Unlucky For Some (3 page)

It was through Stephen that Tony had discovered the delights of the Tulliver Inn in Stoke Weston, a travelers’ inn since the seventeenth century, which nowadays still did a very good bed-and-breakfast and evening meal. He hated provincial hotels; a village inn was much more to his liking. The only drawback was Grace Halliday herself, a blonde, forty-something divorcee, who was itching to get her hooks into him. Tony nodded to Stephen as he went to the woman’s table first.

“Here you are, Wilma—not bad for ten minutes’ work.”

Wilma, still slightly pink, smiled at him as he counted out the money. “You’re looking very handsome tonight,” she said.

“. . . two hundred and fifty—thank you, Wilma. You’re looking good too, especially now you’re rich—three hundred, three hundred and fifty, four hundred, four hundred and ten, twenty, thirty. There you go,” he said, tucking in the flap of the envelope. “Your place or mine?”

“Oh, I should be so lucky!”

Stephen came toward him with the satisfactorily thick envelope, and took out the notes. “Fifty, one hundred, one-fifty . . .”

Waterman paid out in cash up to a thousand pounds; he thought that the thrill of being given a bundle of banknotes was all part of the fun, and he was right, thought Tony. It was much more satisfying to see the money being counted than to be handed a check.

Tony had come to Bartonshire a month ago, purely to try the Waterman experience. He could have stayed with Mike Waterman at his enormous house, but he had felt that accepting his hospitality might prejudice his findings, and had turned him down. Having had to endure Grace Halliday’s inane chatter and fluttering eyelashes, he wished he hadn’t. But he would only be here for another two weeks; he would survive.

“. . . three-ninety, four hundred and ten, four hundred and thirty. Spend it on something you don’t need.”

“I will,” said Tony, picking it up. The envelope’s edges were decorated with a repeat design of two champagne glasses and a champagne bottle having just popped its cork, with the words “Bull’s Eye Bingo Winner” printed on it. Underneath, in the same print, were the words “Congratulations, Tony!” He smiled. Waterman added finishing touches that cost him virtually nothing, but it worked.

“That’s me finished,” said Stephen. “I’m getting off early tonight.”

“Do you want a lift home?”

“No, it’s all right, thanks,” said Stephen. “I’ve got the bike out back.”

“Oh, you got it fixed, did you?”

“Fingers crossed. It got me here, so it seems to be okay.”

Stephen left, walking quickly toward the staff area, and Tony stood up, taking his jacket from the back of the seat, and made for the exit. As he pushed open the big glass door, he literally bumped into Michael Waterman.

“You’re not leaving, Tony? It’s only the interval.”

“I’ve just taken some money off you, Mike, and I think I’ll quit while I’m ahead.”

“Oh—but it’s the national game in the second half,” said Waterman. “You could win two hundred thousand quid if your luck’s in.”

“I’ll pass,” said Tony, with a grin. “I think I’ve had my share of luck for tonight.” He put his jacket on. Mike Waterman might want to stand out here all night chatting, but he didn’t.

“Do you have any children, Tony?”

“No.”

Waterman sighed. “Ben’s been home for the weekend, and if I saw him for five minutes at a time I was lucky. He’s off out somewhere, and . . . well, the house seemed a bit empty. That’s why I’m here—I thought the bingo club atmosphere might cheer me up.”

Tony wanted to get off, but it seemed a bit impolite just to go, if the man needed cheering up. He could surely spare him five minutes. He took a surreptitious glance at his watch. Five minutes—no more than that, because Grace would have his meal ready for him. This new insulin program that he was trying out was supposed to mean that a delayed meal was no longer such a problem, but Tony was used to eating when he’d arranged to eat, and besides, he wasn’t cut out to be a counselor. And apart from anything else, he was cold.

Stephen spent some time getting ready before he left the club; finally, he used his fingers to brush a touch of gel through his fair hair, tweaking it into the peaks that he currently favored, then rinsed his hands, straightened his tie, and stood back a little from the mirror to see the effect.

“You’re beautiful, Steve—don’t worry.”

The voice belonged to Jim, one of the other stewards, as he emerged from a cubicle, the only place that any of them could have a cigarette without getting caught. The customers could smoke, but the staff couldn’t, and the smokers among them found that quite hard to take.

