“I’d never speak ill of the dead.”
“So who do you think killed her?” demanded Ruby with a smirk.
“Some jealous female who wasn’t as pretty as she was,” said Norman, and closed his eyes.
It started to rain again, and the rainbow had disappeared. The window was closed off and rain pounded heavier as if to compete with the previous storm.
“Hail stones,” muttered Sylvia. “Big chunks bashing against the roof.”
“How boring,” said Ruby.
Norman was snoring once more.
11
The pathway was strewn with fallen leaf and sodden undergrowth. Puddles were pond-sized, and drips still fell from branches.
David was sitting on an upturned bucket. It was hard to see whether the streaks down his cheeks were tear stains or the marks of the rain. When he saw the other man coming towards him, he jumped up, calling.
“Stop. It’s private property. There’s the Welsh Ripper looking out of the stable window. And there’s Batman on the roof.”
“Really?” asked the stranger, apparently unamused. “But I don’t want to meet killers or bats. I’ve come to see my sister.”
“There aren’t any sisters here,” said David.
“Her name’s Mrs. Greene,” replied the visitor. “Sylvia Greene. And my name’s Fletcher Rankling, her brother. Could you tell her I’m here?”
“I suppose I could.” David thought about it but didn’t move.
Fletcher walked past him and approached the huge pillars of Rochester Manor. The door was slightly open, but he rang the bell anyway. It was a bell of some size, a bell shaped bell, echoing with profound resonance within the corridor. Lavender Dawson answered. The gentleman told Lavender, “I’ve come to see my sister She’s Sylvia Greene, and I’m Fletcher Rankling.”
“She’ll be delighted, I’m sure,” said Lavender unknowingly, “come in while I find her for you.”
He sat on the long wooden bench in the hallway, staring with impatience at the grandeur of the carpets and staircase with its carved bannisters and polished balustrade. He heard someone say, “Shit,” and guessed it was his loving stepsister.
“I suppose,” Sylvia mumbled to herself, “I haven’t much choice.” But wished Harry was there.
She thought Fletcher looked exactly the same as the last time, and he thought she looked a hundred years older. He stood and walked forwards. “I heard about the murder, Sylvia,” he said, “and thought I should come and offer my protection. Commiserations. Whatever was needed. Should you feel the need to get away, you’d be more than welcome with myself and my father. It’s a spacious house.”
“In Wales, where the other two murders took place?”
“We live in North East Wales. The murders happened in the North West.”
Leading him into the small salon, Sylvia pointed him towards the small crimson velvet couch. “Well, that’s kind.” Although the very last thing she’s ever consider doing. “Especially since we didn’t part on the best of terms previously. But no matter, I’m comfortable here. Are you staying in the village? I presume you haven’t driven all the way from Wales in the rain and hail stones?” At least he wouldn’t be able to start any grass fires amongst the sodden sludge.
“No, I’m staying at the local pub. What is it? The Crooked Wager, I think. An odd name.”
“It’s an old story.” Sylvia yawned, poked her nose back into the hall, and called for Lavender. “Any chance of tea? Coffee? Biscuits?”
The oldest Rochester inhabitant was bustling down the stairs, having smiled and waved at Sylvia, she stopped and nodded. With a slight wheeze, Amy said, “Tea, dear? I’ll do it, dear. Lavender’s upstairs with poor daft old Percy He’s not well. Man-flu. I like making tea.”
“That’s sweet”, Sylvia thanked her. No use telling a ninety three year old that she was too fragile to make a pot of tea and pile biscuits on a plate. Sylvia shuffled back into the small salon. “Tea’s coming. Now, Fletcher. Did you come here simply out of kindness, or is there something you need to ask me?”
“No, no, just to help,” he assured her. “Although, of course, I think my father could do with some help too.”
He already looked at home, leaning back on the old velvet, legs stretched, smile curling up to his cheekbones but missing out the empty eyes. Sylvia said, “Money, Fletcher?”
Fletcher said, smile intact, “No, not at all, my father would be mortified if he thought I was borrowing on his behalf. But of course, the poor dear is broke. The Welsh cottage was a big saving, less on electricity and general upkeep. But Dad never had a penny as you know. He does his best.”
