The Games People Play Box Set

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “If he genuinely wants revenge on you on us, which is what he claimed, then he’s still in England,” said Harry. “And I’ll gladly help. But we’re not that clever, and not that mobile.”

  His very impressive car was gleaming outside her window. “You look somewhat mobile to me, Mr Joyce.”

  They left some hours later, and Sylvia popped her head around the door where three police constables and one detective could be heard arguing furiously regarding the merits of Manchester City against Manchester United. They all turned, half glaring and became suddenly silent, as Sylvia said, “Hello there. I don’t mean to interrupt you, but I’m Sylvia Joyce, and this is my husband. We were wondering whether you’d had any results chasing after Lionel Sullivan yet, or any idea just where he is or what he’s up to?”

  The detective stood. “That’s police business, Mrs Joyce, and definitely not something we intend discussing now.”

  “Then I shall go and see Detective Inspector Morrison,” said Sylvia with a smile of faint malice. “Enjoy your bikkies.”

  Joyce remained sitting in her living room, a wide smile of pure satisfaction on her face. She was waiting for the BBC to get back to her, and when Billy Dempster looked in and began to complain about her intentions, she told him to go away, since she was free to do whatever she wished.

  “Perhaps we should go back to school,” said Harry.

  Ruby giggled. “I can just see you sitting in the front row down at the Primary School.”

  “I do think poor Harry might squeeze into Secondary School by now,” Kate giggled back. “Though I’m sure my husband Maurice would love to teach you.” She reached for the plate on the coffee table between them. “Sorry Harry. Have another cake.”

  “Give it to Ruby.” Harry was staring at the fireplace.

  Ruby took the last cake, saying, He’s thinking about chimneys again.”

  “I’m thinking how difficult it would be to shove a dead weight up far enough to wedge it, without it just tumbling down again.” Harry scratched his ear lobe. “And even climbing up onto the roof would have been damn nigh impossible for one person. There had to be two of them.” Sylvia was quiet. She was reading a series of extremely large books on the arts of investigation, the law, and modern practices in contrast to previous systems.

  She blinked at Harry and returned to the book. Kate sat forwards a little. “I was thinking about that after the last time I met you, and you mentioned that,” she said. “I’m thinking this creep had a winch or some sort of thing to push the body upwards. Not just a broom of course. More like a little tractor thing or a digger. Tractors, extractors. Something that lifts and pushes up.”

  “How clever of you,” Ruby told her. “Go on Harry. See who bought one of those lately.”

  Sylvia momentarily looked up. “That Tudor dump had eight steps up to the front door. That’s asking a lot of a small tractor. And no tyre marks on the floorboards. But I don’t know much about farm machinery.” She buried her head again.

  Harry added, “Hopefully we’ll get to talk to Morrison again sometime soon.”

  The small plump woman sitting on the third sofa, which completed the snug circle around the fire, sat forwards. “Miley, look. Pictures in the flames. I can see a poor little girl being killed.”

  Beside her, her sister sprang forwards, both hands tracing the image. “Yes, so there is. Look, look, he’s doing it again. A giant, he is. And she’s so little. He has a knife. But he can push her up the chimney all by himself, he’s so big and she’s so little.”

  “The Brook sisters,” Ruby explained to Kate. “Both psychic.”

  “So what’s the giant’s name?” Kate asked.

  Milly looked at Francis and Francis stared back. Finally she said, “Giles. He’s a poet. Giles Goliath.”

  “I’ll look him up on my laptop,” said Kate. “How exciting.”

  Sylvia did not look up from her book, and Harry shut his eyes. “I’ll call for more tea,” said Ruby.

  “Make it wine,” mumbled Sylvia, turning the page.

  As the fire crackled and Lavender stumbled in with three large teapots of tea and a clanking rattle of cups and saucers in large quantities, Benjamin and Stella wandered over, delivering their somewhat thumbed copy of the Gloucestershire Gazette. “She always gets it wrong, that silly little journalist,” Stella said, tossing the paper onto Harry’s lap. “It’s like that Trump fellow and fake news.”

  “I met the journalist girl a couple of years ago,” Ruby said, “and she was sneaky.”

