Unlucky For Some

by Jill McGown

  Stephen pulled his pint, slowly, carefully. “Don’t ask,” he said, his voice low, so that the other customers couldn’t hear.

  “Why not?” Jack automatically lowered his own voice. “Where is she?”

  His pint was put down a little too vehemently, sloshing over the glass and spilling over and off the drip mat. “Have that one on me,” said Stephen, swiping at the beer with a cloth. His cheeks grew a faint pink, and he answered Jack’s question. “She’s with him.”

  Jack frowned. “Who? The inspector?”

  “No! Tony Baker.”

  “Is she?” Jack sipped what he’d been allowed of his pint, puzzled, in view of how she’d felt about him last night. “I thought she’d gone off him a bit.”

  Stephen laughed without humor. “A great reader of a situation you are,” he said.

  “Why? Where have they gone?”

  “Nowhere. They’re in the sitting room. But if you’re thinking of popping in to say hello, knock before entering.”

  Jack blinked at him. Last night she had been all for calling the police—if he hadn’t told her not to, she would have. “Are you saying that they . . .” He finished the sentence with a waggle of his head.

  “Yes. I told you she’d get her own way in the end.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Jack, I’m quite sure.”

  “When?”

  Stephen’s eyebrows rose. “Last night, if you must know,” he said. “And I don’t know why I’m whispering, because they’re making no secret of it, believe me.”

  No. No, Jack wouldn’t—couldn’t—believe it. But Stephen wouldn’t be saying it just to wind him up—he wasn’t that kind of boy. So it had to be true. Stephen seemed to be blaming his mother for the situation, but Baker must have worked very hard to achieve that turnaround.

  Fortunately, Stephen was in no mood for idle chatter, so Jack was able to drink his pint in stunned silence, and leave. He looked back at the little pub as he made for home, at the curtained sitting-room window. He wished now that he had let her call the police last night. They might not have been as ready to believe Baker’s explanation as Jack had been.

  But then, he thought, Grace hadn’t been as ready to believe it. So what had changed? Why was this happening?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  * * *

  The Barton murder had taken place between 9 p.m. on Monday, April 17 and 2 a.m. on Tuesday, April 18, when Davy was found dead. On Wednesday, April 19, Tony Baker had brought them a new letter, one that gave even less information. The next one would be in May—that was all it said. No place, no method. They had no idea whether this reduction of information was all part of the plan. If it was, it could mean that they would be given no warning at all about the one after that, and in a way, Judy would be relieved if it did, because that was how she was used to crime being committed.

  As the inquiry rolled on without any breaks, the press had become less friendly to the police—even downright hostile on occasion. There were rumors that Yardley was going to be taken off the inquiry, because the Waterman connection had become clear to everyone, and his family relationship with Michael Waterman put him in an awkward position.

  On Thursday, April 20, the newspaper had duly received its letter, taunting them about “their man” failing to stop the writer. Why he wrote to the paper the day after he wrote to Tony Baker was still a puzzle, but it was one firmly on the back burner of this inquiry, because despite Gertie’s evidence, they were, one week on from Davy’s murder, no further forward, a situation their bad press was simply making worse. This Monday morning was one that Judy would happily have slept through; for once, Lloyd had had to get her up for work. Even Charlotte had been unable to stare her awake as she usually did.

  She looked at the ever-increasing pile of statements, and sighed. The dozens of people working on the case in Barton were in the process of checking every one of Waterman’s boxing-evening guests who matched Gertie’s description, and most of them could have been her headless man. The great and the good of Bartonshire favored plain, simple evening dress—or at least, the clothes rental shops did. There were very few ruffled shirts or colored waistcoats to cut down the number of people whose movements had to be investigated. The clothes that had been hired out had all come back minus sinister bloodstains, but that didn’t mean that those who had hired them could be crossed off, because Davy had died almost instantly from a single knife wound to the heart, and there was no reason to suppose that his murderer had got any blood on his clothing. Davy, bless him, hadn’t got all that much blood on his own clothing.

