The Games People Play Box Set

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “It’s a possibility,” Harry nodded. “Oh, alright, it’s a possibility that it’s a probability. But we’re inexperienced idiots ourselves and we can’t be sure of anything.”

  “I am. And someone’s missing off the list.” She closed her eyes, then said, “It’s my step-brother. He’s weird. I haven’t seen him for some years, and that’s by choice, but he’s younger than me, and presumably still alive.”

  Harry used the other end of the pen to scratch his ear. “Step-brother? Tell me all about this family highlight.”

  “Fletcher Rankling. Son of my mother’s second husband. Twice falsified my signature. They don’t have much money. I do. I once caught him trying to light a fire in the park and managed to stamp it out. He kicked me in the stomach and ran off. I complained to my step-father, and he said he couldn’t help it, because he was born in November. Scorpio.”

  Harry raised an eyebrow. “What an interesting family you have, my dear. Any other inmates of insane asylums?”

  “Just add the wretched boy to the list. He’s – what? I think roughly fifty now. Forty eight, forty nine, fifty. We never liked each other but even after my mother died and I went to live with my own father, my step-father kept in touch. Heaven knows why.”

  “For the gracious healing properties of good hard cash.”

  Sylvia laughed. “It’s all a bit unlikely, isn’t it? But now they live in Wales, you see. I don’t know the exact address, but it’s somewhere in the north and near the sea.” After a minute, she added, “Walter’s O.k. The father. Useless, but he tried. Fletcher is vile. And he loves lighting fires.”

  “Shit,” said Harry.

  Sylvia collected a new bottle of white from her fridge, rinsed the glasses in the bathroom, put everything back on the table, and stripped off her long flowing jacket, throwing it to the bed.

  The room was spacious. Beside the window were the bookcases, table, chairs, a huge couch of golden Liberty print dividing the areas, rugs, the fridge, and a small television on a chest of drawers. At the other end of the room was the bed, a very large built in wardrobe, and a collection of drawers and cupboards. The bathroom was also lavish.

  Harry gazed momentarily at the bed, navy patterned, white and crisp, king sized and piled with pillows. He was quite sure it would be comfortable. Turning away, he carefully smiled at the window. “You’ve got a balcony.”

  “I do.” Sylvia settled back at the table. “But is that relevant? No one’s been murdered on it yet.”

  “Actually,” Harry said, “it wasn’t murder I was thinking of for once. I mean, it looks nice out there. Still sunny. Nice wicker chairs. And that’s a cushioned sun bed. Pots of geraniums. Stuff hanging over.”

  “Wisteria leaf. Not the season for flowers.”

  He stood and wandered over, staring out through the dazzle of the sun reflecting glass. “There’s a lake. The grounds here are gorgeous too.”

  Turning, he walked back, crossing past Sylvia’s chair. She was looking up, eyes large and smiling. He hadn’t meant to do it. Although such a thing had been on his mind for weeks, he’d had no intention of being such an intrusive idiot. But he did it anyway.

  Harry bent down, slipped his hand around the back of Sylvia’s neck, and kissed her.

  5

  Harry hadn’t meant to kiss her, and he hadn’t expected her to kiss him back, but he did, and she did. It had been a long, long time and the sweet warm pressure felt suddenly delightful. He had expected pleasure, but this seemed somehow magical. Her skin felt softer than he could remember on a woman, her hair was silk, her lashes were sweeping promises.

  Sylvia’s hesitation was momentary. The sweep of her crimson silk sleeves rustled as they surrounded him with both her arms hard around his waist. “Well now, it’s been a century since the last one of those,” she murmured. “And much nicer than just the memory.”

  He grinned down at her. “I half expected a slap.”

  Emotion surfaced, and comfort swirled like feathered quilts and sun on the poppies. Then something else superimposed itself and the pleasure blew away. Sylvia said, “No, it was kind and sweet. But then I remember the Welsh girl with her nipples sitting on her eyelids.” Sighing, “Am I stupid too, to keep remembering this?”

  “You’re normal.”

