The Games People Play
The Complete Trilogy
Barbara Gaskell Denvil
Copyright © 2018 by Gaskell Publishing
All Rights Reserved, no part of this book may be
Reproduced without prior permission of the author
except in the case of brief quotations and reviews
Cover design by
It’s A Wrap
For Katie & Bridgit
Who gave their tremendous support, as always.
IF WHEN
1
He gagged her first with electrical tape. After his previous actions, now little force was necessary, and he knew she’d have no strength to break away. The girl couldn’t even struggle, and her legs and fingers didn’t even twitch. Under different conditions this might have been a disappointment, but considering where he was, her doped and placid surrender made it all easier. He taped her wrists to the legs of the back seat, her ankles left free. Then he showed her the knife. She certainly twitched then and her gurgled scream was choked into silence by the tape wound right around her face and hair.
It was his favourite knife and he’d sharpened it that morning. She understood, and finally collapsed, closing her eyes.
He enjoyed himself for a clear hour, knowing he had that much time. Her flesh was plump and punctured nicely. But he killed her before enjoying himself for the second hour. Sometimes he did it all the other way around. But today he had the sun blasting against the back of his neck, and the roar of the cars’ in the distance, the thrill was all around him and excitement was tangible, so he needed less stimulation than was usual. Already he felt more alive. For this he was feeling magnanimous. The adventure, the risk and the sweet detailed smells reeking from the girl’s mounting fear were enough to satisfy him. Far more than simple satisfaction. This was proving to be one of the best. He watched the first seepage of blood ooze, taking the shape of her breasts.
The machines blared, roaring, fighting for the inside position. Taking the bend at full throttle. Exhaust smoke hazed the air, then blew clean over the deep blue of the sea. Seagulls like noisy white thieves, hovering, wings wide, searching below, spying the fish just under the surface, and cascading down to grab, squabble and screech. Then the echoing wail, elongated in the briny wind and a hundred gulls. Sun in a golden dazzle on gull feathers, on wooden hulls, and the flap and crack of sails hauled down, on anchors clanked with a splash into the bay. The guttering acceleration of the little rubber tenders and the outboard motors dying as they reached shore. Jump out, grab the ropes. Avoid the buoys, don’t slip on the quay’s salty puddles. Wave back. “We’re ashore. See you later after the race and the booze up afterwards, whoever wins.”
The smell of the sea glittering under the cloudless blue. No waves, no wild rocking of boat against boat, just the whistling creak of the masts bending as fender rub against fenders.
Monte Carlo and the Formula One race, engines whine and smoke hovers like the birds. It’s Ferrari out in front. The crowds are on their toes. Into the tunnel for the last time, and he’s almost there. The wheels skid, but he’s going to do it. The roar from the crowd is almost as loud as the roar of the engines. Those in the stands are going wild. Those on deck and leaning over the rails are shouting support and screaming the winner’s name. The sleek red bonnet, so low to the ground it’s more lizard than tiger, is almost on fire. But it crosses the line. It’s done. Now the lap of honour.
Late May and the sun is shining on the decks of the boats, for the glistening bay is yacht crammed. The rocking ripples of that deep blue Mediterranean Sea are dappled with reflections, the gleaming metal thunder of the cars whizzes too fast to count and a hundred flags and banners are blowing taut in the wind and the whooping jumping crowd is deafening.
Harry turns away. “I expected it. Well done for all that. It’s a great team. Tony, are you coming? Celebrations, my friend. The old casino or the new?”
Hurrying, following. “Whichever. It’s the champagne that counts, not the colour of the walls.”
“The old then. Fewer fruit machines. Those damn things give me a headache.”
Laughing, “After the noisiest race of the year, you complain about the rattle of a few fruit machines?”
“But we haven’t much time.” Harry’s rheumatism didn’t stop him hurrying. “There’s not much time before it’s all back on the coach.”
“And back home to the rain.”
