by Jill McGown
“Sit down, please, Tom, you’re making me dizzy.”
He threw himself down on a chair, like Charlotte did occasionally when she wasn’t allowed her own way.
Judy sighed. “We’ve got no proof that Waterman wanted Stephen beaten up,” she said. “So he is simply a respected businessman, Scopes and Wheelan are two of his security officers, and Shaw is another long-standing employee of his. And with the sole exception of Scopes, they are telling the truth. Even Baker isn’t lying, because he does genuinely believe that Stephen killed Wilma Fenton.”
“But we know he didn’t.”
“It isn’t up to us. And for the very reasons you’ve just given, the waters are muddy enough for the CPS to decide not to prosecute. Even if they do, Stephen won’t necessarily be found guilty. If the defense can make a case that it could just as easily have been Scopes, it might well succeed. We’d be prosecution witnesses, and we’re not going to argue with that, are we?”
That wasn’t the right thing to say, obviously. Tom jumped to his feet again. “What good will that do Halliday? He might not be in prison, but he’ll have to spend the rest of his life with people wondering if he really did it or not. If we can get a search warrant—”
“But we can’t. Anyway—if he’s got the sense he was born with, Scopes will have got rid of the cosh by now. He probably got rid of it as soon as he found out Wilma had died.”
Judy knew exactly how Tom felt, but she could hardly release Stephen without charge with five witness statements like that. And she had to do something very soon, so charging him seemed the only course open to her.
In the big office, Gary could hear every word that was being said, as he read and reread the files, racking his brains to think of anything that anyone had said that would prove that Stephen couldn’t have killed Mrs. Fenton, but there was nothing. It was ridiculous that everyone but Scopes could be telling the truth and still leave Halliday as the fall guy.
He thought of what DCI Hill had said about Scopes buying drugs with Mrs. Fenton’s money, and of Scopes’s performance when Sergeant Kelly had been interviewing him, sitting there smugly aware that they had nothing on which to hold him, because he hadn’t any of the stuff in his possession anymore. He had unloaded three hundred and fifty pounds’ worth of drugs to street dealers in less than an hour—Gary hated to think of the damage that had done, and to how many kids. And because he had done that, the police had found nothing to incriminate him. A good night’s work all round. And then he had sat there almost laughing in their faces, saying that he’d been given the package to post, that he’d owed Cox the money that he was so evidently handing—
Gary’s head shot up, and he went over to the closed door, hesi-tating a moment before knocking, waiting for a lull in the heated conversation.
“Come in!” called Judy.
Tom was relieved that someone had interrupted this frank exchange of views, because he knew he was being unfair. There was nothing Judy could do. Before, when it had been circumstantial, she might have been able to let Stephen Halliday go, but thanks to his bright idea of going to see Scopes again, now she had someone who was prepared to stand up in court and say that he had witnessed Stephen murdering Wilma Fenton.
It was all his fault, and he felt terrible about it. He had thought he’d been so clever, maneuvering Waterman into declaring hotly that he hadn’t given Scopes any money that night, but the whole thing had backfired, and he was looking for someone to blame.
Gary Sims came in, looking excited. “I’m sorry, ma'am,” he said. “I couldn’t help overhearing.”
“I shouldn’t think you could,” said Judy, smiling. “The silly thing is that we actually agree. What can I do for you, Gary?”
“I think we do have evidence.”
Tom and Judy exchanged glances, and Tom knew that he looked like she did, almost afraid to hope that Gary was right.
“What evidence?” she asked.
“The money. Scopes bought drugs with it. Only two other people went there that night, and they were being tailed, so we know they were nowhere near Malworth.”
Tom frowned, wondering where this was heading. Gary seemed to think it was heading somewhere good, but then he’d thought that more than once during this inquiry.
“We’ve got film of Scopes handing money over to the dealer, and he was quite happy to admit that he did give him money—he just denied that it was for drugs.” He smiled. “But it doesn’t matter what it was for, because that flat was raided, and the equipment, the drugs and the money were all taken as evidence. We’ve still got it, pending trial. And we know the numbers of the fifty-pound notes taken from Wilma. If those notes are among the haul from the drug dealer, then there’s only one way they could have got there.”
“Gary Sims,” Tom said, “I could kiss you.”
“I’d much rather you didn’t, sir.”
“Mike? Ray here. Hold on to your hat.”
Michael frowned. “Why? What’s happened now?”
“What hasn’t happened? Tony Baker has confessed to two murders and two attempted murders. He was killing these people himself, would you believe? I expect he’ll go for diminished responsibility. I wondered about him once or twice, but never really seriously. But he killed those people without a second thought, just because it suited him to do it.”
Michael had been listening, his mouth slightly open, glad that Ray was chattering on, because he couldn’t speak. At last, he found his voice, but he could only think of one word to say.
“Why?”
“Oh—sorry, Mike, I can’t really go into it. I shouldn’t really have told you that, but most of it will be public knowledge quite soon, and I thought you ought to know, because you were quite friendly with him, weren’t you?”
“Well . . . yes, I suppose I was. It’s a shock.”
