The Games Keeper

by Jack Benton

  At his shoulder, Croad said, ‘I take responsibility for the cans. The rest, I have no claim.’

  Slim switched off the torch. ‘No one lives here,’ he said. ‘I think it’s time we stopped all the sightseeing and someone told me about the nature of this supposed blackmail.’

  Croad grinned. ‘You’re the boss. You want it inside the car or out?’

  8

  A few minutes later they sat in the front of Croad’s old Marina, flask cups of coffee on their laps. Croad pulled out a sheet of paper and passed it across to Slim who balanced it on his knees as he read.

  ‘First one,’ Croad said.

  ‘Dear Oliver,’ Slim read. ‘I’ll get straight to the point. You might be surprised to hear from me, but I’m not dead as you must have hoped. I apologise for that. In fact, the tragedy you believe befell me never actually happened. I’m very much alive. I’m alive but rather frustrated. That’s where you come in. You see, I know what you did, and I think it’s time you paid up. I also know about everything else. I’ll be going to the police if you don’t do exactly as I ask. Yours, Dennis.’

  The note closed with a request for half a million pounds in cash to be left in a bag on an overpass across the nearby A30 duel carriageway. The date and time: September 6th at 7.15pm.

  Slim scoffed as he handed it back. ‘Standard blackmailer fare,’ he said. ‘Not a single concrete detail. I’m assuming it was ignored.’

  ‘Course,’ Croad said. ‘Mr. Ozgood’s a businessman. Gets letters like this every day. This one never made it past his secretary. So the blackmailer got a little more specific.’

  ‘Show me.’

  ‘Here’s the first one passed to Ozgood himself.’

  Slim took the sheet of paper and began to read, silently this time.

  Dear Oliver,

  I noted that you didn’t show up on September 6th.

  Not like you to miss an important date, is it?

  I don’t think you realise I’m serious.

  I know what you did. Do you think your

  money will get you off? Yeah, well it did.

  Lucky you. No such luck for the less privileged.

  The asking price is now one million.

  That might repair some of the damage you caused.

  Tell Ellie when you see her,

  that I’ll never forget her smile

  when she told me that she loved me.

  And ask her about that scratch on her back.

  The bramble ... I didn’t know it was there.

  Your shadow until I see your money,

  at 6 o’clock on October 2nd,

  the same place as before.

  Dennis

  Slim looked up. ‘I’m guessing Ozgood took this one a little more seriously?’

  ‘Not wrong,’ Croad snorted. ‘During the alleged rape, Ellie Ozgood was scratched on her back, just like Den’s letter claims. There was a trace of thorn in her skin, and forensics in the initial investigation actually traced it back to the exact plant in Den’s garden.’ Croad pointed. ‘Right through there, though it’s grown up a bit since. It would have been enough to convict him had Ellie not pulled her charges.’

  ‘She what? Ozgood told me the case got thrown out.’

  ‘Yeah, bit of a sore point with him, that. Ellie dropped the case. Claimed it was consensual. Girl was a month past her sixteenth birthday, putting Den in the clear. He was thirty-eight. Mr. Ozgood didn’t like it, didn’t believe her or Den. Couldn’t have his little girl playing round with the gardener, see? So he took matters into his own hands.’

  ‘So I gathered.’

  Croad grinned, but for the first time it had taken on a sinister angle. In the gloomy half light through the trees the old man’s face became skeletal, threatening.

  ‘The three musketeers,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s just us three what know about what Ozgood did that night. Him, course, me, and now you. I owe him a life debt, and you do now too. There ain’t no telling, that clear?’

  Slim decided not to mention that it appeared Ozgood himself had broken his sacred circle by boasting of his deed to Kay Skelton. Instead, he said, ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘Just establishing me parameters. I been on the staff a while, earned me trust. You less so. I don’t consider no debt paid, so let’s be clear who you’s working for.’

  Slim took a deep breath. The temptation to walk away was strong, but so was the lure of the nearest pub, and perhaps more likely to get him killed.

