Unlucky For Some (7 page)

He’d heard the remark that someone had made about Halliday just as he was leaving tonight. Was it meant for his ears? Did everyone know about it except him? How long had it been going on? It wouldn’t be going on much longer, not if he could help it.

He wished Josephine was here. She could have talked to Ben, made him see sense. But Ben barely remembered Josephine; she was just a photograph to him. He had cried all night when Michael had told him that Mummy had gone to heaven and wouldn’t be able to come back to him, but Ben didn’t remember all that distress now, thank God.

Michael did, and his lip began to tremble as he thought of the little boy he had tried to console while tears coursed down his own face. Some bastard, drunk behind the wheel, had taken away his wife and Ben’s mother, and no one had ever come near to replacing her. He had had the odd fling, usually with a married woman. He had never wanted to remarry.

And now he didn’t know what to do about Ben, and he wanted Josephine’s wise counsel more than he ever had.

Tony Baker lay down on the bed, suddenly very tired now that the adrenaline had stopped pumping. Twice in one night, he had had a heart-stopping moment. First, the bingo win, and then . . .

For all his expertise in the field of violent crime, he had never before been the first person at the scene of a murder, and he had been within yards of the murderer. At first, he hadn’t realized who the victim was. Or that she was dead. He had caught a glimpse, no more, of the figure who ran off.

But he had stopped to assist the victim, discovering first that she was dead, secondly that she was Wilma, and then—to his surprise and some shame—that he didn’t really care about that. No—when he found Wilma, he was simply annoyed that it was nothing more interesting than a mugging. That was what he had felt as he had looked at Wilma’s lifeless body, while he could still hear her assailant’s footsteps in the alleyway. Irritation. Not very laudable, he accepted, as he switched out the bedside lamp, but that was how it was.

By the time the police had arrived, however, he had had time to think, and it looked a little more interesting than it had at first. Tony didn’t point out the unusual aspects to the investigating officer, because he felt reasonably sure that the man would find them for himself, and he didn’t want to be accused of making a habit of doing the police’s job for them.

Finch looked like a slightly harassed cherub, with his mop of golden curls. Efficient enough, though. And he seemed impervious to the weather, so he must be tougher than he looked. Tony had had his gloved hands deep in the pockets of his leather coat all the time they had been talking; Finch, wearing just a suit, wasn’t even shivering.

Finch had listened to his story, and had asked him a few questions, not commenting on the answers. It was impossible to tell from his demeanor whether or not he thought he was dealing with more than just a routine mugging. But he had said that his Chief Inspector might want to talk to Tony, so he probably had noticed the oddities.

In his car, Tony had rung the newspaper for whom he wrote his column, and told them of his new adventure—he was just in time to catch the late editions, and the editor was very pleased that he was, especially since news had been slow that day. It would be given a good deal of prominence, because even if some major celebrity was caught with his trousers down right now, Tony thought, with a satisfied smile, it would be too late to make tomorrow’s edition.

He felt a shade guilty, but not much. Why shouldn’t he make as much of what had happened as he could? All right, someone had murdered the woman, and it might be a touch insensitive to use her death in the way he had, but if he hadn’t been able to help her he could at least help himself. After all, he had a TV series in the pipeline, and all publicity was good publicity.

It was only when Stephen came in that Tony realized that he was the last person he had seen with Mrs. Fenton. It had struck him as odd at the time, because if Stephen’s bike was parked round the back of the bingo club, there seemed to be no reason for him to be on foot in Murchison Way.

When Tony told him what had happened, Stephen had said immediately that he had been with her, said that he had walked her to her door, in what seemed like a completely innocent response to the news. But Tony was having trouble with that. Why had he been running after Wilma, calling her name, desperate to catch up with her, as though his life depended on it? And why had he left at the interval, come to that? Tony had spoken to him earlier in the day, and he seemed to think he would be working his normal shift. The decision to leave at the interval had been made after he had started work. After Wilma had won the money? Surely not.

