Murder Game

by Emmy Ellis

  She led the coppers into her living room, offered tea, was glad when they refused, and sat on the armchair while they took the sofa. They perched on the edge, as though they thought her home distasteful, somewhere they didn’t want to be, but that didn’t bother her. She found it amusing. Who had time to clean like a nutter when there was work to do, kids to feed, and a husband to spend time with in the evenings if he wasn’t working lates? Not that she relished spending any time with Michael. Once a week on a Friday night she tidied, and that was that until the following week.

  “Are you here about Ted Gancy?” she asked, curling her legs beneath her. She may as well speak to them in comfort before she was reduced to sitting on her hard wooden desk chair for the next few hours.

  “Yes, Miss…?”

  “Mrs Blessing,” she supplied.

  They asked questions, she answered, and they left, seemingly happy with what she’d told them. No, she hadn’t heard a car speeding off. No, she hadn’t heard or seen anyone down the lane. No, she didn’t know of anyone—apart from every neighbour down this damn street, she’d thought—who’d want to abduct an old man who loved ruining people’s lives.

  Once they’d gone—to Vicky Staff’s next door, she presumed—

  GOOD LUCK THERE, FELLAS!

  —she sat at her desk and stared at the data on the Excel spread sheets. The desire to work had left her, as it usually did when she wasn’t left alone to just get on with it, and she told herself she’d have a short time online for fun then get back to it after.

  She logged on to Facebook, checking her newsfeed to see if any of the other neighbours had put up a status about anything going on down the street. There were a couple about Mo—Hope you’re safe, lady! Come home, we miss you and your sweet tea!—but nothing about Ted. Maybe they all felt guilty. Every one of them, including herself, had slagged the old boy off. It was difficult not to, given the fact he was right in their faces half the time and knew things about their lives before they did. That was how it seemed, anyway. She tried to drum up a smidgen of sympathy for him but failed. In her opinion, his gossip had sent many a resident packing, only for newbies to move in and be subjected to his unique brand of old-mannish terrorism.

  “Oh, come on,” Nora had said a couple of years ago. “He’s just an ancient fart. Ignore him. I doubt he really means to upset people the way he does. He’s lonely, old.”

  “I don’t know how you can say that after the crap he spread about you.”

  “But it wasn’t crap, was it. All true. Derek, everything.”

  Nora had a point.

  Sarah switched off Facebook then brought Google up to get a link to the local newspaper. The Oxford Mail had a small snippet about an elderly man being taken but no other details. Unable to find anything else to satisfy her procrastination, she sent a text to Nora.

  SKIVING. WANT A QUICK CHAT?

  Outside, she waited on the path for Nora to come out. She might as well give the neighbours something to talk about, although now there was Gerry, Mo, and Ted giving them fodder that would last for weeks, she doubted the amazing occurrence of her actually being dressed would warrant a mention.

  Nora didn’t appear.

  Shrugging, Sarah entered her house, knowing she had to get back to work but not wanting to. She should have realised her day was going to be shot from the second she’d woken up. She’d been late, sleeping through the alarm, and the coffeemaker had packed up and gone on holiday. She’d rushed the girls to school in the car, and on top of that, the postman had brought a parcel and she’d been on the loo, unable to sort herself out in time to answer the door. He’d left a card, and she’d committed the ultimate sin by getting in the car and driving to find him—in her pyjamas.

  Now, she stood at the window behind her cream-coloured nets and watched the entry end of the street. Robert would be back soon. Good old Robert McCormack, the Glaswegian who gave her thrills when he shouldn’t—thrills Ted Gancy or anyone else hadn’t cottoned on to yet.

  As far as she knew.

  If they got found out—their affair, their illicit romps in the woods; oh, how sexy, how very rude!—her nice neighbour, good-girl persona would be shattered. And she was nice, she was just a realist who saw things how they were and had the odd mean thought or two. Didn’t everyone? She couldn’t imagine anybody not thinking snide things from time to time, harbouring jealousy, anger, a boatload of green-as-peas envy, and that strange sense of things being so unfair at times that it made her either sick with being so mad about it or plain disgusted.

