by Jill McGown
Finch nodded, and Gary picked the photographs up again to put them back in the file.
“Hang on,” Stephen said. “Can I see that one of Wilma again?”
Gary handed him the photograph.
“No—the other one. The one showing how the money was all spread out like that.” Gary found it, and Stephen took it, this time looking at it carefully. He shook his head. “That isn’t the money I paid out to Wilma,” he said. “I gave Wilma three tens and eight fifties, because I thought she’d probably prefer to have smaller denominations. That photograph shows four twenties and seven fifties.” He sat back, looking as puzzled as Gary felt. “But that’s what I paid out to Tony Baker, not to Wilma.”
Finch stared at him. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure, but you don’t have to take my word for it. We log the numbers of the fifties, so you can check—the numbers go on the computer against the name of the winner. Mr. Waterman’s got a thing about it.”
Michael’s heart ended up somewhere near his boots when his secretary told him DI Finch was on the line.
All night, Josephine had haunted him—not in the guise of an actual ghost, but as good as. Ben had walked out on him, she had told him, walked out of his house, walked out of his life, because of his refusal to accept him the way he was, and the vicious, brainless way he had reacted. Ben had forgiven him once for that brutal behavior, but he couldn’t forgive him again. Michael had learned nothing in the four years since that previous incident, she had said. He had accepted Ben’s forgiveness as his due, and hadn’t thought twice about ordering the same treatment for Stephen, had been glad when Stephen had come under suspicion of murder because he was too afraid to give the police his alibi. And now Michael felt foolish, sad, and indescribably guilty.
As a result, he really couldn’t follow what Finch was saying, because it seemed to have nothing to do with anything. Finally, he understood that he wanted to know about the cash payouts for some reason. “Yes, we do keep a record of the numbers,” he said. “I once got taken for a lot of money by someone who had a big win and asked us to change the fifties for twenties, and when I paid the money into the bank, I discovered that I had been landed with five hundred quids’ worth of counterfeit money. So now I make sure that won’t happen again.”
“Could you ask your office to confirm the numbers of the fifties paid out to Wilma Fenton and Tony Baker?”
“I can confirm it now—it’s all on the computer. What’s all this about?”
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss that, Mr. Waterman.”
“Is it going to help Stephen?”
“I really couldn’t say.” Finch’s voice was cold.
Of course, he thought. Ben had been telling them everything, and why not? Who could blame him? Finch would think he was a monster. And Finch would be right, he could hear Josephine saying. His behavior had been utterly despicable, and he deserved the contempt.
He took a deep breath. “Well, I don’t know if this will help or not, but on the night Mrs. Fenton died, I came home in the early evening and overheard Ben arranging to meet Stephen in one of the flats at half past eight. He told Stephen he’d be quicker going through the alley on foot than taking his bike round the one-way system, and that’s why Stephen was going through the alley rather than just going to get his bike. When I told Chief Inspector Hill that I’d seen him following Mrs. Fenton, I . . . I may have given her the wrong impression.”
There was a silence before Finch spoke. “Oh, right. Well—thank you for telling me.” He sounded a little surprised, as well he might.
He couldn’t tell the police everything, though, not without landing Keith in trouble, and that wouldn’t be right. Keith had never let him down, and he wasn’t going to let Keith down. But at least that would strengthen Stephen’s alibi. It was all his fault that the boy hadn’t just given them it in the first place.
He called up the information on the payout, and gave it to Finch, who thanked him for being so helpful. And that just made him feel worse than ever.
“But why would Baker switch the prize money?” said Lloyd.
“Search me, guv. But he did.” Tom sat down. “I knew all along that his story about Wilma was iffy.”
He had indeed, thought Judy, making a note of this latest little puzzle, adding it to the list. At least this one told them something concrete: Baker hadn’t simply witnessed a murder. At the very least, he had interfered with the scene of a crime, but she would much rather know why he did before she had him arrested.
