Unlucky For Some Read online

  And it happened as Tony Baker had entered that same alleyway; he had seen the victim fall to the ground, had seen the killer flee the scene, had tried to help the victim, but was too late.

  An incident that could have happened in any street in any town in Britain, the article went on. An incident that would have made the local paper and the local news, because it was of no great interest to anyone else. But this time, the nation’s most outspoken newspaper would be watching to see how the police handled it.

  Because their man Baker was troubled—not just because an inoffensive, middle-aged widow had been so brutally slain on a night when she should have been celebrating her good luck, but because it didn’t make sense. If Wilma’s callous killer was after her winnings, the paper said, he didn’t get them. The winnings were left behind, intact. What sort of mugger left his takings behind? Had he ever intended stealing the money? Was there more to this murder than met the eye? That, it said, was what Tony Baker was asking himself, what this newspaper was asking itself, and what the editor hoped the police were asking themselves.

  And now, as he laid the paper down with a puzzled frown, it was what Keith Scopes was asking himself. He wanted to know more about these South Coast murders. He went over to the computer, and switched it on. There was bound to be stuff about them on the Web.

  “How was Freddie?” Judy asked, when Tom got back to the station.

  “Very pleased with himself,” said Tom. “Wilma Fenton did indeed have an unusually thin skull. The blow would have been very unlikely to have proved fatal had it been inflicted on someone else. ‘Simply a mugging that went all wrong’ was how he described it.”

  “Did he have any idea what the murder weapon could have been?”

  “The best he could say was that it had no sharp edges. The indentation suggests something rounded, so I asked if a crash helmet could have done it, but he said no, it was something smaller and much heavier than that. Small, heavy and round.”

  “Like a large pebble, maybe?” said Judy.

  “Could be. The alleyway’s cobbled—if one had worked loose, her assailant might have picked it up—” He scratched his head. “But that doesn’t explain the half hour, guv. I think someone must have been in the flat with her, and picked something up in there.”

  Judy nodded. “We’ll see what the SOCOs come up with. But if he was in the flat with her, and did it in there, why would she still have all her outdoor clothes on? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Nothing makes sense,” said Tom. “If they weren’t in the flat, where were they?”

  Judy’s phone rang, and she picked it up. “Right,” she said, hanging up again. “Halliday’s here,” she said. “Jack Shaw has confirmed that he was the young man Jerry Wheelan saw, so unless he came back, I doubt that he’s our man, but let’s see what he has to say for himself.”

  “He’s got no record,” said Tom. “But he holds a firearms certificate.”

  Judy smiled. “It isn’t a crime, Tom.”

  “Well, you know what I feel about guns. If you want to own one, you’re not a fit person to do so.”

  “But you’re not one to make sweeping statements.”

  Tom fought his corner. “It’s for a Winchester bolt-action rifle. And the cartridges he uses are the same as the 5.56 NATO cartridges, according to the bloke I spoke to in ballistics.”

  “5.56 NATO cartridges being what, exactly?”

  Tom frowned.

  Judy grinned. “You haven’t the faintest idea, have you?”

  “I might not know what 5.56 means, but they fire the bullets soldiers use, so I know they don’t put them in peashooters. That’s a serious weapon he’s got.”

  “What does he use it for?”

  “Controlling what they call ‘pest animals’ on the certificate. He shoots on a neighboring farm.”

  Judy got up. “In theory,” she said, “the fact that he has been given a certificate should mean that he is of impeccable character, level-headed, and sane.”

  “In theory, the bumblebee can’t fly.”

  Judy laughed. “Well, since you think he’s Al Capone, you lead.”

  Despite having been given a very good description by Jerry Wheelan, Tom was still a little surprised when he saw Stephen Halliday. He was dressed in a way that Bobby, his eldest, now eleven, would entirely approve of, and had his hair done in a way that Bobby would certainly have regarded as cool. Tom wasn’t sure if it would still be wicked—that might be so last year. But cool had stood firm in the slang dictionaries for almost a century, so it was probably still okay.

