The Games People Play Box Set

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  The man opened the front passenger window, leaned over to talk through it, and offered the help she’d hoped for. “Too cold for walking, miss,” said the man. “Where are you aiming?”

  “Vilmer Road, Oxford,” replied the girl, Peering over and peeping back over the open car window “But just halfway there would be a help. Somewhere to stay the night out of the snow. Or a roadside cafe. Anything would help, mister. I’d be ever so grateful.”

  “Would you now?” said the man, almost licking his lips. “Hop in, then, and we’ll see what can be arranged.”

  Central locking from inside the car was one of the greatest blessings. Lionel Sullivan ensured that neither door nor window could any longer assist in escape. The girl was not yet considering escape. She sat in the front passenger seat, ensured that her coat fell open and showed her thighs, and smiled. “I’m Candy. Thanks so much for this, It’s such a help. Isn’t the weather rotten? Nearly March, and it’s as cold as January.”

  It had been great good luck and a boost to Lionel’s confidence. During the days of the old shed when he had felt his success to be at its height, it had still taken days of roaming back lanes before finding any young woman who might accept a lift. But this time, his first attempt after the escape from prison, it had been easier than ever. True, he’d stolen an impressive car, and once this girl was dead he’d have to get rid of it. He couldn’t risk using the same car again, for the police would have a record of the theft, and they’d be looking. But that was unimportant. Instead, he was dreaming of a week’s pleasure, the first in two years, and already his whole groin throbbed and tingled. He could hear his heartbeat pump fast and loud and imperative. Excitement was so much better than food.

  And he had a shed, ready and waiting. It was less than half the size of his previous haven, but it was solid and isolated from houses. His store of equipment had gone, of course, but he had a knife, and there was an old spade and a rake in the shed along with piles of dirty old straw. He licked his lips, dreaming of the thrill to come.

  “What’s your name, Love?” Candy asked.

  Lionel thought a moment. Then he said, “Carlos. And I’m pleased to meet you. Let’s get somewhere warm, you must be shivering.”

  “I am.” She was. “A hot cup of tea, that’s what I need.”

  After a short calculation of probabilities, Lionel said, “And how about a quick cuddle or two?”

  Candy giggled. “I won’t object to that.”

  “How about a deal, then?” Lionel continued carefully. “I can’t take you home, because my wife’ll be waiting. But there’s a cosy little shed on my property, warm and snug. We’ll get to know each other better for a pleasant half hour or so, then I’ll drive you to a very good restaurant I know. I’ll feed you up against the cold, then I’ll drive you wherever you want. How’s that for a good deal?”

  “Sounds fine to me.” It did, and Candy felt her luck was changing. She’d be back at her mother’s house in Oxford by midnight after a fabulous meal, with maybe a few quid in hand. She didn’t fancy the half hour in the shed with this bloke since he was hideously ugly, but he was polite and kind enough. She’d put up with what seemed a fair bargain.

  Until she saw the shed. “Yes, a little small,” Lionel apologised. “But warm and comfy inside. Come and see.” He drove over the uncut grassy paddock and parked beside the little wooden barn.

  Candy remembered something. A couple of years back there had been a maniac in the area, and he had later been known as the Ripper in the Shed. And he’d been an ugly brute with giant hands. She looked at this man’s hands on the steering wheel. “No, sorry,” she said quickly. “I’ve just remembered, I have to hurry. Sorry – I know it’s a cheek, but either drive on, or I’ll go and get another lift. I can’t stay. I – don’t like sheds.” And she grabbed the door handle beside her. It didn’t budge. The car was locked. She gulped. “Let me out.”

  The driver was shaking his head. “Too late, my girl.” He unclipped the central locking, turned and grabbed Candy with both hands hard around her throat.

  Niles Daish rang the bell at Rochester Manor, then waited patiently on the wide pillared doorstep as a wild confusion of snow blew onto his back and down his coat collar.

  Lavender let him in and called Harry. Then she pottered back into the dining room, finding Sylvia kicking at the unresponsive fire.

  “Damp logs.”