  That was life, wasn’t it? How humans were made? To pretend she didn’t feel all those things was abhorrent to her—she’d be denying who she was if she pretended she thought otherwise.

  Robert should be here in about five minutes. I’ll wait until I see him, then I swear I’ll go back to work.

  She shouldn’t have been fucking him, she knew that. He lit her up like a bloody firecracker, and if Michael had paid her such intense attention, she wouldn’t have had to let another man dip his wick in her molten candle wax, would she. Honestly, she’d tried to let Michael know that things between them—between the sheets—weren’t to her liking, but whenever she’d brought the subject up he’d said he didn’t have time for that nonsense and they’d have to discuss it another day.

  Sex was nonsense? He certainly hadn’t thought so when they’d first got together. Blimey, he hadn’t been able to get enough of her, always poking her with his erection, in or outside his trousers, which she’d found both hilarious and endearing at the same time. Now, if she saw his erection it was because he was sporting morning wood and needed that early riser pee. The thought of him touching her with it… She shuddered.

  She ought to get things sorted, speak to Michael, pin him down and get to the bottom of this celibacy he’d imposed on her—well, that he thought he’d imposed on her. They could hash it out, she could tell him it was basically over, that all the feelings she’d had for him were gone, then they could move on.

  Another police car turned into the cul-de-sac, taking her attention away from the saucier matters in her life. It parked outside Ted’s. Two officers got out, entering his home using, what she could gather from here, a set of keys. She supposed they’d been to the letting agency and got a spare. Or had they found Ted, keys in his pocket?

  She was desperate to find out and had to acknowledge that she could understand why Ted had been the way he had. Finding things out was an interesting pastime after all, only she’d been too busy before to indulge in it.

  The other two coppers were still next door in Vicky’s, probably asking her the same questions they’d posed to her. Whether they’d get anything much out of Vicky was anyone’s guess, bloody pisshead. After that there was the weird couple who never spoke to anyone—Peter and Lucy Scrivens—and the last house was rented by Carly Thomas, who never said boo to a goose and worked so much she was hardly ever home. On the other side of Nora, between her and Robert, Whiskey Rhoder lived alone, and what his real name was, was anyone’s guess. He drank too much Scotch and rarely came out of his house during the day—unless it was to replenish his stock of alcohol at the shop. Nora had refused to serve him a few times when she’d been working, said the man had been pissed as a fart. They’d joked many a time that he and Vicky would make a good pair. Mind you, Vicky wasn’t that bad. She was a good sort when you caught her sober.

  When…

  Oh, good God, Robert’s car swerved into the road, narrowly missing a clip to the rear of the police car. Her stomach did gymnastics, and a bundle of excitement exploded in her chest. She swayed a bit, giddy with anticipation that she’d perhaps get to see him at some point while he was home, if he didn’t have to shoot off back to Scotland earlier than usual.

  He perched his car in front of the police vehicle then got out, making a big to-do of leaning back into the driver’s side as though feeling for something, staring down at her house and smiling. If he knew she was there, she didn’t know how, but
they did have a certain connection and maybe he sensed her watching. She smiled back, a big shit-eating grin, and swallowed the butterflies, telling the desire to run out there and fling herself at him to fuck right off.

  She couldn’t afford to do that.

  Then again…

  She strode from her house, up the path then along the pavement towards him. Maybe she couldn’t hug him, but she could touch him somehow and most certainly speak to him. Grit from the pavement dug into her bare feet, but she’d walk over hot coals for him. Michael whipped through her mind, a fleeting flight, but she thrust him out, eyes only for Robert. An expression of Are you mad? flickered over his face, and she stared at him in a way that she hoped would put any fears to rest.

  She waited in front of his car while he closed the door and joined her.

  “I just wanted to tell you,” she said loudly, “that Ted’s gone missing and the police might want to speak to you.”

  “Ted?” he said just as loudly, then, “Fuck, I’ve missed you.” A whisper, a longing look.

