“I know you can’t tell us the address,” said Harry, “but what number Clariton Street?”
“There’s no conceivable way I can tell you it’s number 56,” Morrison sighed, shaking his head. “The aunt is the more coherent. Doris Weaver, married to the mother’s brother Hank Weaver. But don’t go there.”
“As if we would,” said Sylvia. “Your friendship’s far more important to us.” She put her notebook and pencil back in her handbag. “Besides, we’re far too busy looking at other things. The shops in Clariton Street, for instance.”
“There aren’t any.”
“Oh well, the paving stones,” decided Sylvia. “Unusually attractive paving stones, I understand.”
Chapter Seven
Having gladly accepted the offer of a safe house and police protection, Joyce Sullivan arranged the transport of some of her furniture but put a good deal of it on eBay. She thought she’d get a better price if she admitted that the Shed in the Forest Torturer had sat on that chair, slept in that bed, used those plates. But it was more important to remain silently hidden and sink into sluggish anonymity. Now having no rent to pay, and only one person to feed, Joyce settled back to enjoy utter peace, live on Social Security, and forget she had ever been married.
The two front rooms were permanently occupied by police, who kept working on their computers and said nothing to her except polite good mornings and information about locking up. They lived on takeaways and frequently asked her if she would like a soggy pizza or a plastic curry. She always said no. Men, especially men too close, bothered her. She did her duty, however, and in return made them tea or instant coffee.
At first she didn’t go out unless it was urgent. Groceries were delivered. Then, since nothing unpleasant happened, she started going out shopping. Billy Dempster accompanied her but was frequently distracted. She thought of telling him she was going to buy a new bra, and would he like her to ask his advice once she tried it on, but she decided that instead of laughing, he might run a mile. She bought milk and potatoes instead.
Now in a fully furnished SafeHouse, most of her furniture, which reminded her of her married life, had brought her a little money on eBay. But never having discovered the need for a computer or the meaning of the strange phrases such as Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest or even emails, Joyce owned no computer, but she liked television, and it was a programme on the Horrors of Lionel Sullivan and the shed in the forest, that woke her to certain possibilities. Someone called Paul Stoker was interviewed on this and began to talk about her husband as if he knew the man, which she knew to be untrue. Joyce phoned the BBC. Then she phoned Rochester Manor. Finally she spoke to Constable Dempster.
“What?” Horrified.
“I’ve been leading a miserable and closeted life, constable. It would be both interesting and helpful for me to tell people what I know.”
“Mrs Sullivan,” said the constable, standing and brushing off the crumbs of chocolate McVities which he had been eating, “this is a Safe-House. We are stuck here too, safeguarding your anonymity. We believe you could be in danger if discovered.”
“I didn’t try to poison him, you know.” She blushed very pink.
“You’re not on trial, Mrs Sullivan,” sighed the police constable. “But your husband threatened revenge, and now he’s escaped. If he finds you, anything could happen. Surely you don’t want to risk that?”
“But if I go on television and get famous,” Joyce decided, sitting down, hands clasped in her lap, “he wouldn’t dare touch me. I mean, he’d be under suspicion from the start.”
“Yes, most certainly. But you, Mrs Sullivan, might be dead. He’s got nothing to lose since we’re after him anyway.”
“Well, catch him quick,” Joyce smiled. “I‘m forty nine. I want to live a little before I drop dead.”
When Sylvia and Harry turned up on the doorstep, Billy Dempster made a considerable effort to send them away. “But she phoned us,” complained Sylvia. “She gave us this address. It’s not a prison, is it? And she’s officially free, isn’t she?”
Harry shook Joyce’s hand with emphasis. “Joyce,” he said, “if you don’t mind me using your first name. You see, I’m Joyce too. You could even call me that, though I’d sooner you didn’t. I’m Harry Joyce. Sometimes people used to expect a woman when I had an appointment – often got quite complicated.”
“We’re just Harry and Sylvia,” said Sylvia sternly. “Don’t let’s confuse the situation. And I’m very pleased to meet you, Mrs Sullivan. I have huge sympathy for what you must have been living through.”
