‘We’ll talk outside,’ Rachel said, ‘in the car.’
‘What about?’ she said crossly. But she followed them.
Once in the car, Rachel noted her details and checked her record, which was clean. Watched an accordion player, an old woman with a face like leather, take a spot near the gaming parlour, set down a battered hat and begin to play.
‘Where did you get the phone, Bethany?’
The girl’s face fell. ‘The lying bastard,’ she said. ‘Is it stolen?’
‘Where did you get it?’
She paused a moment then sighed. ‘The Blue Dog.’
‘New Moston?’ Mitch asked.
It was a scuzzy little pub that closed every few months but never seemed to stay under.
‘This lad had them. He swore they weren’t nicked.’
‘When?’
‘Last night.’
‘How much did you pay?’ Rachel said.
‘Twenty.’
‘Worth, what – maybe one-fifty? And no bells rang? No big flashing warning signs?’ Rachel said sarcastically.
‘He said they were charity. You know, people upgrading, sending them in.’
‘I’m going to have to take the phone,’ Rachel said.
‘Oh, brilliant, that is,’ she said gloomily.
‘And I need a complete description of him. We’ll also be asking you to make a formal statement and you may be required to testify in court.’
‘It’s just a phone.’ She cramped her lips together. ‘Bastard.’
‘And then I’m going to have to ask you not to attempt to contact the person who sold you this. That clear?’
The girl nodded.
‘Have you deleted any information?’ Rachel said.
‘No, it was clear.’
‘Have you created a password or a pin?’
‘No. Just topped up the credit. Can I get that back?’
Rachel laughed, didn’t answer. ‘So, the bloke who sold you it – you know his name?’
She didn’t, but she gave them a good enough description, and the landlord of the Blue Dog, anxious to help and quick to point out that he knew nothing about any black-marketeering on his premises, supplied a name: Desmond Rattigan. Des the Rat. Who could normally be found in the betting shop on Rochdale Road when it was open.
The bookies exuded that particular mix of hope and despair common to such places and reflected in the décor: the bullet-proof glass and the industrial carpeting with its dubious stains vying with the glossy showcards of airbrushed horses and their riders, or the perfect curve of a football above an emerald pitch and the judicious placement of quotes from happy winners.
Like betting shops Rachel had seen before, the aim was to promote itself as a source of leisure not a place of addiction, but a quick look at the body language of the punters, the pent-up anticipation, the bitten-down nails, the isolation as they waited for the dice to roll or the race to end, told a different story. Rachel flashed back to an image of her own father, stub of pencil in one hand, fag in the other, poring over the sports pages. Preparing to go and spend yet more money they hadn’t got on some lively little filly in the 2.10 at Doncaster.
