But what would be the point? Could they really hope to blackmail a German spy with pictures that he would immediately recognize as being of someone else? The photos might have fooled me, but not his wife – presuming he had one – nor his masters in Berlin. What could they hope to achieve? But, then, who were the they in question? Not the Security Service. Not Tremaine and O’Connor in collaboration. The simplest solution was the best: the deception was O’Connor’s alone. For whatever reason, he’d been unable to lure Metzger to the rendezvous at the Metropole, so he’d found a passable substitute, and then removed any photographs that showed him clearly enough to reveal that he wasn’t Metzger.

  It was a plausible line of reasoning, but the truth was it had little connection to O’Connor’s murder. Metzger was now an unlikely suspect. He might have had motive enough if O’Connor had really captured him in the photographs, but to him the pictures would be so clearly phoney that he’d hardly have wasted time laughing at them. Tremaine would be the person most aggrieved by such a fraud, having paid £50 for pictures that, when he presented them to Metzger, would prove to be worth nothing. But that was hardly motive for murder and, with the Security Service behind him, Tremaine could have found much better ways to have O’Connor dealt with. And, anyway, he couldn’t have known quite so soon that the pictures were fake. He might not even know it now. I smiled to myself at the prospect of telling him, but I’d have to be careful. If I was hoping to take up that offer of work, I’d do well not to show him up.

  And what of Mr X himself as a suspect? Again the motive was weak. Given that O’Connor had found him specifically for the job, he might well have been aware he was being photographed. And if he didn’t know it at the time, how would he have found out since? Unless O’Connor had resorted to a second strand of blackmail. It was possible, but there was also a more depressing interpretation of the evidence: that O’Connor’s murder had nothing to do with the photographs whatsoever and that the motive was something quite different, something regarding which I had no clues at all.

  But that was untrue. I had two possible lines of enquiry. One was the list of bookies I’d found in O’Connor’s notebook, and the other was Rachael. Her comment about Mr X being a Geordie had seemed incongruous at first, but now it was one of the few leads I had. Perhaps there was more she might be able to remember, if she tried. I looked at my watch. It would be after 11 o’clock by the time the train got in; too late to visit her. Or would it be? It was more likely that she’d be too busy to see me than that she’d have retired for the night. But if I was prepared to pay, then why shouldn’t she let me take up an hour of her time just as she did with any other client?

  The train rolled along and I let my mind wander. What would she be doing now, at home in her flat? It was easy enough to picture her curled up on the chaise longue, reading a book. And who was I to assume that she wasn’t? But it seemed unlikely. The image in my mind transformed to something more akin to what I’d seen in those photographs, but with myself taking the place of Mr X. I pushed such thoughts away and gazed out of the window at the dark Sussex landscape rolling past. But still the concept lingered somewhere deep in my mind, as a possibility, not a reality. And yet I knew that one could become the other – she’d made that very clear.

  By the time the train pulled into the station, I’d already made up my mind that I was going to see her. I was going to ask her a few more questions, and if something else happened, well so be it. But the more I thought about it, the less I could think of what to ask her, and the more I just wanted to go and visit her. I still had the £10, despite my earlier reluctance to pay. And it wouldn’t cost that much. Some part of me – some egotistical voice – hoped it would cost nothing. But each time I thought of her, that voice spoke more softly.

  I’d travelled up from Hove, but taken the train back to Brighton. The guards didn’t seem to mind much which route you took – it was all the same railway company. Furze Croft was about halfway between the two stations. It took me ten minutes to get there, but it wasn’t the effort of the walk I’d just taken that made my heart beat so fast as I arrived.

  The block of flats had a crescent-shaped driveway. Just as I turned off the pavement, a man began to exit through the front door about ten yards ahead of me. I continued walking, but it struck me how similar the present scene was to one I’d witnessed earlier tonight as I’d watched Metzger emerge from the embassy. This fellow fitted the same general description: about six feet, with neat dark hair and a small chin. It was a description that could fit a hundred men in Brighton alone, and I began to wonder just how difficult it would really have been for O’Connor to find so approximate a lookalike for the German after all. The figure remained still as I approached, occupied – as Metzger had been – in lighting a cigarette. Seeing me come towards him he caught the door and held it for me. The light from the hallway within spilled on to him and it was as I took the door from him that I looked him squarely in the face and knew for sure.

  This was no chance match for a description – six feet, dark hair, mid-thirties. This was the man himself. Those eyes had stared blankly into O’Connor’s camera and moments later stared down on to Rachael’s supine body. Those lips had tasted the saliva on her tongue, the sweat on her skin, and so much more. In London I’d stared into Metzger’s face and known with absolute certainty that he was not the man I was looking for. Now I looked into another face and knew quite the reverse.

  This was Mr X.

