Unlucky For Some (4 page)

“I know.” Kelly sat back. “But they’ve got to find people they can trust. And premises. And new equipment, and bring in another shipment of stuff before schedule. It’s all risky, and it means the National Crime Squad or Customs and Excise have all the more chance to catch them at it. And meanwhile, their Barton lieutenants are banged up, and they can’t be sure one of them won’t talk. This is major, major disruption.”

“I think we’re about to get some action,” murmured the man at the window.

Gary focused the camera on the door of the flat opposite.

Judy and Lloyd were playing the bath game with Charlotte, which involved everything that floated being in the bath with their daughter, and then being solemnly handed back to them when they asked for them. Then it all had to start again. It had begun as an educational game so that Charlotte knew which was a duck and which was a frog, but she had known that for some time now; they just couldn’t make her move on to a new game. When this activity began to pall, Judy left Lloyd to it and went back down to the living room, where her mother was reading the paper.

“Is your program finished?” she asked, looking at her watch. “I had no idea it was that late. Charlotte should have been in bed two hours ago.” She flopped down on the sofa, and yawned. “She’s just like Lloyd. She’d stay up all night if we let her.”

Her mother smiled. “Lloyd will be pleased to hear that,” she said. “He keeps saying that she’s a clone of you.”

“I know,” said Judy, yawning again as she spoke. “I don’t think she’s like me at all. And if you’d seen her this afternoon—that was Lloyd to a tee. Suddenly flying into a rage about goodness knows what, and blaming me.”

“You’re the one who looks as if she should have been in bed two hours ago.”

Judy nodded. She always found the weekends much more exhausting than the working week, no matter how busy she had been. Charlotte at two was great fun, just as Lloyd had promised she would be—learning new words every day, becoming her own person—but her energy was boundless, and her curiosity about the world meant that she had to be watched every minute.

“We’ve got to get a garden gate,” she said. “It’ll be spring soon.”

She would have been looking forward to that had it not been for the loft conversion, currently scheduled for April. It should have been done last April, and it kept being put off for one reason or another. But the contractor would be coming any day now to talk to her mother about what exactly she wanted done, and give them his estimate.

“Have you thought yet what you want?” she asked. “In the loft?”

Her mother put down the paper. “Well,” she began, “I was going to talk to you about that. Do you think it’s really necessary?”

It would save them a lot of time, trouble and expense if they abandoned the idea, thought Judy, and she wondered if that was what had prompted her mother’s change of mind. Having her own space had been a precondition of her coming to look after Charlotte for them. “Not as far as I’m concerned,” she said. “But are you sure you wouldn’t rather have your flat?”

“I don’t think I’d use it.”

No. Judy couldn’t really imagine them behaving as though her mother lived somewhere else altogether. She had her own TV in her bedroom if she got fed up with Lloyd’s choice of viewing, and that was all she wanted, really. It was much friendlier if they all shared the whole house.

By the time Detective Inspector Tom Finch arrived on the scene, the alleyway had been sealed off, and a route to the body had been marked out for essential personnel that cut the already narrow alley almost in half, and made negotiating the pillars far from easy.

Detective Sergeant John Hitchin, young and keen, was standing talking to a man whose face Tom knew, but couldn’t place. He excused himself when he saw Tom, and walked down to meet him.

Tom blew out his cheeks as he arrived. “Were you actually born in Antigua, Hitch?” he asked.

“No, I was born in Malworth. So was my dad. It was my granddad that came over from the West Indies in the fifties.”

“I’ll bet he wishes he was back there with this weather.”

“Probably wishes he was anywhere, sir. He died five years ago.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Hitchin smiled. “That’s Mr. Baker, the man who found the body. I’ve suggested that he wait in one of the cars until you get the chance to talk to him. He saw it happen, and the assailant ran off along there in the direction of Murchison Place. No one else used the alley before we got here, so that’s why I cordoned off that side of the alley in the hope that he might have dropped something that could identify him.”

It was a long shot, thought Tom, but they might get something useful. It was amazing how often those given to violent crime did lose their possessions in the course of the assault.

