Unlucky For Some (19 page)

“It’s in the file because it
did
happen,” said Baker. “I took photographs of a dozen places in Stansfield, and one of them turned out to be where it happened, as I thought it would. And now it’s in that file, because I can study it, and that lets me know his preferences.”

“I don’t understand,” said Grace.

“I know how this man thinks,” said Baker. “I’ve met him a dozen times in my career. I knew from what happened in Malworth what sort of place he would choose in Stansfield. And I tried—unsuccessfully—to narrow it down to one place. Because if I can do that, there’s a chance that I will even be able to work out who his victim might be.”

“What good would that do?” asked Jack.

“If I can find his likely victim, I can find him, and stop him before he does any harm.”

Grace still looked at him suspiciously. “How?”

“I don’t have a clue who the murderer is,” Baker said, “so I have no suspect to tail. But if I can work out who he might have down as his target, I can tail the potential victim, like I did before. If I’m wrong, then it makes no difference to anyone. But if I’m right, then I can prevent him killing again.”

“Covering yourself in glory while you’re at it,” Jack said.

“Yes.”

Jack was startled by the candid answer.

“I’m quite prepared to admit that I’d like to find him myself, and beat the police to it for the second time. It would do me no harm to win this challenge, and my pride is even a little bit at stake.” Baker sat down in the armchair opposite them.

“Do the police know what you’re doing?” Jack asked.

“They know I’m trying to find him. They don’t know how. And they would laugh at me if I told them, but—as you see—it was partially successful. I really do know quite a bit about this sort of thing.”

Grace had never lost the look of distrust. “But how could you know where he was going to kill that man?” she asked.

“I just . . . think myself into his mind. I knew it would be somewhere like the alley in Malworth—somewhere that wasn’t overlooked by houses, that didn’t have strong lighting. I thought it would be carried out at night again. But there were about ten places that it could have been—that was just one of them. I can show you all the other photographs if you don’t believe me.”

Grace didn’t respond.

“But the second murder gave me a lot more to go on than the first, and I might get closer this time.” He smiled. “I don’t stand a hope in hell of succeeding, but to be honest, I’m almost enjoying the challenge. No—if I’m really being honest, I
am
enjoying it. I know people have died, and I know it isn’t a game, but it’s much more my thing than documenting people’s gambling habits.”

Jack looked at Grace, but despite the frank explanation she still looked thoroughly scared by what she’d found, and totally unconvinced. He would wait until Stephen was home before he left, he decided. She would be afraid to be left all on her own with Baker. Jack was surprised when he saw the time; Stephen was a creature of habit.

“Stephen’s late tonight, isn’t he?”

“What? Oh, yes. He was working in Barton tonight.” Grace looked at the clock. “All the same,” she said, “he is late.” Her eyes suddenly widened in fear again. “You don’t think anything’s happened to him, do you?”

Jack wished he had kept his big mouth shut. “No, of course not. He’ll just have been held up. How come he’s in Barton? He doesn’t usually go there, does he?”

“Not usually. But he finishes at half past ten. What if something’s happened?”

“I’m sure nothing’s happened,” Jack said. “Maybe he went out for a drink to celebrate his birthday.”

“He wouldn’t do that—he’s on the bike.”

“Well, it wouldn’t have to be alcoholic, Grace. Like I said, he’ll just—”

As he spoke, the back door of the pub opened and closed, and Stephen appeared in the sitting room, looking a little startled at the threesome he found there, as well he might, thought Jack.

“Where have you been?” said Grace. “I was worried about you.”

“I got held up at the club. And then the bike wouldn’t start,
and
it broke down on the way home.”

“You could have phoned.”

“Sorry.”

“It’ll be your birthday in twenty minutes,” said Baker. “Would you like your present now?”

Stephen looked for a moment as though he was going to say that he didn’t, but then he smiled. “Why not?” he said.

And thus it was that Jack found himself at an impromptu and rather strange birthday party, with everyone trying to look as though that was what they wanted to do. But Grace opened a bottle of champagne, and that seemed to relax her a little.

