The Games People Play Box Set

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Without the slightest wish to go back to bed, Sylvia left Morrison and sat with the others in the salon. Sheila O’Brien helped her to the most comfortable chair. “It must have been a horrendous experience, my dear.”

  Derek Major bent over her. “Greenie, you need Scotch, gin, or some other medicine.” He tottered off to fetch it for her.

  Rebecca made cooing noises, more pigeon-like than comforting, and Percival Fryer said his wife would have hysterics and he couldn’t tell her until the morning. There was more muffled talk and she answered a few questions, but she was waiting for a suitable time to phone Harry. Eventually she dozed off in the chair.

  Hearing the news on early morning radio, Harry drove over to Rochester Manor and arrived to watch Sylvia still asleep, half tucked under the blanket Ruby had brought to keep her warm. She was grunting a little, mouth open, hair in her eyes, and woke most uncomfortably to discover Harry staring down at her.

  “Tea? Coffee? Toast? Scrambled egg?”

  “Oh, my god.”

  “No, it’s me, just Harry. Now what’s been happening?”

  Ruby tottered into the dining room, sat next to Sylvia with Harry opposite, and they shared a hot but haphazard breakfast with burned toast and coffee in a teapot and stuttered apologies from the chef. He called David to serve, but David was in tears.

  Ruby patted his shoulder. “I know, my dear boy. We all loved Pam. It’s too terrible to contemplate.”

  He shook his head. “Not her. It’s my Dad. I know he done it ‘cos he’s got the same rubbish bags. And he were out all night. And when he come home he beat me up. He hurts me all the time.”

  “Pam wasn’t killed last night,” Sylvia interrupted, searching for a teaspoon. “Where did your father hit you, Dave dear?”

  “In his bedroom.”

  “No, my dear, I mean, where on yourself?”

  David seemed to consider. “Me head. Me ears. Me feet. All black and blue.”

  Sylvia regarded David’s small pink ears, but Harry interrupted. “Is Morrison still down at the creek?” Sylvia nodded. “I want to walk down there. Will you come? Or would you sooner not?”

  Ruby choked on burned toast with too much butter she had piled on to cover the black bits. “I’m coming. Come on Sylvia, there won’t be anything disgusting to see this time.”

  She didn’t want to, but said yes, and thanked David who ran back to the kitchen. “But not in my nighty and dressing gown. I’ll dress. Wait ten minutes.” She found an ancient pair of jeans, a woolly jumper not because it was that cold but because she was desperately tired and plodded out to the grounds once more. “It might rain.”

  “And it might not. Come on, I need to see what on earth is going on here.”

  It was nearly nine thirty and the sun made an effort to peer between the clouds, but it was a mild and dry plod down to the banks of the creek. They were stopped before they even saw the water. Tents had been erected on both sides of the water, and poles dug into the soft earth held yellow plastic ribbons barring the way. The team of police and detectives was so numerous, it seemed as though a hundred men and women clustered, talking, peering, walking and examining.

  “We’re not going to get any further,” sighed Harry.

  “I haven’t walked all this way for nothing,” said Sylvia, ducking beneath one plastic streamer. Ruby and Harry followed.

  9

  “You can’t come in here,” called a woman in navy trousers and a navy jumper. “You can see it’s cordoned off. No entrance. Out, please. And back the way you’ve come.”

  “I have come at his request,” stated Sylvia with a penetrating gaze, “to see Detective Inspector Morrison.”

  “Umm,” said the woman, weighing up her doubts. “Aright then. He’s down by the water, probably on the other side. Report to Constable Newcome. He’s in charge of the site. And don’t touch anything – not anything at all.”

  “We know the procedures,” nodded Harry, which wasn’t entirely true.

  Morrison saw them before they found Constable Newcome, and strode over, his usual expression of displeased unwelcome now considerably more severe. “Mrs. Greene. Mr. Joyce. And Mrs. Pope. I don’t remember inviting you onto the site. It’s far too busy. Come into the smaller tent, and we can talk. And don’t touch anything.”

  There didn’t seem to be anything worth touching. “I presume you’ve taken the – remains – away,” asked Ruby. “Will we be free to arrange her funeral soon? And what about her mother? Other relatives?”