  “Well, she’s written a load of dosh about ancient corpses from Tudor times, perhaps the mistresses of Henry VIII that he murdered.”

  “Henry VIII should sue them.”

  Kate was getting bored amongst the people she didn’t know. “Have you found anything about that rug? White fur, perhaps. Or wool.”

  Sylvia resurfaced. “We searched for some time. We didn’t discover a thing, but Morrison says he has a lead.”

  Stella nodded, “He’s a good man. He’ll solve this soon.” Benjamin retrieved his newspaper, dumped himself in a chair just a little further from the fire, and disappeared between the pages.

  Kate smiled at everyone, picked up the empty plate which had once held a huge pile of small cakes, and pulled on her cardigan and scarf. Maurice will be bringing our daughter Mia home very soon so I’ll be going. He’s her teacher, you know. Very useful.”

  Ruby stood, taking Kate’s arm, ready to show her out. “The cakes were wonderful.”

  “I don’t have all that many friends.” Kate was whispering. “I can’t gossip with other women in case they turn out to be the mothers of Maurice’s kids. So it’s great fun for me coming here.”

  “Come to dinner. Bring the whole family. We eat well here.” They stood smiling at each other just inside the front door. The wind could be heard from outside, battering against the door and rattling the windows. Ruby shivered. “Shall I call a taxi?”

  “I’ll take the bus.”

  Ruby gave a sympathetic pat to the grey woolly shoulder beside her. “Teachers don’t earn much, do they? But it’s too cold to walk.”

  Laughing, Kate pulled at the front door. “I’ve been used to freezing weather all my life. I used to live in Glasgow. As long as it isn’t raining, I’m fine. And besides, Maurice comes from a wealthy family. His brother is a millionaire.”

  “Bring him to dinner as well,” Ruby giggled. “More millionaires are just what we need around here.” She waved goodbye to the disappearing shadow and hurried back inside. The wind hauled the door from her hand and slammed it shut for her. She told Sylvia, “I’ve invited Kate to dinner one day.”

  “Fine.” Sylvia didn’t move nor look up. “Good. She’s nice.”

  “She’ll bring her husband and their little girl. Maybe even her brother-in-law. Evidently, he’s gloriously rich.”

  “Just what you’ve been looking for, my dear Bluebell.”

  “Oh, pooh. He’s probably married and far too young for me.”

  “Dye your hair bright red again, dear.” Sylvia returned to the book. Eventually she stared up at Harry. “Shall we make another attempt at Clariton Street? Or will those wretched people shut the door in our faces again, d’you think?”

  “I would if I were them,” Harry said. “You mourn a member of your family alone. Why would they want nosey strangers interfering?”

  “Morrison will be sorry.”

  “We can buy him a cake.”

  38

  Her blood was on the wall, just tiny spots and splashes. Eve rubbed her fingers over the dark dots. “Goodbye blood.” She was whispering. Whether she was heard or not didn’t matter, but it was far easier if she was not,. “Poor blood. You’ll never come home now. The blood seeps out, drip, drip, drip. Soon perhaps, it’ll all be gone.”

  Her breasts were bleeding from around the nipples. Master had snapped both into something that had looked a little like a paperclip but had felt like screaming agony. Snap. Her right n
ipple had bled immediately. Her left nipple swelled and turned dark. She sat on the floor and cried.

  “Weak. Stupid. Girls like this,” said Master with disdain. ”Good ladies is S and M wot liked stuff. Clips. Bottles. Whips.” Eve couldn’t believe it. Then he had hauled her up, flung her on her belly onto the bed, and begun to cane her buttocks. Squashed into the lumpy mattress, the nipple clips had hurt more. Blood oozed onto the bed beneath her. The caning was severe, and she begged for mercy. It was a long time before Master stopped. Then he buggered her, enjoying the raw stripes under his hands as he pushed. Master was stronger than he looked, considering his disabilities. But Eve thought she had once been stronger too and might have resisted more. Yet now she was weak from lack of exercise, lack of food, and frequent abuse. She was waiting to die.

  “Tell me ‘bout yer mum,” he asked her some hours later. “She pretty? She a pig? Wot?”

  “She’s pretty and very nice and she’ll be so horribly worried about my disappearance.”