  “What’s normal? Oh well, not bloody torturous murder, thank the heavens. We say things are normal because they don’t seem out of the ordinary. But I’ve never wanted to be ordinary. You’re not ordinary either. Murder isn’t ordinary. Sadism is sick. Then they say serial killers are the most ordinary of men without obvious personality. They say to look for boring little men who don’t stand out.”

  “Most of the world doesn’t stand out.” He waved an arm at the window.

  “Isn’t that the point?”

  “So out of all the people we know, who could be killers, any of them could be the one. So let’s find another way of sorting out who it could be.” Harry scratched his ear lobe. “Just the practical stuff. For instance. Out of the people we’ve listed, who could have been present at the murder in the coach, and also the one in Wales?”

  Sylvia nodded. “Two in Wales.”

  “Yes, well, we don’t know much about the first in Wales, but we certainly do concerning the second.” He referred to the list. “Sebastian. I have to find out about him. He was with us on the coach. No idea about Wales. Tony was with us on the coach, but he was in Bournemouth when the murders happened.”

  “We’ve no idea who Paul Stoker is or isn’t, so we can’t tell where he was.”

  “Same applies to your strange brother.”

  “He lives in Wales somewhere.”

  “Anyway, it couldn’t be him. Just because you know a creep, it doesn’t make him a suspect.”

  “The caretaker Arthur wasn’t on the coach and he wasn’t in Wales. Nor was his son.”

  “I think,” said Harry, “we should go to the police about your vile caretaker anyway and rescue that poor boy of his. It’s wrong just to keep looking after the boy without doing anything regarding the father.”

  “But if they cart Arthur away,” Sylvia pointed out, “poor David will be utterly bereft. He doesn’t have other relatives.” She frowned, thinking, “but alright. It should be done anyway. I’ll come to the police station with you and report the abuse.”

  “Where were we up to on the list?” Harry asked.

  Sylvia had no idea.

  “Ruby, come with us.”

  There was a blurred grunt and its echo from the other side of the door. Then the sound of running water. “Come where?” demanded Ruby’s voice. “I’m busy dying my hair blue, and it’ll take hours. Besides, it’s Monday morning. I volunteer at the Salvo’s Monday afternoons.”

  The silver spangled drizzle had a fresh washed perfume, trickling over the new cut grass outside. A blackbird was singing. Damp clouds divided, and the blue sky oozed into sunshine. There was the shy hesitancy of a rainbow.

  “It’s not important.” Sylvia hurried downstairs and waited at the main doorway, where Harry was due to turn up within the next half hour. But he was always early. She expected him any minute. Within five, the car ground over the gravel path and stopped in front of her.

  “We’ve come to report long-term child abuse,” Harry told the constable, who nodded at them from behind the counter. They waited, as asked.

  But it was Detective Inspector Morrison who showed them into the office, which surprised them. “You’ve moved in here? Not cosy,” Sylvia looked around. “But we didn’t come about the murders. It’s something entirely different.”

  “A father mistreating his son,” Harry murmured. He had noticed the pictures of the Welsh girl pinned to a notice board. “But no one dead.”

  “Sit down,” said the inspector, indicating chairs piled back against the wall. “It seems we have more than one thing to talk about. Tea?”

  “Gracious,” said Sylvia. “That’s a first. And yes, I’d like one. Cosy after all.” The place w
as thick with dust, but dust had never bothered her unless she was expected to clean it up herself.

  “I have questions, Mrs. Greene. Particularly,” and he turned to Harry with a faint nod, “for Mr. Joyce.” He clasped his hands over the papers on his desk and regarded his visitors with a faintly suspicious smile. “Now, Mr. Joyce, as it happens some blood with your DNA has been discovered on the body of Kate Connor, whose remains were discovered by yourself, on the ledge of a coastal cliff in northern Wales. Rather a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

  “It is. It was.” Harry hiccupped. “But I presume I’m not a suspect. Wouldn’t that be a bit silly?” Receiving no answer, he hurried on. “Well, imagine what you like, but I’m not giving up the investigation any more than you are, detective.”

