by Jill McGown
“It does indeed.”
As they walked back out into the thin, fine snow that still fell on Murchison Place, Judy turned to go to her car. “Right,” she said. “I will be talking to Tony Baker—as requested—first thing in the morning. Which means,” she added, smiling sweetly at him, “that you have a date with Freddie. Goodnight, Tom.”
If Tom had a quid for every time she’d put one over on him, he’d be a rich man. “Goodnight, guv.”
“Oh—and tell Liz I’ve got another load of clothes for her. I should have brought them with me—I didn’t think.”
“Will do.”
Tom and Liz had, with the birth of Charlotte, got close to Judy and Lloyd. Judy felt less than expert in the matter of bringing up a baby, and Liz had already done it twice, so her advice was frequently sought. Charlotte’s arrival had in its turn made Tom and Liz think wistfully of when their two were babies, and that had resulted in twins, born just under a year after Charlotte, a boy and a girl. And that had been a clever stroke, Tom thought, because Becky got all the clothes Charlotte had grown out of, which was a pretty fair saving, all things considered.
So she didn’t always come out on top, he thought, with a smile.
What had bothered Gary on the other observations was that it entailed letting all the deals go down, but at least he had understood the necessity, because their presence had had to be covert until they knew they had all the information necessary for the raids to succeed. But they would be breaking cover tonight anyway.
Tonight’s operation was the culmination of a drug offensive that had taken eighteen months of painstaking work, he knew that. The Chief Constable had announced it in his mission statement two years ago. Attacking the drug menace on all fronts, he’d called it. And it was being handled entirely by Bartonshire drug squad, because big though the operation was by their standards, it was still small-scale by national standards. It had cost a fortune, and the reputation of the force depended on its success. But what was the point, if all that stuff was on the streets already? Three people had called at the candy store so far, and they would be supplying any number of minor dealers.
“Why don’t we just raid them tonight?” he asked. “Why wait till morning? Three dealers have been and gone, and they’ll have sold the stuff to three dozen street-dealers by this time tomorrow.”
“Oh, no, they won’t,” said Kelly. “We’ve been keeping tabs on them all evening, and we’ll continue to do so.” He smiled. “This way we’re getting the wholesalers, the dealers, and the small fry that hang about the pubs and clubs and school playgrounds. I admit I didn’t recognize the one that came at nine o’clock, but we’ve got him on video, and we’ll get him eventually. But if we’d arrested him as he left, we’d have blown the whole operation.”
Gary realized for the first time just what a huge operation it was, and he might be a very small cog in a very big wheel, but from having felt bored and uninvolved, he suddenly felt elated that he was part of it.
Midnight. Ben’s train would be pulling out of Sheffield just about now, and his next stop would be Leuchars. He was off back to St. Andrews, and the life that Michael knew next to nothing about.
Michael had left the bingo club at ten, and had come home to his big, empty house. He had asked Jack Shaw in for a beer, but he had said he was going to pop in to the Tulliver before it closed. He had suggested that Michael come with him, but Michael had felt that he would be surplus to requirements, since Jack’s sole reason for going there was that he was in love with Grace Halliday. Not that he had ever thought of mentioning this to her, of course. He just worshipped from afar. But he still wouldn’t want Michael there, not really.
He wished Ben had been home a bit more often, so that they could have had a proper conversation. They needed to talk about Ben’s inheritance, for one thing. And Michael wanted to know how Ben was getting on at university. Was he still enjoying it? Did he know what sort of job he wanted to do when he left? How were his studies going? Did he think he’d come out of it with a good degree?
He wondered what it would have been like to go to university. It was hard for him to imagine adult learning—his tuition had ceased at sixteen, and education to him had been a succession of people telling you what to do and when to do it, and making a hell of a fuss if you didn’t.
He had skipped school as often as he’d gone; some money-making scheme or another had always required his attention more urgently than his lessons. He knew that he could have made something of himself at school, could have passed exams and gone on to university like Ben had, but the prospect had been too dim and distant to mean anything to him.
In the here and now, he had thought, with the lack of foresight of a teenage tearaway, there was money to be made. But he had always overreached himself, and lost it again. The steadying influence of Josephine had harnessed his potential; once he’d met her, he hadn’t looked back. Making money was second nature to him, and Josephine’s caution had stopped him sinking it all into some crazy scheme that would fail. She had made him take it step-by-step, and it had worked.
If he hadn’t met Josephine he’d have ended up in jail, there was no doubt about that at all. But she had financed him, and she wouldn’t countenance anything even faintly illegal being done with her money, so he’d had to play it straight, and it had paid off. People knew they could trust him with their money. Of course, there had always been things that had to be done, but he had had the sense to pay other people to do them, and pay them well enough to keep him out of it if they were caught. Because in his world it wasn’t enough to be liked, or respected. A bit of fear always came in handy. And those who crossed Michael knew that they would be in trouble, so no one did it lightly.
He knew he still had a criminal mentality, even if he had been steered away from it over thirty years ago, before he’d acquired the criminal record that he surely would have had, and that would have prevented him making his living the way he did. Violence was still a quick and easy answer to most problems, he found. Maybe he should have been more of a disciplinarian at home, he thought. Maybe if Ben had had a clout or two growing up he would have more respect for his wishes now. But he could never have brought himself to lay a finger on Ben.