  He sniffed. “You ain’t disappeared. You’s here. That’s stupid. Wot’s her name?”

  Eve gulped. “Belinda.”

  “I got a Linda once.” Master sat on the end of the bed and remembered, glassy-eyed. “Linda were pretty too, but she boohooed all the bloody time like you does. I liked it first, but then it were a nuisance, so she went.”

  Sitting up with sudden interest, eyes alight but with great care concerning words and expression, Eve asked, “You let her go? I mean, spanked her, perhaps. Then sent her home?”

  Master shook his head, frowning, “Nah. Number One says as how I couldn’t do that. So we done her in.”

  “You – you killed her?”

  “Course. Had to. Number One always knows best.”

  Eve blinked, choosing her words even more carefully. “How? I mean – you’re a very kind and nice man. I cannot imagine you killing any helpless girl. And may I ask – who is Number One?”

  “Number One is number one.” Master frowned. He was stumbling over the explanation. “Linda were helpless, but she didn’t help neither. I puts me fingers around her neck. I missed her after that, till Number One got me a new lady friend. A pretty lickle black kitty.”

  Eve gulped. “How many lady friends have you had?”

  He laughed. “All that counting? No, I doesn’t count lest I has to. Lots. How many’s that, eh? No matter. You’s a good ‘un. Come here and on yer knees. Now. Open yer mouth, all slushy and wet.”

  Arthur gazed back at Harry. It was a chilly afternoon as usual, but the pub was as cosy as any room could be without a roaring fire.

  “I had one once,” Arthur said, peering over the top of his personal beer tankard.

  “Interesting,” nodded Harry. “I wanted to get one for Sylvia’s birthday, but not sure which kind is best.” He instantly bought Arthur another light ale.

  Arthur accepted. Being the only caretaker and odd job repairman at the Rochester Manor didn’t bring in a fantastic salary, and he had his autistic son to look after. Good idea,” he said cheerfully. “When’s Mrs Joyce’s birthday?”

  “Umm, not yet,” said Harry without desire for distractions. “What sort did you get? Was it expensive?”

  “It was second hand when I got it,” Arthur remembered, “so I can’t tell you the shop. They had it in the office years and years ago when me wife worked at the local Real Estate’s in Gloucester. I sold it off in a garage sale when I left to come and work here. That was ten years back at least.”

  It was a disappointment, and therefore untraceable, but Harry asked, “What was it like? Warm? Cosy? Sylvia would like one, d’you think?”

  “It was great,” Arthur told him. “Alpaca wool, white and warm and real fluffy. Had a red suede back, so you could wrap it all around or put it on the floor. Worked both ways. And it had bits o’ red silk threaded in all over, matching the back. Looked posh.”

  Harry didn’t think that was going to help. Tony, standing next to him, pulled a face. “Don’t like all that blingy stuff. But I suppose Sylvia would.”

  “A woman who lives and dies in navy silk isn’t the obvious lover of bling,” muttered Harry, somewhat annoyed. “I’ve been trying to get her out of navy silk ever since we married.”

  “There you are, then,” said Tony, “don’t buy the woman some silly rug. Get her a red jumper.”

  Harry changed the subject. “She’ll be expecting me, I’d better get home.”

  “Bossy, eh?” smiled Tony with sympathy.

  Harry got stuck in school traffic driving home, finally drove his now beloved Lexus in the garage, and plodded into the warm living room. He found Sylvia talking with Ruby, Kate, a strange man and three strange children. Then he recognised one of the children as Jackson, the second youngest of the Morrison offspring, and dutifully sat next to him.

  “Hi, Jackson. How’s your father?”

  “Working, as usual,” said the boy with distinct disinterest.

  The unknown man looked up. “Ah, Mr Joyce, I presume. My wife’s been telling me what an interesting gentleman you are. May I introduce myself. I’m Maurice Howard, and I teach English history and a few other general subjects at the Cheltenham Primary. This is our little girl, Mia. And this is Alison who lives down the road from Kate’s shop. And this young man is Jackson - ,”

  “I know Jackson and his parents,” said Harry, leaning over and taking Sylvia’s hand while nodding to Ruby and Kate. “Nice to meet you.” Polite generalities over, Harry stood. “I’ll ask Lavender to bring some tea.”

