The Games People Play Box Set

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “Not entirely.” Morrison, hair in his eyes from the high wind, thought a moment while staring out to the hills way beyond the rooftops. A family of starlings were wheeling just over his head. “Actually my list is divided in three. There’s Sullivan’s crimes – has to be him – too recognisable and swamped in DNA. Then there’s Mister X. It’s one man and he’s not Sullivan. But then there’s a short list including Tammy, where I’m not sure. Sullivan had reason to kill Tammy – quick, clean and decisive. Otherwise he’d have been caught and back to the nick. I can’t decide on the third list.”

  Rita stepped back as the wind began to whistle. “Perhaps we have three killers.”

  “Then heaven help us. But I don’t think so.” Morrison turned and wandered back inside. The room which had once been used by DC Cramble was now empty of all but a long desk, three somewhat moth-eaten swivel chairs, and a whiteboard holding pictures of Mark and Maurice Howard with a couple of lists of flight times to Dubai. Next door was the chief’s office, with echoes of the computer keyboard and the phone ringing endlessly.

  “Oh shit,’ muttered Rita. “Must we go back to searching for bloody sheds in the bloody woods?”

  “I have three roadblocks still up,” Morrison nodded, opening the door to the stairs.

  “But we know he lost the car. It’s in our custody.”

  “He hasn’t walked from Wales with two bullets in him,’ growled Morrison, beginning to stomp downstairs. “Either he’s dead in a ditch, he’s staggering across the fields further north and somehow not been seen, or he’s stolen another car.”

  “And we know what cars have been stolen within the past two days in that probable area?”

  “Crabb finished the list an hour ago.” Morrison fluttered a large piece of paper. “There’s a blue Kia GT, a black Mazda CT, a silver Ford, somewhat battered and eight years old, a white Hyundai Santa Fe, brand new, and another white car, which seems to be a Toyota though I can’t read Crabb’s writing.” He stopped halfway down the stairs and passed the paper to Rita. “They’re all on a special watch already. No sightings. But it’s been less than an hour.”

  The white Hyundai Santa Fe had provided a comfortable ride home and now stood beneath a canopy of interwoven ivy, birch leaves, broken dead branches and stuffed leaf litter. It was invisible from the road, invisible from above, and almost invisible from just two steps away. Only a tiny hint of shining metal sneaked its way through the greenery and brown rubbish. Across the pebbled ground from hidden car to hidden cottage was a tiny trail of blood spots.

  “Don’t you worry, Dad,’ the girl told him. “I’ll rake that up. It’ll be gone in two minutes.”

  The veil of disguise across the cottage and all around had always been thick and sufficient, disguising the little hut within the greenery. But now it was more wall than veil and more fence than curtain. A young beech had been broken and bent, branches falling, over the tattered roof and a conglomeration of leave and vine covered each crag and crack. To enter needed patience, a knowledge of the exact position of the hidden door within,, and head bent almost to the undergrowth.

  Lionel found it difficult to bend. His nose was broken and bloody, one ear was now missing, and its explosive disappearance had left deep cuts. The bullet to his face had sliced sideways and never entered the head, but it had left one eye half blind as well as the damage to the ear and nose. The bullet to the hip, however, remained within the body and Lionel found this increasingly agonising with each step.

  The bed was neither clean nor comfortable, but Lionel collapsed immediately, rolled at once to his back, groaning, one huge fingered hand across the pain in his face. “Help me, girl,” he demanded. “I’m fucking dying.”

  “You’re not,’ said Tracy, sitting cross-legged on the ground beside him. “Now, Dad, you know bloody well you’re not. But I bet it hurts like hell. I can dig out the bullet in your arse, but I ain’t no doctor. And all you’ve got is a bottle of Scotch, so it’ll hurt even more than it does now. As for your face, well, I don’t think I can do a sodding thing to help except wash it all. I can’t make a decent job of stitching up the rip in my shirt, let alone your ear.”

  “The ear doesn’t matter,” Lionel muttered. “The nose does. There’s nothing left, is there? Not one shitting bit of bone?”

