„I don’t want to give ideas where none are actually true,“ muttered Harry, „but talking of itches, it’s Joyce. Maybe she didn’t go to the cinema. She goes for long walks and doesn’t tell anyone because she knows they’ll tell her off. And perhaps she still has that old tablet thing. After living with him for years, she’s probably not as scared of Sullivan as she should be.“
„After last time when he nearly killed her?“ Rita demanded.
„She’s not the brightest cherry on the tree,“ nodded Sylvia, „or she wouldn’t have married him in the first place.“ She didn’t mention that she had often thought the same of herself.
“Do dyings hurt?” Milton asked.
“Some do. Some don’t,” said Maurice.
“You’s a teacher. Ortta know.”
“I haven’t died yet,” Maurice explained. “Without experience, it’s hard to know many things.”
“Then kill me,” said Milton, “and I can tells ya.”
“It doesn’t work like that,” Maurice told him.
Milton sat on Eve’s bed, and Eve was crouching in the corner beside the pissing bucket. “Well, lest you knows,” Milton objected, “it ain’t a nice fing to do. It might be a hurting one. So you can’t kill my lady.”
Maurice laughed. “Look at the girl. She’s bleeding from both nostrils. I can’t be bothered counting the scars. Hundreds, I imagine. She’s virtually bald in patches, with raw red abrasions beneath. One eye is blackened and puffy. Her lips are split and black with bloody spots. Her groin and arse are pitted. What have you done? Shoved your knifepoint over and over into her buttocks?”
“Twas a screwdriver.”
“You’ve carved signs and words into her flesh. Not that she has any flesh.” Maurice sniggered. “And you’re worried about hurting her if Mark wants to get rid of her?”
“I just plays games,” Milton said, getting worried. “Number One, he don’t play nice games like me. He wants killings.”
“Yes, yes. He leaves you alone for days, so you get bored and play games.”
Milton nodded, pleased to have got his point across. “Yeh. Just games. And my lady plays wiv me. ‘Tis good fun.”
Eve said nothing and closed her eyes.
“Mark has to kill the girl. She knows too much. He’ll get you another one. Or I will. I won’t leave you all alone, don’t worry. This bitch is well nigh finished anyway. There’s hardly a scrap left of her to piss on.”
“She makes me angry sometimes,” Milton admitted. “But mostly she does good. Number One, he don’t like her. But I likes her. Sometimes she done tells me stories.”
“Bed-time stories?”
“Yeh. ‘Bout wizards and orcs in caves and kids in a place called Lashtang.”
“If you’d ever bothered to learn to read,” Maurice said, “I could bring you the books to read to yourself. I read them to my kids at school. Your new bitch can read them to you perhaps.”
Hiding beneath the alpaca rug, Eve closed her eyes. Dreaming of home, she had made herself sick. She was so hungry, she was dizzy and could think of nothing but her mother and her previous life. Clouds spun up around her head, too high to smell their perfumes, but somehow she knew it was melting cheese, fresh parsley and toast dripping butter. She dreamed she heard the kettle whistle. She dreamed she smelled the scrambled eggs and the crackle of the bacon in the frying pan. She dreamed of Niles banging on her bedroom door to wake her for strawberries and ice-cream. She could see the juice seeping out of the strawberries. She saw a glass of chilled wine waiting beside her plate, and her mother calling her darling and asking her if she wanted a second helping.
Her eyes snapped open. Maurice was saying, “Go and do what you want with the bitch, Milly dear. Have a last game. As soon as Mark comes back, the bitch is going.”
“What’ll he do?”
“Oh, it’s hardly important. Break her neck, I suppose, or slit it. You can watch, or not, whatever you like. He’ll be back soon.”
Milton asked, “Wot’s Number One doing? He’s bin gone long times.”
“He saw something over at the hay shed,’ Maurice said without interest. Probably one of the sheep, but he’s gone to check. It’s slightly up the hill so he can’t drive, but I doubt he’ll be long. He’s armed, just in case.”