  “I have already. It’ll be coming any minute,” Ruby said. “Sit down and relax, Harry. We’ve been talking about school. My husband was a racing driver, you know, a bit of a star, dear Rod, won six separate Formula Ones in succession. But a teacher – well – that’s most impressive.”

  Looking somewhat puzzled, Maurice adjusted his glasses. “Only a Primary School teacher. My brother’s the clever one. He loves Formula One racing – used to pop over the channel every year for Monte Carlo. I sometimes went with him when we were younger. I may have even seen your husband win a few times.” He smiled a flashing white-toothed grin at Ruby.

  “You’re too young,” Ruby sniffed. “But I used to love the races. You came with me two years ago, didn’t you dear?” She turned to Sylvia.

  “It’s where I met Harry.”

  “Oh, yuk. I remember. Not such a happy day. Murder and mayhem. Now there’s – ,”

  She was interrupted. “Probably time I took the children home,” Maurice said, adjusting the collar of his polo neck. “The Morrisons will be waiting, and so will Alison’s mother.” Nodding to Kate, he added, “See you later, m’dear. I’ll start dinner. Broccoli stew or something. Keep warm.”

  She scrambled up and grabbed Mia’s small hand. “No, I’ll come too. You’ve got the car, it’s too cold to walk.” Twisting around, she waved at the others. “Sorry to miss the tea, but I want a nice lift through those icy roads. See you again soon.” And was gone, with Alison and Jackson trailing after.

  Sitting back, Ruby stared into the flames before them. “Such nice people and Kate makes such gorgeous cakes. Her husband’s a twin, you know. Mark. Identical. Not that I’ve met him, but he looks like Maurice, Kate told me. Mark’s the rich one. A bank executive or something. So handsome.”

  “Nice smile,” nodded Sylvia. “But a bit swarthy. Anyway, that’s not important. Harry, what happened to bring you home so early? I expected you’d be in the pub till late.”

  “What, drinking and driving? No, I only went to ask a few questions. And don’t ask me about that now. I’ll tell you upstairs.”

  They took their tea upstairs once it came, and Harry stretched out on the bed. “Arthur knew something of white fur rugs and he had one once but it sounds very flash. Sounds as though he nicked it from his wife’s job. Red threads sewn into Alpaca wool, and red suede backing. Sold it off at a garage sale in Cheltenham. No use to us.”

  “And no one else in the pub came up with
anything?”

  “No,” Harry had let his tea go cold and now pushed it away. “I asked loud enough, three different people, and everyone else shook their heads.” He scratched his ear lobe. “Only Arthur said about the one he got rid of nearly ten years ago or something.”

  “Ten years ago might be good timing. But there’s probably hundreds of the damn things in Gloucestershire. Honestly, Harry,” Sylvia sat down beside him, then kicked up her legs and snuggled close, navy silk getting creased. “It’s not a lead worth plugging. Give it up and think of something else.”

  “Like getting you a red woolly jumper for your birthday?”

  Sylvia sighed. “You talk such sublime nonsense sometimes, my love,” she said. “My birthday isn’t for five months. You know that.”

  Another gale blew in three days later, whipping through the valleys like a hungry tiger, whistling around the church spires, blowing sheep droppings down from the hills, and blowing down an old spruce tree in the Rochester grounds near the creek. The manor house was quiet with no one wanting to leave the warm fire. Then someone called from the large living room, “Where’s Sylvykins? She has to watch the telly.”

  In the corridor outside Harry was just about to plod upstairs to bed, but he quickly turned to Sylvia at his side. “We’d better go in and watch the news by the sound of things.”

  Detective Inspector Darcey Morrison was delivering his first press interview, standing out in the wind with his grubby mackintosh collar turned up to his chin and his hands stuck in the pockets. “No,” he was saying. “No leads at present, unfortunately. But we have a couple of suspects in mind.”

  The reporters all shouted at once. “Who? Names? About to make an arrest? Already in Custardy?”

  “Certainly not,” frowned Morrison. “However, there are several suspects at this time, and you’ll certainly be notified if we make an arrest.”

  “But Lionel Sullivan’s escaped. What’s he up to? How did that happen? Big trouble, eh? And they say the escape was an inside job.”