Unlucky For Some (18 page)

He had confined his research to the streets on either side of Mafeking Road, a long, wide road that had given a section of itself over to the very kinds of human activity that Tony investigated in his TV series. Gambling, drinking, drugs, sex. Mafeking Road itself would be busy, but passersby would tend to be otherwise engaged, either wrapped round a companion or in large groups, all under the influence of some intoxicant or other. They would have little reason to venture down the streets on either side. Streetwalkers would be abroad, but they would be borne away in their customer’s cars. And the victim wasn’t going to be a prostitute—cars were far too easy to trace. Not like in Jack the Ripper’s day, when his hansom could disappear into the London fog. A prostitute would be much too risky a proposition.

Whoever was chosen as the victim, there was a risk to be run. The buildings would be active, all of them, unlike the shops and offices farther up. But while that area was much more secluded, it didn’t afford the opportunity that this one did. The victim would have to be lured to the quieter area, and that meant spending time with him or her, something to be avoided at all costs.

But here, with the booming nightlife, there were other dangers. Someone could be looking out of a back window, or taking rubbish out to one of the bins, and the police were always around where there were drink and drugs to be had. The frequency of the patrols would be increased, no doubt. This murder had to be planned, he was sure of that, but the most careful planning wouldn’t by any means eliminate all the hazards.

Barton wasn’t somewhere that Tony would choose to commit a murder, however easy it would be to get lost in the crowd moments later. It would be a riskier business altogether to commit a murder in a city that, like most cities, never really slept.

Stansfield could have been a coincidence—Stephen could have just happened to be working there on the night of Lewis’s murder. And that was surely the case, Tony told himself, because even his writer’s imagination couldn’t conceive of Stephen Halliday as a murderer. But always at the back of his mind was his first-hand knowledge of the breed, some of them the most mild-mannered people on earth.

And in all the time Tony had been at the Tulliver Inn, Stephen had never worked in Barton, so if nothing else the Barton murder would prove if it really was Stephen who had written him those letters.

It was unseasonably warm for the middle of April, in stark contrast to March, when sleet and snow had been the order of the day. Keith ran a finger round his stiff, starched collar, as he left the open fire doors at which he was posted, and moved farther into the room, casting a fleeting look at the perspiring boxers in the ring, glad that at least he wasn’t having to do that for the amusement of the Bartonshire nobs.

He looked round the room, his glance taking in the top table, and caught Mr. Waterman’s eye. Waterman gave a nod that was really no more than a slow blink, and Keith wandered on toward the bar.

“Can you get someone to cover me for fifteen minutes?” he asked the bar manager. “I’ve not had a break yet.”

The manager looked at the clock. “Fifteen minutes,” he said. “Exactly. You’ll have to be back here by ten forty-five—no later. I’ll need you on the bar from then.”

“I’ll be back,” said Keith. “Don’t worry.”

Michael Waterman watched Keith as he walked from the bar to the big doors that stood open at the back of the hall.

“Good little scrapper, that black lad,” said Jack Shaw, just as his opponent went down for the count. He grinned. “What did I tell you?” He looked at his watch. “Well—that’s it, for me. It was a good night, Mike. Thanks for inviting me.”

Michael smiled. “You’re welcome, Jack—no one’s done more than you to make this evening a success. I don’t know how you persuaded them all to come, but it’s been a great program so far.”

“Oh, I enjoyed twisting the boxing clubs’ arms. And by the look of the tables, we’ve made a fair amount for the charity.”

“You know this do is going on until the small hours, don’t you? There’s no need to go yet.”

“I need my beauty sleep.”

Tony Baker stood up, and leaned awkwardly over the table to shake Michael’s hand. “Me, too,” he said. “I think I’ll call it a night. Thanks, Mike. It’s been a very interesting evening.”

As soon as Michael had realized that Tony Baker had bought a ticket for the boxing evening, he had arranged to have him at the top table, so he could show him off to his other VIP guests. It was a shame he was leaving early.

“I had no idea that so much betting went on at things like this,” Tony added, and grinned. “Are you opening a book on the talent contest, too?”

