The emptiness sobbed, and the bed shrieked. Yet there was utter silence, which seemed even more eerie.
“It’s vile,” said Sylvia. “Let’s get out of here.”
Harry said, “I’ll speak to Crabb.”
The climb from the dark wet passage was as unpleasant as the entrance had been, but since it led away and was the escape, it seemed far more bearable. Stella breathed deeply as she appeared, head in the air, from the steps beneath the chestnut trees. Harry marched off to find Crabb while Sylvia and Stella began a long walk home.
“I wish we’d brought the car after all,” muttered Sylvia.
Stella muttered back. “I never want to walk anywhere ever again.”
Morrison and Crabb were outside talking, sheltered by the pillared porch. The rain had eased to a dismal drizzle. Harry trudged through the mud. Crabb shook his head. “Again, Mr Joyce?”
“Yes, again, D.C. Crabb, and with news you need to hear.” He turned to Morrison. “There’s a cellar,” Harry told them. “Hideous to climb into. No direct passage into the house. Do you know of it yet?”
“You’d better come in,” Morrison said and waved to the two women who had just reached the distant fence. Somewhat reluctantly they turned and wandered back across the sludge. “Now,” continued D.I. Morrison. “Tell me.”
Stella whisked in, once again out of breath. She regarded the pile of her son’s furniture, which had been collected into the corners, leaving the rooms easier to examine. The open Inglenook fireplace was barricaded with screens and plastic banners. Wind now whistled down the unblocked chimney, and the plastic flapped.
“Officially,” Stella said, discovering a small chair and sitting heavily, “this is my house. It’s in my name alongside that of my son. When I was in the middle of the negotiations to buy, my daughter and her children came with me for an inspection. But my grandson likes to investigate and poke around. He found a secret passage.”
“Then I’d be obliged if you’d show me, madam,” Morrison said with an ingratiating smile.
“Someone else can,” Stella said without moving. “At eighty three years old, I’m not eager to do that sort of climbing over and over again.”
“I’ll show you,” said Harry, and Morrison’s answering smile was genuine.
“I’d be obliged, Harry,” Morrison dropped the official speech and slipped back into friendship. “It sounds important.”
“Well, you should have let us in before,” grumbled Stella from the chair, where her wellington boots and plaid coat were leaving a large mud thick puddle on the floorboards.
Sylvia was staring at the empty fireplace as Harry and Morrison disappeared outside into the chill. Crabb shook his head. “No more to find up there, thank goodness. It’s been fully evacuated. But the newspapers have exaggerated as usual. We found four young women, but none of them have yet been identified. Amongst the ashes on the hearth itself, we found residual traces of two others, almost entirely burned. But even after the hottest furnace, teeth, or parts of them, tend to remain.”
“Ugh,” said Stella. “Poor Brian. It must have been ghastly for him.”
“Somewhat worse for the girls now dead, and presumably murdered,” murmured Sylvia. “DC Crabb, has anything been found in the garden?”
“Neither in the garden nor anywhere else in the house,” Crabb said, shaking his head again. “But we’ve only examined a small part so far.”
It was some time before Harry and Morrison returned. “I’m going back to the office at once,” he was pacing, “I’ll give you a lift home, ladies. Crabb, I’ll send a couple of the boys back to relieve you, and Harry, Sylvia, I hope we can meet up again tonight. I’ll come to the manor.”
He turned up after dinner. In the smaller of the Rochester living rooms, the fire was blazing, and Sylvia sat staring at the flames, imagining the frail bodies of the underfed girls squeezed up the old fashioned chimney. Harry was more cheerful. “Is this a lone killer, or a group, do you think? Just another creep picking up girls off the street? Or something different? Perhaps this monster was inspired by the last monster. Lionel Sullivan copycat.”
“I hope not,” Sylvia mumbled. “Anyone wanting to copy that creature would be sick indeed.”
“Murderers are all sick.”
“Not officially, or they couldn’t stand trial and wouldn’t go to prison.”
Harry slumped back in the chair. “So you kidnap girls, rape and torture them, cut them into little pieces and have some for lunch, then stuff them in a barrel or up the chimney – and you’re considered sane?”
