Unlucky For Some

by Jill McGown

  Tom had had no luck trying to interview Keith Scopes, who had gone away for the weekend with his girlfriend, but he arrived at work on Monday morning to be told by Alan Marshall that they had finally traced the blind man, thanks to Gary Sims.

  Sims had gone up and down Mafeking Road for three days, asking about him, until at last he found a pub where the barmaid remembered a blind man asking for directions to the Oxford Hotel, which was on one of the side streets off Mafeking Road. The hotel had furnished him with the man’s name and business address, and despite the inconvenience of the bank holiday, Gary hoped to run him to earth at his home in Leicester today, and was on his way there already. No one was sure how useful his evidence would be, but he might have some information that would help them find Headless.

  Alan returned to his task of sorting through the questionnaires to produce a short list for Judy and Lloyd to peruse, and Hitchin came into the office, looking triumphant.

  “I’ve finally managed to check out Scopes. And he was working in Stansfield the night Lewis died, and in the Lucky Seven the night Davy died.”

  “Was he now?”

  “There’s more,” said Hitchin. “He was working in the casino from eight o’clock at night until well after two in the morning. He was there the whole time except for about fifteen minutes from half past ten—and the doormen at the casino wear evening dress. We didn’t know that before.”

  “So he could be Headless?” Tom frowned. “But I agree with the acting Super. I can’t see Scopes having suddenly turned into a serial killer.”

  “Serial killers have to start doing it at some point,” said Hitchin. “And according to Tony Baker’s book, they’re quite often habitual petty offenders.”

  Tom smiled. “You’ve been doing your homework, have you, Hitch?”

  “Well, I didn’t really know about the South Coast murders thing—I thought I ought to see what it was he did. And then I read his book about all the serial killers he’s interviewed. It’s interesting stuff.”

  “I’m sure Baker knows what he’s talking about,” said Tom. “And they probably are often regular offenders. But Keith’s whole life revolves around money. The only reason he’s a suspect is that we thought he might have mugged Wilma for her winnings—and what was he doing instead? Buying drugs to sell. Money. That’s what motivates Scopes. What would make him suddenly start killing for no reason at all?”

  “I don’t know,” said Hitchin. “But he must be mixed up in it, surely.”

  This whole business seemed to be the wrong way round to Tom. Baker had taken up with Grace Halliday, which could certainly mean that Stephen’s life had been disrupted by him, and Stephen’s mind could be a little disturbed as a result, but Stephen couldn’t be Headless. Keith could be Headless, but he really didn’t have much of a mind to disturb. “A disturbed mind, Hitch, that’s what the psychologist said. Do you think Keith Scopes has a disturbed mind? And is he obsessed with Tony Baker? Does he even know him?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s a small village—he must know him to some extent. And no—I don’t think he’s got a disturbed mind. But I think he’s capable of pretending he has if there’s something in it for him.”

  Scopes would only have killed these people if someone had paid him to do it, thought Tom. And that seemed a tad unlikely, but he definitely needed to talk to him. “I expect he’s still away,” he said.

  “No—Waterman Entertainment said he was working today. He’s at Waterman’s place in Stoke Weston.”

  “Right.” Tom got up. “You’ll know where I am if anyone wants me.”

  Judy had now commandeered a computer for the office she and Lloyd shared, and he was working his way through the employment histories of every employee, in or out of uniform, who was old enough to have worked on the South Coast murders, a task made no easier by the fact that four police forces had been involved.

  She was trying to reword the statement the press office had given her to read so that it sounded rather more like her and less like Raymond Yardley, uncomfortably aware that she and Lloyd would be getting on much more efficiently if they were doing each other’s jobs.

  “Come in,” she called, when someone tapped at the door.

  “I’ve got the filleted list of dinner jackets, ma'am,” said Alan Marshall, holding a still-bulky file of questionnaires. “All men who could have been Headless, with varying degrees of interest in fishing and dogs.”

  Judy groaned. “How many are still on it?”