“And I’m afraid I’ve got another shock for you. Keith Scopes works for you, doesn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“He’s being charged right now with the murder of Wilma Fenton, plus some other stuff. That isn’t classified—it’s going on a press release as we speak. But it’s not all bad news, because it means that Stephen Halliday is completely in the clear, and will be released any time now. I wondered why you asked me to keep you informed about him—I didn’t know about him and Ben. You must have been really worried. Anyway, it’s all over now, so you can all get back to normal.”
Michael thanked him, and hung up. Normal? What was normal? Suddenly, all his certainties had been blown away. Baker, who he had thought was everything a man should be, was a cold, calculating, callous murderer. The man he had wanted Ben to meet, to talk to, the man he had wanted Ben to emulate, was a murderer. A murderer who killed innocent people without a second thought.
And Ray—Ray had just accepted that Ben and Stephen were a couple, and thought that he had too. He had just assumed that Michael knew and approved. What’s the big deal about me being gay? That’s what Ben had said. No big deal, compared to being a multiple murderer who even tried to make it look as though Stephen had attempted to kill his own mother. No big deal, anyway, as far as Ray was concerned. No big deal, period.
And Stephen. What was it Ben had said? That he was good, and kind, and kept him out of trouble. Michael had known that about Stephen, once, because Ben was right; something about Stephen reminded him of Josephine. He was decent, kind, straightforward and honest, and yet he had managed to demonize him in a matter of moments, when he had pressed the redial button that night and confirmed that it was indeed Stephen Halliday on the other end of the line.
If Josephine had lived, she would have made him understand that Ben had his own life, his own mind, his own emotions. If he was attracted to other men, that was something Michael just had to accept. If he was attracted to someone like Stephen, that was something he should welcome.
But she hadn’t been there to keep him out of trouble, and he had behaved like the thug he was, and had encouraged Keith to carry out his thuggery
for him. He had set him on that boy Charles, used him in the way lowlifes used half-starved pit bull terriers. He had tried to set him on Stephen, who had never done anyone a bad turn in his life.
And, as he had feared all along, it was Keith who had murdered poor Wilma Fenton. Whose fault was that? Keith's? Or his? A bit of both. Unlike the pit bull terriers, Keith would have been a thug even without his encouragement, and he had certainly never encouraged him to mug anyone. But he wouldn’t have been in that alleyway at all if it hadn’t been for him and his insane attitude toward Ben’s sexuality. Ben was right. He was mad. Had been mad. Not anymore.
Had he really wished that Keith was his son, and that Ben wasn’t? Not quite. But he came very close. He had wished that Josephine was there to make Ben see sense, but that wasn’t how Josephine had read the situation, so she had made him see sense instead.
Oh, he had no doubt of it. Josephine had stepped in to save him before it was too late.
Stephen was given back his belongings, such as they were, and the police—all of them—seemed genuinely pleased to be letting him go. He wasn’t sure what had happened, but when he saw that photograph of Wilma’s body, and saw that she had the wrong prize money, he knew that Baker had to be at the bottom of all his problems. At first nothing seemed to have changed, and then, suddenly, they knew he hadn’t murdered anyone.
And he had always known, really, that Baker was trouble. Lately, he’d begun to blame his mother, but that wasn’t fair. All she had done was fall for him, and that wasn’t so surprising. He was handsome, glamorous—famous, even, in his way. And she had been lonely, Stephen knew she had. But he had always felt that there was something sinister about him, something not right. And whatever he had done with Wilma, it hadn’t been right.
As he left the police station, he saw his mother and Ben waiting outside in her car. They both scrambled out when they saw him coming.
“I’m free,” he said, smiling at them.
Ben threw his arms round him, and gave him a bear hug that practically lifted him off his feet. “Why didn’t they let you go sooner?” he demanded. “I told them you were with me that night.”
“Tony Baker did something,” Stephen said. “I’m not sure what, but I think he must have replaced the money that was stolen. I don’t think it happened like he said it did.”
“Don’t you know?” said Ben. “The police arrested him this afternoon. We think he killed those people, and he tried to kill Jack Shaw. But Keith Scopes has been arrested, too, so we’re not sure what it’s all about.”
Stephen looked at his mother. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“I am now,” she said, hugging him. “I think I must have taken leave of my senses. How I let him persuade me that all that stuff was—”
“Oh, who cares?” said Ben. “Stephen’s out now. There’s plenty of time to explain later.”
Stephen had no idea what stuff his mother was talking about. His mother was crying, Ben was laughing, and he didn’t really know which to do. “How’s Jack?” he asked his mother.
“He’s conscious, and being allowed visitors now. I’m going to see him tonight—do you want to come?”
Ben, behind her, shook his head, grinning, winking. Stephen didn’t know what that was all about, but he took the advice. “Er—no, tell him I’ll see him tomorrow. Is he going to be all right?”
“Yes, they think it’ll take a little while, but he’ll be fine.”
As the three of them made to get into the car, another drew up behind it, and Michael Waterman got out. Stephen felt Ben tense up as he came over to them.