  “Snow got into the woodshed,” explained Lavender. “Now there’s a young man asking for you and Harry. I saw Harry go out to the garage earlier, but I’ve called him. The young man says he’s Niles Daish.”

  Once everyone had settled, she brought in a steaming teapot and a plate of biscuits. There were no cakes left over from Sylvia’s visit to Kate’s bakery the day before. The fire had finally taken pity on his roomful of chilly inmates and was blazing into fantasy fairy-tale shadows. Niles leaned back and rubbed his hands together. “They think it’s me,” he said. “I’ve been followed to work, followed home, followed to the pub and followed even to the Post Office. Tis like being stalked. I care loads for my sister. Evie’s me favourite. I don’t go killing nobody. Tis not me character.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Harry, “domestic violence – well, I don’t know the statistics. But when a girl goes missing, it’s usually her father, husband or brother that killed her. So they’re jumping to conclusions. But they haven’t arrested you. So there’s hope. Well, far more than hope. But I’m afraid Sylvia and I haven’t found a single real clue as yet.”

  Niles ignored the tea. “It’s the Chimney Killer, isn’t it? My lovely Evie’s dead. I reckon you know already, and you’re keeping quiet just to keep me happy.”

  Both Harry and Sylvia shook their heads with emphasis. While Harry finished his tea, Sylvia took a deep breath. “Dear Niles,” she said, “there is a risk that she’s been kidnapped. Not dead perhaps, but unable to escape. We have absolutely no proof of her death, nor that she’s been taken by anyone in particular. And we haven’t stopped looking. But like you, we just don’t know where to look. The police have exhausted the search along her normal route home. We’ve gone over all the fields and farms, even along the banks of the Torr and into the next village. There’s no sign of any accident nor any burial. We haven’t stopped looking, I promise. But where to look next?”

  “Is anyone,” Niles was almost frightened to say it, “still guarding the house with the chimney? She could be there, couldn’t she! I mean, locked up. Or – even worse.”

  Once again both Sylvia and Harry shook their heads. “No, absolutely not,” Sylvia said, as Harry changed his shake to a nod. “As far as anyone can tell, that house hasn’t been used by anyone for several years. And the police have checked it over and over and over. They’ve been trundling around in their plastic forensic suits for weeks, pulling every corner apart. The tunnel that led to the cellar has gone. But the police still guard the house, front and back.”

  Niles sniffed. “And the bodies they found? Not possible – or is it?”

  “It’s not. Every single wretched thing they found had been there for years. “

  It was Norman Syrett, not Sylvia’s favourite neighbour, who wandered over and interrupted. “I couldn’t help hearing,,” he said, “and it won’t be you the coppers suspect, you know It’s always the husband or the boyfriend. You wait and see. They’ll nab that fellow who was dating your sister. Can’t remember his name.”

  “Brian Orbos.”

  “There you are,” said Norman, and plodded off.

  “We know the officer in charge of the chimney stuff,” Sylvia said quickly. “And he talks to us. He doesn’t suspect anyone yet and certainly not you.”

  “And our Evie?”

  Sighing, Sylvia shook her head yet again. “No sign. No clues. But they’re searching everywhere, and so are we. We’ll find her, alive and well.”

  “She won’t be well, will she, my poor little Evie,” Niles said, standing with some reluctance. “Locked up for all thi
s time? And what they done to her, then? No bugger is gonna lock up a pretty girl just to look at her.”

  They both saw him to the door and asked Arthur to give him a lift home. The snow was heavier, and the wind whistled through the trees, blowing the snow crystals into bustling clouds. The pretty white cloak of hush that comes with the noiseless flight of the snow had now turned to a ferocious whine.

  As Niles drove off with Arthur, Harry turned to Sylvia, shutting the door quickly against the encroaching freeze. “We haven’t tried hard enough,” he said. “So much misery. So much despair. Even that poor little woman Iris.”

  “She brought it on herself,” said Lavender, head in the air as she passed them in the corridor, holding a pile of ironed table cloths.