  “Everything necessary has already been organised,” Morrison glared. “Now. Why exactly are you here?”

  “I feel involved,” said Sylvia, sitting on one of the fold-up chairs grouped around a picnic table. “Naturally I feel involved. And we all knew Pam and cared for her. You also mentioned showing me items of clothing for identification.”

  “They’ll be brought up to the manor,’ Morrison said. He paused. “Though it might be easier done here.” He poked his head through the looped-back doorway and called for Newcombe. “Bring the clothing. Yes, all of it.” Then turned back to Sylvia, Harry and Ruby. “But after this, you’ll have to leave.”

  “And what about identifying Pam?”

  “That’ll be after the p.m. and DNA tests,” Morrison said, still glaring. “And you won’t be required. Miss Barnstable’s mother is her next of kin.”

  “Oh yes, of course. Ruby sniffed sorrowfully. “But they aren’t well off. We’d like to donate towards the funeral costs.”

  “That’s between yourselves and the family,” said Morrison with definite impatience. “But there’ll be no funeral for some time until all police work is complete. In the meantime, I’d appreciate you staying out of the picture, and preferably not speaking to the press.”

  “I despise the press,” said Sylvia.

  “Well,” Ruby smiled, “my late husband, he was Rodney Pope, the famous racing car driver, you know, he had a very good relationship with the media. They loved him, of course.”

  Everybody ignored her. A young police constable had run in with a large pile of transparent plastic bags, each containing some folded material. One by one, they started with the identification.

  “That’s her check shirt. I always liked that.”

  “Her little beige skirt. Definitely hers.”

  “A bra. I wouldn’t know. It could be anybody’s.”

  “Dark tights. I don’t know. I mean, why would she wear black woolly tights with a light brown summer skirt? And Pam never complained of the cold. She used to laugh when we said we were freezing. But I don’t know.”

  “A beige cardigan. Thin wool. Nylon actually. Yes. That belonged to Pam and she wore it a lot.”

  “Red trousers? No. How could she wear red trousers together with a beige skirt? And I never saw her wear red anything. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Flat black shoes. Those were hers I think. She wore them for work.”

  “High heeled shoes with black toes and red heels? Never, never, never. Pam wasn’t like that.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “She just wasn’t,” said Sylvia. “I don’t pretend to know her like my own child, and you’ll have to ask her mother. But Pam didn’t have enough time off to be a multiple personality, and she lived here, read to the older ones, curled up with us and watched soaps on television, and phoned her mother every evening. She didn’t go out at night. These clothes belong to some other poor girl. There’s another body somewhere. And the killer is openly informing us. He’s teasing – defiant – thinks he has the upper hand. And so far, he does.”

  “Would the young woman have brought a suitcase or a bag with her? Could these clothes come from her private baggage?”

  “She never came with a case. All her clothes were left in her room upstairs anyway.”

  “She would have had a handbag. It was a small black one. Imitation leather. And where’s her phone and her car keys?”

  Morrison grunted. The policewoman gathered
up the packages and hurried off. Harry said, “No underwear?”

  “As usual,” Morrison admitted, “the underpants are gone.”

  “I remember you from somewhere, young man.” The woman was bundled into a grey plastic mackintosh. Her trolley was stuffed with biscuits and pots of custard. “But that name on your label isn’t the name I remember.” She poked at his jacket, and the label sewn to the lapel. “That says Hugh. But I remember you as Paul.”

  “The name’s Hugh Trumpet,” he said, both hands pushing the stacked trolley. “But I never got on with my father and I don’t like the name anyway. So I call myself Paul Higgins. Just call me Paul.”

  The small woman peered closer. “I feel I’ve met you before. I know you from somewhere.”

  “I doubt it, madam.” He used his amiable voice. “I’ve been living in France for years. But call out if there’s anything you need. I’ll be glad to help. Sainsbury’s is always glad to help their customers.”