  With, Judy was sure, immense tact and diplomacy, the bulk of the ever-growing investigation team was sifting through the list to reduce it to those who roughly answered Gertie’s description, who had parked on Ladysmith Avenue, and who were in a position, after nine o’clock and before two o’clock, to have left the casino by either the front door or the open fire doors, walked down either Kimberley Court or Mafeking Road, turned onto Ladysmith Avenue, killed Davy and put the knife in the bin before driving off. This was the list that the small executive team was to work on.

  It included Tony Baker, who had left the casino at ten-fifty. Michael Waterman, however, of whom Judy had been becoming ever more suspicious for no good reason whatsoever, had, from eight o’clock in the evening until half past two in the morning, been sitting at the top table, or talking to people at the other tables. He had indeed had his alibi confirmed by the Chief Constable, of all people, so she supposed she had to forget him.

  The people on the slightly reduced list were having their movements on the nights of the other murders investigated, which would at least reduce it further, but in Judy’s experience very few people could furnish cast-iron alibis for what they had been doing two months ago, so she doubted that the exercise would reduce it all that much. But it might reveal someone who was less than forthcoming when questioned.

  A new questionnaire had been devised that took into account dog ownership, fishing and other hobbies in the hope that someone who might have ready access to dog chains and fishermen’s knives could be examined more closely. The dogged and indefatigable Alan Marshall was going through the completed questionnaires, and his findings would be reported to her and Lloyd. It all took a great deal of time, and May was fast approaching.

  The knife had indeed proved to be the murder weapon, but it was available by mail order, on the Internet, in fishing tackle shops, sporting goods shops and everywhere else, as far as Judy could see. It was not going to be possible to trace it back to a particular outlet, and there were, of course, no fingerprints. They were checking the Barton outlets for anyone who had bought such a knife recently, with no joy so far.

  She was beginning to believe that Headless really was the Invisible Man.

  “Tony?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Mike Waterman here. How are you doing?”

  “Very well, thanks, Mike. What can I do for you?”

  “Nothing. But you know how you’re going to be here on May Day to judge the talent contest? Well, my son Ben’s coming down from St. Andrew’s on a flying visit, and I’d very much like you to meet him.” Michael couldn’t believe it had taken him this long to realize that Ben could after all meet Tony Baker. He just hoped he hadn’t left it too late.

  “I’d love to meet him.”

  “Good. I thought if you could come to lunch, that would be ideal. I hope you don’t have other lunch plans.”

  “No, none. I look forward to sampling your housekeeper’s cooking again.” There was a heartbeat before Tony continued. “Is this a stag lunch?”

  Michael smiled. So Tony had met someone, had he? “No, not at all,” he said. “Please bring anyone you like.”

  Another silence. It was a bit like when he’d spoken to Ben, only this time the embarrassment was from the other end. Surely he wasn’t another one? If he was, he’d be the last person he wanted Ben to meet. No—no, he’d indicated that it was a fem
ale person he wanted to bring. And that would be all the better. Maybe it was because Ben had lived in an all-male household, and then he’d sent him to an all-male school—you heard things about these places. He should have known better. Yes, it would be good for Ben if Tony brought a lady friend.

  “I’d better come clean,” Tony said. “I take back everything I may have said to you about Grace. We’ve become something of an item in the last week or so.”

  “Really?” Mike was delighted, if a little surprised. He’d always been fond of Grace himself, but Tony had seemed to find her less than appealing. And Ben liked her, so he’d be pleased to have her company. “Is it serious?”

  “Oh, who knows. Perhaps.”

  “Well, well—that’s brilliant. What happened? Did she take off her glasses and you realized she was lovely?”

  Tony laughed. “Something like that. Maybe I was falling for her all the time, and putting up obstacles. I think I like my freedom too much.”

  “Oh—that does sound serious. Well, of course you must bring her. Make a day of it—she could do with some time off from that pub. Let Stephen look after it.”

