Unlucky For Some

by Jill McGown

  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 on
e 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?”

  “No, guv. We’re drawing blanks everywhere.”

  There was a knock on the passenger window, and Judy turned to see the long, thin face of Freddie, their tame pathologist.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Lloyd,” he said, as they got out of the car. “How is Miss Lloyd?”

  “Very lively.” Judy walked through the snow back toward the alley, the two men behind her.

  “And Mr. Lloyd and your mama?”

  “Probably worn out.”

  “Not come to blows yet?”

  Judy shook her head good-humoredly. “Oh, you’d love it if they had, wouldn’t you? Sorry to disappoint you, Freddie, but they get along very well.”

  “And how are Master and Miss Finch?” he asked Tom.

  “They’re blooming, thanks. They’ve not come to blows yet either.”

  “Good, good. Tell me, was it something they put in the tea? Or were you all just suddenly seized with an urge to reproduce in order to make sure that there are little coppers and copperettes for the future?”

  Freddie was always cheerful when he had a murder victim to poke around in, something Judy found inexplicable. He was clearly eager to get started on his grisly task, because the sooner he got this bit over, the sooner he could get the body to the mortuary and really have fun.

  The light from inside the tent shone eerily in the gloom of the narrow alleyway, and Judy shivered as they walked toward it. She told herself the cold weather had produced the shiver, but it hadn’t. To the eyes of any normal mortal, murder scenes were uniformly dismal and bleak.

  But to Freddie they were positively uplifting, and he beamed as they went into the tent. “Gangway,” he said, crouching down and conducting the careful, eyes-only examination with which he always began. This one didn’t take very long; after just a few moments, he sat back on his heels. “One blow to the back of the head which fractured the skull. Not a great deal of external bleeding, so the assailant isn’t likely to have blood on his clothing.” He looked up. “The usual blunt instrument,” he said. “I suspect it might just have been an accident.”

  “Hitting people with blunt instruments isn’t accidental, Freddie.”

  He smiled. “You’re getting as bad as your husband. You know what I mean. I think her death might have been accidental, because I don’t think this blow was intended to kill her—he probably meant just to knock her out. Some people have abnormally thin skulls—I think that’s what we’ve got
here. One blow wouldn’t normally do this amount of damage.”

  “There’s nothing to suggest that it might be more than just a spur-of-the-moment mugging?”

  “Ah, now, that’s where you differ from your husband. He groans if I suggest that a murder has deeper implications than are apparent at first, whereas you clearly want me to say that.” He grinned. “Well, sorry, but so far it looks to me like a mugging with an unintentionally tragic outcome.”

  “We’ve got a missing half hour. It’s possible the assailant was with the victim for thirty minutes or so before she died.”

  “Yes?” Freddie looked interested. “Well, leave me to it, and I’ll see what I can come up with. There’s no apparent reason to suspect sexual assault, but obviously I’ll take swabs. And there are no other obvious injuries, but once I’ve got her clothes off I might find more.” He got to his feet. “That’s it,” he told the attendants. “You can take the body to the mortuary now.”

  As the body was being put in the body bag, all three left the tent, and Freddie headed back down the alleyway to his car. “I’ll be doing the postmortem examination at nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” he said wickedly, as he walked away. “I don’t know which of you wants the pleasure of my company just after you’ve had your breakfast.” He raised his hand as a farewell, and didn’t wait for a reply.

  Judy smiled at Tom. “Didn’t you say you were taking me to a nightclub?”

  In the little lounge bar—the only bar—of the Tulliver Inn, Jack Shaw listened as Tony Baker recounted his story for the third time. Everyone who came in had to hear it, though that wasn’t Baker’s fault, Jack had to concede. Grace insisted.

  She had brought a meal for him as soon as he came in, and now he was holding court while he ate, and she was hanging on his every word, even though she’d heard the story three times herself. Suddenly, he wasn’t just handsome and suntanned and rich and famous—he was a bloody hero as well. And for what? Stumbling over a dead body.