  CHAPTER 14

  He walked away, leaving me standing in the porch holding open the front door. For a foolish moment I’d been afraid that he would recognize me just as I had him, but it was in a photograph, not a mirror that I’d seen him – a strictly one-way means of identification. I had two options. The first was to rush up to Rachael’s flat and confront her. She clearly knew more about this man than she was telling. But Rachael would still be there tomorrow – whereas this might be my only chance to follow Mr X. I let him get a little further away, heading in the opposite direction along the crescent of the drive from the way I’d come. It was late and the streets were empty, so he’d easily spot me if I followed too close. He was getting near to the main road before I started to move. When he reached it, he turned right and was blocked from view by the building itself. I quickened my pace, no longer worried about being seen and keen to reach that same corner and discover where he was going. But, even as I walked briskly over the tarmacadam, I heard the sound of a car door slamming and then an engine turning over. I broke into a run, but already knew it was too late. Before I reached the gateway, I heard the car driving off. I ran out across the pavement and on to the roadway, just in time to see a dark vehicle turn left on to Lansdowne Road. I couldn’t make out its number plate but I was pretty sure that it was an Austin.

  I considered going back to see Rachael but decided it was wiser not to. The passion I’d felt for her moments before had dispersed. She had lied to me – that was part of it. There were dozens of flats in the block, to be sure, but for him not to have been visiting hers would have been an absurd coincidence. And what sickened me more was to consider just why he might have been visiting her, at this time of night. I could have questioned her there and then. She’d have been surprised to see me so soon after his visit and might more easily have made a mistake. But I was feeling emotions far stronger than surprise, and might have done the same myself. It was safer for me to go home.

  *

  I didn’t go to see her the next day either. There was a race meeting on and, considering I had a list of nineteen bookies that I wanted to talk to, it would be convenient to catch them all in the same place. I went by tram, jumping on an M at Preston Circus, then changing to an E. The motor groaned as it pulled us up the steep incline of Elm Grove, and I could smell ozone and burning oil. Race Hill was the end of the line, but the tram was still almost full. Everyone disembarked and began walking towards the track. It was nearly an hour until the first race of the day, but there was plenty of betting to be done beforehand. I didn’t think the bookies would be at their most talkative if it meant losing business.

  The crowd was quite a mixture: from boys as young as ten, mostly accompanied by their fathers, to shrivelled, stooped figures, with lips and cheeks caved in to the hollows where their teeth once had been. The only segment of society that was not represented was women. There was a buzz in the air and a babble of voices, as men discussed their expectations for the day with friends and with strangers. Cutting through it all was the sound of bookies touting for business and of hustlers selling their wares.

  ‘Dark Traveller. 15-2. Best price on the course.’

  ‘Lucky heather, just a penny! Certain to bring you good fortune.’

  ‘Cigarettes! Two shillings for 20.’

  I paused. None of it was of much interest to me but still I couldn’t ignore it. Two shillings for a packet of fags? I looked over. The high prices weren’t affecting the man’s trade. I realized what was up. The punters would be handed their smokes, but they’d get a free gift as well: a little note with a recommendation for one of today’s races. It was illegal for a tipster to charge for his services, but giving advice away as a free gift with a packet of overpriced cigarettes was fine. And it was advice worth far more than a couple of bob, if the horse won. If.

  I walked on through to the field bordering the track where most of the bookmakers plied their trade. The shouts continued, but now it was purely to advertise the odds. Beyond the noise other levels of communication were being employed. Hands made shapes against one another or touched heads and faces as the odds were transmitted across the course using ticktack. For more complex messages, runners traversed the ground. Everywhere, money was changing hands – both notes and coins. For now it was in a single direction: from the punters to the bookies. After the first race, and every race, the flow would be reversed, but they’d rarely pay out quite as much as they took in – just as long as they got the odds right. They were the epitome of the Morlocks in Brighton, but it wasn’t just the Eloi that they exploited. At a guess, half the men betting were locals, some spending the last pennies they had on a desperate gamble. Morlock fed on Morlock.

  I took O’Connor’s notebook from my pocket and glanced inside at the listed names, some ticked, some crossed, some unmarked. Presumably he hadn’t got around to speaking to the unmarked ones. If they really were all bookies, then they’d be easy to find – even the ones I didn’t know – from the names on the noticeboards they used to mark their pitches. I could only guess that the ticks indicated those with whom O’Connor had had some success in whatever he was doing, so I’d start with them. And within that group I’d start with a name I knew: Percy Remick. I could see him not too far away, perched on a soapbox, bending forward to hand over a betting slip. More than most, he needed something to stand on to be seen above the crowd. It wasn’t so much that he was short; he was simply diminutive, tiny in every respect, wizened and insignificant. Maybe that was an asset in his trade. I hovered nearby until there was no one waiting for his attention. He turned to one side and spoke to a boy of about fourteen, who bore an unmistakable similarity to him. The boy ran off across the grass.

  I looked up at Remick and caught his eye. He gave a little jerk of his head in acknowledgement, but didn’t greet me.

  ‘Good of you to come to the funeral the other day,’ I said.

  ‘It was no effort. Al would have done the same for me.’

  He seemed more confident of the suggestion than I would have been, but I didn’t question it. ‘You were close, then?’ I asked.

  ‘Close as any two men who sometimes have a Scotch together. That doesn’t mean you tell each other your life stories.’

  ‘Was he close to Corbett too? And Reece?’

