The Games People Play Box Set

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “It’s a funeral,” she said, “and I feel really sorry for Milton. Well, alright, dear, I suppose that makes me a silly old fool. But he just wasn’t sane. He couldn’t help it. And his two naughty brothers were more to blame than he was.”

  “If you’re going to be sentimental, you could say they both did it for love of their little sick triplet. So who are you going to blame?”

  “Alright, no one,” and Iris shook her head. “But I’ll pray for him and wear black.”

  Regarding the dotted dress, which she had paid for, Kate said, “And the tiny red spots are to remember the blood spilt?”

  Not having meant anything of the sort, Iris just smiled. “I just didn’t want to be totally gloomy. And besides, I wanted a pretty dress I could wear to other places as well.”

  Kate wore bright green.

  The event was short, although they covered the necessities without touching on the awful parts of Milton’s life. He was cremated, and his ashes were offered to Kate. She refused them and asked for them to be scattered across the graveyard, or otherwise destroyed. Once over, Kate turned to Iris. “It’s really sweet of you to keep me company, Iris dear. So, what now?”

  “Should we inform Sylvia and Harry?” Iris suggested.

  “They’re not going to be interested now, are they? Once over, soon forgotten.”

  “Most unlikely,” Iris said, looking stern and buttoning her coat. “She’s a nice lady, that Sylvia. What they did for me, her and Harry too, was absolutely exceptional. Apart from you, my dearest Kate, there’s nobody I consider kinder or more essential in my life. And they’ll be good customers in the future once you open the café, you’ll see.”

  “They get free meals at that posh manor,” Kate insisted. “Why bother coming to us?”

  “And that lady Ruby just loves our cakes,’ smiled Iris.

  Since everybody arrived together, the late afternoon was somewhat chaotic, and Lavender found herself in the middle, having opened the door to Sylvia and Harry arriving from the direction of the garage, Kate and Iris who had just parked at the front, and Ruby who had tottered from the bus stop after returning from the police station.

  “Tea,” cried Harry, waving one arm up through the crush.

  Lavender was more than content to hurry off to the kitchen while everyone else told each other their stories at the same moment.

  “We drove. No more train crashes thank you. We enjoyed the break, but it was a waste of time.”

  “We’ve just come from Milton Howard’s funeral. He did it himself. Personally, I think it’s the first sensible thing he’s ever done.”

  “But I’ve just been talking to the most irritating cops down at the station. Two or three days ago, Lionel was seen. Here! In Cheltenham! And the police aren’t taking the slightest notice.”

  “But they must. How could they ignore that?”

  When Lavender brought the tea, and since everyone was still talking at once, she rattled the cups and said, “There’s just been something interesting on the late news. Some girl just turned up in hospital saying she’s killed Lionel Sullivan.”

  Everyone stopped talking and stared. “And it’s true? Is she a detective?”

  “I have no idea,” said Lavender. “It was on the news, so it’s probably rubbish.” And she poured the tea.

  It was five to six in the evening, precisely at the moment when three-quarters of Morrison’s squad were grabbing their coats and preparing to hurry home before the boss yelled out that he needed everyone to carry on working over-time.

  That was when Morrison threw open the door to his office with a resounding bang, and yelled, “Forget it. No one’s leaving. Something extremely interesting’s just happened.”

  The echo of interwoven sighs floated around the room like rising smoke. “Oh, Boss. Not now.”

  “Yes now,” Morrison repeated. “Where’s Rita?”

  “Upstairs with the governor.”

  “Right.” Morrison pointed. “You, Walsh and you Crabb, you’re coming with me in ten minutes. The St. John’s hospital up on the Bridgington ByPass into Wales. Newcomb, Roach and Grant, go and check every single surgery, hospital and doctor’s clinic right throughout the whole area and into Wales, looking for a man of Sullivan’s description recently picked up with one or two bullet wounds. Meanwhile, Dempster and Whiteland, get the main force organised for roadblocks leading into every forest in the immediate vicinity, and the side roads leading into the Welsh countryside. We’re looking for a 2003 white Honda with the number plates R55 6 IMoP driven by Sullivan. He has to be stopped. There is also the slight possibility that he’s on foot. Lastly, Napper and Rogers, all and every possible scrap of CCT footage needs checking on that ByPass, including the Shell garage just off the highway.