  “I might just do that. You’re right—she works much too hard. And Stephen’s no help. Expects her to do everything for him. Cook, clean, wash, iron. He’s a nice enough lad, but he’s been spoiled rotten.”

  Michael had no wish to discuss Stephen, but it was at least cheering to hear someone who wasn’t singing his praises. Of course, he too had sung his praises in the past, but that was before he knew what was going on. Now, all he wanted was to get Stephen Halliday out of Ben’s life.

  And until he could do that, he had to keep them apart, which was what had prompted his suggestion that Tony and Grace make a day of it—the kind of on-the-hoof inspiration that had made him a rich man. Because if Stephen had to look after the pub in the morning, then get to work as soon as it closed for the afternoon, there would be no time for him and Ben to sneak off somewhere together. He made a mental note to make sure that Stephen was told it would be impossible for him to take the bank holiday off. He knew Stephen well enough to know that he wouldn’t feign sickness or anything like that if he believed he was needed at work. He was a very conscientious boy, Stephen. There was a moment, when that thought crossed his mind, that his own conscience pricked him, but it passed.

  “I take it you’re not in the pub at the moment,” he said. “You’d be in trouble if Grace overheard you talking about Stephen like that.”

  “No—I’m in the car, just turning down toward Stoke Weston now.”

  Michael literally bit his lip to stop himself from lecturing Tony on the evils of talking on a mobile while driving. Anything that took your mind off what you were doing was criminal, as far as he was concerned. But he tried not to lecture people, aware that his experience had colored his opinion of these things. He would never allow anyone to drive when they were over the limit, which was fair enough, but you couldn’t go pulling people up on every bit of inconsiderate driving.

  “So that’s a date,” he said. “Half past twelve for one o’clock on the first of May. I look forward to it.”

  “As do I. See you, Mike.”

  “I’m going to see if I can get a fox—do you want to come?” said Stephen, opening the gun cabinet as he spoke on his mobile, and taking out both rifles. Jack kept his in Stephen’s gun cabinet, because it was more secure.

  “Sure,” said Jack. “But it’s not quite dark enough yet.”

  “I’m not spending my evening off looking after the bar so that they can bond all over the place. I’m going out while the going’s good.”

  “Oh, right. Well, come over here then. I’ll make us a spot of supper, and then we can go out.”

  Stephen arrived at Jack's, and flopped down on his big comfortable sofa. “They’re like a couple of kids,” he said.

  In fact, it wasn’t as bad as it had been, now that everyone had had a little while to get used to the idea, but the setup was still one he couldn’t enjoy. “Do you want a lodger, Jack?”

  Jack didn’t reply; he got up and went toward the kitchen. “What do you fancy?” he asked. “A fry-up?”

  “Yeah, that would be great.” After a few moments, he got up and went into the kitchen. “He’s even started trying to boss me around now,” he said. “The other night he told me to go and clean the floor in the gents’ toilet. It’s like he thinks he’s in charge now. He’s persuaded Mum to go to this May Day do that Mr. Waterman’s having at the Grange, and he had the nerve to tell me to look after the pub.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told him I was going to the May Day celebrations too, so if she was going, they’d have to see if Rosie could man the pub.”

  “Is Grace going, then? She’s never shown much interest in May Day before.”

  “Of course she’s going—they couldn’t bear to be separated for a whole day, could they? Anyway, he’s taking her somewhere after he’s judged the talent contest. And they’ve been invited to lunch by Mr. Waterman.”

  Jack turned the sausages, and went into the fridge for bacon. “So you’ve condemned yourself to watching me Morris dancing just to spite them?” he said.

  “Something like that.”

  It wasn’t to spite them. He’d said he was going to the May Day thing to make sure that he wasn’t stuck behind the bar if Ben thought of a way out of what seemed to Stephen like an impossible situation. Ben was good at that.