  “Twenty possibles, starting with the most likely down to the least likely.” He glanced at Lloyd. “Sir, you might be pleased to hear that Tony Baker isn’t on it any longer, because he didn’t leave the casino until ten to eleven, so he couldn’t have been Headless.”

  “Thank God for that,” said Lloyd. “Maybe the ACC won’t keep looking at me more in sorrow than in anger for having consulted him.” He smiled. “Of course, the man who kept Waterman’s brother-in-law in charge of the inquiry until the press started asking questions doesn’t have much room to talk.” He held out a hand for Marshall’s file. “Do you want me to take a look at it?” he asked Judy.

  It was the first indication he’d given that she was technically in charge, and she wondered how much thought had gone into it, and indeed if that meant that he really wanted to look at it, was just being obliging, or was simply using the situation to establish their relative ranks.

  She was cross with herself immediately for allowing these thoughts to cross her mind. She mustn’t start trying to second-guess him; for one thing, she would never get it right, and for another, it was a very silly way to go on. If Tom or any of the others had asked her that question, she would simply have given him her answer, so that was what she was going to do.

  “No,” she said. “You’re busy. Just leave it with me, Alan. I’ll check through it now.”

  Glad of the excuse to leave her press statement-writing chore, she opened the file, pulling out the top questionnaire. And she found that the man the small executive team, in the person of Alan Marshall, regarded as the most likely to have been Headless, was John Shaw, of Drum Cottage, Stoke Weston. That surely had to be Jack Shaw, the man who confirmed Jerry Wheelan’s sighting of Stephen, she thought, her eyes widening as she read the replies to the questions.

  He was right-handed. His hobbies were shooting and fishing and producing a village newspaper. On the night of the Stansfield murder he was at home, alone, so had no checkable alibi. She reached for her notebook, turning to her note of Dr. Castle’s snapshot.

  Someone—perhaps, but not necessarily, a Waterman employee or customer—who works or engages in recreation in the evenings, in all three towns, who is literate, with a knowledge of killing, possibly as a participant in field sports, and with what amounts to an obsession with Tony Baker.

  He didn’t work in the evenings, and she had no idea if he had any relationship with Tony Baker, never mind being obsessed with him, but apart from that he fit the snapshot perfectly.

  “Lloyd,” she said, getting up and handing him the questionnaire. “I think we should have a word with Jack Shaw.”

  Keith patrolled the grounds as instructed, making his way to where he was really going without looking as though he had a particular goal in mind.

  The stalls were strung out on the grass along the side of the house, and Keith walked slowly past them, being stopped now and then for directions to various things: reuniting a small child with his mother, picking up and returning someone’s dropped wallet. There had been a time when that wallet would have been relieved of its contents before anyone could blink, but Mr. Waterman trusted him to do this job, and he was going to do it properly.

  He wandered through the oddly quiet fairground. The sideshows were doing good business, with people hooking ducks, rolling pennies, going on the ghost train, but the real funfair attractions, the rides, were having to wait until the talent contest was over, so the noise didn’t drown out the singers. As Keith got nearer to the marquee whe
re the contest was being held, he felt that a bit of drowning out wouldn’t hurt. In fact, simply drowning this particular contestant might be seen as a mercy killing. The relieved applause was followed by someone speaking—Baker presumably. The contest must be over.

  That was when he saw DI Finch coming toward him, and resisted the temptation to turn and walk the other way.

  “There you are,” said Finch. “I’ve been looking for you. I didn’t know a uniform came with the job—I nearly didn’t recognize you.”

  Keith wished he hadn’t. And he didn’t really have time for a chat.

  “I’m told that you went walkabout from the casino the night Davy Guthrie was killed,” said Finch. “Why?”

  “It was hot. I wanted to cool down and have a smoke.”

  “What about the night Robert Lewis died?”

  “What about it?”

  He and Finch stood aside as Baker walked between them, nodding to Finch as he passed.

  “You were in Stansfield that night,” said Finch, when Baker had gone.

