Dick Francis - Under Orders

Frank Snow had little else of interest to give me. Harrow had done its best to keep the whole matter out of the Press and, at the time, had closed ranks. Lochstein was not even in the official list of old boys that Frank showed me.

We spent a companionable ten minutes or so together and he gave me a short tour of the photographs on the walls.

‘These,’ he said indicating the black-and-white ones, ‘are from before the First World War. Harrow was a pretty severe place then so I suppose they didn’t have much to smile about. These others are the rugby teams I used to coach, the Under 16s. They were my boys and some of them still come in to see me. Makes me feel so old to see how they’ve changed. A few even have their own boys here now.’

I thanked him for his time and for the coffee. He seemed disappointed that I didn’t want to see more of the hundreds of pictures he had stacked in a cupboard.

‘Perhaps another time,’ I said, moving towards the door.

‘Mr Halley,’ he said.

‘Yes.’ I turned.

‘I hope you do find that Lochstein has been up to no good.’

‘I thought Public Schools stood up for their former pupils, no matter what.’

‘The school might, but I don’t. That one deserves some trouble.’

We shook hands.

‘If you need anything further, Mr Halley, don’t be afraid to ask.’ He smiled. ‘I still owe Lochstein a beating — five strokes to be precise.’

Revenge was indeed a dish best eaten cold.

On my way back to central London I made a slight detour to Wembley Park to take a look at the Make A Wager Ltd office building. I had their address from the Companies House website but nevertheless it took fifteen minutes of backtracking around an industrial estate to find it. I must get satellite navigation, I thought. Perhaps on my next car. I parked round the corner and walked back.

The office building was pretty nondescript. It was a simple rectangular red-brick structure of five floors with a small unmanned entrance lobby at one end. An array of mobile phone masts sprouted up from the flat roof and there were security cameras pointing in every direction.

A notice next to the entrance intercom stated that visitors for Make A Wager Ltd should press the button and wait. Visitors, it seemed, were not encouraged.

There was little to show that it was the headquarters of a multi-million-pound operation other than the line of expensive cars and big powerful motorbikes in the small car park opposite the door. I looked at the cars. The nearest was a dark blue Porsche 911 Carrera with GL21 as its number plate. So George was in.

Shall I be bold? I asked myself. Shall I go in and see him? Why not? Nothing to lose, only my life.

I pressed the button and waited.

Eventually a female voice said, ‘Yes?’ from the speaker next to the button.

‘Sid Halley here to see George Lochs,’ I said back.

‘Just a minute,’ said the voice.

I waited some more.

After at least a minute, the voice said, ‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘I was passing and I thought I would drop in to see George. I know him.’

‘Just a minute,’ said the voice again.

I waited. And waited.

‘Take the lift to the fourth floor,’ said the voice and a buzzer sounded.

I pushed the door open and did as I was told.

George/Clarence was waiting for me when the lift opened. I remembered him from our meeting in Jonny Enstone’s box at Cheltenham. He was lean, almost athletic, with blond hair brushed back showing a certain receding over the temples. But he was not wearing his suit today. Instead he sported a dark roll-neck sweater and blue denim jeans. He hadn’t been expecting guests.

‘Sid Halley,’ he said, holding out a hand. ‘Good to see you again. What brings you to this godforsaken part of north London?’

Was I suspicious or was there a hint of anxiety in his voice? Or maybe it was irritation?

‘I was passing and I thought I’d come and see what your offices looked like.’

I don’t think he believed me, but it was true.

‘There’s not much to show,’ he said.

He slid a green plastic card through a reader on the wall that unlocked the door to the offices on the fourth floor. He stood aside to allow me in.

‘Have you been in this building long?’ I asked.

‘Nearly five years. At first we were only on one floor but we’ve gradually expanded and now we occupy the whole place.’

There were thirty or so staff sitting at open-plan desks along the windows, each with a computer screen shining brightly in front of them. It was quiet for a room with so many people. A few hushed conversations were taking place but the majority were studying their screens and tapping quietly on their keyboards.

‘On this floor we have our market managers,’ said George in a hushed tone. ‘Have you seen our website?’

‘Yes,’ I said, equally hushed.

‘You know then that you can gamble on just about anything you like, just as long as you can find someone to match your bet. Last year, we managed a wager between two young men concerning which of them would get his respective girlfriend pregnant quickest.’ He laughed. ‘We ended up having to get doctors’ reports to settle it.’

‘That’s crazy,’ I said.

‘But most of our markets are less personal than that. The staff here look at the incoming bets and try to match them if the computer doesn’t do it automatically. And there are always special events that need a human brain to sort out. Computers can be very clever but they like the rules to be absolutes. Just yes or no, no maybes.’

‘Where are the computers?’ I asked, looking around.

‘Downstairs,’ he said. ‘The first and second floors are full of computer hardware. We have to keep them in climate-controlled conditions with massive air conditioners.’

‘My computer’s forever crashing,’ I said.

‘That’s why we continually back up everything. And we have more than one main-frame machine. They check on each other all the time. It’s very sophisticated.’

I could sense that George was bragging. He was clearly enjoying showing me how clever he was.

‘Do you do on-line gaming as well as exchange wagering?’

‘Yes, but not from this office. We have a Gibraltar-based operation for that. More cost effective.’

I suspected it was also more tax effective.

‘Why the interest?’ he asked.

‘No real reason,’ I said.

‘Is there anything specific you came here to find out?’

‘No. I’m just naturally inquisitive.’ And nosy.

I wandered a little further down the office.

‘Is this all the staff you have?’ I asked.

‘Nooo,’ he said, amused. ‘There are lots more. The accounts department is on the floor below here and there must be fifty personnel there. Then we have the technical staff who live amongst the machines on the lower floors. Then the ground floor has the company security staff, and a canteen.’

‘Quite a set-up,’ I said, sounding impressed. And I was.

‘Yes. We operate here twenty-four hours a day every day of the year. There are always duty technicians on standby in case of problems with the machines. We can’t afford for the system to go down. It’s not good for business. Now, is there anything else you want, Sid? I’m very busy.’

His irritation was beginning to show through more sharply.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Sorry. Many thanks for showing me around.’

And, oh yes, by the way, could I have a hair, please?

I followed him to the door and could see no convenient blond hairs lying on his dark sweater, and none helpfully sticking up from his head just waiting to be plucked out. This wasn’t as easy as Marina had suggested, especially one-handed.