by Jill McGown
In his capacity as editor, reporter, printer, publisher and distributor of the Stoke Weston Clarion, Jack had interviewed him. He had wondered what was going on in the alley, when he had left the nightclub to go back for Mr. Waterman. He had had to go the long way round, because the police had cordoned it off. So Baker’s story was, Jack had to admit, interesting. The first time.
“I wish I’d chased the bastard now, because there was nothing I could do for her,” Baker was saying.
Oh, yes, that would have been good, wouldn’t it? Yes, Baker must be kicking himself for stopping to help a dead woman instead of getting himself all over the papers again. Jack got up and went to the bar before it closed. He didn’t really want another drink, but Rosie the barmaid wasn’t in tonight, so Grace would have to serve him.
Grace detached herself from the knot of people at Baker’s table. “Yes, Jack, what can I get you?” she asked, lifting the flap and going behind the bar, smiling at him professionally.
“I’ll have another one in there, please.” He pushed his empty pint glass over to her.
Grace pulled his pint. The Tulliver still had old-fashioned beer-pumps, and it had been a while before Grace had got the hang of them. She was the consummate professional now. She put the replenished glass on the towel on the bar. “There you are, my love.”
My love. Funny how people used expressions like that every day, to anyone and everyone. To complete strangers, sometimes. They weren’t declarations of love—they didn’t even suggest affection. My love, darling, pet, sweetheart . . . they were meaningless forms of address, and she wouldn’t even know that she’d said it.
Jack paid for his beer, wishing he could think of something to say that would keep her from going back to Baker. Other people had small talk, but he didn’t. He spoke when he had something to say, and he couldn’t think of anything he wanted to say except things that he couldn’t say. Like how much he admired her, going on a course and taking on this pub on her own when her husband ran out on her before they’d been in the pub six months. Like how much he enjoyed her company, or at least had enjoyed it before Baker came here and she suddenly had eyes for no one else. Not that she’d ever had eyes for him, not really. They were friendly—he had hit it off with Stephen when he was a boy, and was as close to the Hallidays as anyone was. But not the way he wanted to be. He wanted to say all that, and he wanted to tell her how much he would give to have her call him my love and mean it. But he couldn’t.
She was back with Baker now, as he had known she would be as soon as her bar duties had been discharged. Stephen had confirmed that she fancied him. He hadn’t really needed to hear Stephen say it, but he had hoped that it was just jealousy that was making him imagine that she looked at Baker the way she did. Evidently not.
He supposed it really was jealousy that made him dislike Baker as much as he did, but he couldn’t be sure of that. Everyone else seemed to get on with him, but Jack didn’t like him and he didn’t trust him, and it seemed that Stephen felt the same way. If Grace got involved with him, she’d regret it, he was sure of that. A man like Baker would take whatever was on offer, and then he’d be off, without a qualm. He and his wife had split up over the South Coast murders business, because it was much more important to him than she was. Grace would do well to remember that.
Jack sipped his drink at the bar, and tried to ignore the animated chat from their table. Stephen had said that Baker wasn’t interested in her, and he certainly didn’t seem to be making any sort of a play for her. In fact, he barely included her in what he was saying, to the point of ill manners, it seemed to Jack. So he probably didn’t have designs on her.
But the way she had reacted to Baker underlined just how little chance Jack stood with her. He wondered whether or not to do what he had come to do, and decided that he would. From his inside pocket, he pulled out the long, thin envelope, and left it on the shelf under the bar for Grace to find when she cleared up in the morning.
Innes Passage ran from Murchison Place to Waring Road, which formed a T-junction with Stansfield Road, dead ahead of the alley. The last twenty yards or so of the alleyway formed the side wall of the nightclub, and Tom and Judy became aware of the dull beat of the disco as they walked toward the snow-filled night. As they exited the alley, they stopped for a moment to get the lay of the land. Across Waring Road, to the right, was the car park, with exits onto Stansfield Road, which stretched straight ahead of them, and Waring Road itself.
“Did Tony Baker have a view of the alleyway when he was in his car?” asked Judy.
“No, he didn’t. He was parked right over there.” Tom pointed to the far corner. “I had a quick look in his car in case the murder weapon was in there,” he said, with a smile. “You can’t be too careful.”
“Did you think it might be?”
Tom wasn’t entirely sure. He had no reason to suspect Tony Baker, but there was something about his story that he didn’t like. He couldn’t put his finger on it. So he had walked him to his car, and, on the pretext of being interested in buying one like it, had even got him to open the boot.
“No,” he said. “Not really. But he knew her. And we’ve only his word for it that he was in his car on his own during that time, so we can’t rule him out, can we?”
“But you didn’t hang on to him,” she said.
“No—well, he’s diabetic, and he had to get back for his evening meal. I didn’t want him passing out on me.”
“What did you make of him?”
Tom scratched his head. “I don’t know, to be honest. He’s my other problem. I think you should talk to him yourself, guv. See what you think. He’s coming in first thing to give us a formal statement.”
“All right,” said Judy. “I’ll talk to him.”
They turned left, and walked toward the door of the nightclub, the music growing ever louder. “Waterman owns the nightclub, too,” said Tom. “I don’t know if that’s significant.”
