Forgive Me Father. Paul Gitsham

was he a big drinker?’

      She laughed. ‘I wish. Two pints was about his limit, and a packet of cheese and onion crisps if he was feeling peckish.’

      ‘Would any of your regulars be likely to have noticed anything?’

      She thought for a moment. ‘Hard to say. I can ask around if you like.’

      ‘We’d appreciate that,’ said Ruskin.

      ‘Why don’t you come back for a drink in a couple of days and I’ll let you know what I’ve heard?’

      Warren hid a smile, as Ruskin politely deflected the offer and passed over a card with his number.

      ‘Blimey Moray, and you weren’t even in uniform,’ teased Warren as they stepped back out onto the street.

      The burly Scot shrugged. ‘Not exactly my type. And I’m spoken for, remember.’

      ‘Let her down gently.’

      * * *

      If, as Hutchinson had suggested, Father Nolan liked to place the odd bet before his pint, he didn’t have far to walk.

      There was something especially sad about a bookmaker’s on a weekday afternoon, decided Warren, as they left the third shop in a street barely two hundred metres long. The woman behind the reinforced glass partition hadn’t recognised Father Nolan’s photograph. Neither had any of the punters, although most of them – scruffy men of varying ages – had barely been able to tear their eyes away from the galloping horses on the banks of wall-mounted TVs, or shift their attention from the ubiquitous fixed-odds betting terminals gobbling money at a rate far faster than the player could possibly earn it.

      ‘They’re like a bloody cancer,’ muttered Ruskin, as they walked the twenty paces to the next establishment. According to Google Maps, there were another four within half a mile of their current location.

      ‘You won’t get any argument from me,’ agreed Warren. ‘They’re just a tax on the poor and desperate.’ He waved his hand vaguely towards the surrounding streets. ‘Most of the folks around here haven’t got a pot to piss in, yet these big companies can set up shops opposite each other and there’s still enough business to go around. Tells you everything you need to know about their ethics and in whose favour the odds are stacked.’

      ‘What is a bloke of working age doing in a bookie in the middle of the day on a Tuesday anyway?’ asked Ruskin.

      ‘I think it’s fair to say that if you are in that position, life isn’t going to plan.’

      The two officers finally found what they were looking for in the fourth bookie they visited. So far, almost all of the main chains had been represented in a single stretch of road, with the remainder all within easy walking distance.

      The inside of the shop was just a variation on the others they’d already been to. The wall to the left was covered in flat-screen TVs, some showing live horse racing, others a constantly updating series of betting odds and news flashes. The wall opposite was papered with pages from the Racing Post, with desk space below for gamblers to complete the pre-printed betting slips using one of the stubby blue biros. Unlike banks, the shop didn’t feel the need to secure the pens to the desk with a chain, simply supplying containers filled with them. Probably a reflection of the profits made by a typical bookie compared to major high-street banks, Warren thought, his cynicism towards the betting industry having risen steadily over the past half hour.

      For those unwilling to miss valuable gambling time by hand-delivering their slip to the assistants safely locked away in their reinforced glass cubicles, bets could be placed directly onto a computer terminal. And if studying form and actually awaiting the outcome for a race was too much, then each of the four fixed odds betting terminals would happily swallow money at a rate of £300 per minute. It was clear to see why they placed a chair in front of the machines.

      The person behind the till, a man in his early twenties with a name badge saying ‘Martin’, nodded as soon as they passed the glossy photograph to him.

      ‘Oh yes, I recognise him. He was a regular.’

      ‘How regular?’ asked Warren.

      ‘Probably about twice a week. I work here most afternoons, after lectures finish. He used to come in late afternoon, then head off for a pint.’

      ‘Was he a big gambler?’

      The man paused. ‘Look, do you have a warrant or something? I’m not sure I can just give out information about customers without their permission. You know, data protection and all that. My manager is on his lunch break, perhaps you can call back later?’

      ‘Father Nolan’s dead,’ said Warren, his eyes flicking towards the copy of the Middlesbury Reporter sitting on the desk next to the cashier; a different, but still recognisable, picture of Father Nolan took up half of the front page.

      The man followed his gaze, then looked back at the photograph.

      ‘Oh … shit, that was him? Guess it doesn’t matter, then.’

      ‘What sort of a punter was he?’ repeated Ruskin.

      The teller glanced over his shoulder, as if expecting his manager to suddenly materialise, then lowered his voice.

      ‘Just a bit of a flutter. He’d spend a while reading the Post and then put a couple of quid either way on the favourite. He’d stay here for three or four races, if that.’

      ‘So no more than, ten, fifteen quid?’

      ‘Probably about that.’

      ‘Did he pay by cash or card?’

      ‘Cash.’

      ‘Was he lucky?’

      ‘No more or less than anyone, I’d say.’

      ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

      ‘Probably about a week ago. I had wondered why I hadn’t seen him for a while. I never thought … shit. Burnt himself to death, they said. Poor bastard.’

      ‘Did you notice anything different about him? A change of mood, perhaps?’

      ‘Nothing, but he never really said much. He was polite, and he’d enquire after my health, but it was just chit-chat you know? I can’t say I knew him.’

      ‘Was he friendly with any of the other regulars?’

      Martin snorted. ‘It’s not really that sort of place.’ He discreetly pointed towards a man of about twenty, wearing a baseball cap, a rolled-up cigarette behind his ear, loading money into a gambling machine. He lowered his voice even more. ‘Take that guy. Has two kids and still lives at home with his mum. You can tell when he’s had his dole money because he goes and gets his rings back from the pawnbrokers. He won’t be wearing them by the end of the week. I only know about him because his brother’s the same and I overhear them talking sometimes. You try not to judge, but the guy’s a complete failure and he knows it.’ The young bookmaker sighed. ‘To be honest, this place is pretty depressing. I’m only here because the money’s better than stacking shelves and I’m doing an accountancy degree. I can’t wait to leave.

      ‘Customers like Father Nolan, who just come in for a flutter and know when to stop are pretty rare. “When the fun stops, stop”, the adverts say.’ His laughter was mirthless, as he angled his chin towards another customer. ‘The fun stopped for most of these guys years ago.’

      Dressed the same as the youth at the gambling machine, the man could easily have been forty years older. His face was a mass of deep creases, and his half-open mouth, with its tongue stuck out in concentration, had less teeth than his right hand had fingers. At his feet, the thin plastic of a white carrier bag did nothing to hide the two unopened cans of extra-strength lager, or the two others crushed in the bottom.

      ‘Take that bloke over there. He self-excluded from here