Stephen flashed Jim’s reflection a mock toothpaste-ad grin—one that was free of the pollutants of cigarette smoke—and he knew that the comment had been only half in fun. He was vain; he knew that. Everyone made fun of the care he took with his appearance. But his public loved him for it.

That was how he thought of them, the bingo regulars whose cars were parked nose-to-tail outside. They had to get here early if they wanted to park on the road outside; most people had to use the big car park on Waring Road, a five-minute walk away. But Stephen could always leave his bike at the back of the club, so he didn’t have that problem.

One last check, then he pulled on his leather biking jacket, picked up his helmet, went out into the club and pushed open the door to the street just as another of his colleagues passed.

“Oh, you’re bound to pull tonight, Steve,” she said.

“He doesn’t need to,” came Jim’s voice from behind him. “He’s getting plenty already, aren’t you, Steve?”

Stephen practically walked into Michael Waterman, who was standing right outside the club with Tony Baker. He felt himself flush as he walked quickly away, hoping Mr. Waterman hadn’t heard. But he had been using his mobile phone, not taking any apparent notice. Stephen smiled. Mr. Waterman was always on the phone; if he wasn’t ringing people he was texting them. Stephen wondered what he would have done if he had been born a century earlier. He would probably have had a flock of carrier pigeons at the ready.

Stephen had been a steward at the Bull’s Eye bingo clubs for almost three years now, ever since he’d left school, and he enjoyed it. He liked the women—they were mostly women—who played bingo; they were unpretentious, always ready to have a laugh. And they loved him, for some reason. He was always getting joke propositions. He liked Mr. Waterman, but if he ever found out about him and Ben, there would be trouble. Of course, Jim had only been making a joke—he knew nothing about it, and no one at all knew that he was going to meet Ben. But Stephen hoped Mr. Waterman hadn’t heard, all the same.

He felt fine snow hit his face, and stopped to button up his jacket. Some way ahead of him, he could see Wilma, who never stayed for the second half—she had to get home to walk her dog, and she didn’t like doing that late at night.

Wilma, disorganized as ever, had a large shoulder bag gaping open, and Stephen saw what looked very much like the envelope he had given her slide to the ground. He ran to pick it up, then carried on after her, calling her name, but she was too far away to hear him. She was crossing the road, heading toward one of Malworth’s many alleyways, halfway along which was the entrance to the flats where she lived.

Stephen ran as fast as he could, and caught up with her as she turned into the Victorian covered alleyway, long and dank, its roof supported by thick pillars. Cobbled, dimly lit, covered with fly-posters and graffiti, it was an uninviting place at night.

“Are you so rich you can throw it away, or what?” he asked, his voice echoing in the damp, cave-like passage.

“What’s that?” Her mouth fell open when she saw what he was holding. “Oh, my God—I thought I’d put that in my purse. I was in a state. I’ve never won that much.”

“Well, put it in your purse now.”

She fumbled about in the bag, finally fishing out the purse, handing it to him. It was the kind that fastened with two twists of metal that snapped together. “Here,” she said. “You do it. My hands are too cold.”

Stephen took it from her, then shook his head. “It’s a coin purse,” he said. “It won’t take all those notes. They’d fall out when you opened it. I’ll just leave them in the envelope, and put it in here. All right?” He slid the envelope into her shoulder bag, dropping the purse in after it, and zipped it up. “I’ll walk along with you,” he said. “I’m going that way anyway.”

Jack Shaw was already walking in the gloom of that alleyway on his way to the nightclub, his virtually undetectable limp slightly more apparent than usual, as it always was in very cold weather.

He was still puzzled as to why Michael Waterman had suddenly wanted to be driven to Malworth. He had turned up at his cottage, asking if he was doing anything this evening, and when Jack had said that he was doing nothing in particular, had asked him to be his chauffeur for the evening.

“I want to go to the Malworth bingo club,” he’d said. “But I was out this afternoon, and I’ve been drinking. So if you can take me and bring me back, I’ll make it worth your while. I’ll be leaving again about ten, I think.”

Jack was never averse to making a few extra quid, and had happily driven his boss to Malworth, parking behind the bingo club in the space reserved for him. His staff certainly wouldn’t be expecting to see him; Waterman usually had Sunday off.