  He eyed me suspiciously, unsure as to what I was getting at. ‘He knew a lot of people round here.’

  ‘Dudley?’

  ‘Frank Dudley?’

  I nodded, though I’d not known the Christian name.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Remick, ‘but I’d be surprised. Frank’s from London, just comes down here on race days.’

  ‘His name’s next to yours.’

  ‘What?’

  I held up the book and showed him. ‘What do all those ticks mean, Percy?’

  He tried to snatch the book but I tugged it away. I’d made a copy of the list, anyway, but it was better to have the original.

  ‘Go to Hell!’ he said, leaning close to me, his voice low.

  ‘Or what?’

  He laughed throatily. ‘You trying to pick up where he left off, are you? Well you know what happened to him.’

  I tried to hide my surprise. ‘It was because of this?’

  Remick shrugged. ‘Who knows? Someone was bound to get him.’

  ‘You going to tell me what it was all about?’

  ‘Like I said, go to Hell. I know how to take a hint.’

  He stood up straight again and began signalling to a bookie about twenty yards away, who in turn forwarded the ticktack to another. It looked to me as though Remick was just using the exchange as an excuse to stop talking to me, though I couldn’t help but wonder if he was sending others a message to do likewise.

  I meandered through the crowds, looking for further faces I recognized. I found Jerry Corbett and went through a similar line of questioning. When I showed him his name in the book, he had a better response.

  ‘Al liked a flutter, so what? It was never much. He spread it around, amongst the bookies. Looks like he ticked the ones that gave him best odds.’

  It sounded like Corbett had had time to prepare. Perhaps I’d been right in my suspicion about Remick warning them all. Taffy Reece just told me to sod off. I was getting nowhere. I moved on to some of the names I didn’t recognize. The first was Carter, but he just played ignorant, telling me he’d never heard of O’Connor even after I showed him the list. I was getting bored.

  ‘Do you know where Frank Dudley’s pitch is?’ I asked Carter before moving on.

  ‘Over there.’ He pointed. ‘Right next to the Tattersall stand.’

  I went over. It was a good place for Dudley to work from, with quite a flow of punters passing by in both directions. Dudley’s business seemed better funded than the others I’d visited. Like Remick, he was a small man but a couple of heavies, one on each side of him, made up for that.

  ‘Frank Dudley?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s the name on the sign.’

  ‘You hear about what happened to Al O’Connor?’

  He glanced surreptitiously from side to side, then nodded. ‘I heard.’

  ‘Did he ask you about Tremaine?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ralph Tremaine? He said he was going to.’ It was a long shot, but it was the only sense I could make of that brief note in O’Connor’s book.

  ‘Well, he didn’t, and it wouldn’t have helped him if he had.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I don’t know any Ralph fucking Tremaine. Did he tell you I did?’

  ‘He told me plenty. Told me about you and Remick and Corbett and the rest. He wrote it all down.’

  ‘He wasn’t that stupid.’

  I held up the black notebook and waved it at him, but instantly realized I’d gone too far. Dudley flicked his fingers and the thug on his left took a step forwards. I didn’t quite run, but I moved off pretty swiftly through the crowd. After half a minute I looked back, and could see the thickset figure searching for me. His eyes locked on mine and he began to move again, as did I. The next time I looked, there was no sign of him. I was up against the rail now, just yards from the track itself. It was still a good few minutes before the first race but I could see the runners and riders beginning to assemble at the starting gate, far away down the track.

  I wasn’t too worried about Dudley or his henchman. They wanted to see what was in the notebook and I’d overplayed my hand. If they got hold of it and saw what was in it, they’d realize I knew nothing. As to his denial of knowing Tremaine, I believed him – but I could easily have been mistaken. I wasn’t getting anywhere. The ticks on the list clearly didn’t indicate anything as simple as who had been cooperative. Or perhaps they did, and the fact that they’d cooperated with O’Connor meant that they weren’t going to with me. It was time to move on to the crosses.

  The first of those was Mullender. I asked around and soon found out why I’d not heard of him before. His business had previously been owned and run by a chap called Thompson. On the occasions I’d met Thompson he’d lived up to his reputation. He was probably one of the five biggest bookmakers in the town and Mullender had been his lieutenant. But Thompson had retired, retired suddenly, left his house and his business and gone to live a comfortable life in Oxfordshire. That was one of the problems of living in Brighton – you couldn’t say you were retiring to go and live by the sea. As to the truth of it, there were various possibilities. He might have been killed and his body dealt with so that it would never be found. He might have been frightened into his retirement. It might even have been his genuine desire. But all that was a different case from the one I was working on.

  Whatever his newfound seniority, it seemed Mullender still liked to do business in person. Just like all the others, he had a soapbox to stand on and a blackboard on which he chalked the odds. He was stocky, a bit like the man that Dudley had sent after me, but his eyes showed he was intelligent too.

  ‘Roy Mullender?’ I said, holding out my hand to him.

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘Woolf. Charlie Woolf.’

  He blew air into his cheeks and raised his eyebrows, making it clear that the name meant nothing to him. I hadn’t expected it to.