Unlucky For Some (21 page)

She went in, pram first, and swayed in front of Hitchin.

“This is Gertie, Sarge,” said Gary. “Sergeant Hitchin,” he said to Gertie.

“Call me John.” Hitchin smiled at her. “Could I have your last name, please?”

“Hatton, née Gore. My husband left me—do you blame him? But I kept the name. Gore has such unpleasant connotations, don’t you think?”

“Would you like to take a seat, Mrs. Hatton?”

Gertie sat down on one of the plastic chairs, and looked hazily at Gary. “How do I know you’re policemen?” she said. “Neither of you is in uniform. You might be conmen.”

Gary and Hitchin took out their IDs, and Gary took them to her. She tilted her head back to look at them. “That,” she said, “doesn’t do you justice, John. You’re a much more handsome man than that would suggest.”

“Thank you.”

His did do him justice, Gary supposed. Oh, well. He’d never claimed any sort of position in the handsome stakes. He sat beside her. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Thank you, dear, but I don’t think I have the time.”

“Oh, surely you’ve got time for tea, Mrs. Hatton,” said Hitchin. “Gary was just going to put the kettle on, weren’t you, Gary?”

She smiled. “Oh, well, if you insist. Thank you.”

Gary switched on the kettle, and put a tea bag in a mug. “Did you hear what happened to Davy?” he asked.

“Ah, yes, tragic. Tragic—he couldn’t have been more than forty-five. Why not me? That’s what I asked myself. I’m old. I’m disp—” There followed an attempt that was a cross between disposable and dispensable, then she gave up on that. “Well, I’m old, anyway. Two spoonfuls of sugar, dear.”

“You’re not old,” said Gary. “How old are you?”

“Oh, darling, how should I know?” She held up her hand, her forefinger extended. “But I can give you a clue. I was named after Gertrude Lawrence—now, she was at her height in the late twenties and early thirties—so you can work it out. I think I must be past my three score and ten, don’t you?” She clasped her hands, and looked blissfully at Gary. “Oh, I remember . . .” she began, then frowned. “What was I talking about?”

“Davy.”

“Tragic.”

“Did you see him last night?” Gary brought the tea over, dragging with him the small table with the posters on it, so Gertie didn’t have to hold on to a hot mug for any longer than was necessary.

“No. I wouldn’t, you see, because I retire even earlier than he does. Thank you, darling. That’s lovely.” She picked up the mug, and blew gently at the steam. “And he never joins the rest of us in the evening.”

Gary loved the image of the country house that her language conjured up. “Did you see or hear anything?” he asked. “Anything unusual?”

She nodded slowly. “I saw something very unusual,” she said.

Gary and the sergeant waited, but she sipped her tea, and didn’t seem to be going to say anything else. Please, please, thought Gary, please don’t let her have forgotten what she’s saying.

“What?” he asked. “What did you see that was so unusual?”

She put the mug down, and leaned forward, her eyes glazing slightly. “I saw someone in a DJ rummaging in one of the bins—at least that’s what it looked like.”

Gary’s mouth had gone dry. “Someone in a DJ?” he repeated, to make certain he had heard correctly.

“Dinner jacket, dear. Dinner jacket. A tuxedo, if you prefer.”

“Yes. Could—could it maybe have been a tramp? Wearing someone’s castoff? Looking for food?”

“No, no, darling. A dinner jacket, bow tie, shirt, shiny shoes—the lot. All black—or at least very dark. Could have been navy or gray. Except the shirt. It was white. He was a regular size—not fat, not thin—a proper manly bearing. And he was wearing gloves—odd, I thought, on such a warm night.”

“Can you describe his face, Mrs. Hatton?” asked the sergeant.

“Sadly, no.”

“Anything you can remember.”

“I’ve told you what I remember.”

“Was he black or white, for instance?”

“I don’t know, dear. I couldn’t see his face. And he wore gloves, as I said.”

Gary took over again. Hitchin was too polite. “Gertie—how could you see exactly what he was wearing, and not be able to see his face? Was he wearing a mask?”

“I wouldn’t know, Gary, darling. I couldn’t see his head.”

The
headless
assassin? That would sell some newspapers. Gary looked baffled.

“If you go and lie down where I sleep, you’ll see.”

Gary decided to leave the practical demonstration as a last resort. “Can you explain to me where you sleep?”

“I sleep under the canopy thing.”

