“Bertie?”
“Uh-huh.”
Barry managed a second smile. “Good luck, Fingal.”
As Barry left the room, O’Reilly heard the front doorbell ring and Barry in the hall saying, “Good morning, Donal. You’re early. Doctor O’Reilly’s expecting you. Go on into the surgery.”
“It’s all right,” O’Reilly yelled. “Tell him to come in here.”
O’Reilly watched Donal, duncher in hands, creep into the dining room. He looked around, wide-eyed, much, O’Reilly imagined, as a peasant might regard the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. “Morning, Donal.”
“Morning, sir.” Donal’s tone was hushed. “Happy New Year.”
“And to you. Come on in. Sit down. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Me, sir? Tea, sir?”
“Aye, you, Donal. Would you like a cup of tea? You’re not in the presence of royalty.”
“’Deed I would, so I would.” He dusted off a chair with the palm of his hand. “Can I sit here, sir?”
“Course you may.” O’Reilly stood, poured, and gave a cup to Donal. “Sugar and milk’s there. Help yourself.” He waited until Donal had poured in some milk and put in three spoonfuls of sugar. “Now,” said O’Reilly, “what’s all this about?”
Donal sipped his tea. “Money,” he said. “You see, me and Julie’d like to buy a house. Just a wee one, like”—he looked around—“nothing grand like this. Just wee. We have some money saved up.”
O’Reilly smiled. He knew where it had come from but was not going to tell Donal.
Donal sipped again. “Doctor Laverty’s Miss Spence …” He hesitated, then said softly, “I’m sorry for his troubles, so I am.”
“Thank you, Donal.”
Donal sucked air past his buckteeth. “Anyroad, Miss Spence was dead-on, so she was, with her advice. I left it up to Julie to decide. She went up to see your man the photographer on Tuesday. We got the first tenner and the snaps is lovely. Just lovely. I’m for having some framed, so I am. She’s a dead cert to win the five hundred pounds.” Donal smiled. “That and our savings would make a brave down payment.
“That’s where your man Bishop comes in. I’d been thinking about a house even before Julie and me finally did get married. Back in October the councillor comes up to me and Billy Brennan, like, seeing as how we were working for him and all. How’d we fancy making a few extra bob? How’d we like to own shares in a horse and race it for a while?” Donal’s face lit up. “It’s great craic, the racing, and it would be even more if it was your own horse running.”
“And you’d sell it when, as you’d hope, the value goes up?” O’Reilly knew it was a common practice among the horsey fraternity, but he said, “Bertie Bishop, a man who’s usually too mean to spend Christmas, wanted to let you and your mate in on a money-maker? A horse?”
“Not just us, sir. He was going to let a few smart lads in, so he was, chippies, sparks, and brickies that worked for him.”
Carpenters, electricians, and bricklayers were involved? O’Reilly could understand how flattering it would be for workingmen to be asked by their boss to come into the syndicate.
“How many of you are there?”
“Billy, him and me, and six other lads.”
“And you eight own the whole horse?”
“Not quite, sir. We’ve ten percent each. Councillor Bishop has two shares. Twenty percent, like. He called them controlling shares.”
That’s my Bertie, O’Reilly thought. Controlling. Gurrier.
“He understands things like that, so he does. We just have shares. We agreed to that.” Donal set his teacup in the saucer. “She’s a right nice wee filly, too. He called her Flo’s Fancy.”
“Jasus.” O’Reilly snorted. “For one-fifth of its value Bertie Bishop’s got a controlling interest in your horse?”
Donal grimaced. “It’s not as unfair as it sounds, sir. He’ll be swallowing the cost of tack, pasturing, stabling, training, the jockey, and all.”
“All right. I’ll accept that. You’re not being asked to pay for any of that?”
“No, sir. Mind you, Mr. Bishop owns plenty of pastureland and a stable. He can save a brave bit there. And when it comes to prize money, he’s dead decent too.”
“How?”
“If she wins, all of us is to get ten percent of the purse each.”
“And if she places?”
“Them prizes is pretty wee, so they are. We agreed he could keep them to help pay the expenses.”
