“Well thanks, but I don’t care anyway,” Tracy concluded. “Not now. I’ve worked the streets for so long, what I thought was kind cuddling back when I was seven is just yuck now and half the guys like weird stuff.”
“No weird stuff from me.”
“You reckon you’re not weird?” Tracy shrieked with laughter. “You’re sick. You know you are. More weird than anyone else. You like to fuck them when they’re dead. And you kill them first. But it’s the other stuff that’s even worse.”
He muttered, “Olga makes me.”
“Good excuse,” said Tracy. “But way back, before you started working for that coach company and disappeared all over the place, I helped you with two of them. I should never have done that. Still gives me nightmares.”
“You enjoyed it at the time.”
She paused, thinking back. “Actually, I think I did, and that frightened me even more. That’s the nightmare, isn’t it – actually liking it. It was disgusting – really sick – and I liked it. Bloody hell, I must be nearly as bad as you. But I’ll never do it again. And you’d best not do it again either. Can you make a decision like that?”
“You want me back in the clink?”
“No.” Tracy stood, brushing the straw from her jeans. “No, of course not. But I want a dad, not a sicko!”
“Since getting away, I got a few chances.” He was twitching with pain but talked on. “Seen girls. But only one came with me. That was a gift from heaven. Not your silly palid heaven. My bright bloody heaven. One girl I had days of fun with and felt bloody marvellous. Then Joyce. That helped. Nothing else. What the fuck is the point of being free, living like this, without a girl to fuck and chop?” Lionel reappeared from behind the cushioning palms. “Go get those pills, then. I’ll think – and sleep if I can. You hurry.”
“OK. I’ll hurry,” and she ran from the cottage, carefully replacing the curtain of leaf and vine behind her. She took the little stolen black car, and drove over the bumps onto the path and then the road. The car was not build for overland discovery, let alone the great rocks and holes she drove through. The exhaust was now broken. But she’d paid nothing for it and did not care as long as it managed one or two journeys more.
She headed into Little Woppington-on-Torr.
The elderly gentleman in the small white painted room seemed fully aware of the fact that the wall of mirror facing him worked two ways. “You got all your men lined up out there?” he asked. “I’m afraid they won’t find me very exciting.”
“Excitement is the last thing I want at the moment,” Morrison smiled. “I just need to know exactly what you saw,”
“It was dark. About eight thirty or later,’ said the man. “I heard scuffling and a girl sort of squeaking. Panting. I’m ashamed to say I thought they were doing something else. I assumed they were enjoying themselves. Or on the job. You know.”
“Yes, I know exactly what you mean,” sighed Morrison. “But tell me about the boy, Mr Ghent.”
Mr Ghent was sipping a glass of water. “I was at the ATM. Those sounds came from around the corner, and the ATM rattled on and on anyway, so I didn’t hear half of it. But then this boy came marching around from that direction. One split second he stared at me. Then he rushed back the way he’d come. I thought I knew why. I thought he was embarrassed because I must have heard his passionate love-making. So I just went off in the other direction, quite without a worry in the world. It wasn’t until this morning when I heard where the murder actually took place – that I worried and came over here. I mean, that’s exactly where I was. Actually, I almost didn’t come. I thought, well – they’ll think I did it. But hopefully you won’t think that. I’m very happily married as it happens.”
“Mr Ghent,” sighed Morrison, “is there any chance of you describing this boy? That’s the main thing we want.”
“Oh, well yes, but it was dark, you know. He was tall but not more than six or six one, I think. Floppy dark hair. Definitely skinny. Wore jeans with a dark jacket, one of those zip-up hooded things the kids wear. But the hood was off, so his hair flopped in the wind. Slightly long but nothing unusual, almost to his shoulders but I think not quite. Dark, but everyone looks dark at night. No idea about eyes. He had long fingers and narrow hands. Wore dark sneakers too. I’d guess he was aged between sixteen and twenty. And that’s all I can think of. Very average looking boy in fact. Good jaw, just a bit of a nose perhaps.” Looking almost ashamed, he paused, then said, “I’d have taken more notice if I’d understood what – but that was the last thing I would have expected. And it certainly wasn’t anything like that weirdo Sullivan everyone’s after.”
