrived and reported the events of Saturday evening several times. Each time he became more expansive. Temple eyed him closely:
"Just you watch it, Cantwell, you're getting too bloody involved with these bets. It was work, damn it, not a game." He regretted his tone when he saw Cantwell's face fall. "Look, gambling is nothing more nor less than a mug's game. How do you think Redbourne and his ilk have made their money? There's only one winner in gambling and that's the bookie."
"But ..."
"There are no 'buts', Cantwell. Think about it. You only won because you bet on dodgy dogs. The races were fixed, man! If you don't remember that you'll be as lost as Eager Beaver."
Cantwell sat down:
"You're right, Gov. But Debbie really enjoyed it and so did I."
"Well that's fine! But were you enjoying it because it was a bit of fun or was it because you were winning?"
"Bit of both, I suppose."
"Well remember what it was like when you lost! Remember also that you didn't win, it was that Soper chap who told you which dog would win. If he hadn't, you'd have probably lost on those races, as well. You'll need to go to the races again, so just try to keep a hold of your senses."
There was a knock on the door.
"Gov!" Constable Truscott peered round the door. "Sorry to bother you. But the Super wants to have a word with you and Sergeant Cantwell."
"Know what it's about?" Temple raised an eyebrow.
"No, Gov, he didn't say."
"In a good mood, was he?"
Truscott pondered the question as if his answer might be of great significance.
"Neither good nor bad really."
"Ah!" Temple exclaimed, "a veritable scholar, Truscott. What do you think of that, Cantwell?" Cantwell nodded. "Well then?" Temple asked.
"Well what, Gov?" A perplexed Cantwell looked first at Truscott then Temple.
"Surely, you recognised it as a quotation from Shakespeare? From 'Hamlet', in fact. A very useful quotation for a policeman, Cantwell. Or don't they teach 'Hamlet' in Devon?"
Cantwell flushed, he hated Temple's jibes about Devon and the Devonians.
"Anyway, Truscott," Temple got up, "we will obey our master's command and go to see whether it is more good or bad."
As their paths crossed Cantwell's and Truscott's eyes met. Cantwell could read the sympathy and he was furious. He didn't want sympathy from anybody.
Baker had Brylcreemed his hair so that it gleamed thick and sleek. He was like a Dennis Compton clone. When Temple and Cantwell entered his office, he straightened his tie and stared at them both for a few seconds. He looked them up and down as if they were on parade. Temple was amused and Baker saw the slightest flicker of a smile cross his face.
"So, Temple," he said irritably, "what progress, if any, is there in the Beaver murder and this Ellacott business?"
"We're following up several leads."
"What sort of leads?"
"Sergeant Cantwell has established some excellent contacts with greyhound racing punters and ..."
"So," Baker interrupted, "you are still trying to implicate Mr Redbourne, are you?"
"Not implicate, Sir, just trying to unravel some curious goings on at the races."
"You'd do well to remember that Mr Redbourne and several of his associates are generous benefactors of specific police charities. He is also closely associated with, at least, two County Councillors."
Temple did not respond. Instead he looked over Superintendent Baker's head and through the window, as if he had heard nothing. Cantwell muttered what might have been construed as a 'Yes'.
Baker leaned forward at his desk:
"You did hear what I said, Inspector."
"I did, Sir," Temple nodded. "I'll bear in mind what you said, Sir. However," he paused, "I'm sure that you would not want us to overlook anything or not to uncover every possible lead, would you, Sir?"
Forgetting the Brylcreem, Baker ran a hand though his hair. He messed up the sleekness and covered his hand with grease. However, his anger was such that he did not notice:
"I expect all my officers to do what is right. I do expect results and quick results. But, I'm sure you will find that the answer to solving both these cases, if indeed they are linked, lies with Beaver and Ellacott alone. No one else was involved. Do I make myself clear, Inspector Temple?"
"Sir!" Temple said turning to go.
Cantwell followed quickly at his heels, not wishing to catch Baker's eye.
"Come on, Cantwell, let's get out of here. The stink is getting up my nose." Temple said as they walked down the corridor.
They headed for the car park and to an unmarked car for which they had the keys. Temple handed the keys to Cantwell.