“Don’t even think about it. There’s the long drive first and sleeping on the coach.” All night driving, and then wake back in England. Not the comfiest night but not too expensive either.
It was a murky grey when the twenty four coach passengers gathered for the journey home. The sun had gone down and the shadows were preparing for night. Most of the crowd were a little pissed. Harry was almost sober, remembering his doctor’s warning. Just one scotch on the rocks. But Tony was completely drunk, staggering but bright eyed and elated. He’d sleep as soon as his head hit the comfy back of the reclining seat. Knowing half of them would trip up the steps and tumble backwards, Harry pushed in front. As soon as the door was unlocked, he’d be first up and in. He waited hoping that at least that big friendly hulk of a driver would be sober.
Apart from the small crowd shuffling, huddled in their old coats and cardigans, the car park was empty of people but full of cars and coaches. Endless cement and endless grey. The thrill of the race was almost forgotten. Hands waving, the driver rolled open the door of the coach and stood back. Four steps up and Harry climbed on board. The lights came on. Harry thumped his way to the back. And stopped.
He could hardly make it out at first, wondering if someone’s suitcase had fallen from the overhead rack. Then he realised what he was looking at. Three abrupt steps back, and he stopped. First he had to catch his breath. Then he called over his shoulder, “Something’s wrong. Stop – everyone. This is – urgent.”
“What’s up?” called the coach driver from his seat at the wheel where he was already settling himself.
“Quite a lot’s wrong,” said Harry, his voice fading. “You’d better come and have a look. And call the police.”
The young woman lay on the floor at the end of the aisle. She had been displayed on her back, spread eagled, arms and ankles taped to the metal feet of the back two rows of seats. Her hair was over her face and her clothes were strewn across her naked body, but the blood surrounding her was clear enough. There were signs of her torture. Soaking into the thin carpet, the blood had turned black, almost following the shape of her and shouting its own story.
“Everybody off,” yelled the bus driver. “You’ll have to wait for the police.”
“Another coach? Or an overnight hotel?” asked someone.
“Coppers first,” roared the driver, ending on a choke. “You’ll all be looked after, that’s for sure, but for now - off, off, everybody off.”
There was a woman standing behind Harry. He didn’t know her though he’d seen her a few times on the journey. About his own age, now she was peering over his shoulder. “But the coach was surely locked.”
Harry looked around. “Easy enough to pick the lock, I imagine, for someone experienced in picking locks. Not Fort Knox, just a bus with a latch.” He paused, waiting for the flurry, panic and drunken confusion to clear out behind him. Then he nodded. “Do you know her? Was she on the coach?”
“No, and probably not.” The elderly woman was almost as tall as Harry and might once have been gorgeous. But now she was tired and obviously shocked. Besides, age did strange things to people’s faces. “For one thing,” she said, “the poor little girl is far too young to have travelled with us old lumps. We’d all have
noticed her at once. And secondly, the bus driver counted all our living bodies before we got on.”
“I’m Harry,” he said, rather pointlessly.
“I expect the police,” said the woman, “will want to question us before we go off to some dismal hotel and get even more pissed.” Hands dug deep into pockets, hiding the nervous twitch of fingers. “And hello Harry. I’m Sylvia.”
“Harry Joyce. I keep getting called Joyce Harris and they wonder why I’m not a woman.”
“Sylvia Greene. Though introductions seem very odd when there’s a dead body at our feet.”
She started to move back, but Harry had stopped, and low voiced, called to her. “There’s a man’s glove amongst the pile of her clothes.”
“I can see it. Brown leather. And very large hands. Blood on the thumb.”
Smiling, trying to break the sense of horror, disgust and confused shock, “You can see all that without glasses?”
“Contact lenses,” she said.
“Well, we mustn’t touch, but there’s something strange here. I mean, apart from bloody murder.”
She paused. “Are you an ex-cop or something?”