“Are you not coming in?” Waterman had asked, as he had got out of the car.

“No,” Jack had said. “I’ve got something I want to do.”

“Right—see you later.”

Waterman Entertainment employed Jack as a fruit machine technician, and he knew most of the people who worked for Michael Waterman. He couldn’t warn the bingo club staff of their boss’ arrival, but he could at least tell Jerry Wheelan over at the Stars and Bars that he might be going to get a spot check.

He could hear the voices of the people behind him in the narrow passage, their words carrying on the still, cold air. Stephen’s voice he’d recognized; the other evidently belonged to someone who had had a win at bingo.

“I still can’t believe I won all that money. Four hundred and thirty pounds—it’s a fortune.”

“It was a shame you had to share.”

“Oh, no. It’s quite enough as it is. Why shouldn’t someone else be lucky too?”

Stephen gave a snort. “Oh, like he needs the money,” he said.

“Do you know him, then?”

“He’s staying with us. But you know who he is, don’t you?”

“Sort of. I know he’s on telly. He interviewed me—wanted to know why I play bingo all the time when I never win anything.”

“Trust him to get half of it when you finally did get a decent win.”

“Don’t you like him then?”

“Not much. But you should see my mum—she can’t get over him staying in her pub. She’s all over him.”

Jack slowed to a stop, not wanting to get out of earshot, and stood in the shadow of a pillar. He didn’t want them to see him, but he wanted very much to hear what Stephen had to say. Tony Baker thought he was God’s gift, and Grace Halliday was waiting on him hand and foot, which made matters worse. Jack hadn’t been too sure how Stephen felt about him, and he wanted to know.

“Ah—is that why you don’t like him? Are you jealous?”

“No! No. If she found someone she liked, I’d be happy for her. I just think he’s a bit full of himself, that’s all.”

“Is it serious? Do you think you’ll be getting a stepdad?”

“I don’t think so. He’s not a bit interested in her. But if you knew my mum—she doesn’t give up, so you never know. I hope not.”

Jack didn’t listen to the rest of the conversation.

“Kelly’s Eye to Charley Sierra.”

“Charley Sierra receiving.”

“We’re in position at the Candy Store.”

The Candy Store was the code name for the premises they were watching, and Trainee Detective Constable Gary Sims watched as Detective Sergeant Kelly checked that the cameras, both video and still, were pointing directly at the front door of the block of flats across from the room that the observation team was currently occupying.

Gary, on detachment to Force Drugs Squad, knew from previous observations just how mind-numbingly boring CID work could be, but there was something unusual about the sergeant’s manner on the radio, his almost obsessive checking that all the equipment was in working order, and that Gary and the others knew exactly what they had to do. Something was in the air.

This one was going to be an all-nighter, but at least they were in a room in someone’s house—the last one had seen them all crammed into a van, which became less and less habitable as the night wore on. At least here they could stretch their legs from time to time, and use a regular toilet when required to do so. There had been a strange funnel arrangement rigged up in the van in order that no one had to leave it.

And now that they were there, Kelly informed them that Operation Sweet Sixteen—so called because that was the average age of the people to whom the merchandise would ultimately be peddled—was about to achieve its objective. There were eight teams carrying out similar observations all over the city, and when they had recorded enough to prove that dealing was taking place, the raiding parties would go in and take out one of the biggest drug-dealing rings in the city.

Gary fancied he heard a hint of pride in the sergeant’s voice as he used the word “city,” for Barton had only recently achieved city status, and the status of its police had thus been enhanced.

The guys on the raids would get all the fun, all the action, Gary thought disconsolately. His job consisted of pointing a camera and noting descriptions and times for someone else to write down. He said as much to the sergeant.

“We’re going to take these bastards right out,” said Kelly. “We’ll have video and photographs and a log detailing every deal that goes down. And when we move in we’ll have them, their equipment, the drugs and the money. No smart-ass lawyer’s going to get any of them off.” He smiled. “And with any luck, their whole operation in this city will fall apart.”

“Fair enough, sarge,” said one of the others. “But we still haven’t got the big boys. So we take out eight middlemen—so what? They’ll recruit another eight.”