  “Yes, Ted.” Pause. “I’ve missed you too. Badly.”

  “Bloody hell. What happened?”

  He stroked his chin, something he knew drove her batty with desire.

  “Apparently he went to the post box last night and got abducted by the teenagers who rob the mail.” Stop doing that with your chin. “And Mo—she had a house fire and ran off.” She cleared her throat, whispered, “I think I love you.” She sniffed. “And Gerry’s been having an affair—can you imagine anyone doing that?—and left Julia.”

  “Christ, I go away for four nights and look what happens.”

  “I know! It’s all been happening around here.” She swatted his arm, delighted with the contact. “You go away for four nights and I’m a nervous wreck without you.”

  He clenched his jaw muscles, clearly aching to touch her back—or so she hoped. She stared at him, gesturing with her hands so anyone watching would think they were having a normal neighbourly conversation. Raised her eyebrows and nodded, wondering if he was thinking of her naked beneath him.

  “And this time was particularly difficult,” she said quietly, adding another sobering nod to the mix, “because the days drag longer in winter.”

  “Aye, I know what you mean. I’ve been looking forward to coming home since I arrived in Scotland.”

  Movement to her right snapped her back into normal conversation. “I’m not sure why anyone would want to shove that old man into their car, but hopefully he’s all right and will be back to being his nosey self around here in no time.”

  Whiskey Rhoder appeared at her elbow, stared at them both, then squinted, as though sunlight was something he hadn’t seen in years. “What was that? Ted, you say?”

  Sarah went on to fill Whiskey in, smelling the Scotch and trying not to reel from it. “And bloody hell, if you don’t want the police sniffing your breath, go back home.”

  “I would but I…I saw someone,” Whiskey slurred. “Someone down the lane with Ted last night.” He frowned, squeezing his bottom lip as if it would help him remember. “At least I think I did. Or maybe it was the other night. I don’t know, he goes down the lane quite a bit. My fence isn’t as high as you lot and I can see right up to the post box.”

  Sarah was inclined not to believe him—or to think he’d got his nights muddled up. This man was so riddled with alcohol most of the time it was a surprise he knew how to do the basic things in life. Like piss, shit, and eat.

  A scrape of footsteps behind Sarah had her turning around. The policemen were walking up the road towards them, from Vicky’s house.

  “Well, here’s your chance to let them know,” she said, for once wanting to hang around and listen if they chose to interview him in the street.

  But only if Robert stays out here too.

  She smiled at the constables. “Whiskey here says he saw something last night.”

  They all but rolled their eyes. It seemed everyone knew what a drunkard the man was. She wondered if they’d had a tough time with Vicky. At least it would have primed them for Whiskey.

  Whiskey gabbled on, “It was a ghost. A black ghost. All flapping cloak and waving hair…”

  Sarah took the opportunity to stand beside Robert, her arm against his. The warmth from him seeped into her, and she just about resisted asking him back to hers for a coffee—nudge nudge.

  “And you, sir?” Constable Fitzsimmons said, raising his eyebrows at Robert and stepping back a bit from Whiskey.

  “Just this minute got back from Glasgow.” He held his hand out. “Robert McCormack. I live next to Whiskey here, Mr Gancy the other side.”

  Fitzsimmons shook his hand. “You can verify your whereabouts?”

  “I can, sir,” Robert said. “Although to think I could be mistaken for a teenager—that’s a new one on me.” He laughed.

  Fitzsimmons and Dalter didn’t.

  Sarah bristled at their obvious dislike of Robert. What wasn’t to like? He was glorious, a veritable end-of-the-rainbow pot of sex, and she fought the need to tell them they should school their expressions a bit better if they wanted to remain impartial, as was their job requirement. One requirement, anyway.

  “We’ll take your word for it now, sir,” Dalter said, “but we may call round in the future.”

  “I’ll be gone again in four days,” Robert said. “Four days here, four in Scotland—I work there.”

  “I see. If you could just give me your details…” Dalter produced a notepad and pencil, handing it to Robert for him to scribble on.