  ‘I understand,’ he said.

  ‘Good. Now, there’s more. There’s always more, isn’t there?’

  Slim frowned, unsure to what Croad was referring, but the old man passed him another sheet of paper.

  ‘Third and final one,’ he said.

  Dear Oliver,

  This is your last chance to settle up. Don’t

  forget what you did to Scuttleworth, or

  how many lives you destroyed.

  It is time for you to pay for

  the hurt you caused. I’ve given you

  a chance to help me make amends.

  9th November, 5.25pm.

  A black leather bag tied to the ninth pillar.

  See you then,

  Dennis

  Slim passed back the letter. ‘You know the questions I’m going to ask, don’t you?’

  Croad grinned. ‘Knife sharp, me. That came eight days ago. We have just over two weeks until payday. All that business about turning Mr. Ozgood in, he don’t know what it’s about. Nothing but threats and lies. It’s the girl who’s the problem, though.’

  ‘Ellie? Why?’

  ‘Mr. Ozgood wants to ship her out, get her out of harm’s way.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Stubborn ass mule won’t leave. Said she ain’t worried about no threats from no one. Makes you think, don’t it?’

  ‘Does Ozgood plan to leave the money?’

  ‘Not if he can help it. That’s why you’re here.’

  ‘I don’t work particularly fast,’ Slim said. ‘I’m not sure I can save his money.’

  Croad laughed. ‘You think Mr. Ozgood cares about a couple of mil? You don’t get it yet, do you? No one crosses Mr. Ozgood. Dennis Sharp did once and got himself dead. Whoever is sending these letters will go the same way. You’re here to keep the blood off Mr. Ozgood’s hands, or at least keep it to a level where it can be easily washed away.’

  9

  Croad made an excuse about other duties then dropped Slim back at the cottage, leaving him little wiser than before. On the surface it seemed clearly a case of stolen identity. If the evidence was as he had heard it, there had to be some mistake about Dennis Sharp still being alive. The blackmailer was someone no doubt close to the family who knew more than Croad realised. All Slim needed to do was catch the person and expose him. Then Ozgood could return to world domination and Slim to his gradual descent into a grimy, forgettable death.

  Croad had given him a scribbled list of contacts, adding a star next to those most likely to talk. In annotated notes at the bottom, he explained that a cross meant they would likely tell Slim to get lost.

  The first name on the list was Clora Ball. Croad’s notes described her as “Looks old, smells bad, doesn’t smile. Den’s ex-girlfriend.”

  Her address was a twenty-minute walk down a narrow lane, ending at an awkward two-storey building in which the lower floor was used as a farm vehicle storage. Clora lived on the upper floor, accessed through a door around the building’s side. Slim found himself pressing a button on a modern door control with no idea what he would say.

  ‘What?’ came an electronic voice through a receiver. ‘Do you know what time it is?’

  Slim glanced at the display on his old Nokia phone. 9.45 a.m.

  He told her the time. ‘Can I speak to you, please? I’d like to ask you about Dennis Sharp.’

  The receiver clicked off. Slim waited for long seconds, thinking he’d already reached a d
ead end, when the door clicked, popping open a couple of inches.

  ‘Up here!’ a voice shouted down from a door at the top of a steep staircase.

  Slim went up. The smell hit him halfway. The familiar pungency of a life discarded: old takeaways, cigarettes, stale booze. He paused, waiting for his head to stop pounding, aware his investigation could be unraveled on its first day, and then continued up.

  Clora Ball had retreated to an armchair throne in the midst of a kingdom of junk. The elements of a regular life existed in kitchen units, cupboards, tables and chairs, but it looked as though a wave had come through, depositing junk on every available surface. She picked up a TV remote and pointed it at a TV not immediately obvious amidst a stack of boxes, then turned to look at him in defiance as an episode of Trash Wars ironically began to play.

  ‘You didn’t give me a chance to tidy up. Who are you anyway?’