“Well, I’ll be off then,” said Jack, when Stephen had opened his presents, and the champagne had been drunk. “I’ll give you my present tomorrow, Stephen. I’ll see myself out, Grace.”

But Stephen followed him to the door. “What’s going on? Mum looked as if she’d seen a ghost when I came in.”

“Just a misunderstanding. She’ll tell you herself if she’s a mind to.”

Stephen looked puzzled, but he didn’t inquire further. “Okay,” he said, his voice doubtful. “I’ll see you.”

“Yep. See you, Stephen.”

Jack went out into the still balmy night, and began the short walk home. Thinking that Tony Baker was the murderer had meant that for once Grace wasn’t making eyes at the man, which was better than nothing, he supposed. But his own new suave image hadn’t exactly taken her breath away.

Still, she had turned to him when she needed help, so things were definitely looking up.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

Stephen had gone to bed not long after Jack had left, but he hadn’t slept. Ben had rung to wish him happy birthday, and had asked him all about the murders, which were national news once again. Stephen still didn’t tell him that he had been questioned about them.

They had talked for a long time, until Ben had to go to bed. He had lectures to attend in the morning, he’d said. It was all right for Stephen, working the odd hours that he did—he could stay in bed in the morning, but Ben couldn’t. So Stephen had finally let him go, but not until he’d asked him what he thought about his dad playing host to Stoke Weston’s May Day celebrations—Ben always found his father’s grand gestures a bit much. But it turned out that Ben didn’t know about it. When Stephen explained, Ben said that it would give him an excuse to come down that day, so they could see each other. He couldn’t get away over the weekend because there was something he had to do at university, but he had the Monday off because it was a holiday in Scotland, too.

He found it hard to sleep after that, as he always did when they had spoken. He wished Ben was here, that he hadn’t had to go to university so far away, and he was excited about May Day. But another reason that he couldn’t sleep was his awareness that his mother and Tony Baker were both still downstairs, though it was now well after three o’clock in the morning. He could hear the rise and fall of their voices as they spoke quietly, though he couldn’t make out what they were saying. It was unusual for his mother to stay up so late, and it was unheard of for Tony, who usually shut himself in his room as soon as he came in. But the evening had been strange—finding Tony and Jack and his mother in the sitting room had been odd, to say the least. Tony and Jack had been in their tuxedos, so they must have come to the pub from the boxing thing that Waterman had put on. Whatever this misunderstanding had been was presumably still being discussed, far into the night.

It was after four when they at last came upstairs, and Stephen might have managed to sleep were it not for the fact that the talking continued, now in whispered exchanges, on the landing, and finally in the room next door to his. It was embarrassing, knowing that Tony was with his mother in her bedroom, as it could only mean one thing: she had finally achieved what she had been aiming for ever since Tony Baker had arrived in Stoke Weston. Perhaps Wilma had been right after all; perhaps he was going to get a stepdad. The idea of Tony Baker as stepfather didn’t appeal to Stephen at all.

It went quiet then, and Stephen tried to go to sleep, but after a little while noises could be heard through the wall that made him blush a painful deep red, as he tried not to imagine what was going on. They weren’t particularly loud, but they were quite unmistakable, and while he could just about take his mother’s union with Baker as an abstract notion, the audible confirmation of it was too much. He buried his head in the pillow, but though that blocked out the sounds, it didn’t block out the images that kept forming in his head whether he wanted them to or not.

In desperation, he picked up his Walkman, and jammed in the earphones, switching it to radio. Any radio station, any kind of music, anything at all to take his mind off what was happening next door. Music of some sort was playing; he turned the volume up as far as his ears could stand, and lay in the dark, trying to concentrate on the words of the song, to let the images it produced override the ones already in his mind.

He hung on the DJ’s every word, listened intently to every track, and gave his undivided attention to the six o’clock news when it came on. It was international news first, and Stephen became more aware of the state of the world’s wars and politics than he had ever been. The first item on the home news was also political; Stephen didn’t know what they were talking about, but he listened to the minister for something or other as though his life depended on what she had to say. And then came something in which he really was interested, as everyone in Bartonshire would be, when they awoke to it.