“It might be, but I doubt it. Michael Waterman owns a nightclub and a bingo hall in just about every sizeable town in Bartonshire. Not to mention betting shops.” Judy stopped, and pointed up Waring Road, past the nightclub, and on the opposite side of the street, to what had once been three police houses. “He owns them, too,” she said. “He’s turning them into six luxury furnished flats. He heard about them through his brother-in-law, who is none other than DCS Yardley.”
Tom objected to their recently appointed head of Bartonshire CID on principle; Yardley was only a couple of years older than him, and it had taken Tom all his time to make it to inspector, never mind chief superintendent. “I hope the flats have got good soundproofing,” he muttered.
A man dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and tie was leaning against the wall just inside the door of the club, looking cold and very fed up, and detached himself from the wall at their approach. “It’s members only,” he said.
Tom explained who they were, and Jerry Wheelan allowed them to join him in the comparative shelter of the doorway. He said that he had seen a few people during the evening, but as he had no view of the alleyway, he didn’t know if any of them had used it. Tom turned to check what view of the car park he had, and the answer was that he had no view of the car park either, so he wasn’t going to be able to corroborate Baker’s story. The most likely-sounding sighting that Wheelan had had was a youth with fair spiky hair, wearing a black leather jacket and dark trousers, and carrying a crash helmet.
“He ran along here, and crossed the road toward the old police houses,” he said. “He disappeared round the back.”
“What time was this?”
“About 8.35 or so.”
No good, then, unless he came back, but Jerry hadn’t seen him coming back.
“Of course, I’m not out here all the time,” he said. “Well—not quite. Keith could have seen someone.”
“Keith?”
“Keith Scopes. He’s the other doorman. He’s inside just now.”
Tom glanced at
Judy, and could see that she knew the name as well as he did. Keith Scopes had a fairly impressive record of street theft; nothing since the youth court as far as Tom could remember, but he had been very active in his early teens. And one of the times that he had tried to grab a woman’s handbag he had hit her when she wouldn’t let go, and she had to have stitches over her eye. He had been sent to a youth detention center for that, and that seemed, for once, to have done the trick, because he hadn’t been in trouble since.
“And have you both been here all evening?”
Wheelan nodded, then backtracked. “Well—no. I’ve been here all evening, but Keith went off somewhere for a bit. He’s supposed to be out here now to make up for it, but I got talked into letting him go in for a warm.”
“When did he go off?”
“About half eight. That’s how I know when I saw that kid with the motorcycle helmet, because Keith had only been gone about five minutes.”
Perhaps the YDC hadn’t done the trick. Perhaps he just didn’t get caught these days. “How long was he away for?”
“About an hour and a half or so.”
“Could we speak to him?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll get him.”
They had a mugging, and a known mugger who had gone AWOL from his place of work at the time, but Tom, usually more than happy to accept things at face value, wasn’t content this time with the simple explanation. There was more to it thanthat, he was sure. Because if it had been a mugging, it had been carried out by an inexperienced mugger, and Keith Scopes certainly wasn’t that.
He saw the broad, well-muscled figure emerge from the dimly lit club, and felt old again. Five minutes ago he was a skinny little hooligan who had to have his mum with him when they interviewed him. Now, he was all bulging biceps. He would never have recognized him.
“Keith Scopes? DI Finch, Malworth CID. This is DCI Hill. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Scopes nodded, his eyes wary. “I remember you, Mr. Finch. Jerry just said police. I was expecting a couple of uniforms—someone said it was a mugging.”
“It might have started that way, but it ended in murder,” said Tom.
Scopes’s eyes widened slightly. “Murder?” he repeated. “Well—yeah, that would explain the ranks.”
“You left the club at half past eight or so—why?”
“I came out for a smoke.”
“Were you anywhere near Innes Passage?”
“Where?”
“The alley that runs down the side of this building.”
“Is that what it’s called? I didn’t know.”
“So now you do. Were you anywhere near there?”
“I was in there. It was snowing then, too. I went in to get some shelter.”
“And did you see anyone else?”
“Yeah—a couple of people. Jack Shaw—he’s the bloke that looks after the fruit machines for Waterman.”
Did everyone in this drama have some connection with Michael Waterman? Of course, Tom thought, the only two establishments open in this part of Malworth on a Sunday evening belonged to him, so it probably wasn’t so strange that the passersby were either his customers or his employees. No one else but residents would have any reason to be here, and the residents would be staying in on a night like this.
“Jack was acting a bit weird, now I come to think of it.”
“Oh?”
“Stopped in the shadows for some reason. But I noticed he seemed to be limping—maybe he was having trouble with his leg or something.”
“His leg?”
“He’s got an artificial leg, but you’d never know. He can do anything anyone with two good legs can do.” He grinned. “He even does Morris dancing.”
“How?” said Tom.
“Badly.” Keith laughed at his own joke. “They worked out routines that he could do. I think the whole thing might have been his idea. We never used to have Morris dancers.”
“We?” said Judy.
“Stoke Weston,” said Keith. “Jack lives there, too.”