  “There’s no way Rob—Mr McCormack is involved,” Sarah said, desperate to make them look at him in a nice way, the way she did. “You can check with every neighbour along here. They’ll all tell you the same thing. We keep an eye out for his house while he’s away, you see.”

  “Pity more of an eye wasn’t kept out for Mr Gancy then, isn’t it,” Dalter said dryly.

  Fucking bastard. You up-your-own-arse fucking bastard.

  Dalter hadn’t been grumpy like this when he’d been in her house. Maybe Vicky had set him off on Cantankerous Road and he found he couldn’t turn off onto Cheerful Avenue.

  It still doesn’t give him the right to—

  “Carly Thomas,” Dalter said, taking his pad and pencil from Robert without any thanks. “There was no answer.”

  Sarah sighed, impatience as well as murderous rage making her nettled. “I told you, she works nights. Sleeps with earplugs in, so she says, and wouldn’t hear you even if you used one of those metal door barger things to get inside her house. She starts work at seven, so if you went round there at six I’m sure she’d be up.”

  “And Peter and Lucy Scrivens?”

  “They work during the day. No idea where—and I don’t care either. They’re weird. Snobs, I’d say.” Sarah snapped her mouth shut. His attitude had set her off to joining him on that dreadful road of his. If she wasn’t careful she’d let it fester all day, and if she got to see Robert later she’d be the bitch from hell—the last thing her man wanted when they’d been apart for days.

  “Right, thank you.” Dalter eyed her with suspicion.

  “What?” she said boldly, hearing the sharp intake of breath from Robert.

  “I’m going,” Whiskey said, slouching off up his path.

  “Hang on!” Fitzsimmons went after him. “We need to clarify a few things.”

  “Nothing, Mrs Blessing.” Dalter narrowed his eyes then joined Fitzsimmons, disappearing inside Whiskey’s house.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Robert asked quietly.

  “He didn’t like you.” She sounded petulant, silly, but she didn’t care. Unless it permanently altered Robert’s view of her. God, she had it bad.

  “So! It doesn’t bother me.”

  “It bothers me.” She stared at him, showing all the love she felt on her face. “And fuck!” She grimaced, wiping her adoring expression away pretty damn quick. “Michael’s just turned into the street, ho
me for some reason. I’ll have to go.”

  And she went, seething and muttering all the way.

  * * * *

  There are so many people around today. In the street. Normally it isn’t like that. It’s making me antsy. Nervous. And the police—too many of those as well. I know they’re here to talk to everyone about Ted, but what if that’s just for show? What if they have a hidden agenda?

  I know they have those.

  I shiver. Think I’m catching a cold. It’s not only from being out in the woods. I read in a magazine that when you’re tired your defences are down and you’re more susceptible to germs. Maybe I should see if we have some Lemsip or whatever. Beecham’s—that’s what I had last time. Knocked things on the head pretty quickly.

  It might make me tired, though.

  Should I risk having a nap?

  I might have to. I’m not firing on all cylinders.

  I need rest. I need this game to be over.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Robert dropped his case on the hallway floor then walked into the kitchen. The house smelled musty, as it always did when he returned, and he flung the window open despite the chill. A frosty breeze whipped through, billowing the white voile, reminding him of a sheer nightdress he’d seen in Glasgow, one he’d imagined would suit Sarah.

  Her feelings for him had intensified, that much was plain to see. He didn’t mind—welcomed it; in fact, it was a dream come true—but she’d have to watch herself if she took to speaking to him in the street more often. And Michael coming back—that was unusual. The man was a workaholic, hence Robert and Sarah being able to fuck an hour or two away in her house while her kids were at school. He’d suggested she walk to his, down the alley at the back of their houses, but she’d been convinced someone would see her.

  “Someone could just as easily see me,” he’d said.

  She hadn’t had an answer to that.

  His thoughts turned to Michael. Had the man started suspecting? Why else would he be home at this time of day? Everyone knew Robert’s movements—when he left, when he came back—and Michael would have surely heard the same. Had Michael returned home at this time on purpose? To possibly catch them at it?