Canopy thing, canopy thing . . . Gary couldn’t think what the canopy thing was. He couldn’t remember a canopy thing, and he hadn’t actually been to the scene—he should go there and get the lay of the land. But not literally.

“It’s a sort of roof thing that someone had built on not long ago. It slopes right down.” Gertie held her arm at a forty-five-degree angle. “So they can store things outside without them getting wet.”

Gary was beginning to get the picture.

“And I sleep under it on the same principle.” She repeated the last word to make sure she’d got it right. “I’m the oldest resident, you see. So I got first choice. And when people come into the court, I can only see them from here down.” Her outstretched hand went to her throat. “Unless they’re very small indeed.”

Gary smiled. “Well, at least we know that he isn’t very small.”

She looked at him unsteadily. “Is it important?”

“It could be very important. Did you see where he came from?”

“He came from Ladysmith Avenue, where Davy sleeps.”

“Which bin did he go to?” asked Hitchin.

“The big one on the corner, right beside where I sleep.”

Gary didn’t know if that was the one where they’d found the knife, but judging from Hitchin’s expression, it was. Damn the canopy. Gertie would have described him perfectly if she’d seen his face.

“Can you remember what kind of bow tie it was? Was it a normal one, or one of these that’s practically hidden inside the collar?”

“A normal one. But it looked too neat to be a real one. A clip-on one, I’d say.”

“And could you see what he did after he left the bin? Where he went?”

“He went back the way he had come, got into a car, and drove off.”

“Which way? Toward Mafeking Road or away from it?”

“Toward Mafeking Road.”

“Did you hear the car arrive?” asked Hitchin.

“No.”

“Do you know what sort of car it was?”

“Oh, no, darling. I don’t know cars.”

“Did you notice what color it was?”

“No. All the cars look the same color in the streetlights. A sort of dark color.”

“That’s great, Gertie,” said Gary. “You’re being a big help. Did you see any of the number?”

“No.”

“Not even a letter?”

“Nothing.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry. But the eyes aren’t what they once were.”

“Do you know when you saw this man?” asked Hitchin.

“Time . . .” She lifted her shoulder in a shrug, her hands, upturned, held out in a gesture of helplessness.

“Was it long after you retired?”

“Mm . . . yes. I think something woke me. That could have been his car arriving, I suppose. But I do wake up from time to time anyway. And I don’t know when it was.”

“Oh, well,” said Gary, “never mind.”

“And,” she said, drawing the word out to command their attention, “I heard something unusual, too. Some time after I saw the man at the bin. I heard this . . . clicking noise.”

“Clicking noise?” said Hitchin.

“Click, click, click. It was quiet, but I could hear it.”

Gary and Hitchin exchanged baffled looks.

“I didn’t imagine it—there’s nothing wrong with my ears. It was coming from Ladysmith Avenue, too.”

“What did you think it was?” asked Hitchin.

Gertie looked at him sorrowfully. “A clicking noise,” she said.

Gary wasn’t sure what to ask about that. “How long did it go on for?” was what he came up with.

“A few moments, then it stopped and started again.”

“Had you ever heard it before?”

“No. That’s why it was unusual. Then it just . . . faded away.” She shrugged. “That’s it,” she said. “I slept then till the police came and told us about Davy.”

Hitchin stood up, and came round to where Gertie sat. “Well, thank you very much for coming in, Mrs. Hatton.” He held out a statement form. “While you were talking, I took the liberty of writing down what you’ve told us. Would you mind reading it, and if you agree that I’ve got it right, could you sign it?”

She looked at him for some moments, as she processed all those words. “Certainly,” she said.

As she read her statement, Hitchin went into his briefcase, and took out some cling film–wrapped sandwiches.

Gertie looked up. “Oh, John,” she said. “Spelling, dear. I think you’ll find that ‘rummaging’ has two m's.”

“Sorry,” said Hitchin, making the correction. “If you could initial that?” he said.

Gertie stood up, put the statement on the desk, initialled the correction, and signed her name with a flourish. “There you are. No more spelling errors.”

“Thank you. One more thing, Mrs. Hatton,” Hitchin said. “I’ve got these sandwiches, and they’re going to go to waste, because I’ve been invited out to lunch, and Gary says he doesn’t like ham and tomato. Could you use them, do you think?”

She smiled, entirely aware of what Hitchin was doing. “I’d be delighted to take them off your hands,” she said. “Thank you, dear.”

