Tip Off by John Francome Page A

Beneath a mop of fluffy grey hair and heavy lids, his eyes radiated a wily charm. He held out his hand and shook Matt’s then mine with flamboyant gusto.
    â€˜Good morning.’ There was a hint of South London in the gravelly voice. ‘Let me guess which of you is which,’ he cut in as I was about to tell him my name. ‘I’ve had a look at your company profile, and I see that Mr James was one of those covert heroes who do so much to protect our liberty. That would be you,’ he said, looking at me.
    So forceful were his gaze and conviction that I almost quailed from contradicting him. ‘Nearly right, Mr Chapman,’ I muttered. ‘In fact, I’m Simon Jeffries.’
    The big man let go of my hand and roared with laughter. ‘Nearly right,’ he guffawed. ‘Very good.’ He turned to Matt. ‘Sorry. Someone once told me you SAS chaps all look like university professors. Very wise, I should think. But you look more of the James Bond type. Anyway, have a seat.’
    He sat down before us in a large easy chair, while we sat opposite on another over-filled sofa. Sara came in with our tray and poured coffee. I saw her glance at Matt with a quick smile.
    â€˜So, what have you boys come to see me about, exactly? I see you’re a client, Mr James.’
    â€˜It’s nothing to do with that,’ I said hurriedly. ‘I understand that you approached the Jockey Club on behalf of the Bookmakers’ Association, to register your concerns over Toby Brown’s tipping service?’
    Chapman nodded. ‘Yes, I did. And I’d have gone to them with or without the other members of my association. I don’t know how he’s doing it, but it’s costing all of us millions. It can’t go on.’ He stopped and looked at us squarely, as if we were the culprits, to add more emphasis to his words. ‘It’s giving racing a terrible name, and those pompous old buggers in Portman Square weren’t doing much about it when it’s clearly their responsibility. As you know, anything to do with racing in this country comes under their jurisdiction. If Brown were being palpably fraudulent, we could bring the police in, but we have nothing to go on and, as far as I can see, the powers that be have done little to mobilise their internal security people.’
    â€˜We received instructions from Lord Tintern as chairman of the disciplinary committee the day before yesterday,’ I told him.
    â€˜So, what do you think?’
    â€˜It’s too soon to say,’ Matt put in before I could reply. ‘Do you have any theories yourself, sir?’
    â€˜Forget the “sir”. You’re not in the army now, you know.’
    Matt allowed himself a quick smile. I acknowledged to myself the subtlety of his technique in gaining control of meetings like this.
    â€˜Thank you, but what are your ideas?’
    â€˜It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ The question wasn’t entirely rhetorical.
    â€˜You tell us, sir,’ Matt prompted.
    Chapman ignored the ‘sir’ this time. ‘Well, it’s not sheer skill, is it?’
    We shook our heads.
    â€˜Or luck,’ Chapman growled. ‘He’s cheating.’
    â€˜The reason we’ve come to see you is to hear what you’ve discovered so far,’ Matt pressed.
    â€˜Like what?’
    â€˜Have you identified who’s been your biggest winner since this run started?’
    Harry made a face. ‘Of course we’ve tried. But there isn’t any one big winner – it’s all of them. One guy phones the line and tells ten friends. It’s killing us.’
    â€˜But there’s no one individual or consortium?’
    Chapman shrugged. ‘No, they’re all at it.’
    â€˜Have you ever experienced such a successful run for a tipster before?’ Matt asked.
    â€˜No,’ Harry replied emphatically. ‘Never. There are people who know their