“All right,” she said. “Let’s use logic, and we will assume that Baker is our man. Dr. Castle says that he does nothing without a reason, so what reason could he have had for switching the prize money?”
“No reason,” said Tom. “It makes no sense.”
“Logic dictates that if there was no reason to switch the money, then he didn’t switch it.”
“But he did,” said Tom.
“No,” said Lloyd. “We only know that he left his own money on Wilma’s body. That doesn’t mean he took Wilma’s money in exchange.”
“But then Wilma would have had both lots of money.”
“And she didn’t have both lots,” said Lloyd. “Therefore someone other than Baker did take it. And Baker replaced it with his own money.”
Tom’s eyes widened. “You mean it really was just a mugging that went wrong? Someone did steal Wilma’s prize money? But why would he want to make it look as though it hadn’t been stolen?”
“Who knows?” Judy shrugged. “To make it look less like an opportunist mugging, and more interesting to his news editor? To make our job practically impossible because he wanted the police to fail? To give himself a head start in the hope that he could catch the killer before we did? Possibly all three.” She tried to think logically about what happened next. “He brought us a letter that was supposed to be from Wilma’s killer,” she said. “And the next day, the newspaper got one, too.” She looked at Lloyd. “I’m sure you’re right,” she said. “I’m sure he did get a letter, but not the one he gave us.”
“So do you think he was trying to carry out his own investigation?” asked Lloyd.
“Possibly, but for the moment, I’m making the assumption that he is the serial killer.”
Lloyd looked a little doubtful. “But if Castle’s right that the killer does everything for a reason, that kind of lets Baker out, doesn’t it? What reason could he have for committing random murders in some pointless duel with himself? As Castle pointed out—he might be enjoying the publicity, but he certainly didn’t need it, not that badly.”
Judy’s eyebrows rose. Castle had said that if they could work out the reason for the duel, they could find their man. She looked down at her notebook, and at last she could see that this final puzzle of the prize money revealed a cause that had produced an effect. She worked through the puzzles, crossing them off as she accounted for them. If she was right, then everything that had happened was all because Baker had replaced the stolen money. It went round in a circle, and it worked out. She sat back. “The duel wasn’t pointless,” she said. “And it wasn’t with himself.”
Lloyd smiled. “I spy a gundog.”
“Maybe—but I can’t prove any of it.” She leafed through her notebook. “Dr. Castle’s snapshot,” she said. “He described the perpetrator as ‘someone—perhaps, but not necessarily, a Waterman employee or customer—who works or engages in recreation in the evenings, in all three towns, who is literate, with a knowledge of killing, possibly as a participant in field sports, and with what amounts to an obsession with Tony Baker.’ I think that’s a picture of two people, not one.”
Lloyd nodded slowly. “One is someone who spends time in the evening in all three towns, and has the local knowledge that Castle rightly pointed out that an outsider wouldn’t have had time to acquire . . .”
“. . . and the other is Tony Baker himself,” said Judy, finishing the sentence for him. “Who is literate, with an interest in field sport
s, and is obsessed with Tony Baker. I think he was being blackmailed about interfering with the scene.” She turned to Tom. “You said that the knife in the Jiffy bag looked like a blackmail drop. I think that’s exactly what it was meant to look like. We weren’t supposed to find it—the blackmailer was. Baker was trying to frame the blackmailer for Davy’s murder by dressing up the murder weapon to look like the payoff.”
Lloyd frowned. “Being blackmailed by whom?”
“I think there’s only one person who could have blackmailed him. Wilma’s murder was all over the paper the next morning, and the report said that her winnings had been left intact. Only one person besides Baker knew that they hadn’t been left intact, because he knew he had stolen them.”
“Wilma’s killer?” said Tom. “But how could he tell anyone what Baker had done without confessing what he’d done?”
“At the time, it would have been relatively easy,” Lloyd said. “If someone had come to us and said that he’d witnessed the whole thing, but had been frightened to come forward straight away—it would have been his word against Baker's, and the tables would have been turned, because Baker couldn’t expose him without incriminating himself.”