O’Reilly thought hard. He couldn’t quibble with Donal’s assertion that Bertie was paying money for upkeep, and as such his distribution of any prizes was fair. Place money wouldn’t cover Bertie’s expenses. It seemed that he, owning pasture and stable notwithstanding, was going to be spending a lot of cash without much chance of making a big profit. But with Councillor Bishop, worshipful master of the Ballybucklebo Orange Lodge, things were rarely what they seemed at first sight. Particularly where money was concerned.
“Aye,” said O’Reilly, thinking harder. Money could certainly be made by selling the animal if the racehorse performed well. Some owners did sell shares to defray the initial cost of purchase, but at sale time their profit was reduced accordingly. The big money came to people who owned the animal outright. Owned the animal outright. “Aha,” O’Reilly said, “I think I’m beginning to understand.” His frown was so tight his eyebrows made each other’s close acquaintance. “Donal, tell me again what Mr. Bishop calls his shares.”
“Controlling.”
That was the key: control. He’d bet twenty pounds to a hazelnut that Bertie Bishop did have plans to own the whole animal. “I don’t like the sound of that control, Donal. How much was a share?”
“She cost a thousand pounds. We put in a hundred pounds each; Mr. Bishop, two hundred. And if we didn’t have the money to start with, he was happy to put in our share and stop a bit of it each week out of our wages until it was all paid off. He’d only charge five percent a year, so he would.”
So Bertie had the horse, and he held their loans at a rate one and a half percent higher than a house mortgage, but about the same as that of a bank loan. That surprised O’Reilly. He would have expected Bertie to be charging usurious rates.
Donal went on. “I didn’t think we could lose. Likely we’ll make a big profit when the horse’s sold.”
“What if the horse doesn’t do well?” O’Reilly asked.
Donal shrugged. “Then we’re up the creek without a paddle. Julie’ll kill me, so she will. A hundred pounds doesn’t grow on trees.” He managed a weak smile. “I’ve seen the wee animal run on a training track. I’ve had a stopwatch on her.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You ever hear of a Yankee horse called Seabiscuit?”
“That beat War Admiral in 1938 at Pimlico?”
“Aye. Well, Flo’s Fancy is faster against the watch.”
O’Reilly whistled and nearly relaxed. “If she’s that good, I’d not worry too much, Donal. You’re a hell of a judge of horseflesh.”
Donal blushed. “Thank you, sir. I just wish I was a good judge of business.”
O’Reilly did not like the sound of that.
“That’s why I come to you, sir, you being a learnèd man and all.” Donal lowered his voice. “I … I know what I said about her being a good wee horse and all, but I still think we’re getting rooked, like.” He glanced around. “You’ll not tell nobody?”
O’Reilly shook his head. He could understand why Donal, archfinagler, wouldn’t want anyone to know he’d been conned.
“Sure didn’t I know that?” Donal said, smiling. “Youse doctors take the hypocritical oath—”
“Hypocratic, Donal. Hypocratic.”
“Aye, him. Your man. Hippy-whigmaleery. I’m the right looper when it comes to them foreign names, so I am, but I’m no eejit about betting.” His face fell. “At least I wasn’t. Not until now.”
“Tell me about it, Donal.”
“Councillor Bishop
said he knew how to make a bit more money on the side while we waited for the animal’s price to go up.”
O’Reilly’s eyes narrowed. “How?”
“Betting on her. And he’s been right decent the way we do it. He decides when to bet, puts up our stake money out of his own pocket, and if we win we’re quids in. He keeps the stake money—it’s his after all—but we all share the winnings. And because she’s so fast he only ever backs her to win. He doesn’t waste money betting to place.”
“What if she doesn’t come first?”
“That’s where it gets tricky. He doesn’t ask for money from us to cover the lost stakes. He just takes a bit of our share of the horse.”
As far as O’Reilly was concerned, the stench of rodent suddenly overpowered the smell of kipper in the room. It seems he’d guessed correctly that Bertie was going to try to own the whole horse. “So he just takes a bit of your share of the horse. And you lads together own eight hundred pounds of her?”
“We did, sir.”
“Did? Did?”
“Aye. Last time she was out, Mr. Bishop put ten pounds for each of us, on the nose. We’d have won a hundred pounds apiece.”
O’Reilly heard the flatness of Donal’s voice. “But?”