The sheep were grazing across the lowlands, heads bent to the ground, ignoring the rain and mist. Mark Howard strode the bracken encrusted stone, shook the half-frozen mud from his boots, and approached the small shed on the higher ground towards the hillocks’ edge where the long pitted lane ran grey and narrow towards Wales in one direction, and Gloucestershire in the other.
A helicopter flew low overhead. Buffeted by wind, it was maintaining its flight but not its height, and soon spun upwards in a drone of failing temper. Once out of sight, Mark strode on. He did not know if the helicopter had been looking for him, but it was a possibility he could not ignore. Only one more day to go, and he’d be heading to Scotland and a private flight to Dubai.
Time enough for a quick examination of the outbuildings, then back to the main house and Milton’s plaything. Definitely the right moment for elimination. It would take half an hour, perhaps, to break the girl’s neck and bury her somewhere amongst the sheep droppings. Then hugs for Milton and a quick embrace for Maurice. Orders concerning Milton and Kate. Then off, and back home out of harm’s way.
Dubai was a scorching swelter of flaming heat, interspersed with shivering nights in the desert, so the bitter wind and the chill of the rain did not bother him. His home was an air-conditioned and central heated haven of utter luxury, women when he wished, and audiences with every man of business and glamour. A switch into the challenges of English was always an initial pleasure, but a boring problem after a few weeks. He’d be glad to leave. But he’d miss Milton and Maurice.
The small shed showed no signs of the habitation he’d suspected. The little door hung crooked, as though the wind, or someone’s fist, had caught it. The wooden slats were mossy and the rain had swamped the little two-step lane leading from it to the direction of the house. Mark stopped, squinting through rain and wind. There was no sound and no movement. He had, now he was sure, been mistaken by the passing stranger. Just someone rounding up their sheep, or a drifter looking for a night’s sleep sheltered by straw and roof. He stood a moment before turning. But as quickly as he turned, he turned back.
Something dark had moved behind the little building. A tree grew there, a sycamore or something like it, large but still bare-branched. It stood tall a little way behind, partly shaded in the crook of the low hills.
But from one of the thicker branches something was swinging in the wind, a shape that Mark did not immediately recognise, but too large for a bird or a forgotten parcel of someone’s washing.
And then abruptly Mark recognised what it was.
59
Both Harry and Sylvia stared out of their windows, either side, hoping for some miraculous discovery. In the front of the car, Morrison and Rita Ellis were speaking quietly together. Driving too fast for the narrow winding lanes, and the cold, wet weather, the car swerved as it sped, but met almost no oncoming traffic. A tractor moved aside and almost into the ditch as Morrison sped on, passing what little farm machinery chugged their daily routines.
Neither Sylvia nor Harry had much idea where they were, nor where they were going, but they accepted Morrison’s unquestioning determination.
Rita looked over her shoulder. “Do you know this area?”
Harry shook his head. “No. Wales?”
“The Welsh Marches,” Morrison said.
“Marshes?” Harry had never heard of any in the area, but Sylvia interrupted.
“No, marching – Marches. The old name for the borderlands. A little this side, a little that side.”
“And now we slip over into South Wales,” Rita said. “It was a young woman a few days back who reported being enticed by a man who resembled Sullivan. She described the area, although she cou
ldn’t put a name to it. A large house stood deep in the little valley, with a shed halfway up the slope. A few trees behind the shed and around the house, but mostly the hillside was barren with both house and shed unseen from the road. A vague description but we traced it down, and that’s where we are, more or less. Another DCI, who shall remain nameless, doesn’t share our conviction that this is a place to search. He’s taken a huge team into Wiltshire.”
“The old house was bought up years ago by a company named Brothers Inc., and then got sold on to Sanderson and co. Neither company is registered in any place, and no business activity can be traced.” Morrison stared ahead, not looking over his shoulder, but Rita’s attention was fixed on the rolling hills to her left. “There was no clear indication whether that young woman was about to be attacked or not,” Morrison continued, “but she described a man who greatly resembled Lionel Sullivan. We believe this is where the meeting took place.”
Harry, sitting behind the driving seat, stared unblinking to his right. Sylvia’s contact lenses were making her eyes water.
