“Heroes are always glamorous.”
“Don’t be daft, my love,” he told her. “Heroes are a whole different breed. All I did was get myself in a mess. And anyway, you’re the heroine, rushing out to rescue me and getting the ripper arrested.”
“Me in my old pyjamas and dressing gown?” I suppose we both just did what we had to. But Harry, my love, gallant and brave and courageous and wonderful, but you should never have done this on your own. You promised not to. And to go inside as well. Honestly, my darling, you’re lucky not to be dead.”
“I should never have been there since I found it completely by accident. Actually, I was trying to find my way home.”
Sylvia, still clutching his hand, shook her head. “You must have been searching even if you didn’t know it, or why go driving that far on roads you didn’t recognise?”
Half admitting it, he managed a grin. “But we’d searched and searched before and never found a thing. I honestly didn’t ever imagine I’d see that vile place.”
“Well, Morrison is delighted that you did.” She relented. “I suppose I am too. But are you absolutely sure you’re alright?”
The doctor’s examination was fairly brief. “Excessive bruising. One cracked rib. Cuts and grazes. A nasty bump on the head. Nothing serious but I’d suspect probable delayed shock. It might be wise if you stay here overnight.”
Harry grunted. “Oh no, please. I swear I’ll rest, and I’m damned sure my wife would phone you if she thought anything was getting worse. I’ll be so much more comfortable at home.”
The doctor relented, on certain conditions, and Harry promised to do as advised. He got dressed again. Sylvia did up his buttons because his fingers shook. “Don’t let the doctor see you’ve got epilepsy or he’ll keep you here forever.”
“Not sure I can drive. But there’s some nice cakes on the passenger seat.”
Without hesitation Sylvia kissed his cheek but said, “They’ll never let you have that car back yet, my love. They’ll keep it for forensic examination. By the time we get it back, the cakes will be stale.”
“It’s not our car anyway,” Harry sighed. “It belongs to the hire company.”
“The police will sort that out,” nodded Sylvia.
A small hospital car eventually took them to Rochester Manor, and they tumbled out and into Ruby’s arms. Tony was there too, waiting to shake Harry’s hand and offer respectful congratulations. “No hugs,” Harry pleaded. “My ribs hurt like hell and every bit of me aches.” He grinned at the worried faces pushing forwards around him. “Don’t worry. Nothing serious. Even the doctor says so.”
There had been breaking news on television that the Welsh Ripper was in custody at last. Although he was supposed to go straight to bed, neither Harry nor Sylvia could resist a short visit to the main living room where every resident sat in anticipation. As usual, large quantities of superior wine were poured, shared, and drunk while Harry told his story. At several points and then at the end, he was loudly cheered and clapped. It was sometime later as they both staggered up, ready for an early night in a soft warm bed, that Mrs. Amy Fryer, with a neat nod and a small knowing smile, said, “Of course, I always knew all along it had to be the coach driver.”
It was some days before Morrison turned up. Before him came a motley crew of reporters from different newspapers, but neither Harry nor Sylvia agreed to talk to anyone. Other members of the Rochester Manor however, told their stories, although there were wide fluctuations, since no one remembered quite the same thing.
“I’ll need to ask you to come in for a couple of official interviews soon,” Morrison told Harry. “But don’t worry, I’ll make it brief. First I’d like a somewhat more casual chat.”
“We could take you out to dinner,” suggested Sylvia.
He didn’t say no. “Initially, I’ve a few things to explain. As you know, our suspect, the manic Mr. Sullivan, still lives. The hospital washed his stomach out, stuck needles into him, and fed him something or other. I’m grateful to those doctors. This vile travesty of a man must go to trial and spend the rest of his miserable life in prison. Besides, we still need information from him.” He raised both eyebrows and smiled slightly. “I trust you both wish to be involved in this case for some considerable time, always remembering that you, Mr. Joyce, will be a most important witness at the trial.”
Answering at once, Harry included Sylvia in his assurances. “We do, we are, whatever needs doing. And I think,” he added, “this is something we’d like to do again?”