“Sanity,” said the gruff voice behind them, “can be a difficult definition.” Darcey Morrison pulled up another of the large orange velvet armchairs, pulled up a Sanderson cushion of clashing checks from the sofa, and sat between Sylvia and Harry, all gazing at the spluttering fireplace. Every one of them was thinking the same thing.
“So, have you explored the tunnel through the wardrobe?” asked Harry eventually.
Darcey stretched his legs and pulled off the red woollen scarf which had been wound three times around his neck. “Yes and no.” He looked over his shoulder quickly, decided no one could hear, and turned back to Harry. “A couple of my men went down the rabbit hole, but after a few hours we decided to make our own entrance. Now there’s a direct route through the pantry floor, straight into the cellar. We needed light and quick access. But there wasn’t much to discover.”
“The bedstead and the hooks.”
“Yes, it’s been used as a prison of some sort,” Morrison nodded. “An obvious connection with what was discovered in the chimney cavity. But everything has been cleared out some time ago. Those metal rings and hooks must have held chains or ropes, and the bed legs held vestiges of old chain restraints. But everything has been cut away. Finding a few hidden fingerprints might turn out more successful, and we have hopes of remaining DNA..”
“A house of monsters?” It was Ruby, on tiptoe, but bringing coffee.
Morrison sighed but took the coffee. “Mrs Pope, what a pleasure. It’s been a long time.” He slurped and smiled. “But you have a good memory.”
Sitting on the arm of Sylvia’s chair, Ruby said, “Very strong, two sugars. How could I forget, Mr Morrison?”
He didn’t remind her about the D.I. “Fact is,” he continued, now low voiced, “The house was built in 1933, listed as genuine Tudor, and sold for a high price. Sold on the owner’s death to the local council, who intended making it into a town hall of some kind. It changed hands twice, never lasted long, and was finally donated to the Trust, who didn’t really want it. It’s been sitting unwanted and unlisted and entirely empty since 1982. Clearly someone took up illegal residence, quite unnoticed in that damn secret cellar.”
The wind was moaning outside, which made an effective accompaniment. Ruby shivered. “Have you discovered – ?”
“No.” Morrison swigged back the last dribble of coffee. “We’ve not finished excavating, Mrs Pope, but the indications are negative.”
Sylvia sat forward, forgetting her coffee. “Have you dated the bed and those horrible iron hooks?”
“Around 1985.” He watched her reaction. “ Soon after the place went vacant. But I’d say there’s no sign of recent activity. The last human remains date from 2016.”
“My God. Fairly recent, then. I’ve been here longer than that.” Sylvia looked up at Ruby. “Delicious Bluebell, you shouldn’t be here.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Darcey smiled. “I’ve nothing more to report. No discoveries, no secrets. And no suspects. “
“I suppose we should make another list,” said Harry. “Any pointers?”
But the detective had no more idea than Harry himself. “If I had, Harry, I doubt I’d be telling you. But I assure you, there’s not a soul being investigated as yet. So when you perform one of your magic tricks, my friend, and walk in on the culprit, please let me know.”
The fire crackled. Sylvia muttered, “He’d better not. I’v
e warned him I’m divorcing him if he walks into any more suspicious places on his own. Sheds are forbidden. Now mock Tudor is added to the list. Actually anything.” She thought a moment. “Except the loo.”
Small table lamps glimmered, some bright and some dim, clashing with the huge scarlet blaze of flame. The ceiling light, a chandelier of genuine crystal which was not fake Tudor, but dated back to the times of manor itself, had not been lit. It still only accepted candles and they only lit it at Christmas. Christmas was now long over and it was February, with icicles which grew longer every night until the freezing winds blew them down. Most of the manor’s inhabitants had already gone to bed or sat cosy at the other end of the vast room where the television was playing a rehash of something comic, and the central heating was more placid than the fire.
Having assumed that the housekeeper had also long retired to bed, they were surprised when Lavender appeared, well wrapped in a dressing gown over satin pyjamas, and held a finger to her lips with dramatic exaggeration. “I saw you arrive, detective inspector,” she said in an echoing whisper. “But I knew you’d want privacy anyway, so I locked up and went to bed. Sylvia has the key to let you out.”