  And Stephen Halliday looked cool. He looked like a normal, fashion-conscious nineteen-year-old. Somehow, since he’d learned about the firearms certificate, Tom had been visualizing a neo-Nazi.

  He introduced himself and Judy, and opened the file he had brought with him. “I understand that you’re a steward at the Bull’s Eye bingo club. Can you tell me what your job involves?”

  “All sorts of things. I sometimes work behind the bar, or take drinks and food orders from the tables. And I take people’s winnings to the table.”

  “How does that work?”

  “The card’s checked off with the caller, and if it’s a valid claim, the checker asks for the customer’s membership card, and takes it to the cashier for verification. She prints out a winner’s envelope with the customer’s name on it, and puts the money in it. Then I take it to the table, give the customer his or her card back, and count the winnings again in front of them. Then I put the money back in the envelope, and give it to them.”

  Tom nodded. They might try to get prints from the money; one of the twenties was brand-new. “We would like to have your fingerprints for elimination purposes,” he said.

  “Sure.”

  “Why did you leave at the interval?”

  “Something came up. I had to meet someone. I asked the manager if I could leave early, and she said yes.”

  “Can you tell me what you did when you left?”

  “I was walking along Murchison Place, and I could see Wilma ahead of me. Then I saw the envelope with her winnings in it fall out of her bag, so I ran and picked it up. I caught up with her, and walked with her the rest of the way.”

  “Why?”

  “I was going that way.”

  “You had a motorcycle helmet with you.”

  The young man frowned slightly. “Yes—I didn’t want to leave it at the club. It was expensive—it might have got stolen.”

  “Are the staff light-fingered?”

  He smiled. “No, but you never know, do you?”

  “Why didn’t you take your bike?”

  “It was quicker to walk. I wasn’t going far, and the one-way system would have taken me out of my way.”

  Tom had heard all about the one-way system from Judy when she used to live in Malworth, so that was probably true.

  “So you walked Mrs. Fenton to her door.”

  “Yes.”

  “How long were you with her?”

  “About five minutes or so.”

  “You didn’t go into her flat at all?”

  “No. I just left.”

  “Did she go in before you left?”

  “No—she was just getting her key out of her bag. I said goodnight, and carried on through the alley. I was a bit late, so I didn’t hang about—it didn’t occur to me that anything could happen to her.”

  “Did you see anyone else? Did anyone enter the alleyway?”

  Halliday shook his head.

  “Did anyone leave the bingo club at the same time as you? Or did you see anyone hanging around when you were walking with Mrs. Fenton?”

  “No. Mr. Waterman and Tony Baker were standing just outside, though—they might have seen if anyone followed us.”

  “What were they doing?” Judy asked.

  “Just talking, I think. Oh—Mr. Waterman was using his mobile phone. Not speaking to anyone—just using it, you know? Texting someone, or whatever.”

  �
�Thank you.” Judy made a note.

  “Was that the last time you saw Mrs. Fenton?” Tom asked. “When you left her at her door?”

  He nodded.

  “You weren’t in her flat?”

  “No, I told you.”

  “Who were you meeting?”

  Halliday looked down at the table. “I—I don’t want to tell you that.”

  “Well, perhaps you can tell me where you were at nine o’clock.”

  “No. I don’t want to answer that.”

  Tom stopped the rapid questioning that he favored, and waited. He wasn’t as good at waiting as Lloyd or Judy—they could sit it out forever. But he thought he was probably better at it than Stephen Halliday.

  “I don’t have to tell you, do I?” He still looked down at the table.

  “No,” Tom said. “You don’t have to tell me. But you’ve admitted being with the victim—”

  Halliday’s head shot up. “I didn’t ‘admit’ it. I just said it. I was coming here anyway before the police came for me—ask my mum. Or Tony Baker. They’ll tell you.”