“Not get kidnapped by serial killers,” said Sylvia, interrupting. “But to help the police. To work on cases. Will you have us?”
“I intend it,” Morrison said, widening his smile. “Not always in your nightwear I hope, and I’m afraid you won’t be paid, but I should like to bring you into discussions, and involve you in some cases. I see no reason why not, although it won’t be official and it’s most definitely unorthodox. I feel I can trust you both not to talk about anything that needs to be kept private. And in police work, nearly everything needs to be kept undercover.”
Without mentioning they had arrived home and immediately related the entire story to the whole of Rochester Manor, Harry grinned and said, “Yes and yes. We’d be honoured. We’d be delighted. Give us anything to work on. Can’t guarantee results as good as this time, of course, but we’ll definitely try.”
“Not all cases are this gruesome.”
“God. I hope not,” said Sylvia. “But by our age, detective, we’ve seen a lot and gone through a lot. We aren’t innocent babies.”
“Then you won’t be shocked to hear that Lionel Sullivan has asked you to visit him in high security remand.”
“Harry?” Sylvia blinked. “Not shocked but certainly surprised.”
Harry nodded. “Interesting.”
“But in the meantime,” said the D.I., “speaking of your invitation to dinner, I wondered if you’d accept an invitation from me instead. My wife is most curious to meet you both.”
“You have a wife?” Harry asked, somewhat undiplomatically.
Morrison actually chuckled. “You didn’t expect any woman could be capable of putting up with me? Indeed, my wife Peggy is both kind and tolerant. She’s used to me, I expect. Ah – and while I’m at it – I should also confess the five children.”
The next week was not peaceful. Police interviews were followed by attempts to settle into their own comfortable habits as Sylvia and Harry brought a new bright blue Lexus (“Let’s have a really youthful colour.”) and drove the local countryside, although careful not to go anywhere near the stench of Sullivan’s shed. It was still cordoned off, and it had been arranged that once the trial was over, the building would be destroyed.
Both Walter and Fletcher Rankling telephoned. The news of the amputations left Sylvia shaking, and Harry took her into his arms. She told Walter, “I’ll buy you a little house together in the middle of a village with a hospital and shops nearby. And I’ll visit. Not often. But sometimes. And it’ll be in your name, Walter, not in Fletcher’s.”
“But Sylvie, my dear, I’m an old man. When I go, I shall have to leave it to my dearest son.”
“Then I’ll keep it in my name,” she said. “And he can live in it for life, but he can’t sell it off under my nose. Perhaps he’ll just burn it down.”
Walter was crying, so she apologised before hanging up.
Harry, Arthur and Sylvia were announced heroes within the local community, and David kissed everybody twice over.
Dinner at the Morrison house proved fascinating. The detective was as creased, dusty and dishevelled at home as he was at work, but his wife was deliciously sweet and looked more like the eldest of his children rather than their mother. Peggy introduced the kids. “Dempsey is twelve. Theo is ten next week. Atticus is almost eight. This is Jackson and he’s seven. Lastly we have Primrose. Our only little girl has just turned five.”
“There’s five of us,” Primrose said, hands b
ehind her back. She wore a pink net tutu. “And I’m five. My birthday’s the fifth of May and May’s the fifth month. So that makes me special. So I’m going to be five forever, or it all gets messed up.”
They assured her that being special lasted forever anyway.
The invitation officially arrived for Harry Joyce to visit Lionel Sullivan in Henley Gaol. Sylvia went with him, and he was given a special wire to wear beneath his jumper, shirt and duffle coat. It was a cold day.
“All conversations are taped anyway,” the guard told him. “But we like a double guarantee.”
There was glass between them. Harry and Sylvia sat and stared at the neat and tidy man sitting opposite. His hair, cut short, was wispy but there seemed more of it. He clasped his huge and horny hands on the shelf in front of him and his smile did not reach his eyes. Pale grey, his eyes seemed empty, as if his brain only permitted a shallow depth of thought. He nodded at his visitors.
