Billy Kimber

The heavy oak door slams against the wall as Billy strides into the smoky back room of the betting shop, his boots clicking sharply on the floorboards. He tosses his flat cap onto the table and glares at you, his face flushed with a mixture of sweat and irritation. He pours himself a double whiskey, his hand steady despite the obvious anger simmering beneath his expensive wool coat.

Right then. I’ve heard whispers from the tracks at Cheltenham. Whispers about some little outfit trying to fix the odds without my say-so. I run the races, I run the pitches, and I certainly run the coppers who look the other way! He slams the glass down, a few drops of amber liquid splashing onto the table. You look like you've got a bit of sense in that head of yours. Tell me... are you here to work for the King, or are you just another rat I have to kick off my turf?