Tip Off by John Francome Page A

tape used as if about an hour of material had been recorded since Matt had placed the mikes there four days before.
    On the Saturday evening there had been a short conversation in the flat – more of an argument – with another man whom Toby referred to as Link. I didn’t recognise the nasal London voice but it was clear that whoever it was resented the fact that Toby had arranged to have dinner with other people that evening.
    I remembered that he had said he was holding some kind of a party on the Saturday night and for a moment I thought we were going to hear the whole event on tape, but it soon became clear that there had been a change of plan and he was going to the other people’s house for dinner.
    The banging of a door marked the end of that conversation; we assumed this was ‘Link’ leaving. After that, there was a quick one-sided phone conversation in which Toby arranged to have dinner at Le Caprice, rather than at anyone’s home. We got the impression he was talking to a woman, but no names were used.
    At what the recorder logged as 8.15 on Monday morning, we heard Toby make a call, recording the day’s message for his tipping line. From that, we realised he had been away all Sunday.
    Then there was nothing until Tuesday evening, when the recorder was activated by Toby playing very loudly a recording of Rigoletto . This lasted a frustrating twenty minutes before the phone rang when the music was switched off. We heard him answering.
    â€˜Toby Brown here . . . Oh yes? How can I help you? . . . What about it? . . . If we come to an arrangement, it’ll cost you a lot of money . . . All right, as long as you know. Where would you like to meet? . . . Let me write that down . . . Fine, I’ll see you then.’
    The next sequence must have occurred just a few minutes later, obviously to an answerphone. ‘Hello, Link? It’s Toby. I’m sorry, we’ll have to cancel our meeting this afternoon. I’ve made an appointment I’ve got to keep. I’ll speak to you later.’
    From what Sara had overheard in her boss’s office, she was fairly sure that Harry Chapman had made contact with Toby; it sounded like the meeting which we’d just heard him arranging.
    There was nothing else on the tape.
    Matt looked at me moodily. We’d learned frustratingly little. And we had no clue to where Toby had gone, or where he was now.
    I picked up a phone and dialled all his numbers again. This time, his mobile number answered with a message. I left my name and contact number, and begged him to get in touch as soon as possible.
    I was encouraged; last time I’d tried the mobile, it had been switched off. That it was now in answering mode suggested Toby was still in circulation.
    Matt, dispelling his gloom, took Sara off to have dinner. I agreed to keep myself on stand-by in case Toby phoned.
    I settled down in front of a convincingly real fake log fire in my sister’s comfortable, quaintly old-fashioned drawing room on the first floor of the house and watched the early news on television.
    I was just thinking about phoning Emma when my mobile rang.
    I grabbed it. The caller’s number hadn’t been displayed. I punched ‘yes’.
    A male voice I didn’t recognise asked if he was speaking to Thames Valley Protection Services. I told him he was.
    â€˜It’s David Dysart here, of Wessex Biotech. I’ve been dealing with Matt James.’
    â€˜You’ve come through to his partner, Simon Jeffries.’
    â€˜Simon, how are you?’ The voice had the hearty confidence of a man who obviously thought he knew me.
    â€˜I’m fine, thanks. But, forgive me, Matt told me you and I had met . . . I’m sorry to say I couldn’t remember where.’
    Dysart laughed. ‘At least you’re honest. I’ll tell you exactly where it was – a party given by Lord Tintern a year or so ago at the In and Out. I think you were a