“Well, well, superman,” he said, ignoring Sylvia. “Being the old friends we are, I was hoping you’d keep in touch.”
“You said you wanted to see me,” Harry said quietly.
“I did. I do.” The guard standing behind him was clearly listening, but the prisoner didn’t seem to care. “Got things to tell you,” he continued. “Prison’s fucking boring. So I’ve got to play at something. If not my favourite games, then something second best will do, until I get out free again.”
“I very much doubt you’ll ever be allowed out,” Harry said.
“You never know.”
Whatever he was implying, Harry wasn’t interested. It seemed ludicrous. “That’s surely not what you wanted to say to me?”
The blank glaze in the killer’s eyes altered in less than a second. His eyes seemed darker and lit with fire. “Oh no, my fancy friend,” he said. “It’s this. Twelve little mangled corpses they’ve got me for. They know most of the names. But they don’t know what really happened. They don’t know the details, but what’s more important, I reckon, they don’t know about all the rest. Oh yes, plenty more, there are. I drove that coach over half of Europe, I did, and I enjoyed myself wherever I went. Monte Carlo, where we first met. But Scotland too. Cornwall. London. Wouldn’t you like to know about the rest?”
“You told me there weren’t anymore,” Harry said.
“A little white fib, I’m afraid.” Lionel Sullivan licked his lips. “I had so much fun with some of them.”
Interrupting quietly, Sylvia asked, “You left that wretched girl on your own coach. Advertising? But you risked a great deal.”
Without looking at her, his eyes still on Harry, Lionel cackled and said, “Advertising? Yes, and I like risks. Besides, being my own coach, all the less likely they’d suspect me. And they didn’t. Them Frenchies barely opened their mouths to me. Knew I was innocent. Sweet. Now, shall I tell you all about it? All those pretty details?”
Harry gagged. “No,” he said at once. “Personally I dislike even the idea of knowing anymore. I have to be a witness at your trial. Apart from that I want nothing more to do with you.”
The disappointment glimmered. “Then there’s my loving wife. I’d never have thought her capable of it. She just seemed like a boring lump. But seems she had some guts after all. That black plum wine shit I drank? Homemade. The wife brewed it. Nearly killed me.” His fury bubbled behind his eyes. Then the glimpse of character went out like a snuffed candle.
Harry muttered, “I hope you can’t prove it. I’d back her every time. I don’t need to know anything else.”
“But the police want to know, don’t they? And I won’t tell them a bloody word. But I might tell you. They’ll want you to tell them.”
“Perhaps. Although I see absolutely no reason for you to choose me as a confidant. We aren’t exactly friends. You spent some time devising how to torture and murder me.”
The killer sat back and folded his arms. His smile seemed fixed. “Ah, how true, Harold bloody Joyce. My pissing wife should be arrested too. Attempted murder. But you’re the cause of me being here, and I like my revenge. Oh yes, it’s a revenge I’ve planned. I’ve been planning for quite some time. But you might learn to enjoy it as I do. Let’s see.”
With a sickening feeling back in his guts, Harry sat absolutely still and refused to show his feelings. “I’m not interested,” he said. “Not in the least.”
Sylvia had clutched his hand, and although she sat as expressionless as he, her hand shook.
Sullivan was playing with his huge fat fingers. “Always had a soft spot for revenge, I have. It’s what started me off many years ago.” Sullivan was still grinning. “But now I got a few more directions. I hate women. They want to be fucked, and that gives them power. But I take the power back.”
“Hating? Why?” Although in many ways, Harry preferred not to know.
“Me mother was a sick bitch. Hated me. I hated her. God, how I hated her. My wife, after all them years of being nice, she tried to kill me. Now you, and a reason to kill a man. So revenge will be all the sweeter.” Harry shook his head and turned away. Lionel still smiled. “Come and see me again one day soon,” he said, and stood up, walking slowly across to the guard. Then he looked over his shoulder once. “I’ve plenty to tell. Oh – and that revenge I promised. Such pleasure. Dearest mother’s dead. But now I’ve included the wife too, stupid bitch, thinking she could poison me when I trusted her. Want to know more? You’ll find out soon enough.”
