Tip Off by John Francome Page B

job and have winning weeks, but not regularly; and if it does get too frequent, we close their accounts. Now, if we stopped everyone who was winning, we’d have no clients left.’
    â€˜How much have Salmon’s lost so far from all this, then?’ Matt pressed.
    The question hit a nerve. Chapman’s face lost some of its colour. ‘Too much,’ he grunted. ‘It can’t go on – and you can quote me on that.’
    I had the impression that if we didn’t find out soon what Toby was doing, Chapman would do something about it himself. He lifted his large frame from the chair. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me?’
    We were already rising from our seats in anticipation of the end of the interview. I looked at Matt, showing only a hint of my disappointment at this lack of any fresh information.
    â€˜Thank you for your time,’ I said.
    Chapman shrugged indifferently. ‘If you start making any real progress, let me know. Give my regards to Lord Tintern. Tell him I’m delighted he’s put two such sharp young men on the case. I expect his relationship with Toby makes the whole situation a bit ticklish for him.’
    â€˜I didn’t detect any particular reticence when he was instructing us,’ I said.
    Chapman laughed. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you’re probably right. Well, good day to you.’ He ushered us from his office with another hearty shake of his hand.
    We walked through to the ante-room and Matt closed the door behind him. Sara was sitting at her desk. He lifted an eyebrow. ‘What time do you finish work?’ he asked quietly.
    â€˜About six,’ she said, with an almost imperceptible glance at the door to her boss’s office.
    â€˜I’ll be here to pick you up then.’
    Â 
    We retrieved my Audi from its meter outside and headed for my sister’s small house in Notting Hill which we used as a London base.
    â€˜Looks as though you might have scored,’ I said.
    â€˜It’s not a question of scoring,’ Matt blustered. ‘I just thought it might be useful to have a pair of ears inside that office. Those people have more reason than anyone to stop Toby.’
    I restrained a smile. I’d always been rather curious about Matt’s approach to women. I suspected that beneath the irrefutably tough and tightly controlled exterior there was an emotional vulnerability – perhaps the origin of the hardened outer shell. I had never encroached on this private area and thus our long friendship had survived.
    â€˜All right, but I bet you wouldn’t have thought of it if she wasn’t so attractive.’
    Matt allowed this. ‘Possibly not.’ He picked up the phone. ‘I’m going to call the office.’
    When he was answered, he spoke for a few minutes to Jason who co-ordinated the half dozen men, ex-soldiers mostly, whom we employed on the bread-and-butter personal protection and surveillance work.
    I gathered nothing new had come in on our present job, but David Dysart of Wessex Biotech had rung.
    â€˜At least we’ve got something to tell him,’ Matt muttered.
    â€˜Come on,’ I protested. ‘We haven’t much at all.’
    â€˜We agreed that Griffiths seemed to have more assets than his salary would account for.’
    â€˜That proves nothing, though.’
    But Matt was already punching a number into the phone. When it was answered, he asked for Dysart and waited. After a few moments, he made a face. ‘Right, I’ll come down in person as soon as I can,’ he grunted and put the phone down.
    Â 
    My sister Catherine had used all the money our father had left her to buy a pretty little house near Notting Hill Gate.
    Fortunately for me, almost as soon as she’d bought it, she’d left her job at Vogue and gone to work on an American glossy in New York. She’d asked me to keep an eye on the house. In return, Matt and I used it as our London