He’d heard the remark that someone had made about Halliday just as he was leaving tonight. Was it meant for his ears? Did everyone know about it except him? How long had it been going on? It wouldn’t be going on much longer, not if he could help it.
He wished Josephine was here. She could have talked to Ben, made him see sense. But Ben barely remembered Josephine; she was just a photograph to him. He had cried all night when Michael had told him that Mummy had gone to heaven and wouldn’t be able to come back to him, but Ben didn’t remember all that distress now, thank God.
Michael did, and his lip began to tremble as he thought of the little boy he had tried to console while tears coursed down his own face. Some bastard, drunk behind the wheel, had taken away his wife and Ben’s mother, and no one had ever come near to replacing her. He had had the odd fling, usually with a married woman. He had never wanted to remarry.
And now he didn’t know what to do about Ben, and he wanted Josephine’s wise counsel more than he ever had.
Tony Baker lay down on the bed, suddenly very tired now that the adrenaline had stopped pumping. Twice in one night, he had had a heart-stopping moment. First, the bingo win, and then . . .
For all his expertise in the field of violent crime, he had never before been the first person at the scene of a murder, and he had been within yards of the murderer. At first, he hadn’t realized who the victim was. Or that she was dead. He had caught a glimpse, no more, of the figure who ran off.
But he had stopped to assist the victim, discovering first that she was dead, secondly that she was Wilma, and then—to his surprise and some shame—that he didn’t really care about that. No—when he found Wilma, he was simply annoyed that it was nothing more interesting than a mugging. That was what he had fe
lt as he had looked at Wilma’s lifeless body, while he could still hear her assailant’s footsteps in the alleyway. Irritation. Not very laudable, he accepted, as he switched out the bedside lamp, but that was how it was.
By the time the police had arrived, however, he had had time to think, and it looked a little more interesting than it had at first. Tony didn’t point out the unusual aspects to the investigating officer, because he felt reasonably sure that the man would find them for himself, and he didn’t want to be accused of making a habit of doing the police’s job for them.
Finch looked like a slightly harassed cherub, with his mop of golden curls. Efficient enough, though. And he seemed impervious to the weather, so he must be tougher than he looked. Tony had had his gloved hands deep in the pockets of his leather coat all the time they had been talking; Finch, wearing just a suit, wasn’t even shivering.
Finch had listened to his story, and had asked him a few questions, not commenting on the answers. It was impossible to tell from his demeanor whether or not he thought he was dealing with more than just a routine mugging. But he had said that his Chief Inspector might want to talk to Tony, so he probably had noticed the oddities.
In his car, Tony had rung the newspaper for whom he wrote his column, and told them of his new adventure—he was just in time to catch the late editions, and the editor was very pleased that he was, especially since news had been slow that day. It would be given a good deal of prominence, because even if some major celebrity was caught with his trousers down right now, Tony thought, with a satisfied smile, it would be too late to make tomorrow’s edition.
He felt a shade guilty, but not much. Why shouldn’t he make as much of what had happened as he could? All right, someone had murdered the woman, and it might be a touch insensitive to use her death in the way he had, but if he hadn’t been able to help her he could at least help himself. After all, he had a TV series in the pipeline, and all publicity was good publicity.
It was only when Stephen came in that Tony realized that he was the last person he had seen with Mrs. Fenton. It had struck him as odd at the time, because if Stephen’s bike was parked round the back of the bingo club, there seemed to be no reason for him to be on foot in Murchison Way.
When Tony told him what had happened, Stephen had said immediately that he had been with her, said that he had walked her to her door, in what seemed like a completely innocent response to the news. But Tony was having trouble with that. Why had he been running after Wilma, calling her name, desperate to catch up with her, as though his life depended on it? And why had he left at the interval, come to that? Tony had spoken to him earlier in the day, and he seemed to think he would be working his normal shift. The decision to leave at the interval had been made after he had started work. After Wilma had won the money? Surely not.
But it was all a bit strange.
CHAPTER THREE
* * *
Tony checked his blood sugar levels, and used his chart to work out how many carbohydrates were in the breakfast that Grace was even now preparing for him. He supposed this flexible regime would give him a bit more freedom about what he ate and when he ate, but it took a bit of getting used to. He had been on a course, but now he was flying without a net, and that was a bit scary. He gave himself what he hoped was an appropriate injection of insulin, and went downstairs.
Breakfast was always in Grace’s kitchen-diner; he ate his evening meal in the pub itself, but with only one guest to cater for, Grace found it simpler just to have him join her in the mornings. Or so she said. Tony thought she liked the idea of him having his feet under her table. And, of course, it was always à deux; Stephen, like most teenagers, never got up until after breakfast.
“Is that you, Tony?” Grace called, as soon as she heard his step on the stair.
“It is,” he said, as he joined her in the kitchen. “How are you this morning?”
“Fine, thanks. Are you all right? You were a bit shaken up.”
“Oh, I’m all right. Though I honestly thought I was unshockable until last night.”
