Fiona didn’t have time to interrogate what this new revelation could mean. Fran, whoever Fran was, would have to wait. The doorbell tinkled. She slipped her phone back into her pocket and turned to see Stewart standing there, his face unreadable. Not happy or angry or sad, just blank.
“Stewart, are you okay?”
He entered silently, closed the door and took a couple of steps into the shop. He stood facing her, his face as plain as paper. All trace of his earlier distress had gone.
“Can I make you a cup of tea?” Fiona still felt guilty about ruining the lad’s peace.
Stewart slowly shook his head and produced a paring knife from his pocket, gripping it tightly by his side. “You know, I really wish you hadn’t said those things about my dad being innocent.”
“What are you going to do with that?” Fiona took a step back, bumping into the table behind her, almost knocking the cake off. A deluge of dread descended over her along with a grim realisation. She was right about Oliver being innocent. But the killer wasn’t Gail — it was Stewart.
He reached up and flipped off the lights. “We need it to be a bit darker for what’s coming next.”
He stepped further into the gloomy shop, shaking his head. “You’ve left me no choice now. You’re going to take your theories to the grave. But first, more important things. Have you told anyone else, like Sue or Daisy?”
Fiona shook her head rapidly. Blood raced in her ears. “No, no one.”
“I think you’re telling me what I want to hear. How do I know you’re not lying to protect your friends?”
“I swear, honestly. I swear. I haven’t told a soul.”
Stewart twiddled the knife in front of him. “You need to convince me. Otherwise, I’ll have to kill them too.”
Fiona wanted to be sick. This wasn’t how she had imagined her life ending. She thought it would be in a nice retirement home, playing bridge, nipping sherry and looking forward to a gentle spot of afternoon jazzercize. Swallowing down her nausea, she tried to think. Convincing him of her friends’ innocence could be a good thing. If she could string it out, keep him talking, she could buy herself some time until someone came in. However, the “Open” sign on the door was turned to “Closed”, as it always was before opening hours. There was no way any passers-by would venture in. To Southbourne’s polite residents, a “Closed” sign was as much of a deterrent as barbed wire and machine gun towers. Fiona was on her own. She looked across at Simon Le Bon for help. He just sat in his bed wagging his tail at Stewart, normally the bringer of cake. He would be no help either.
She needed a backup plan. Actually, she needed any plan. Preferably one that was foolproof, and she knew just where to get it. This had started with telephones, and she would end it with them.
She had briefly considered grabbing the cake off the table behind her and throwing it at him, slapstick style, but quickly dismissed this. She didn’t have Partial Sue’s wicked right arm and doubted her aim even at such close range. Knowing her luck, it would land on a heap on the floor and become fodder for Simon Le Bon’s next gut complaint.
Instead, she casually slipped both hands in her pockets. With her right hand, she wrapped her fingers around her phone. She dearly wished she still had her GPS alarm, but she’d handed that back to DI Fincher weeks ago. However, she was still in possession of her phone. All she had to do was wait for the right moment.
“So, tell me the truth, how many people know about your little theory?” Stewart waved the knife at her, his eyes fixed on hers and, thankfully, not the whereabouts of her hands.
“I already told you, nobody knows. I’ve kept it to myself. I haven’t told anyone.”
“How do I know that?”
“Because it’s extremely unpopular to unpick something that’s already sewn up neatly. Police have got their man. Nobody likes to upset the apple cart.” Fiona was back to mixing her metaphors again.
“And how were you planning to upset this particular apple cart?”
Fiona thought for a moment, her terrified brain attempting to think clearly. She needed to be convincing, otherwise she’d be putting Daisy’s and Partial Sue’s lives in danger. “It’s too neat and tidy. Too planned. That photo of your dad appearing in the Southbourne Monitor a month after we discovered your technique for using the telephone cabinets to disconnect victims’ landlines. You sent that picture in, I presume?”
Stewart bowed. “Guilty. And I just happened to drop his keys on the floor in front of you, hoping you’d spot his old telecoms tools.”
“You set up your own father for all those murders. Why?”
“It’s complicated. He was just a means to an end.”
“What end?” Fiona had to keep him talking.
Stewart stepped forward, raising the knife. “Not important.”
“Who’s Fran?” Fiona asked, desperately hoping to stall him.
It worked. Stewart halted, an impish grin playing on his lips. With the knife still in his hands he performed a slow clap. “Well done, Fiona. You cracked the code. Well, it’s only half the code. I never got to finish it, thanks to you. To be honest, I didn’t think it was that difficult, using dominoes to send a simple Morse code message. Maybe I underestimated people.”