It was a characterless little terrace house with few furnishings, squatting on the edge of Oxford. It looked a little like a staged film set for the most boring house in Britain.
“You found the bastard,” Joyce said, putting on the kettle. “You were awfully clever doing that. I wondered if you had any ideas about where he is now?”
They both shook their heads, feeling slightly guilty. “I’m afraid we haven’t tried,’ Harry said. “We only found him the first time by luck, you know. And now we are getting interested in the more recent case. The chimney business.”
“People wanting to kill people,” Joyce screwed up her nose, “is a very odd affair. I mean, I wanted to kill bloody Lionel, but I didn’t want to chop him up. And killing him was a very good idea. Don’t tell those coppers out there.” She made the tea, “Only Tea bags, I’m afraid. I sold my teapot and all the good china,” and handed around steaming cups. Everyone trooped back into the minute living-room and sat, sipping tea.
“I’d like to help,” Sylvia said. “Finding Lionel, that is. Perhaps we might have some ideas but we have no investigative training, of course. We just think it’s interesting, and I’d sooner do something to catch a killer than just sit around and knit woolly hats.”
“Do you knit well?” asked Joyce, a little puzzled.
“No, I can’t knit a stitch,” Sylvia smiled. “I just mean, I find retirement somewhat dreary. I think you’re admitting to the same thing, though you’re a great deal younger.”
“He might go abroad. He liked driving his coach to France and those foreign places.”
“If he genuinely wants revenge on you on us, which is what he claimed, then he’s still in England,” said Harry. “And I’ll gladly help. But we’re not that clever, and not that mobile.”
His very impressive car was gleaming outside her window. “You look somewhat mobile to me, Mr Joyce.”
They left some hours later, and Sylvia popped her head around the door where three police constables and one detective could be heard arguing furiously regarding the merits of Manchester City against Manchester United. They all turned, half glaring and became suddenly silent, as Sylvia said, “Hello there. I don’t mean to interrupt you, but I’m Sylvia Joyce, and this is my husband. We were wondering whether you’d had any results chasing after Lionel Sullivan yet, or any idea just where he is or what he’s up to?”
The detective stood. “That’s police business, Mrs Joyce, and definitely not something we intend discussing now.”
“Then I shall go and see Detective Inspector Morrison,” said Sylvia with a smile of faint malice. “Enjoy your bikkies.”
Joyce remained sitting in her living room, a wide smile of pure satisfaction on her face. She was waiting for the BBC to get back to her, and when Billy Dempster looked in and began to complain about her intentions, she told him to go away, since she was free to do whatever she wished.
“Perhaps we should go back to school,” said Harry.
Ruby giggled. “I can just see you sitting in the front row down at the Primary School.”
“I do think poor Harry might squeeze into Secondary School by now,” Kate giggled back. “Though I’m sure my husband Maurice would love to teach you.” She reached for the plate on the coffee table between them. “Sorry Harry. Have another cake.”
“Give it to Ruby.” Harry was staring at the fireplace.
Ruby took the last
cake, saying, He’s thinking about chimneys again.”
“I’m thinking how difficult it would be to shove a dead weight up far enough to wedge it, without it just tumbling down again.” Harry scratched his ear lobe. “And even climbing up onto the roof would have been damn nigh impossible for one person. There had to be two of them.” Sylvia was quiet. She was reading a series of extremely large books on the arts of investigation, the law, and modern practices in contrast to previous systems.
She blinked at Harry and returned to the book. Kate sat forwards a little. “I was thinking about that after the last time I met you, and you mentioned that,” she said. “I’m thinking this creep had a winch or some sort of thing to push the body upwards. Not just a broom of course. More like a little tractor thing or a digger. Tractors, extractors. Something that lifts and pushes up.”
“How clever of you,” Ruby told her. “Go on Harry. See who bought one of those lately.”
Sylvia momentarily looked up. “That Tudor dump had eight steps up to the front door. That’s asking a lot of a small tractor. And no tyre marks on the floorboards. But I don’t know much about farm machinery.” She buried her head again.
Harry added, “Hopefully we’ll get to talk to Morrison again sometime soon.”