“No description, though,” Hitchin went on. “He said he just caught a glimpse of the assailant. It was probably a man, and he was wearing dark clothes. It happened at nine o’clock.”

“Do we know who the victim is?” Tom asked.

“Mr. Baker knows her. Her name’s Wilma Fenton, and she lives here, in the ground-floor flat. One of the lads is talking to her neighbor now, to find out who we should notify. She’d won money at bingo—it looks like she was mugged for her winnings, but he just dropped the money and ran when he saw Mr. Baker.”

Tom was still trying to place the informant. Baker, Baker. He mentally snapped his fingers. Baker—of course, it was
Tony
Baker. No wonder he couldn’t place him—he’d only ever seen him on TV. That explained Hitch’s scrupulous attention to detail, because Tony Baker would be watching their every move.

“Were there any other witnesses?”

“No. Mr. Baker says the street was deserted, and so was the alleyway, but I’ve got a house-to-house organized for the flats, in case anyone saw or heard anything.”

“Right, thanks, Hitch. I’ll go and talk to Mr. Baker. You know who he is, don’t you?”

“Yes—he makes these TV programs about popular pastimes that attract crime,” said Hitchin. “He’s doing one on gambling—that’s how come he knows the victim. He was at the bingo club himself.” He glanced over to where the body lay. “Her pastime attracted a crime, all right.”

Tom realized with a jolt that at twenty-six, John Hitchin would have been too young at the time to care how Tony Baker’s TV career had come about. And Hitch hadn’t known that he was under the microscope when he cordoned off half the alley; he really was that conscientious by nature. He turned to go, then turned back again. “Has this alley got a name?” he asked.

“Innes Passage,” said Hitchin. “But unless they’re from round here, no one’ll know what you’re talking about if you call it that.”

All the old alleyways in Malworth had names, but the signs on most of them had long since perished. Tom had come to live in Bartonshire from Liverpool, and had noticed over the years that the locals thought if they knew something, everyone did; Malworth natives knew the names of the alleyways, and they had never seen any need to put up new signs.

There was nothing lying around that looked like a murder weapon; in fact, the only plus that this alley had was that it was litter-free, as if it had just been swept. Tom hoped it hadn’t just been swept, because if it had then the waste-bins and Dumpsters might have been emptied already. Searching them was never a very popular duty, but finding the murder weapon was probably going to be their only chance of resolving this one.

But there was a nightclub at the other end of the alley; someone there might have seen something. Tom would have a word with the doormen in due course.

The Forensic Medical Examiner arrived then, puffing and blowing, edged past Tom, and crouched down by the body, muttering about people being so inconsiderate as to get themselves murdered out of doors in such inclement weather, just as a detective constable came out of the flats and almost fell over him.

Reinforcements had now arrived, and Hitchin and a couple of others went off to talk to the people in the bingo club, to see if anyone saw someone follow Mrs. Fenton out after her win.

“Life extinct,” the FME said, his breath streaming out as he spoke, and glanced at his watch. “21.40 hours. From the body temperature, I’d say she died within the last couple of hours.”

“We think it happened at about nine o’clock,” said Tom.

The FME stood up. “That would fit.” He handed Tom a sheet of paper. “The temperature reading for the pathologist. She’s a lot warmer than I am, I can tell you that. Goodnight.”

The cordon made a narrow passage even narrower, and would make bringing equipment to the scene a bit difficult. It was barely wide enough, Tom realized, with a smile, for one fairly rotund FME to pass a video and photography unit coming in the opposite direction.

Tom had called in all the usual back-up services, but it might be a waste of time. The SOCOs were arriving now, setting up powerful lights to help them find whatever was there to be found. Perhaps Hitch’s scene-preservation would save the day. Perhaps, and perhaps not. A fatal mugging was possibly the most difficult crime of all to clear up, and with no description of the attacker and no murder weapon, it could prove impossible.