“It was a horrible thing to find.”
Yes, he supposed it was. But it had been his own reaction to it, rather than the discovery itself, that had shocked him, though he was reasonably comfortable with it now. When he was thirteen years old he had had to adjust to the fact that he had diabetes; at first, it had frightened him, worried him. Then he had become resigned to the fact that there was a part of him that was different from most people, that it might lead to other serious problems, and that he had to live with it. This was much the same. Perhaps his years of studying crime had made him indifferent to its horror, but so what?
“Your breakfast will be about ten minutes. You just relax and read the paper or something.” She looked as though she was going to say something else, but if she had been, she changed her mind, and turned her attention back to the cooker.
He noticed the Valentine card on the sideboard, and took a peek inside when Grace wasn’t looking. It was a gently comic one—not vulgar, but not overly romantic, and in traditional fashion, it was unsigned.
He read the paper, but Grace didn’t get anything as downmarket as the journal for which he wrote his column, so he would have to wait to see what they’d done with the story. He’d pick one up on his way to the police station.
She joined him at the table with the bowl of muesli that was all she had for breakfast.
“Do you think Stephen will want a lift to the police station with me?” he asked. “It’s dodgy weather for an even more dodgy motorbike to cope with, and I think he should talk to them. He must have been one of the last people to see her alive.”
Stephen had had a lot of expense lately with the bike, and it was just possible that the temptation of Mrs. Fenton’s winnings might have been too much. Tony had no idea if the person he saw running away from the scene could have been Stephen—he really only saw a shadow. And Stephen had seemed genuinely upset when he was told about what had happened. But as far as Tony could see, Wilma had been hit just once, so whoever did kill her might not have realized that he had. And if that was Stephen, that would explain how his distress could be so convincing, if he was discovering that he had murdered someone.
“They won’t think he had anything to do with it, will they?” asked Grace, as if she had been reading his thoughts.
“Well—they have to suspect everyone at the outset. I’ll be on their list, and so, I expect, will Stephen, once they know he was with her shortly before she died.” He smiled. “But unlike me, he at least was presumably somewhere else altogether at nine o’clock.”
“But that’s the funny thing,” she said. “He won’t say where he was. I asked him, but he said he was just out somewhere.”
Tony frowned. He hadn’t known the Hallidays all that long, but Stephen didn’t seem the secretive type. “Well—maybe he was somewhere he’d rather his mother didn’t know about,” he said. “I’m sure he won’t mind telling the police.”
She smiled, looking reassured, and Tony ate, reading the paper as instructed. But every time he looked up, she would look away. It was distinctly odd, and a little unsettling on the digestion. And now, when he looked up, she looked at the Valentine card, and then back at him, and smiled. “I found it behind the bar this morning,” she said. “But it isn’t signed, so I don’t know who to thank.”
Oh, my God, she thought it was from him. He hadn’t the faintest idea how to disabuse her of the idea. Denying it when she hadn’t even asked him would simply confirm her in her mistaken belief. It seemed that he was getting the thousand shocks that flesh was heir to all at once.
“Oh, I’m sure you have many admirers, Grace—it could be from anyone. That’s the whole point of Valentines, isn’t it? You don’t know who they’re from.”
She picked up her plate. “Well, if it was you, thank you very much. It really made me smile first thing, and that’s not easy when I’m facing a pile of washing-up.” She laughed, and stood up. “
Tea or coffee?”
“Tea, please.”
As soon as he’d drunk it, he was going to the police station—if Stephen wasn’t up by then, he’d have to make his own way there. He certainly wasn’t staying here alone with Grace thinking he’d sent her a Valentine.
“Well,” he said, as he put his cup down. “I’d better make tracks.” The tea had almost burned his mouth, he had drunk it so quickly. He made it out into the corridor, but his eye was caught by the open door on the opposite wall. He’d never really noticed that there was a room there before. And Stephen wasn’t still in bed. He was up, dressed, and busy, just about to put a newly cleaned rifle back in the gun cabinet attached to the wall. “Good morning, Stephen,” he said, knocking on the open door, and going in. “I didn’t know you shot.”
Stephen turned. “Hello,” he said. “Yes—Jack started teaching me not long after we came here.” He smiled. “It was great fun. He taught me to fish, too.”
“Well, there’s two things we’ve got in common.” Tony held out a hand. “May I?” he asked.
Stephen handed him the rifle, and Tony whistled. “This is very nice,” he said, squinting through the sight, the rifle pointed at the ceiling. He wondered how Stephen could have afforded such an expensive rifle. Perhaps he made a habit of relieving his customers of their winnings. “Very nice indeed. It must have set you back a bit.”
“No,” said Stephen. “It was a present from Mr. Waterman.”
“That was very generous of him.” Tony held out the rifle to Stephen. “Do you hunt as well?”
“Do you mean foxhunting?” Stephen took the rifle, and locked it up in the cabinet. “No. I don’t agree with foxhunting.”
“Ah,” said Tony. “That’s because you’re a townie at heart—not really a country boy. Very unsporting, shooting foxes. What chance does a fox stand against a rifle? At least they can try to outwit the hunt—and usually do.”