The Games Keeper

by Jack Benton

  Clora frowned. ‘Well, I’ll tell you something. Old Ozgood was on his last legs when Steve and Col died. Ollie was set to take over soon. I mean, it probably hastened things by a year or two, but he was sick, about to go anyway, so people were saying.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He didn’t have the best of reputations. A tough man, tight with his money, hard on anyone who crossed him. That fire destroyed what was left of his reputation, but Ollie saw a chance to repair it by sticking his neck out for Den. Den was well liked, but a lot of suspicion fell on him after that fire. It wasn’t pleasant. People breaking his windows, smashing up his car, that kind of thing. None of it to his face, of course, because Den was a man who could handle himself. But it was clear there were people about who wanted him out of the area.’

  ‘So, by providing Den with an alibi, Ollie both protected Den’s reputation and boosted his own?’

  Clora nodded. ‘I think that was the plan.’

  Slim frowned. ‘And did it work?’

  ‘To an extent. Those who believed Den had their belief confirmed, while those who didn’t only felt he was more involved, like Ollie was protecting him.’

  ‘So it was a bit of a meaningless gesture?’

  ‘It got the pigs off Den’s back. Turned a bit of the hate back on Shelley, particularly from those who weren’t sorry to her face. Bit of a nightmare all round, but like most things, it passed over after a while.’ She shifted in her seat. ‘What’s all this matter anyway?’

  Slim had noticed from his own phone that there was no reception down here in the valley, and Clora had no obvious electrical devices lying around. The grime on the door handle suggested few visitors, and Clora’s own words suggested the Ozgoods had no place in her esteem. In a village of suspicious eyes Slim sensed an ally.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ he said. ‘How about I nip back to where I’m staying to pick a few things up, then tell you about it while I have a look at that leaking tap?’

  21

  With his only active tour of duty being during the Gulf War, the jungle warfare skills Slim had learned in training had been mostly left on the shelf. Now as he approached Dennis Sharp’s ruined house from through the trees to the rear, he applied some of the watchfulness that had been drilled into him during training exercises. Keep your body low, covered if possible. Move slowly, attuning to the sounds of the forest. Treat every unusual noise as a potential threat. Look out for anything reflecting the sunlight, any twig or branch not following a natural path.

  It was extreme, but he neither wanted to alarm anyone who might be there nor leave a mark of his presence. He had no trust in Croad, to the point where he felt the old man had taken steps to hamper his investigation. So much was off limits, so much information inaccessible.

  For a loner, the cottage seemed ideal. Set back from a quiet road, it was entirely surrounded by forest, something which, in his paranoia, filled Slim with dread. Sharp, it seemed, had loved trees as much as people, meaning he had to have been happy here, even though the house was on Ozgood’s land and the rent paid to his boss. Had Sharp felt an element of freedom here, or claustrophobia?

  Slim reached the back wall and climbed over, an old pair of leather gloves keeping the brambles out of his face. What had once been a quaint garden of shrubs and flowerbeds fed by a sun that would only have been visible when directly overhead was now entirely reclaimed, a thicket of brambles broken only by a few hardy saplings shrugging off the thorny cloak as they pushed for the sky.

  The back door had been broken off its hinges. Slim crouched in a corner of the garden by the wall, waiting some minutes before deciding it was safe to proceed. He had brought a digital camera so he took a few snaps, even making a short video. Then, holding it ahead of him, he approached the back of the house, moving through a dry animal track along the side wall.

  He sat by the back door for a while, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom inside. He remembered something an old squad commander had told him about how eighteenth century pirates had worn an eyepatch not because they were missing an eye but to have one eye constantly adjusted to light and one to dark. With an ever present threat of attack, they could shift the patch back and forth as they entered or exited the gloomy hold into the bright sunlight on deck. Now, he kept one eye squeezed shut until he began to move forward.

