The Only Game

by Reginald Hill

  ‘Jesus, you stupid cow!’ he screamed. ‘What the hell …’

  But his words thinned out to another scream as she sank her fingers in his stubbly blond hair and dragged him towards the door. His jeans slipped back down over his knees, forcing him to half hop, half hobble, and any resistance he might have contemplated was dissipated in the effort of keeping his balance.

  She thrust him out of the door. Jane heard a crash as he finally tripped to the floor outside, but she showed no more interest than she had when the woman arrived. She sprawled on the bed as he had left her, her face a blank, not even moving to cover herself up.

  The woman stood by the door looking down at her.

  ‘And you,’ she said contemptuously. ‘Lying there with his slime seeping out of you. What kind of creature are you, for God’s sake?’

  Jane lay quite still for another ten minutes or more after the door had slammed. She hadn’t flinched when drops of hot tea had spattered her body, so words were not going to move her. There was a strength in not feeling, in not allowing herself to feel, that only those who had experienced it could understand.

  Finally she rose. There was a hand basin in the corner with a mirror over it. She studied herself in the glass. What kind of creature? It was a good question but not one she was willing to answer. Not yet.

  She turned on the taps. Carefully, methodically, she began to wash her body from top to toe.

  In the room next door, the woman who’d thrown the tea heard the taps running. After a while she rose and went out across a hallway into a bright modern kitchen. Here she made another pot of tea, poured a cup and took it into the bedroom again.

  The naked woman by the wash basin turned to look at her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘He made you, didn’t he?’

  Jane Maguire didn’t reply, but the other woman nodded as if she had.

  ‘There’s your tea,’ she said, putting the cup on a bedside table.

  Back in the living room, she turned the television on low and flicked around between news programmes.

  After about half an hour she rose and went through into the hallway again. In her hand was a Charter Arms Police Bulldog revolver.

  After a few moments the handle of the outer door turned silently and the door began to open. She stepped forward, gun raised.

  The man standing there regarded her and the weapon without surprise.

  ‘You could try having my slippers warming in front of the fire for a change,’ he said.

  ‘There’d be land mines in them if I did,’ she answered.

  His still, narrow face flickered into a smile and he stepped forward and took her in his arms. For a second they embraced fiercely, then broke apart.

  ‘Did you find out what’s happening?’ she asked, as they went through into the sitting room.

  ‘Yes. I spoke to our boy. It’s like we thought. Tench playing clever.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘For the time being we’re playing the same game. But he likes to be the one forcing the pace. I call the papers, he starts hinting at murder.’

  She considered a moment, then said, ‘But how will that help him?’

  ‘A dead child interferes with rational thought. That’s how he sees it. And he can tie up the points of entry far better than us. That suits me too. Our boy will keep us posted.’

  ‘It’s nearly Christmas.’

  ‘Meaning he could be here already? Tench knows that too, knows it’ll be me he comes looking for.’

  She thought again, then looked alarmed again.

  ‘That only makes sense if Tench knows where we are.’

  ‘Oh, he does. Round-the-clock surveillance. It must be costing the tax payer a fortune.’

  ‘Did they see you come in?’ she demanded.

  ‘I doubt it. And if they did, what odds? You don’t shoot a tethered goat. Also, the good thing about tethered goats is they all look alike in the dark.’

  ‘You’re being very enigmatic, Jonty,’ she said.

  ‘Isn’t that how I keep my youthful good looks? What I’m saying is I want you to move out in the morning. Somewhere they can’t keep such a close eye. Where’s Billy the Kid?’

  ‘Sulking in his bedroom. We had words. I caught him screwing Maguire.’

  ‘Did you now? Rape, you mean?’

  ‘I don’t think he used physical force, but he certainly didn’t use charm. Jonty, he’s trouble, that one. Didn’t I always say so?’

  ‘Why else do you think the old men in Dublin wished him on us? Either I bring him to heel, in which case they’ve got themselves a top gun, or he brings me down, in which case they’ve got rid of an insubordinate bastard.’