  “I want half-hourly reports, and immediate information regarding anything interesting discovered.” Leaving the office in a scuffle of chairs, under breath curses, whoops of pleasure from the few, and the banging of doors, Morrison raced upstairs and didn’t bother to knock on the Chief Inspector’s office door. “Boss,” he said, walking in and nodding to Rita, “the most interesting development with the Sullivan case. He’s been reported shot and killed, possibly shot and wounded. It’s a little complicated.”

  DCI Dark was beaming, leaning back in his swivel chair. “Sounds simple to me, Darcy. Sounds excellent.”

  “It may be,” Morrison nodded, “if we find him. Even dead, he seems able to evade the authorities.”

  “Who shot him?” Rita demanded, jumping up.

  “Someone already on the wanted list.” Morrison was now grinning. “You must have heard of the Hamiltons up in Lichfield. Big crime family, trying to be the local mafia. Daddy Hamilton’s the big boss, into firearms, robbery and drug trafficking. There’s half a dozen sons, all running different branches of the business. There’s one daughter – Piper. Not much been known about her up until now. A bit of petty larceny, that’s all. She’s thirteen or fourteen or thereabouts. Anyway, running away, she says, to start a respectable life, she bagged a lift down from Staffs. A white Honda driven by a big goose of a man – her words – who seemed only too eager to take her on. She stole some food at a garage they passed and got friendly. Then, just over the Welsh border, he made some excuse about stopping beside some shed, and they both got out to take a leak. When he stood up she immediately realised who he was. She had pocketed a gun from her father’s collection, says she thought he had a licence though that’s highly suspect, and when Sullivan ran at her, she shot him. Twice. She’d been badly cut in the tussle, crawled away back onto the main road and phoned for an ambulance. It was the hospital who contacted us. I’m going up to visit this Piper Hamilton now, I won’t be wasting time.”

  Rita said, “ I’ll come.”

  “I’ve got Crabb and Walsh already, but you're more than welcome. And Guv, I was hoping you’d set up a trace on CCT, and contact the Lichfield lot regarding the family.”

  “I take it they didn’t report this girl missing?”

  Morrison grinned, already half out of the door. “Hardly. But informing the old man his daughter’s in hospital will seem fair enough. Best not tell him she might be done for an illegal firearm and shooting a man in cold blood.”

  “Self defence.”

  “Fair enough.” He was already thumping down the stairs, grabbed his coat from the peg just inside his office, and ran down to where Crabb and Walsh were waiting for him with his car, engine running, just outside. Rita jumped in the front passenger seat, and Morrison took the wheel. Behind him, exiting the station, people both uniformed and plain clothes, were running in all directions.

  “Well,” said Rita, “I’m sure the dear man would be delighted to know how important we think him.”

  “Not sure I’d use the word important,” muttered Crabb from the back seat.

  “So Milton threw himself from a window,” said Harry. “I can’t help a smidge of sympathy. But on the whole, it’s a blessing. Maybe for him too. An
d now it sounds as though Sullivan’s dead as well. Bloody brilliant.”

  “Perhaps we should phone Tracy,” suggested Sylvia. “But maybe not until it’s been confirmed. The police will be onto her, I’m sure.”

  Ruby was cuddling Brad, who was nibbling on her ear. “But what was he doing up in Wales. Derek swears he saw him in town just three days ago.”

  “So he is travelling around and doing vile things in different places,’ said Stella from the other side of the empty fireplace. “it’s all him all along.”

  “I always said it was the bus driver,’ Amy said, brightening up and shaking herself from a slight doze.” Percival remained studiously reading the Lancet.

  “And you haven’t heard from Maurice?” Sylvia asked Kate.

