The Games Keeper

by Jack Benton

  The lane wound uphill between two hedgerows, turning a corner and opening out onto a muddy farmyard. A couple of chained dogs barked at him. A handful of cows behind a gate gave a tired series of moos. A man walking across the yard gave him a brief wave then disappeared into a barn, rolling up sleeves of a check shirt as he went, Wellington boots squelching in the mud.

  Another footpath sign pointed between two outhouses, directing Slim to a stile crossing into a field. A well-trod path led along a hedgerow in an upwards direction, angling for the hill’s crest and a small fenced-off area containing two picnic tables.

  Slim climbed over. A herd of cattle far across the field gave him bored stares as they chewed sods of grass. The ground was boggy by the foot of the hedgerow so Slim took a more circuitous route out across the grass. Above the hedge, the view opened out. The village lay below him to his left. Then, as he reached the tiny viewpoint, the landscape to his right appeared, the other valley turning Scuttleworth’s hill into a diamond, with Ozgood Hall on the neighbouring hilltop to the east. From here too, to the south, the passing duel carriageway was visible, and the overpass bridge where, in less than two weeks, Ollie Ozgood was expected to leave two million pounds in cash inside a leather bag.

  Slim frowned, wondering if Dennis Sharp had stood right here as he made his plan to coerce his former employer.

  He wiped moss off one of the picnic tables and pulled a notebook out of his bag. On the latest page he had written:

  Reasons for Dennis to blackmail Ozgood:

  His own supposed murder.

  His interference into the relationship with Ellie.

  Something to do with the fire and his brother’s death.

  Something else?

  Slim frowned. His analysis seemed woefully inadequate, and not for the first time in his career as a private investigator, he felt the pang of imposter syndrome. He shouldn’t be here. He should be lying in a gutter somewhere, booze-soaked, drinking away the crumbling remains of his existence.

  There was something, though. A missing link, an unexplored path.

  Ellie Ozgood.

  35

  The community hall was empty. Slim went into the kitchen, smiling at the coffee brand Mandy had bought to replace the one Slim had finished off. One he had suggested. He wondered if she had ordered any surplus for Cathy to sell in the shop.

  He set the kettle boiling and went into the little library to continue perusing the old parish council notes. He found more files like the one he had looked at, dating back more than thirty years, to when crusty sheets of paper—adorned with Tippex—had been typed up on a typewriter.

  Slim wasn’t sure what he was looking for as he slowly read back through the notes. He remembered what Kay had said about finding a sample of text for syntax comparison, but Slim didn’t get the impression that Dennis Sharp had been much of one for writing articles for the parish council magazine.

  After a fruitless hour, he remembered the boiled kettle and took a coffee out to the terrace. His hands were beginning to shake with withdrawal pangs, but the weather had taken a cold turn so he pulled up his sleeves and let the wind chill the internal discomfort of his body. As always, it took a few minutes of hard willpower just to remain in the chair and not run like a maniac for Cathy’s shop or the village pub, but after a while he began to settle. He stared out at the valley, wishing a helicopter would appear, dragging a signboard announcing the location of Dennis Sharp’s hideout.

  He felt better after the coffee so went back inside. A sudden thought struck him, so he searched through the files until he found dates around the fire that claimed Steve and Colin. It had been too much to hope for some hidden clue, but he did find a couple of notices about the funerals for each boy as well as a later memorial service for both, then a fundraising coffee morning to raise a donation towards their headstones. There was no speculative message about the cause of deaths, but the minutes a couple of months later carried a note about the town council’s plan to pull down the ruins—there was mention of a memorial playground which must have never happened—and then a month after that an official letter from Michael Ozgood apologising for the situation and promising a full safety inspection of all Ozgood-owned buildings in the Scuttleworth area.

  Slim rubbed his eyes. He felt the beginnings of a headache that was another sign of his enforced withdrawal, plus a rumbling of his bowels which suggested his body’s cravings wouldn’t give him up without a fight. He turned a page to read just one more month’s minutes, and paused, staring in surprise at the mention of a familiar name.