But once he had looked at the body properly, and once he had heard Tony Baker’s story, Tom began to revise his thoughts on that, because it didn’t after all seem to be a straightforward mugging. And in view of their star witness being known to be more than a little critical of the police, he thought his boss would want to see the scene for herself.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

Stepping out of the taxi, Stephen said goodbye and ran through the thickly falling snow to where his bike was parked behind the bingo club. He screwed his eyes up against the flakes to try and see the church clock, but he couldn’t. He thought it must be about twenty to ten.

He wished he could have seen Ben properly this weekend, but they had to be so careful, and it just hadn’t been possible. But Ben usually thought of a way round things, and the flat had been an inspired last-minute thought. The flats were just about to go on the market, so the show flat had everything you could want. It had been sheer luxury, but they had only had an hour together, and that wasn’t enough.

At first, he thought the bike wasn’t going to start, and cursed the motor mechanic who had promised him that everything was in good working order. But at the third attempt it started, so maybe he had really fixed it. He put on his lights, got his helmet on with the visor up, kicked the stand away, and roared off into the snow.

“Where the hell have you been?” demanded Jerry. “A smoke, you said. It didn’t take you an hour and twenty minutes to smoke a bloody cigarette!”

Keith held up his hands in apology. “Sorry, Jez. Something came up.”

“You’re lucky Waterman didn’t find out you’d gone AWOL. Jack Shaw was here earlier—he says Waterman was at the bingo club tonight, and I couldn’t have covered for you if he’d come here. So if you’re going to make a habit of this, you’d better understand that. If anyone asks me about you, I’ll tell them. I’m not going to lose my job because of you.”

Keith grinned. “You could worry for England, you know that? What do you do for fun, Jerry?”

Jerry grunted. “I don’t have time for fun,” he said. “And I’m frozen to the spot. You’re on the door from now till we close, mate.”

“What’s going on in the alleyway?” Keith asked.

“How should I know? I can’t see the alleyway, can I? I’ve been here, doing my job, not swanning off like some.”

Oops. He really had pissed Jerry off.

The room was lit only by the soft light from the landing, the idea being that the half-light would be soporific.

“Nuther one.”

She couldn’t still be awake. It was five to ten, for God’s sake. Lloyd was having trouble keeping his eyes open, but Charlotte was as bright as she was first thing in the morning. He sighed. “All right. Taffy was a great big, beautiful tabby cat, and he lived in a big house with a big garden and . . .”

His stories were always about Taffy the tabby, and he always began them the same way with absolutely no idea of where they were going, but Charlotte’s critical faculties weren’t too highly developed. And he had a sneaking suspicion that in this she was once again just like her mother, who professed to like the sound of his voice, but admitted that she rarely actually listened to what he was saying. At least Charlotte wasn’t yet at the stage where she wanted the same story over and over again, so he amused himself, if no one else, with his impromptu tales of Taffy the tabby.

He had heard Gina’s ideas concerning the loft conversion, and had at least steered her in the direction of waiting to see what the designer came up with before making up her mind. He usually found life much easier if he made the concessions, but this time he didn’t think he could. The discussion had ended when Judy had put Charlotte to bed, then summoned him to tell her a story. In the middle of the second story, Judy had come in to say that she had been called out to the scene of a fatal mugging. It was, Tom Finch had said, “a funny one,” so Lloyd had no idea when she would be back, and neither had she.

Charlotte’s eyes at last began to droop just as Taffy had plucked up the courage to leap down from the big tree in the big garden so that he could end up in front of the big fireplace in his big house, where he always finished his adventures. Lloyd left the story—and Taffy—in mid-air, waited to see if there was a protest, and when none came, he tiptoed to the door.

“Want one.”

Lloyd turned. “You want one what?”

“One Taffy.” Her eyes were closing again.

This time Lloyd waited until he was absolutely sure that she was asleep before moving. Downstairs, Gina was making a cup of tea, and brought one in for Lloyd, for which he was grateful. Marathon storytelling was thirsty work.

“Do you still put Chaz down for an afternoon nap?” he asked.

She shook her head, smiling. “No. You can’t blame me. Judy says Charlotte’s just like you as far as that’s concerned.”

“True. Staying awake until all hours definitely isn’t one of Judy’s traits. She’s always ready for bed by eleven.”