“Who’s Fran?” Fiona asked again.
“It’s not a person. It’s a statement.”
“What statement?”
“Oh, just another bit of playful toying with the police. A vague clue to keep them occupied and distracted but not enough to make sense of. The phrase I was attempting to spell out was ‘frankly unfayr’ — unfair spelt with a ‘y’ and an ‘r’ — I was a bit restricted with what letters I could use. There are only a handful of dominoes that translate into Morse code.”
“Frankly unfair? What was unfair?” Fiona asked.
“My circumstances, of course.” A slight temper crept into Stewart’s words, as if he were annoyed that she had to ask.
Trawling through her mind, Fiona’s memory came up blank. He clocked her confusion and huffed out his answer. “I’m heading towards thirty and I live with my dad in a tiny box room. I should have my own place. I did mention it several times, but none of you were listening.”
Then it clicked. He had told them. Every time he flashed a daft new app he’d created, he’d always boast about how he was going to make a fortune selling it and buy his own pad. “So you framed your own father for murder just so you could get his flat?”
“Well, like I said, he was a means to an end. I wanted my own place and I needed him out of the way to get it. But also, he was asking for it. I’ve had to put up with him and his stupid temper all my life. Do you know what it’s like walking on eggshells every minute of the day and being criticised, wondering when he’s going to kick off at something stupid and trivial? But now he’s gone, life is sweet. I have my freedom. My rules. My way of doing things. Just got to tie up a loose end — that’s you, by the way.”
Fiona had to halt him fast. “Why not just kill your father to get him out of the way? Why go to such lengths to get him arrested?”
Stewart screwed his face up, unimpressed. “Oh, come on, Fiona. I wouldn’t kill my own father. And if I had, the police would have looked straight at me as the main suspect. It had to be a lot more sophisticated than that. More convoluted to keep the attention off me. Put me above suspicion.”
“Is that why you set up all those different people?”
“Of course.”
“Why them in particular?” Fiona asked. “Why Malorie, Sophie and Saint June?”
“If you’re going to all the hassle of committing murder, why not make a few others sweat, just for the hell of it? I made sure I chose awful people. Malorie is a browbeating cow, everyone knows that. When she found out we donated cakes to all the charity shops, she wanted — no, demanded — that we give free cakes to the community centre. She got shirty when we pointed out that she’s not a charity and gets funding for things like that. Doesn’t like being wrong, that one. So I swiped a couple of dominoes I needed from the community centre. Security’s not exactly tight there. Then I found out that the numbers in Saint June’s profile name matched the first two sets of dominoes I’d planned to use. That was pure coincidence, but too good an opportunity to pass up. I left the dominoes on the first two bodies, setting up two old birds with one stone, and starting my Morse code sequence, all at the same time — who says men can’t multitask?” Stewart looked proud of himself.
“So you never intended that they would be found guilty?”
“Nah, like I said, sow a bit of confusion, make them sweat for a bit. Keep the police looking in the wrong direction.”
“Why frame Saint June?”
“Because everyone thinks she’s a saint, when she’s really just a miserable old witch, a hypocrite. And then there’s Sophie, who thinks she’s Queen of Southbourne. She criticised my baking when we offered to donate cakes to her shop. I mean, talk about looking a gift horse in the mouth. With Sophie I thought I was doing the community a favour, taking her down a peg or two.”
“Why not just kill Sophie, Malorie and June?”
“Same reason as I didn’t want to kill my dad. There’s a chance it would lead back to me.”
“My name was on a domino. You wanted to kill me?”
Stewart smiled innocently, as if he’d just spilled his drink. “Don’t take it personally. I just thought it might spice things up a bit, especially with you and Sophie being at each other’s throats. Good opportunity to set her up some more.” He gripped the knife by his side tighter, moved forward.
Fiona was backed up against the table with nowhere to go. She desperately needed more time, had to keep him talking.
“One thing I never got was the choice of people you murdered. What connected them, apart from them living on their own and being older? We couldn’t figure out the pattern.”
Stewart grinned. This was good. He wanted to gloat and show off. People were never in a hurry when they were gloating and showing off.
“Okay. I’ll let you into a little secret. There was a connection, a big connection, but at the same time there was no connection.”
Fiona’s brain became befuddled. “What? I don’t understand.”
“I targeted them, but to a certain extent it was also random, to keep everyone guessing.”
Fiona frowned. “I don’t get it.”
Stewart’s eyes glittered. “Let’s start at the beginning. I’ll tell you where I got the idea first. Have you ever played the lottery?”