  “Fair enough,” said Tom. “But you have said that you were with the victim at half past eight, and that she was all ready to go into her flat. But she was found half an hour later, still in her outdoor clothing. So she either changed her mind about going in, or she decided to go out again, and where people were during that time is fairly important.”

  Halliday just sat staring down at the table, shaking his head.

  “Are those the clothes you were wearing last night?”

  “No. The stewards wear a uniform. Red blazer and dark gray trousers and a white shirt.”

  “Were you wearing outdoor clothes as well?”

  “I was wearing a biker’s jacket.”

  “What color is the jacket?”

  “Black.”

  “Would you have any objection to letting me have those clothes for forensic examination?”

  Stephen frowned. “Why?”

  “You were at the scene of what, less than half an hour later, turned out to be a murder. It’s possible that the murderer was in Mrs. Fenton’s flat with her. You have chosen not to tell me where you were, so I have to find out if that was you. Your clothes might tell me.”

  “I’ve told you—I didn’t kill Wilma!”

  “Do you know who did?”

  “No!”

  “Then tell me where you were when she died,” said Tom.

  Still, he shook his head.

  “Stephen,” Judy said, leaning across the table. “I simply want to be able to eliminate you from the inquiry. Just tell us where you were at nine o’clock. We’ll check it out, and that’ll be that.”

  Still no response.

  “Was it illegal, what you were doing?” asked Tom.

  “No!”

  “Because there aren’t many things more illegal than murder. So if you weren’t killing Mrs. Fenton, you’d be better off telling us what you were doing.”

  “Of course I wasn’t killing her! I had nothing to do with it, so you can’t have found anything to say I did, and you’re not going to. Why should I tell you what I was doing? It’s nobody’s business but mine.”

  Tom sat back. This was the point in the interview where Lloyd would tip his chair back and start rocking gently. It had a sort of mesmerizing effect on the interviewee, who would be waiting for him to crash to the floor, and the distraction was sometimes enough to put the less experienced miscreant off his stroke. But Tom knew if he tried it, he would go crashing to the floor.

  “Were you with Keith Scopes?” Judy asked.

  “No.” Stephen frowned, looking genuinely puzzled at the suggestion.

  Of course, thought Tom, Scopes and Halliday knew each other. They lived in the same village. Everyone in this inquiry did. He was beginning to entertain ideas of the entire population of Stoke Weston being in on this poor woman’s murder. Waterman himself lived there, apparently, in what had once been the manor house.

  “Did you see Scopes in the alleyway?” Judy asked.

  “No.”

  “He saw you.”

  Halliday frowned. “I never saw anyone.”

  “I think that’s who you were with,” said Tom. “I think you were both doing something you’d rather the police didn’t know about. But this is murder, Stephen. So one of you had better tell us.”

  Halliday was shaking his head. “I wasn’t with Keith Scopes.”

  Tom had got the impression that Scopes was more afraid of someone else than he was of the police, and he was getting some of that from Halliday. It did seem possible that they had been up to something together.

  “All right,” he said. “As you have pointed out, you don’t have to tell me where you were. So will you let me have your clothes?”

  Halliday shrugged. “If you like.”

  They left Halliday writing out his statement, and Tom arranged for his fingerprints to be taken before Hitchin found someone to take him back to Stoke Weston and pick up his clothes.

  “Do you think I chose the wrong approach, guv?” he asked, as they went back to Judy’s office.

  “Perhaps,” she said. “But softly-softly didn’t have much effect on him either. I think he’s just the wrong man. It’s Keith Scopes we should be interviewing.”

  Tom wasn’t sure about that—the whole thing seemed much too amateur to be his doing. But he did agree that Halliday didn’t seem at all likely. “All the same,” he said. “I’d like to know what he’s got to hide.”

  “My client was unaware that there were drugs on the premises.”