Then Rita shouted. “Stop. Look over there. No, down, you can only just see something. To your left. I need to get out for a better look,” and she scrambled from the car, hurrying over the little ditch to the long uneven ridge of the crest. She looked down.
Standing very still at the open shed door, Mark Howard raised his gun. Nothing gruesome had ever worried him, but he was accustomed to unpleasant results coming from his own work, or from an enemy attempting to frighten – or to warn him. He was never frightened but accepted warnings by increasing his own armed and well prepared forces. This seemed like neither warning nor personal attack, and he had no idea who the woman was.
The body hung upside down from the huge branch of the sycamore tree, her arms and limp fingers trailing just above the churned mud below. Not young, not glamorous, her face was not improved by make-up, and she looked perhaps middle-aged, although the strain on her facial muscles disguised her expression. Her mouth hung open, her hair, mousey and permed, floated down in the wind.
She wore a cream woollen jumper, splashed with blood spatter, and it had flopped to beneath her chin, showing the well fastened bra beneath. But from the waist down she was naked, and the one leg not roped to the branch above, dangled, knee bent outwards, exposing her and causing the body to swing over in the icy winds.
Mark stood staring for longer than he would normally have risked at something so unexpected and with such confused surprise. The sweeping tangle of sleeves and shirt beneath had at first disguised the object, but now he recognised that someone in this placid country area apart from himself was committing ruthless and cruel murder. The crash from behind was the surprise that awoke him into action.
A heavy but inaccurate blow, the spade slammed over the side of his head and right ear, ripping a shallow cut into his cheekbone. Mark whirled around, his Springfield XDM aimed, trigger pulled back, and immediately released. The bullet exploded but shot over his attacker’s head. The large man had automatically ducked. Now he grabbed Mark’s wrist, twisted it against the bone, and broke it. He dropped the gun. Without the slightest reaction to his broken wrist, Mark whirled, brought his knee up hard between the back of his assailant’s legs, and moved back as he groaned, cursed, and turned.
Through the fine silver drizzle, Mark Howard and Lionel Sullivan faced each other. Lionel was panting. Mark appeared entirely unperturbed, but his glance took in carefully the position of his gun lying close to the shed door. Lionel, spluttering said, “You met my wife?” nodding to the dead body swinging above.
Mark did not bother to answer. He did not cradle his broken wrist,and as though unable to feel pain, he left it dangling at his side. His other hand moved carefully around to his back. The Smith and Wesson 40C was snapped into place beneath his waistband, and the small closed knife blade was in his back trouser pocket. Lionel was unarmed, but he lunged. The strength of his hands was unexpected. It appeared that the swell of his arms and body swallowed the other, tall and slim, which disappeared beneath him. But the explosion of the gun hurtled Lionel backwards.
Twisting and ignoring the blood and the wound in his side, Lionel landed on his knees and swung one arm around Mark’s neck. Again the gun fired. Lionel swore and clamped tighter to the neck squeezed within his upper and forearm, his hands clasped over his ear, and tightening. Mark gulped, face swollen, and bit the man’s forearm clamped around his neck and chin. Strong teeth, strong jaw, and Mark’s tongue tasted filth as Lionel bellowed and kicked.
Both men pulled away, were winded and hesitated, staring open-mouthed and white-faced. From near strangulation, Mark was weakened and finally the pain from his broken wrist began to scream at him. His cold, expressionless stare was now flushed into fury, shock and pain. Lionel was wounded by a bullet in his right side. This had entered his hip, but once again flesh suffocated pain. Two of his ribs had cracked. Another shot had entered his shoulder but the flabby fat absorbed the pain momentarily, and the bullet had spun within the loose bodily lard and had flown out again near the shoulder bone. He bent over, the dark blood oozing down his shirt. Mark unhitched his knife, grasped it unseen in his unbroken hand, swept that arm up and the blade somersaulted like a circus act, thudding into Lionel’s nose. Blood sprang and splashed. The knife fell back to the ground. Mark grabbed it up, and his gun which lay close to it. But as he bent, Lionel leapt onto his back, pounding with both fists until Mark fell flat, both knife and gun trapped beneath him, and his broken wrist in violent agony, now cracking again.