“He does his best to get drunk every weekend. And do you still spend a fortune on lighter fluid, Fletcher?” Sylvia’s smile lit her eyes, but Fletcher’s smile finally died.
“Unfair.” He sat forwards, noticeably tense. “Dad gave up drinking years ago. He’s got arthritis, you know, and lives in constant pain.” Sylvia’s hip and both knees were doing a good deal more than twinge, always worse in wet weather, but she said nothing. Fletcher continued, “and the smear about lighting fires is a slander. That was just a childhood game. I never understood the danger back then, but naturally I do now. We live a quiet, respectable life, my father and I. He’s never married again since your mother died, and although I’ve only just broken up from a long-term relationship, I never married either.”
“She ran out of money?” Fletcher glowered, getting to his feet. Sylvia raised both hands. “Yes, unfair, I know. I shouldn’t have said it. And as it happens, although I am perfectly happy where I am and have no desire to move to Wales, I will pass on a little money to your father if you give me his bank account details. I remember him once attempting to look after me, and my mother’s death hurt us both. But I’m no millionaire, Fletcher. It will have to be a reasonable sum.”
“I’m a reasonable man, Sylvia.”
The rattling of tea cups repeated just outside the door, and Sylvia hopped up to open it. Amy, shuffling in pink fluffy slippers, wobbled in and plonked the tray on the coffee table between the sofas. A large pot of tea, four cups and saucers, “I couldn’t remember how many of us there were,” and a large plate overflowing with biscuits and slices of cake. She collapsed beside Sylvia on the larger couch. “You pour, Sylvia dear. I’m feeling a little feeble.”
Having poured three cups of tea and passed around both the sugar pot and the biscuits, she sat back and decided to do the ridiculous. She finished the large slice of cake first, sipped the tea, licked her lips, and said, “Now, I wonder if I might ask everyone a difficult question. We’re all intelligent. We all read the newspapers. We all wonder about the mysteries and the puzzles that surround us. So, have either of you any opinions on who the killer is?
“Oh, dear me, yes,” said Amy into the steam from her teacup. “I wasn’t on the coach to Monaco, you know. Not my sort of thing and I can’t stand long journeys anymore. But it had to be the coach driver of course. The only person with a key to the door and the only other person who was over there and then came back here.”
“Apart from everyone on our coach, and half a dozen coaches in the same car park, coming from all over England.” Sylvia tried not to sound bossy.
“Paul Stoker,” Fletcher said. “I remember his name well. He got away with it the first time because the jury were a lot of brainless idiots. But he was the obvious suspect. Now he’s at it again.”
“So why did he stop for so long?” Sylvia demanded.
“Frightened. Ran away and changed his name. Probably went on murdering girls in Italy or Lithuania or something. Now he’s back home and reckons he can’t be traced.”
“I remember the case quite well,” Amy said, tapping her fingertips together. “There was no evidence. The police grabbed the first possibility because the public was shouting about how useless they were. But Stoker even had an alibi.”
“Not for every murder, only for one, and that was dubious,” said the voice.
Ruby stuck her head around the door, fluttered in, and squashed up on the sofa at the other side of Sylvia. “I think he got away with it because the women on the jury thought he was too young and handsome.”
“Handsome?” demanded Amy. “He was a skinny little runt with a long nose.”
“It’s someone no one has tracked down yet,” said Dennis Warwick, pushing into the argument and promptly sitting down beside Fletcher. “And someone who knows us, I believe. First of all our coach. Now young Pamela who worked here.”
“Perhaps it’s one of us,” suggested Sylvia.
“I think we’re all too old,” Amy interjected. “We just aren’t the type. You don’t get to our age and suddenly dream up a taste for blood and guts.”
“I was going to suggest Norman,” said Sylvia softly, her voice tentative, but she shut up quickly as Norman Syrett entered the room.
“Hello, Dennis,” he mumbled. “I was looking for you. What’s on the TV this evening?”