  Keith moved off purposefully. “You don’t mind if I carry on doing my job while we talk, do you?”

  Finch walked with him. “Were you seized with the desire to smoke just when he was killed, too?”

  “I always go out for a smoke at about half past ten. When was he killed?”

  “Some time around half past ten.” Finch smiled coldly. “Odd, that, isn’t it?”

  Lloyd and Judy were on their way to the Grange, where the young woman opening up the pub had told them they would find Jack Shaw. Practically the whole village was up there, she said, including the Hallidays and Tony Baker.

  “Shaw’s a Morris dancer,” said Judy. “I should have guessed he would be doing that on May Day.”

  “Yes,” Lloyd agreed. “You should. Call yourself a detective?”

  He had wondered, on Saturday, what Judy’s strategy about this temporary promotion was going to be. When she had left the meeting, she had allocated tasks instantly, and he hadn’t been sure if she’d been working on that throughout the meeting, or if they had been the suggestions she would have made anyway, turning into instructions. Either way, he had rather admired the way she had done it. It established her as the boss, and from then on, everything had been pretty much the way it was before.

  “Do you know he’s only got one leg?” she asked.

  “Who?”

  “Jack Shaw! Who are we talking about?”

  Lloyd frowned. “Isn’t Morris dancing a bit on the physical side for someone with one leg?”

  “They adapted it, Scopes said.” She smiled. “But have you ever heard of a Morris dancer being a serial killer? I’m sure I haven’t.”

  “I can’t say I have.” He sighed. “And I’m remembering Dr. Castle’s caveat. But apart from fitting the snapshot, Mr. Shaw is also very at home with a word processor. At least, I presume he is, if he publishes the village newspaper.”

  “Maybe he uses a printing set.”

  Lloyd looked at the village through which Judy was driving, a trifle too quickly, in his opinion, and could believe that he did use a printing set. Time didn’t seem to have affected Stoke Weston at all. He half expected to see farmers in smocks, chewing straw, leading horse-drawn plows. There was a smithy, he noticed, though its owner had taken the day off from producing horseshoes in a concession to modernity. Or perhaps the village smithy had been closed on May Day since time immemorial, rather than since the juvenile bank holiday. And, as Judy rounded a bend in the road, as if to complete the picture, two young women on horseback trotted sedately side by side ahead of them. Judy slowed down and passed them. “Would you like to live in a place like this?” she asked.

  “Not on your life.” The old village of Stansfield was as close to village life as he wanted to be. He liked having urban amenities close at hand.

  “Thank goodness for that.”

  They drove through the new wrought-iron gates to Waterman’s opulent estate—another product of the smith’s art, presumably—and followed the signs to the temporary car park. The May Day celebrations were in full swing, and the Morris dancers looked . . . well . . . like Morris dancers, indistinguishable from one another, but Judy insisted that none of them was Jack Shaw, and they went to find Michael Waterman, the music from the fairground growing louder as they walked toward the house.

  Waterman was standing at the top of the imposing flight of steps up to the front door. “Chief Inspector Hill,” he said, coming down to meet them. “It’s nice to see you again. Is this a day off?”

  “I’m afraid not. This is my colleague, DCI Lloyd,” Judy said. “We’re trying to find a man called Jack Shaw? I believe he works for you?”

  “He does.”

  “We were told he was here, Morris dancing,” Lloyd said, and frowned. “Can he really do that?”

  Waterman smiled. “After a fashion.”

  “But he isn’t one of the dancers,” said Judy.

  “No, he turned his good ankle during rehearsal this morning. But he was watching the dancing with Grace Halliday a moment ago.” He looked across to where the comically stately Morris dancing was going on. “But he doesn’t seem to be there now.” He shrugged. “Sorry—I don’t know where he’s likely to be. You’ll probably run into him. He’s difficult to miss—he’s still wearing the full Morris dancer’s gear, and he’s got old wooden crutches that came out of the ark. Anything else I can help you with? It’s just that I’m a bit busy, with one thing and another.”