Tom looked disbelieving. “But are you saying that Baker murdered people to frame the blackmailer rather than pay up?”
“Yes,” said Judy. “As Dr. Castle said—we’re dealing with a disturbed mind. And an ego the size of a house. Someone who had already murdered was threatening to expose him as a cheat and a fraud—his reputation would go down the drain. He would go to prison. He’s the one who saw it as a duel, and he upped the stakes. A murder would be committed when the blackmailer could have no alibi, because he would be all on his own, and would be in the vicinity, looking for his payoff.”
“But how would that help?” asked Tom.
“Baker wrote the letter that he brought to us, establishing a would-be serial killer, so that when it happened, we would connect it immediately with Wilma’s murder. We would even half-expect Baker to be in the vicinity, because the letter said that he’d killed Wilma right under his nose, and we would think the killer was simply doing that again. I imagine Baker thought that turn of events would be too rich for the blackmailer’s blood, and that would be the last he’d hear of him, but it clearly wasn’t, because he got another letter, and now he was being blackmailed about Robert Lewis’s murder.”
“The duel had begun in earnest,” said Lloyd, still swaying gently as he thought. “So next time, Baker went a step further, leaving the murder weapon where the blackmailer would be looking for his money. The blackmailer would open the envelope, pull out what was inside, and would find himself holding a knife with blood on it. He’d have to decide what to do with it. Drop it back in the bin? Keep it? Either way, he’d be running a risk.”
“But because Tony Baker was held up as he was leaving the casino, the blackmailer had been and gone before he ever put the knife in the bin.” Tom smiled grimly. “Headless wasn’t some concerned citizen putting his rubbish away—for one thing, he was wearing gloves on a very warm night, and you don’t wear gloves to put something into a rubbish bin. But you wear gloves if you want to take something out of one. Gertie said he was rummaging, and she was right.”
Lloyd was still swaying. “The blackmailer didn’t find the knife, so once again he wasn’t put off. Another murder had been committed, and he doubtless upped his demand once more.” He let his chair fall forward. “And I’m willing to bet that this letter said that the money had to be left in the summerhouse at the Grange, which is why Baker left the rifle there, knowing the blackmailer would be there in the hope that this time he was going to collect.”
“But it was Stephen’s rifle,” said Tom. “Does that mean he thought it was Stephen who was blackmailing him?”
“Well, Stephen was the last person to be seen with Wilma, and he wouldn’t tell anyone where he was when she was killed,” said Judy. “And Baker didn’t know that we had witnesses who saw Stephen leaving the alleyway twenty-five minutes before the murder took place, so as far as he was concerned, Stephen could have been in Wilma’s flat all along. And Stephen was working in the appropriate towns on the appropriate nights . . . yes, I’d say he could easily have come to the conclusion that it was Stephen.”
“Of course you know who else was working in the appropriate towns on the appropriate nights, and turned up for no apparent reason at the summerhouse, don’t you?” said Tom. “And Stephen couldn’t have been Headless, because he was still in the bingo club when Headless was doing his rummaging. But Keith Scopes was out having a so-called smoke. If he isn’t Headless, I’m a monkey’s cousin.” He scratched his head. “But Scopes didn’t kill Wilma, so it makes no—” He broke off, and tapped his head. “But Wilma wasn’t killed at nine o’clock, was she? Baker lied about that too.”
Of course, thought Judy. The missing half hour. That was another bit of window dressing—another way to confuse the investigation.
“It happened the moment Stephen left her, before she had time to go into her flat,” Tom said. “Scopes hit her, and stole her money. And Baker saw it happen as he went into the alley from the bingo club, so when Scopes ran away from him, he would run toward Waring Road, not Murchison Place. Baker had us looking for witnesses in the wrong place at the wrong time. No wonder we came up empty.”