“Don’t worry,” said Mr. Waterman. “I know I’m probably not welcome at the coming-out party. I . . . er . . . I just wanted to tell you—both of you—that . . . well, that you don’t need to go away and live somewhere else, not unless that’s what you really want to do. I know what I’ve done, and I don’t expect your forgiveness. But that’s all over now, I promise you that. And there’s always a home for you at the Grange.”
Ben nodded briefly, and got into the car, closing the door. Stephen managed something approaching a smile. “I’ll . . . I’ll talk to him,” he said.
“Thanks.” Waterman got back into his own car and drove off.
Stephen looked at his mother. “What’s happened to change his mind?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “But you’ll have your work cut out for you to change Ben's, I can tell you that.”
Maybe. But Stephen knew how Ben really felt about his father, and he hoped he might succeed.
Keith said nothing in response to the charges, as advised by his solicitor. It was over. The biggest gamble he had ever taken was over.
It had been crazy, carrying on after Baker killed that man in Stansfield. He had realized then that he was up against someone who would genuinely stop at nothing, and still he had tried. He already had the go-ahead for his brief absences from work, so arranging the blackmail drops had been easy. And all he had seen when he heard about the Stansfield murder had been the chance to put the price up. How long would he have gone on letting the body count pile up? That was what Finch had asked him, and he had made no comment.
He didn’t know. Finch said he was as bad as Baker, because he was letting innocent people die because of what he was doing, but Keith didn’t see it that way. He wasn’t making Baker murder them. Baker was trying to frame him, and he was trying to get as much money as he could out of Baker. It was a gamble. And he had lost.
But then Jerry had told him that he was a born loser.
Jack smiled for the first time since . . . he couldn’t really remember when. Certainly for the first time since Stephen had told him about Baker and Grace. He didn’t know how they’d got on to Baker, but it seemed that he had been arrested despite the fact that Jack had seen nothing useful, and still hadn’t been able to tell the police his story. It had something to do with his leg, he supposed, but he couldn’t begin to imagine what.
And now Grace was here with him, saying that she didn’t know how she could have let herself be taken in by Baker.
“I believed him, too,” he said.
“Not for long.”
“Well, he thought the whole human race was beneath him, so I couldn’t really accept that his feelings toward you were genuine. That was when I worked out what he was up to.”
She was holding his hand, clasping it tightly, and tears weren’t that far away. Maybe she was still a little in love with Baker.
“I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been,” she said.
“No, you weren’t stupid. You were lonely, and he was a bit of a step up from us village yokels.”
“Don’t,” she said. “It’s you I’ve been stupid about.”
“Me?”
“I didn’t know how you felt about me.” She smiled. “Everyone else did, apparently. But I didn’t.”
“Then I was the stupid one, not you. I never knew how to tell you.”
“I think saving my life was as good a way as any.”
The nurse came in. “Mr. Shaw should have some rest now,” she said. “Doctor’s orders.”
Grace let go of his hand, and stood up. “I’ll be back to see you tomorrow,” she said, then bent down and kissed him.
She kissed him. The smile was still there, long after she had gone.
Lloyd switched off the television, finished his nightcap, then went round doing what he called putting the cat out—checking doors and windows and gas taps, to make sure the house was safe for the night. He didn’t know why he called it that—if he had a cat he certainly wouldn’t put it out. And that reminded him that he’d never talked to Judy about getting a kitten.
He had capitulated, of course, in the matter of the loft conversion, and he was glad that he had, because it was much more pleasant being a proper family. He couldn’t imagine Gina tucked away up at the top of the house like some madwoman in the attic any more than Judy could. Of course they sometimes got on one another’s nerves—
that’s what families were for. He felt much less self-conscious now about his late-night video-watching activities, since discovering that Gina didn’t think he was mad. She just thought he should get more sleep, and she was probably right, he thought, as he went into the bedroom and undressed in the dark. He was very sleepy.
He slipped into bed beside Judy, only to jump into alert wakefulness when she who slept through thunderstorms and earth tremors spoke to him.
“Yardley told me something when I saw him tonight,” she said.
He smiled, when his heart rate had returned to normal. “Would that be the same thing he told me?” he asked. It had to be. He could imagine that it would cause Judy to lose sleep.
“About this major crime unit?” She sat up, and switched on the bedside lamp. “What did he tell you?”
“That the small executive team idea was by way of being a pilot scheme, since the opportunity had presented itself. What did he tell you?”
“That I should apply for it.”
Lloyd nodded. “So you should.”
“What about you? Don’t you want to apply for it?”
He smiled. “Fat chance I’d have if you were a candidate.”
“He said the panel wouldn’t have him or the ACC on it—I asked him. I don’t want favoritism.”
“Even so.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder about your detective skills. Why do you think they made you Acting Superintendent when Yardley had to stand down?”
She flushed slightly. “Do you think they were trying me on for size?”
“I’m sure they were. And within seventy-two hours, you wrapped up an inquiry that was heading for its thirteenth week.”
She looked appalled. “But I didn’t! You thought of the insulin, and Gary Sims realized that the money had been taken as evidence in the drug raid—what did I do, except cause the firearms unit to terrorize poor Stephen Halliday?”