"You'd better drive, Cantwell. I don't trust myself not to ram the car into the Super's shining black saloon."
"Where are we going?"
"Let's go back to your place. Maybe Brenda Ellacott has phoned. Anywhere we can get away from Baker."
Cantwell drove slowly through the streets, he was mulling over the events of the morning:
"Gov? Do you really think I'm stupid?" He eventually summoned up the courage to ask.
"What are you on about?"
"That comment about quotes from Shakespeare."
"Oh for God's sake, Cantwell, that was a joke. Of course I don't think you're bloody stupid! I wouldn't work with you, if I thought that!" He looked at him. "Look, I'm just an irritable sod who enjoys riling people. You should know that, by now."
"So you think I'm quite bright then?"
Temple grinned as he got out of the car and slammed the door shut:
"Did I say that?"
Cantwell arrived and reported the events of Saturday evening several times. Each time he became more expansive. Temple eyed him closely:
"Just you watch it, Cantwell, you're getting too bloody involved with these bets. It was work, damn it, not a game." He regretted his tone when he saw Cantwell's face fall. "Look, gambling is nothing more nor less than a mug's game. How do you think Redbourne and his ilk have made their money? There's only one winner in gambling and that's the bookie."
"But ..."
"There are no 'buts', Cantwell. Think about it. You only won because you bet on dodgy dogs. The races were fixed, man! If you don't remember that you'll be as lost as Eager Beaver."
Cantwell sat down:
"You're right, Gov. But Debbie really enjoyed it and so did I."
"Well that's fine! But were you enjoying it because it was a bit of fun or was it because you were winning?"
"Bit of both, I suppose."
"Well remember what it was like when you lost! Remember also that you didn't win, it was that Soper chap who told you which dog would win. If he hadn't, you'd have probably lost on those races, as well. You'll need to go to the races again, so just try to keep a hold of your senses."
There was a knock on the door.
"Gov!" Constable Truscott peered round the door. "Sorry to bother you. But the Super wants to have a word with you and Sergeant Cantwell."
"Know what it's about?" Temple raised an eyebrow.
"No, Gov, he didn't say."
"In a good mood, was he?"
Truscott pondered the question as if his answer might be of great significance.
"Neither good nor bad really."
"Ah!" Temple exclaimed, "a veritable scholar, Truscott. What do you think of that, Cantwell?" Cantwell nodded. "Well then?" Temple asked.
"Well what, Gov?" A perplexed Cantwell looked first at Truscott then Temple.
"Surely, you recognised it as a quotation from Shakespeare? From 'Hamlet', in fact. A very useful quotation for a policeman, Cantwell. Or don't they teach 'Hamlet' in Devon?"
Cantwell flushed, he hated Temple's jibes about Devon and the Devonians.
"Anyway, Truscott," Temple got up, "we will obey our master's command and go to see whether it is more good or bad."
As their paths crossed Cantwell's and Truscott's eyes met. Cantwell could read the sympathy and he was furious. He didn't want sympathy from anybody.
Baker had Brylcreemed his hair so that it gleamed thick and sleek. He was like a Dennis Compton clone. When Temple and Cantwell entered his office, he straightened his tie and stared at them both for a few seconds. He looked them up and down as if they were on parade. Temple was amused and Baker saw the slightest flicker of a smile cross his face.
"So, Temple," he said irritably, "what progress, if any, is there in the Beaver murder and this Ellacott business?"
"We're following up several leads."
"What sort of leads?"
"Sergeant Cantwell has established some excellent contacts with greyhound racing punters and ..."
"So," Baker interrupted, "you are still trying to implicate Mr Redbourne, are you?"
"Not implicate, Sir, just trying to unravel some curious goings on at the races."
"You'd do well to remember that Mr Redbourne and several of his associates are generous benefactors of specific police charities. He is also closely associated with, at least, two County Councillors."
Temple did not respond. Instead he looked over Superintendent Baker's head and through the window, as if he had heard nothing. Cantwell muttered what might have been construed as a 'Yes'.
Baker leaned forward at his desk:
"You did hear what I said, Inspector."
"I did, Sir," Temple nodded. "I'll bear in mind what you said, Sir. However," he paused, "I'm sure that you would not want us to overlook anything or not to uncover every possible lead, would you, Sir?"