“No. Not at all. But not an ex-fool either.” He wasn’t going to explain himself standing cramped in the aisle of the coach, with that terrible vision crumpled up in front of him.
The police had arrived. Gendarmes, brisk and efficient and speaking excellent English. The siren sounded twice as loud in the dark. The coach driver explained, pointing, hands deep in his pockets, shivering, impatient, and probably wanting to vomit. Harry and Sylvia climbed quickly from the coach and stood with the others. “Line up, please, no talking, no walking off.” But they carried on talking, of course. It was a story that would echo more continuously than any siren, any Formula One race, or any press release before it finally faded, and by then it would be considerably enlarged.
It wasn’t a motel. It was a small 3 Star job in the hills of Monaco and the rooms were minute but comfortable. Having stood together during check-in, Harry and Sylvia were given adjoining rooms. They shared a bottle of white before tumbling into their separate beds and closing the door between. They drank more than they talked. Shock and disgust were silent emotions.
But Harry had said, “It was the act of a madman. Even if he knew her and even if he hated her, a sane person can’t do that. She was mutilated. Tortured. I was an idiot to keep looking.”
“Whether before or after death, the girl was treated as a thing.” She grimaced. “A toy. But you can’t help looking, can you? And I can’t help remembering. It’s almost as crazed, just to keep staring. Yes, that’s the behaviour of a maniac.”
“So he’ll do it again?” mumbled Harry.
“But,” sighed Sylvia, returning to her half full glass, “He is presumably local. Or French. Or Italian. The police here will find him. The glove may help.” Not a normal conversation and not a subject to enjoy, yet far too unexpected and far too horrible to ignore.
Yet tired, dishevelled, they noticed little about each other and remembered only the spread eagled corpse and the river of blood.
Harry, Sylvia thought, was a nice old man with rather shoddy clothes, who enjoyed the shattering noise and pointless competition of Formula One racing. Sylvia, thought Harry, wore extremely expensive clothes, her silver hair was natural but uncombed, and her eyes were desperately tired. Perhaps, he decided, she wasn’t used to the travel, the racing, or the booze.
The next morning everyone piled back onto the coach and was buzzing with anticipation, query and gossip. Someone thought it was the driver who dunnit, even though he’d been cleared by the police and permitted to drive off. Someone else seemed quite positive it was the quiet little man who was in charge of the car park. Or one of the passengers. Someone looked fixedly at Tony. “Maybe the prince. He’s a bit strange, isn’t he?” They had been told to report to the British police once back in England.
The bulk of the passengers had been picked up from The Rochester Manor generally referred to as the Rotten Egg because of the great central dome which had long ago been painted dark brown, but which was now patchy and peeling. Yet within the building there was luxury. There lived the elderly who had the funds to pay for service and comfort. They had not been cast out by their nearest and dearest and most were still enjoying their freedom. The carefully arranged visit to the Formula One race at Monte Carlo had been the idea of Ruby Pope, who adored Monaco and had once been married to a racing driver, so had drummed up all willing companions.
Sylvia was no fan of the race but seeing the sunshine for a day and a half was always a pleasant change. “Boring,” she announced, unpacking her overnight bag and calling to her neighbour. “The race. Not the murder. You can’t call bloody slaughter boring. But there are plenty of other words.”
Harry lived over the hill and down the road. It was a small messy house and as a widower, he lived alone. Tony lived with his tolerant wife three doors down. But everyone saw each other again at the local police station two days later.
Hardly recognising Sylvia at first, Harry finally sidled up and sat next to the highly elegant woman, looking far younger and more beautiful than the last time. Skirts of navy silk, faint patterns of paisley, half hidden under a navy trench coat. He remembered the contact lenses and presumed she knew who he was.
“Name? Age? Address?”
“Sylvia Greene, with an ‘e’. I’m seventy seven. And I live at the Rochester Manor.”
“Harry Joyce. Seventy Eight. 18 Spencer Street, Cheltenham.”