“You could do worse than follow her example,” said Gina. “What do you find to do until two in the morning, anyway?”

It’s none of your business what I find to do, he thought, but his face wasn’t giving away his irritation at her question. No one could lie more smoothly or more convincingly than Lloyd. “Oh, this and that,” he said, smiling. “I potter about. It’s relaxing.”

“So is a good night’s sleep.”

The sooner this granny-flat was in existence, the better, as far as Lloyd was concerned. He had always liked Gina, and he didn’t know what they would have done without her, but he wanted his own space, even if she didn’t. Judy’s university lecturer father had died shortly after Charlotte was born, and Gina had had trouble adjusting to solitary life in London. They had needed someone to look after Charlotte, and she had needed family around her—the solution to both their problems had been obvious, and it had worked. He didn’t want to rock the boat by getting irritated with her, so it was time, Lloyd decided, for a change of subject.

“Do you like cats, Gina?” he asked.

She looked a little surprised. “Yes, I love them. We always had cats when I was growing up. But John and I lived in a flat almost all our married life, so . . .” She shrugged. “Well, that was John’s excuse. He was never too keen on them. I think they scared him a little, but he’d never admit it.”

“Does Judy like them?”

Gina looked at him, her eyebrows raised. “You’ve known her for over twenty years,” she said. “And you don’t know if she likes cats?”

Lloyd shrugged. “There’s a lot I still don’t know about her. You know what she’s like—if you don’t ask the direct question, you don’t get told. Sometimes even if you do.”

“Oh, I know. I had no idea how she felt about you until she’d been married to Michael for about five years. And then it was John who told me—she didn’t say a word to me.”

“If it makes you feel any better, it was years before I could get her to admit to me how she felt about me.” Lloyd smiled. “And, for the record, she didn’t tell her father about us—I did.”

“You know, that’s just how John’s mother was. Kept everything to herself, just like Judy does. I always feel as though I don’t know her as well as John did. Maybe it’s because his mother was like that. He grew up with it—knew how to get past it.”

Lloyd nodded. “Well, let’s hope Chaz has got a few more of my genes than she seems to at the moment,” he said. “I don’t think I could take two enigmatic women in my life.”

Enigmatic was the wrong word, but he had never been able to hit on the right word to describe Judy’s self-contained way of living her life. Sometimes, just sometimes, the control slipped, and he was allowed to glimpse what was really going on in her head. Not often.

“I couldn’t even get her a Valentine for tomorrow,” he grumbled. “The only time I did she looked at me as though I had two heads.”

Gina laughed. “She’s never been one for hearts and flowers.”

“Don’t I know it. She doesn’t even like breakfast in bed. And she says she prefers roses growing in the earth. So the best thing I can do for her tomorrow is ignore her.”

“But in answer to your question, she does like cats. She pestered us for one when she was a little girl—that was when John came up with the excuse about a flat not being a proper place to have a cat. That’s probably why she’s never had one—she’s always lived in flats too, until now. And she probably wouldn’t have wanted one when Charlotte was really little.”

A tabby cat would be a pleasant addition to the household, Lloyd thought. He’d talk to Judy about it. He looked at the gas fire, its imitation coal being licked by reasonably convincing flames, and wondered if they should get the big fireplace that Taffy had in his house in order to complete the picture.

But no. Though he had grown up with a real fire, he supposed that introducing one to a house with a two-year-old in it would be a foolish move, however well guarded it was. But maybe one day, when she was older . . .

“Tony Baker?” said Judy. “Should that mean something to me?”

“You remember, guv—the guy that caught the serial killer. The South Coast murders? About eighteen years ago? These days he does all these TV programs about people’s social habits affecting the crime statistics. The last one was about drinking.”

“Oh,
him
!” Yes, Judy knew him, and remembered only too well his reason for shooting to fame. Every police officer in the country remembered. Tony Baker had been a crime correspondent for a broadsheet newspaper, and had covered the South Coast murders and the arrest and trial of the man the police had charged. He had been convinced that they had convicted an innocent man, so he had left his job and spent the next twelve months physically tracking down the real murderer, preventing what would certainly have been a fifth murder.