  She shuffled off, pushing her own trolley. Paul Stoker trundled in the opposite direction and started to load packages of flavoured porridge onto the empty shelf. He completed his shift, returned the oversized white jacket to its peg, grabbed his own coat and a torn copy of the morning newspaper which was too damaged to sell, and caught the bus home.

  “We’ve enough for a bicycle,” his wife yelled from the kitchen. “Or one of those little scooter things they like in Italy. Honestly, Hugh. Stop using the bus and feeling sorry for yourself.”

  “Does that mean dinner’s ready?”

  “When you’ve dried off.”

  “It’s stopped raining.”

  Felicity plopped the plate of pie and mash on the kitchen table, added a small opened bottle of beer and the necessary cutlery. “And there’s more mash in the pot if you want it.” She sat opposite and ate from her own plate without speaking.

  Paul ate while reading the torn newspaper. He turned to the back first, and the sports news. Then he looked at the front page. “Oh shit.”

  Felicity looked up. “What now? New Zealand beaten England at the rugby?”

  “There’s been another murder.” There was no reason for him to be suspected of anything these days, and he could probably drum up an alibi, since he worked long hours from choice. But they’d be looking for him.

  The headline BUTCHERY ABOUNDS led into a long article, and a few indistinct photos. ‘The Mad Butcher of Wales is back but this time the terrible deed took place in Gloucestershire, and the victim has not yet been named. Mr. Derek Warwick lives nearby to where the body was found. “Found by Lady Sylvia Groan,” Mr. Warwick informed us. Evidently Mrs. Groan lives at the Old People’s Home which is situated in the same parkland. “The poor dead lass,” said Mr. Warwick sadly, “comes from that place too. Lives there or works there no doubt.”

  Although the police have not yet given any official announcement, and a DNA analysis has not yet been completed, we understand that the remains discovered are of a young woman. The cause of death is not yet known but the corpse, presumably post-mortem, has been dismembered and mutilated before being abandoned. One un-named source indicated that there are signs of cannibalism, and considerable torture.”

  Paul said, “Put the news on the telly.”

  Not much more was known, and the news consisted mostly of dramatic guesswork. Felicity was washing the dishes and didn’t hear, but Paul thanked his lucky stars, not that he ever thought he had any, that he now lived in Nottingham and a long way from Gloucestershire. Well, overnight trains were a good way to travel but he didn’t own a car. And he didn’t intend to. Safer to have no obvious means of transport. He got another beer from the fridge, and sat gulping it as he watched the sports program, and wondered what might happen next.

  Felicity dozed off in the armchair and snored very loudly as her own half full beer glass tipped slowly into her lap. Paul didn’t bother to remove it from her sleeping clasp but let Jemima the cat lick up what trickled through her skirts to the rug.

  He didn’t sleep well that night. He had murder on his mind.

  October 9th didn’t celebrate with a dawn and the sun stayed neat tucked beneath the morning’s shadows. A welter of rumbling dark clouds gathered force like massed smoke rising from cannon. By eight thirty, with gusts of wind howling through the trees, the clouds slit open and lightning forked in jagged white blades from the ground upwards. The thunder cracked and rolled, following the lightning so closely that clearly the storm was closing. The rain seemed louder than the thunder and darker than the sky. It pelted so furiously it seemed determined the break glass. There was a small puddle in one empty fireplace where the chimney was known to be unreliable. Nobody went out.

  Except the police. “Morrison will be huddled in his tent.”

  “I do hope Pam isn’t out in all that storm.”

  Sylvia shook her head. She was busy putting in her contact lenses, and her eyes were watering. “I can’t see you, dear Bluebell. I hope you’re joking. Dear Pam will be on the table in a forensic lab somewhere. But the police have been trying to follow the trail where the sack was dragged from a car down to the creek. This rain will wash the trail away.”

  “It drizzled yesterday and the day before. It’s been soggy for days. No chance for footprints.” Ruby had washed the indigo from her hair and had returned to scarlet. “But I followed that trail last week. I know exactly where it goes.”

  Sylvia looked up, one eye glazed and blinking, the other lens comfortable. “You never told me that.”

  “I just went for a walk. I asked you to come with me, but you didn’t because you were expecting Harry.”

  She remembered. “So have you told Morrison?”