“She came second by a nose.”
“So the eight of you lost eighty pounds between you.”
“I know,” said Donal sadly, “and it’s not the first time. Our share of the horse is down to five hundred and sixty pounds.” Donal sighed. “We’d do all right for a win, but we’re bollixed if the horse loses or places.”
“Jasus, Donal. A few more races that she doesn’t win and none of you’ll have any share at all. And Bertie—”
“I know, sir. He’ll own the whole bloody horse.” Donal sighed again. “When we started setting this up, we thought we’d a great chance to make a bit betting, and with every win the value of the horse goes up so our shares increase in value.”
“I understand,” said O’Reilly. And, he thought, I also understand that the secret of a good con artist is to play upon people’s greed. There was something he didn’t understand about the betting, something that was niggling at him.
Donal continued. “At the very start, when he asked us if we approved”—Donal stared at the tablecloth—“me and the rest took a vote on it. We were dead certain we were on to a sure thing, so we were.”
“You agreed to Bertie’s conditions? How he bets? The prize money?”
“We did.”
“Jasus,” said O’Reilly, “I think you are bollixed. He’s gradually bleeding you dry.”
Donal hung his head.
“I have the hang of it,” O’Reilly said. “Unless the animal wins, Bertie’ll end up owning the whole horse and making the entire profit when he sells her.” O’Reilly snorted. “That’s iniquitous. Bloody disgraceful. The gobshite.”
Donal forced a weak smile. “If the wee thing doesn’t start winning soon, it’ll not matter about us losing our shares. She’ll be worth nothing at sale. Who’d want to buy a racehorse that can’t win?”
O’Reilly scratched his chin. “Good point.” And Bertie Bishop was astute enough to see that too. Bertie was up to something. But what? O’Reilly needed to think. “Give me a minute, Donal.”
Donal nodded.
O’Reilly made a series of rapid calculations. On the last bet Bertie had put up one hundred pounds: the men’s communal stake and his own of twenty pounds. He used his money, was now out of pocket one hundred pounds, and in return had acquired eighty pounds worth of shares in the horse. “Jesus,” O’Reilly said, unaware that he had spoken. “I don’t believe it.”
“What, sir?”
O’Reilly took a very deep breath. “Donal, by my calculation Bertie Bishop is certainly doing you and your mates out of your shares, but he could do it cheaper by simply buying you out. Look …” It took little time to convince Donal that O’Reilly was right.
“What do you think it means, sir?” Donal asked.
“I’m damned if I know … yet. But he’s up to something that’ll make a big profit for Bertie Bishop unless, Donal, we can find out what he’s about and put a stopper in it.” O’Reilly grinned. Sorting this out could be fun.
“Can you, sir?”
“I think the first thing to do is to persuade him to stop placing bets until we’ve worked out what he’s up to.”
“Stop him betting, sir?” Donal asked. “How? We all signed a paper that said he could bet whenever he liked.” He hung his head. “And when someone holds your job in his hand, and me with Julie and a wean coming on to support …” He sighed. “I hope to God she wins that five hundred pounds for her pictures.” Donal looked at O’Reilly. He’d seen that supplication in Arthur Guinness’s eyes. “I hoped, sir, when I come here maybe I could get yourself to have a wee word with him.”
“Did you ever hear of an English king, Canute, telling the tide not to come in?”
Donal shook his head.
“Doesn’t matter.” O’Reilly looked to the ceiling, then back to Donal. “Donal Donnelly, I think you and your friends have taken leave of your senses.”
“I think maybe we have, so we have.” Donal hung his head. “I just hoped, you know, maybe you could see a way out of it, sir.”
“I’ll be blowed if I can right now, Donal. Not if you’ve signed a piece of paper. Not just at the moment—”
“I see, sir.” Donal’s face crumbled.
“But—”
“But what, sir?” Donal looked O’Reilly right in the eye. “What?”
“I’ll think on it. There must be a way. At least we have something to start with. Bertie’s so mean he’d wrestle a bear for a ha’penny. He’s got something going, and I’m going to ferret it out.”
“Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.” Donal tugged his forelock.
O’Reilly was aware of Barry appearing in the doorway, saying, “Happy New Year, Donal.”