Michael laughed. “Oh, I forgot,” he said. “Another perk of coming to the May Day do is that you’ll get to see this one make a prat of himself Morris dancing.” As soon as he’d said it, he wished he hadn’t—Jack looked less than pleased with him. He’d always made fun of Jack’s Morris dancing—it never usually annoyed him.

“I look forward to that,” said Tony.

Having made their way through the tables, both Jack and Tony made for the nearest exit, being the fire doors, but whereas Jack made it, the mother of one of the talent contest hopefuls waylaid Tony, and she didn’t seem inclined to let him leave, so Jack went on alone. Poor Jack—Michael imagined that he would be all too aware that he could leave a room any time he chose without anyone begging him to talk to her before he left. Another black mark against Tony, Michael was sure. But he was equally sure that Tony would just as soon leave as be set upon by females—he was trying to edge closer to the door, but without success.

At quarter to eleven, Keith returned. Once again they caught each other’s eye, and this time, the merest movement of Keith’s head from side to side told Michael what he wanted to know.

He realized, a fraction late, that he was being addressed by one of the people at the table, and tried hard to look as though he had been listening to what she had been saying. What with not knowing what she was talking about, and finding it difficult to hear her above the noise of those watching the next bout, he didn’t think his attempt was entirely successful.

He signalled a waiter, and ordered more wine. Clearly, most of his guests had every intention of staying until the end and getting their money’s worth, and who could blame them? He smiled as he saw Tony Baker finally making it to the door, and leaving, at ten to eleven.

Outside the Barton bingo club, Stephen tried once more to start the bike. The bingo had finished at half past ten, and he had been about to leave when the caller had made an announcement.

“Before he goes, we want you all to sing Happy Birthday. Stephen—where are you, Stephen?”

A spotlight had found Stephen, who had smiled winningly.

“He’s twenty years old tomorrow—remember when you were twenty, ladies? Of course you do—King John had just signed the Magna Carta, hadn’t he? In 1215, wasn’t it? It was supposed to be at twelve, but he got held up in traffic.”

Oh, God, Stephen had thought. Was he going to go into some comedy routine? But he had confined himself to that one unfunny joke.

“Anyway—he’s only here tonight, so we’re celebrating a day early. Now—all together, let’s give Stephen’s teens a rousing Bull’s Eye club send-off.”

“. . . happy birthday, dear Stephen, happy birthday to you!”

Stephen had waved, and smiled, and had very nearly made it to the door when two ample ladies practically jumped him.

“Are you new here? I haven’t seen you before,” said one.

“I don’t often work in Barton.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” the other one said. “Will you be working here in the future?”

“I don’t know—I’m mostly in Malworth, and now and again in Stansfield. The rota goes up on the wall, if you want to look out for me coming back here.”

“Oh, I think I’ll have to move to Malworth, if that’s where you usually are! Is that a crash helmet? Do you ride a motorbike?”

“Yes.” If he didn’t, it would be an odd sort of fashion accessory, thought Stephen.

“You don’t fancy a pillion passenger, do you?”

“Get on!” said the other one. “He’d be doing wheelies whether he wanted to or not, with you on the back.”

And so it had gone on, with Stephen smiling gamely and laughing at their ever more risqué jokes until at last they reluctantly let him go.

He would have been home by now if it hadn’t been for them, he thought, as the bike, after several attempts, reluctantly fired into life.

Jack had been furious when Tony Baker had got up at the same time and said he was leaving, too, and blessed Mrs. Turner for stopping him when she did. Patsy Turner went in for every talent contest ever held, and was presumably going in for this one that Baker was judging, so Jack imagined that he would be held up for some time. Presumably he would have a little while in which to try to impress Grace before Baker got here.

He had never worn a dinner jacket and bow tie before; looking at himself in the long mirror of the plush private toilet in the casino, he had been startled to see what a difference it made to him. And maybe, just maybe, so would Grace.