  “There’s no bone in noses anyway,” said Tracy. “But there’s no flesh and no skin either. You never were a pretty boy, Dad. You’ll just have to accept looking a bit worse.”

  “And feeling fucking worse.”

  Tracy nodded. “Well, you always did like a bit of gore and nastiness. You once told me blood tastes like gravy. You like it, and you give plenty to others. So put up with it now.”

  There was a muffled chuckle beneath the bloody ooze. “You’re as much a bitch as your damned mother was.”

  “Still is.”

  “Go get some water, and be careful. They’ll be even more on the lookout after this shambles. I’ll bet that slut told her story in fucking detail.”

  “Who was she anyway?”

  “How should I know?” Lionel’s voice was gruff with pain and distorted by the crush of his nasal passages. No nostrils remained and the septum was partially destroyed. He tried to blink the blood from his eye. “But she had a gun, the slut, and knew how to use it. I wish I’d taken my own gun with me. Never occurred to me. Not used to guns.”

  “You’ve had it a few months now,” Tracy pointed out. “But don’t worry about that now. Lie still. I’ll get water.”

  She brought back a heavy bucket brimming with water and algae from the stream, used one of the cloths they’d found neatly folded in the car they’d stolen, and Tracy began tentatively washing her father’s face. He grunted but said nothing. She told him to shut up when one splash of cold water slapped into his eye.

  “Maybe scratched,” he said, gritting his teeth.

  “Looks OK to me,” Tracy said. “Now keep quiet and keep still.”

  She had made herself another small straw and leaf littler bed in the opposite corner where the tent leaned back against the cottage wall, stone solidity fortifying the waterproof canvas within. Although not as large as her father’s bed, she found it cosy and acceptable and now curled there, the bucket of water blood filled beside the doorway, and the chamois cloth entirely ruined and stained sticky dark red. Lionel lay still, breathing hard.

  “Better?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Then rest,” Tracy said. “Try and sleep. I certainly want to. I’m worn out.”

  Lionel managed a frown. “Stupid bitch, you never got a pissing scratch.”

  “It’s two days I’ve been dashing around after you,” she told him. “From London to here, thinking this was where you were waiting. Pinched what I could, and nearly got caught nicking the car. Then got your phone call and had to drive all the way to bloody Wales of all places. Then dragging you to the car and piling you into the boot for the drive back here. Now this. I’m knackered. Why the fuck did you have to go all that way anyway? Pissing searching for victims?”

  “No.” Lionel grunted, paused, and admitted, “I wanted to chuck Joyce’s bits and pieces a long way from here. Well, they must have known it was me when I dug her up. That part was easy. And I kept her here some time. Had my fun. But she stank, and I wanted rid of her. So how stupid could it be to chuck her on my own doorstep? It had to be some distance. Which is what I did. It was on the way back the whole fucking thing went wrong.”

  “Because of picking up another stupid bitch for playing?”

  “Of course. Now go to bloody sleep.”

  It was the second Hyundai which was traced first, and then the Toyota. Then the break-throughs stopped.

  Lionel snored and continued to sleep. The bottle of Scotch lay three quarters empty on the ground at his side. Deeply intoxicated, almost comatose and badly injured, he slept more deeply than usual.

  It was dark when Tracy awoke. She crept quietly from the cottage and stood breathing frosty fresh
air outside. The stench of blood and death from within cleared instantly once Tracy stood on thick grass, peering up between the treetops at the star sprinkled sky. The moon hung, just a bite short of full, directly over the hidden cottage, as if guiding those who searched for the monsters of the forest.

  There was a scuffle in the bracken, badger or vole, mouse or rat. Tracy didn’t care. At least she now had full assurance her father wouldn’t be grabbing her into his bed. He was too damned sick and in horrible pain. Pain was his aphrodisiac, but not this much pain. He could barely move his head, his left leg was partially paralysed, and he saw only from one eye. It would be some time before he might continue his favourite games. The little slut who shot him had actually done them both a favour.