“Bartonshire police have confirmed that a man found stabbed to death in the center of Barton early this morning is believed to be the third victim of the man they are hunting in connection with the murders of two other people in the county in the last two months. The victim, whose name has not yet been released, is thought to have lived rough in the city for many years, and was found dead shortly after two o’clock this morning.

“The killer is believed to be the author of anonymous letters being sent to Tony Baker, the journalist and broadcaster who solved the case dubbed the ‘South Coast Murder Mystery’ eighteen years ago, and to the newspaper for which Mr. Baker is a columnist. The most recent letter named Barton as the intended scene of his next murder, and police patrols were stepped up in the city as a result, among other measures. The man leading the murder hunt, Detective Chief Superintendent Yardley, went immediately to the scene of this latest killing, and read this statement to the waiting reporters.

“ ‘Bartonshire police very much regret that the extra precautions taken in Barton in light of the communication received failed to prevent another murder. Every effort is being made to find the person responsible for these tragic deaths, and we would like to talk to anyone who was in the Mafeking Road area of Barton at any time last night or in the small hours of this morning.'

“Detective Chief Superintendent Yardley added that the area in which this latest killing took place is very busy at night, having several wine bars and various places of entertainment, and that the police are hopeful of finding witnesses with information that will lead to the capture of whoever is responsible.”

Stephen switched off the radio, and removed the earphones, relieved to discover that everything was now quiet in the room next door. Finally, at ten past seven in the morning, he fell asleep.

“There are empty premises on Mafeking Road,” said Yardley. “I’ve arranged for an incident room to be set up.”

“Hitchin and Sims should be available to man it as soon as it’s ready,” said Judy.

“Good. Well, now that you and Lloyd are here, I think I’ll get back to HQ—let me know if you get anything worthwhile.” He looked around. “Where is Lloyd?”

“He’s talking to Freddie.”

“Oh, right—I just wanted to say that if you need more personnel, let me know. And find out where Tony Baker was last night—if the first two are anything to go by, I don’t suppose he was too far away.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll tell Lloyd when he comes back.”

“We’ve got to get this man,” Yardley said, looking suddenly haggard. “We can’t go on letting him lead us by the nose like this. He’s getting cocky now—killing someone in a place teeming with people, wrapping up the murder weapon for us. And telling the paper that it was going to be Barton—he didn’t do that last time.”

Once again, the newspaper had received a letter the day after Baker had received his, and unlike the first one to the paper, it had named the scene of the next murder. Ignoring the gentlemen’s agreement to let the police see any communication from the murderer before going to press, the newspaper had published it in its entirety, so this time, the special measures had had to be taken with the press watching their every move. None of the papers had revealed anything about those measures that they had asked them not to reveal, but it had made their lives a little less easy, nonetheless, to have the press breathing as closely down their necks as they were. But, as Lloyd pointed out, it did mean that the papers knew the limitations of anything they did. They couldn’t, for instance, assume that Barton really would be the scene of the next attempt, so resources were being stretched, even if they were being forewarned.

Patrols had been stepped up in secluded areas of Barton, which had included the rear of the properties along Mafeking Road, but the patrols couldn’t be in two places at once and it would have been an easy matter to wait until they had passed before carrying out the murder. Warnings had been issued to people not to go out alone in secluded areas day or night, but no amount of warnings could reach someone like this victim.

Freddie had let them take the body away, and Judy was watching the white-suited scene-of-crime officers remove the pathetic collection of odds and ends that constituted the worldly goods of Davy Guthrie, the vagrant whose life had been ended, not by the cheap alcohol that he had consumed at a frightening rate, not by the many bitter winters that he had endured on the streets of Barton, not by the tobacco that he rolled into the thin, foul-smelling cigarettes that he smoked continually, but by someone with a knife and a desire to kill.

It had occurred to no one that someone like Davy would be a target, least of all, Judy imagined, to Davy himself. But a target he had been, and the small change that he had begged in order to buy his next day’s supply of cheap booze had been left on his body, sorted into piles of differing coins.