But it was all a bit strange.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

Tony checked his blood sugar levels, and used his chart to work out how many carbohydrates were in the breakfast that Grace was even now preparing for him. He supposed this flexible regime would give him a bit more freedom about what he ate and when he ate, but it took a bit of getting used to. He had been on a course, but now he was flying without a net, and that was a bit scary. He gave himself what he hoped was an appropriate injection of insulin, and went downstairs.

Breakfast was always in Grace’s kitchen-diner; he ate his evening meal in the pub itself, but with only one guest to cater for, Grace found it simpler just to have him join her in the mornings. Or so she said. Tony thought she liked the idea of him having his feet under her table. And, of course, it was always à deux; Stephen, like most teenagers, never got up until after breakfast.

“Is that you, Tony?” Grace called, as soon as she heard his step on the stair.

“It is,” he said, as he joined her in the kitchen. “How are you this morning?”

“Fine, thanks. Are you all right? You were a bit shaken up.”

“Oh, I’m all right. Though I honestly thought I was unshockable until last night.”

“It was a horrible thing to find.”

Yes, he supposed it was. But it had been his own reaction to it, rather than the discovery itself, that had shocked him, though he was reasonably comfortable with it now. When he was thirteen years old he had had to adjust to the fact that he had diabetes; at first, it had frightened him, worried him. Then he had become resigned to the fact that there was a part of him that was different from most people, that it might lead to other serious problems, and that he had to live with it. This was much the same. Perhaps his years of studying crime had made him indifferent to its horror, but so what?

“Your breakfast will be about ten minutes. You just relax and read the paper or something.” She looked as though she was going to say something else, but if she had been, she changed her mind, and turned her attention back to the cooker.

He noticed the Valentine card on the sideboard, and took a peek inside when Grace wasn’t looking. It was a gently comic one—not vulgar, but not overly romantic, and in traditional fashion, it was unsigned.

He read the paper, but Grace didn’t get anything as downmarket as the journal for which he wrote his column, so he would have to wait to see what they’d done with the story. He’d pick one up on his way to the police station.

She joined him at the table with the bowl of muesli that was all she had for breakfast.

“Do you think Stephen will want a lift to the police station with me?” he asked. “It’s dodgy weather for an even more dodgy motorbike to cope with, and I think he should talk to them. He must have been one of the last people to see her alive.”

Stephen had had a lot of expense lately with the bike, and it was just possible that the temptation of Mrs. Fenton’s winnings might have been too much. Tony had no idea if the person he saw running away from the scene could have been Stephen—he really only saw a shadow. And Stephen had seemed genuinely upset when he was told about what had happened. But as far as Tony could see, Wilma had been hit just once, so whoever did kill her might not have realized that he had. And if that was Stephen, that would explain how his distress could be so convincing, if he was discovering that he had murdered someone.

“They won’t think he had anything to do with it, will they?” asked Grace, as if she had been reading his thoughts.

“Well—they have to suspect everyone at the outset. I’ll be on their list, and so, I expect, will Stephen, once they know he was with her shortly before she died.” He smiled. “But unlike me, he at least was presumably somewhere else altogether at nine o’clock.”

“But that’s the funny thing,” she said. “He won’t say where he was. I asked him, but he said he was just out somewhere.”

Tony frowned. He hadn’t known the Hallidays all that long, but Stephen didn’t seem the secretive type. “Well—maybe he was somewhere he’d rather his mother didn’t know about,” he said. “I’m sure he won’t mind telling the police.”

She smiled, looking reassured, and Tony ate, reading the paper as instructed. But every time he looked up, she would look away. It was distinctly odd, and a little unsettling on the digestion. And now, when he looked up, she looked at the Valentine card, and then back at him, and smiled. “I found it behind the bar this morning,” she said. “But it isn’t signed, so I don’t know who to thank.”

Oh, my God, she thought it was from him. He hadn’t the faintest idea how to disabuse her of the idea. Denying it when she hadn’t even asked him would simply confirm her in her mistaken belief. It seemed that he was getting the thousand shocks that flesh was heir to all at once.

“Oh, I’m sure you have many admirers, Grace—it could be from anyone. That’s the whole point of Valentines, isn’t it? You don’t know who they’re from.”

