Laying in her husband’s arms brought a still deliciously unexpected thrill. Now in her late seventies, Sylvia had never hoped to love or be loved again, nor had she dreamed of it. It had seemed when she occasionally thought of such a situation, a rather silly idea. Having leapt on her at an unguarded moment, she had drowned in the thrill of it and the wildly absurd excitement had still not ebbed.
“Perhaps,” she said to his shoulder, “I’m already senile. You know – bonkers. To be so gushy at my age.”
“Must admit,” admitted Harry to the top of her silver hair, “I’ve never thought of you as gushy. My dear Sylvia, you’re outspoken, determined, sometimes even a little rude, and hardly ever asleep, even when you’re asleep.”
Sylvia tried to work this out. “I don’t mean to be rude,” she muttered eventually. He stroked the long curve from the back of her neck down her spine, and into the deeper curve where her waist dipped and then rose again. “All that haggard old flesh,” she sighed, shivering with the tingle.
“I’m not an artist. I don’t criticise. It’s the touch I love, and the warmth, and the silky parts.”
“And the fuzzy parts.”
He laughed. “Them too. I adore being so close to you, really knowing you. I know you’ll disappear beneath navy silk if I don’t hurry past and buy you plum silk or light blue linen first. I know you sometimes snore. I think that’s cosy.”
Her head was snuggled into the space between his chin and his shoulder. “That’s sweet. You’re sweet, Harry. And you talk in your sleep and I like that too.”
“And we’re going to stick our noses into this new crime thing, aren’t we?” he said slowly after a thoughtful pause. “Morrison didn’t seem keen, but he didn’t throw us out into the gutter either” He paused again, thoughtfully scratching one ear. “I even wondered if it was linked to the last one. There are similarities. Picking random girls to abduct. Years later they turn up dead.”
“Sullivan mutilated his victims,” Sylvia murmured. “That was his fun. Torture and dismemberment. Power games. None of these girls were cut up.”
“No. Just shoved up a chimney to scorch and burn.”
“The autopsies aren’t finished yet. We don’t know the cause of death. But they were all naked. So that’s the same as the wretched Lionel Sullivan. Kidnapped for sex and then killed. It has to be the same impulse. Don’t murderers share that same basic madness?”
Harry wasn’t sure.
The whole crowd had discussed the circumstances the evening before. Rochester Manor stood in its own rambling grounds and had once been owned by the old English aristocracy. Now it had been bought up by a gathering of the elderly, having wished to live in sociable comfort and enjoy the freedom of cleaners, cooks and nurses. The level of care available full time had decreased as folk died and others found their savings disappearing, but the old elements of luxury remained, there were two cleaners, an Italian cook with a young assistant, a caretaker and his autistic son, and a manager who was also a qualified nurse. The living room was decorated with an assortment of furniture supplied by the inhabitants and spread across the huge hall, taking up the majority of the ground floor. An assortment of squashy armchairs, squashy couches and squashy cushions were interrupted by odd tables of various sizes, small wooden chairs, lamp standards and bookcases holding everything from books of all kinds, a Ming jar worth a fortune, modern bling, and recent junk. A huge fireplace topped by a huge mirror and a huge clock stayed lit day and night throughout autumn, winter and the first half of spring. It spat ash and smoke gusts, but as yet no corpses.
Faces around the fire, eyes reflecting the golden blaze, everyone had discussed the new scandal. “There’s no proof,” Harry said, “that this girl’s disappearance has any connection to the bodies in the chimney. They could have been there for years and years. Some new lunatic grabbing girls in roughly the same area – well, that’s sadly happening all over the world. She may reappear in a day or two.”
“Escape from the chimney?”
“Harry, you sound horribly matter o’ fact,” Sheila O’Brien complained. “I suppose you see so many dead bodies now, you take them for granted.”
“Did it sound like that?” He had blushed.
“It did a bit,” smiled Sylvia.
But that had been a warm and wine blurred evening, whereas now, once they managed to roll out of bed, it would be breakfast in the smaller dining room, shouting across the tables and the sound of the toaster, the kettle and the yawns.
