“Legal? Licenced?” Paul doubted it.
“How should I know?” Piper shrugged that off. “Then when the bugger got out saying he needed a piss, I realised it were him. Huge bugger, he was, Right ugly, and dirty too. So I gets out me gun and I shoots him. He cut me. I bin stitched here and stitched there all over, with one leg bandaged foot to bloody hip. Can’t hardly walk. But no proper damage. I ain’t gonna die yet, sein’ as I’s just eighteen.” She sniggered. “I tell all and sundry as how I’m eighteen. But I’m sixteen. Well, then folks tell me I ortta be in school, so I make out I’m older. But I’m almost sixteen. Oh shit, who cares about all that. I’m thirteen and I’ll be fourteen next week. So I’m thirteen coming on eighteen, and I killed that nastiest bastard in the country. Not bad, eh?”
Paul sat on the only chair. “How can you be sure he’s dead?”
“Look,” Piper said, “I ain’t stupid. I shot the bugger close up. One bullet smashed right into the middle of his face. So the bastard’s dead.”
“Did you look back and see him lying there when you got away?” Paul demanded.
Sighing, Piper nodded. “Look, I were hurt so I crawled off to get to the road where I could get picked up by an ambulance. But yes, I ain’t stupid, like I says. I didn’t want the bugger coming up behind, so I looks around twice. He were flat out on the grass with blood like a can o’ Coke spilt all over.”
“Yet now no one can find him.”
“I reckon,” said Piper, climbing down beneath the sheets again, “Some silly bugger carted him off to some hospital in them Welsh mountains or villages or somfing. He’s dead, I tell you, so he’s gotta turn up.”
Paul eyed her obvious closure of the conversation and nodded. “OK, I’ll leave you to rest. Can I visit you if I think of any more questions?”
“No,” Piper said, and closed her eyes.
Travelling on her own with considerable trepidation, Daisy arrived at the train station and caught a taxi to Rochester Manor. Since she hadn’t been able to find the private phone number, she was especially nervous about finding both Sylvia and Harry out, even perhaps travelling north, or on a visit to Nottingham to see her.
They weren’t, they were sitting with everyone else at their dinner table in the dining room, having lunch. Sylvia was talking to Ruby.
Puppy Brad was wandering the large room chasing scraps dropped by loose-fingered forks and begging for larger scraps from his favourite residents. Amy was passing the dog her large pork chop which she couldn’t eat since she’d forgotten to put her teeth in, but just as Percival looked up, caught her at it, and scolded her as the puppy ran off, meat firmly between his minute jaws.
“Your dog,” said Sylvia to Ruby, “is going to get horribly fat.”
“He’ll run it off,” smiled Ruby. “He chases all the sparrows and wood pigeons outside. And he was starved before, poor little darling, and half dead when I found him, so he deserves a little over indulgence now.”
Lavender interrupted, waving from the doorway. “Sylvia, are you free?”
“What for?” Sylvia called back. “I’m in the middle of lunch.”
“There a woman asking for you,” Lavender called, thus informing the whole room. “Mrs Daisy Curzon. Says it’s urgent. Shall I ask her to wait in the hall? Or the small living room?”
Harry and Sylvia stared at each other in surprise. They had not long returned from visiting her, and thought it a waste of time. “Small saloon,” Sylvia called back. “Cheers, Lavender. I won’t be long.”
“I probably shouldn’t have come,” Daisy told them as they all settled . “But I heard that the terrible serial killer has been shot, and I thought everything would start getting better. It was such a relief. I really felt a huge relief. After George – well, I knew poor darling George had died a natural death and wasn’t – murdered – oh, what a shocking word! But it was a ghastly death for him anyway, poor dear. Dreadful Gastroenteritis and even the hospital couldn’t find out what food had caused it. They washed out his stomach, you know, and found no food to examine. Poor darling had vomited it all up. But now I’m all alone and very lonely, and I think Dean has gone away on his own. It’s two days since I saw him. He went off to school as usual in the morning but didn’t come home. I wasn’t worried because he often phones, and tells me he’ll be staying a few days with his best friend. Dear Kevin is a good boy and his parents like Dean so much. Dean helps Kevin with his homework of course.”
