The Games People Play Box Set

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “You’re drunk, Bluebell.” Sylvia hugged her again. “But you’re still gorgeous even when a little worse for wear.”

  She passed the cakes. But none of the cakes had come from the little café and bakery down the road owned and run by Kate Howard. The shop remained shut, no lights glimmered inside, neither from the shop nor from upstairs in the family apartment. The cakes came from the larger bakery in Cheltenham, but Sylvia and Harry now had to stretch their concern from Ruby to Iris, Joyce, and the disappearing Kate.

  “Tomorrow I’m reporting this to the revolting Inspector Cramble,” Harry told Sylvia. “It’s unnatural.”

  Lionel had stepped back from the road immediately on seeing the car headlights. Backing into the forested shadows, he watched as the car stopped and Joyce started talking. Turning, avoiding the crash and thud of broken twigs and branches, he ran back, bounding from slope to ditch and ditch to field. He did not claim his previous stolen car but strode on through mud, snow drifts and wooded slopes until he was too tired to continue. Heaving anger tired him quicker. The pain in his groin continued, and the throbbing was at first agonising, which weakened him. He cursed his divorced wife, then curled to sleep in a rustle of undergrowth, his hooded jacket over him and his thoughts fervently tracing all the tortures he would have liked to perform on his wife’s naked body. Yet after some moments, the wracking pain became a strange pleasure, and finally an ache of pleasant memory.

  Lionel slept badly, but at first light he was able to rise, brush off the leaf litter from his jeans and jacket, stamp his feet to encourage the circulation of his frozen blood, and managed to stumble on, guessing at direction. Three long and miserable days spent dragging his feet while Olga sneered at him and threatened him, he discovered another shed that seemed quite empty except for a scattering of dirty old straw and a hen’s nest which looked long abandoned. One egg remained. He was hungry, so Lionel broke it into his palm. But the rancid black slime and pungent smell disgusted even him, and he wiped it off his hand on the grass outside.

  The shed was barely visible from the small country lane since it was on a downward slope leading into a valley of woodland. At some distance from the shed, and deeper into the valley was a large house, peaked roof and grand. Even the tip of its attic rooms were hidden from the road, but from the shed, it stood clear and impressive. At the back, a car was parked, but this did not seem like a car Lionel might consider stealing since it was sleek and expensive, a Bentley perhaps. Lionel was hoping for an old banger. He was hoping for other things too, but he had one immediate priority.

  Piling the scattered straw into a small heap, he called it bed, lay down and slept well for the first time in a week or more.

  He did not leave the new shed for the next two days. Fury and Olga’s threats kept him pacing, cursing and stamping although hunger plagued the calmer moments. Playing with the spikes of straw sharp enough to prick his arms and thighs cheered him and he stayed long hours on the cold ground, imagining and remembering. He re-lived the glorious obscenities of his past and slept increasingly well, with even his dreams turning to comfort instead of threat. Olga remained but he managed to push her into the darkest corner where she fluttered her batwings only rarely.

  Day by passing day, Lionel smiled more than cursed. Before arrest and imprisonment, his games had been more frequent, and young women in need of a friendly lift to wherever they wanted to go were more common. But now his face and appearance was known. He wondered whether freedom was in any way better than the more comfortable bed and occasional television, hot tea and regular meals. Yet his dreams told him yes. Shouted at him. Freedom was free, and there was possibility floating over his head, as huge and as powerful as Olga.

  A fox trotted past that night, sniffing at the stench of the rotten egg outside the shed door, but did not eat the poison, and pattered on. Only its paw prints in the frost the next morning proved its clandestine ramblings. Owls called, soft half whispering hoots of curiosity after soundless flights. There were cockroaches scrabbling in the straw beneath Lionel’s bulk, but he did not wake.

  Light through the holes in the roof woke him at dawn. He ate the two cockroaches which still burrowed in the straw, and stretched. He knew he’d been inactive for too long, and intended to go out searching, both for food and for recreation.

  The house further down in the valley was also waking. The lights flicked on behind the ground floor windows, and a little later someone walked from the back door to the elegant car waiting on the granite paving outside. The car turned, took the driveway up the slope on the opposite edge, and disappeared along the road.