  Grime on the windows had left the inside of the house in perpetual gloom. Slim moved through one room at a time, clearing it out in a way he hadn’t been able to during his visit with Croad, checking every sign of intrusion or habitation—foot marks in the dust, litter, bottles and cans, even the way the door handles felt beneath his palm—in order to ascertain when someone might have last been here. What was clear was that someone was regularly coming in and out.

  Croad had admitted to doing so, and it was most likely that the caretaker of Ollie Ozgood’s estate made regular rounds of the abandoned properties to check for squatters or other misuse. If there were secrets offering a clue to the blackmailer’s identity, however, the property of the man being impersonated was a good place to start.

  It was—or had been—a simple abode. A squat rectangle, the main entrance was in the centre at the front, the back door leading out of a utility room at the rear. The utility room led into a kitchen, the kitchen into a short hall with a living room on the left and a smaller bedroom on the right.

  A one bedroom cottage with no cellar, and only a crawl space for a loft, there was nowhere obvious where a forgotten clue might be found.

  Slim went out the front, sat down by the wall beside the front gate, and—no longer bothering to hide himself—opened his bag.

  It had been wishful thinking that he might find some hidden cupboard or secret room containing all Den’s secrets. Nevertheless, despite the concrete floors and the stone walls, Slim had gone around tapping on the surfaces, more from paranoia than real hope. The detective he had slowly become over the years had longed for some secreted box of letters or photographs, but had come away disappointed.

  The house was just as it appeared: an abandoned house.

  He took a drink from a flask of coffee—wishing it were something far stronger—and then unfolded the map Croad had given him. The road led uphill, dropped into an adjacent valley, cutting through a ford then curving around to the right before passing the access road to Ozgood Hall.

  Slim stood up. According to Croad, Dennis Sharp had been initially employed as a gardener, slowly gaining more duties until he was in charge of general maintenance across the whole estate. His main duty had been to maintain the gardens, however.

  It made sense to assume Dennis Sharp was still alive. The how of it was not something that needed considering, but if he was, it helped to get into the man’s mind.

  Slim hoisted his bag and set off, retracing the route Den would have taken to work each day, hoping there might be some clue lying along the way.

  22

  The clocks had gone back a couple of days before. By the time Slim reached the access road to Ozgood Hall he was walking in darkness, the overhanging trees cutting off whatever twilight might have existed. Lights through the trees upslope indicated the hall, but the way they flickered as he walked made Slim nervous. There was something ominous about the house, something that made him feel uncomfortable.

  He was almost happy to hear a car engine behind him as someone came thundering up the access road.

  Slim was wearing black and had no light to warn them of his presence. He climbed off the road, stepping back into the trees. From his vantage point he peered out to watch the vehicle speed by.

  A taxi from a local firm. In the back, the silhouette of a woman.

  As the vehicle sped on, Slim stepped out and followed it at a jog, reaching the parking area outside Ozgood Hall just as the taxi pulled up in front of the main doors.

  An open area of lawn surrounded the parking area, offering little cover. As the driver climbed out to open the back door, Slim took his chance to sprint across the open spa
ce and duck down behind a raised flowerbed creating a neat semi-circle in front of the building.

  Pushing a briefcase in front of her, Ellie Ozgood got out. The house lights gave Slim a clear view of a young woman dressed in a business suit, hair tied back, plain but not unattractive, a tired look about her. Then she was gone, up the steps into the hall.

  Slim retained his vantage point until the taxi had gone. He was about to head back to the trees when the main doors opened again.

  This time it was Croad who stepped out, the old man wearing a suit that looked horribly wrong on him, like an activist dressed in furs, a model decked out in an oily boiler suit. He walked to the bottom of the steps then just stood, looking out across the grounds, peering into the darkness.

  After a couple of minutes he turned and went back inside, leaving Slim with the distinct impression that Croad had been waiting for him.

  Or perhaps for someone else.

  23

  Slim dipped the sheet of paper into the sink then lifted it up. With a smile he tore it down the middle. The wet paper ripped unevenly, splitting apart in a jagged line. Slim stared at the pieces, feeling like he was looking at the two halves of his current investigation: the blackmailing of Ollie Ozgood, and Dennis Sharp’s involvement in the death of his brother and a school friend.

