Eventually, getting bored, she caught a bus into Cheltenham and sat by the fountain eating the sausage roll and ham sandwich she’d bought around the corner.
“Hello,” said the young man. “Can I ask you the way to the nearest pharmacy?”
Ruby wasn’t sure, and waved the hand holding the sausage roll. “I think there’s one just up there. And there used to be one of those big supermarket ones around this corner. But to be honest, I’m not sure anymore.” She stuffed the remains of the sausage roll into her mouth and smiled with crumbs. “You just moved here, have you?”
He was walking away, but seemed to think of something different, walked back, and sat on the same bench beside Ruby. “No,” he said. “Just passing by. Never been here before. I just wanted some Aspirin.”
“You have a headache too?” Ruby rummaged in her handbag. “I had one this morning after I fell out of bed. Silly old fool, I am, but I had a bad dream. But I think I’ve got aspirin in my bag. Or maybe it’s Paracetamol.” It was Paracetamol, and Ruby handed the packet to the boy. “But you’ll need a drink,” she said.
With a long-fingered and unmarked hand, he took the pills, extracted two, and passed the rest back. “That’s really – kind. I’ll get some water somewhere.”
“There’s the fountain.” Ruby pointed, and the boy laughed. She liked him. “What’s your name?”
He was, Ruby decided, a good looking boy, quite handsome in fact, good cheekbones and a nice smile, though extremely young and probably only nineteen or twenty. It was his hair that spoiled him. It had once been bleached white and cut in a mohawk. However, it was clear that he had then changed his mind about such extravagant styling. The Mohawk was growing out, although the hair still stood stiff. the colour only remained white at the ends, whilst the boy’s own colour was now growing through. From the roots it grew dark brown and silky in contrast to the stiff white prickles at the ends.
He said, “Brad. Brad Peacock.”
“What a lovely name,” Ruby told him. I’m Ruby Pope. Delighted to meet you.” She held out a somewhat sticky hand, and the boy managed an exceedingly limp shake in return, almost as though he disliked touch. Ruby smiled. Well, she was an old crone after all. Not someone to grasp tightly.
“Where do you live then?” Ruby grinned. “Come and let’s see what that café offers. I’ll buy you a cup of tea or a coke or whatever you want. I might have a cake.”
“Cornwall,” the boy said. “With my parents. “And I’d love a coke. I’ll be able to take my pills.”
“I love Cornwall.” She was tempted to inform Brad that having once been married to a world champion Formula One racing driver and had once insisted on them going to Cornwall on holiday. But he was too young to remember Rodney Pope, and Ruby stopped herself from repeating the old story. “O.K. Coke and cake it is.”
The headache and the bruised back both sped away, and Ruby passed an extremely pleasant hour chatting about nothing in particular. The boy brought up different subjects to discuss as though reading from an exercise book while teaching a class at school. “Climate change?” he decided suddenly. “Now, what do you think of that? True or untrue?” He listened politely, added a few words himself, then asked, “I hope I don’t sound too inquisitive, Ruby. But do you live at home with your husband? Do you have children?” And then Brad wanted to know all about Rochester Manor. “It sounds grand. What a fantastic place to live. How many inhabitants, did you say? That’s quite impressive. And the cook makes delicious meals? Not like the school canteens?” And finally, “I must come and visit one day. Would you mind?”
“Not in the least,” Ruby told him, a little too gushy for her own pride but her enthusiasm was hard to squash. Young, handsome, intelligent and wondrously polite, this was such a gift out of the wide blue yonder. “I’d be delighted. Any time. There’s always cake and drinks available.”
They parted company at the bus stop, and the boy waved goodbye as she climbed on, and waited until the bus was out of sight, which Ruby found very touching.
“He must have been lonely,” Ruby told Sylvia later.
“He just looked and knew at once you are a darling to talk to.” Sylvia, having traipsed through the woods again, was exhausted. Ruby decided not to bother her with any more pointless detail concerning a passing teenager who lived miles away.
“You look worn out. I’ll make some tea.”