  He sat in thought for a moment, then he said, ‘At least it shows we’ve got her the way we want her.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ she exclaimed. ‘Is that all it means to you?’

  He looked at her quizzically and said, ‘I hope you’re not going to go feminist on me, Bridie. Or worse still, sentimental. You’ve seen her, heard her. She’s the enemy. A slag.’

  His voice was soft and light, but she responded as if to a threat.

  ‘Yes, of course, Jonty. All I meant was, you can’t let Flynn get away with it. It’s a question of authority.’

  ‘You leave that to me. Get him in here, will you? Give us a couple of minutes then bring Maguire in.’

  She went out. A moment later the blond-haired youth came in, his face sulky with defiance.

  ‘There you are, Billy. Come over here, will you?’

  Billy Flynn moved slowly to stand in front of the seated figure who smiled up at him benevolently.

  ‘Billy, you’ve done me a bit of a favour, and that’s good. I like people who do me favours.’

  ‘What fav …’ The words exploded into a scream of agony as Thrale’s left hand shot forward, seized his testicles beneath the tight denim jeans and twisted mercilessly.

  ‘But I don’t like people who do me favours without asking first. You can use that thing to piss with, Billy, since that’s a call of nature. But use it, or any part of you, to do something I haven’t told you to do, and I’ll pull it off, whether it’s your prick or your head. Do I make myself clear, Billy?’

  ‘Yes!’ the youth gasped.

  Thrale relaxed his hold and Flynn staggered back into a chair where he sat doubled up, his face pale as his hair.

  The door opened and Jane Maguire came in, with the other woman close behind. Jane didn’t even glance at Flynn but fixed her gaze unblinkingly on Jonty Thrale. He nodded approvingly. He liked people who understood priorities.

  ‘Mrs Maguire,’ he said gently, ‘I think you’ve been telling me the truth.’

  ‘What else would I tell you?’ she said lifelessly.

  ‘Just so. And I don’t doubt you feel the better for it. Confession cleanses the soul. It can even set you free. And that’s what I’m going to do for you, Mrs Maguire.’

  ‘What?’ the woman Bridie ejaculated. Even the youth registered alarm through his pain. Only Jane Maguire did not react with any sign of surprise or hope, and it was on her that Thrale’s eyes were fixed.

  ‘Good,’ he said softly. ‘I see we understand each other, Mrs Maguire. It’s no use confessing, then going back to sinning. You’ve got a lot more confessing to do before you and I are through. A lot more before your soul will be clean enough to be set free along with your body. So sit down quietly and pay attention while I spell out your act of contrition.’

  15

  Dog Cicero rolled a cigarette and asked himself what he was doing here.

  It was after midnight. He still had not reported in to the station. He was in possession of what might be important information on a serious case. And he was standing outside the house where Suzie Edmondson lived.

  Why the hell had she wanted to see him?

  To put the bubble in for Maguire, Tench had said. And it was true she’d shown no special liking for her colleague. Bit stuck up. Keeps herself to h
erself. But there’d been no sense of active dislike nor had the girl herself come across as malicious.

  Even less had she come across as the civic conscience type who’d feel duty bound to pour her thimbleful of water on a drowning woman.

  He went up to the door of the house, which was in the middle of a tall Victorian terrace long since declined to bedsit level. A man went up the steps before him, opened the door with a key and turned to look suspiciously at Dog as he prevented him from closing it.

  ‘Suzie Edmondson,’ said Dog.

  This switched off suspicion, switched on a knowing grin.

  ‘Oh, Suzie. Yeah. Second floor, straight ahead.’

  The stairwell was lit by a single distant bulb. Paint was peeling off the walls and the carpeting was threadbare, but at least it all smelt quite clean.

  There was a line of light beneath the door of Edmondson’s room. He tapped the woodwork gently.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Inspector Cicero. We talked earlier. About Jane Maguire.’

  The door opened on a chain. An eye regarded him. Then the door was opened fully.

  ‘You wanted to see me,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah. I saw your boss. I thought it was all settled.’