Forgetting the Brylcreem, Baker ran a hand though his hair. He messed up the sleekness and covered his hand with grease. However, his anger was such that he did not notice:
"I expect all my officers to do what is right. I do expect results and quick results. But, I'm sure you will find that the answer to solving both these cases, if indeed they are linked, lies with Beaver and Ellacott alone. No one else was involved. Do I make myself clear, Inspector Temple?"
"Sir!" Temple said turning to go.
Cantwell followed quickly at his heels, not wishing to catch Baker's eye.
"Come on, Cantwell, let's get out of here. The stink is getting up my nose." Temple said as they walked down the corridor.
They headed for the car park and to an unmarked car for which they had the keys. Temple handed the keys to Cantwell.
"You'd better drive, Cantwell. I don't trust myself not to ram the car into the Super's shining black saloon."
"Where are we going?"
"Let's go back to your place. Maybe Brenda Ellacott has phoned. Anywhere we can get away from Baker."
Cantwell drove slowly through the streets, he was mulling over the events of the morning:
"Gov? Do you really think I'm stupid?" He eventually summoned up the courage to ask.
"What are you on about?"
"That comment about quotes from Shakespeare."
"Oh for God's sake, Cantwell, that was a joke. Of course I don't think you're bloody stupid! I wouldn't work with you, if I thought that!" He looked at him. "Look, I'm just an irritable sod who enjoys riling people. You should know that, by now."
"So you think I'm quite bright then?"
Temple grinned as he got out of the car and slammed the door shut:
"Did I say that?"
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Pippa's Boy
After the disappointment of the third race, Debbie went to get them both a cup of coffee. When she returned, Cantwell pretended he was studying the card. Of course, he knew exactly what he was going to do but Debbie needn't know.
They sipped the coffee and she looked at her card:
"Nothing really appeals to me, love. Do you fancy any of them?" She tapped her teeth with a pencil.
"I like the sound of Pippa's Boy."
She looked closely at the numbers after the dog's name. Then, she wrinkled up her nose:
"He's no good! He's never won a race. Just like that other dog you did." She scrutinised him for a moment, "Still, you did alright last time."
"Tell you what, I'll take a gander round the bookie's stands and see where I can get the best odds. Then, I'll collect you and we'll go to stand by the winning post, this time."
He ambled along past Redbourne's stand and past the bookie with whom he'd placed the bet on Fairweather Friend. He was giving odds of 10 - 1 and he eyed Cantwell carefully. Further along the row of shouting sidekicks, Cantwell spotted another bookie giving odds of 25 - 1 for Pippa's Boy. He felt for the envelope and recalled what Soppy had said about the dog being worth an each way bet. He decided at last and put five shillings each way on Pippa's Boy. He could not believe how much he had just spent. Still, Temple had said keep the winnings and charge the losses to the kitty. Even so...
He tried to look nonchalant when he collected Debbie. They edged their way to the winning post. The same routine started, the Posthorm Gallop, the parade. Cantwell thought you knew just what to expect but the thrill was that you didn't know the end of the story. He glanced at Debbie. She was clutching his arm and grinning.
"I am enjoying this, Tom. I never thought I would. We must do it again."
Her comment made him feel guilty. They were there, after all, for his work. She had no idea and would have a fit if she knew the truth. Dodgy dogs would be as nothing to her temper, if she thought she was being used. Putting the thoughts behind him, he watched the dogs being loaded into the traps. The first dog went in easily, so did the second. Pippa's Boy who was in trap three had to be shoved in quite firmly. There was a lot of barking coming from all six dogs. Then there was complete silence. Only the slight fizzing noise from the 'hare' could be heard. The traps opened and everyone began yelling at once.
"Come on Pippa's Boy! Come on!" Debbie was yelling.
At the first bend, two dogs tripped and fell rolling towards the edge of the track. Cantwell's heart was in his mouth. One of them was a black dog. Then, he saw that a black dog with a white number jacket was still running. That was Pippa's Boy.
In what seemed like a flash, three dogs rushed past the winning post almost neck and neck. Cantwell saw flashes of colour but nothing else.
"It's between traps one, six and three," a man standing next to them said excitedly. "It's between those three, mate. Just hope it's trap six!"
