Deadfall by Lyndon Stacey

Discovery, trudging across the puddled gravel to the turnstiles.
    In the ticket office a fifty-something woman with improbably red hair and even redder nails was counting change into a cash tray. She looked up with a measure of suspicion as Linc approached, dropping the remainder of the bagged change into the till and closing the drawer with a snap.
    â€˜We’re not open yet.’
    â€˜I know,’ Linc told her, with what he hoped wasa reassuring smile. ‘I wanted to come before it got too busy because I’m looking for someone and I wondered if anyone here could help me.’
    The heavily mascara’d eyes looked him up and down a time or two and apparently saw nothing threatening.
    â€˜Who’d you want?’
    â€˜Chap named Barnaby. I’m not sure if he’s an owner or a trainer but the fella I was talking to at Poole the other night said to ask for him.’
    â€˜Barnaby who? Or is it Mr Barnaby?’
    â€˜I’m not sure. He just said Barnaby. I should have got more details but we’d just had a big win and I wasn’t really thinking straight.’ He fervently hoped she wouldn’t press him for more information on his fictitious good fortune. In future, he would make a point of doing more thorough groundwork.
    â€˜And he’s running dogs here tonight?’
    Linc made a face. ‘That’s just it, I don’t know. Pretty hopeless, isn’t it?’
    The woman’s expression agreed with him. ‘What d’you want him for?’
    â€˜I was told he might have a dog for sale.’ He’d anticipated that question.
    â€˜Plenty of dogs for sale, luv,’ the red-head told him. ‘A dozen or so in here, for that matter.’ She held up a glossy booklet depicting a running dog and bearing the title
Ledworth Greyhound Stadium
. She slipped a slimmer, typed section out of the centre to show him. ‘Tonight’s races. Gives the names of the owners and trainers, too.’
    â€˜Oh. Could I have a copy?’
    â€˜Two pounds fifty,’ she stated uncompromisingly. ‘You know, I’m not the best one to ask really.I get to know the punters doing this job; don’t see much of the racing.’
    Linc fished in his trouser pocket for loose change. ‘Is there anyone else I could talk to, d’you think?’
    â€˜You can come back later, when we’re open, but I can’t let you in now, luv – sorry.’
    Linc turned as footsteps sounded behind him. A leather-jacketed man was coming across from the car park. He looked hard at Linc then turned to the woman.
    â€˜Everything all right, Lily?’ From his accent he was a Londoner.
    â€˜Yeah, I’m all right, luv. This gentleman is looking for someone, that’s all. Here,’ she said to Linc, ‘Marty’s the fella you want to ask. Works on the traps and knows everyone, don’tcha, luv?’
    â€˜That’s right. Who you looking for?’ Around forty, Marty had short dark hair, an earring and a hard, uncompromising expression.
    â€˜Someone called Barnaby. Friend of mine told me to look him up. Said he was well-known around the dog tracks . . .’
    Without appearing to give the matter any thought, Marty pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘Not this one. Who wants to know anyway?’
    â€˜I do,’ Linc said equally unhelpfully.
    Marty’s face hardened still further. ‘So what d’you want him for – this Barnaby chap?’
    â€˜If you don’t know him, it won’t interest you, will it?’ Linc replied. He waved the schedule at Lily. ‘Thanks for your help. I might try some of these numbers.’
    As he walked back to the Land-Rover he fancied he could feel Marty’s eyes boring into his back anda surreptitious glance as he turned to get in showed the man was indeed still watching him. Linc supposed the race card with its list of owners and trainers might be of some use but