The rain fell gleeful, ever stronger until it pounded and although they could not see the gash of lightning, they heard the crashing rumble of the thunder. Mark still made no sound. Lionel now lying on top and grappling for a chokehold, was bellowing and cursing. Mark wriggled, managing to point the knife into the other man’s hand. It sliced deep, cutting through the joint of the thumb. Lionel screamed and fisted the back of Mark’s head a dozen times until he lay still.
Snap, snap, Mark’s broken wrist bent backwards. Lionel’s broken ribs dug out into the flesh of his chest and he doubled over. Mark straightened and found the trigger of his Smith and Wesson, pulled it, and rocked backwards. Still out of breath from the near strangulation and in a welter of pain, his first shot skimmed Lionel’s thigh. The second shot slammed into Lionel’s hip near both belly and groin, and he tumbled back, lying still.
The wind whistled. The upside-down body in the tree thumped as it swung against the trunk. There was no other noise except Mark’s faint wheezing. He waited, unable to know whether the other man was dead. Finally, watching intently, he crawled towards the body lying part prone and curled into the stony scrub. Then Mark managed to stand, balancing himself with his one good arm and leaned towards the vast lump. It did not twitch, nor rise and fall as if breathing. There was no grunt, no whimper, nor rattle of dying breath. Mark could not see where his bullet had struck, but he presumed it had caused immediate annihilation. He poked, kicking faintly, at the lump’s arse and it did not react.
With a sigh of relief, Mark turned away, and walked to the shed door, peering quickly inside in case other bodies lay there. He saw nothing but strewn hay and the broken stalks of old straw.
Then something immense struck him bodily from behind and Mark was flung on his face into the shed and onto the rubbish left in the hay and straw. The immovable weight on top of him once again left him breathless and gasping. Then the massive arm, the deep bite mark still visible, came slipping from the back around Mark’s neck, and great jointed fingers fastened against his larynx. The fingers were iron. Lionel’s other elbow smashed into the back of Mark’s neck, and between it and the hand at the front, life was crushed into smaller and smaller avenues. The freeze of his dark contemptuous eyes glazed into shallow ponds. The blackening ponds dried up. The mouth sank open between limp expressionless lips, and the eyes bulged inhuman and utterly blank.
Lionel was laughing as Mark died. Strangled, and then spinal
cord broken, the elegant body stretched prostrate, expensive black Saville Row trousers were slimed in the sudden urine of death. Three brown bovine faces, chewing vigorously, eyes fixed in curiosity, gazed from the lower field.
Pocketing the two guns and the knife, grabbing the wallet from the hidden holder within Mark’s linen shirt and giving the body a final kick. The thrill of power, the kill, and the freedom brought joy, and the joy brought energy. Lionel began to run down the slope towards the house. He had no idea if others lived there, but within the wallet had been car keys, and above all else, he now needed a car. The polished Bentley was still parked at the back. Lionel opened the front door, climbed into the driver’s seat, and drove off without looking behind.
Invincibility spun into his head like fire. The pain of his injuries and wounds made him dizzy, but with living delight and not with the misery of agony he knew he had inflicted on the dead man. The concreted drive led both up to the country lane and down into the valley where a wider road sank into distant shadows. Lionel headed down. He left a distinct trail of blood drips, splatters and footprints behind him, but this stopped at the house, replaced by the wet earth on the tyres. This pointed the way Lionel had driven but faded before the road was reached.
“Look. There,” yelled Rita. Everyone stared and Morrison stopped the car on the grassy weed greedy side of the ditch. Both Harry and Rita scrambled out, and began to half run, half slip down the hillside towards the vile thing they had seen.
“Wait,” Morrison commanded Sylvia, and drove on a few meters to where the drive towards the house was a smooth winding grey. He stopped halfway down, then bumped the Range Rover over the short distance to the shed. He raced to the sycamore tree and Sylvia followed. Rita and Harry were just halfway down the slope.
The Games People Play Box Set Page 54