“With you like a rather silky hot water bottle,” Harry said, “it’s tempting to stay in bed all day. But I want to walk past that house.”
With exactly the same aim in mind, Sylvia reached up a little and kissed his cheek. “Have we any chance of getting in, do you think?
Harry doubted it. “No, but we can try. We know some of Morrison’s team.”
“But we don’t know any of the uniformed lot,” sighed Sylvia. “And it’ll be them guarding the outside.”
It was breakfast and cutlery rattled. Steam filled one corner where an urn competed with three electric toasters, popping up their recent refills. Lavender Dawson, replete in tweed, called out, “Two dark rye and two white. The fruit toast is almost ready as well. Four slices. Who wanted fruit toast?”
One thin wrinkled hand waved in the air, diamond ring flashing. “Me, Lavender dear,” called Stella, and turned back to Sylvia who was sitting next to her. “I’m happy to come with you dear,” she nodded, buttering her toast. “The house is partially in my name. Can they tell me to buzz off when it’s my own doorstep?”
“They can do anything they want,” said Benjamin from her other side.
“Qui c’e per le uova?” shouted the cook, stomping in through the kitchen door which swung backwards and forwards behind him. The tray he carried was enormous and held four plates of full fried breakfast, each with its own separate idiosyncrasies.
More hands waved, including Harry’s, “Mine’s the scrambled eggs and smoked salmon.”
“We can try,” Sylvia said. “I want to walk down there and if you can get us in, Stella, that would be fabulous.”
“Not me.” Benjamin was drinking hot black coffee laced with malt Scotch. “I’m not spending my mornings staring at dead girls. Smelly ashes, no doubt.”
“You read Mark Dawson,” objected Stella. “That’s full of dead bodies.”
“I don’t have to look at them,” Benjamin pointed out. “Nor smell them either.”
Between Sylvia and Benjamin sat Ruby, who was thoroughly enjoying her second chocolate and almond croissant. She tried not to spit crumbs. “I’ll come.”
“No,” Harry shook his head. “Half of Rochester Manor turning up won’t tempt the law into letting us in for a grand tour. Three of us is already too many. Sorry. We’ll tell you all about it when we get back.”
“And more than likely, there’ll be nothing to tell.” Sylvia smiled.
The bell rang. “No more orders except tea or coffee. And I’m leaving.” Lavender brushed crumbs from her tweed. “You can help yourselves but don’t burn your fingers.”
“I’ll go,” said Ruby. “Who wants another cup?”
Sylvia held out her mug. “And do try to remember that I don’t take sugar.”
“After eight years, you think I’d forget?”
“There was sugar in my last cup,” said Sylvia.
“Then you drank Harry’s by mistake.”
The general gossip was loud throughout the dining room. Most were discussing the same thing. “After that Lionel fellow two years back, and Fred West before him, this seems to be a popular area for murder. We’ll have to start a club.”
“Don’t be disgusting, Derek.”
“Perhaps it’s Benjamin. Hey, Ben, it was your house, wasn’t it? What you been up to?”
“My house, not his,” Stella called back. “And not mine either. I helped buy it for my son. It was empty for years.”
“Not so empty after all.”
/>
Sylvia looked at Harry “We want an early start,” she finished her tea. “If we dress like forensic scientists, perhaps they’ll let us in. Do we walk or drive?“
“You mean white trousers tucked into the top of his boots, like Ostopolis?” Harry grinned. “I’m all out of white trousers.”
“I mean, look smart.”
“Ostopolis is never smart.”
Enjoying a brisk walk, and accepting the occasional need for exercise, Harry and Sylvia looked nothing like forensic scientists but did wear goloshes. It was a dark grey day and the low clouds promised rain. The roads through the village sparkled with puddles, but the blinks of desultory sunshine quickly faded. Few of the village shops bothered opening in winter since they only catered for tourists, but the baker’s was open and apart from selling fresh bread, cakes, pies and sausage rolls, they were passing on the latest news.
The woman serving smiled at everyone and kept her mouth shut, but the customers wanted gossip. “Look, there’s Harry. He’s the one that found that big fellow up in the forest a year or more back. Harry, any more news?”