“Murder,” said Dennis. “Now, Norman, who do you reckon did these murders, then?”
“Arthur,” sniffed Norman. “He beats that boy of his. A nasty bastard, he is.” He sat immediately on the arm of the sofa where Dennis had settled himself. “Never has a girlfriend, does he? Must have married once, but I’ve never seen him with a woman. Perhaps he murdered the last one.”
Ruby bobbed up and down, making Amber dizzy. “That’s what David says. He accuses his own father of having murdered his mother.”
“Young David’s a loon,” sniffed Dennis. “No wonder his father beats him.”
“No one should beat anyone,” said Ruby.
“Spare the rod and spoil the child.”
“It could have been a woman,” suggested Fletcher. “They say there’s no evidence of rape. A woman could do a lot out of jealousy. Hormones, you know.”
Sylvia eyed him with considerable dislike. “Be careful, Fletcher, or there’ll be no transfers tomorrow.”
“I didn’t say you,” Fletcher objected.
“Good gracious above,” said Lavender, pushing the door wide. “What on earth is all this noise. Are you playing Trivial Pursuit?”
“Something very similar,’ said Sylvia. “Come and join us. We’re solving crime. Who do you think committed these murders?”
“In pursuit of the trivial,” Amber smiled. “And no one agrees with anyone else.”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” Lavender squeaked, backing out of the room. “I’d just be ill. Poor darling Pam, you know, I was so fond of her. A lovely girl. And hopefully I don’t know anyone vile enough to do such things. It has to be somebody Welsh.”
“No, not Welsh. They have such lovely singing voices and such a funny language.” That was Harriet, who stood just behind Lavender. “But the butcher down in the village, now he’s very fond of blood and happily hacks things all about. He’s mean too. Percy something, and very bossy. I don’t like him at all. He’s not Welsh. I think he’s from Yorkshire.”
“Yorkshire? That settles it then.”
Sylvia slipped out half way through the discussion of the butcher and hurried back to her bedroom. She stretched flat on her bed, slipped off her shoes and tipped them to the rug, pulled out her mobile, and phoned Harry. He answered at once, sounding relieved. Her voice, she was sure, sounded very much the same.
Her bedroom was bathed in the atmosphere of calm contentment, the shadows of patterned materials and hanging textures, reminders of the rainbow. She was not, she thought, a relaxing companion and had rarely been calm or content, but it was exactly what she loved to create around her. The soft sleek comfort of her bed was dark, the wallpaper bright, the carpet thick cream wool, the lighting subtle. Everything as she adored it. But now she closed her eyes to all of it, and simply listened to Harry.
“It hasn’t been a good day, but thanks for phoning. Now it feels a great deal better.”
Sylvia smiled. “That’s a sweet thing to say. My day’s not been great either. But your voice is soothing.”
“Considering I talk nonsense – or murder.” Harry chuckled. “Compassion, my dear Sylvia, is soothing. But tell me what ruined your day.”
“I had a visit from the one person I didn’t ever want to see again. He’s on my list of suspects. My step-brother Fletcher. Came to borrow money but gave the excuse of coming to protect me. So we all talked murder. Some of the dafter residents here have their own feeble ideas. I suppose including me.”
“Nothing feeble about you, my dear.”
“Don’t you think I’m odd?” She was wishing he lay on the bed snuggled up next to her. “Old age makes us all pathetic I suppose. I forget my own name on occasion. I piddle my pants when I cough. I’m more tolerant but less patient. My name’s a mixture of silver and green, my closest friend’s called Ruby, yet I call her Bluebell which she thinks is just plain contrary – and – and – well, and I miss you.”
For a moment he was silent. Her words had shocked him. Then, softly, he said, “I miss you too.” Sighing, “I’ve spent most of the day trying to get rid of Isabel. Tony’s been here. Arguing over tiny fragments of utter rubbish. At last, thank God, he’s taken her off to the pub for a quiet drink, but I’m expecting her back to sleep.”
“You could just be firm.” She wished he would be. Especially now he admitted missing her.