  Iris Little sat up in bed and smiled. Her sunken cheeks were pink, her eyes awake, and her hair was washed, wisping into small grey curls. “Oh, my dear Mrs Joyce, I believe you saved my miserable life,” she murmured, still smiling. “I have made such a ruin of my life. I don’t know why you bothered to save me, but I am truly most grateful.”

  “Sylvia,” she corrected. “Mrs Joyce sounds like a military governess or something. And Iris dear, you’re not your own victim. Of course we all do the silliest things sometimes. But I’m delighted to see you looking so much better.”

  “They’ve given me such lovely food.”

  “In a hospital? I’m amazed.” She had brought unseasonable fruit and flowers since the first protected daffodils were in bloom.

  Since Ruby was no longer in hospital care, Harry had gone to see Joyce, and this time had been admitted. Although still under police guard, Joyce was ready to leave.

  Harry said, “You’re going back to a different safe house?”

  “They told me off because Lionel traced my iPad and now he knows the address. So my iPad had been kept in the police station, and my address has been changed. I haven’t seen the place yet, but it doesn’t sound fun. It’s a flat in a high-rise or something, all boxy and boring. I’ll just sit in front of the telly and go to sleep.”

  “I’ll come and visit if you want me. With Sylvia, of course. She’s more entertaining than I am. Actually, I’m surprised you can stand any men around you these days.”

  “This time they’ve promised me I can have two female cops on guard,” Joyce nodded. “And I’d love visits from you and Sylvia. I can show you my wedding photo.” She thought a moment. “No I can’t. That’s on the old iPad.”

  Harry thought he could live without seeing Lionel Sullivan’s wedding photo. “I don’t suppose,” he said thoughtfully and carefully, “a companion in the new safe house would make life any better?” He noticed the lift of her chin and the faint beginnings of a smile. “No, no,” he added. “Not me. Not that you’d want me, I’m sure. If Sylvia ever throws me out, I’ll ask. But no, I’m thinking of a rather frail old woman who fainted of starvation in the street, and she’s in the next room along the corridor. Older than you by some years, and not the brightest on the block. But she desperately needs looking after, and I’d guess that’s something you’d be extremely good at.”

  Having not the faintest idea whether she’d be any good at looking after a Guinea-pig let alone a gambling addicted old woman, Harry shook his head, about to change his mind. Joyce, however, had already flung her arms around his neck. “Oh, Harry, what a magical idea. I should love that. Company, and a dear little old lady who needs my help.”

  “I have to tell you,” mumbled Harry attempting to escape her embrace, “that she’s a gambling addict. That’s why she’s homeless and penniless. You might have to lock her up. And talking of lock-ups, I’ll have to get someone’s permission first, I mean, do safe houses take in friends? I’ll see if Morrison can fix it.“

  This evidently appealed even more, and Joyce, although dropping the embrace, seemed ever more delighted. “I trained once as a counsellor. Well, that was when I left school. Hundreds of years ago now. But I remember a great deal, and I need a friend. A friend that needs me. I hate being the needy one, the pathetic one and the lonely one. Having someone worse than me would be perfect. I’ll love her. Lio
nel never permitted me to have friends, you know.” She flopped back down on the hospital bed. “I’ve not had a single friend since I was twenty three. Now, to be actually needed. What a wonderful thing to come out of the blue. Don’t let the police muck it up and don’t let her say no.”

  “She’s Iris Little. I’ll tell her I have the perfect solution,” said Harry, getting up and approaching the door of the tiny private room.

  Joyce called after him. “And catch that bastard Lionel for me, throw him back into prison, and I shall be as happy – no happier – than ever before. And I promise to look after little Iris Little like a babysitter.”

  54

  “My goodness gracious me,” spluttered Iris, clutching the top of the sheet as though reassuring herself of the truth. “What a kind thought. But I must admit I’m not an easy lodger.”

  “Not a lodger,” Harry said, pulling up another small chair beside the bed. “A friend. Sharing. I’ve got official permission, so rent free while the police are protecting her.”