He had been found by the two police officers part of whose duties included moving on the derelicts who took up residence on the side streets of Mafeking Road at night, most of them having begged money during the day and evening from the people going into the clubs and bars on Mafeking Road itself. Davy was a regular, and this had been his spot. The police would let him sleep off the alcohol and move him on at around two in the morning, to forestall the complaints of those who had to service the streets at night.

Knowing that he would be wakened at this early hour, Davy, in common with the other street dwellers, had always settled down early. The officers had checked that area at intervals during the night, but by the light of sodium streetlamps Davy dead was indistinguishable from Davy asleep, and it wasn’t until they had tried to rouse him that they had realized what had happened.

It was entirely understandable if you had ever walked the beat in a city where homeless drifters slept in the street; a tolerant attitude toward them meant that they weren’t harried and shifted when there was no need, because they weren’t actively begging, and they were getting in no one’s way. Compassion rather than a lack of concern had prompted them to leave Davy alone. But the newspapers wouldn’t see it that way; already the TV crews were unpacking their equipment to film the mean little street in which Davy had made his home. The police had passed by as this man lay dying, that’s what they would say.

And they would ask the inevitable questions. What were the police doing to catch this man? How many more had to die before they got their act together? Did the murderer have to sell tickets, or what? He told them when and where he was going to do what he did—how much more did they need?

And Judy wouldn’t blame them for thinking that too little was being done. They didn’t understand about the boxes and boxes of filed statements, about the hours spent poring over them in the hope that one of them contained something that had a bearing on the investigation. They didn’t know about the exhaustive searches into the backgrounds of the victims, of the hundreds of man-hours spent knocking on doors, asking questions to which no one had an answer. They didn’t know about the dozens of cars whose owners were traced, checked, and ultimately eliminated from the inquiry, about the false leads and dead ends, and the endless interviews with likely candidates, all of which came to nothing. This man apparently killed randomly, and for no reason other than to get away with it. And when getting away with it
was
the motive, then it wasn’t particularly difficult to do just that.

But this time, things were a little more hopeful. It had been a warm night, unlike the nights on which the other two murders had taken place, so there had been people about on the streets—people who could help them narrow down the time of death, who could describe the others they had seen in the vicinity. There was a camera on one of the buildings, though Judy doubted that this man would make as elementary a mistake as to be caught on it. But perhaps he had.

And, as Yardley had mentioned, they had found what appeared to be the murder weapon in one of the big industrial-sized bins at the rear of the restaurant on the corner of Mafeking Road and Ladysmith Avenue, the latter being where Davy had chosen to make his sleeping arrangements. It had, for reasons known only to whoever put it in there, been sealed in a padded bag. Perhaps he had thought it would escape detection, but the presence of a brand-new sealed padded bag in a wastebin had naturally excited some interest, so it seemed unlikely that he would have believed that.

Yardley hadn’t told the papers about the discovery—it still had to be confirmed that the blood on the six-inch blade of the curved, fisherman’s trout-filleting knife was Davy's. But if it wasn’t, Judy thought, they’d better start looking for another body. She doubted that they would find anything as useful as fingerprints on the knife, its sheath or the padded bag, but knives could sometimes be traced.

Mafeking Road ran for three miles through the center of Barton, and a mile of its length had become known locally as Sunset Strip, because coffee bars, restaurants, wine bars, clubs, amusement arcades and pubs had, over the years, become established. Michael Waterman’s Lucky Seven Casino was about a quarter of a mile away from where Davy’s body was found, and Judy felt that the Waterman connection could no longer be a coincidence.

The Bull’s Eye bingo club, however, was a fair distance away, so it wasn’t exactly the same setup as before. Even so, they were checking to find out where Stephen Halliday had been working last night. He was their only suspect now, and that on so little evidence as to be laughable, but he had to be checked out.

Ladysmith Avenue ran off Mafeking Road at a right angle, running down the side of the big corner restaurant called Forty-second Street, and at night served as an unofficial car park to the various businesses on Sunset Strip. Railings separated the pavement from the strip of grass at the side of the building, and it was under these that Davy had bundled himself up for the night in the filthy blanket that the SOCOs were taking away, now stained with blood as well as the many other bodily fluids it had had to absorb over the years.