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Gardener was struggling to take the man seriously. His dress sense was dated. He hadn’t shaved for some time, and although he didn’t actually smell, his odour was not exactly fresh. He was as thin as a rake, and Gardener wondered when he’d last eaten. What credentials did he have for making his claim? Was he simply a glory seeker who would expect some money for food? Or a fix?
“I certainly do, and I want you to take me seriously.”
“We take everyone seriously,” said Reilly.
“How old are you, Mr Baines?”
“I’m not sure what that has to do with anything, but since you ask, I’m fifty-five.”
“And you live where?”
“A flat above Oldham’s chemist, on Otley Road in Guiseley.”
Gardener knew it. Pretty respectable area, affluent, thriving with small businesses. The big supermarkets were there as well.
“What do you do?” Reilly asked.
“Do?” repeated Vincent, with a surprised expression.
Gardener suspected he was desperate to part with his information, but the SIO wanted some background on the man to assess him, to work out whether or not he was worth listening to.
“Yes. For a living?”
“Oh, I see. A bit of all sorts, really.”
“Does that mean you don’t do anything specific, draw a cheque from the social security, and then lounge around all day?”
Gardener smiled. His partner had a way with words. Didn’t like to beat ar
ound the bush.
“I most certainly do not,” Vincent was outraged. “I-I-I work for myself. I have n-no need to work because of a very lucrative spell with the horses a short time ago.”
Interesting comment, thought Gardener. They had a gambler on their hands.
“How did you manage that?” Reilly asked.
“Do you know anything about horses, Sergeant?”
“I know I’ve lost a stack of money over the years.”
“Then you don’t know the right people.”
“Maybe I will after today.”
Vincent smiled. “Let’s see how seriously you take me then, shall we?”
Gardener laughed. “Now that wouldn’t be a bribe, would it, Mr Baines?”
Vincent scowled in Gardener’s direction. “I’m not in the habit of bribing people, Detective Gardener.”
“Tell us about this lucrative incident,” Reilly asked.
“Do you know the Steven Barrows stables in Lambourn?”
“No. But that place rings a bell for some reason, and I can’t for the life of me think why.”
“I happened to be in the Lambourn stables in Berkshire when I overheard a conversation between a stable boy named Conor Murphy and trainer Nicky Henderson. They were talking about a race at Cheltenham.”