  He laid the two pieces down, the jagged edges roughly fitting together.

  They had to be linked; it was impossible that they couldn’t be. Yet one he was being paid to investigate, the other he was being warned off.

  His moral compass had always swung wildly out of control, but he found it drawn to the children’s cause more than Ollie Ozgood’s. Slim had always favoured the oppressed over the oppressor, the underdog over the champion. He had never known what it had been like to be a father—his ex-wife had aborted their child when she took up with a butcher called Mr. Stiles—but he wondered how those left behind had dealt with their children’s deaths.

  Shelley Holland, it seemed, had dealt with her bereavement by having a complete breakdown, but what of the family of the other boy who died in the fire?

  So, on a cold, drizzly Wednesday morning Slim found himself standing outside the gate of Kent & Sons, Construction Specialists.

  It was a risk, he knew. Ollie Ozgood might be out of the country, but it wouldn’t be good if Croad found out about his line of questioning. His protection was that Croad didn’t seem much liked, and if it did get back that Slim was asking around about two boys dead for fifteen years, he could use an attempt to character profile Dennis Sharp as his excuse.

  And if Croad didn’t go for it?

  Slim would worry about that when it came.

  Inside the gate, a chained Labrador gave him a single lazy bark then went back to nosing in the bushes behind its kennel. Slim approached a prefab hut standing outside a main garage where two old trucks and a nicer four-wheel-drive land cruiser sat parked. A light was on in the hut, the hissing of a boiling kettle coming through an open window.

  The door opened before Slim could reach it and a large, grizzled man leaned out, giving him a warm smile.

  ‘I saw you come through the gate,’ the man said. ‘Got a brew going. Come inside and tell me how I can be of help for you today.’

  The man had a habit of smacking his lips as though he’d just bitten into something juicy. Tattoos covered muscular forearms, and his hand as Slim gave it a shake felt like rock covered with sandpaper.

  ‘Kenny Kent,’ he said. ‘I’m the de facto bloke in charge. My old man doesn’t get out and about much these days.’ He craned forward, peering sideways into Slim’s face. ‘What is it you’re after? We can renovate or build from scratch. Or is it fencing you’re after? We deal both with private and commercial properties.’

  ‘Something else,’ Slim said. He turned away, his eyes scanning the posters attached to the walls: adverts for construction vehicles, lists of rates, a couple of handwritten commendations from presumably minor local celebrities, and a large picture of a girl in a bikini advertising beer. The cabin had all the ingredients Slim had expected of a construction company—desks laden with untidy paperwork, a couple of hard hats lying in a corner, even a spirit level poking out of a bag grimy with cement dust.

  ‘My name is John Hardy, but people call me Slim. I’m looking for a man called Dennis Sharp. I’ve been asking around the village with little success. I was walking by and thought I’d stop in on the off chance someone here knew him.’

  He didn’t look back. He waited, wondering if Kent would jump him, perhaps beat him to death. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Kent’s reflection in a side window, translucent against a rusty fence outside. Kent stood still, staring at Slim’s back.

  ‘Well,’ Kent said at last, letting out a breath that sounded as though he’d been holding it for several minutes. ‘Even if he was alive, you wouldn’t find that bastard round here.’

  Slim turned. Kent was staring at a desktop, rubbing one eye with his fingertips.

  ‘I heard what happened to your son. I know it was a long time ago, but I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how hard it must have been.’

  Kent frowned. He scratched a bald spot on the back of his head. ‘Who are you? What did you have to come round here dragging that up for? I should throw you back out the door.’

  ‘Please don’t. I’m sorry if I’ve caused you distress, but I’m investigating a fraud claim possibly involving a faked death. Dennis Sharp might be alive, and if so, I need to find him. This may seem terribly intrusive, but I’m canvassing the area to see if anyone knows anything.’

  Kent was staring straight ahead, looking through Slim at the wall behind, his eyes glazed over.