It was the next day and the sun was still shining when Ruby realised that Sylvia and Harry yet again intended going off pretending to be policemen, and so decided she’d go back into Cheltenham. The boy lived in Cornwall, so surely he hadn’t travelled up to the Cotswolds just for a few hours. He would hopefully still be wandering around, and she might hopefully bump into him again.
It was while walking up to the further bus stop, express coach to the city, when she saw the box by the side of the road. And old cardboard box, somewhat tattered, was wriggling as though something inside was attempting escape. Ruby hoped it wasn’t a snake. The likelihood was small, but anything was possible. She walked over, and bent, glasses on.
The tiny brown shape squeaked, more whimper than greeting.
“Good Lord,” said Ruby to the thing in the box. “You’re a puppy. A teeny-weeny scrawny little starving screwed-up puppy.” She managed a somewhat painful knee-locked bend . “Poor little thing.” Never having owned one, Ruby knew little about dogs, but this one was unmistakably lost. Presumably abandoned. “You look,” Ruby told it, “like the brown paper envelopes I get from my accountant after I’ve screwed them up to put in the bin.” Brown eyes gazed at her. She apologised. “I didn’t mean to insult you, dear. It’s just that you’re so very small and showing all your tiny bones. You certainly wear no collar, and those poor minute ribs stand out like badges of unmistakeable mistreatment and serious hunger.” As she bent closer, one finger gingerly touching the grubby little head, the tongue appeared, not to bite but to lick her finger. She felt she was probably now contaminated with whatever the puppy suffered from, and a host of lice and fleas were bound to have leapt from puppy to human.
Her long-ago-husband had disliked dogs and called them dirty. She had never before cuddled a puppy in her life and had never felt the need. But she could not bear the thought of leaving the minute creature to die in agony. She took a deep breath and picked it up. So small that it fitted almost entirely in the palm of one hand, it was warmer than she had expected, softer, intensely sweeter, and noticeably trembling. Ruby had large pockets in her woolly coat, so she popped the puppy into one. It immediately cuddled up and soundlessly lowered its head. She wasn’t sure whether it now felt safer or was simply too weak to do anything and therefore lay still and ready to die.
Ruby discovered that she was crying. She fished her phone out of the other coat pocket and entered a search for the nearest vet. It wasn’t far, so she marched off in the right direction with a hopeful pat on the puppy-pocket.
“Injections against this and that,” said the plump man in a white coat. “I’ll inject against the usual things. Your name and address, ma’am? And the little dog’s name?”
“It hasn’t got one.” Ruby was a little flustered. “I mean, I hadn’t meant to keep it. I just wanted to leave it with you for food and a new home. Checked for diseases of course, and treated for worms and those horrid lice things dogs get.”
The vet paused, looking up, a little impatient. “You simply wish the dog to be taken to the pound?”
She shook her head. “That sounds a little cruel,” clicking her tongue. “It’s so small. And starving hungry, I imagine. Can’t you feed it?”
Doctor Robinson glared over the top of his glasses. “I have stocks of puppy food, various kinds, here for sale. We could start with a bowl of clean water. This dog is clearly dehydrated.”
“You should have said that before,” Ruby complained. “What sort of vet are you to see a dying creature and not offer even water?”
The vet stared coldly. “I have just offered water,
madam.”
“Do it then,” grumbled Ruby. “And a tin of whatever’s the best food for something that little. And I won’t leave it with you at all.”
“Just as well, madam, since I would not have accepted it.”
“Boy or girl?” she demanded, fumbling for her purse.
“Clearly male, Miss Pope.”
“Mrs Pope,” scowled Ruby. “So I’ll call it – him – Brad. Do all those proper injection things, feed the poor little wretch and give it – him – water. Then I shall take Brad home with a few more tins of food, though I daresay you over-charge.”
Harry was standing in the bedroom, making strange faces. Sylvia watched him in mild curiosity for a few moments. Eventually she said, “Are you remembering some strange event from your previous life?”
“There’s something stuck between my teeth.” Harry shook his head. “Spinach, I think. I just can’t get it out.”