The dogs were caught and put back on their leashes, then they were led away. Edmundo Ross' voice echoed round the stadium. After what seemed an eternity the speakers crackled back into life:
"There was a photo finish for the fourth race on your card. We will give the result shortly."
Debbie clutched his arm:
"Do you think we've won?"
"Don't know, Debs."
The music blared out again then stopped abruptly:
"The result for the fourth race is as follows:
First, by a short head, Lucky Lady, trap six; second by a short head was Pippa's Boy, trap three ..."
Cantwell did not hear which dog was third. The man next to them was slapping them on the back and punching the air. Cantwell looked at his own ticket and pulled Debbie to the bookie and collected the winnings.
"That's it, Debs, we've had enough excitement for one night. I think we deserve to treat ourselves to a meal." She looked disappointed. "Let's not chance our luck too much, eh?"
They drove out of Exeter to the George and Dragon pub near Countess Weir. Cantwell knew they would get a decent meal there. While they waited for the food, he pondered what he would tell Temple on Monday.
They sipped the coffee and she looked at her card:
"Nothing really appeals to me, love. Do you fancy any of them?" She tapped her teeth with a pencil.
"I like the sound of Pippa's Boy."
She looked closely at the numbers after the dog's name. Then, she wrinkled up her nose:
"He's no good! He's never won a race. Just like that other dog you did." She scrutinised him for a moment, "Still, you did alright last time."
"Tell you what, I'll take a gander round the bookie's stands and see where I can get the best odds. Then, I'll collect you and we'll go to stand by the winning post, this time."
He ambled along past Redbourne's stand and past the bookie with whom he'd placed the bet on Fairweather Friend. He was giving odds of 10 - 1 and he eyed Cantwell carefully. Further along the row of shouting sidekicks, Cantwell spotted another bookie giving odds of 25 - 1 for Pippa's Boy. He felt for the envelope and recalled what Soppy had said about the dog being worth an each way bet. He decided at last and put five shillings each way on Pippa's Boy. He could not believe how much he had just spent. Still, Temple had said keep the winnings and charge the losses to the kitty. Even so...
He tried to look nonchalant when he collected Debbie. They edged their way to the winning post. The same routine started, the Posthorm Gallop, the parade. Cantwell thought you knew just what to expect but the thrill was that you didn't know the end of the story. He glanced at Debbie. She was clutching his arm and grinning.
"I am enjoying this, Tom. I never thought I would. We must do it again."
Her comment made him feel guilty. They were there, after all, for his work. She had no idea and would have a fit if she knew the truth. Dodgy dogs would be as nothing to her temper, if she thought she was being used. Putting the thoughts behind him, he watched the dogs being loaded into the traps. The first dog went in easily, so did the second. Pippa's Boy who was in trap three had to be shoved in quite firmly. There was a lot of barking coming from all six dogs. Then there was complete silence. Only the slight fizzing noise from the 'hare' could be heard. The traps opened and everyone began yelling at once.
"Come on Pippa's Boy! Come on!" Debbie was yelling.
At the first bend, two dogs tripped and fell rolling towards the edge of the track. Cantwell's heart was in his mouth. One of them was a black dog. Then, he saw that a black dog with a white number jacket was still running. That was Pippa's Boy.
In what seemed like a flash, three dogs rushed past the winning post almost neck and neck. Cantwell saw flashes of colour but nothing else.
"It's between traps one, six and three," a man standing next to them said excitedly. "It's between those three, mate. Just hope it's trap six!"
The dogs were caught and put back on their leashes, then they were led away. Edmundo Ross' voice echoed round the stadium. After what seemed an eternity the speakers crackled back into life:
"There was a photo finish for the fourth race on your card. We will give the result shortly."
Debbie clutched his arm:
"Do you think we've won?"
"Don't know, Debs."
The music blared out again then stopped abruptly:
"The result for the fourth race is as follows:
First, by a short head, Lucky Lady, trap six; second by a short head was Pippa's Boy, trap three ..."
Cantwell did not hear which dog was third. The man next to them was slapping them on the back and punching the air. Cantwell looked at his own ticket and pulled Debbie to the bookie and collected the winnings.