  A low call sounded more like an owl than a bird up past his bedtime, and Tracy smiled. She never heard the birds in London, except some scavenging crows and the endless seagulls up the river. Not marching the dark wet streets on the job, but here in the semi-wilderness and enjoying total freedom, Tracy loved to walk. And she knew the forest well. Many years ago when she’d been little more than a kid, her father had brought her here and introduced her to the games he enjoyed. She had quickly appreciated the intrigue and the pleasure and had helped with some of his earlier pastimes. But the playground had become a sewer, and they had both left. She had returned to the streets and her mother.

  But she had come back on more than one occasion and knew the place well.

  Even to the police she always claimed that her mother was worse than her father. Well – that was how she felt, and the facts were clear enough. Better or worse depended on priorities, and how much you enjoyed one hobby rather than another. Slowly slaughtering some little blonde bitch, big innocent blue eyes bursting with terror – the good girl getting the punishment for a change instead of folk wanting to punish the whore – felt satisfying. And she’d been satisfied a few times.

  Wandering back into the ruined cottage, she discovered her father awake. His head was pounding with injury and hang over both. Tracy fished some paracetamol from her pocket, and Lionel took them, washing them down with whiskey. “I feel – foul.”

  “You look it.” Tracy climbed back into her bed and curled her knees to her waist. “Cuddle up with Olga, and go back to sleep.”

  Her father grunted. “Bin times I thought you were Olga yerself. Always ready to criticise.”

  “Always ready to help, you mean. Who washed your wounds? Who dug out the bullet? Who had booze and the sandwiches? And who nicked the bloody car? Olga?”

  Lionel snorted. “True. All my little sainted daughter. Go to kip, brat.”

  It started to drizzle in the night. The tiny drops of blood still apparent outside now slithered into the grass and disappeared. The stream at the bottom of the slope gurgled, cheerfully greeting the wetter weather. The cottage roof dripped both within and out, and a small puddle began to trickle from the middle of the floor by Lionel’s bed, but did not yet reach him. He slept on.

  Sylvia and Harry took Daisy Curzon to dinner that evening, choosing the local pub where the menu was limited but well cooked with speedy service. They were just a little disappointed when Daisy decided to book in and spend the night, ready to speak with them again the next morning.

  “There’s nothing can be done for my dearest George any more,” she said softly, drinking her cider and wondering if her hosts were going to offer her cake for afters. “Nor for aunty, nor for those poor girls who were murdered. But for my Dean, something can certainly be done. How can an intelligent young boy disappear like this?”

  “We have no answers,” Sylvia said into her wine glass. “I’d love to click my fingers and make the world a better place, but unfortunately I can’t even click my fingers anymore. Arthritis.”

  Harry leaned back and asked, “Pudding, Daisy? Not for me, I’m full. And Sylvia’s gone off cake since her best friend loves it. But have something., I’m getting another beer. Wine, Sylvia dearest?”

  She nodded. “And since you’re staying here the night, Mrs Curzon, you might like to pop over to the manor and have breakfast with us. We usually stagnate in the breakfast room for a couple of hours every morning unless we’re busy.”

  “You have a special room for every meal?” Daisy already thought Rochester Manor a palace of unbelievable luxury.

  “Not quite that bad,’ said Harry. “We have one large dining room for lunch and dinner and special celebrations. But some of us stay late, so it’s still in a mess most mornings. We use a much smaller room next to the kitchens for breakfast.”

  “Well, I’ll have chocolate cake,” Daisy decided. “But the thought of my little Dean out there starving while I eat so much – well – it’s cruel.”

  “Dean seemed a very nice boy,” Daisy nodded. “And of course any mother would be dreadfully upset by her child’s disappearance. But he’s not a baby, Mrs Curzon. And he seems to be a very clever boy too. I’m sure he just wanted some privacy to recover from all the sadness.”

  “I do wish you’d call me Daisy,” she said with a sigh. “And that’s the trouble you know – sadness. Dean was distraught after dearest George died. And to be honest, it was so unexpected. He was safe in hospital. The Gastro-Enteritis was still bad – but no worse. And all those drugs the doctors have, well surely they should have cured him. And with the memories of Dean’s aunty, and even his friend at school – so much death and misery. I’m scared that Dean’s run off somewhere and got lost.”