  Gary suppressed a yawn. He was sitting in on the interview with Cox, the man whose flat they had raided that morning. He was under orders to say nothing; he was there to gain experience by watching the professionals at work.

  The problem was that Cox was a fruitcake, and the experience was beginning to lose its appeal. The others had all routinely refused to answer any questions, but Cox was eager to answer, despite his solicitor’s attempts to stop him. His solicitor had just stepped in, in the hope of rescuing him from the hole he was digging. But Sgt. Kelly turned back to Cox.

  “You are saying you had no knowledge of the drugs found in your flat?”

  Cox made a play of considering this, then nodded. “Yes, I think that’s what I’m saying. My brother must have left them when he was staying with us.”

  “And where would your brother be now?”

  Cox shrugged.

  “And this money? I am showing Mr. Cox exhibit LR2, a large quantity of cash recovered from his flat.”

  “Nothing to do with me.”

  “Is it your brother’s as well?”

  “Must be.”

  “So you had no knowledge of any drugs, or any cash, or any equipment being in your possession?”

  “No.”

  “So how do you explain the three people who called on you on Sunday night and gave you money?”

  Cox smiled. “I’m very popular.”

  “We have a photographic and video record of these transactions,” Sgt. Kelly said. “Would you like to reconsider that answer?”

  “They weren’t transactions.”

  “People were giving you money in exchange for packages,” Sgt. Kelly said doggedly.

  “No. They happened to be giving me money, and I happened to be giving them packages.”

  “So what was in the packages?”

  “Wedding cake. A friend of mine got married, and asked me to let everyone have a bit of wedding cake.”

  Cox’s solicitor leaned toward him and whispered something to his client.

  “I hope that’s advice to be a bit more cooperative and stop taking us for mugs,” said Sgt. Kelly. “We’ve since arrested two of these people.”

  Cox smiled.

  Gary didn’t have the patience for this kind of work. He thought the drug squad was doing a vital job, but he’d much rather they did it without him. This had been the most boring week of his life, and even the nutty Mr. Cox
was doing nothing to brighten it up. He’d be glad when his stint with the drug squad was over, and he could get back to normal CID duties. Then he could forget all about Cox and his unsavory activities, at least until he came to trial, which wouldn’t be for months. July or August if they were lucky, he’d been told.

  “So—you had no knowledge of drugs, there were no illegal transactions going on—can you explain why, in that case, on seeing my colleagues enter the premises, you ran into a room at the rear of the building, upturned a tank containing two live snakes, jumped out of a fourth-story window and climbed down the outside of the building?”

  Gary was suddenly wide awake. Snakes? He set snakes on them? What did they do? He would have died if he’d been confronted with live snakes. He would have dived out of the window after Cox. Live snakes?

  “All I knew was someone was breaking my door down! I was frightened for my life. How was I to know it was the police?”

  Sgt. Kelly sighed. “I would have thought the police uniforms might have given you a clue.”

  “Police uniforms? You call what they were wearing police uniforms? They looked more like bloody storm troopers!”

  That was true, thought Gary. They did. But what did they do about the snakes? Did anyone get bitten? Did they kill the snakes—what? This was like watching a TV with the sound turned down.

  “You gave yourself up to the police an hour later. Why?”

  “Because I only had my trousers on and it was bloody freezing!”

  “Why did you give yourself up to the police if you didn’t know it was the police who had raided your flat? How did you know the police were looking for you?”

  Cox blinked at him for a moment, then said what his solicitor had been advising him to say all morning. “No comment.”

  Roll on March, thought Gary. What with interminable interviews with idiots, the possibility of being exposed to snakes, and all night obbos in Transit vans, Gary had decided that the drug squad wasn’t for him.

  Cox was now saying that he had no idea who the man was that had called at nine o’clock. He peered at the video, shaking his head, as though he wasn’t standing there beside him in the still frame. “Sorry,” he said. “No idea.”