  Amy looked hopelessly puzzled, but Kate said, “I did hear from him once, asking about Milton, but that was some time ago. I have no idea how to get onto him, and I don’t even know where he is. Besides, I don’t actually care about him anymore. I certainly don’t love him. I don’t even like him. But I don’t hate him either. He’s just a creep I was stupid enough to marry. But I’ve got Mia, and she’s compensation for everything. And in a sort of pathetic way, I feel sorry for him. He could have been a normal bloke maybe if it hadn’t been for his brothers and his birth.”

  “And I feel sorry for Milton,” Iris sighed, hands clasped in her little black lap, knees together, sitting on the edge of a tall wooden chair. She always chose the uncomfortable one.

  Harry scratched his earlobe. “You’ll all be telling me you feel sorry for Lionel Sullivan soon.”

  “If he’s dead -----”

  “I just hope he bloody is.”

  “Language, language, Harry,” said Yvonne Norris from somewhere across the room.

  “We should be watching TV,” said Ruby. “The late news starts in five or six minutes.” In fact, her watch was a little slow, and the news had started already. Derek and Sheila, both glued to the screen, called the others over. Lavender came to collect cups, and squirmed in front of the TV at the same time.

  ‘The body of wanted murderer Lionel Sullivan has not yet been traced, but eighteen-year-old Piper Hamilton insists she shot and killed him during a skirmish when she attempted to escape from his clutches. She was badly wounded and now rests in hospital, while half the police force in the country are searching for the dead killer. Should anyone see a white Honda, about twelve years old with the plates R55 6 IMP, please contact your local police station at once, or telephone 999.

  Lionel Sullivan is the most wanted criminal in the country and has been for nearly five months. The news that he may be dead is hopeful but not yet confirmed. It seems he can evade the law even then. Anyone who knows anything should contact the police at once. We’ll bring you the latest updates as they come.”

  The large living room had fallen silent, and it seemed no one in Rochester Manor knew quite what to think. There were faint mumbles. “I bet he’s not dead at all.”

  “I bet he’s found another shed.”

  “Sheds, sheds, sheds.” Amy looked around for her wine glass, found Percival’s and drained it. “I never liked sheds,” she said. “Usually they’re just full of spades and bags of smelly old compost. Arthur has a shed. Does that need looking at? But I expect it’s full of compost too.”

  Percival passed her the correct wine glass. “Have a drink dear. I don’t think Arthur’s under suspicion of anything.”

  “How can the bugger be dead in Wales when I saw him nicking bananas in town three days ago?” Dennis was mumbling to himself.

  “Not hard to get to Wales in three days,” said Harry, looking back at Dennis. “And are you sure it was three days ago?”

  “Of course not now,” Dennis complained over other complaining voices. “I can’t even remember tomorrow.”

  “I went to tell the police,” Ruby interrupted, “and I told them three days ago. Not that I saw the monster myself. I was just helping Dennis.”

  Dennis was now peering at Ruby in slight surprise. “Very kind,’ he said. “I certainly need help. Do it again one day.”

  “I think,” Stella said, “we should all call in a doctor, or some special ambulance person, or just a teacher.”

  “Yeh, we’re certainly that stupid,” muttered Yvonne.

  “No, no, I mean for learning first aid,” Stella stood, turning off the television. “We have killers and torturers all over the countryside, and dead bodies chucked over our walls. Besides, we’re all old and might fall down at any time.”

  “We don’t need a teacher,” Derek puffed. “What about Percy? He’s a doctor.”

  “Used to be,” said Ruby with doubt.

  Percy folded his newspaper on his lap. “I was a good doctor,” he sighed, “but never a good teacher. I tried to teach Amy basic first aid long ago. I spread lessons over a long weekend. Then on the Tuesday, I asked her what she’d do if the little girl, who was actually walking past us in the park, swallowed our front door key. And Amy looked quite satisfied and smiled and said she’d just climb through the back window.”

  Half the room stared at Amy. Derek said, “I always locked my back window.”

  Sitting up in bed in a private ward, Piper Hamilton regarded her three interrogators. “I’ve bin looking after meself for years,” she said, “and I’m not as young as I look. I could beat up Dad if I wanted to.”

  “We’re not here about your family,” said Rita, pulling up a chair. “It’s Lionel Sullivan I’m interested in. Did you have time to see where your bullets actually hit him?”