She was fluttering both hands, and bouncing a little on the chair. The springs squeaked. Sylvia interrupted. “He seems a very sensible boy, Mrs Curzon. I doubt he’d have done anything terrible.”
“Not terrible.” Daisy gulped and wiped her eyes. “But suicide, do you think? Because of his father? I mean, he was in tears for a week. Then he went all silent and hopeless. And this time he just didn’t come home. He didn’t even phone. So I went around to Kevin’s house and they said no, they hadn’t seen him. Kevin said he wasn’t at school that day.”
“And not the next day either?”
“No. I went to the police, but they weren’t very helpful. They said Dean was old enough to have run off with a girl, and it was young pretty females who were getting murdered, not young boys. He’d be bound to turn up in a few days. I knew you’d be more sympathetic, and I was going to phone up. But then – well – frankly, I had to get away. Dean still didn’t come home. I asked Enid next door to phone me day or night if she saw him, and I thought I’d visit here. The train didn’t actually take too long.” She extracted another handkerchief and then forgot to wipe her eyes. “He’s all I have left. But I understand his misery, my poor lad. There has been tragedy after tragedy. Friends have died, neighbours have died, depraved killers wander our streets, and now my beloved George – life is just too horrible.”
Almost crying with her, Sylvia reached, took Daisy’s hand and said, “Mrs Curzon, I’m most terribly sorry. But I’m not sure why you came to us. Sadly, I have no idea where your son might be. We never found Lionel Sullivan this time either, you know. We involved ourselves in the investigations since we’d become very friendly with Mr Morrison, who’s head of the homicide squad here, and had the luck to find Mr Sullivan the first time. We help when we can, and that’s why we visited you when you said you’d like to discuss the dreadful killings that happened in your neighbourhood. But we have no special knowledge and no special way of tracing people. I’m sorry. You must feel terrible, and we’d love to help if we could.”
“But you’re friends with that top man,” nodded Daisy at once. “Tell him not to dismiss my darling son’s disappearance. Tell him to find my dearest Dean for me, and not to think silly things about him going off to football matches or girlfriends. He’s never had a proper girlfriend, and the last one died. And he hates football. All he likes is school and study and science.”
Nodding with the nicest smile he could summon, Harry said, “Morrison is in charge of homicide, not missing boys. Maybe he can phone someone else. But he doesn’t even work your area.”
In a dreaded and terrified whisper, Daisy said, “But Dean could be – dead.”
“An accident? Well, perhaps, but you’d have been informed. It can’t be murder. Sullivan doesn’t kill boys, and he appears to be dead anyway.” Harry scratched his earlobe.
“That monster killed a policeman. He was a man.”
“Because the detective was after him, and clearly found him,” said Sylvia. “Your poor son must be deeply depressed after all the local misery and especially his father. I’d guess he’s gone away to hide for a few days to try and think and get over his depression. I’m quite sure he’ll turn up in a day or two. He’ll need you.”
Daisy looked blank. “The only person Dean ever needed was his school teacher,” she said sadly. “He calls me his handcuffs. But I’m sure he loves me, and I know he was heartbroken about his dearest dad. But I have to admit, I’m sure I love my boy more than he loves me.’
Harry and Sylvia looked at each
other. “What time’s your train home?” Harry asked. “I think a nice dinner at a good restaurant would cheer you up a little, and then back home for a cosy night. Would you have time to come to dinner with us tonight?”
With a slightly frosty stare, Sylvia looked at her husband and then turned to Daisy. “I wonder,” she said, “if we could go and visit Morrison this afternoon. With you too, of course, and explain the situation to him. He might contact your lot for you, and get them to take Dean’s disappearance more seriously.” She looked back at Harry. “Though Morrison will be horrendously busy searching for the missing Sullivan corpse and questioning that little Piper girl.”
“Rita might be there. She’d help, I’m sure she would,” Harry suggested.
“I don’t understand. I’m Johnny Tavistock,” said the boy. “But why? I’m not doing anything wrong.”