  “No.” Ruby shook her new-washed red curls. “He doesn’t take me seriously. I knew they’d all find it themselves anyway.”

  Sylvia reached for the telephone. “Will you speak to him? Or shall I?” Ruby shrank back. “Then I’ll tell him, but you have to tell me.” The echo of the ringing phone was faint through the earpiece. Then there was the mutter of an answer. “Can I speak to Detective Inspector Morrison? This is Sylvia Greene.”

  “One moment. I’ll see if the inspector is available.”

  The pause dragged on. The swamp of the storm sounded both from outside the manor, and through the telephone. Then finally Morrison’s impatience. “Morrison here. Mrs. Greene? Is this important? With so much to be finished and the weather making everything impossible –”

  With a gracious smile into the receiver, Sylvia said, “You know my friend Ruby Pope, inspector. She’s given me some very interesting information, which I believe you’d like to hear. Some days ago, before being ruined by the rain, she discovered the trail marked by the dragging of a heavy sack. She assures me that the grooves in the mud were quite unmistakable. The tyre marks on the road where the trail began were equally unmistakable. I gather you missed all this. Would that be accurate?”

  The reluctant pause was also unmistakable. “Unfortunately so, Mrs. Greene. The wrong trail was followed and only yesterday was found as unreliable. I should be interested to hear what Mrs. Pope has to say. I’ll be over in half an hour.”

  “Don’t get swept away, inspector. I’ll put the kettle on. Or would you prefer brandy?” But he had hung up. Sylvia giggled faintly.

  Lavender made the tea and took advantage to sit in on the discussion. Ruby was embarrassed. “It’s rather difficult to describe a trail, detective,” she said. “It’s all trees, isn’t it. I mean, past the big sycamore and past the broken branches were there’s an old oak stump, then up the slope – which was down the slope when he came, of course – and between the mossy fig and the lovely bending willow.

  Morrison passed a square of paper and a pencil stub. “Would it be easier to draw?”

  It was, and Ruby began to enjoy herself. “I don’t draw very well, you know,” she smiled, “whereas my husband –,” but catching Sylvia’s frown, began to draw. “That’s the place on the river bank. I mean the stream. Wel
l, you know what I mean. The trail was all on that other side, up here through the smaller trees and then around the big boulders where there used to be a brick barbecue thing, but it’s fallen down now. So around that. It was squishy so there were muddy shoe prints too. Big feet. Probably boots. Anyway, up past the old chestnut where Arthur used to collect conkers for roasting. There were quite a few dropped, and the trail went straight through them, scattering them down the slope. Then over the little forest path up to the road. Just a narrow road up there of course, that almost nobody ever uses. But there’s a sign post that says Rochester Manor Park, but the trail didn’t follow the little path. On the road there were big tyre marks. Some mud and a bit of a skid. As if the driver wasn’t going to stop and then he saw the sign, so he stopped after all.” Ruby explained as she drew. At the same time, Morrison drew. When she had finished, he passed her his own sketch, and she nodded eagerly. “Very good. That’s just how it is.”

  He gathered up both drawings, and his phone, having recorded her words. “These need to be passed on,” he said, “but I shall be back later today. Thank you,” and strode out without turning, pulling the back collar of his jacket up over his head. The slop and splash could be heard faintly as he hurried to his car. The rain continued to pelt against the windows and muffled other noises.

  “Big feet?” asked Lavender at once. “Both Arthur and David have rather small feet. Though Arthur does wear boots that look too big for him.”

  “I’m phoning Harry,” Sylvia said, and did.

  “Interesting,” he mumbled over the phone. “But I won’t come over today. The car might not survive this weather, and the bottom of my street has turned into a swamp. I’ll come tomorrow.”

  He hung up and leaned back in the arm chair in his own small living room. Isabel cuddled closer. “That woman is always chasing you, Harry. I think she fancies you.”

  “I wish she did.” Harry sighed.

  Thunder pounded as if rocks had crashed on the roof, bouncing and rolling across the sloping tiles. The T.V. had warned folk to stay indoors if possible. Harry was staying indoors but he wasn’t looking forward to the rest of the day.