  Article 14: a letter was received this morning from Dennis Sharp, officially resigning from his voluntary position of games keeper. It was suggested by Councillor Winston that requests for the position be considered, but in the absence of a volunteer, the position be officially closed. Councillors in agreement: 9. Councillors against: 0.

  Slim put the file down and looked up. Would Sharp’s resignation letter be on file somewhere?

  And what was a games keeper?

  It only took him a few minutes of back-reading to figure it out. Prior to the fire, each parish council magazine contained a short advert for a games night right here in the community hall, two Tuesdays every month. All kinds of family board and card games would be available, including chess, Monopoly, Scrabble, Risk, battleships, and more. The evening’s host: Dennis Sharp.

  It made sense that Dennis’s resignation had come after the police investigation’s conclusion and his clearance from suspicion. From subsequent magazines and council notes, it was clear no one had come in to fill Dennis’s position.

  Slim whistled through his teeth. Fifteen years ago. Dennis Sharp had been twenty-nine years old, a local boy, employee of Ollie Ozgood, and involved with village life. The fire and the suspicion fallen on him had pushed him to the fringes of the community, a man who lived and worked in the forest, out of sight, out of mind. How had Dennis reacted to his sudden ostracising? Had he suffered it, embraced it, or had it turned him bitter, resentful? Had he blamed Michael Ozgood or the Ozgood family as a whole? Had he targeted Ellie, Ollie’s teenage daughter and the Ozgood heiress, as a way of exacting revenge? Or had he been thinking bigger, holding out perhaps to marry her, tie himself to the Ozgood empire which had caused his social downfall?

  Slim’s head was spinning with more questions than he could comprehend. The answers, though, felt one step closer.

  36

  ‘My contact said we have a match.’

  Croad’s grin was as wide as it was sinister. ‘Now all you have to do is catch the bastard to save my boss a lot of money and make a lot for yourself.’

  ‘My contact would prefer the original documents, though. Also, if you could find something that Dennis might have written—a letter or a work report, even—it would help a lot. His analysis isn’t foolproof, and it certainly wouldn’t stand up in a law court.’

  Croad glowered. ‘I don’t think Mr. Ozgood is interested in it going that far.’

  Slim held back the rest of his suspicions. If he mentioned seeing Sharp in the forest it might inspire Croad to demand long, rambling walks in the woods together.

  ‘And I still want to talk to Ellie. Dennis might have contacted her.’

  Croad glared at him. ‘Mr. Ozgood said to stay away from her,’ he snapped overly loudly, then mouthed, ‘I’ll ask.’

  Quoting jobs to attend to, Croad left Slim alone, his crabby old car misfiring as it took on the hill out of the valley. Slim sat at the table, massaging his temples, considering his next move.

  Croad remained an enigma too. Was the old man on Slim’s side or not? All the evidence pointed to both. Croad seemed to support Slim’s investigation as long as it didn’t encroach too much on his master’s territory, which by very definition made him a hindrance. Getting some time with Ellie Ozgood was key, but from his behaviour it seemed more than Croad’s job—or possibly even his life—was worth. If Slim was going to speak with her, he had to manufacture a situatio
n independent of Croad’s involvement.

  He headed back to the village, puffing as he crested the brow of the hill. He wanted to speak again with Mandy, if he could find her. Cathy was a decent second option, with her knowledge of the parish council, so he turned up the main street towards the shop, but as he rounded a corner, he heard a vehicle coming up behind. He ducked into the hedge, only for the builders’ van to pull in ahead of him.

  The driver’s door opened and Jimmy Kent climbed out. Sober, Slim felt no threat from the scrawny, angry young man. However, as Jimmy approached, the back doors opened and two others emerged, both of a similar age. One wore jeans and a black t-shirt, the other a skintight white vest under an armless body warmer. Crewcut, tattooed and frowning, they looked like building site bruisers. Slim tensed, wondering if they’d dare jump him in the middle of the street, and if they did, which one he should go for first to give him the best chance of getting away.

