by Jill McGown
He felt fine snow hit his face, and stopped to button up his jacket. Some way ahead of him, he could see Wilma, who never stayed for the second half—she had to get home to walk her dog, and she didn’t like doing that late at night.
Wilma, disorganized as ever, had a large shoulder bag gaping open, and Stephen saw what looked very much like the envelope he had given her slide to the ground. He ran to pick it up, then carried on after her, calling her name, but she was too far away to hear him. She was crossing the road, heading toward one of Malworth’s many alleyways, halfway along which was the entrance to the flats where she lived.
Stephen ran as fast as he could, and caught up with her as she turned into the Victorian covered alleyway, long and dank, its roof supported by thick pillars. Cobbled, dimly lit, covered with fly-posters and graffiti, it was an uninviting place at night.
“Are you so rich you can throw it away, or what?” he asked, his voice echoing in the damp, cave-like passage.
“What’s that?” Her mouth fell open when she saw what he was holding. “Oh, my God—I thought I’d put that in my purse. I was in a state. I’ve never won that much.”
“Well, put it in your purse now.”
She fumbled about in the bag, finally fishing out the purse, handing it to him. It was the kind that fastened with two twists of metal that snapped together. “Here,” she said. “You do it. My hands are too cold.”
Stephen took it from her, then shook his head. “It’s a coin purse,” he said. “It won’t take all those notes. They’d fall out when you opened it. I’ll just leave them in the envelope, and put it in here. All right?” He slid the envelope into her shoulder bag, dropping the purse in after it, and zipped it up. “I’ll walk along with you,” he said. “I’m going that way anyway.”
Jack Shaw was already walking in the gloom of that alleyway on his way to the nightclub, his virtually undetectable limp slightly more apparent than usual, as it always was in very cold weather.
He was still puzzled as to why Michael Waterman had suddenly wanted to be driven to Malworth. He had turned up at his cottage, asking if he was doing anything this evening, and when Jack had said that he was doing nothing in particular, had asked him to be his chauffeur for the evening.
“I want to go to the Malworth bingo club,” he’d said. “But I was out this afternoon, and I’ve been drinking. So if you can take me and bring me back, I’ll make it worth your while. I’ll be leaving again about ten, I think.”
Jack was never averse to making a few extra quid, and had happily driven his boss to Malworth, parking behind the bingo club in the space reserved for him. His staff certainly wouldn’t be expecting to see him; Waterman usually had Sunday off.
“Are you not coming in?” Waterman had asked, as he had got out of the car.
“No,” Jack had said. “I’ve got something I want to do.”
“Right—see you later.”
Waterman Entertainment employed Jack as a fruit machine technician, and he knew most of the people who worked for Michael Waterman. He couldn’t warn the bingo club staff of their boss’ arrival, but he could at least tell Jerry Wheelan over at the Stars and Bars that he might be going to get a spot check.
He could hear the voices of the people behind him in the narrow passage, their words carrying on the still, cold air. Stephen’s voice he’d recognized; the other evidently belonged to someone who had had a win at bingo.
“I still can’t believe I won all that money. Four hundred and thirty pounds—it’s a fortune.”
“It was a shame you had to share.”
“Oh, no. It’s quite enough as it is. Why shouldn’t someone else be lucky too?”
Stephen gave a snort. “Oh, like he needs the money,” he said.
“Do you know him, then?”
“He’s staying with us. But you know who he is, don’t you?”
“Sort of. I know he’s on telly. He interviewed me—wanted to know why I play bingo all the time when I never win anything.”
“Trust him to get half of it when you finally did get a decent win.”
“Don’t you like him then?”
“Not much. But you should see my mum—she can’t get over him staying in her pub. She’s all over him.”
Jack slowed to a stop, not wanting to get out of earshot, and stood in the shadow of a pillar. He didn’t want them to see him, but he wanted very much to hear what Stephen had to say. Tony Baker thought he was God’s gift, and Grace Halliday was waiting on him hand and foot, which made matters worse. Jack hadn’t been too sure how Stephen felt about him, and he wanted to know.
“Ah—is that why you don’t like him? Are you jealous?”
“No! No. If she found someone she liked, I’d be happy for her. I just think he’s a bit full of himself, that’s all.”
“Is it serious? Do you think you’ll be getting a stepdad?”
“I don’t think so. He’s not a bit interested in her. But if you knew my mum—she doesn’t give up, so you never know. I hope not.”
Jack didn’t listen to the rest of the conversation.
“Kelly’s Eye to Charley Sierra.”
“Charley Sierra receiving.”
“We’re in position at the Candy Store.”
The Candy Store was the code name for the premises they were watching, and Trainee Detective Constable Gary Sims watched as Detective Sergeant Kelly checked that the cameras, both video and still, were pointing directly at the front door of the block of flats across from the room that the observation team was currently occupying.
Gary, on detachment to Force Drugs Squad, knew from previous observations just how mind-numbingly boring CID work could be, but there was something unusual about the sergeant’s manner on the radio, his almost obsessive checking that all the equipment was in working order, and that Gary and the others knew exactly what they had to do. Something was in the air.
This one was going to be an all-nighter, but at least they were in a room in someone’s house—the last one had seen them all crammed into a van, which became less and less habitable as the night wore on. At least here they could stretch their legs from time to time, and use a regular toilet when required to do so. There had been a strange funnel arrangement rigged up in the van in order that no one had to leave it.
And now that they were there, Kelly informed them that Operation Sweet Sixteen—so called because that was the average age of the people to whom the merchandise would ultimately be peddled—was about to achieve its objective. There were eight teams carrying out similar observations all over the city, and when they had recorded enough to prove that dealing was taking place, the raiding parties would go in and take out one of the biggest drug-dealing rings in the city.
Gary fancied he heard a hint of pride in the sergeant’s voice as he used the word “city,” for Barton had only recently achieved city status, and the status of its police had thus been enhanced.
The guys on the raids would get all the fun, all the action, Gary thought disconsolately. His job consisted of pointing a camera and noting descriptions and times for someone else to write down. He said as much to the sergeant.
“We’re going to take these bastards right out,” said Kelly. “We’ll have video and photographs and a log detailing every deal that goes down. And when we move in we’ll have them, their equipment, the drugs and the money. No smart-ass lawyer’s going to get any of them off.” He smiled. “And with any luck, their whole operation in this city will fall apart.”
“Fair enough, sarge,” said one of the others. “But we still haven’t got the big boys. So we take out eight middlemen—so what? They’ll recruit another eight.”
“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 th
ey 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 happ
ened 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.
CHAPTER TWO
* * *
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.