Craig Robertson - Random

He’d be a bit shady, bound to be, but legit enough. There would be a good few bets never chalked up for the taxman. He’d maybe be paying a bit of insurance to keep his shop from going up in flames, protection money to ensure a safe trip to the bank with a bag of takings.

Billy the bookie was in his late fifties, a cheery, grey-haired man of about five foot six with steel glasses, a belly and a purple face. His stomach, face and nose told me he liked his beer and whisky. So did his lunchtime visits to the Imperial Bar.

He lived an easy fifteen-minute drive from his shop, a big semi in Whiteinch with garden front and back. His wife was a faded woman with hard-worked hair, nicotine skin and 1980s clothes. I twice saw two guys who were probably grown-up kids that had flown the coop.

I watched him get into his car to drive to the shop.

I watched him walk from his shop to the bank and saw him stop fully five times to chat with this person or that.

Billy Hutchison knew everyone in the street and they all knew him. He had a joke for most, a quiet word for others. For every one of them he had a breezy smile. He tousled kids’ hair, he patted dogs and he waved at passing cars. Chances are he would have helped old ladies across the road if any of them needed it. He was Santa, offering 2-1 the field.

It didn’t make any difference. His was the name at the end of my finger and that was all that mattered. Carr had made it easy for me by being a total fanny but that wasn’t the point. Random is random.

I slipped into the pub and watched Billy. I was much more comfortable in the Imperial than I had been in the Corinthian. The beer, bunnets and bandits hid me better than champagne and chandeliers. No one looked twice.

Billy held court at a table in the corner. He sat with cronies and there was a lot of laughing and waving of hands. They all enjoyed the craic but Billy was king. No doubt about it.

The bunnets – whether they wore them or not – knew their place. They could have a pop at Billy, make a joke at his expense, didn’t matter. When Billy spoke they listened and laughed. He was the money man and that bought him stature.

I watched him knock back a pint of special and a large whisky. He wolfed down a plate of lasagne and chips. Chips with lasagne? Christ, the ‘chef’ deserved killing.

He had another pint and two more double whiskies. He chased the lasagne and chips salad down with apple pie and cream.

He had lasagne on his shirt, spots of cream on his collar and a mix of the whole mess on his face. To celebrate, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and burped. It was more than a rift. It was an open-mouth belch that he exaggerated by making it roar from his belly.

Billy the bookie sat back to let everyone marvel at his talent and his mates duly paid homage by all laughing with him.

I guess you can find a reason to kill anyone if you look hard enough. Billy Hutchison – nice old guy, burping slob – had just signed his warrant. I finished my drink, left the pub and went home.

It was fully two weeks until I went back to Maryhill and went into Billy’s shop. I’d seen him go into the Imperial just after twelve and the first race was the 2.00 at Sandown. Billy would be back in the bookies by 1.30 so that gave him nearly an hour and a half to fill his belly and display his manners.

I walked and waited – I didn’t need to watch him eat again. Walking when you have nowhere to go and no wish to be noticed is a strange thing. You can’t just look aimless, there has to be a direction about you. Pick a spot in front of you and walk quick enough, not too quick. No eye contact, keep in the shadows, be casual. Walk as if you are whistling without actually doing so.

I got far enough, checked my watch, looked around as if I was a bit lost and making my mind up. No idea if anyone was actually watching me. Checked my watch again, puffed out my cheeks and turned around.

Back to Billy’s.

It was ten past two, the first race was over and the place should have filled up a bit. More customers, more cover.

I had one worry though and there was no way I could think of to test it except by going in. Suck it and see, no other way to go. CCTV. The bane of my frigging life. Well, my new life.

I had spent a lot of time thinking about it. Pros. Cons. There were no pros. I would say that I lost sleep over it but I didn’t sleep much anyway. However the thought of them definitely made me anxious. If there were cameras in there then it could only be bad news. The only question was the degree of trouble.

My only protection was the baseball cap on my head and while that would help, it was hardly a disguise. One shot of me in the shop meant a link could be proven. No getting away from that. It would be a while yet before anything happened to Billy and it would mean someone checking through a lot of film but it could be done.

Maybe Billy didn’t keep the film more than a day or two. Maybe Billy had cameras with no film in them. Maybe Billy had no camera. I didn’t like maybes. I needed certainties. Random only gets you so far.

What was my take on Billy boy? He had money but not that much. The house was reasonably expensive but not that much. Semi. Semi-detached, semi-expensive. I’d looked at his shoes – a hundred quid a time with worn heels. He ate lasagne and chips but wore a watch that was either worth five hundred pounds or a tenner depending on whether it was legit or a snidey. He had a two quid haircut and two twenty-grand cars in his drive. He walked to the bank. Mrs nicotine skin and hard-worked hair carried Louis Vuitton handbags and went to bingo twice a week.

My money was on Billy not having a camera. It was a big bet. Bigger than anything placed in Hutchison’s Independent Bookmakers. I figured that he wouldn’t want to spend the money. Figured he’d not want everything that happened in his shop to be recorded either. Figured he’d have a dummy camera at best.

For figured, read hoped. For hoped, read prayed. Except I didn’t pray to God any more.

I had finished my return walk and was outside the bookies. I didn’t hesitate even though I wanted to. I breathed deep and approached the door. Let there be no cameras. No cameras. No cameras. Keep saying it, make it so.

I pushed through the frosted-glass door and went in, knowing that the last thing I should do was look for the last thing I wanted to see. Scanning the little shop for cameras would be like holding my hands up.

There were newspapers pinned up on the far wall and I headed over to hide myself against them until I got my bearings. I made as if I was poring over the Sandown form. Made as if I knew what I was doing. Checked out the floor. Worn carpet. Rolled-up betting slips. Rogue ash showed someone was ignoring the smoking ban.

The walls behind the pinned-up racing pages could have done with a lick of paint. There were chips out of the Formica tabletops and a loose wire sticking out below a light switch. Thoughts of electrocution strayed across my mind.

I found a betting slip and wrote out a line. Fiver on the favourite in the second.

Billy took the bet himself. There was just him and a slightly chubby twenty-something girl with dark hair behind the counter. He gave the slip the once-over before giving me some cheesy ‘last of the big spenders’ grin and clocked in my bet. He’d barely seen me although it didn’t matter if he did. Only mattered who else saw me. Billy wouldn’t be talking.

He gave me my copy of the slip and turned to the next punter.

I looked at him just a moment longer than I should have done. Imagining all kinds of things and thinking it odd that I was standing so close to him. I was stalling and it was stupid and yet I didn’t, couldn’t, pull away. The chubby girl was looking at me, her eyebrows knitted, about to ask if there was anything wrong. Sure, I thought, I am going to kill your boss and I’m having a good gawk at him first. You got a problem with that? Instead I made a show of checking my betting slip and nodding my head before sliding back into the cover of the punters.