  Sylvia regarded her husband with slight amazement. “What an excellent idea. Did Joyce agree?”

  “Loves it,” Harry insisted.”And I phoned Morrison. He says he’ll do whatever’s necessary.”

  “Oh, and me, and me,” sighed Iris. “It’s such a miserable long time since I’ve had any friends at all. My own fault, as I know. But sad. I used to love my friends. I started a book club in the conservatory.”

  Trying to imagine whether her own slightly faded black tweed coat with the fake fur lining would fit Iris, Sylvia had to remind herself that while she was five foot eleven, Iris was about five foot maximum. The coat would swamp her, but anything would be better than the stained and threadbare pink polyester. Harry interrupted her thoughts. “You might not like each other. You might not wish to be friends.”

  “I will love her,” Iris whispered, almost timid. “Anyone who wants my friendship has it at once. I’ll love her, poor lady, and after such a difficult life. I read about Lionel Sullivan although I don’t remember it all. I’ll cook poor Joyce one of my best custard and ginger tarts. I used to love cooking, especially baking. But I’ve had no oven, nor anyone to bake for. But I won’t have forgotten.”

  “Strange,” smiled Sylvia. “We had another young friend who adored baking. She was a queen at producing cakes and opened her own little shop. But now she’s disappeared.”

  “I never started a shop,” Iris said, sitting forwards which pulled her hospital gown open at the back. “But I taught some of my neighbours. There was a girl next door, the eldest daughter of my friend Agnes Gilbert. Kate was the little girl. She was so pretty and so eager to learn. Then she moved away. I heard later from Agnes that she’d married one of triplets. Fancy having triplets. What a shock.”

  “I know a Kate who married one of twins,” nodded Sylvia. “Identical twins. Not that I’ve ever met the other one.”

  “Oh, I never met any of the triplets, this was much more of a tragedy.” Iris lowered her voice as though sad stories should not easily be overheard. “Agnes told me all about it after she got to know the family better. The mother, poor lady, she died giving birth. It was a horrible story.”

  “What happened to your friend Agnes?” asked Harry. “We could look her up if you’ve lost touch.”

  Blushing bright pink over the white, Iris looked away. “We were friends for years. But when I started gambling and my marriage split, and I lost my home – well, it was all so shameful. I could see it in her eyes. She disapproved. And I wasn’t myself, all I could think about was the great good luck waiting for me around the corner. Then finally I couldn’t face Agnes at all. Then she moved, and that was that.”

  “What about the little girl Kate? If you taught her baking, she must have thought highly of you.”

  “Too long ago.” Iris shook her head. “She’ll be thirty-two or three by now. Such a pretty girl, big brown eyes, and shining brown curls. But I shall look forward to meeting Joyce. I’m terribly grateful.”

  They were interrupted by the white jacketed doctor with the stethoscope necklace, and Sylvia followed him from the room. While they spoke together briefly in the corridor, Harry, who was running out of chat, said, “Odd. Our Kate is about thirty or thirty-two with big brown eyes and brown curls. She loves cooking and makes glorious cakes, and she’s married to an identical twin. They could just about be the same person, especially if the triplet died in childhood.”

  Outside the doctor was saying, “I agree with such an ideal arrangement, Mrs Joyce and it’s an excellent idea. But Mrs Little will stay with us for another few days for tests and an MRI. She’s been in a very bad way, you know. I believe she was quite close to death. I presume she’s your aunt?”

  “Oh no,” Sylvia was surprised. Her thoughts had been wandering. “Oh, no. Just a friend. Well, not even a friend really. We met her, and she seemed in desperate need of help. So we helped. But then she disappeared again.”

  Doctor Barley murmured the correct words and strode off. Sylvia went back into the small white room. “Now you’re a lot better,” Sylvia told her, “they’re going to bring in a television. It will help pass long days since they want you to stay another week. But,” and she sat down again next to Harry, “I was thinking of something entirely different. This girl Kate you taught to bake. She’s probably the same Kate we know. Everything sounds the same except the third twin.”

  “I suggested the same,” chuckled Harry. “The twin who married our Kate is Maurice, and his twin is Mark.”