  Stephen was having to work the bank holiday, which meant that he had to be at work by half past three, and now Ben was apparently supposed to be at this lunch that his father was arranging. Stephen had tried to see if he could get at least the afternoon off, but it wasn’t possible. They had given him Sunday evening off as compensation, but that wasn’t going to be any good to him, because Ben’s train wouldn’t get him here until the early hours of Monday morning.

  He and Ben had arranged to meet at the Tulliver at eleven and take the bike, now once again reportedly fixed, into Barton. They had planned to go to a motel or something for the afternoon. And even if Stephen had to be at work by half past three, it would have been all right. But that was no good now, because Ben had to be back at the Grange by half past twelve for lunch at one; they would have fifty minutes in Barton before he had to leave. That would mean they couldn’t go anywhere that they could be alone, which would be worse than not seeing him at all.

  He hadn’t rung Ben yet—he didn’t think he could know about this lunch, or he’d have been in touch. He’d ring him tonight. Maybe he’d be able to get out of it, but apparently it was all so that Tony Baker could meet him, so that seemed a bit unlikely.

  Everything in his life had started going wrong the moment his mother had met Tony Baker.

  “Cheer up,” said Jack, putting two heaped plates on the table. “Get that down you.”

  “It’s all my mum’s fault,” Stephen said, picking out knives and forks from the drawer.

  “What is?”

  “Everything.”

  Jack frowned. “Don’t you go blaming your mum because she’s taken a shine to Tony Baker,” he said. “It’s not her fault he bosses you about. Tell him to pack it in.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You want to learn to assert yourself.”

  Gary was on late shift at the Barton incident room when she came in. At first, he thought it was a hooker, since she seemed to be very overstated. Plunging neckline, dramatic eye makeup, lipstick you could carve with a knife. Then as this apparition approached, he realized it was a man. He was good—there was no doubt about that, but close up, you could see the faint suggestion of five o’clock shadow.

  “Hi,” he said, in a Yorkshire baritone. “My name’s Dolores Van Doren.”

  Gary looked at him, his eyebrows raised. “Come again?” he said.

  “I could make a rude joke, but I won’t. All right, my name’s William Eckersley, but that wouldn’t go down very well with the punters.”

  “Trainee
DC Gary Sims. Take a seat, Mr. Eckersley.”

  He sat down, crossing one elegant leg over the other. He had good legs, Gary noted. Better than a lot of women he knew. And Gary couldn’t imagine how he could walk in those shoes.

  “I work at the club down the road,” he said. “The Queen Bee.”

  “Oh, right. You’re a drag artist.”

  He smiled, showing impeccable white teeth. “I can see why you’re training for detective work,” he said. “Not a lot gets past you, does it?”

  Gary laughed. “Have you got some information for us?”

  “Yes, I think so. I’ve been away, you see. In Spain. I only found out about Davy tonight. Poor little inoffensive Davy. What did he ever do to that sod that he picked on him?”

  Gary shrugged.

  “Anyway, I don’t know if I’m just being . . . well, you know, if I’m making something out of nothing. Summit out o’ nowt, as we say up north. But the last night before I went away, I was doing my act, and I get a fifteen-minute break. Well—it was hot in there that night, I can tell you, and when you’ve got all this clobber on—I’m not kidding, I thought I was going to faint. So I came out for a breath of air. And you can see right along Ladysmith Avenue from the door of the Bee.”

  Gary sat up. “What did you see?”

  “Davy was in his usual position, propped up with his head against the railings, covered in that filthy blanket.” He shuddered. “Oh, just thinking of that blanket makes me want to heave,” he said. “Anyway—Davy was there, and I could see this old guy walking toward him.”

  “Which way was he walking?”

  “Up toward Kimberley Court. He was carrying a white stick, and I’d never seen a blind man round here, so I thought—if he doesn’t know there’s a destitute drunk lying across this pavement, he’s going to come a cropper. But he didn’t, because he was tapping his cane on the railings, you see. When he got to Davy, he stopped, and I saw him bend down.”