  Lloyd nodded. “You wouldn’t know if Mr. Shaw has had any dealings with Tony Baker, would you?”

  Waterman shrugged. “I don’t know if you’d call them dealings,” he said.

  “But he does know him?”

  “Oh, yes. Jack’s a fixture at the Tulliver Inn.”

  “Are he and Baker friendly?”

  “Well . . .” Waterman shrugged again. “Not really, I don’t think. They’re not unfriendly, if you see what I mean, but I think Jack’s nose has been put a little out of joint by Tony’s arrival.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  Waterman frowned. “Is it important?”

  “It could be,” said Judy.

  “Well, poor old Jack’s carried a bit of a torch for Grace Halliday ever since she arrived in the village, and now . . .”

  “And now she and Tony Baker are an item?” said Judy.

  “Oh, you know about that, do you? Yes, they are. He’s going to propose to her today, but I think it’s a secret, so don’t tell anyone, will you?”

  “Do you know where Baker is?” asked Lloyd.

  “He was judging a talent contest.” Waterman pointed. “Over in that big marquee on the other side of the grounds. It’s finished now, so I don’t know if he’ll still be there, but you might catch him.”

  Gary was shown into a small sitting room, its blinds drawn against the sun. It took him a moment to make out what he was looking at.

  In an armchair sat an elderly man in dark glasses, still slimly handsome despite his years. He rose to meet Gary, holding out his hand.

  “Arthur Lampton,” he said. “Do take a seat, DC Sims. Forgive the shade, but light hurts my eyes, and it seems to be unseasonably and unreasonably sunny for a bank holiday.”

  Mr. Lampton owned his own business, and still ran it, despite his eightieth birthday having passed. He was fiercely independent, and rarely had anyone accompanying him when he went about on business, which he still did on a regular basis. On the night Davy Guthrie was murdered, he had had a meeting in Barton that was going to go on beyond the time of his last train, and had booked into the Oxford Hotel.

  “I must apologize for not contacting the police,” he said. “I was aware of your request for witnesses, but I really didn’t see how I could be of any assistance to you.”

  “We never know what’s likely to help us,” Gary said. “That’s why we ask everyone who was in the area of an incident to get in touch with us.”

  “But I imagine you gen
erally assume that they will be sighted people.”

  “Well, yes, I suppose we do,” said Gary. “But it isn’t always what people see that matters.”

  “No.” He looked thoughtful. “No, I should have realized that. But I left very early next morning—the cab driver said that there had been a bit of excitement with the police, and that he thought this serial killer might have murdered someone, but I didn’t get any details, not then. Then, when I heard about it on the radio, I assumed that it had happened after I had finally found the hotel, and that I would know nothing that could be of any interest to you.”

  Gary frowned. “What made you think that?”

  “I understood that it was the man who slept in Ladysmith Avenue who was killed.” He shook his head. “Such a wanton act. But you know a great deal more about him than I do, so I don’t see how I can be of much help.” He smiled a little. “Unless, of course, you think that I killed him.”

  “No, nothing like that,” said Gary. “I’m afraid he was already dead when you encountered him.”

  “Not if we’re talking about the same man,” said Mr. Lampton.

  Gary stared at him, then realized that Mr. Lampton had no way of knowing the effect his statement had had. Davy Guthrie was alive? He asked Mr. Lampton to go through exactly what he had done that night. He had to be sure that they were both talking about the same man.

  “I had been taken to my meeting by one of the other people attending, but I had made a mental note of how we got there, and I chose to walk back on my own. I made it quite happily to Mafeking Road, but then I have to confess that I did get a little confused with all the side streets, and I had to ask directions in a pub. I followed the directions I thought I had been given, but when I turned right off Mafeking Road, it became obvious that I was on the wrong street.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Well, the Oxford Hotel is on a corner, and there are railings for a short distance between the entrance and Mafeking Road. This street had railings too, and I was guiding myself by tapping them with my cane. But I became aware that I had been doing that for too long. I wasn’t going to find the entrance, because I must be in the wrong street.”