I made a search of the Companies House WebCHeck service and downloaded the most recent annual report for Tony Bateman (Turf Accountants) Ltd and for HRF Holdings Ltd. They were both private limited companies, and the report recorded the names of the directors and the company secretaries, as well as a list of the current shareholders, of each entity.

Just as there is no longer an individual called William Hill in charge of the William Hill bookmaking company, there was no sign in the report of anyone actually called Tony Bateman either as a director or as a shareholder at Tony Bateman (Turf Accountants) Ltd. It must have been a name from the past, I thought, possibly the company founder or maybe an individual bookmaker who was, at some distant time, bought out by a bigger concern.

I did, however, recognize one name prominent amongst the list of both the directors and the shareholders of the company. Henry Richard Feldman was well known on British racetracks. Now in his late sixties, he had made his money in property development, specifically in the docklands of both London and Liverpool, although there were reports that a recent fall in house prices had hit him hard. For the past twenty years or so, he had been a prolific and successful racehorse owner, mostly jumpers. He was also the sole shareholder of HRF Holdings Ltd.

But why did he or, more precisely, why did Tony Bateman (Turf Accountants) Ltd want to buy my business?

Ever since betting shops were made legal in Britain in 1961, the big firms had been expanding their domains by buying out the small independent bookies. But mostly it had been the individual town-center betting shops they had been after. However, more recently they had also been turning up in the betting rings on the tracks, using their influence to further control the on-course prices.

Now, it would seem, it was the turn of my business to be in their sights whether I liked it or not. Tony Bateman Ltd wasn’t so much after me and Luca, or even our customers; they were after our lucrative pitch positions at the racetracks. And, it appeared, they were prepared to resort to threats and intimidation to get them.

Sophie was fast asleep when, well after midnight, I finally went along the landing to bed. As always, coming home from the hospital had completely exhausted her.

I crept quietly into our bedroom and, last thing, with both shifty-eyed Kipper and the bullyboys from HRF Holdings still out there somewhere, I put Sophie’s dressing-table chair under the door handle.

Just to be on the safe side.

19

On Wednesday morning I made the arrangements for my father’s funeral. What I really wanted was to have a cremation because I believed it gave greater closure. However, the coroner’s office had other ideas.

“The police have withdrawn their objection to a burial,” said an official. “But they said nothing about a cremation. And I haven’t heard anything from the CPS.”

“The CPS?” I asked.

“Crown Prosecution Service,” he said.

I sighed. Why was everything so damn difficult?

“Will you please ask them all, then,” I said, “if they have any objection to a cremation.”

“Can’t you do that?” said the official.

“But you would have to be told by them, not me, which would involve another call anyway,” I said. “So why don’t you just telephone them in the first place?”

“OK, I suppose so,” he said, clearly reluctantly.

“Good,” I said briskly before he could think of another excuse. “I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes.”

While I waited, I used the Internet to look up funeral directors close to Wexham Park Hospital. There were loads of them. I’d never realized that dying was so popular in that part of Berkshire.

I’d also never realized how expensive dying could be. A basic, no-frills funeral would cost about a thousand pounds, and that didn’t include the substantial price of a grave plot or the charge for the use of the crematorium. Add to that the cost of the necessary certificates, as well as a fee for someone to conduct the service, and it soon became a hefty sum indeed. To say nothing of the extras that could be incurred if I wanted an eco-friendly cardboard coffin or a choir. I began to wish I’d taken a bit more from the blue-plastic-wrapped packages to cover the expenses.

What, I wondered, would have happened if I hadn’t been here?

I called back the official at the coroner’s office.

“The police are happy, after all, that a cremation of Mr. Talbot’s remains can take place,” he said. “And the CPS doesn’t seem to be bothered at the moment because no one has been arrested yet for the crime.”

“Great,” I replied. I had discovered that the cost of a cremation was much less than that for a grave plot. “Tell me,” I went on, “who organizes and pays for a funeral of someone who turns up from abroad and dies in England without any family or friends?”

“The local Environmental Health Department would have to see to it,” he said.

“And they pay?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “But they then try and recover the money from the family or from the deceased’s estate. But that won’t happen here because you are the next of kin and you’re here, so you can pay for it.” He made it sound so easy.

“How about if I couldn’t afford to?” I asked.

“You could apply to the Social Fund for help,” he said. “But you’d have to be receiving some sort of state benefit to qualify.”

Somehow it didn’t seem quite fair that my father had turned up out of the blue when I had thought he’d been dead for thirty-seven years only for me to be saddled with his funeral expenses, especially when his death was due to someone else sticking him in the guts with a carving knife. But I could tell that it was going to be no good arguing about it. There wouldn’t be a huge amount of sympathy for someone who had murdered his wife even if he himself had been the victim of a violent end. I would just have to shut up and pay up.

I called the first funeral director on the Internet list.

“We could fit you in this coming Friday,” the man said. “We’ve had a cancellation at Slough Crem. It’s a bit short notice, though.”

I amusingly wondered how a funeral director could have a cancellation for a cremation. Perhaps the deceased had miraculously returned to life.

“What time on Friday?” I asked.

“Three o’clock,” he said.

Friday was just two days away, but I didn’t think that really mattered. It wasn’t as if there would be anyone else coming. I wondered if I should try to contact his family in Australia to ask if any of them would want to attend. But I didn’t even know who to contact, and no one from there had been in touch with me during the past two weeks, either directly or through the Coroner’s Court, and they had my address.

“Three on Friday will be fine,” I said.

“Right,” he said. “Where is your father’s body?”

Good question, I thought. “I presume he’s still at Wexham Park Hospital,” I said. “But I’m not sure. The coroner’s office will know.”

I started to give him their number.

“Don’t worry, we’ve got it,” he said. “We’ll fix everything.”

For a fee, no doubt, I thought rather ungraciously.

“Do I need to book someone to take the service?” I asked.

“We can also fix that if you like, but you don’t have to have anyone religious if you don’t want to,” he said. “Anyone can take the service. You can officiate yourself, if you want to.”

“No,” I said. “I think he would have wanted a vicar or something.”

I couldn’t imagine why I thought that. Perhaps it was me who would rather have a clergyman. I wasn’t a very religious person, but I did think it would be slightly odd if I officiated at the service and, at the same time, was the only mourner present. Better to have an expert, so to speak.