  ‘It was me you wanted to see.’

  ‘Only because you were the one who came asking. I don’t know a lot of cops, thank God.’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  She stood aside. He went into the room. It was sparsely furnished with a sofa bed against one wall. The only item not looking to have seen better days was a huge television set.

  The woman was wearing slacks and a blouse. The blouse was half unbuttoned, as if she’d been getting ready for bed. She refastened the buttons as he looked.

  ‘My boss?’ he said. ‘You mean Mr Tench.’

  ‘That’s the one. He is your boss, isn’t he?’

  ‘My superior,’ said Dog carefully. ‘But he works in another section and he’d gone home by the time I got back. So if we could just go over it again.’

  ‘Oh, all right.’ She sat on the bed and lit a cigarette. Dog sat gingerly on what looked like a bean-bag with ambitions.

  She said, ‘I heard about Jane on the news, about her kiddie and all, and it gave me a turn. And I got to thinking, that was probably what you were round at the Centre about, not the other, but the other would make things look worse, and that wasn’t fair. I mean, when I heard she’d got the heave, I thought, no skin off my nose, she’s not what you’d call a mate, and losing a lousy job like that’s no big deal, is it? You’ve got to watch out for yourself these days, haven’t you?’

  Dog smiled wearily and said, ‘Yes, you have. Then you heard the news …?’

  ‘Yeah. And that made it different. I mean, OK, if she’s killed her kid, she deserves what she gets, I suppose, though God knows it can’t be any fun being by yourself and trying to cope … well, I don’t know if I could manage it, I tell you.’

  ‘So you decided to tell the truth?’

  ‘Truth? Who knows that? All I’m doing is guessing what really happened. Didn’t matter before, but now I reckon she’s got enough hassle without that. Look, your boss, that other one, he said it was going to be all right, no comeback, everything under the carpet, OK? That still stands, does it?’

  He nodded. It was a reassurance at least as reliable as any Tench was likely to have given. Tench who didn’t give a toss who he lied to, including his own colleagues. His mind had already leapt to the truth of Suzie Edmondson’s evidence, but he wanted to hear it from her lips.

  ‘Go on, Suzie,’ he urged.

  ‘The thing is, I sometimes do a bit for the odd customer, not them all, and only when I get the message that they wouldn’t say no to a helping hand, know what I mean?’

  ‘I get the picture,’ said Dog. ‘And Councillor Jacobs was on your help list?’

  ‘That’s right. Twice a week, regular as clockwork. Only today I wasn’t around, I had to go to the dentist’s, so Jane got landed with him instead, and the silly old sod probably thought a change is as good as a rest, and expected Jane to get on with it. She must have told him to get knotted and walked out. And he suddenly got all worried about his reputation, so thought he’d better get his retaliation in first, in case Jane started stirring things up.’

  ‘Did the Grangers know what was going on?’

  She shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Her, probably not. Him, well, maybe he had a notion, but he wasn’t going to do anything to upset Jacobs, was he? I mean, he has to be council-licensed, doesn’t he? And I’ve heard tell that it was Jacobs who fixed it for Granger to get the old youth club dirt cheap when it was sold off by the council.’

  So. Jacobs, the fixer. Everyone owing him, including the police. But not Tench.

  ‘And Mr Tench said …?’

  ‘He said I was quite right to come in to talk to someone, but it didn’t have any bearing on the investigation, in fact it just complicated matters, so all things being considered, it was probably best to say no more about it. He promised me that as far as Jane went, it wouldn’t figure at all, and he saw no reason why Councillor Jacobs needed to know I’d been talking to the police.’

  He caught Tench’s avuncularly reassuring cadences in the girl’s words. He’d sent her away with the pleasant glow that comes from doing the right thing and finding it’s not going to cost you after all.

  As he rose to leave the girl said, ‘Do you really think she did it, killed him, I mean? That’s what it sounded like on the radio.’

  ‘And what did it sound like when you talked to Mr Tench?’