  ‘My name is Slim Hardy. I’m a private investigator. I wanted to ask you about an old acquaintance. Dennis Sharp.’

  ‘Well, that’s a story, isn’t it? Haven’t heard that name in a while, not that it’s one you could ever forget.’

  Clora, for all her outward elusiveness, appeared happy to have company. When Slim didn’t immediately respond, she flapped a chubby hand at an adjoining kitchen.

  ‘I just boiled one,’ she said. ‘Bring me one if you’re making. If you wanted to kill me you’d have done it by now so I guess you mean me no harm.’

  Slim dutifully picked his way to the kitchen and returned with two cups of tea. The milk had soured so he left his black and added just a dribble to Clora’s.

  He cleared a seat and sat down nearby.

  ‘You forgot the sugar,’ Clora said, as though Slim should have known. ‘I guess I should cut back so I’ll let it go. You know Den’s dead, don’t you?’

  Slim feigned surprise, then began to set down the elaborate lie he had constructed to encourage people to talk.

  ‘I’m working on behalf of an investment fund based in London,’ he said. ‘Mr. Sharp had some assets which have matured. The fund manager was unable to contact him so sent me to track him down, and in his absence, his next of kin.’

  ‘How much money?’

  ‘Middle six figures,’ Slim said, watching as she looked up at the ceiling, frowning as she tried to calculate how much that might be. ‘It’s a significant sum. The terms of the agreement are that it should pass into the hands of his next of kin in the event of his lawful death. A chap I met in the village gave me your address.’ He shifted on the seat, preparing to cast the hook that would land her. ‘The fund manager has authorised minor payments to anyone able to offer reliable information.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘It varies. How well did you know Mr. Sharp?’

  Clora shifted. The chair creaked beneath her, the floorboards too. Flabby arms lifted as though holding out information and she grinned.

  ‘We were lovers.’

  ‘You were in a relationship with Mr. Sharp?’

  Clora shrugged. ‘Hardly. He was a rogue, was Den. I wasn’t the only one and I knew it, but I didn’t care.’ She smiled again, her eyes far away. ‘He was that bit of rough that a woman couldn’t resist. I wouldn’t have cared if he was bonking half the village as long as he came back to me from time to time.’ Her countenance suddenly darkened. ‘But when I heard about Eleanor, he crossed a line.’

  ‘Eleanor? Ellie Ozgood? Oliver Ozgood’s daughter?’

  ‘You’ve done your research,’ Clora said. ‘Ozgood’s daughter and heiress.’

  ‘They had a relationship?’

  ‘So people said. Found it hard to believe. Den was in his thirties. Might have appealed to a certain age group, but to a rich public school girl … couldn’t see it myself. Then all that with the rape came out. Made more sense.’

  ‘Of course you were shocked by what he did?’

  ‘The rape?’ Clora laughed. ‘A load of rubbish, all that. Den was no rapist, didn’t have it in his nature.’ She smirked. ‘With that look in his eyes, didn’t need to be. No, her word against his. Case would have been thrown out even if her charge weren’t withdrawn. Den was cleared of any wrongdoing, as anyone with half a brain knew he would be. No, he crossed a line by going near her in the first place. By going with the enemy.’

  10

  Slim had hoped for more elaboration, but Clora had abruptly announced that a quiz show she liked was about to start and that Slim should come back another time if he wanted to talk more.

  Back outside, he walked up the lane to the junction, taking the direction which led into the village of Scuttleworth, his head rattling with new ideas. Supposed to be finding out who might have had the knowhow to impersonate Dennis Sharp, he found himself drawn to veiled accusations of impropriety on behalf of Ollie Ozgood and his family.

  Scuttleworth straddled a crossroads, clustered and crouched like the spider its name suggested, although only the northern road could be considered suitable for traffic. All roads south of the church degraded into mostly single-lane tracks, cutting back and forth across the valleys and hills as though once-upon-a-time a giant had laid a loose string net haphazardly across the landscape. The road to the north held the few commercial buildings—two small shops, a post office and an adjacent builder’s merchants. A church was set into a dip and surrounded by trees, across the road from a pub. The east-west road was two facing rows of cramped stonewalled cottages that gradually gave way to farmland.