Darcey looked expectant. Harry said, “No coffee?”
“There’s something rather more important than that,” said Lavender, the drama rising to melodrama. “I’ve been watching my little T.V. in bed. Only small, but very comfy. I mean, I always watch the news before falling asleep.”
They waited. The television at the far end of the room was certainly not transmitting anything as dull as the news.
“So what’s happened now?” demanded Harry. ‘We’re on fire? The queen’s married again? The country’s gone bankrupt?”
“Lionel Sullivan’s escaped,” said Lavender.
34
The silence resounded and then broke. Sylvia groaned. “How?”
“Something about a transfer,” said Lavender. “They mentioned an inside job. I wasn’t really listening at first, then suddenly I realised what they were saying.”
Harry said, “He knows exactly where we live.”
“Well, I’m not moving.”
“But we could go on holiday.”
Standing abruptly, Morrison wrapped his scarf around his neck once more and nodded to his hosts. “Most unexpected,” he said gruffly. “And damned careless of somebody, unless they’re right and it’s an inside job. Looks as though I’ll not be going home to the wife again tonight.”
“Good luck with getting him back quickly,” Harry said, also standing. “He’s the last person we want roaming the hills.”
“He won’t roam,” snapped Sylvia, “he’ll go to ground.”
“And I remember those threats of revenge,” muttered Harry. They saw Morrison out, back into the slush and the whistling winds with the rain flung in torrents against the trees, walls and windows. “And those threats included his wife.”
“She’ll be taken into a safe house,” nodded Morrison. “You two look after yourselves and I’ll be in touch.”
They saw him out, then locked the door again, leaned back and gazed at each other. “Bloody shit,” said Sylvia. “I feel like using all the swear words I’ve ever used in my life before. I’m interested in this new case, and I’d love to be able to help a bit. But do I have to hide indoors instead, scared of bumping into that monster?”
They climbed the stairs to their bedroom, a long and somewhat grand staircase which Sylvia called her daily gym activity, and talked for some hours before sleep. It was the next day when Sylvia bumped into Ruby in the cake shop just over the little bridge.
“You’re here already. I was going to buy you a cake and give you the latest news.”
Ruby already carried a bag, bulging with whatever she had bought. “Silvikins, I saw you at breakfast.”
“But I didn’t want to talk in front of the others,” Sylvia explained. “Come on, beautiful Bluebell, I’ll buy you a coffee and we can share cakes.”
The village shop sold bread and cakes in the front, and a small café at the back sold the tea, coffee and chocolate drinks. The entire place frequently changed hands, since the business was erratic. There was a maelstrom of profitable activity during the tourist season and on the occasional sunny weekend in spring, while the rest of the year brought in a sad loss, even accounting for the Rochester residents, making it hardly worth opening. The Tablecloths looked as though they’d cost a whole season’s profits.
Sylvia sipped her coffee and said, “You don’t listen to the news, do you? No, nor do I, but I listened this morning on purpose. That wretched creature Sullivan has escaped.”
Spluttering through her second cream cupcake, Ruby spat crumbs. “People don’t escape from prison these days. This isn’t Alcatraz. What happened?”
Sylvia handed her a napkin. “I don’t think escapes were common from Alcatraz either, but that’s beside the point. They think he had inside help. It was a transfer, he was being taken to a more secure gaol somewhere. Frankland Prison, wherever that is. Life sentence inmates, I believe. But after a couple of hours, they found it wasn’t the right man they had chained in the back of the van, and they couldn’t find Sullivan anywhere. Ridiculous.”
The café was brightly lit, which added some vague optimism to an otherwise grey day and dismal news. “Top up the coffee?” asked the waitress.
Ruby nodded. “And your cupcakes are delicious. These little chocolate things with cream on top. Can I have another of them too please?”
Sylvia scowled and was ignored. “I make them myself,” added the other woman. “I’ll bring a selection.”
Back on subject, Sylvia put her head down and kept her voice low. “You’ll be sick after all that cake. But listen, it’s important. That monster knows us, and he’s spoken of revenge. I don’t know his wife but she’s in danger too. Lionel Sullivan is fairly recognisable, but he could be anywhere. I assume the police will watch the area fairly thoroughly. Well, they’ll want him back.”
