by Jill McGown
Gary nodded, then realized that Mr. Lampton couldn’t see him nodding. “Right,” he said.
“And then my cane touched something soft. When he asked me for money, I realized it was someone lying in the road, and I thought to myself, well, if this man lives on the streets, he’ll know where the hotel is, providing he’s sober enough to tell me. So I asked him the way, and he gave me perfect directions, despite the smell of alcohol being enough to make me drunk myself. I had missed the turn, that was all.”
“What directions did he give you?”
“He told me to go back down the way I had come, and turn left back onto Mafeking Road. That the hotel was on the next street on the left, on the opposite corner to the casino.” He shook his head again. “A bit slurred, but quite clear and lucid.”
And quite definitely directions from Ladysmith Avenue to the Oxford Hotel, thought Gary.
“I gave him a handful of change, and that was all there was to it. He was pleasant, and helpful, and I felt very angry when I heard what had happened to him. But I didn’t think I could possibly be of any help. I’m really sorry if I was wrong—I had no idea that I had any information that would be of use to you.”
Grace had left Jack watching the Morris dancing, and he had waited until she had disappeared from view before limping off into the wooded area. There, he had removed the telltale bells, putting them in his pocket, and had taken from his belt the big handkerchief that formed part of the Morris dance, stuffing it in after them, to deaden the sound. Then he’d hoisted the crutches on to his shoulder, and made his way toward the lake, under cover of the bushes, keeping Grace in sight all the time. She had no idea he was there, as she stood where the path forked, her body language indecisive.
Years of practice had made Jack able to move as quietly and as sure-footedly as any woodland animal. Speed wasn’t required for the task; an ability to stalk one’s prey without being seen or heard, to keep the quarry in one’s sights, and to know exactly when to stand stock-still—these, and timing to perfection the moment to make the decisive move, were the attributes he had picked up.
And he was using them all now.
CHAPTER TEN
* * *
Jack was sprawled full-length on the ground, and now he had to work out how to get up again. He tried to raise himself into a sitting position, from which he might be able to stand eventually, but even that was anything but easy, and he couldn’t do it without some sort of support. He squinted round to see where the crutches had gone. One was lying just within reach, and he stretched his arm out, his fingertips just touching it. Another go, this time throwing his arm, using as much of his body weight as he could in order to give himself that little bit of extra reach. Making a long arm, his father used to call it. And it worked. His fingers closed round the wood, and he pulled the crutch closer to him.
Now, if he could just lift his body enough to get into a sitting position, he could pull himself to his feet using the crutch. It hadn’t occurred to him that he might really need the crutches, and he had cursed having to carry them with him on his mission, being unwilling to leave them lying around where anything might happen to them, but he was glad now that he had them.
He lifted his upper body, press-up style, his weight on his arms, and twisted round slightly, putting all his weight on his left arm, and grabbed the crutch. He tried to plant it firmly in the ground—the last thing he wanted was for it to skid away when he put his weight on it. If he could work his hand up and grasp it where it forked, he could lean on it and drag his good leg up to get his foot on the ground. The crutch, he hoped, would stop him from falling forward, and he would be able to stand up.
He had just achieved a measure of control when the crutch was kicked away from under him. He pitched forward, facedown on the ground once more. And that was when his head was struck a vicious blow that his brain just had time to register before he lost consciousness.
Tom and Keith were walking past the house, toward the car park and the more traditional May Day activities, leaving behind the raucous funfair.
“Where did you go when you left the casino that night?”
“Just out. I walked round, that’s all.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
Keith shrugged. “Some people were leaving. I didn’t notice anyone in particular.”
Tom stopped and looked at the little boys and girls who danced round the maypole, and smiled when he saw the Queen of the May, aged about eight, with her white dress and crown of spring flowers, having her photograph taken by a proud mother as she danced. She looked a little like Chloe, his own eight-year-old. It might be nice, he thought, to live in a village, with village traditions and village community spirit. The twins could go to a village school, and grow up knowing their neighbors.