  ‘Been looking for you,’ Jimmy said, stopping a couple of steps out of punching range and stabbing a melodramatic finger at Slim’s chest. ‘Went past your place but you weren’t home.’

  Jimmy’s henchmen moved wider, flanking him, ready to spring if Slim bolted. Slim kept his gaze on Jimmy, but balanced his weight so if could move to meet whoever rushed him first.

  ‘We got off on the wrong foot,’ Slim said, wondering if Jimmy’s anger could be defused with a simple apology. Jimmy, though, gave a sudden frown as though processing the information was impossible.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re doing round here, but I think you ought to pack your bags and get going,’ Jimmy said. ‘Asking questions about stuff long over is only going to upset people. Who do you think you are, asking my dad about my brother? You upset him bringing all that up, and I don’t like seeing my dad like that.’

  Certain Kenny Kent could speak for himself, Slim said, ‘I’m sorry about that, but it was a simple enquiry connected to an investigation. Once I’m done, I’ll be gone and you’ll never see me again.’

  Jimmy tensed like a spring ready to bounce. ‘I think you’re done now.’

  Slim smelled no alcohol on any of them. He knew Jimmy was the key. Diffusing Jimmy would keep the others off him, but if Jimmy boiled over, the others would likely pile in, and he’d have a brawl to contend with.

  ‘I’m not done now, but I will be soon. Perhaps you could help me yourself. You’re a local guy. You must know something.’

  ‘I’m not saying anything to you!’

  ‘I don’t want to know much. Nothing about Colin.’ He risked a glance at the others. ‘Have you ever sat in the hot seat?’

  Jimmy frowned. He glanced at the others, but the one on the left had flinched, one closed fist involuntarily rubbing his stomach as though he’d felt a sudden itch.

  ‘What’s he talking about, Kev?’

  The one called Kev grimaced. ‘He means Sharp’s old motor. Down there in the woods.’

  ‘That?’ Jimmy snorted. ‘Load of rubbish.’

  ‘So you haven’t?’

  ‘Course not.’

  Jimmy was defiant, but Kev looked ready to bail.

  ‘What happened?’ Slim asked, addressing him directly.

  ‘Heard voices—’ Kev started, but he was cut off as Jimmy barrelled forward, shoving Slim in the chest, tripping him up. Slim hit the ground and rolled, getting out of kicking range, sitting up in time to see Jimmy advance a couple of steps, fists clenched, face scrunched. The other two hung back behind him, the third man unsettled by Kev’s submission.

  ‘I don’t want to see you round here anymore,’ Jimmy shouted. ‘Next time I’ll do you proper.’

  He waved a fist, a phantom punch. Then, with one last scowl, he retreated to the van, the others following. Kev gave Slim a sympathetic look just before he climbed in.

  Slim climbed to his feet as the vehicle roared off, brushing himself down. He let out a long breath, his heart thundering, his hands shaking. He had escaped unharmed, but it appeared Jimmy Kent was a person to avoid.

  A shame, Slim thought, as he headed for Cathy’s shop, as he felt it likely Jimmy would have a lot to say.

  37

  ‘You’re becoming my most regular customer,’ Cathy said, as Slim put a tin of ravioli down on the counter. ‘I’m wondering if I should give you a locals’ discount.’

  ‘Is there such a thing?’

  Cathy laughed. ‘No. But I might invent one. It depends how long you stick around for. You know, I actually did a stock check the other day. Haven’t you heard about home delivery? The rest of the village is crazy for it. Either that or they hate me. Honestly, every time I see one of those Morrison’s vans I’m inclined to throw a rock at it.’

  ‘I suppose they’re just lazy. Nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I heard you used to be on the parish council.’

  Cathy frowned. ‘Where did you hear that? God, not for years. Not since my boy was born, and since I realised it was an exercise in wasting time.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  Cathy shrugged as she shook her head. ‘This village isn’t what it used to be. We have nothing for tourists like the coastal areas do, so it’s always been quiet. But you know, it was all right when I was growing up. There’s barely half the people around now, though, and those that are left seem resentful that they’re still here. Plus, when something happens like when those two boys died, it sours everything for years afterwards.’