“But it seems Tony’s been pushing her around. It took quite a lot of talking to get certain confessions out of them, but it seems he practically pushed her down the stairs once. But she’s an absolute pain too.”
“You don’t think he’s the killer then?”
“No.” He paused again, then said, “Well, maybe. You know, the silly little nobody unhappy at home, takes it out on strangers when he goes out and wants to practise power.”
“Sorry. I don’t want to talk murder.” Sylvia smiled into the phone. “I’m exhausted – lying on my bed – with a glass of very chilled wine – cheers.” She lifted the glass and sipped. “I wish – well, I wish you were here.”
“I’d come over,” he said at once, “except I can’t. I promised I’d be here when Isabel comes back. I’ve never given her a key to the house. And besides, half the roads are flooded. It hailed like hammers on the roof.”
“Yes, it did here too. But the road to the pub can’t be flooded. Not if that’s where the happily married couple have gone.”
“They walked. I wished it hadn’t stopped raining. I wouldn’t mind hearing they’ve both drowned.”
“Now who’s dreaming of murder?” Sylvia giggled into the pillow. “Can you come over in the morning. I really don’t want to deal with my nasty step-brother alone.”
“I’ll be over, I promise.” She could hear other voices in the background and knew Tony and Isabel were back. Harry sighed. “I promise, I’ll be over early. But I have to go now.”
“I’ll dream sweet dreams.” She didn’t add that they’d be of him.
12
There had never been time before, to play at such length. He had purposefully chosen places where seclusion gave him an hour alone with the body before death, and perhaps an hour afterwards. Some circumstances had lifted, soothed and satisfied, co-operating with his desires so that he was able to play longer. The first, of course, Jemima had been taken in her own home, so several hours before death had been possible once she was gagged, and another couple of hours after her final breath.
But nothing had ever been as exciting as the last one. Prim Pam had been a satiating gift of brazen bounty. Several hours before death, followed by more than three days afterwards. He had never before been able to dismantle the whole body with such delicate and absorbing pleasure.
The parts he had butchered to cook and eat had been carefully chosen. Some had tasted of the thrill. Others had been sour, or tart. He’d added onions and put the mush on toast. He’d never tried that before, since he’d never had time. Pam had given him new experiences. He’d been able to do things he’d only ever dreamed of before.
It had
long been a dream to slice off certain specific parts and eat them. Some years ago, while all action had been impossible, and he suffered the inner rage of humiliation daily, unable to retaliate and force his own desires, he had dreamed of chopping and then eating raw. But when the first opportunity to fulfil that dream had eventuated, with the luscious and obliging Pam, he had decided to cook the flesh and experiment with various methods. None had been entirely successful, and he longed to try again, this time cooking slowly and for longer, probably in the oven. There was an oven in the shed.
He went there several times after work. Although he had no body with him for play-time, it was cosy and pleasant to greet his collection of tools, to sharpen his knives, to tap and smile at the oven and caress it, and sit comfortably on the blood stained rug. It told the story he adored, and he sat there, hugging his knees, eyes closed, remembering.
Although he had never changed his pattern of attack and pleasure, he had enlarged the possibilities over the years. Adapting to each separate set of circumstances, he had worked slower or quicker, Now, with the addition of his own secret place, he relished the thought of time fitting him, instead of him adjusting to time.
The old barn was the magical answer, of course, giving him endless time within endless secrecy. But he chose to remain within the holiday hours allotted him from work. He needed the job. It gave him respectability, an alibi, and a decent salary. It gave him, in one sense, a licence. He laughed, A licence to kill. They called him the Welsh Ripper, a stupid inaccuracy, and they should be calling him James Bond.
The relish of past experiences stayed with him on long dreamy nights, and filled his working hours, no boredom while reliving what he had done already. And then there was the simple pleasure of the pins, the knife cuts, and the games with his own flesh. He had to be careful. He loved the heightened emotion of pain, but didn’t want to risk going too far. A crippling dissection would be foolish, and too much wasted blood would weaken him. But that, of course, was the whole point. Control. Control over pain. Control over death. It was, in fact, time to plan another murder.
The Games People Play Box Set Page 11