  Iris smiled wide. “Then it’s the same people. How nice. Yes indeed, Kate married Maurice, and then there was Mark, and the little triplet was – Milton. I remember all those ‚m’s.“

  “And did the poor child die?”

  Iris leaned back with a sigh, still propped against the pillows and restricted by the drip. “I don’t know,” she said. “But he might have. I believe he was not quite normal. You see, it was terribly sad. The mother went into labour at home and didn’t have proper medical help. The first little boy was born. But the second wouldn’t come. Too big, or upside down. I’m not sure. I think Agnes said he was sideways, but they couldn’t get him out. They thought they’d have to do a Caesarean, but it was going to take ages to get her to hospital. Well, I don’t know all the details, but they called for the ambulance and then they managed to pull the second twin free. But they didn’t know there was a third one, you see, and it was only little, and it had been all squashed up by number two. Poor little creature was born all crumpled up and broken legs and fractures and a funny head. Of course, I never saw him, but Agnes was in tears when Kate told her the story.”

  “And the mother died?”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Iris, closing her eyes. “It must have been a terrible day, and so sad for the father. But I never knew him either. Evidently he went away and put the children with a foster family.”

  Nicholas Ostopolis stood silently at the end of the first narrow gurney and regarded the body. Following long study at university and further study during medical practice of many kinds, he had gradually become one of the top pathologists in the country. Homicide was not an unusual occurrence in any populated area, but he had never before seen anything like this. The work of examination and forensic diagnosis fascinated him, but the psychology behind such a situation disgusted him.

  To his right were three more trolleys, to his left two others. More lined the walls. This was the largest of the rooms at the Forensic Lab, and it was the last opportunity to compare and make the final study of the Chimney Killer’s work. Ostopolis was a short, slim man with intensive brown eyes and not a great deal of hair. Being on the bothersome end of middle age, he ran his lab as he saw fit, and rarely conformed to any system that involved more paperwork than he could get away with to hand over to his subordinates, but a large collection of notes clipped to a board rested at the foot of each table, headed with the identity of the body resting there. But the condition of the remains varied and most were sadly
unrecognisable.

  Marley Webster lay naked, badly decomposed but with her dark hair and the left side of her face almost intact. She had been buried under a bush some years previously, and the ground there had remained dry. It was clear that she had been strangled and that was assumed to be the cause of death. Although there was also a brutal smash to the right side of her skull, which Ostopolis judged to have been antemortem. Her parents had both died in previous years, and her sister, now living in Scotland, had been informed.

  Sharon Bell had been discovered buried under the same bush. Her body was in a state of more advanced decomposition but had been identified by DNA.

  The remains removed from the chimney cavity in the principal room of the fake-Tudor building, had now also been identified. The most recent, Samantha Winston, had died of strangulation but her body showed signs of severe malnutrition, beatings, and the marks of other mistreatment. Her breast had been burned, her face had been scarred with the shape of a star carved into one cheek premortem. Wires had been inserted into her thighs, and several fingers were missing, the stumps closed with children’s Winnie-the-Poo plasters.

  Her grieving parents had identified her, and would never recover.

  Penelope Stent had died at age sixteen. Now she lay naked and bruised on the lab gurney. The signs of her misuse were less obvious, for her body was badly decomposed and subsequent fires lit in the grate below her unusual grave had singed her legs and de-fleshed her arms.

  Vivien Riley, identified by DNA, was no longer recognisable, but Roberta Laurence and River White had been wedged further up the chimney and were untouched by fire. Their naked bodies now lay side by side, decomposition having only partially disfigured their sleep. Their next of kin had come to identify each girl and had collapsed in misery, yet these two bodies had supplied the most information to Ostopolis, and he had discovered a vague affection for the sad little faces, and the knowledge they had brought him. The two girls most recently discovered in a totally different building had also been quickly identified. Beatrice Barrett and Joan Caveat had died within the past year, but were marked with numerous signs of energetic and vile torture. Beatrice had been twenty two but had looked younger, and had been seriously autistic. Joan was seventeen and worked at her father’s shoe store. He had committed suicide when she disappeared. Her mother now wept endlessly.