  Sylvia ignored her. “Well, we went to the station and she wasn’t there. I’m hoping she found a friend or a relative. As for Evie, where do we look, my love? Every house from here to Cheltenham, and then every house in Cheltenham too. Not to mention moving on to Gloucester.”

  “Well, perhaps we should,” said Harry abruptly. “Morrison says he can’t, but that’s probably because of his budget. We don’t have a budget, and it doesn’t cost us a thing except a little petrol. Morrison probably thinks he’d offend half the county too, but we don’t care about that either. Or at least, I don’t.”

  “When have I ever worried about offending people?” Sylvia flopped down on the armchair in the smaller living room where the fire blazed without pause. “But it’s no point, is it? I mean, what do we ask? ‘Excuse me, have you got a young girl imprisoned in your cellar or attic?‘ Or just, ‘Can we search your house from top to bottom?”

  “But what Niles said is true, isn’t it,” muttered Harry. “That poor girl will be raped and beaten. How long now? Three weeks? Four?”

  “Five.”

  “So she probably is dead by now.”

  Under the white furry rug, Eve curled and hugged herself, trying not to cry. The shivering was more from cold than fear, but the insistent tears were for pain and utter hopeless misery. Master had suddenly turned more dangerous and Eve feared she might bleed to death, or he would purposefully kill her.

  She had been a fool and blamed herself. They had been talking. Placid, unconcerned and even, within the boundaries Master could cope with, friendly.

  “Tis a new house,” Master said. “I likes it better.”

  “Is it a house you own?” Eve had asked. She didn’t care and asked only to be attentive. In fact, she was watching the spider on the ceiling. It suspected ill will and had frozen, playing dead. Eve wished she could do the same. “Is it nice upstairs?”

  Master had scowled. “Why? I doesn’t see upstairs much. Wot’s it got to do with you? You won’t never see it.”

  She grunted. “I just wanted to know you were – comfortable. Happy.”

  He thought about this for some time. Finally he said, “None o’ your business.”

  She should have kept quiet then and knew it now. But instead, she had continued, saying, “You’re my good master. I want you to be happy. Number One looks after you, doesn’t he?”

  Then he had slapped her hard across the face, making her ears ring. She had shrunk back against the pillows, clamping her mouth shut. But it was too late. “Wot you know about Number One?” Master demanded.

  “Nothing.” Then she had an idea. Even at the time she knew it to be stupid, but could not resist the temptation. It could – just might – be a path to release. “I do know who he is,” she said softly. “I knew him when he offered me a lift in his car. Then he made me go to sleep and I woke up here. But I wouldn’t ever have got in the car if I hadn’t known and trusted him. I liked him. I thought he was a good man.”

  “He’s a mighty good man,” Master said between his teeth. “Say it. Go on. You says it now and loud.”

  Obedience, she hoped, would as usual keep her safe. She said that Number One was a mighty good man. She said it three times and lastly shouted the words again. Then she saw the expression in Master’s eyes, and she huddled, pulling the rug over her face. But he grabbed one of her hands, and held it between both of his own, taking one finger, he twisted it suddenly, and Eve heard the snap and felt the pain. She screamed. “Shut up,” shrieked Master, but he twisted the second finger, and it too snapped. Then he broke her third. Finally, her little finger snapped beneath his fierce twist. Every finger except her thumb was broken at its lower joint. Eve sobbed, choking. The pain shot through each finger and up her arm.

  “You says that name again,” Master roared into her eyes, his teeth nearly on her nose and his spittle mixing with her tears, “and I reckon I’ll cut one o’ yer fingers off altogether. One by one, maybe. Cut, cut, cut. I done that to Sharpton. Cheeky, she was, so I cuts all her fingers off one hand. Squealed and squealed, she did, and I liked that. I got a good knife for carving. Will use it on you if you says that name again. And if Number One hears, reckon he’s gonna kill you there and then.”

  He marched out and she realised immediately how idiotic she had been. Brainless. To admit knowing the man. She felt she deserved to die, and hoped simply that it would be quick. For a while, she had lost consciousness, her legs like water, toppling to the bed but still cradling her mangled fingers.