“You said you saw a couple of people,” said Tom.
“Yeah—I saw a woman with Stephen Halliday. He’s a steward at the bingo club. He’s from Stoke Weston, too, as it happens. They were a little way behind Jack.”
Everyone was from Stoke Weston. This was turning into a very weird case, thought Tom. “Could you describe the woman?”
Scopes drew in a breath, blew out his cheeks. “She was just an ordinary woman. Middle-aged. I think she had gray hair. She was wearing a light-colored coat.”
That was Mrs. Fenton. She had indeed gone straight home, and she had been with someone. Things were looking up.
“And what does Stephen Halliday look like?”
“He’s about my height—five-eight or so, fair hair. He was wearing a leather jacket, and I think he was carrying a motorcycle helmet. They stopped at the door to the flats.”
Things had stopped looking up. That was the boy Wheelan had seen, and he was long gone by the time the murder took place. But maybe there were two youths with fair hair. “Did they go into the flats?”
“Dunno. I finished my cigarette, and left to come back here.”
“Was this man Jack Shaw still in the alley when you left?” Judy asked.
“No. He stood there for a bit, and then just walked on again.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“No—I don’t think he saw me.”
Or to put it another way, thought Tom, you think he might have seen you, which is why you’re so ready to admit that you were hanging about in the alleyway shortly before the murder. “Why not?” he asked. “Were you standing in the shadows, too?”
“Let’s just say I didn’t draw attention to myself,” Scopes said. “He’s a bit of an anorak—bores the pants off you if you let him. I told you—he’s a Morris dancer.”
“So you don’t know where he’d been or where he was going?”
“I don’t know where he’d been, but he came here and had a word with Jerry, so he might be able to tell you.”
“Is there somewhere I can talk to Jerry where there isn’t music blaring?” asked Judy.
“Yeah—hang on.”
Keith picked up his mobile, and deftly sent a text message. “There you are,” he said to Judy. “I’ve told him to meet you in the office.”
“Thank you,” said Judy, and went inside.
Tom looked at Scopes for a moment before speaking. “You said you left the alley to come back here,” he said. “But you didn’t come back here, did you? You were gone for an hour and a half.”
Scopes looked a little irritated by Wheelan’s indiscretion. “I got a call on my mobile, and I had to deal with something. I didn’t get back until about ten to ten.”
“Can you tell me where you were?”
“Why should I?”
“Because it might rule you out of our investigation into this incident.”
“It was private. Nothing to do with the police.”
“A woman has been murdered. It looks as though she was the victim of a mugging—and that’s something you know a bit about, isn’t it?”
“Oh, for God’s sake! I haven’t done anything like that for five years. And I didn’t mean to hurt that woman I got done for. I just shoved her.”
“Maybe you didn’t mean to kill this one.”
“Am I a suspect?”
“Well, what do you think? You’re a mugger, and she was mugged. So where were you at nine o’clock this evening?”
Several emotions chased themselves across Scopes’s face as he went into an agony of indecision. He looked angry, scared and bewildered all at once, and had an argument with himself before he spoke. “At nine o’clock, I was in Barton,” he said. “I was doing a job for someone.”
“Who? Where?”
Scopes shook his head. “I can’t tell you that.”
“In that case, you’ll stay a suspect.”
“Fine. When you’ve got enough evidence t
o arrest me, I’ll worry.”
“Right,” said Judy, emerging from the club. “If you’ve finished with Mr. Scopes, I think we can be off.”
The snow still fell, less heavy now, but just as persistent, as they walked back toward the alley, quiet and still now that everyone had gone.
“How did you know this was called Innes Passage?” Judy asked.
Tom grinned. “Hitch told me. I thought you’d be impressed.”
She rubbed cold hands together as she walked. “Wheelan thought I ought to know that Scopes borrowed a fiver from him earlier in the evening, so he was obviously in need of cash.”
“He says he was in Barton at nine o’clock.” Tom told Judy what Scopes had said.
“Did you believe him?”
“Yes, I think I did. I think he was frightened to tell me who he was doing this job for. Frightened of something, anyway.”
“And Wheelan said that Jack Shaw went to warn him that Waterman was at the bingo club—Waterman doesn’t normally work on Sundays, so I gather that everything’s a little more relaxed than it is during the week, when he’s likely to pop in. He says Shaw arrived at about twenty-five to nine and left again just before Keith came back.”
“I’ll have a word with him tomorrow,” said Tom. “He might have seen something Jerry didn’t see. And I want to know if he saw Halliday coming back, and if so, when.”
“We’ll need to talk to Stephen Halliday anyway,” said Judy. “He might know if Mrs. Fenton went into her flat or not. Did she go in and come out again, do you think?”
“If she did, it wasn’t to walk the dog,” said Tom. “Because it was in the flat, not running round loose in the street.”
“If something else brought her out again, we have to know what. Did someone telephone her? Call on her? Had she left something at the bingo club? Did Stephen Halliday come back?”
“The phone was checked. The last call to her number was made yesterday evening, so I don’t think she got a phone call that brought her out again. Halliday might have come back, I suppose, but it seems a bit unlikely.”