  “And you have an explanation for the blood, Mr. Joyce?”

  “Of course I do.” Harry had pulled his chair closer to the desk. “I fell the last few feet of that damned cliff and almost landed on the poor girl. I scraped my knee and both hands. Climbing a precipice at my age is not a good idea. But I had to see. After all, it could have been a rag doll or a dummy. It was me who called the police.”

  “Whereas,” said Morrison slowly and with emphasis, “the blood stains and your small injuries, Mr. Joyce, could have been inflicted while Kate Connor attempted to defend herself against her killer.”

  “Oh, Lord,” stuttered Harry.

  Sylvia interrupted. “Detective Inspector Morrison,” she said, “you can’t really suppose Harry’s a suspect. You know quite well he isn’t. I was with him the whole time in Wales, and I’m not an accomplice, which you also know quite well.”

  “We weren’t together in bed,” muttered Harry, somewhat pointlessly.

  “And,” continued Sylvia, “if you told us who the suspects are, then perhaps we could genuinely be some help. We have our own list. And some of those on the list are well known to us.”

  “I’m hardly going to discuss private police work with you, Mrs. Greene.”

  She glared back. “I see no reason why not. You tell some things to the media and they always manage to report it inaccurately and exaggerate everything. Our own list might be of interest to you.”

  “It might.” Enigmatic.

  Harry laughed. “Come on then, Ask. One of the names on the list is the Rochester Manor caretaker who beats his poor autistic son, and that’s who we actually came about this morning. He should at least be warned. Arthur Sims and the son’s David, poor kid. About 15, I gather, but seems younger because of the autism I expect.”

  “He’s a little – backward,” Sylvia ventured. “But very sweet. He cries a lot.”

  “Well now,” nodded Morrison, “I’ll pass that information on to the right people. But your reason for putting him on your list? Simply because you dislike him?”

  “Because he’s violent,” said Harry.

  “And because he dislikes me,” Sylvia added, “and might have wanted to implicate either myself or someone else at the manor. He knew all the details of our trip to Monaco. And he had three days off at the time, because half the manor would be empty.”

  “And Wales?”

  “Only an overnight drive from Rochester Manor.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not nearly enough to make someone a suspect, Mrs. Greene.” The detective covered contempt with a small smile. “Who else is on your list, might I know?”

  “My friend Tony,” Harry said. “But we know he didn’t do it either.”

  “Ah.” Morrison leaned forwards across his desk. “Would that be Anthony Allen, perhaps? Now, tell me about this Mr. Allen.”

  Harry narrowed his eyes. “Suddenly you’re interested?”

  “Everything interests me,” smiled the detective. “Tell me about your friend Tony.”

  Sylvia sighed and sat back, her hands into her trench coat pockets. Harry leaned forwards again. “Tony was with us on the coach. Sat with me on the way there. He likes Formula One racing. It’s not a crime. I like it too. He gets quite excited and cheers. We were together afterwards as well, until the body was found. That is, before getting back to the coach he went off with a couple of other friends while I wandered around a couple of shops, but he wasn’t gone for all that long if I remember. When the murders happened in Wales, he was in the opposite direction, holidaying in Bournemouth with his wife. She’s a little drab but sweet enough, although I admit he leaves her at home most of the time when he comes to the pub. Presumably she’s not a drinker. He likes his beer, but he’s quiet and pleasant and a bit dull. Don’t tell him I said that.”

  “Have you,” asked Morrison, “any proof that Mr. Allen was in Bournemouth, or that his wife was with him?”

  Harry opened his mouth to say Yes, of course I have and then stopped. “No,” he said after a pause. “But he said Isabel enjoyed it and so did he. He didn’t come back suntanned, but he’s not the lying on a beach type anyway. I rarely see the wife.”

  “Interesting,” mused Morrison.

  “Is it?” demanded Sylvia. “Is he a suspect? You amaze me. Who else is a suspect. Paul Stoker?”

  Looking up immediately, the detective said, “And what exactly do you know regarding Mr. Stoker, Mrs. Greene?”