  “But you say he used to go and stay a few days quite often with a school friend?” Harry asked. “So he’s used to looking after himself.”

  Daisy shook her head. “I know I’m a rather over-protective mother. Dean used to tell me that a few years ago. So I made sure to let him go and stay with his friend whenever he wished. But he was obviously well fed by the parents over there. I mean, I didn’t tie my darling Dean up or anything. But I never just left him alone to look after himself. He can’t cook, and he has no money.”

  “I told the local police about all this,” Sylvia added, ‘and asked them to spread the word. Dean is on every notice board in every police station from here to Scotland.”

  “Unless,” Daisy said, suddenly bursting into violent and uncontrollable tears over her large cream and chocolate cake, “he’s lying in some ditch, murdered by that murdering creep out there.”

  87

  “As far as I’m concerned,’ Morrison said, “It’s time we started looking further afield. The boys up in Notts are already hard at it. And it’s us down here, running around in bloody circles. The media have started calling us useless as usual – that’s always the cry once the time speeds past. And I don’t give a shit what they think. Except that I’m beginning to agree with them. What the bloody hell are we up to, with no results? We’ve tramped every inch of forest, and we’ve trailed every meter of road, path, lane, street and bloody quagmire. Helicopters have upset every bird colony from here to Wales, and we’ve even had the drones swooping. DNA is pointless, although the forensic guys are still plodding along behind us, and we’ve interviewed what’s left of our man’s family, with no interesting results at all. We have an empty grave, bags of remains, and worst of all, one of our own men has been killed. So what happens next? We all resign and go off to join the French Foreign Legion?”

  “Does that still exist?”

  “Don’t try to be clever, Walsh. It doesn’t suit you.”

  Rita, sitting at the back of the Briefing Room, stood up and raised her voice. “So tell us your latest theory, Darcey.”

  “Not that it’s going to help at this stage of affairs,” said Darcey. “But I still maintain there’s two killers. There’s two young girls killed in the Sullivan manner with a couple of obscure differences, both killed up near Nottingham. No DNA discovered from the killer. The bodies, although mutilated, were wiped clean. As far as I’m concerned, these are from a different hand.”

  “What about our Ralph?” demanded DC Grant.

&nb
sp; “Sit down, Susan. You know what I feel about that.” Morrison shook his head. “And what’s worse, I just don’t know. It’s logically down to Sullivan, who didn’t want to be recognised and dragged into custardy. But there’s still a few points that don’t fit, including the strikes from the spade that killed him. As far as I’m concerned, they came from someone a good deal smaller and weaker than Sullivan. This was a long handed implement swung from behind by someone roughly six foot, no more, and without any great muscle power. And we know Sullivan has a gun now. Why didn’t he use it?”

  “But it was Sullivan who dug his wife up,” said Rita.

  “Yes, I’m quite convinced about that.” Morrison nodded. “And we haven’t traced her yet either.”

  “We have,” said the strident voice from the doorway. “The remains of Joyce Sullivan have just been discovered in a stream up in Staffordshire, quite some way from here. Forensics have confirmed it’s her, and the parts are being sent down here full speed. Her corpse has been mutilated, Sullivan style, and there’s some of Sullivan’s DNA unashamedly left on the relevant parts. No attempt at disguise. She must have been there for at least a couple of days, but it’s hard to tell since she was dead anyway. Decay had already set in before her coffin was dug up. Now – we’re fairly sure Sullivan was encountered driving back down from that direction two and a half days ago, with stories of being shot on the road. Presumably he drove north to dump the body bag and intended to mislead us to his whereabouts as he’s been doing lately. On his way back home he was shot. We still don’t know where he is.”

  “Dead or alive.”

  “Precisely,” said the chief. “But it backs up my theory that all the killings have been Sullivan’s work whether here or further north. He’s our man, and now at the very least he’s wounded and can’t move around in the same fashion.”

  “But not yet in custardy,” Morrison sighed.