“It seemed like such a mad idea, he thought he must be mistaken, so he said nothing to his tutor, but on the quiet he made enquiries with the Inland Revenue, the Property Registration Records, Somerset House, and other bodies and made a very strong case of . . . not sure what to call it.”

“Try ‘fraud,’ ‘embezzlement,’ ‘theft’ . . .”

“Naw! None of those. Big sums of money coming into an account without any explanation. No bequests, no wins on the stock market, no loans. Just cash out of the air. In large sums over the years.”

“I can’t think of a word for that, either. There’s no such thing as regular windfalls, and good luck doesn’t cover it. The horses?”

“Not in these amounts.”

“Am I going to be allowed to hear the name of this Midas with the golden touch?” MacFarlane asked.

Ratty breathed deeply. He’d shot off at a fair lick on hearing the starting pistol, but he seemed about to refuse at the first fence.

“Before you commit yourself, Ratty, let me tell you that I know all about the unit and Pretoria,” he lied. He didn’t really know the half of it. “I even know the name you’ve got on the tip of your tongue. For Ernest’s sake, you should confirm.”

He fished in his pocket and produced a photograph. A solitary figure, head bowed as though in mourning, was sitting on the steps of the war memorial, surrounded by wreaths. “He was just there with the British Legion, paying his respects to the fallen. Someone bashed Ernie’s head in, Ratty, and dumped his body there. You could be next.”

Ratty looked with undisguised sorrow at the lonely body of his friend, and his mouth tightened. “Those bloody diamonds! They were bad luck! I knew they were trouble, but who’d have thought they’d follow us home?”

“Diamonds, Corporal Merriman? Er, would you like to turn back a page and give me a chance to catch up?”

MacFarlane took no notes. He merely nodded his head sadly as Ratty finally came up with the name. It took far less effort for him, on shaking hands in farewell with MacFarlane, to look furtively from side to side then breathe, “Flapdoodle.”

“What was that, Ratty?”

“Flapdoodle. The three-thirty on Saturday. York Races. You’ll get good odds. Just place your bet somewhere other than Barnsley, eh? I don’t want to attract the attention of the law.”

MacFarlane grinned in appreciation. “Will do! And thanks!”

“And . . .” The cheeky grin faded from Ratty’s face, and MacFarlane saw the drawn, determined features of the young corporal appear for a moment. “When you get your hands on the treacherous, murdering shit . . . Well, you’re a soldier. You’ll know where to put them! Squeeze hard. For Ernie!”

“I will at that, lad! And when I’ve done with ’is balls, I’ll ’ave ’im by the neck!” MacFarlane vowed.

Chapter 22

Chapter 22