Tony sat next to Harry. There was a small Micky Mouse plaster on his chin where he had presumably cut himself while shaving. “Interesting, isn’t it?” he confided. “I never saw the poor girl of course. You left me at the back of the queue.” He looked slightly peevish regarding this but nodded to Sylvia. “Nice to meet you. Sylvia, did you say?”
Someone loomed over them. Not in uniform, presumably a detective. “Miss Greene? I understand you saw the body? The first to discover it?”
“No. That was Mister Joyce, here.”
“Perhaps we can start with you, Miss Greene. Do you mind coming into the interview room? I don’t think we need to keep you too long.”
Her hair was silver white, cut in a very short straight bob with a few wisps of fringe. She pushed it out of her eyes and followed the detective. “Mrs. Greene, by the way. But it hardly matters. And I’m surprised this isn’t all being covered by the police in Monaco.”
“We co-operate, with all the European forces, Mrs. Greene,” smiled the detective. “As much our case as theirs.” Folding her hands in her lap, she sat where indicated. The detective sat opposite. She assumed he was taping both questions and answers. “It must have been a nasty shock.” He nodded, looking sympathetic.
“It was nasty, and it was a shock,” Sylvia told him.
“Well, Mrs. Greene, so you were with your husband? Your companions from the old people’s home? That must have been some consolation.” His voice was gentle and carefully resonant with sympathy.
Staring back at him, she leaned forwards, her elbows to the small table. “Detective Morrison,” she said softly, “I may be a hundred and fifty years old, and look it, but I am neither mentally disabled, nor incapable of judgements. Age does not necessarily mean senile or banal stupidity.”
He blinked. “I’m a little confused. I do hope I did not seem rude.”
“No.” She shook her head. “Just patronising.”
He apologised. “Then I wonder if you could give me some idea of what you saw, Mrs. Greene? I understand, naturally, that the shock of the moment –”
Sylvia once again leaned back, eyes narrowed, hands clasped in her lap. “The young woman lay spread-eagled at the end of the aisle. She had been stripped naked and was sexually displayed, placed that way before death since she was tied to the legs of the coach seats. Her eyes were wide open, and she lay in a pool of blood. Many of her wounds, however, had bled little, therefore I assume much of
the torture was post-mortem, but actual death may have been caused by the viciously brutal cut to the throat. The details of the disgusting things done to her were luckily hidden beneath the pile of her clothes, but some marks appeared to have been made with pliers or pincers. The poor child was only about twenty five or so years of age, Caucasian, light haired, slim and attractive. A large sized leather glove, masculine in style, lay on the pile of her clothes which had been dumped on the centre of her body after death. The glove was blood stained, particularly on the thumb. It was unusually large and well used and must surely have carried DNA. The young woman’s clothes appeared undamaged, probably indicating that the victim was undressed slowly, and not stripped off in haste. As far as I could see, the clothes were English in style, nothing expensive, and in no way unusual. The underpants, however, appeared to be missing, unless they were hidden beneath everything else.” She paused, frowning, and looking into space, then said, “Have you identified the poor young woman? She had the tattoo of a tiny butterfly on her right ankle, but no doubt you must know who she is anyway by now.” Once again she paused, then looked up. “I think that is all I can remember, Detective Morrison.”
He smiled faintly. “Thank you. Most – illuminating. I think that will be enough for now, Mrs. Greene.”
2
He had always been fond of knives. Each hilt sat warm and comfortable in the palm of his hand, as though asking to be cherished. He enjoyed sharpening them, and felt they sang back to him. His first, the splendid initiation of his career, he had never used again and kept it carefully as a reminder and even a homage to sweet Jemima. But he still kept it sharpened, caressing it as he watched it shine anew.
They all brought back the thrill. The tingle down his spine, through his lungs and into his groin appeared reflected in those silver blades as he held them, and he could relive the special moments and remember each detail with a shiver of delight.
The Games People Play Box Set Page 1