“Seen the paper, Harry?”
“Been talking to your detective friend, Harry?”
Harry shook his head to everything.
“Twelve more corpses in the chimney and a couple of hundred dug up in the garden.”
“You mean the entire population of Cheltenham, then?”
Avoiding the tiny stone bridge over to the Baker’s, Harry, Sylvia and Stella walked on. It started to rain.
33
The book had sold well in England, although the American market had taken very little interest. They had their own serial killers. Paul Stoker had engaged a professional to help, and they had brought out the book within the year accompanied by a fanfare of marketing. It was the lucky television appearance that had helped it snuggle between the best sellers in Waterstones.
Paul Stoker had been cradling a copy of his book while chatting happily to the interviewer and the cameras behind him. “I was the one accused. Handcuffed. Dragged into court. Then I was the one in prison for months awaiting trial and verdict. Not a lot of fun, I can promise you.”
“But,” smiled the BBC late night boffin with the large round rimless glasses, “you were also the lucky man found not guilty.”
“Hardly luck,” argued Paul. “Since I was innocent, I expected to be found innocent. But I was still harried by the press.”
“And now the book explains it all. And most interesting it is.”
Paul hurriedly held up the copy of ‘Lionel Sullivan’s Twisted Torture.’ Its blazing orange cover, the row of fir trees in the background and the silhouette of the shed under the trees stood large. It was a far smaller shed, but that didn’t matter. “I went to the monster’s trial,” Paul added. “All the details are covered here.”
The extraordinary sales success meant that Paul Stoker, once accused of the earlier crimes of Lionel Sullivan, now lived with his wife Felicity in Kent, in a home bought for cash, large enough for the six children they didn’t have. Yet the initial success waned when the murders became old news, and Paul wondered if they’d have to sell the house and move into something smaller. Felicity worked part-time in a book shop in Canterbury, and Paul was back stocking shelves in the supermarket. Enough for baked beans but not caviar. “I’m going to study this new case,” he told his wife. “It’ll be the new book. I’ll stay somewhere nearby, like Bourton-on-the-Water or something, and really get all the details. You know – unmask the culprit and write another best-seller.”
“Really? That easy?” Felicity raised an eyebrow. “Give up your job again? So I’m left here trying to live on bread and jam? While you trot off and do nothing? Cos the cops won’t tell you a bloody thing, and you won’t be uncovering anything except your own damned ignorance.”
“I’ll get another job in Sainsbury’s in Gloucester, and send you some money each month,” he assured her. “And the cops know they owe me. They’ll be nice.”
„And now you think yourself so clever, you’re safe from all risks. But what if that Sullivan chap finds you? He must have heard of your book. I bet he’d like to drag you into one of his sheds.“
„That big lolloping brute? He’s a total idiot. And he won’t even know what I look like.“
„Don’t they watch TV in prison? On that interview, you sat with that big toothy grin cos you’re hoping to be famous. Perhaps you’ll get famous and dead too.“
He left the next week after giving his notice with a lie about having been diagnosed with liver cancer, fell asleep on the train and woke up with his head cradled on the shoulder of a complete stranger sitting next to him, a somewhat round and genial matron whose restful shoulder was , stumbled off the train at Cheltenham Station, and went off to find himself some digs.
It was pouring with rain by the time Sylvia, Harry and Stella reached Hokam House and stood a moment looking at the high white plastered walls behind their tapestry of black wooden struts.
“Well, fancy that, Mrs Joyce,” said D.C. Crabb. “And Mr Joyce too. I wondered if you’d be turning up sometime.”
“And I’m Stella Anderson,” Stella said rather loudly through the rain. “Part owner of this house. So perhaps you could open that door and let us in. We’re soaked.”
Crabb was grinning. “Now, lady, sorry and everything, but you must know I can’t let you in. Totally impossible.”
“I’m sure Darcey wouldn’t mind,” Sylvia said. “You’re well aware of the help we gave last time.”
“Inspector Morrison’s not here at present,” Crabb said, not believing a word. “Get permission from him, Mrs Joyce, and I’ll open the door wide.”