He had been in one of the cubicles when Tony Baker had come in, and had met someone who’d said in fun that he had it made, staying at the Tulliver, because an unattached good-looking blonde with a pub was every man’s dream. And he’d listened as Tony had dismissed Grace as nothing more than an empty-headed irritation. He’d waited until they’d left before he came out, and decided to go home when the next bout finished. Not that he would dream of telling Grace what Baker had said, but she shouldn’t be wasting her time with Baker and his overblown ego, and maybe if she saw Jack in his finery, she’d find him not so bad after all.

He had walked into the pub to find it empty, not an unusual occurrence. Stoke Weston people had to get up early, and it wasn’t yet that time of year when people came from the surrounding towns to spend their evenings in country pubs. Grace had come through as soon as she had heard the bell, run past him, locked the pub door, grabbed his arm and practically dragged him upstairs. He had a feeling that the dinner jacket was unlikely to have produced that effect, and anyway, she was gabbling something about Tony Baker all the time she was doing it. It took longer to get upstairs than she would have liked, because steps were another thing that gave Jack a little trouble.

Now, they were in Tony Baker’s room, and she was showing him what she had found.

“I don’t pry, Jack, I really don’t. But he locks the door all the time, and I hadn’t cleaned in here for over two weeks, so I just let myself in with my key, and I was dusting this table when this file fell, and things came out, and—look. Look what I found.”

She thrust a printout of a photograph into his hands. “Look,” she said. “That’s that bit behind the bank in Stansfield where that man was killed.”

Yes, Jack had recognized it. “Well,” he said, “he’s a journalist, isn’t he? Maybe it was for his paper or something.”

Grace made an impatient noise. “Look at the date!” she said. “The date’s on it, along the bottom. Look at it. That photograph was taken in February, and the murder happened in March. And look at this.” She handed him a sheet of paper on which a list had been ticked off.

Jack read, and what he read certainly did make disturbing reading.
No cameras. Room for two cars only. Secluded. Poor lighting. No residential buildings . . .

“Jack—do you think it’s him?” Her voice was no more than a whisper. “Do you think he’s the one who killed these people?”

It was clearly what she thought, and that rather suited Jack, but he thought it best not to reply.

“What else could that mean?” she demanded. “It must be him. I don’t want him here—should I call the police?”

Jack looked at it. “I don’t know what to make of it,” he said. “But calling the police might be a bit strong, without hearing his side of it.”

“But what’s it all about?”

“I don’t know,” Jack said. “But I think you might be jumping to conclusions. Let’s look at the other stuff.”

They spent some time going through the papers, and everything they found made Grace more and more suspicious.

“I’m going to call the police,” she said.

“I really think you should wait and see what he says.”

“Are you going to wait with me?”

“Yes, of course I will.”

“Maybe we should put on his laptop,” she said. “See what else he’s got.”

“I think that might be a bit—”

“He could be sending these letters to himself! How do we know he isn’t?”

Jack didn’t have the chance to respond to that, because Tony Baker himself was in the doorway.

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

For a moment, neither he nor Grace spoke, then Jack felt that there was little point in trying to be diplomatic, and plunged in. “Grace is a bit bothered by what you’ve got in this file,” he said.

“It fell open,” Grace said quickly, her voice scared. “I couldn’t help but look at it.”

Baker looked puzzled. “Did I forget to lock the door?”

“No, but the room has to be cleaned.”

“Of course it does. I’m sorry, I didn’t think.” He came in, and picked up the file. “And I’m not surprised you’re worried about me, if you’ve been looking at this,” he said. “But I can explain. Shall we go down?”

Baker led the way, and Jack stood aside to let Grace go ahead of him. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m right behind you.”

Well, he was behind her, at any rate. Not exactly right behind her, since it took him rather longer than it took her to get downstairs again. Grace waited at the foot of the stairs for him, and they went into the sitting room together. Tony Baker was standing by the fireplace, looking penitent.

“I’m glad you’ve decided to hear me out,” he said.

Jack sat beside Grace on the sofa, and waited to hear what he had to say for himself.

“I’m really sorry that you got such a shock,” he said. “But that’s how I hope to find out who the murderer is.”

Jack frowned. “How come you’ve got a photograph of the very place that bloke in Stansfield was killed? Taken three weeks before it happened?”