"That's it, Debs, we've had enough excitement for one night. I think we deserve to treat ourselves to a meal." She looked disappointed. "Let's not chance our luck too much, eh?"
They drove out of Exeter to the George and Dragon pub near Countess Weir. Cantwell knew they would get a decent meal there. While they waited for the food, he pondered what he would tell Temple on Monday.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Fairweather Friend
Debbie waited for him near the trackside. This time she wanted to be close to the actual race and not watch from a distance. He handed her the ticket for Howard's Hound. She noticed he had another ticket and looked at him quizzically.
"So, who've you done?"
"Fairweather Friend."
Debbie looked at her card and tutted, as if she were an old hand at the game:
"That's no good. He's never even won a race. Look." She pointed out his form. "What a waste of money. At least Howard's Hound has come in second twice in the last three races."
Cantwell began to doubt whether he had done the right thing. Maybe Debbie was right. Then again, it wasn't his money.
The Posthorn Gallop blared out over the speakers. From the corner of his eye, Cantwell caught sight of a scurrying Soppy Soper. Soppy saw him and grinned.
"Who's that?" Debbie asked.
"Oh, just some chap I know. Met him the other day."
"He looks rather odd."
"He's okay - just watch the dogs, Debbie, they'll be in the traps then away and the race will be over in a trice."
Debbie leaned against him:
"I'm really quite excited, Tom. Silly, isn't it? Do you think one of us will win?"
"Fingers crossed, Debs." He found her delight infectious and he became quite absorbed in the whole setup. He almost forgot that really he was on duty and this was no more nor less than police business.
The dogs were put into the traps, the 'hare' was set running. The traps flew open and the dogs tore out and round the first bend. Howard's Hound, a large white dog, was well in the lead. Fairweather Friend, a black dog, was lying in fifth place. Cantwell's heart sank. He was pleased for Debbie but felt a wave of disappointment for himself.
At the final bend, Fairweather Friend made up ground fast. He overtook three of the dogs in front of him. As he flashed past them, it looked to Cantwell as if he had gone into the lead. However, they were standing some distance from the winning post.
The speaker soon crackled into life:
"The winner of the second race on your card is Fairweather Friend by a length; second is Howard's Hound and third ..."
Cantwell never did hear who was third. Debbie had burst out cheering and was jumping up and down:
"We won! We won!"
Two dejected looking punters eyed them in a disgruntled way as they tossed their tickets on the ground. Cantwell had completely forgotten Temple's warning about getting hooked on those 'bloody dodgy dogs'. He was thrilled.
"Let's go and collect the winnings, shall we?"
"How much have we won?" She asked eagerly.
"To be honest, Debs, I'm not too sure. I put a florin on each way for you. Howard's Hound was 10 - 1. I don't know how much they pay out on a second place. You'll get a florin back, plus whatever he gives us. I put five shillings to win on Fairweather and he was 20 - 1."
They edged their way to the first bookie. He grinned at Debbie, as she handed in her ticket:
"Have another go, little lady?"
"Maybe." She smiled coyly, took her money and counted it. "Seven shillings in all, Tom. Not bad for a hunch!" She laughed. "Now let's get yours."
As they approached, the bookie gave them a sour look. He snatched the ticket and spent some time getting out the winnings:
"Beginner's luck, eh? Not so lucky for me though. Why not have another bet? Double or quits."
Cantwell took his money. It was a crisp five pound note plus the original five shillings.
"Oh, you clever old thing, Tom Cantwell! A fiver! You'd better give up being a policeman and take up this betting lark. It pays better and is more fun." She headed back to the trackside to study the race card. "Let's choose something in the third race."
Without the benefit of Soppy's advice, Cantwell knew another winner was highly unlikely. Still, he had to keep her happy and stay till the fourth race when Pippa's Boy would be running.
They peered at the card. Debbie was convinced, once again. Cantwell placed her bet. As he had thought, they lost. Fortunately it was only half a crown.
The prospect of the fourth race set his spirits rising, once again.
"So, who've you done?"
"Fairweather Friend."
Debbie looked at her card and tutted, as if she were an old hand at the game:
"That's no good. He's never even won a race. Look." She pointed out his form. "What a waste of money. At least Howard's Hound has come in second twice in the last three races."