  ‘I’m afraid, Slim, that he’s dead and gone, and any claim you’re investigating must be mistaken.’ Kent’s head moved slightly and his eyes met Slim’s. ‘But, if that bastard dared to come back to life, I’d send him back to hell again myself.’

  24

  Kent came back with two coffees, thick and black the way Slim liked it.

  ‘I doubt there’s anything I can tell you that you’ve not already heard,’ Kent said, settling into his chair with a creak of leather. Slim had to make do with a metal fold-out, and he leaned forward to concentrate, praying Kent hadn’t gone and laced the coffee as it tasted like he had. He was feeling that little tingle in his hands and face, the one he had once loved so much but had come to haunt him.

  ‘Tell me anyway,’ Slim said. ‘I’m not sure what to make of anything I’ve heard.’

  ‘It’s Ozgood, isn’t it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Who’s put you up to this?’

  ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘You tell that prick when you see him that he doesn’t own everything around here. This is my land.’ Kent stood up with surprising force, turning to point out of the window behind him. ‘Three times he’s sent that dog messenger of his around to tell me to shift my fence. Nineteen bloody inches he thinks it overhangs. It sits on my land, and I have the deeds to prove it. No one owns the air, do they?’

  Slim, unsure of the law concerning property, height, and building regulations, just nodded. ‘I wasn’t planning to tell him I’d spoken to you,’ he said. ‘My investigation isn’t going the way I had expected and it’s been taking me into territory I’d consider … sensitive.’

  Kent sat down, but he wasn’t done. He leaned forward across the desk and poked a finger at Slim’s chest. ‘Ozgood, he’s part of the bloody one percent,’ he snapped. ‘Never done a day’s work in his life yet his shadow hangs over Scuttleworth like some stinking cloud. You can’t turn round without meeting one of his little parrots, one of his little yes-men out trying to squeeze an inch out of someone. You get me?’

  Slim nodded. ‘He hired me for this investigation, but I’m no one’s parrot. If I’m honest with you, I took this job because I was desperate for work, barely one step above the street. I’m just trying to find out what’s going on and if there are any truths to the clai
m. All the evidence points to Dennis Sharp being dead, but I need to confirm it. And in the event that he’s somehow not, I need to build up a picture of the man in order to better understand him, and therefore anticipate his next move.’

  ‘So what do you want me to tell you? That he was a fine member of the community and that he’d never do something like that?’

  Slim was dismayed to find his coffee cup was empty. His hands had begun to shake so he put it down, then put his hands on his lap so Kent wouldn’t see them shaking. Looking up again, he shook his head. ‘No. I want you to tell me what you really think.’

  ‘That evil bastard killed my son, and Ozgood covered for him. I wasn’t sad when he ran off the road. Some say he was drunk, others that it was fixed. The pigs didn’t look too hard, no one has any doubt of that. If anyone tells you otherwise, they’re lying.’

  ‘And what about Ellie Ozgood?’

  ‘What about her?’ Kent spat at a rubbish bin, the glob of phlegm catching on the lip and dripping inside. ‘Self-entitled bitch.’

  ‘Dennis got accused of rape.’

  Kent waved a hand. ‘A set up. Ozgood made a blunder giving Den an alibi. Might have been a few women round here who had their eye on him, but most folk knew he did it. Ozgood pulled that fake rape charge to try and change opinion. I don’t know, maybe Den was getting old, time to move on.’

  Slim’s head was spinning. He heard Kent offer him another coffee and he nodded. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Kent taking an unlabeled bottle off a lower shelf and adding a little medicine.

  As Kent returned, putting the fresh brew down in front of him, Slim said, ‘So you have no doubt? Dennis Sharp killed your son?’

  Kent punched the tabletop. ‘None. The guy was rotten through and through. We all knew it even back in his school days. Weird kid, not surprising with that mother. Always warned my kids off letting him get too close. He was always out and about somewhere, you see. Never drove anywhere. Always walked. Never had a torch either. He’d appear right beside you out of the dark.’