Sylvia regarded her husband. “You’re that hungry, dear?”
“Honestly, “Harry spluttered and then stopped. “Damned woman, you’re joking, aren’t you? I’m never sure. “The frown eased into a grin. “It’s stuck between my teeth and I just can’t move it. I don’t want to smile like a vampire or something, with long green tassels dripping from my gums.”
“Come here and open your mouth dear,’ Sylvia said with kindly patience. “I’ll make you respectable again.”
Facing her and bending his knees to the two centimetres shorter than his wife stood, Harry opened his mouth wide. Sylvia obligingly stared at his teeth, including two at the side where a generous strand of green had stuck. She moved closer, and instead of using her fingers, she fastened her mouth to his and kissed him hard.
“Well then,” Sylvia said, finally moving a step backwards as the kiss slowly lapsed, “that was an extra tasty bite of breakfast.”
Harry laughed, exploring his mouth with his tongue. “And it really has gone. What an efficient kiss you have.”
“Efficient in all things, my love.”
They were interrupted by the running feet and the call, recognisably Ruby’s urgent voice. “Look, you two. Look what I found.”
“Lionel Sullivan?”
“Oh yes, and I’ve brought him here to prove it.” Ruby held out the cringing puppy. Its mournful whispered whimper attracted a surprising amount of attention. Heads appeared around the four doors on that corridor, two each side.
“What’s that?”
“Are dogs allowed here?”
“Can you keep pets?”
“Is it a rabbit?”
“A hamster?”
“We do what we like,” Ruby said, “since we own the place. I’ve spoken to Lavender, and she says the only problem will come if any other residents complain, and then I might have to buy a kennel and keep him in the garden. But he’s too little for that, so no one’s allowed to complain. If they do, I really will call in the local rat-catcher.”
“But what is it?”
“He’s a puppy called Brad.”
“Brad Pitt? Is it a pit bull?”
Ruby held Brad close, stroking his tiny ears. The puppy closed his eyes. “No. He’s an abandoned stray and the vet think he’s a mix of Staffordshire terrier and sheepdog but there might be other bits and pieces in there too. Anyway, he’s the runt of the littler and someone just dumped the poor little baby in a box by the road. He was starving. Well, he still is but he’s had lots of food and lots of injections and milk and water and kisses, and he’s not quite so frightened anymore. He was terrified at first. He had scars and things on his tummy and bottom, and he’s obviously been awfully badly treated. So don’t anyone even think of not loving my little Brad.”
“He’s delicious,” said Sylvia. “I’ve never seen a puppy so tiny.”
“You’ll need to breastfeed,” decided Derek.
“I have a syringe of special milk,” Ruby replied with disdain. “But he likes a little of softly mashed solids too. And anyone who wants a cuddle will have to wait till he stops being scared stiff.”
Sylvia and Harry smiled at each other. For a woman who had once attempted suicide, this seemed the perfect answer. “Did you always keep dogs when you were married?” Harry asked.
Indecisive, Ruby gazed back. She finally said, “Well, actually no. I never had one, and I don’t know the first thing about them. But Brad has never had a human before either, so we are both innocent newcomers and will get along fine.”
“You could get one of those baby slings,’ Sylvia suggested. “Carry him around all day. He’ll think he’s back in the womb.”
“I could.” Ruby thought about it. “And of course he’ll have to sleep in my bed.”
“I suggest you avoid that until he’s house-trained,” mumbled Stella, stopping on her way to the stairs. “They pee a lot at first, you know.”
“Look what happened to Iris,” added Harry, scratching his ear lobe.
“House-train?” Ruby thought about it. “I’ll Google that on my tablet. Nothing horrid will happen to my little Brad.”
68
Quite suddenly aware that he was the talk of the country, one brief glimpse at the news broadcast on television in a shop window, Lionel once again wrote to his daughter. A text, rather than an email.
“What they think is always wrong. Silly buggers. Tis Olga that does most of it, but sometimes tis me. She makes me. I miss you, little girl. I think of you. They want me back in that fucking cell. I’ll shoot meself. Don’t you dare tell anyone where I am. You don’t know anyway. I did nothing wrong. That Harry guy is a real nasty idiot. Don’t let him anywhere near. Nor the law. Love from Daddy.”