Cantwell began to doubt whether he had done the right thing. Maybe Debbie was right. Then again, it wasn't his money.
The Posthorn Gallop blared out over the speakers. From the corner of his eye, Cantwell caught sight of a scurrying Soppy Soper. Soppy saw him and grinned.
"Who's that?" Debbie asked.
"Oh, just some chap I know. Met him the other day."
"He looks rather odd."
"He's okay - just watch the dogs, Debbie, they'll be in the traps then away and the race will be over in a trice."
Debbie leaned against him:
"I'm really quite excited, Tom. Silly, isn't it? Do you think one of us will win?"
"Fingers crossed, Debs." He found her delight infectious and he became quite absorbed in the whole setup. He almost forgot that really he was on duty and this was no more nor less than police business.
The dogs were put into the traps, the 'hare' was set running. The traps flew open and the dogs tore out and round the first bend. Howard's Hound, a large white dog, was well in the lead. Fairweather Friend, a black dog, was lying in fifth place. Cantwell's heart sank. He was pleased for Debbie but felt a wave of disappointment for himself.
At the final bend, Fairweather Friend made up ground fast. He overtook three of the dogs in front of him. As he flashed past them, it looked to Cantwell as if he had gone into the lead. However, they were standing some distance from the winning post.
The speaker soon crackled into life:
"The winner of the second race on your card is Fairweather Friend by a length; second is Howard's Hound and third ..."
Cantwell never did hear who was third. Debbie had burst out cheering and was jumping up and down:
"We won! We won!"
Two dejected looking punters eyed them in a disgruntled way as they tossed their tickets on the ground. Cantwell had completely forgotten Temple's warning about getting hooked on those 'bloody dodgy dogs'. He was thrilled.
"Let's go and collect the winnings, shall we?"
"How much have we won?" She asked eagerly.
"To be honest, Debs, I'm not too sure. I put a florin on each way for you. Howard's Hound was 10 - 1. I don't know how much they pay out on a second place. You'll get a florin back, plus whatever he gives us. I put five shillings to win on Fairweather and he was 20 - 1."
They edged their way to the first bookie. He grinned at Debbie, as she handed in her ticket:
"Have another go, little lady?"
"Maybe." She smiled coyly, took her money and counted it. "Seven shillings in all, Tom. Not bad for a hunch!" She laughed. "Now let's get yours."
As they approached, the bookie gave them a sour look. He snatched the ticket and spent some time getting out the winnings:
"Beginner's luck, eh? Not so lucky for me though. Why not have another bet? Double or quits."
Cantwell took his money. It was a crisp five pound note plus the original five shillings.
"Oh, you clever old thing, Tom Cantwell! A fiver! You'd better give up being a policeman and take up this betting lark. It pays better and is more fun." She headed back to the trackside to study the race card. "Let's choose something in the third race."
Without the benefit of Soppy's advice, Cantwell knew another winner was highly unlikely. Still, he had to keep her happy and stay till the fourth race when Pippa's Boy would be running.
They peered at the card. Debbie was convinced, once again. Cantwell placed her bet. As he had thought, they lost. Fortunately it was only half a crown.
The prospect of the fourth race set his spirits rising, once again.
Monday, March 1, 2010
The Dogs are Running
Debbie was quite excited when Cantwell joined her halfway up the Stands. She was waving her race card around:
"I know who's going to win." she announced. "I overheard that man, in the smart camel hair coat telling his wife that 'Hollywood Star' was an absolute cert. His wife is wearing a really expensive coat and just look at her jewellery. They're the sort who know a thing or two, you can always tell."
Cantwell thought it looked pretty cheap costume jewellery and he wasn't impressed by the supposed smart looking man either. Still, if it was what Debbie wanted, what was the harm.
"Tom! Go and put some money on Hollywood Star - be a darling."
"Hollywood Star. Are you sure?" He glanced at the race card. "His odds aren't good." He heard himself saying.
"How would you know? You don't know anything about dog racing! They obviously do. Please, Tom."
Cantwell went to the least flamboyant bookie he could see and put five shillings to win on Hollywood Star. It was against his judgement, but if that was what Debbie wanted, who was he to argue.