  ‘Don’t know. He’s an odd one, isn’t he? Reminds me a bit of Councillor Jacobs. Very friendly, but I wouldn’t like to get on his wrong side.’

  She wasn’t stupid, this girl. And she’d known she was taking a real if relatively small risk in letting the cat out of the bag about Jacobs.

  He said warmly, ‘Thanks a lot, Suzie. You’ve been a great help.’

  It wasn’t till he was back in his car that he realized he’d evaded her question. Did he think Maguire had killed her child? Put another way, did the fact that she hadn’t propositioned Jacobs make it less likely? Or put another still, was someone like Suzie, who freely admitted to maximizing her income by jerking off middle-aged men, more or less likely to harm a child?

  The answer was so clearly ‘no’ that he felt a pang of self-revulsion at the way he had let his judgement of Maguire as a mother be clouded by his opinion of her sexual mores.

  On the other hand plenty of contra-evidence remained – her family background, her record, her own words, the judgement of her friend, the absence of support for her story of this morning’s sequence of events, the boy friend she denied having but who had called for her at the Health Centre.

  Also – and while he was facing up to things he might as well confront this – the fact that she had red hair, spoke with the lilt of soft flowing waters, and had been the mistress of a man who fed money into the ravening maw of the IRA.

  He headed back to the station. It was quiet as the grave. Monday was usually the best night of the week. Fewer people went out on Mondays, meaning there was less drunkenness in the pubs, less opportunity for break-ins at empty houses, less traffic to get involved in accidents.

  He found a note from Tench on his desk.

  Dear Dog, where’ve you been? I’m pretty sure it’s a murder enquiry with nothing in it for the Branch. No doubt Mr Parslow will brief you. But if you do get a sniff of anything that might interest me, give me a bell on Extension 477 at the Yard, and in any case, next time you’re up West, let me know and we’ll have a jar and a jaw about the good old days. Watch how you go! Toby.

  Nice letter. The letter of a man who wasn’t going to let divisions of rank stand in the way of old friendship. The letter of a man happy to relinquish his special interest in a case and let the local lads get on with it.

  Like hell!

  Dog screwed up the note and tossed it into the waste basket.


  One thing was certain. When Toby Tench extended the hand of friendship, a wise man reached to cover both his crutch and his wallet.

  16

  Next morning the story hit the papers. A revolution, an explosion, and a Royals-spending-Christmas-apart scandal kept it off the front pages, and the ‘qualities’ put it on hold, simply stating the facts. The tabloids would probably claim the same if they ever got sued, only they concentrated on the missing mother rather than the missing child and it didn’t need a medium to get the message.

  At eight-fifty, Dog Cicero was standing in Charnwood Grove. He watched as a succession of elegant cars drew up, and matching mums escorted gleaming children into the Vestey Kindergarten.

  By five past nine the street was empty. He stood for another ten minutes. A couple of cars turned into the far end. He stepped out into their path, forcing them to stop.

  The first driver said he hadn’t come this way the previous morning. The second said he had, but it had been at nine-thirty, pissing down, and he hadn’t noticed any women or a child or a rusty mini.

  At twenty past nine a woman with a dog walked by on the opposite side. Yes, she walked this way at the same time every morning. And yes, despite the dreadful rain she hadn’t missed the previous day. But she had had her head buried beneath an umbrella, and though she thought there might have been someone talking on the pavement opposite, she couldn’t swear to it.

  Dog got her name and address and then went into the school.

  Mrs Vestey was not overly pleased to see him. Dog put up with her chilliness for a while, then offered to return at a more convenient time, like say three P.M. with a couple of police cars and half a dozen uniformed officers to take witness statements from parents. After that things improved.

  ‘But there’s nothing more I can tell you,’ she said. ‘And I thought from the papers …’

  ‘You thought we were following the line that Mrs Maguire herself might be responsible for Noll’s disappearance,’ he said bluntly. ‘In which case your involvement would be minimal. I can see how that might relieve you.’

  ‘Inspector, I don’t like your …’