  She did not see Master again for two days, and that was a blessing although she grew bitterly hungry and thirst plagued her like a haunted nightmare: the endless hours of nothing, the restrictions on her movements and the difficulty of no toilet, little food and nothing to do until Master came, and then that was even worse. Indeed, when Master entered and the door slammed open, he snapped on the light. A bare bulb swung from the ceiling and its light lit the small room in all its dingy detail. But when Master left, so did the light. Darkness sank down each time the door clicked its lock, and she was forced once again to retreat into the hopelessness of night. Black as pitch and quiet as death. This could last for days. The broken fingers shot agonising pain up her arm, and as she found nothing to act as a sling, she walked constantly with one hand around the other.

  The bones knitted, but not prettily. She could hold nothing.

  It was death she considered. This often seemed the only solution, especially when the gnawing cramps of bitter hunger made her curl and writhe, her throat rasping dry. She considered several possibilities and tearing up the blankets to plait for a noose was one. But no ceiling beams existed, and so there was nothing there to attach the hand made rope. Instead, she was held by the ankle with a metal chain strong enough for strangulation – if only she could keep pulling while choking and gasping for breath. But she could not. That chain, and she practised this, could be wrapped around her neck. But at each attempt, she would fall, and the chain would also fall slack.

  Between her desperate tears, Eve attempted something else.

  “One day Niles,” said Harry, “and the next day this.”

  “Who is it?”

  Sylvia was calling down from the top of the deep red carpeted staircase, replete with a balustrade of highly polished wood. Sylvia had often wondered if she could slide down it. She saw the top of Harry’s head coming from the front door along the passage to the living room. Behind him bobbed a crimson bonnet with a pom-pom. Then she realised who it was and ducked back into her own bedroom. “Bother,” she muttered to herself, “bloody Sullivan’s wife.”

  Downstairs Harry ordered tea and biscuits. David took the order and grinned hopefully. “We got more cake?” he asked.

  Harry shook his head. “To be honest, I’m getting a little tired of cake.”

  David looked disappointed but scampered off to the kitchen. He was wearing his ‘I’m being good” face. He reappeared balancing the tray of teapot, mugs, and the plate of biscuits. David put the tray down extremely carefully on the small table, grabbed a quick biscuit from the plate, and hurried off. Sylvia came in briskly with a whisk of navy silk.

  “Joyce, how nice to see you again. We see you occasionally on the television. Has that helped in any way
? Or better still, any news of your husband?”

  “My ex-husband.” Joyce flopped down, having shrugged off her snow speckled coat, and dropping it over the back of the sofa. “I’ve not seen him, thank the Lord,” she said. “But I’ve heard from him. It gave me the creeps.”

  “He phoned you? How? What number?”

  “No,” Joyce spoke softly but fast. She was worried sick. “The bastard messaged me, You know, on Facebook. A sick message, though most people wouldn’t know what it meant.”

  “So tell us.” Sylvia poured the tea. Harry sat forwards, hands between his knees.

  Joyce looked reluctant, but took the tea and started to sip. “I’ve got the tablet in me bag. I’ll show you afterwards. It says look, here – ‘Baggy pants, I almost miss you. Must talk. Things of interest to tell you. Must meet.’ “

  “I’m amazed he found a way of contacting you,” Harry muttered.

  “It’s an old tablet,” Joyce admitted. “I got a new one, and a new phone and nothing Lionel can trace. But this old tablet – well it has photos I love and nice memories, so I kept it.”

  “Some of those interviews on TV were a bit traceable,” Sylvia told her. “Are you still doing that?”

  “No.” Joyce tapped her fingertips on the tablet screen, still flickering on her lap. “I always knew it was a bit naughty. But - ,” and she looked miserable, “I wanted to be me, you see. Not just a poor bedraggled little old lady who always did as she was told because she was frightened of her husband. I thought, well, a little notoriety might bring some money. I’m poor as a church mouse. Lionel never gave me more than a few pounds out of his wages. He hoarded it, and now it’s gone.”