She picked up her plate. “Well, if it was you, thank you very much. It really made me smile first thing, and that’s not easy when I’m facing a pile of washing-up.” She laughed, and stood up. “Tea or coffee?”

“Tea, please.”

As soon as he’d drunk it, he was going to the police station—if Stephen wasn’t up by then, he’d have to make his own way there. He certainly wasn’t staying here alone with Grace thinking he’d sent her a Valentine.

“Well,” he said, as he put his cup down. “I’d better make tracks.” The tea had almost burned his mouth, he had drunk it so quickly. He made it out into the corridor, but his eye was caught by the open door on the opposite wall. He’d never really noticed that there was a room there before. And Stephen wasn’t still in bed. He was up, dressed, and busy, just about to put a newly cleaned rifle back in the gun cabinet attached to the wall. “Good morning, Stephen,” he said, knocking on the open door, and going in. “I didn’t know you shot.”

Stephen turned. “Hello,” he said. “Yes—Jack started teaching me not long after we came here.” He smiled. “It was great fun. He taught me to fish, too.”

“Well, there’s two things we’ve got in common.” Tony held out a hand. “May I?” he asked.

Stephen handed him the rifle, and Tony whistled. “This is very nice,” he said, squinting through the sight, the rifle pointed at the ceiling. He wondered how Stephen could have afforded such an expensive rifle. Perhaps he made a habit of relieving his customers of their winnings. “Very nice indeed. It must have set you back a bit.”

“No,” said Stephen. “It was a present from Mr. Waterman.”

“That was very generous of him.” Tony held out the rifle to Stephen. “Do you hunt as well?”

“Do you mean foxhunting?” Stephen took the rifle, and locked it up in the cabinet. “No. I don’t agree with foxhunting.”

“Ah,” said Tony. “That’s because you’re a townie at heart—not really a country boy. Very unsporting, shooting foxes. What chance does a fox stand against a rifle? At least they can try to outwit the hunt—and usually do.”

“It’s pest control. It wouldn’t be much good if I gave the fox a sporting chance.”

“True. Ever shot deer?”

“No.”

“Oh, you should try it. If you enjoy shooting, you would be bound to enjoy deerstalking.”

“I don’t think I’d want to shoot deer,” Stephen said, his face slightly troubled. “I just shoot pests.”

Tony smiled. “Then I’d better be on my way,” he said. “Unless you want a lift to the police station—I presume you are going to talk to them?”

“Yes,” said Stephen. “But no, thanks—I don’t want a lift.”

“Fine. See you later.”

“Ray? Mike here.”

He heard a groan at the other end of the line. “I know why you’re ringing,” Ray said.

“Why is my bingo club splashed all over the tabloids?”

“One tabloid,” said Ray. “I can only imagine it’s because Tony Baker writes a column for them. You didn’t think we told them, did you?”

Oh. Michael felt a little less aggrieved. “Does he? I didn’t know. But it’s bad enough having this happen to one of my winners without the whole world knowing.”

“I understand that. Don’t worry, I’ll have a word with Judy Hill—she’ll set Baker straight. But there’s nothing much we can do about it now.”

“Can I speak to her? Have you got a number I can get her at?”

There was a rare moment of silence before Ray spoke. “I did say I’d have a word, Mike, and I will.”

“No—not about that. It’s just that . . . well, I was at the bingo club myself last night, but I’d gone by the time the police were there. I might have some information that will help.”

“Oh—right. Okay, I’ll tell her to expect a call from you.”

He jotted down the number. “Thanks, Ray.”

Michael looked out of the window at the cold, bleak morning. Snow lay everywhere still—not thick, but untroubled by the sun, which was presumably up there somewhere above the layers of cloud. It would probably snow again. It matched his mood.

Yesterday had to have been one of the worst days of his life, and his housekeeper’s paper of choice had done nothing to make today any better.

“Mr. Baker? DCI Judy Hill.” Judy sat down opposite Tony Baker, and opened her notebook, in which she had jotted down some points on which she wanted some clarification. She had read Baker’s statement, written in his own neat, clear hand, which was in all essentials what he had told Tom last night.