“Could you describe all this to one of our sketches, Mr Ghent? If we could produce a genuine likeness, he might come forward. We are presuming he’s a witness rather than the perpetrator, but that can’t be relied on yet. The dead girl is about the same age, so it might be some boy trying to get rid of a girlfriend or some such thing. But we need the boy first.” The photograph of a pretty young girl lay on the desk. “And are you quite sure you never saw her, Mr Ghent?”
“No way, Inspector. Only the boy. And he looked shit scared when he saw me. Excuse the language.”
“I’d certainly say this was something to swear about,” Morrison sighed. “A Lionel Sullivan type murder, but possibly committed by someone else entirely. Now, where have I heard that before?”
Mr Ghent did not get the point, but Detective Inspector Rita Ellis, standing behind Morrison’s chair, was smiling.
It was later that day when a fairly accurate sketch of Johnny Tavistock was produced, Mr Ghent went home happy, and the police station asked the television company to pin the announcement and the picture to the news that evening as the most important item.
Both Sylvia and Harry, exhausted, went to bed early that evening with no further information concerning Ruby, except that she was finally opening her eyes, and had come off the drip, being fed with water and gruel now by mouth.
The young boy who was employed late in the evening at a petrol station just outside London, was conscientiously sweeping up outside just before midnight, when he saw a large heap of indistinguishable rubbish right beside the far fence. He marched over to clean up and gather rubbish into the bins, when he stopped still some steps away and gulped.
Pulling out his phone, he telephoned the emergency police. “Hey, man,” he said, slightly scared, “I seen this pile o’ stuff where I’s workin’ and went to chuck it. But I reckon tis a body. Some guy. Bin shot, I reckon, though the blood’s dry. You better come and look. Real quick.”
“We’ll be over immediately,” said the police operator. “Sounds gang related. Don’t touch a thing until we get there.”
90
“Someone else gave them to me,’ Ruby said, her voice a small gruff whisper. “I never told you about him. I was just stupid. I didn’t even want him in the end.”
“Darling,” Sylvia said softly, “you have to tell me. Please. I promise I won’t blame you for a thing.”
Harry was fetching tea from the canteen downstairs. Sylvia leaned gently over Ruby’s bed. Ruby was heavily sedated, and her voice only scraped the air above her lips. Ruby small single bedded ward was lit with little more than a hint of a light bulb and was so white, it seemed to Sylvia to resemble a mortuary. Ruby exhaled and inhaled deeply. “Brad. Just a boy. Eighteen I think. Or seventeen. Just a kid. Pretty in an average way. And so sweet at first.”
“Brad who?”
“Peacock,” said Ruby. “Brad Peacock. Sounds a bit false, doesn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know, I think there are people who really have that surname. Anyway, the police will sort that out. So you’ve seen this boy more than once?”
Sylvia was holding her hand, and Ruby gained courage. “Six times. Maybe seven. Or was it only five? I’m all wuzzy, darling. I just know the last time we went to dinner, he bought me loads and loads of booze and then gave me chocolates. A box for me and one for you. I know yo
u never met him, but I told him about you, so he felt sort of friendly. I really liked those chocolates, but I must have eaten too many.”
“Darling Bluebell,” Sylvia told her, “those chocolates may have been poisoned. Or the drinks beforehand. Or both. I’ve passed my own chocolates on to Forensics for examination. Now, can you tell me what Brad looked like?”
“It couldn’t have been poison, dearest,” Ruby mumbled, half to herself. “Not Brad. He was just a kid, and a really nice kid at that. We went walking and talking at first – no sex. I’ve just had salmonella. Gastro something from drinking too much. I know I was pissed last night.” She sank back on the pillows and closed her eyes. “He’s a nice boy. He’d never have done things with poison. Honestly, he was sweet. Sort of tall and slim and very good looking. His hair was all shaved off at the sides, but it was growing through a little bit again, darkish but sort of mousy. Then he had a Mohawk. Is that what you call it? Long tufts all down the middle of his head from his neck to his forehead. Sticking up. And along the top it was bleached. Really yellow tips. Looked funny but somehow it suited him. He had good bones and nice hands. He dressed well too, all modern and fancy and bright coloured. And he was so cheery. Chatty and confident. But then – well he kept wanting to do things I didn’t want to do.”