Tracy Sullivan, now back in the comfy apartment supplied by the police, phoned Morrison. “Can you tell where people are from their emails and stuff? I heard from my creepy father.”
“Yes, usually.” Morrison grabbed a pen and paper. “Give me the return phone number.”
“I phoned it already and it’s disconnected. Dad must have chucked the phone. And he says he did nothing wrong, it was all Olga. I don’t know anyone called Olga. It must be his girlfriend.”
“I’ll contact Cosmore and she’ll come around to pick up your phone.”
“That’s fine. I have the new one you gave me anyway. Dad’s the only person who uses the old number.” She phoned Sylvia immediately afterwards. “My sick father contacted me again. Shall I come back to Little Woppington? I’m a bit bored here doing nothing. I’m happier at your pub with you and Harry to talk to. I even like your funny friend Ruby.”
“Come, please come,” Sylvia approved loudly. “All we do at the moment is puppy-sit. Shed-searching is much more fun, and the weather’s improved. Less mud.”
Harry grabbed the phone from her and said loudly, “But he can’t be here. No point in coming. He’s up in Nottingham. There’s been another murder.” The gasp followed by an eerie silence echoed throughout the living room. Sylvia turned to Harry. He handed her back the phone. “Just heard it on the radio. Some little town near Nottingham. Very nasty, typical Sullivan murder.”
“Yuck,” Sylvia spoke again into the phone. “Tracy, it’s probably a waste of time, but we just got up to Nottingham again. When I was there before I admit I got rather bored. But this time we know he’s there.”
“I’ll come with you. Please.” Tracy remembered a slight handicap. “I’ve got no money for the train. Unless I go back on the game for a couple of days.”
“No, don’t do that,” said Sylvia. “I’ll send you some money. But you shouldn’t come, not really. I don’t think Morrison would approve.”
“I reckon he can’t stop me,” Tracy bounced back, sounding cross. “I’m not under arrest. I just fancy a trip north.”
“I’m not objecting,” Sylvia told her. “There’s a nice cosy pub called the Black Out near the Nottingham train station. Meet you there. When? Day after tomorrow?”
Tracy thought about it. “The day after. In the evening. Time to get the money, have a bath, get
up my courage But don’t tell your cop friend.”
It was the following evening and Sylvia was packing for both herself and Harry when Morrison turned up. He flopped down on the larger couch in the small living room where Harry was half asleep, feet up on the coffee table, a glass of wine undrunk.
He woke up at Morrison’s arrival. “Humph?”
“Young woman discovered dismembered just outside Southwell, Nottinghamshire. The pieces of her remains were collected into a large black plastic rubbish bag. She had been chopped as usual. Yet her head had not been taken from her torso. I can’t remember any other of Sullivan’s victims ever escaping the usual beheading. Sullivan has a system. First a serrated knife cuts the windpipe. Then a similar knife severs the sides of the neck, but not as deeply. Finally the head is removed by axe.”
“Shit,” Harry muttered.
“Not this time. The head remained attached. He must have been in a hurry. But all limbs were separated, the internal organs also collected into a smaller bag. Interestingly, this second bag was a small carrier bag from Harrods. Somewhat recognisable. The entire bag , including the Harrods bag, was left outside the iron gate to a somewhat large and grand estate and farmland. The dead girl’s under examination by the Midlands pathologist at present, and there’s plenty of DNA for tracing her name.”
Harry shook his head clear of the nausea and sat up straight. Darcey, I appreciate you bringing the information. But it’s not like you. What’s going on?”
Crossing his hands over the slightly increasing bulge of his chest. Morrison sighed. “I was never on the original case years and years ago,,” he said softly. “I was too young. But that vile creature murdered six young women, each mutilated and beheaded. Having presumably comparatively little privacy, there was usually some months between each brutal crime. Then he stopped.”
The Games People Play Box Set Page 62