  ‘You mean Steve Sharp and Colin Kent?’

  Cathy gave a sad smile. ‘So, you’ve found out about all that?’

  Slim nodded. ‘A tragic accident. Must have been terrible for the mothers. I heard Shelly Sharp never recovered.’

  ‘Shelly Holland,’ Cathy said, correcting Slim’s deliberate mistake. ‘She went into a spiral after that, for sure. I sometimes think Mary was lucky in a way, doing what she did.’

  ‘Mary?’

  ‘Mary Kent. Oh god, you didn’t know, did you? She took her own life a couple of months after Colin died. She couldn’t handle the grief. She left Kenny to bring up Jimmy on his own.’

  Slim wanted to bury his head in his hands, wishing he could take back ever visiting Kenny Kent. ‘That’s terrible. I didn’t know.’

  Cathy gave him a sideways glance as though to suggest he was lying, then added, ‘She was well-liked around here. A lovely lady. Very pretty, always outgoing.’ With a grin, Cathy added, ‘Way too good for Kenny Kent.’

  ‘He seemed nice enough to me.’

  Cathy rolled her eyes. ‘We called him all sorts behind his back at school because he was so boring,’ she said. ‘He was forty before he was twenty, if you know what I mean, but Mary seemed to like him.’

  ‘I guess you never know how things will turn out,’ Slim said.

  ‘You’re not married, I take it?’

  Slim sighed. ‘Divorced. She ran off with a butcher. I got thrown out of the army for trying to kill the wrong man.’

  ‘Oh. I guess that didn’t turn out too well,’ Cathy said, grinning as though Slim were telling a joke. ‘No children, I take it?’

  Slim remembered a long-ago letter he had pulled from a rubbish bin while staking out his ex-wife. A notification of a successful abortion and the passing of a test that showed there would be no complications in later pregnancies.

  ‘No,’ he said quietly, thinking of what might have been. ‘Unfortunately not.’

  Nathan suddenly bustled through the door, dressed in a navy blue school uniform. He sighed dramatically at his mother, snatched a chocolate bar off the rack and moved on through into the house like a passing tornado.

  ‘Ah, you’re not missing much,’ Cathy said.

  Slim had once dreamed of having a beautiful little girl to bounce on his knee. ‘I doubt it,’ he said, unable to meet her eyes. Then, wanting to change the subject, he lifted the can of ravioli and said, ‘I don’t suppose you could heat this up?’

  ‘Ten pence extra,’ Cathy said.

 
‘Really?’

  ‘But five for you.’ She winked. ‘Locals’ discount.’

  38

  It had started to rain while Slim was in the shop. The community hall was uncharacteristically locked, and the pub—despite Slim’s reluctance to enter its hallowed doors—didn’t open until six, so he found himself sitting inside the church porch with a plastic tub—which he had promised to return to Cathy later—of warm ravioli on his lap as the rain came down and a gradual darkness descended.

  The church’s porch had a single seat made of a slate slab, freezing cold to the touch. After a few minutes of bearing the chill to the back of his thighs, he shifted, attempting to fold the lapels of his jacket up underneath him. As he moved, he felt something shift in his pocket, and he pulled it out to examine it.

  The doll Shelly had thrown that had cut his face, the same one he thought that she had thrown at him on the day of their first meeting. He turned it over in his hands. Made from sticks bound together with wire, the face bore little carved eyes and a nose, but the mouth was covered by a strip of cloth tied at the back. Dust engrained into the nicks in the wood told Slim it was old, but even though it had frayed and faded over the years, Slim could still guess that the light blue colour had indicated a doctor’s mask. Indeed, on the now-naked body there were wisps of thread which suggested the doll had once been fully clothed.

  Slim frowned. Why then, if it had supposed to have been a doctor, did its hands appear to be tied?

  He had at first thought one of the arms had broken, but now he saw that the break showed some signs of cutting. Both arms had been bent behind the doll’s back and tied with wire.

  A doctor with his arms tied, or a prisoner, gagged and bound?