Unlucky For Some

by Jill McGown

  “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.”

  “It’s unlikely,” Judy said. “The nightclub customers either park in the same car park as you did or come by taxi—they don’t use the alleyway coming to the club. They use it leaving, when most of the taxi customers walk to the taxi rank rather than wait at the club for taxis that might not turn up.”

  Baker shook his head. “So the alleyway’s deserted most of the evening? That practically invites muggers to do their worst.”

  Judy nodded her agreement. Maybe Murchison Place and its alleyways would get cameras now—too late, as usual. “You left the car intending to go back to the bingo club. What time would this be?”


  “A few minutes to nine, I believe. About two minutes before I rang the police—and you’ll have a record of when that was. When I got to the alley, I could see two people—a man and a woman—having some sort of argument, then I saw her fall to the ground. He dropped to his knees beside her. At first I thought he was trying to loosen her clothing or something.”

  “So he was bending over her?”

  “Yes. He certainly seemed to be doing something.” He raised his eyebrows slightly. “Arranging the banknotes, perhaps?”

  Judy didn’t respond, and Baker carried on.

  “But when he heard my footsteps, he got up and ran away toward Murchison Place. All I can tell you about him is that he was wearing dark clothing. I went to see if I could help the woman, but . . .”

  “Did you touch anything, Mr. Baker?”

  “No. I felt for a pulse, that was all. Then I used my mobile to phone the police, and—very commendably, I have to say—they arrived within minutes and began sealing off the area.”

  Judy smiled. “I’m glad we meet with your approval,” she said.

  “I was very impressed with the young detective sergeant—Hitchin, is it? He was on top of things as soon as he arrived.”

  Judy moved on to the next item on her list. “I understand that you knew Wilma Fenton—did you know her well?”

  He looked amused. “Hardly,” he said. “But I’ve interviewed a number of people in some depth, and Wilma was one of them. I saw her in her flat, which is how I knew she lived there.”

  “Oh, I see. Was that a television interview?”

  “No. I talk to hundreds of people when I do research. Sometimes I use what they tell me in the books, and at the same time I’m assessing their potential as TV interviewees. Then, when the filming starts, I know exactly what and who we want to see on the screen.”

  Judy felt a little as though she was interviewing Baker on TV; something about his manner, about his way of answering a question, that sounded very different from the hundreds of other interviews she had conducted.

  “Do you often work in your car?”

  “No. I usually go back to the office I’ve rented in Stansfield, and put my impressions on the computer. I can e-mail any photographs I’ve taken to my colleague in London, and she can produce a first draft of the script for that particular segment. But I was anxious to set down my feelings as soon as I could, as I said, so I used the laptop.”

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

  Judy had had a call from Michael Waterman that morning telling her that Stephen Halliday had left the bingo club at the interval, and had run after and caught up with Mrs. Fenton, going into the alleyway with her. They already knew he had been in the alley with her, but what they hadn’t known was that he normally worked until half past ten, and had asked if he might leave early just before he made the payouts to Mrs. Fenton and Mr. Baker. They would be talking to young Mr. Halliday. But the part that interested her most was that he lived at the Tulliver Inn. His mother was Tony Baker’s landlady. And Waterman had been with Baker when he saw Halliday.

  “You’ve already asked me that twice.”

  Judy didn’t say anything. She just waited.

  Baker sighed. “Stephen left at the interval,” he said. “Stephen Halliday—he’s a steward at the club.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that the first time I asked? And why didn’t you tell DI Finch that last night?”

  “I can’t claim to know Stephen all that well, but I’m staying with the Hallidays, and I didn’t want to drag his name into it, because I found her half an hour after Stephen had left the club. I had no reason to think that he had anything to tell you.”

  Judy concluded the interview then, feeling much as Tom had. She didn’t know what to make of Tony Baker. As they left the interview room, she discovered that a Mr. Shaw was there in response to their appeals to anyone who was in the area, and since everyone else was busy, she saw him herself, leaving someone else to show Tony Baker out.

  “I went through that alley not long before it happened,” Shaw said once they were seated. “I heard her behind me, talking.”

  “Did you know who she was talking to?”

  “Young Stephen Halliday. He’s a steward at the bingo club.”

  “Do you know Stephen Halliday well?”

  “Yes—him and his mum. I work for Waterman Entertainment, servicing the fruit machines. Mr. Waterman supplied one to the Tulliver Inn, and I service it, too. I got to know Stephen first, really. His dad left not long after they arrived in Stoke Weston, and I kind of . . . well, took him under my wing, I suppose. They’ve been there almost seven years now.”

  “Could you hear what Stephen and Mrs. Fenton were saying?”