Ruby had no voice left, and Sylvia squeezed her hand. “Did you – actually – sleep with this kid, my love?”
Closing her eyes again, Ruby managed a small whispered, “Yes.” And turned her face away.
“You slept with a teenager?” Sylvia chuckled. “No crime, my love. Quite an achievement, I’d say. Proves what I keep telling you – how pretty you are, and even to the young and potent. What was he like?”
“Pathetic.”
And Sylvia laughed again. “Not fully practised? Too young I presume? Did you teach him everything?”
“No. I just wanted to get away and come home.”
“Perhaps he was waiting for passionate lessons.”
“I told him I wouldn’t see him if he wanted to keep on going to bed with me. Sleazy hotels and people staring from him to me and back again – yuck. But the main problem was him being useless at it. I mean – come on – it may be five hundred years since I ever even touched a man, but I can damn well remember, and my memories are bloody lovely. Honestly, Sylvikins, he was huff and puff and back to limp all in a couple of dreary minutes. Brad was very pretty undressed, I’ll give him that. But he was just up, wallop and flop.”
“Forensics will sort out the problem,” Sylvia smiled somewhat dismally. “I expect your kid was just an idiot wanting to learn the ropes. But I’ve given my box of chocolates to the Forensic team, and they’ll sort it out in a couple of days I hope. In the meantime, my love, you have to rest.”
She looked up, bleak-eyed. “They told me I nearly died.”
“They told me you would have died if they had got you any later,’ Sylvia added. Now go to sleep, Bluebell. You’re already dopey.”
“I’m always dopey. You mean sedated.”
“OK. I mean sedated.” Sylvia walked up the corridor outside and bumped into Harry. “Leave hers in there,” she said, “but hush, she’s asleep. I’m going back in to see the doctor.”
“I’ll follow,” Harry said. “Here. Take yours.”
The door was already ajar as Sylvia knocked. Doctor Verdie was scribbling notes, evidently happy by hand as his computer stood dark and idle. He looked up and indicated chairs to both Sylvia and Harry. “No results yet, I’m afraid,” he said. “Far too early for specifics. But each chocolate in that box has been injected with a very fine needle. Personally, taking Mrs Pope’s symptoms into consideration, I suspect arsenic. But there’s a faint smell of bleach and formaldehyde. I believe this poison has been purposefully mixed, ready for ingestion. Whoever gave this gift of chocolate should be reported to the police immediately. Indeed, I’ve informed the general information line, but they’ll need the sort of details only you and Mrs Pope can supply.”
“I’m quite accustomed to dealing with the police,” Sylvia said, and then chuckled. “That sounds terrible. No, but I’m friends with DI Morrison. Is he coming here? Do you know?”
“Not specifically, Mrs Joyce. But I expect someone to arrive fairly soon, and I’d be obliged if you’d wait here until he turns up. And perhaps you too, Mr Joyce, if you wouldn’t mind?”
“Not in the least. Just as long as it’s not Cramble or whatever his name was,” Harry remembered.
DI Ellis and DC Grant swept in less than ten minutes later and were surprised to see Sylvia and Harry. “Both female cops?” Sylvia smiled. “Is this a tactful way of questioning poor Ruby, woman to woman?”
“Yes it is, actually,” Rita said. She turned to the doctor. “And it’s all about chocolates?”
It was a long discussion as Ruby slept on.
It was not the quiet drink Sylvia and Harry had hoped for. Having avoided the Crooked Wager purposefully since this was the haunt of the usual crowd, The Brass Farthing and the White Boar since they both had rowdy reputations, they had driven to the Hysterical Badger. This small and cosy place with its outdoor eating area under the wisteria clad patio was usually quiet and more expensive.
But Harry walked straight into Tony’s back. Harry’s erstwhile best friend whirled around and was delighted to see someone he’d missed. “Bloody hell, Harry, mate. I never expected to know anyone in here tonight. Thought I’d be left in peace. But seeing you is best of all. Come and sit down and I’ll get you a beer. Same as usual?”
