He smiled with relish. “I most certainly have. I enjoy the process of deduction, very similar in fact to that required in the solution of a crossword. But I’m afraid the crime writing I favour is of an older generation. The so-called Golden Age, when authors played fair with their readers in regard to plotting. Though contemporary crime fiction may have gained in psychological reality, that has always been at the expense of the puzzle element. And for me it is in the puzzle that the appeal of the genre lies.”
“But have you ever applied your deductive powers to a real crime?” asked Carole.
“Might you be thinking of the recent regrettable incident, which occurred at the place where I spend a large portion of my days?”
“I was thinking of that, yes, Gerald.”
“Hm. The first time I have been so close to a murder, outside of fiction. I’m afraid, in my professional life – though accountants may frequently be thought to get away with murder…” He let out a small dry laugh at this small dry joke “…they are – perhaps fortunately – rarely involved in the real thing.”
“So have you joined in the increasingly popular Fethering pastime of trying to work out whodunit?”
“I have.” He sighed. “But without much progress. I regret in this instance the Almighty Author has provided us with an inadequacy of information. Dame Agatha would never have been so parsimonious with the clues. Though we habitues of the betting shop were witnesses to one part of the tragedy – and your friend Jude witness to a further part – we have very few facts that link the poor young man to his penultimate destination.”
“Were you particularly aware of him when he came in that afternoon?”
“I can’t say that I was, Carole. Yes, I noticed a young man I had not seen before come into the shop. The noise of the hailstorm was very loud when the door was opened, so I looked in his direction. But I very quickly returned to my investments. I can’t honestly say that the young man made any impression on me at all.”
“Gerald, you said then that you had not seen the victim before…”
“That is correct, yes.”
“But last week’s visit was the second time he had been in the betting shop.”
“Was it?” The ex-accountant looked genuinely amazed by this news. “I had certainly never seen him before.”
“And you are there most days during opening hours?”
“Well, not opening hours – betting shops tend to be open for an increasingly long time these days – but I’m there during afternoon racing hours. I tend to arrive about half an hour before the first race and stay there until after the last.”
“And would you say you tend to notice everyone who comes in and out?”
“I do. I make a point of that. My researches into the randomness of gambling are obviously related to the demographic profile of the people who participate.”
“So you’re sure you’d never seen Tadek before last week?”
“Tadek?”
“I’m sorry, Tadeusz Jankowski was always called Tadek.”
“I understand. No, I had definitely never encountered him before last week. When was he seen?”
“Round the beginning of last October.”
Gerald Hume’s brow clouded as he tried to explain the anomaly, but then it cleared. “Last October, yes. I remember now. I was unwell. I had a serious throat infection which kept me to my bed for a few days. I think it must have been during that period. Did Ryan the Manager see him?”
“It was while Ryan was on holiday.”
“So how do you know the young man was in there?”
Carole explained about Jude’s conversation with Pauline.
“Ah yes. That would make sense. Pauline never does much in the way of gambling, but she always keeps her eyes on everything that’s going on. A habit that she learnt from her late husband.”
“Oh?”
“He was a fairly considerable crook. Or so Fethering gossip has it…and this is another instance when I would be inclined to believe Fethering gossip.”
“Jude said that Pauline was one of very few women who go into the betting shop.”
“That is true. It is more of a male enclave…though a lot of the ladies put in an appearance round the Derby or Grand National. Or down here when Glorious Goodwood is on, of course.”
A new thought came suddenly to Carole. “Ooh, that reminds me. Other women in the betting shop!”
“I’m sorry?”
“Apparently when Tadeusz Jankowski went into the betting shop last year, he spoke to a woman who was often in there. Another regular. Very well-dressed, middle-class woman…does that ring any bells, Gerald?”
“Well, there are one or two fitting that description who come in from time to time…”
“This one used to be very regular, but then stopped coming…round about last October. Any idea who it might be?”
Gerald Hume beamed as the recollection came to him. “Oh yes. I know exactly who you mean. I’m sorry, with her not having been in for a few months, I’d completely forgotten about her. But yes, she fits your description exactly.”
“Did you ever talk to her?”
“No. She kept herself to herself.”
More or less exactly what Pauline and Ryan had said. Carole asked, without much hope, “So you wouldn’t know her name, would you?”
This question produced another beam. “As a matter of fact I do. Melanie Newton.”
“But if you didn’t speak to her, how do you know that?”
Gerald Hume’s expression combined shame with pride as he replied, “One day when she was in the betting shop, she had made a note of her fancies on an envelope. When she went, she screwed it up and left it on a shelf. I’m afraid, out of pure curiosity – and because she seemed rather different from the average run of betting shop habitue – I uncrumpled the envelope and looked at it.”
“So do you have an address for her too?” asked Carole excitedly.
Gerald shook his head apologetically. “I’m afraid I don’t have a photographic memory for such things. Though I do have a vague recollection that she lived in Fedborough.”
Carole still felt good about herself when she got back to High Tor at about eight o’clock. She had a new lead. Melanie Newton. She was going to share the good news with Jude, when she remembered that her friend was out seeing some theatre show at Clincham College.
But as well as a new lead, she thought she might have something else. Though Gerald Hume would never be a lover (which was, if she was honest with herself, quite a relief), it was not impossible that over time he could turn into a very good friend.
Eighteen
Jude picked up the ticket that Andy Constant had promised would be left at the box office and went through into the theatre. The building was named after the company which had stumped up the money for its construction, with a view to raising their local charitable profile. (They had made a very favourable deal with the university, which would allow them free use of the halls of residence for conferences during the vacations.) As Andy had said, the theatre was new, new even to the extent of still smelling of paint and freshly varnished wood. And it was a rather splendid structure.
The auditorium was buzzing with the sounds of young people, fellow students there to support their mates, but there were also quite a few parents, coming to see what all those tuition fees were being spent on.
Jude had been presented with a programme, just an A5 sheet printed in black with a list of actors and production credits. The title of the evening’s entertainment was Rumours of Wars: The Interface Between Society and Violence. She noted that the show had been ‘Conceived and Directed by Andy Constant’.