  No one was about. One of the two shops was shut, a cardboard sign up in its window which had faded in the sunlight to illegibility. Slim went into the other, pushing through a door half blocked by a green raincoat lying on the floor, and finding himself in a long, tight room narrow enough that he could simultaneously reach over the shelves to touch the walls on either side. Baring a rack amply stocked with two-litre bottles of distilled water, the shop didn’t have much of anything. Slim picked up a tin of beans, turned it over to reveal a best before date two months past. A packet of dried noodles was the same, while a loaf of granary bread in a basket by the till was stale—hard to the tentative touch of Slim’s finger.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Slim, running a finger through the dust along the counter edge, jumped at the voice. It came from below him. He leaned over the counter and found a boy in shorts sitting cross-legged on the floor with a handheld game console flickering in the space between his legs. The boy wore no shoes or socks, and a faded blue t-shirt showed pale skin through moth holes in the shoulders.

  ‘Um … I was looking for newspapers,’ Slim said, picking the first thing that came to mind.

  The boy rolled his eyes as though such a request was preposterous. He looked back at his game a moment, then, as though realising the conversation wasn’t over, looked up and said, ‘Got one you want to order? I can ask Mum.’

  ‘Where is your mother?’

  The boy didn’t turn. ‘In the back room.’

  ‘What’s she doing?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  The conversation was turning into inanity, so Slim took a packet of pasta off a shelf and dropped it unceremoniously on the counter.

  ‘I’ll take this, please.’

  The boy sprang into action, leaping to his feet and hollering, ‘Mum!’ through a curtain pulled over the entrance behind.

  The creak of old sofa springs, the dragging of slippers over linoleum, and a long sigh announced the lady of the house before she pushed through the curtain. She saw the pasta before she saw Slim, then pushed fat rimmed glasses up her nose and looked up.

  Whatever attractiveness youth might have given her had long been snatched away by the passing of time. A thick, shapeless body hid behind a grey sweater with a rip on one arm. Grey eyes peered out of a face that had too much skin and a mouth with two slugs for lips parted to reveal the glimmer of a silver molar.

  ‘Are you Cathy?’ Slim asked, remembering something Croad had said, and hoping the old man hadn’t been re
ferring to the closed shop across the road.

  If the woman was surprised, there was no sign of it in her face. ‘Who are you?’ she asked, looking away from him, absently tidying a wicker basket on the counter filled with cans of sweet corn. A luminous pink star propped up at the front announced an autumn half-priced sale.

  ‘I’m staying in the area for a few days,’ Slim said, avoiding the main thread of the question. ‘Actually, I’m looking for Dennis Sharp. Or I was, but I heard he’s passed away.’

  ‘That’s a polite way to put it. What did you want him for?’

  ‘It’s personal. I’d rather not say.’

  She shrugged. ‘Your business. A pound ten for that.’

  She shoveled the pasta off the counter into a paper bag. Slim searched in his pocket for change, making a show of it to buy himself some time. Finally withdrawing a couple of coins, he said, ‘Was Dennis well liked around here?’

  ‘Why do you care if he’s dead?’

  ‘Wondering, that’s all.’

  ‘There are worse people you could meet, I suppose. Always had a joke, did Den, even if he was a bit free with his hands.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  The woman nudged the boy in the back with her knee. ‘Get back there, make yourself useful. Clean the floors or something.’

  As the boy scrambled off, she turned back to Slim and gave him a warmer smile than he might have thought she was capable of. ‘Liked the ladies, he did. Shouldn’t have ever gone near that girl.’

  ‘What girl?’

  ‘Ellie Ozgood. He was never satisfied with anything easy, was Den. He went looking for trouble and he couldn’t have looked for it in a better place.’

  ‘I’d very much like to meet her. Do you know where she lives?’