She had read something else as well that morning; something that DS Yardley had drawn to her attention. Her phone had rung at precisely one minute past nine, and Yardley had—she had timed him—spoken for precisely eight minutes and twenty seconds before she was able to get a word in. But in essence, what he had told her was that what had begun as a very unfortunate local incident was now going to be investigated with at least one national newspaper’s deep interest.

She had caused a copy of the offending paper to be purchased, and laid it on the table. “Your doing?” she said.

Baker put on a look of mock shame, then grinned. “I work for them,” he said. “What did you expect me to do?”

She folded the paper and put it down beside her chair. “I would expect you, of all people, to be aware that the police don’t always want to release full details of a murder, for very good reasons.”

“Oh, come on! I didn’t say any more than you’ll have said in your very own press release.”

That was true. Judy felt that she was probably going to lose this argument—she was only having it because Yardley had insisted that she let Baker know the error of his ways. But what he had said interested her. “What more could you have said?” she asked.

He sat back. “I could have asked why a mugger would take the quite unnecessary additional risk of opening the envelope and taking the money out while he was still with the victim—but I didn’t. I could have said that it would have been very unlikely for the money to have been spread out like that if it had been dropped in the assailant’s haste to get away. But I thought you might not want that generally known.”

“Anything else?”

“You’ve got my statement. You know what I saw.”

“Yes. But I just want to ask a few supplementary questions, Mr. Baker. I understand you left the bingo club at the interval of the main session, as did Mrs. Fenton. Did anyone else leave the bingo club at the interval?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Can I ask why you were playing bingo in Malworth?” She smiled. “That’s the sort of thing that happens in dreams,” she added. “Seeing well-known TV personalities in odd places.”

He smiled back, and the slightly frosty atmosphere thawed a little. “I’m doing research into people’s gambling habits. Bingo’s making a comeback.”

“Why Malworth?” Judy asked.

“Why not?” He smiled. “The program covers Monte Carlo and Las Vegas, and obviously everyone will expect the British episode to be London. But I didn’t want to do the obvious. London clubs and casinos look exactly like the ones in Monte Carlo and Las Vegas. I wanted something contrasting, something different. Something a little more down-to-earth, that the British viewers could relate to, and that might entertain non-British viewers. We are a nation of gamblers—we don’t spend as much as some other countries, but three out of four adults in Britain gamble on something, did you know that?”

“But why Malworth?” Judy persisted. For all she knew, the man had had a score to settle with Wilma Fenton.

“Chance. It isn’t just Malworth—it’s the whole of Bartonshire. I met Michael Waterman at Ascot, and he suggested I come here and sample gambling with the personal touch.”

Judy abandoned that line of questioning. He was probably telling the truth anyway. She moved on to her next note. “I know why Wilma Fenton left at the interval,” she said. “Why did you?”

“Because I’ve already played the national bingo game, so I didn’t need to do that again. What I hadn’t done before was win, and I wanted to get down my feelings about that before they’d gone.”

“Did anyone else leave the bingo club at the interval?”

Judy had trained herself years ago to repeat questions while sounding as though she had never asked them before. It irritated people, got under their skin. Unnerved them, as it was unnerving Baker now. His face had lost its urbane been-there-done-that look, and he was failing to meet her eye.

“I can’t say I noticed.”

He was an attractive man, Judy supposed, but the attractiveness was all a little too false for her. Real people doing real jobs just didn’t get their hair done like that. Their teeth weren’t that perfect. And real people doing real jobs weren’t deeply suntanned in February. Though if he had been to Las Vegas, that might excuse the tan.

“This research is for a television series?”

“And a book. The notes are for the book, really.”

“Was anyone else in the car park?”

“Do I need an alibi?” He smiled again. “Sorry—I know you have to suspect me. DI Finch had a rather unsubtle look inside my car last night.”

She smiled back. “I’m just trying to find possible witnesses.”

“I didn’t see anyone else in the car park. But perhaps someone going to or from the nightclub saw something.”