“The cops were made to look like idiots,” Tom said. “And maybe they were, because he was right, and they were wrong. This one—well, I’m having problems with it. There’s the way the notes have fallen, for a start. If they fell. Come and see.”

The scene-of-crime officers were erecting a tent to preserve the scene, a less easy job than it might be because the other occupants of the flats had to be able to get in and out of the door outside which the victim lay.

Wilma Fenton had left the Bull’s Eye bingo club at approximately half past eight, having just won four hundred and thirty pounds. She always left at the interval of the main session in order to go home and walk her dog, because she didn’t like doing that late at night. Half an hour later, she had been found outside the street door to the flats in which she lived. Baker had seen the incident, and her assailant had run off as he approached. He had apparently dropped the money in his haste, and in the still, cold night, the banknotes were still lying there, on Mrs. Fenton’s body.

And it was indeed difficult to see how the money could have landed in that fashion if it had merely been dropped. The notes were separate, spread out, and not one had fluttered to the ground round the body; they were all neatly contained on it.

“According to her neighbor, Mrs. Fenton was a widow with no children. She thinks there’s a brother in Cumbria—we’re trying to trace him, but the neighbor has officially identified her. She also says she’ll take care of Heinz the dog until the RSPCA can come and get it.” He smiled. “Heinz is a mongrel, as you might have guessed.”

Judy crouched down beside the body. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing to a torn piece of paper partially covered by Mrs. Fenton’s arm.

“That,” said Tom, “is another of the problems I’m having with this. According to Tony Baker, that’s the envelope her bingo winnings came in. He recognized it because he shared the prize with her, and the winners’ envelopes have that decoration on the border. They’ve got Bull’s Eye bingo club and the winner’s name printed on them, but you can’t see that because of how she’s lying.”

“So if the money was in a recognizable envelope, why would a mugger take the time to open it at the scene? Come to that—why wouldn’t he just grab her bag? And how come she’s lying on the envelope, instead of the other way round?”

“Quite.”

They were clearly getting in the way of the tent-erectors, and they made their way down the route marked through the alleyway, out into the snow, heading for Tom’s car, parked farther down Murchison Place.

Judy had a problem of her own. “Did you say Tony Baker had shared the prize with her?” she asked, as they got into the car. “Why on earth was he playing bingo in Malworth?”

“Research. He’s doing a TV program about gambling.”

“Oh, I see.” She didn’t really. Malworth seemed a funny place to choose to do research into something that you could do anywhere. Why not somewhere more interesting? More flamboyant, like Blackpool, or more sophisticated, like London or Manchester?

“Baker left the bingo club a couple of minutes after half past eight—that’s two minutes or so after Wilma left, and he went through the alleyway to the car park. He didn’t see anyone at all on that trip, in the street or the alleyway. He went to his car and wrote up his notes, and had been doing that for about twenty minutes when he remembered something he wanted to ask Michael Waterman—he’s the guy who owns the bingo club.”

Judy nodded.

“So he was going back there to talk to him, and when he got to the alleyway, he could see what looked like a scuffle between a man and a woman ahead of him. He thought they were probably drunk. Then he saw the woman fall to the ground. The man knelt beside her.”

“He didn’t see what he hit her with?”

“No. Baker didn’t exactly hurry, not being that anxious to get involved, but as soon as the man heard him approach, he ran off. He may or may not have dropped the money in his desire to get away.”

“Would he have had time to arrange the notes like that on Mrs. Fenton’s body?” asked Judy.

“Just about,” said Tom. “It’s mostly fifties, isn’t it? Eleven notes altogether—that wouldn’t take too long. Anyway, we’ve got no description, and no other witnesses, but I’ve still got to talk to the nightclub bouncers—they might have seen someone hanging about.”

“What are your other problems?”

“Mrs. Fenton obviously didn’t go straight home. And since her whole reason for not staying for the second half is to walk her dog—
why
didn’t she go straight home? Where was she for that half hour?”

“Did any of the people at the bingo club see anyone with her, or following her when she left?”