Unlucky For Some by Jill McGown

presume you are going to talk to them?”
    “Yes,” said Stephen. “But no, thanks—I don’t want a lift.”
    “Fine. See you later.”
             
    “Ray? Mike here.”
    He heard a groan at the other end of the line. “I know why you’re ringing,” Ray said.
    “Why is my bingo club splashed all over the tabloids?”
    “One tabloid,” said Ray. “I can only imagine it’s because Tony Baker writes a column for them. You didn’t think we told them, did you?”
    Oh. Michael felt a little less aggrieved. “Does he? I didn’t know. But it’s bad enough having this happen to one of my winners without the whole world knowing.”
    “I understand that. Don’t worry, I’ll have a word with Judy Hill—she’ll set Baker straight. But there’s nothing much we can do about it now.”
    “Can I speak to her? Have you got a number I can get her at?”
    There was a rare moment of silence before Ray spoke. “I did say I’d have a word, Mike, and I will.”
    “No—not about that. It’s just that . . . well, I was at the bingo club myself last night, but I’d gone by the time the police were there. I might have some information that will help.”
    “Oh—right. Okay, I’ll tell her to expect a call from you.”
    He jotted down the number. “Thanks, Ray.”
    Michael looked out of the window at the cold, bleak morning. Snow lay everywhere still—not thick, but untroubled by the sun, which was presumably up there somewhere above the layers of cloud. It would probably snow again. It matched his mood.
    Yesterday had to have been one of the worst days of his life, and his housekeeper’s paper of choice had done nothing to make today any better.
             
    “Mr. Baker? DCI Judy Hill.” Judy sat down opposite Tony Baker, and opened her notebook, in which she had jotted down some points on which she wanted some clarification. She had read Baker’s statement, written in his own neat, clear hand, which was in all essentials what he had told Tom last night.
    She had read something else as well that morning; something that DS Yardley had drawn to her attention. Her phone had rung at precisely one minute past nine, and Yardley had—she had timed him—spoken for precisely eight minutes and twenty seconds before she was able to get a word in. But in essence, what he had told her was that what had begun as a very unfortunate local incident was now going to be investigated with at least one national newspaper’s deep interest.
    She had caused a copy of the offending paper to be purchased, and laid it on the table. “Your doing?” she said.
    Baker put on a look of mock shame, then grinned. “I work for them,” he said. “What did you expect me to do?”
    She folded the paper and put it down beside her chair. “I would expect you, of all people, to be aware that the police don’t always want to release full details of a murder, for very good reasons.”
    “Oh, come on! I didn’t say any more than you’ll have said in your very own press release.”
    That was true. Judy felt that she was probably going to lose this argument—she was only having it because Yardley had insisted that she let Baker know the error of his ways. But what he had said interested her. “What more could you have said?” she asked.
    He sat back. “I could have asked why a mugger would take the quite unnecessary additional risk of opening the envelope and taking the money out while he was still with the victim—but I didn’t. I could have said that it would have been very unlikely for the money to have been spread out like that if it had been dropped in the assailant’s haste to get away. But I thought you might not want that generally known.”
    “Anything else?”
    “You’ve got my statement. You know what I saw.”
    “Yes. But I just want to ask a few supplementary questions, Mr. Baker. I understand you left the bingo club at the interval of the main session, as did Mrs. Fenton. Did anyone else leave the bingo