  “Yes.” She tapped her nose. “One right slam into his face. Another in the middle somewhere. Maybe his hip. But the one in the head must have killed the bastard.”

  “Except that no dead body, nor even the stolen car, has been found where you say they should be,” said Morrison. “You managed to crawl down to the main road to summon an ambulance, but you claimed the white Honda was up that side road, and that Sullivan himself should be lying dead behind the shed just over the ditch. Well, luckily the ambulance found you where you said, but there’s no body. The owners of that field and the shed have been questioned. They heard nothing and saw nothing. However, that’s not surprising since they were evidently in the milking sheds at that time, right on the other end of the property.”

  Piper was indignant. “Well, no bugger’s thanked me for what I did, or told me I did well, or even sympathised with me getting in that bugger’s car, nor said a thing about having a creep for a father. All I got is telling off for the gun, what ain’t mine anyway and just as well I had it, and saying I should contact my dad and say I’m OK, when I ain’t OK, and get told I’m lucky not to be charged with murder. But now you say there weren’t no bloody murder anyway, and I must have missed. Well, I bloody didn’t. The fucker was standing two little steps away and I couldn’t miss him. The first time he rushed me, and I was standing side on and stepped back when he went wallop. He squealed so I know my bullet went somewhere into that greasy fat flesh. Maybe not fatal the first time. But the second time I smashed him in the fucking brains.”

  Crabb yawned. “You’ve been most helpful, Miss Hamilton. We’ll be in contact, especially if we find Lionel Sullivan. In the meantime, we’ll inform your family of your whereabouts.”

  “Tell Mum I’m a bloody hero,” Piper told Crabb. “But tell my dad I’m gone for good, and to go fuck himself.”

  85

  It was Gertrude Sullivan’s doorstep where Paul Stoker stood for some time calling through the letterbox. He had seen the news. “It’s all over,’ his screeched. “Did you hear about your husband? Come on, let me in. You know who I am.”

  “Fuck off,” came the faint echo from within.

  He hung around for half the day, but no one answered or opened the door. Finally Paul surrendered and went home. His wife, who was still there although she had told him she was leaving, ignored him and sat and ate her cheese and ham sandwiches in front of the TV without offering him supper or
tea.

  So it meant the long trip to Wales, searching the relevant area described by the reporters on the TV News, and finally sneaking into the hospital. He didn’t ask for her room, he knew they’d throw him out. He was looking as smart and official as he knew how, which meant a shirt and tie with a mismatching jacket on top, and marched the corridors trying to pinpoint where this interesting new patient was staying.

  After a frustrating hour and a quarter, he had the luck to pass a swinging doorway as the nurse actually trotted out with a used plate and cup, as she called back, “OK, Piper. You have a rest until Doctor Mossop comes in. He’ll be at least half an hour, maybe more. You have a little doze.”

  The door swing shut, the nurse disappeared around the corner, and no sound came from the room she had left. Paul slipped into the very small single ward, and eyed the girl cuddling down under the sheets.

  “Piper Hamilton?”

  She blinked and sat up again, still pristine in white starched hospital gown. “You’re not the doctor.”

  “No, and,” he held up a hand in denial, “And “I’m not the press either. Certainly not. My name is Paul Stoker, and I’m an official investigator into the situation regarding Lionel Sullivan. I won’t keep you long, but I must ask some questions first.”

  “I am tired,” Piper yawned.

  “Yes,” Paul lied with abandon, “Doctor Mossop told me he’d be in to see you later, but not for an hour. So I thought I’d just come and see you for ten minutes.”

  “Oh well,” Piper struggled to sit,” I suppose so. But there’s not much to tell. He’s dead. I keep telling everyone. The bugger gave me a lift. It were really early, and there weren’t any other traffic, and I lost me shoes. Barefoot and walking for bloody miles – well, you can imagine. Besides, I never thought of that creep ‘cos I were up in the Midlands. So this nice clean car stops and I got in. But I had a gun. A nice little Kahr from me dad’s collection. Likes guns, does my dad.”