“My dad said that some conservation committee got up by incomers started up all the May Day business in the seventies,” said Keith. “They got the maypole put up on the village green. Before that the villagers never bothered with this sort of stuff.”
Oh, well. So much for his romantic notions of English villages.
“But Mr. Waterman thinks it goes back centuries,” Keith went on. “That he’s saving our way of life, or something. I haven’t had the heart to tell him any different.”
“When you were out of the casino having your break,” said Tom, “did you notice Tony Baker?”
“Tony Baker? The guy that’s getting these letters? The one who came out of the talent contest and walked between us, ignorant sod?”
“That’s him,” said DI Finch. “Have you met him?”
“No. I know what he looks like because he’s never off the telly. And he’s been at the casino a couple of times, but I’ve never actually met him.”
“He was at the casino the night Davy Guthrie died,” said Finch.
“Yeah—he was at the top table with Mr. Waterman.”
“I’m told that he left not long after you came back in—did you notice that?”
“Yeah. He was talking to Mrs. Turner about the talent contest. Sooner him than me. He escaped from her at about ten to eleven. Is that it, Mr. Finch? I’m supposed to be working—making sure no one gets their pockets picked, and that sort of thing.”
“Yes,” said Tom, “that’s it. Thanks, Keith.”
Maybe he really was a poacher turned gamekeeper, thought Tom. He watched the maypole dancers for a moment longer, then checked his watch. It was five to eleven, and time he went back to work. He turned to go to the car park, only to find himself looking at Judy and Lloyd.
“What are you doing here?” asked Judy.
“I could ask you the same question.”
“We came looking for Jack Shaw—remember him?”
“The witness that was at the casino the night Wilma Fenton was killed?”
“Yes. He gets top rating on Alan Marshall’s Headless list. But he seems to have vanished.” She scrutinized the small crowd round the Morris dancers. “He still isn’t here.”
“I’m here because Keith Scopes is working here—as chief security officer, would you believe?” He looked round, but Scopes was no longer in evidence. “He’s another candidate for Headless. I can’t be certain, but I don’t think he’s ever had anything to do with Baker. No one I’ve spoken to says he has, and what he told me checks out. Besides, Baker passed us, and he nodded to me, but I don’t think he knew Scopes from a hole in the road.”
“Where did he go?” asked Lloyd, his voice urgent.
“Scopes? I’ve no idea—he was here a minute ago.”
“No, Baker. Did you see where he went?”
“He went down a path into the woods,” said Tom. “Back down at the fairground end.”
“This is it,” Lloyd said. “This is the showdown, I’m sure of it. We’ve got to find Baker or Shaw—one or the other.”
“Then let’s get after Baker,” said Judy. “At least we know where he was ten minutes ago.”
Lloyd needed no second invitatio
n, and Tom and Judy practically had to run to catch up as he strode off back the way Tom had come.
“I believe Shaw’s the letter writer,” he said, as he walked. “Those letters were a lure, like fly-fishing. Would that be one of Mr. Shaw’s hobbies, by any chance?”
“Yes,” said Judy, looking puzzled.
“He knew Baker would take the challenge, would try to find out who he was before the police did. And I don’t think we’ve been seeing the real letters at all—that’s why the newspapers always heard the day after Baker did. Baker wrote to the paper himself, once he knew where and when the murders were going to take place.”
“Why would he do that?” asked Judy, now actually having to run to keep up with Tom and Lloyd.
“He wanted to be sure of maximum publicity when he pulled off his coup. What was the first thing you said to him when he brought you the first letter? Don’t tell anyone—right? He knew we’d try to keep the letters quiet, and that wasn’t what he wanted at all. He wrote to the paper in the guise of the letter writer, so we had no chance of keeping them quiet.”
“I meant, why would he show us fake letters?”