The uniformed policeman looked earnestly at him. “You sure that’s your name, boy,” he asked. “We’ve got a missing report on a young lad who looks a lot like you. But that’s not his name.” He paused, frowning. “What’s your address, lad? Where do you live?”
The boy looked somewhat belligerent. “Why? You’re not going to tell my parents, are you? What for? I’ve done nothing. I’m just walking up the street.”
“You’re a touch defensive, boy,” said the copper. “I’ve not accused you of anything. I told you there’s a boy missing, you should want to help. And I need your name and address, that’s all. No harm, eh?”
“OK.” The boy attempted a half smile. “I hope you find the one you’re looking for. But I’m Johnny Tavistock, 44 Berkley Avenue in Glasgow. That’s Scotland.”
“I know where Glasgow is,” the policeman frowned. “But how come you’re in Gloucestershire if you live way up north?”
“I’m eighteen,” said the boy. “I’m not a kid. I wanted a quiet holiday, and I fancy a girl who lives around here somewhere. And don’t ask me her address because I’m not sure of it, and besides, I don’t want her to know I’m here.”
P.C. Foreman stopped and considered. The boy appeared honest and genuine. He had no reason to think otherwise. So he said, “Well young master Tavistock, good luck with your girlfriend, look after yourself, and don’t cause trouble for anyone else, especially now I know who you are. But I wish you a good holiday.” And he nodded, walking on, hands clasped behind his back. Walking slowly, he plodded up the street, smiling at nearly all he passed, although he knew none of them. It was sometime before he reported back to the station, and had nothing of interest to report when he did.
Meanwhile, Johnny Tavistock whooped loudly, clicked his heels together, and, avoiding anyone who looked curiously at him, continued along the road to the small backstreet youth hostel where he was staying. Holiday with a purpose, or holiday without a purpose, there was always a sad shortage of money.
86
“Are you listening carefully?’ She recognised the voice on the phone, although muffled. “Then I’ll explain – there has been a large sum of money transferred into your private bank account, but this is not for you. I repeat, not for you in any manner or sum. Do you understand?”
“Of course I do. And I don’t need your stolen money, and I don’t want money from brutal criminals. So go away.” But Kate didn’t hang up.
“The money is already in your account, but every penny of it is for Milton. Understood?”
“How much?”
“You can check that yourself. But it’s a million pounds. This is to cover his operations, the best surgeons you can find, his luxury convalescence, and his extra comforts afterwards. I know he isn’t able to leave that place even after the trial, but there’s a lot can be done to make him comfortable and happy. Take him a photograph of Mark and myself.”
“You must be doing extremely well. Where are you?” asked Kate, her voice considerably less antagonistic.
“Yes of course I’m doing well. I’ve taken over Mark’s business and enjoying it. As for where I am, it’s not the Middle East any more, but I’m certainly not giving the actual address. Besides, I move a lot. You do exactly what I ask with Milton, and next time I’ll send some extra for you to spend on yourself. Buy yourself yet another pair of shoes.”
“Maurice,” she said quietly, “it just shows you never, ever knew me. I was never a shoe fanatic. I have three pairs – summer, winter, and best. And I don’t want anymore. I need money to enlarge my business and turn the cake shop into a café restaurant.” She didn’t admit this was already well underway with the previous money from him that she had appropriated. “And since you’re making an illegal fortune, you might as well help a bit.”
“I might. You look after Milton. This whole million is for him, like I said, operations and so forth, and then his defence lawyer. Once he walks OK and comes more to his senses, as a free man he could join me.”
“He’s never going to turn into a placid and friendly little soul, is he now?”
“Why not?” Maurice demanded. “What do you know about it anyway? After the operations he’ll be able to walk pain-free, and once he feels different, maybe he’ll act different. And have you visited him regularly. Don’t lie. I know your voice.”
“I visited a lot.” She lied and thought he might hear it in her tone, but clearly he didn’t know her voice at all.