When he returned and gave her the ticket, she was grinning from ear to ear. She had two tubs of cockles and two glasses of ginger beer. She handed him a tub and a glass:
"This is fun, Tom. I'm glad we came."
Suddenly the speakers crackled into life and Edmundo Ross' husky voice filled the air. 'There's an awful lot of coffee in Brazil." echoed round the stadium. Debbie had a mouth full of cockles when she spotted the dogs being paraded onto the track. She waved her wooden fork at them:
"Look, look that's Hollywood Star. She's in number six."
Cantwell sat down on the cold step and ate his cockles and drank the ginger beer. He caught sight of Soppy rushing up to Redbourne's stand. He noticed there was some chalking up, after his visit. However, the distance was too far for him to see what the changes were.
The first race generated much shouting and yelling. It was all over in a flash. Debbie had been jumping up and down and shouting with the rest of the punters. Once it was over, no one knew who had won. One thing was certain though, it wasn't Hollywood Star. She had loped home long after the winning three dogs had crossed the finish.
Nothing daunted, Debbie sat down and studied her race card, like an old hand. She frowned and tutted, then looked up:
"I think it's Howard's Hound." she said. "Put something on it for me, Tom."
"Are you sure? Why Howard's Hound?"
"I used to have an Uncle Howard. He was nice to me when I was little."
Cantwell was about to make a comment but thought better of it. Instead he went back to the same bookie and placed a bet for Debbie. This time he put a florin to win. He then felt in his pocket for the envelope that Temple had given him. He wandered up and down the rows of bookies. All the odds on Fairweather Friend were about the same 10 - 1 was the best. Then he spotted one who gave odds of 20 - 1. He paused for a second, then went up and placed his bet, took the ticket and crossed his fingers.
"I know who's going to win." she announced. "I overheard that man, in the smart camel hair coat telling his wife that 'Hollywood Star' was an absolute cert. His wife is wearing a really expensive coat and just look at her jewellery. They're the sort who know a thing or two, you can always tell."
Cantwell thought it looked pretty cheap costume jewellery and he wasn't impressed by the supposed smart looking man either. Still, if it was what Debbie wanted, what was the harm.
"Tom! Go and put some money on Hollywood Star - be a darling."
"Hollywood Star. Are you sure?" He glanced at the race card. "His odds aren't good." He heard himself saying.
"How would you know? You don't know anything about dog racing! They obviously do. Please, Tom."
Cantwell went to the least flamboyant bookie he could see and put five shillings to win on Hollywood Star. It was against his judgement, but if that was what Debbie wanted, who was he to argue.
When he returned and gave her the ticket, she was grinning from ear to ear. She had two tubs of cockles and two glasses of ginger beer. She handed him a tub and a glass:
"This is fun, Tom. I'm glad we came."
Suddenly the speakers crackled into life and Edmundo Ross' husky voice filled the air. 'There's an awful lot of coffee in Brazil." echoed round the stadium. Debbie had a mouth full of cockles when she spotted the dogs being paraded onto the track. She waved her wooden fork at them:
"Look, look that's Hollywood Star. She's in number six."
Cantwell sat down on the cold step and ate his cockles and drank the ginger beer. He caught sight of Soppy rushing up to Redbourne's stand. He noticed there was some chalking up, after his visit. However, the distance was too far for him to see what the changes were.
The first race generated much shouting and yelling. It was all over in a flash. Debbie had been jumping up and down and shouting with the rest of the punters. Once it was over, no one knew who had won. One thing was certain though, it wasn't Hollywood Star. She had loped home long after the winning three dogs had crossed the finish.
Nothing daunted, Debbie sat down and studied her race card, like an old hand. She frowned and tutted, then looked up:
"I think it's Howard's Hound." she said. "Put something on it for me, Tom."
"Are you sure? Why Howard's Hound?"
"I used to have an Uncle Howard. He was nice to me when I was little."
Cantwell was about to make a comment but thought better of it. Instead he went back to the same bookie and placed a bet for Debbie. This time he put a florin to win. He then felt in his pocket for the envelope that Temple had given him. He wandered up and down the rows of bookies. All the odds on Fairweather Friend were about the same 10 - 1 was the best. Then he spotted one who gave odds of 20 - 1. He paused for a second, then went up and placed his bet, took the ticket and crossed his fingers.
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