“Because the real ones said much more about when and where the murders would take place than the ones we saw. And Baker contrived to be there in the hope that he could stop them, like he stopped Challenger killing his last victim.”
Judy looked doubtful, but she nodded. “Go on,” she said.
“Each of the other murders happened close to a Waterman-owned establishment, Judy. In each case, Scopes and Halliday had been working in the area, but they were red herrings, because Scopes has no connection with Baker, and Halliday couldn’t have murdered Davy Guthrie.”
“All right,” said Judy. “But I don’t see—”
“It had to be Shaw, using Scopes and Halliday as a smokescreen by picking the nights when they were both working in the same town to carry out the murders. The rota’s up on the wall in every one of these places.” Lloyd was having to raise his voice now, the music from the fairground growing louder as they approached it. “And in each case, Tony Baker was there too, lured there by the letters. It’s beyond coincidence. And today, Stephen and Scopes are both here, Tony Baker’s here and Shaw’s here.”
The stage did seem to be set, thought Tom. And right now, they didn’t know where any of them were. He understood Lloyd’s foreboding, and his urgency.
“I think Baker’s the real target,” Lloyd said, as the three of them made their way along to the dust-track through the trees and bushes. “I think Shaw’s lured him here to kill him.”
Tom waited for Judy to point out a flaw in his argument. But if she was going to, she never got the chance, because running out of the woods came Grace Halliday.
“Oh, thank God!” she said. “Please, please go and see what’s happened to Jack! He’s fallen over, and he can’t get up on his own—please! He might have been hurt!”
Judy put her arm round the distraught woman. “All right,” she said, slightly breathless herself from her jog trot. “We’ll find him, don’t worry. What happened?”
“Someone shot at me! Jack saved my life. I don’t know how—I don’t know where he came from, but he threw himself on top of me, and then told me to get up, and run into the wood. Run toward the music, he said. Get help.”
“Someone shot at you?” said Lloyd. “Are you certain about that?”
“Yes! Oh, please, you must find Jack!”
“Ring Hitch and tell him to get backup here, Tom,” Judy said, in a low voice. “In numbers. We need to keep people out of the woods, in case there is someone in there with a gun.” She paused. “And tell them we might need the ARV.”
Tom’s heart sank. In his opinion, calling out the armed response vehicle meant that instead of one man with a gun, you had four men with guns. “Yes, ma'am,” he said, taking out his mobile phone.
“Mrs. Halliday, you stay here with Inspector Finch, and tell him exactly what happened.” She looked at Lloyd, then back at Mrs. Halliday. “We’ll find Mr. Shaw,” she assured her. “Don’t worry.”
Stephen arrived at the summerhouse, his eyes widening when he saw it. When Ben had told him about it, he had been imagining the sort of thing you could buy at a garden center and erect yourself. But as he opened the door and saw a large room, with a desk, a sofa bed, armchairs, a dining table, curtains, rugs—well, it seemed to him that if they bought a little camping stove, he and Ben could just move in here without Waterman ever knowing. It wasn’t exactly a serious thought, but it did have its attractions.
Then he saw the rifle, just lying there, on the windowsill. He frowned, and went over to it. He had heard a shot on his way here—he’d imagined it was some neighboring farmer shooting a magpie or something. But . . . he moved closer, almost afraid to look. It was his rifle. No. No, how could it be his rifle?
It couldn’t. Mr. Waterman must have had a pair—he gave him one, and kept one, presumably. But that didn’t explain what it was doing here in the summerhouse. It had a moderator on it, so someone must have been using it. Had it fired the shot he’d heard? He went to the window, and picked it up, sniffing it. It smelt as though it had. And that was when he saw the little scratch on the stock. An accident he’d had with it . . . it was his rifle. He tried to eject the cartridges, but the mechanism was jammed.