Judy nodded, and crossed off the second to last puzzle. “And as far as Baker was concerned,” she said, “he had seen Stephen go into the alleyway with Wilma, and when he got there two minutes later, he saw the person with her attack her. No wonder he thought it was Stephen.”
“Why would he want to give Stephen an alibi?” asked Tom.
“Because he could.” Lloyd let his chair fall forward. “That’s all the reason he’d need to do that. But this is all conjecture, of course.”
“I know.” Judy looked at the ticks she had made against the puzzles in her notebook. “There’s no proof. But it answers all the little puzzles, except why Jack Shaw wasn’t killed.”
“Ah—you’re fallible after all. You’ve got that one wrong. I asked why Jack Shaw wasn’t dead, not why he wasn’t killed.”
She looked up. “Is there a difference?”
“Oh, yes. Because Baker must have thought Shaw had seen him, or why would he hit him at all? But the blow hadn’t killed him, and he couldn’t have believed that it had. No one could have thought he was dead. He was very evidently breathing.”
“He couldn’t keep on hitting him,” Judy pointed out. “He’d be bound to get blood on his own clothes if he did that.”
Lloyd got a faraway look in his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “He would, wouldn’t he?” He sighed. “In fact, he almost certainly did. That’s why he so considerately covered Shaw up with his own jacket.”
Of course, thought Judy, Baker knew exactly how to play this deadly game, and right now, he was winning it, because as Lloyd said, it was pure conjecture. They had no proof at all.
“Maybe he just tried to hit him hard enough to affect his memory, guv,” said Tom. “Or at any rate make people believe it might be a bit suspect.”
“Yes,” said Judy. “And he probably succeeded.”
“But then why do the thing with the money?” Lloyd shook his head. “He puts money on his murder victims, and according to Castle, he wouldn’t deviate from that, because that was part of his plan. So he thought he had killed him, and yet he couldn’t have thought that. I repeat: Why isn’t Jack Shaw dead?”
“Well,” said Judy. “Let’s not tempt providence. He’s still in a coma, remember.”
“So he is,” said Lloyd, the faraway look back. “Oh, yes.” He closed his eyes. “He is, isn’t he?” He opened his eyes again, and they were sad. “And I’m very much afraid I know why he isn’t dead.” He sighed. “But if I’m right—and I believe I am—then he’s as good as dead, and there’s nothing we can do about it, because we can’t prove a thing.”
Judy was about to ask him to explain when Hitchin
knocked, and came in. “It’s good news, ma'am. Jack Shaw’s coming out of the coma.”
Lloyd stared at him. “He’s doing what?”
“Recovering,” said Hitchin.
“But that makes no sense! The only thing that makes any sense is if Jack Shaw is dying.”
“Well, sorry, sir.” Hitchin looked a little helpless. “He isn’t. He’s getting better.”
Stephen was back in the cell, sitting on the bench, his knees drawn up to his chin, waiting to see what was going to happen next. He didn’t understand about that money. How could Wilma have ended up with Tony Baker’s prize money? He didn’t understand why he was here. He had an alibi for the night Wilma died—wasn’t that supposed to mean they let you go? But they thought he and Ben had made it up between them.
At least he could understand why he was a suspect in Wilma’s murder—he didn’t understand the others at all. They had no reason at all to suspect him of them, except that he couldn’t prove where he was when they took place. They had both happened when he was on his way home from work, on his own, with no witnesses. But that could be true of dozens of people—why did they think he’d had anything to do with murdering these people?
He knew why. It was because the bike had broken down when he was on his way home from Barton that night. It had taken a quarter of an hour to get it started, but they didn’t believe that it had broken down at all. If those women hadn’t held him up for so long, he would have been home before eleven o’clock, and they said that the Barton victim was still alive then. So he would have had an alibi for that one too. But then, he thought, his alibis didn’t seem to carry very much weight, so did it really matter? They would probably have said that everyone was making that one up, too.
And now they thought he’d shot at his own mother, and tried to kill Jack, of all people, and it was hard to see what else they could think, in view of the way they’d found him.