Unlucky For Some (27 page)

Tony smiled. “If you think Jack’s the Anonymous Assassin.”

Grace laughed.

“Quite. So let’s just do what we were going to do, and forget all about this business.”

C
HAPTER
N
INE

May Day. Stephen wasn’t used to getting up this early in the morning, but he had hardly been able to sleep anyway, so he was up, showered, shaved and dressed by eight o’clock. By half past, he had negotiated breakfast with Tony Baker and his mother, and excused himself, getting up from the table just as there was a knock at the door.

“What’s happened to you?” he asked, as he opened the door to Jack, resplendent in his Morris dancing costume with its white shirt, its scarlet sashes, its black knee-britches, white stockings and bells, but supported by old-fashioned wooden crutches.

“Let me in and I’ll tell you.”

Stephen opened the door wider so that Jack could negotiate it more easily, and watched as he swung himself, the bells tinkling merrily, along the corridor to the sitting room. Following him down the corridor, Stephen could see that Jack’s ankle was badly swollen, and he almost laughed. There was something funny about someone who could do practically anything with his artificial leg finding that his good leg couldn’t take the strain. But he supposed it was having to take a lot more strain than it should, so it really wasn’t funny at all.

Jack sat down heavily in a tiny peal of bells, propping the crutches up against the wall. “I was with the lads up at the Grange—we were doing a final rehearsal, and everything was fine, and then I felt my ankle go. Just like that. My good ankle—would you believe that? Swelled up like a balloon after they got me home. I put an ice pack on it, but it didn’t help much. So I just bandaged it up and came over here.” He stuck out his foot. “Could you buckle that properly for me, Stephen? It’s awkward for me to reach.”

Stephen buckled the clog, and looked up at him. “Are you all right with the crutches? I mean, with having to put your weight on your artificial leg?”

“I can manage short distances, like from my cottage to here. I’m used to putting my weight on it with the dancing.”

“I hope you’re not looking for a substitute. I don’t know the first thing about Morris dancing. Or is that another thing that the fabulous Baker boy can do?”

Jack smiled. “I doubt it. No, they can manage without me—one of the musicians will stand in. Anyone who knows the moves can do it—no leaps or bounds to execute.” He sighed. “It’s not really Morris dancing, you know. You need six able-bodied men for the real thing. Most teams have twelve legs.”

“Oh, come on, Jack,” said Stephen. “None of the others would be much good at the real thing either—it’s just a bit of fun.” The village’s Morris team was made up entirely of men who were decidedly past their prime—Stephen was certain the others were glad of the excuse not to have to do anything too athletic. “Stop putting yourself down.”

“Anyway—I’m here because I’d like to go back up to the Grange now I’ve got myself sorted out. It looks as though it’ll be a better way to spend the day than sitting looking at my foot. I thought maybe I could cadge a lift, because I can’t drive like this.”

“Sure.”

Stephen’s mother came in then, and Jack went through his story again.

“Oh, that’s a shame, Jack. Still—it could be worse, I suppose. We’re leaving any minute now, so you came at the right time.”

Jack reached for the crutches, and got to his feet again, as Tony appeared, his mobile phone at his ear.

“I think you two should go up there without me,” he said. “I’ll get there as soon as I can. I’ve got someone ringing me from—” He saw Jack. “What’s happened to you?”

“Turned my ankle,” said Jack.

“Oh, that’s too bad. Hello? Hello—yes, it’s me. Hang on—I’ll just go where it’s quiet.” He disappeared along the corridor, and went upstairs.

Stephen’s mother pulled a face. “That means we won’t be able to use the VIP car park,” she said. “All the spaces have been allocated. But the other one shouldn’t be too full, at this time in the morning.” She smiled. “Are we all ready to go, then?”

“Well, I am,” said Jack.

Stephen’s mother looked questioningly at him as Jack jingled his way back up the corridor to the front door, and Stephen shrugged, smiling.

“Don’t ask me,” he said. “He wants to go back up there, for some reason.” Waterman’s May Day extravaganza held an attraction for Stephen that no one else knew about, but he couldn’t imagine why everyone else seemed so desperate to get there.

“I’m ready,” Jack called. “What’s keeping you?”

Stephen laughed, and joined him at the front door, opening it as his mother turned and called upstairs.