“He might go back to his shed?” Ruby shivered.
“It isn’t there any longer. The police tore it down.”
“Where’s Frankland Prison?” Ruby asked, finishing her coffee. “If that beast escaped on route, then he may be miles away.”
“Up north, on the east coast,” said the voice behind a large plate of oozing cake. “Durham, or near there.” She set the plate down. “I’m Kate. I bought this place a year ago. I’ve seen you in here before? It’s been a struggle, unfortunately, but I do love baking.”
Ruby admitted, “I’ve been buying cakes here for about five years. Gorgeous, but I don’t often sit in.”
The conversation was becoming two sided. “The wretch didn’t escape from the police van,” Sylvia pointed out after Kate had trudged off again. “He never got on. Someone else took his place. Now that has to be an inside job. Bribery or threats or something. So Sullivan is somewhere in Gloucestershire or nearby.”
“Well, they’ll catch him soon enough,” decided Ruby. “He’s a big slob so he can’t hide in a crowd, and he can’t go back home and he probably hasn’t got any friends, and hundreds of policeman will be out searching for him.”
“I’m not sure about the hundreds,” said Sylvia. “And he had a good plan for escaping so perhaps he has a good plan for afterwards. Anyway, I’m going back to the manor to watch the news. Are you coming?”
“Wait a minute while I buy the rest of these cakes.”
The news was not inspiring. Lionel Sullivan had not been recaptured. Nor was there any breakthrough on the bodies in the chimney case. Harry was offered a cupcake with a chocolate butterfly sitting on the cream peak. He shook his head. “Nearly lunchtime. And that looks too much like a trapped budgie.”
Ruby ate it herself.
The girl was crying again. She could hear noises from the room next door, but could not understand what they meant. The chain around her ankle did not permit her entrance into the next room, but on occasion when Master unlocked it
and came in, she had been able to see what it was like, and had been astonished to find it only a little superior to her own. Both rooms were dark and windowless, both were barely furnished with just one single bed in a corner, two little hard chairs in her own room but two larger cushioned chairs in the other. The other room also had a toilet, whereas hers had a bucket next to a small hole in the floor. The hole was an earth filled sewer and stank, yet gradually Eve had become accustomed to the stench and barely noticed it anymore. On a little table in the next room were a few pornographic magazines, a pile of old books, and other things she would have adored to make use of herself, especially the kettle with several broken cups, the loo with a solid seat, and the running water. The water came from the basin beside the toilet, and a pot of tea bags appeared to be refilled fairly regularly. There was an open bowl of sugar which was also often refilled, much to the delight of the cockroaches.
Her first glimpses of Master’s small dirty bedroom had disgusted Eve. But slowly, in contrast to her own, she had relished so much, including the superior bed. On the first morning of her abduction, in a terrified whisper, Eve had asked permission to go to whatever corridor held the toilet. Master had pointed to the bucket and the hole against the far wall. He had remained watching. Eve had sobbed for long hours and again into the night.
Yet everything remained dirty. Master hardly ever washed anything, nor had he any easy way of doing so, and Eve had no access to clean water at all. She cried most of the time. Twice she had tried to kill herself, but this had been by wrapping the chain around her neck and pulling, which had done nothing but make her cough and vomit. The vomit stayed on the floor until it dried up and chipped off.
Unable to count the passing of time, Eve knew simply that her imprisonment had lasted for at least a week. She knew more about herself now, the lack of both courage and imagination which she daily tried to increase. She learned even more about Master. He was crippled, mentally impaired in several ways, and probably suffered from epilepsy or some similar condition. Yet this list of degenerative conditions did not make him as desperately unhappy as Eve would have expected. Presumably, he had never known any life different. But he was not confined to his small room the way she was in hers. She heard him leave and later return. Once when he failed to properly lock their shared door, it had swung open and showed only empty space. Eve had tried in frantic determination to escape, but the chain around her right ankle had been unbreakable and she was sitting on the floor sobbing when Master came back some hours later.
The Games People Play Box Set Page 32