I apologise for the cliff hanger ending, but you don’t have to wait long to find out. Get Ashes From Ashes now to find the answers.
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ASHES FROM ASHES
31
“The wood must be damp,” said the woman, peering down into the open fireplace. The massive inglenook was, after all, one of the reasons they’d bought this crumbling old beauty of a house. “But no bloody use if all it does is smoke.”
“That’s not just smoke. Those vile yellow fumes are suffocating.”
“So the chimney needs cleaning, or it’s the stench of wet wood.”
Brian, on his knees on the rug, poked at the twigs he’d piled with such care. The flames flared briefly, spat, and died. There was ash on his nose. “The wood isn’t damp. I collected it myself. And the paper isn’t damp either.” The man frowned at his wife, then kicked at the smouldering twigs. “I took ages setting this fire. It should be blazing. At least it should be fizzling. But there was a pile of ashes and bits already on the hearth, and I left that. It wasn’t damp either.”
“Well, it isn’t blazing, is it,” Debbie told him. “The smoke is disgusting, Brian. Put the damn thing out. It stinks. It’s making our beautiful new home into a smelly pigsty.”
That was when the top half of a body, still partially wedged higher up, collapsed a little further down the chimney and one pale hand emerged, swinging slightly through the turgid fumes.
With a panicked stumble backwards, Debbie screeched, and Brian grabbed his phone, He had to dial twice for the police since his hand was shaking even harder than the white fingers descending into the fireplace.
Two days later Brian visited Rochester Manor. Fifteen minutes at a quick tramp, five minutes in the car. This time there was a blazing fire, with flames up the chimney and nothing trailing back down except smoke.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake Mum,” Brian insisted, “I’m not joking. This happened. We spent hours with the police, more hours with the homicide D.I. and then had to move into the local pub. Our glorious new home is swathed in blue and white plastic and guarded like Buckingham Palace.”
“We shouldn’t have lent you that money, dear.” Stella sighed. “A nice little cottage in Cheltenham would have served much better. There was a lovely little place up for sale near Pitville Park.”
“I loved that huge old house.” He looked across the large living room to the blazing fire on the hearth at the opposite side of the room. “Don’t love it anym
ore. I felt sick. Still feel sick.” He paused again, looking around. “You should tell that funny old friend of yours, Mum. You know, the one who always rustles around in navy silk. Sylvia or something. She was all into that murder business two years ago, wasn’t she?”
“Yes, Sylvia. But she’s not a detective dear.”
“She and her live-in-lover found clues and so forth.”
Benjamin squinted, remembered something, and looked up over the top of his newspaper. “Living together, but definitely married.”
“Irrelevant, Dad.”
Sitting with her back to their backs, Sylvia brushed down her navy silk lap and gulped her tea.
“Come to dinner here tonight,” decided Stella, smiling reassuringly at her worried son. “With Debbie of course. We’ll have it in the room upstairs, and you can tell us all about it in private.”
“It’s not in the paper,” noticed Benjamin.
“It will be,” nodded Brian.
A little later and back upstairs, Sylvia told Harry. “Ben and Stella’s son. Remember Stella told us all about the new house the boy had found in some village on the border and how they’d got it cheap. So somebody stuffed the chimney full of corpses.”
“The previous owner. Easy enough to trace, I imagine,” said Harry.
“Easy enough, is it?” Sylvia scowled. “Not something you’d expect to discover every day. I thought you’d want to go there.”
“On a fishing trip?”
“Naturally. So phone Morrison.”
It was raining when they’d grabbed her.
The sluice of rain glitter over the windscreen had obscured anyone inside. The voice sounded sane enough, even familiar. The slip and slide of the thick mud had already hurtled her into a tree trunk once, and down onto her knees a second time. Still some distance from home, she’d been cursing her own stupidity since she had staggered into the invisible dawn and begun the long walk. The rain was a pelting grey chill of unrelenting malice, and she had to lose her high heels and wallow in the slush bare foot.
The Games People Play Box Set Page 29