He looked out of the window, as if he would see something that could explain the presence of his rifle, recently used, and jammed, in the Watermans’ summerhouse. There must be an explanation. Maybe . . . maybe Ben was playing some sort of joke, though what kind of joke it could possibly be he couldn’t imagine. Still, there wasn’t much point in worrying about it. He’d ask Ben if he knew anything about it, and if he didn’t . . . well, at least there would be two of them to puzzle over it.
The grass in front of him sloped away down toward the lake, and on the other side, he could see Baker on the tennis court, standing by his car, his jacket over his shoulder, waiting for his mother. He raised the rifle to his shoulder, getting Baker in its sights. Never point a loaded gun unless you intend to use it—he could hear Jack’s voice as clearly as if he was in the room with him, and felt guilty, but not guilty enough to stop doing it. Anyway—it might be loaded, but he couldn’t use it, even if he wanted to. He saw Baker glance at his watch, and automatically checked the time himself; it was just after eleven o’clock, and Ben would be here any minute.
He watched Baker through the scope, amusing himself by following him with the rifle as he paced up and down impatiently. He was being kept waiting—something Stephen was sure would irritate him greatly. Finally, at five past eleven, he started walking back up the path, and disappeared into the woods.
The door opened, and Stephen turned from the window, expecting Ben. Instead, he found himself looking at Keith Scopes in a security officer’s uniform. For an instant, he was very scared, until he saw Scopes’s rigid expression, and realized he still had the rifle at his shoulder, his finger on the trigger. He smiled. “Did you want something?” he asked.
“No. No—forget it.”
Scopes backed away, and Stephen took great pleasure in kicking the door shut in his face.
Keith ran, once the door had been slammed, diving into the woods as soon as he could, running along the shortcut to the path that would take him toward the fairground.
Everything had gone wrong. Everything. He had never been so shocked in his life as he had been when he’d found Stephen Halliday standing there, pointing that rifle at him. And he wasn’t about to argue with a man with a gun.
Tony was on his knees beside the prone figure, and took out his mobile phone, dialling 999.
“Emergency, which service do you require?”
“An ambulance.” He covered Shaw with the jacket he’d been carrying, taking care not to disturb the two banknotes that lay on his chest, weighed down by the bell-pad.
“Could I have your name, caller?”
“My name is Tony Baker, and I’m calling from a ho
use called the Grange in Stoke Weston, near Stansfield in Bartonshire. There’s an injured man in the grounds—it’s a head injury, and he’s unconscious. If you can dispatch an ambulance, I’ll make sure there’s someone to meet it at the gate and direct it to the scene.”
“What are the nature of the injuries?”
Tony raised his eyes to heaven. “It’s a head injury,” he repeated. “I’ve just found him—I don’t know what happened to him.”
“An ambulance is on its way, Mr. Baker. Please don’t attempt to move the casualty. If I could just have a few more details . . .”
Lloyd could see Tony Baker kneeling beside someone dressed in a Morris dancer’s costume, lying on the ground, blood from his head soaking into the jacket that covered him, and hurried over to them. Grace Halliday had been right: Shaw had indeed been hurt. The pathway forked into a rough Y shape, and Baker and the victim were a few yards along the left-hand fork.
“What happened?” he asked, kneeling down beside Shaw.
“I’ve no idea—I was waiting for Grace at the car. It’s parked by the lake—down that way.” He pointed. “She was late, so I walked back up to meet her, and I just found him like this. It’s Jack Shaw—he’s a close friend of the Hallidays. I’ve phoned for an ambulance—they said not to move him. And I’ve tried to get hold of Mike Waterman, to tell him to put someone on the gate to guide the ambulance when it gets here, but he’s not answering his landline or his mobile.”
“It’s all right,” said Judy. “Mrs. Halliday can tell the ambulance where to come. I’ll tell DI Finch what’s happened.”
Lloyd heard footsteps, and twisted round to see a security officer emerge from where the path forked off the other way. Another player in this drama who he had never met, but from the uniform and the general description, it had to be Keith Scopes. He was breathless, and agitated. He stopped when he came upon the tableau.