With that, she pushed her pram back out into Mafeking Road, and walked briskly off.

“Gary—go and get us some sandwiches.”

Keith opened his eyes, aware that somewhere there was a tune playing incessantly. It took his sleep-clouded mind a moment or two to realize that it was his mobile phone, and he sat up on one elbow while he tried to work out which of the things on the bedside table his mobile phone actually was.

“Keith Scopes,” he said, his voice heavy.

“Rise and shine, Keith—it’s your boss.”

“Oh, Mr. Waterman. Er . . . yes. What time is it?”

“One o’clock.”

“Oh, right. Time I was up anyway.”

Keith felt aggrieved, since he’d been working until after two o’clock in the morning, but then he remembered that Mr. Waterman had, too. At least he’d been entertaining his guests until then, if that counted as working, and Keith supposed that it did. How come he was so bright and breezy?

“I just wondered if you fancied working the May Day bank holiday.”

Keith was still trying to work out what day this was, and he was talking about a bank holiday that wasn’t for . . . well, a long time. But he wasn’t going anywhere, as far as he could remember. Wasn’t May Day that weird one that came between Easter and the spring bank holiday? No one went away for it, did they? Michelle wouldn’t have arranged for them to go anywhere.

“Sure. Where?”

“My place. Stoke Weston is having its May Day celebrations there this year.”

“Oh, yes,” said Keith. “They’ve nicked the village green, haven’t they?”

“It’s going to be a great day. And I want you to be the chief security officer. I’m rounding up a few others, but you’ll be in charge.”

“Great. When is May Day?”

“Oddly enough, it’s on the first of May this year.”

“Well,” said Keith defensively. “I didn’t know if that was always the day we got off for it.”

“No—I wasn’t being sarcastic. It isn’t usually. It’s usually the first Monday in May. But this year the first Monday in May is the first of May. So I’m pushing the boat out a bit to celebrate May Day being on May Day, if you see what I mean.”

“Right. Good—yes, I’ll do that.”

“Good. Don’t go back to sleep—you said it was time you were up.”

“No. Thanks, Mr. Waterman. See you.”

He lay back on the pillow. Chief security officer—that sounded good. He stumbled out of bed before he fell asleep again, and went downstairs, automatically switching on the TV as he passed it. It was the regional lunchtime news, and he stopped to watch.

“. . . forty-three-year-old Davy Guthrie was a well-known figure in Barton, and many people were shocked to hear of his murder. Police believe he was stabbed while he slept, in a side street off the area known as Sunset Strip to Barton’s clubbers . . .”

“So when did you get back here?” asked Tom. He already knew the answer—Stephen’s bike arriving in the village was something the neighbors noticed, and one of them had already mentioned what time Stephen got back.

Stephen Halliday sighed. “About half past eleven,” he said. “My bike broke down, and it took me about a quarter of an hour to get it started again.”

“Oh? What’s wrong with it?”

“I don’t know—I’ve had it fixed once. Well, I thought I had. But it’s doing the same thing again. If I stall it, I can’t start it again.”

“So what made you stall it?”

“Something ran out on the road. A rabbit, or something. I braked, and stalled the engine.”

Tom wanted to believe him, but it was beginning to look a bit dodgy for Stephen Halliday. According to Waterman Entertainment, he had only ever worked at the Barton bingo club once before last night, so the coincidence factor that had been present at Stansfield didn’t apply. He had, according to the staff at the club, left the building at five minutes to eleven, and it was a twenty-minute journey to Stoke Weston. Fifteen minutes gave him plenty of time in which he could have driven to Sunset Strip and stabbed Davy Guthrie. But he still couldn’t see it himself, and they were very far short of having any evidence against him.

“I thought you shot rabbits. But you braked to avoid this one?”

“I do shoot them—that doesn’t mean I want to run them over. Anyway—it could have been a cat, or anything. I don’t know what it was.”

“Can I see the clothes you were wearing last night?”

“If you want. Do you want to take them away again?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Well, it’s my night off tonight, but is there any chance of letting me have them back tomorrow? Last time I had to borrow someone else’s blazer, and it didn’t really fit me.”

Tom could see how that would upset Stephen, just as it would upset Bobby. “Well—I kind of doubt that they’ll be that quick. Sorry.” It would be a waste of time, Tom knew. There was a slight chance that the assailant had got blood on his clothes, but it was more likely that he hadn’t.