The small plump woman sitting on the third sofa, which completed the snug circle around the fire, sat forwards. “Miley, look. Pictures in the flames. I can see a poor little girl being killed.”
Beside her, her sister sprang forwards, both hands tracing the image. “Yes, so there is. Look, look, he’s doing it again. A giant, he is. And she’s so little. He has a knife. But he can push her up the chimney all by himself, he’s so big and she’s so little.”
“The Brook sisters,” Ruby explained to Kate. “Both psychic.”
“So what’s the giant’s name?” Kate asked.
Milly looked at Francis and Francis stared back. Finally she said, “Giles. He’s a poet. Giles Goliath.”
“I’ll look him up on my laptop,” said Kate. “How exciting.”
Sylvia did not look up from her book, and Harry shut his eyes. “I’ll call for more tea,” said Ruby.
“Make it wine,” mumbled Sylvia, turning the page.
As the fire crackled and Lavender stumbled in with three large teapots of tea and a clanking rattle of cups and saucers in large quantities, Benjamin and Stella wandered over, delivering their somewhat thumbed copy of the Gloucestershire Gazette. “She always gets it wrong, that silly little journalist,” Stella said, tossing the paper onto Harry’s lap. “It’s like that Trump fellow and fake news.”
“I met the journalist girl a couple of years ago,” Ruby said, “and she was sneaky.”
“Well, she’s written a load of dosh about ancient corpses from Tudor times, perhaps the mistresses of Henry VIII that he murdered.”
“Henry VIII should sue them.”
Kate was getting bored amongst the people she didn’t know. “Have you found anything about that rug? White fur, perhaps. Or wool.”
Sylvia resurfaced. “We searched for some time. We didn’t discover a thing, but Morrison says he has a lead.”
Stella nodded, “He’s a good man. He’ll solve this soon.” Benjamin retrieved his newspaper, dumped himself in a chair just a little further from the fire, and disappeared between the pages.
Kate smiled at everyone, picked up the empty plate which had once held a huge pile of small cakes, and pulled on her cardigan and scarf. Maurice will be bringing our daughter Mia home very soon so I’ll be going. He’s her teacher, you know. Very useful.”
Ruby stood, taking Kate’s arm, ready to show her out. “The cakes were wonderful.”
“I don’t have all that many friends.” Kate was whispering. “I can’t gossip with other women in case they turn out to be the mothers of Maurice’s kids. So it’s great fun for me coming here.”
“Come to dinner. Bring the whole family. We eat well here.” They stood smiling at each other just inside the front door. The wind could be heard from outside, battering against the door and rattling the windows. Ruby shivered. “Shall I call a taxi?”
“I’ll take the bus.”
Ruby gave a sympathetic pat to the grey woolly shoulder beside her. “Teachers don’t earn much, do they? But it’s too cold to walk.”
Laughing, Kate pulled at the front door. “I’ve been used to freezing weather all my life. I used to live in Glasgow. As long as it isn’t raining, I’m fine. And besides, Maurice comes from a wealthy family. His brother is a millionaire.”
“Bring him to dinner as well,” Ruby giggled. “More millionaires are just what we need around here.” She waved goodbye to the disappearing shadow and hurried back inside. The wind hauled the door from her hand and slammed it shut for her. She told Sylvia, “I’ve invited Kate to dinner one day.”
“Fine.” Sylvia didn’t move nor look up. “Good. She’s nice.”
“She’ll bring her husband and their little girl. Maybe even her brother-in-law. Evidently, he’s gloriously rich.”
“Just what you’ve been looking for, my dear Bluebell.”
“Oh, pooh. He’s probably married and far too young for me.”
“Dye your hair bright red again, dear.” Sylvia returned to the book. Eventually she stared up at Harry. “Shall we make another attempt at Clariton Street? Or will those wretched people shut the door in our faces again, d’you think?”
“I would if I were them,” Harry said. “You mourn a member of your family alone. Why would they want nosey strangers interfering?”
“Morrison will be sorry.”
“We can buy him a cake.”