“We’re off, Tony! See you when you get there—don’t forget you’ve got that competition to judge.”

Tony came out onto the landing, the phone still at his ear. “I’m not forgetting. I’ll see you later. My car will be parked at the lake, Grace—I’ll meet you there at eleven.”

“And don’t forget to lock up!”

“I won’t.”

They went out into the warm spring sunshine that had, to everyone’s surprise, greeted the bank holiday. A break in the weather was always expected as soon as a public holiday dawned, but not today; the sun continued to shine as it had for the last fortnight. Stephen opened the rear passenger door of his mother’s car, and Jack leaned one hand on the car, handing Stephen the crutches.

“My God, Jack—they weigh a ton!” Stephen took Jack’s weight as he sat sideways on the backseat, then helped him swing his legs in, his bells tinkling as he arranged the crutches round him. “You can take traditional costume too far, you know.”

“Very funny.”

“Why haven’t you got NHS crutches?”

“I have. I don’t like them. Flimsy things, if you ask me.”

With a final wave to Tony at the window, his mother got into the car, and started the engine.

“They’re not flimsy,” Stephen pointed out, after he had joined her, and they were at last on their way. “Just lightweight.”

“Whatever. I lost my leg when I was no more than eleven years old—and that’s quite hard for a kid. But there was an old man lived here who had only one leg, so he took an interest in me, stopped me moping about because I couldn’t play football with the other kids. It’s thanks to him that I never let it bother me again, and I never let it stop me doing anything.” He gave a short sigh. “Well, except playing football,” he said. “I can’t run. But that’s all I can’t do. Virtually. And these were his crutches. He left them to me when he died, and I’ve used them every time I’ve needed crutches since. If they were good enough for him, they’ll do for me.”

The grassy area roped off for the public car park already had a large number of cars on it despite the early hour, thanks to the many attractions that Waterman had laid on for his big day. Good, thought Stephen, as his mother left the graveled driveway and bumped over the uneven grass, that would keep Waterman busy. Getting Jack out of the car was more difficult than getting him into it, as Stephen had known it would be, but eventually Jack was once more propped up on his crutches, and they headed for the marquee with the homemade produce, the reason his mother had wanted to get here so early.

Stephen hoped that he would be able to ditch Jack when the time came, but right now he had no idea how he was going to do that. “Are you going to watch this talent contest?” he asked, already knowing what the answer would be.

“No fear,” said Jack. “I’ll have to see how the dancers get on without me, anyway,” he added, much to Stephen’s relief.

“Are you?” he asked his mother.

“No—Tony said he’d feel really stupid if I was sitting there and he was having to say how wonderful a load of talentless children were. No—I’ll amuse myself with the stalls and sideshows, and then watch the Morris dancers with Jack, I think.”

“Where are you off to at eleven?” asked Jack.

“I don’t know,” she said, her face growing slightly pink. “It’s some sort of surprise he’s got for me. He’s promised we’ll be back in time for lunch with Mike and Ben, so I can’t imagine what it is.” She looked from Jack to Stephen. “Well, I can, but don’t laugh,” she warned them. “Maybe life really does begin at forty—I think he might be going to ask me to marry him.”

She got her wish. They didn’t laugh.

“Yes, we were lucky with the weather,” said Michael, for the hundredth time that morning, as another group of people congratulated him on it as though he had ordered it specially.

They had indeed been lucky; he had had visions of everything taking place in teeming rain, but so far, it had been blue skies and sunshine for the May Queen and the Morris dancers, who were now minus Jack. The man whose usual job was to bang on a drum, with, as far as Michael could tell, no regard to the rhythm of the music being played, had been pressed into service as a stand-in. It was a considerable improvement all round, Michael thought.

He went back inside, and decided that it was perhaps time to make sure that Ben was up. He hadn’t wanted to get him up any earlier, in view of his long train journey last night. To his surprise, Ben’s bed was empty, and he could hear the shower going in his bathroom. University must have made him self-reliant in the matter of rising. When he had lived at home, it had taken a series of ever-more-urgent demands before he surfaced.

“Ben?” he called. When he got no reply, he wondered, for a moment, if he had fallen for a very old trick, but when he called again, the shower stopped.

“Is that you, Dad?”

