‘Irish whiskey,’ he said bluntly. ‘Never touch any other.’
‘That suits me, Mr Dowd,’ said Colbeck, taking a glass from him with a nod of gratitude. ‘We had a rough crossing. I need something to settle my stomach.’ He sampled his drink. ‘Excellent.’
‘You’ll not find better in the whole of the Emerald Isle.’
‘It was worth the long journey just to taste this.’
‘You’re a good liar.’
Colbeck smiled. ‘Part of my stock-in-trade.’
‘Sit yourself down, Inspector.’
‘Thank you.’
Putting his hat aside, Colbeck lowered himself into a chair and Dowd perched on the edge of his desk. As they sipped their drinks, each weighed the other man up. The Irishman had a friendly grin but his gaze was shrewd and calculating. Nobody as elegant and as quintessentially urban as Colbeck had ever been in the office before and he looked distinctly incongruous. That did not disturb the visitor in any way. He was relaxed and self-assured. Dowd had another sip of whiskey and savoured its taste before speaking.
‘So what’s this all about, Inspector Colbeck?’ he asked.
‘A murder, sir.’
‘Murder? I don’t like the sound of that.’
‘I’m hoping that you may be able to help me solve the crime.’
‘I’d gladly do so, my friend, but I don’t rightly see how. I’m no policeman. This murder happened in England, I take it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And who was the victim?’
‘We’re not certain,’ said Colbeck, putting his glass on the desk so that he could take a sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘I got an artist to draw a rough portrait of the young man.’ He unfolded the paper and handed it over. ‘I came here in search of his identity.’
Eyes gleaming and brow corrugated, Brian Dowd looked at the drawing with great concentration. He took a long time to reach a decision and even then he qualified it.
‘I could be wrong, mind you,’ he cautioned.
‘But you think you recognise him?’
‘I might do. It’s like the lad in one way, then again it isn’t.’
‘Make allowances for the fact that the face was distorted in death,’ said Colbeck. ‘When the artist drew this, by the way, he only had the head to work from. The body was hauled out of the Thames long after he’d finished.’
Dowd was aghast. ‘The lad was beheaded?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Dear God!’ exclaimed the other. ‘What monster did that?’
Colbeck explained the circumstances in which the head had been found and how the hatbox had been linked to Lord Hendry. The more the inspector spoke, the more convinced Dowd became that he knew the deceased. Folding the paper, he gave it back.
‘His name is John Feeny.’
‘Are you sure?’ pressed Colbeck.
‘Pretty sure – he used to work for me.’
‘As a jockey?’
‘No, Inspector,’ replied Dowd, ‘it was as a groom. That was the reason we fell out. John thought he had the makings of a jockey. I told him straight that he wasn’t good enough.’
‘What did he do?’
‘What any lad with real mettle would’ve done – he went off in search of a job at another stables. He’d no family here to turn to so he sailed off to try his luck in England.’
‘Did you keep in touch with him?’
‘I’d no reason to, Inspector. One of my other lads did, though. John Feeny couldn’t read or write but he got someone to send a letter or two on his behalf. Things were tough at first but he found a job in the end. He even boasted he’d soon be a jockey.’
‘That will never happen now,’ said Colbeck sadly.
‘No – and it’s a crying shame.’ He smacked his thigh. ‘Jesus, I feel so guilty! I wish I’d kept him here and given him a chance in the saddle. But,’ he added with a deep sigh, ‘it wouldn’t have been fair to other lads with more talent as riders. John Feeny was never strong enough or ruthless enough to make a living as a jockey.’
‘Could I speak to the person who kept in touch with him?’
‘Of course – his name is Jerry Doyle.’
‘Did he tell you which stables Feeny was working at?’
‘He did, Inspector – I had a vested interest in knowing.’
‘Did they happen to belong to Lord Hendry?’ When the Irishman shook his head, Colbeck was disappointed. ‘I obviously made the wrong assumption.’
‘In the world of racing,’ said Dowd sagely before gulping down more whiskey, ‘you should never make assumptions of any kind. It’s far too dangerous, Inspector.’
‘I can see that.’
‘It was a big decision for someone like John to go to England but the lad seemed to have fallen on his feet.’
‘For whom was he working?’
‘Hamilton Fido.’
‘The bookmaker?’
‘There’s only one Mr Fido in this game,’ said Dowd bitterly, ‘and that’s one too many in my book. The man is as slippery as an eel and as vicious as a polecat. He gives racing a bad name. He ought to be drummed out of it in disgrace.’
‘You and he are clearly not on the best of terms.’
‘We’re not on any kind of terms, Inspector.’
‘Mr Fido has a horse running in the Derby – Merry Legs.’
‘She’ll be left standing by Limerick Lad.’
‘Odysseus is the favourite.’
‘Not from where I stand,’ asserted Dowd, ‘and I’ve spent my whole life around racehorses. I’ve seen both Odysseus and Merry Legs at their best. Neither of them cause me any worry.’
‘Let’s go back to John Feeny,’ said Colbeck, reclaiming his glass from the desk. ‘I believe that severed head was destined to come here. It could have been sent to you as a warning.’
‘I agree, Inspector.’
‘Someone is trying to frighten you off.’
‘It was a message for me,’ said Dowd grimly, ‘no question about that. Because he used to work here at one time, John Feeny was suspected of being a spy. Someone thought he’d been planted in the stables so that he could feed back information to me about a leading Derby contender. Since I was seen as the villain, they tried to send a piece of the lad back here to give me a scare.’
‘That means Hamilton Fido is somehow involved.’
‘He’s your killer, Inspector. He’s such a cruel bastard that he’d enjoy cutting off someone’s head. Go back and arrest him.’
‘It may not be as simple as that, Mr Dowd,’ said Colbeck. ‘From what I’ve heard of Mr Fido, he’s devious and manipulative. He’d get someone else to do his dirty work for him and make sure that he kept his hands clean. In any case, we’ve no proof that he’s in any way connected to the crime. But let me return to this charge of spying,’ he continued. ‘When a major race is coming up, there must be a lot of that sort of thing going on.’
‘We all like to know as much as we can about the competition.’
‘How would you find out about Merry Legs and Odysseus?’
‘Not by putting a lad like that in someone’s stables,’ retorted Dowd. ‘I didn’t send him off to his death, Inspector, so don’t look to accuse me. I told you what happened. John Feeny left of his own accord. I wished him well before he went and gave him twice what I owed him. You can ask Jerry Doyle – or anyone else, for that matter.’
‘I take your word for it, sir.’
‘The man you’re after is Hamilton Fido.’
‘I’ll speak with him at the earliest opportunity,’ said Colbeck, taking a longer sip of his whiskey. ‘If he’s capable of murder, he’ll clearly stop at nothing to win the Derby.’