  “Not much.” She sighed. “Harry worked out that these murders match some from the past. Probably the same killer. He was never caught but Paul Stoker was the main suspect at one time.”

  “Umm,” said Morrison, as if this was a valid remark. “And have either of you, by any chance, traced the present whereabouts of Mr. Stoker?”

  She shook her head. Harry said, “We tried. And failed. But it’s the same man, isn’t it?”

  Detective Inspector Morrison stared at him for a moment, considering whether to answer or not, and finally said, ‘We believe so, Mr. Joyce. It seems likely. Or at the very least, there would be some link. A copycat perhaps.”

  With something resembling a slight blush, Sylvia said, “I have a step-brother of a sort, who lives in Wales, detective. And who adores car races although I’ve no idea if he attended Monte Carlo that day and didn’t see him there. In fact, I haven’t seen him for years. But he liked to torture slugs and he had an obscene attraction towards arson. I used to put out his fires when he was younger.”

  Without obvious interest, the detective asked, “You also used to live in Wales at one time, Mrs. Greene?”

  She shook her head. “I used to babysit the brat before they moved to Wales years ago. We disliked each other equally. Fletcher Rankling. I don’t know his present address.”

  First tapping his fingertips on the desk, and then abruptly standing, the detective brought the interview to a sudden close. “I might look into your brother’s relationship to the case,” he said, stretching out his hand. Harry shook it. “But I doubt there is anything close enough to constitute suspicion, Mrs. Greene.’ He also shook her hand. “But I’ll pass on the information concerning your caretaker. And I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention our discussion to your friend Anthony Allen.”

  “Heavens, no.”

  “We might meet again soon, Mr. Joyce,” Morrison walked them to the door, “and certainly let me know if you come up with anything interesting. But,” he added with a dour drama, “I suggest you keep away from the whole situation from now on. This could get dangerous. And suspicion, as you know, can fall anywhere.”

  “Oh, pooh,” said Sylvia, marching out.

  Driving back to the manor, Sylvia was confused and Harry excited. The car jiggled, and the gears objected to changing. Sylvia wondered if she should buy him an automatic but said nothing.

  Harry said, “Morrison’s actually talking to us. Including us. I could have told him a lot more about Tony, but of course, he’s not the strongest suspect.”

  “Aren’t you amazed he’s a suspect at all?”

  “Well, he’s on our list already. But no, of course it isn’t him. Most unlikely. But we need to make friends with Morison. I want to know more.”

  “Tony’s your
best friend. Doesn’t it upset you to know your best friend is accused of being a lunatic sadist and serial killer?”

  It was still drizzling slightly, and the windscreen kept fogging up. “It’s still summer, dammit. Where’s the sun?”

  “Gone to Monte Carlo.”

  “Tony’s not my best friend,” sighed Harry. “Oh well, I suppose he’s grown into that position. It used to be all the others. But no one special. I didn’t have a best friend. That’s what teenage girls do.”

  “And Starsky and Hutch.”

  He laughed. “And Bonnie and Clyde. Morrison almost accused us of that.”

  So Sylvia laughed too. “But he didn’t really. He didn’t even bother asking you much about the blood. He knew it was all nothing to do with us. But Tony –?”

  “I’ve been reading books,” Harry admitted, parking in front of Rochester Manor’s main doors. “Sadism and hacking totally unknown women to pieces is more common than you could ever imagine. I was looking at the murderers’ photos. Ted Bundy has the most malicious look I’ve ever seen. Poor Tony doesn’t look like that. He’s usually sort of blank, except at the races.”

  Having waded through books that made her sick, Sylvia had been looking too. She climbed out of the front passenger seat of the car, flexed her arthritic knee and straightened her skirts. “I was looking at old photos too. Murderers have empty faces. Especially empty eyes. Psychopathic eyes. A complete lack of understandable emotion. And no empathy.”

  He was sure that was right. But Harry said, “They must have had emotion. Loads of it, even if it’s sparked in ghastly ways. You surely don’t kill and torture without emotion. Without empathy, well obviously. But plenty of sick passion.”

  “We have unhealthy preoccupations.”