Chapter Eight
Her blood was on the wall, just tiny spots and splashes. Eve rubbed her fingers over the dark dots. “Goodbye blood.” She was whispering. Whether she was heard or not didn’t matter, but it was far easier if she was not,. “Poor blood. You’ll never come home now. The blood seeps out, drip, drip, drip. Soon perhaps, it’ll all be gone.”
Her breasts were bleeding from around the nipples. Master had snapped both into something that had looked a little like a paperclip but had felt like screaming agony. Snap. Her right nipple had bled immediately. Her left nipple swelled and turned dark. She sat on the floor and cried.
“Weak. Stupid. Girls like this,” said Master with disdain. ”Good ladies is S and M wot liked stuff. Clips. Bottles. Whips.” Eve couldn’t believe it. Then he had hauled her up, flung her on her belly onto the bed, and begun to cane her buttocks. Squashed into the lumpy mattress, the nipple clips had hurt more. Blood oozed onto the bed beneath her. The caning was severe, and she begged for mercy. It was a long time before Master stopped. Then he buggered her, enjoying the raw stripes under his hands as he pushed. Master was stronger than he looked, considering his disabilities. But Eve thought she had once been stronger too and might have resisted more. Yet now she was weak from lack of exercise, lack of food, and frequent abuse. She was waiting to die.
“Tell me ‘bout yer mum,” he asked her some hours later. “She pretty? She a pig? Wot?”
“She’s pretty and very nice and she’ll be so horribly worried about my disappearance.”
He sniffed. “You ain’t disappeared. You’s here. That’s stupid. Wot’s her name?”
Eve gulped. “Belinda.”
“I got a Linda once.” Master sat on the end of the bed and remembered, glassy-eyed. “Linda were pretty too, but she boohooed all the bloody time like you does. I liked it first, but then it were a nuisance, so she went.”
Sitting up with sudden interest, eyes alight but with great care concerning words and expression, Eve asked, “You let her go? I mean, spanked her, perhaps. Then sent her home?”
Master shook his head, frowning, “Nah. Number One says as how I couldn’t do that. So we done her in.”
“You – you killed her?”
“Course. Had to. Number One always knows best.”
Eve blinked, choosing her words even more carefully. �
��How? I mean – you’re a very kind and nice man. I cannot imagine you killing any helpless girl. And may I ask – who is Number One?”
“Number One is number one.” Master frowned. He was stumbling over the explanation. “Linda were helpless, but she didn’t help neither. I puts me fingers around her neck. I missed her after that, till Number One got me a new lady friend. A pretty lickle black kitty.”
Eve gulped. “How many lady friends have you had?”
He laughed. “All that counting? No, I doesn’t count lest I has to. Lots. How many’s that, eh? No matter. You’s a good ‘un. Come here and on yer knees. Now. Open yer mouth, all slushy and wet.”
Arthur gazed back at Harry. It was a chilly afternoon as usual, but the pub was as cosy as any room could be without a roaring fire.
“I had one once,” Arthur said, peering over the top of his personal beer tankard.
“Interesting,” nodded Harry. “I wanted to get one for Sylvia’s birthday, but not sure which kind is best.” He instantly bought Arthur another light ale.
Arthur accepted. Being the only caretaker and odd job repairman at the Rochester Manor didn’t bring in a fantastic salary, and he had his autistic son to look after. Good idea,” he said cheerfully. “When’s Mrs Joyce’s birthday?”
“Umm, not yet,” said Harry without desire for distractions. “What sort did you get? Was it expensive?”
“It was second hand when I got it,” Arthur remembered, “so I can’t tell you the shop. They had it in the office years and years ago when me wife worked at the local Real Estate’s in Gloucester. I sold it off in a garage sale when I left to come and work here. That was ten years back at least.”
It was a disappointment, and therefore untraceable, but Harry asked, “What was it like? Warm? Cosy? Sylvia would like one, d’you think?”
“It was great,” Arthur told him. “Alpaca wool, white and warm and real fluffy. Had a red suede back, so you could wrap it all around or put it on the floor. Worked both ways. And it had bits o’ red silk threaded in all over, matching the back. Looked posh.”
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