Kate felt Iris come up behind her. She turned at once, finger to her lips. Iris stayed silent. Maurice said, “Well, you keep up the good work and I might send another million in a month or two for your little tea room. In the meantime, you keep your mouth shut and look after Milton. Get that photo for him and visit regularly. Buy him presents. Find the best lawyer in the country.”
“OK. But isn’t it dangerous for you to talk so long? This call could be traced.” Kate was smiling and playing with her tablet, looking up her bank account.
“No. Everything’s in code over here, and it’s not traceable. And you can’t phone me back. I’m chucking this phone in the river as soon as I’ve finished talking to you. And now, just before I go, when is the trial?”
“Oh, um,” said Kate, hiccupping. Well, never, you twit, since Milton is dead. But that was not what she said. Instead she said simply, “No date yet naturally. Probably well into next year. I’ll let you know as soon as I know.” Sometime, later, never.
“Alright. I’m going. Give Milton and Mia my love.”
The line went dead. The tablet told its own story. Her private bank account held the sum of nearly one and a half million pounds. And it needed spending. If the police discovered she had that much, they’d be onto her with the rattle of prison bars. So it would be a great little restaurant. “The kitchen will be large and as modern as you can get. I’ll employ a chef – not just me slaving away morning till midnight. And maybe I’ll hang an original Van Gogh on the wall.” Iris was staring at her. Kate hadn’t even realised she was speaking aloud. “Sorry love.” Kate hugged her friend. “We’re going to have a lot of fun, and I still love your cakes, but don’t worry about business. We already have it made.”
“You didn’t tell your husband that poor little Milton is dead, did you?” Iris sat down in a hurry.
“No I didn’t and don’t intend to. Well, not yet anyway. It would only upset him.” Not that this was the reason, but lying had become something of a habit. “And he’s not my husband anymore. You know that.” And that was true enough. “I send half the last money to Eve Daish’s family in secret. Anonymous and so on. Maurice never knew about that either. Half a million pounds straight to Mr and Mrs Daish. Maybe they guessed where it came from, but they’ve moved away so they must be OK now.”
“I doubt that poor little girl will never ever be alright again,’ murmured Iris.
“I’m sure you’re right,” said Kate dully, “but I’ve done what I could to help. I’ll never be the same again either. And I don’t suppose you will.”
“I’ve been lucky,” said Iris. “And the horrible things in my life were my own fault. Nothing was Eve’s fault.
And I don’t think anything was your fault either.”
“Well,” Kate sighed, “plenty was Maurice’s fault, and he’s living a great multi-millionaire life somewhere. I don’t think life ever does the fair’s fair bit, does it.”
“I don’t believe he’s dead,” said Morrison. “We’ve checked every damned hospital for miles around in all directions, and there’s no bodies attracting the crows in any field either. Somehow or other, on his own or with help, he’s got away.”
“Well,” said Rita, “it fits with the car, doesn’t it. That was found on the By-Pass, and smeared with blood. DNA says some of Sullivan’s blood but mostly Piper Hamilton’s.”
“Yes,” Morrison answered her. “But we’ve no way of knowing whether that blood was from some past accident or attack, or from the gunshots. We certainly know it’s the car the killer himself stole. Now taken into evidence, and damned important, the best find for months. Full of the Hamilton girl’s fingerprints too. But where’s Sullivan?”
“Crawled away and not dead at all. Piper Hamilton’s kidding herself. Wants to be a hero.”
“Even the eternal escapist Sullivan surely can’t run off with his face smashed in by a close quarters bullet.”
“Houdini?” Rita was laughing.
“There’s two of them. I’m sure of it.” Morrison was leaning on the railing, overlooking the main road out of town. It was a small top floor balcony near the chief’s office, and the perfect place for private conversation. “Some of the body parts we’ve recovered are smothered with Sullivan’s DNA. Others are carefully cleaned, and not a trace of the killer remains. So – different methodology. Oh yes – I have a list on paper, another copy of it on the computer, and the same list embedded in my brain.”
“I don’t think Sullivan killed Tammy. Never did. Too clean.” Rita shook her head. “Is your list dependant on area? Nottingham region down to someone else? Gloucestershire still Sullivan’s work?”
The Games People Play Box Set Page 78