“Thank you, sir, and to you.”
“Fingal,” Barry said, “I’m off. The Browns live quite near. I’ll leave the car. I’ll not be long.”
Donal rose. “Are you walking into the village, sir?”
“I am.”
“I’ll come with you. Bit of company, like.” Donal turned. “Thank you very much, Doctor O’Reilly. I know you’ll sort everything out. Youse doctors always do.”
9
No Man Gets a Full Meal
Jack Mills was not going to be able to sort things out between Patricia and Barry, he knew that, but it was good to be in his old friend’s company. Now Barry had someone other than Fingal to tell his troubles to, even if, at the moment, Jack was taking his time, clearly waiting for the opportunity to bring the subject up—or for Barry to do so.
They sat at a Formica-topped table in the University Café, an establishment known universally as Smoky Joe’s. The smell of deep frying permeated the very structure of the place.
Barry had slept late this Saturday morning and being in a rush had settled for a cup of coffee for his breakfast. He’d had time to tell Fingal about the cases he’d seen yesterday. The senior man had laughed when Barry explained that Colin Brown’s “cold” was more likely a severe case of I-don’t-want-to-go-back-to-school-itis, a singularly prevalent condition near the end of the holidays.
“Silly boy,” O’Reilly remarked. “He’d be missing the chance to see that teacher—the one we met at the Christmas pageant.” He looked straight at Barry. “What’s her name?”
Barry immediately understood what O’Reilly was trying to do. “Miss Nolan,” Barry said. “Sue Nolan … from Broughshane.”
“Pretty girl. Marvellous hair.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Fingal. I didn’t really notice.” Of course, he hadn’t missed the schoolmistress’s single plait of waist-length copper-coloured hair, but he didn’t want to talk about her. Not now. Barry looked at his watch. “If I don’t go, I’ll miss the 11:27 to Belfast. I’ll see you on Sunday night. Have a great
weekend.”
“I will.” O’Reilly chuckled. “Now you run on. I’d not want you to miss the train.”
* * *
Barry had got off at Queen’s Quay Station, where only six months ago he’d waited for a girl with a limp to catch the night’s last train to Bangor. A girl called Patricia Spence.
Trying and failing to stop dwelling on her, he’d gone by bus from the station to Jack’s flat on Camden Street near the university and Smoky Joe’s.
Now Jack sat opposite him and spoke to the waiter. “Right, my good man.” He had to raise his voice to make himself heard above the occupants of the other seven tables. He mimicked the drawling aristocratic tones of Hercules Gritpype-Thynne, a character played by Peter Sellers in the BBC’s wildly popular Goon Show. “As the caviar’s off and the chateaubriand’ll take the chef far too long to prepare”—he scrutinised a blackboard where the all-day menu was scrawled in chalk—“I’ll have the … um … the sausage, egg, and … uh … chips. Yes. Chips.”
The waiter, a man with a cast in his left eye, licked the tip of his pencil and scribbled on a notepad.
Jack continued: “The sausages medium rare; the eggs, as our American cousins say, sunny-side up, peculiar expression; and just the merest, the merest soupçon of coriander on the French-fried potatoes.”
“Away off and chase yourself, Doctor Mills. They’ll come the way we always do them, so they will.”
Jack sighed. “I suppose a properly infused cup of Earl Grey is completely out of the question?”
“You’ll get your tea stewed, same as usual, and in an enamel mug.”
Jack curled his lip. “Have you no Dresden china?”
The waiter laughed. “Jesus, you’re a gas man, Doctor Mills, so you are. How many years have you been coming in here, acting the lig? Trying to take a hand out of me?” He shook his head. “Pull the other leg. It has bells on it, so it has.”
How many years, Barry thought, since Jack and he’d shared a room in Queen’s Elms just up the road? On nights when the institutional food had been worse than usual, they’d have come to Smoky’s. The waiter, who never seemed to age, had been here as long. “Pay no heed to him, Brendan,” Barry said. “I’ll have the bacon and egg. No chips.” He didn’t need to look at the blackboard’s menu to know that no matter how the combinations of sausages, eggs, bacon, ham, potato cakes, black pudding, and tomato might be worded, every single dish ended with “and chips.”