“Yes, fine,” Harry said, “but I’m with the wife.”
Tony paused. “I’m not. Wish I was,” he said. “What’s Sylvie drinking?” He brought her a white wine and flopped into the third chair at the small outside table. The wisteria was no longer in bloom, but a faint perfume of jasmine seeped through. “I needed company, though I’ve been avoiding it,” Tony admitted. “Life’s been a pig as usual.”
“Oh dear,” Harry frowned. “Not a divorce already?”
And Tony burst into tears. “I’ve been married a fortnight,” he said through sniffs and tears, “and now I’m a widow. Again. She’s dead, Harry, she’s bloody dead. After a fortnight. Widowed for the second time and this time I wanted that woman. I really wanted her. I was happily married, and she dropped dead on me. What is it I do? Am I poison, or something?”
And rather quietly but quite obviously Sylvia’s eyes clouded, turned moist, and the tears began to drip like tiny silver mirrors down her cheeks. She brushed them away as Harry put his arm around her shoulders. Above their heads, the leaves fluttered in the breeze. Tony looked around as though going crazy. “What? I don’t get it.”
Sylvia blew her nose. “My best friend at the manor nearly died last night,” she said gently. “But she’s recovering. It was poison. Very nasty and very mysterious. But I’m deeply sorry to hear about your wife, Tony. You must be deeply upset. What happened?”
Tony’s tears accelerated. “But your friend’s all better. Good. But my new darling isn’t. She’d – bloody – dead. We were in bed together. She’d only just come in from the bathroom, and she climbed into bed, all pretty and sweet and smelling of lavender. She kissed my cheek. Then she said something about forgetting her face cream, and half sat up. Then all of a sudden she fell back on the pillows. I just sort of stared. She went all white and open mouthed and her eyes shut. I was terrified. I kept kissing her and shaking her and telling her to wake up. But she didn’t.”
“That’s a terrible story, mate,” Harry told him. “I’m terribly sorry – it seems wicked after such a short time.”
He turned abruptly. “You’ll come to the funeral?”
“Of course. We both will.”
Sylvia managed not to frown. “I’m deeply sorry, Tony,” she said. “And if we can help with anything, just let us know. With my friend on death’s doorstep in hospital, this is a very sad time.” Her own tears still streaked her face. Tony’s tears were a bubble from the nostril
s.
She was still half in tears as they left the pub an hour later. Harry twisted her around, stood solidly on the pavement before approaching the car park, and kissed her hard. “My own beloved,” he whispered into her ear. “You hardly ever cry. I hate seeing you like this.” With the ball of his thumb, he brushed away her tears.
“For Ruby and for me,” she told Harry as they climbed into the car. “But for your mate Tony too. I never liked him much. But what a rotten trick of fate. So quick after marriage.”
“I hope for Ruby, maybe we’ll have forensic confirmation tomorrow.”
“Don’t you feel sorry for your best friend?”
“Yes. I do.” He did. “But it’s almost just part of life now. Is anyone even remotely happy? Murder, poison, I don’t know. It’s all horrible. And Tony wasn’t in love with that woman, you know. She was a shrew according to her divorced husband, whom I like. Tony was just bloody lonely. Probably she was too.”
“That’s even more sad,” Sylvia said. And at least could have given them more than a week. What was it, about ten days? And then a heart attack and she falls on top of him. It just seems so unfair. Ok, OK, life isn’t fair. But I wish it was.”
“You’re beginning to talk like me,” Harry sighed. “That’s the sort of thing I used to say, and you just used to tell me the words fair and unfair didn’t mean what we think they mean. You were all wise and clever while I was always whining about how life works. But now, it’s us, isn’t it, my love! We’re the lucky ones. Bloody happy. Bloody loving.”
“Only one problem. Do we deserve it?
“Does anybody deserve anything?
“Clearly,” said Sylvia, “you’ve corrupted me.”
With a low profile in the stolen car, Tracy drove into the village and through the only road. She kept her head down and when possible, kept to the shadows. When she parked, she kept the car even deeper into shade, half into the bushes at the end of the car park.
The Games People Play Box Set Page 82