“Just making sure you’re up,” said Michael, and turned to go, catching sight of some brochures on the bed. Ben must be thinking of a holiday once he’d taken his finals. But when he sat down on the bed and looked at them, he discovered that they were estate agents’ brochures from several towns, some in Scotland, some in the north of England. He stared at them, his face growing dark with anger. So much for the extracurricular talks that Ben had had to attend—he had been house-hunting in anticipation of his imminent coming of age, and there was only one reason he would be doing that.

There was no way he was setting up home with Stephen Halliday, and the sooner they both realized that, the better. In fact, he thought, leaving the room as quietly as he had entered it, he would just take a trip down to the Tulliver Inn and pass that on to Halliday in person.

Tony reached up to pull down the hatchback, and had just got back into the pub when he realized that he could hear his mobile phone ringing somewhere. Where had he left it? He mentally retraced his steps, and remembered that he had gone upstairs as Grace and Stephen were leaving.

He had missed the call, but it was from his production office in London, so he thought he’d better see what they wanted, since whoever it was had come in on a bank holiday to deal with it. He then found himself involved in a long conversation, just when his time was precious, and eventually came back downstairs to find Michael Waterman standing in the corridor, his face grim.

“The back door was open,” he said. “I thought I’d better wait here until you came down.”

“I was distracted,” said Tony. “Thanks for standing guard.” He looked at his watch. “I’m not late, am I?”

“No—no, I’m here to see Halliday. Is he around?”

Halliday? That didn’t sound over-friendly. Tony was reluctant to tell him that Stephen was at the Grange. “No,” he said, taking his jacket from the peg. “Did you want him?”

“I want to set him straight about something. Do you know where he is?”

“He went off somewhere about half an hour ago. If he comes back before I leave, I’ll tell him you were looking for him.”

“Do that.”

And he was gone. A moment later, Tony heard Mike’s car drive off, sounding almost as angry as its owner had looked. He frowned, not sure what to do. He dialled Stephen’s mobile to warn him that it might be a good idea to stay out of Waterman’s way, but it just rang out, so he couldn’t even leave a message. He just had to hope that they didn’t bump into each other. He didn’t know how Stephen had upset Waterman, but he didn’t want any petty squabbles they might have spoiling what he had planned for the day.

He shrugged on his jacket, made a quick check of the doors and windows, and left, this time locking the back door firmly behind him.

Tom had had no luck trying to interview Keith Scopes, who had gone away for the weekend with his girlfriend, but he arrived at work on Monday morning to be told by Alan Marshall that they had finally traced the blind man, thanks to Gary Sims.

Sims had gone up and down Mafeking Road for three days, asking about him, until at last he found a pub where the barmaid remembered a blind man asking for directions to the Oxford Hotel, which was on one of the side streets off Mafeking Road. The hotel had furnished him with the man’s name and business address, and despite the inconvenience of the bank holiday, Gary hoped to run him to earth at his home in Leicester today, and was on his way there already. No one was sure how useful his evidence would be, but he might have some information that would help them find Headless.

Alan returned to his task of sorting through the questionnaires to produce a short list for Judy and Lloyd to peruse, and Hitchin came into the office, looking triumphant.

“I’ve finally managed to check out Scopes. And he was working in Stansfield the night Lewis died, and in the Lucky Seven the night Davy died.”

“Was he now?”

“There’s more,” said Hitchin. “He was working in the casino from eight o’clock at night until well after two in the morning. He was there the whole time except for about fifteen minutes from half past ten—and the doormen at the casino wear evening dress. We didn’t know that before.”

“So he could be Headless?” Tom frowned. “But I agree with the acting Super. I can’t see Scopes having suddenly turned into a serial killer.”

“Serial killers have to start doing it at some point,” said Hitchin. “And according to Tony Baker’s book, they’re quite often habitual petty offenders.”

Tom smiled. “You’ve been doing your homework, have you, Hitch?”

“Well, I didn’t really know about the South Coast murders thing—I thought I ought to see what it was he did. And then I read his book about all the serial killers he’s interviewed. It’s interesting stuff.”

“I’m sure Baker knows what he’s talking about,” said Tom. “And they probably are often regular offenders. But Keith’s whole life revolves around money. The only reason he’s a suspect is that we thought he might have mugged Wilma for her winnings—and what was he doing instead? Buying drugs to sell. Money. That’s what motivates Scopes. What would make him suddenly start killing for no reason at all?”