“Humph,” said Sylvia, pulled her navy raincoat tightly around her and walked off with the others.
The rain pelted. The large mock Tudor house had blurred into clouds of sleet. The horizon of bare hills had disappeared. “Here,” said Stella under her breath as Crabb backed under cover of the porch over the doorway closed off with strips of yellow plastic. “There’s a way. But it’s not very nice.”
They didn’t expect nice and followed Stella through the downpour. The grounds were empty beneath apart from the careful squares marked out for examination. It was too wet for digging and too cold for any sniffer dogs. It was down the back of Sylvia’s coat collar, her hood swept off backwards in the wind, and Harry closed up the umbrella as it turned inside out in a bitter gust.
Leading out over the muddy lawn and across to the two wide branched chestnut trees, Stella tottered and leaned back against one knotted trunk, catching her breath. “Not as young as I used to be.”
“Yes. It’s a shame time doesn’t go backwards.” Sylvia shook the sodden drops from her hair. The tree gave little shelter for its branches were bare. Harry fiddled with the umbrella and turned it back the right way.
“More trouble than they’re worth.” He mumbled. Their shoes were mud slick, and the rain continued to pour. Crabb had sidled back inside. “Is anyone watching?”
“Not a soul. Unless from those little windows.”
“Then hurry. With me. Now.” There were two narrow stone steps within the shadow of the tree. But they seemed to lead nowhere. Then Stella kicked, and a yawning gap with sides of dripping mud opened at their feet. Not wide enough to fall into, but just large enough to squeeze down. “We’ll all look like miners after we go in there,” mumbled Stella, “but it’s the only way. At least, the only way I ever discovered.”
“You were searching for secret passages?”
“No, but my grandson was.” Stella pointed. “There’s more steps inside, but you have to go slowly, backwards, hanging on. There are fifteen steps beyond the first two, and they get smaller until number ten when they start getting bigger. They lead into the cellar. Just an empty dump. But there was a sort of bed when I was here. I brought Ben and our three grandsons, you know, just to see if I was buying the right thing. Little Georgie found this all by himself. We thought we
’d lost him.”
They thought they’d lost themselves as they started climbing down into the pit. It was as dark as hopelessness and nearly as demanding. Feeling, groping and stretching backwards, they climbed one by one until Stella called, “I’m down. You can jump the last step. It’s not far.”
Harry landed with a thud and Sylvia slipped down into his arms. “So there is,” decided Sylvia, “a light at the end of the tunnel.”
The tunnel was tight, low, and winding. Everyone bent their heads, even Stella who was not tall. But the speck of luminescence at the distant ending gave direction, and when they reached that point, they discovered the promised steps upward, a broken trap door and an entrance into a small stone-walled space without windows or warmth. There was, however, another entrance for the large door in the opposite wall was heavily brass hinged with a row of locks, each with an iron key settled within. In fact, it was not locked and stood slightly ajar. Harry kicked it fully open.
The police had not yet discovered this hidden cellar. It was large, although it smelled of damp and mould. “I haven’t changed anything,” said Stella. “This is exactly what I found when little Georgie dragged me through that tunnel. I don’t know what it’s supposed to be. Well, the house is fake Tudor, so perhaps they thought this would be a great tourist attraction or something. Tudor torture. They did, didn’t they?”
“Or perhaps it’s real,” muttered Harry.
“It’s not real Tudor,” Stella shook her head.
“There were bodies up the chimney,” said Sylvia softly. “That wasn’t fake Tudor. And a girl recently went missing. This looks to me just like a place to keep some poor kid as a sex toy or a slave. Kidnap victim.”
It was horribly uncomfortable. Reeking of misery, pain and loneliness, the black room echoed with tears. Although almost empty, it seemed crowded with vile memory. A double bedstead, rusty old iron, stood against one wall, stripped bare of covers and mattress. There were metal rings and hooks embedded in both floor and ceiling, but nothing hung from them. A ceiling light had no bulb, but there was a socket on the lower part of the wall next to the bed. That was all.
The Games People Play Box Set Page 31