  “They were talking about her win. She was excited about it. Stephen was saying it was a pity she’d had to share the prize with Tony Baker—that sort of thing.”

  “It was quite amicable?”

  “Oh, goodness me, yes. Stephen’s a very nice lad.” He frowned. “You surely don’t think he had anything to do with it, do you?”

  “We don’t know who did or didn’t have anything to do with it, Mr. Shaw,” said Judy. “That’s what we’re trying to find out. Did you see anyone else in the alley?”

  “No. Mind, that doesn’t mean there wasn’t someone else there—you can stay out of sight if you want to.”

  “Yes,” said Judy. “In fact, we’ve been told that you stopped in the shadows for a few moments—is that right?”

  Shaw looked slightly alarmed. “Well . . . yes. I was waiting for Stephen, really, but then he stood talking to the lady, so I just carried on.” He frowned. “Who told you that?”

  Judy smiled, and moved on to her next question. “Did you see Stephen again last night?” she asked.

  “Yes—I went to see Jerry Wheelan at the nightclub, and we were standing in the doorway when Stephen ran past us and across the road.”

  “Do you know when that would have been?”

  “Only a couple of minutes after I got there, because after that I sat inside the door to the reception area, out of the cold. It would have been between half past eight and twenty-five to nine, I think.”

  “So you wouldn’t know if and when Stephen came back?”

  “No.”

  Judy made a note. “Can you tell me why you were there?”

  “Yes—I was driving Mr. Waterman. He’d been drinking in the early evening, and he won’t drive if he’s had anything to drink—he lost his wife because of a drunk driver. He wanted me to take him to the bingo club in Malworth and take him home again at ten.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “No. It was odd, because he never works on Sundays. Nothing religious—just that he likes his game of golf and to wind down. I thought he must be doing a surprise spot check or something, so I went over to warn the lads at the nightclub.”

  Mr. Shaw, having taken refuge from the weather in the nightclub’s reception area, hadn’t been in a position to see anyone else coming or going along Waring Road. Judy thanked him, and he left.

  “Stephen, it’ll be lunchtime before you get there at this rate! What are you doing up there?”

  Stephen had spent a long time in the bathroom, getting himself ready. He’d feel better able to face the police if he looked good. Now back in his bedroom, he was surveying his wardrobe—not extensive, but expensive. He never bought anything that didn’t have a designer label. That wasn’t easy to do on a steward’s salary, but he worked part-time in the bar, and saved up. Eventually, he decided on smart casual.

  “You’re not going on the bike,” his mother said, when he got downstairs. “The snow’s frozen hard—it would be far too dangerous. Do you want me to take you in?”

  Oh God, no. Turning up with his mother—no, he didn’t think so. “I’ll get a taxi,” he said.

  But, he discovered, when his mother answered the knock at the door, he didn’t have to get a taxi, because the police had come for him.<
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  Keith stumbled downstairs, having pulled on Michelle’s bathrobe, and opened the door to the postman, who handed him a pile of stuff done up in two rubber bands.

  “Thanks, mate,” he said, closing the door and pulling the paper from the letter box. Michelle got mad about that—the boy never put it all the way through. But now that she had a new job she left the house long before it came, so the boy didn’t get into trouble so much these days. Keith rarely read it, but he glanced at it as he went into the living room just in case there was anything interesting in it.

  The headline was some lame story about a soap star Keith had never heard of being refused a flight because he was drunk, but the column down the side of the front page made Keith’s eyes, still half-shut with sleep, open wide. It was all about how Tony Baker, their very own columnist, “the man who in the eighties put the combined might of four police forces to shame,” had witnessed a mugger fleeing the scene of what turned out to be not just a brutal assault, but a cold-blooded murder.

  Keith put the mail down on the table, and sat down, turning to the promised full story inside.

  The double-page spread wasn’t, of course, about what had happened last night; there had been no time for them to get much detail about that. It was about how Tony Baker had succeeded where the police had failed, almost twenty years ago. Facsimiles of their own headlines, photographs of a young Tony Baker, of his wife, who had left him during “his relentless pursuit of the truth behind the South Coast murders,” were splashed across the pages. Keith had never even heard of the man before yesterday, but then he hadn’t been born when these murders had begun.

  And now, the paper said, their man had been the sole witness to another murder. According to the paper, Wilma Fenton had been to her regular bingo game, and for the first time in her life she had won a decent amount of money—over four hundred pounds. The murder had happened right outside the street door to the flats where she lived, a door reached via a grim, damp, badly lit alleyway. She had been just moments away from safety when she met her death at the hands of someone lurking in the dank and dismal passageway.