“I can’t. I won’t.”
The principal doctor in the psychiatric wing where Milton was housed, had also been visiting Eve. “You seem unaware, Mr Howard,” he explained gently, “that you hurt your lady very badly and subjected her to what we would call torture. She was starved, raped, and woefully mistreated against her will.”
For a moment Milton seemed puzzled. “T’was all games. She done games too. I done games I wanted, and she gotta do wot I says, but that’s fair. I were Master. Number One told me I were Master. But I likes my lady, and I wants her back.”
“No one, in this world,” said Mr Paxivall, sitting on the side of the bed as Milton reached for a comforting hand, “belongs to any other person, Mr Howard. We must all be free to do as we wish without harming or controlling anyone else. What you did was often cruel.”
Nodding, Milton agreed. “I likes it,” he said simply. “Makes me feel like I ain’t just a little monster. I heard kids call that when I were a kid too. Number One, he says no, I’s a Master, so I does wot I likes. And that’s wot I likes.”
“Torture?”
“Yeh. Wot’s wrong wiv that?”
“Mr Howard, you are on the list for an important operation on both your legs. Metal joints will be inserted, and the end result will make you both taller, and straighter. After a period of convalescence and prolonged physiotherapy, you will find that you can walk far easier, climb stairs, and generally feel considerably better. You will also receive treatment for the distortion in your neck and jaw muscles, and the re-shaping of your nose. You will look quite different in time and you will never be called a monster by anyone ever again. But in return, you must never, ever attempt to become a master, nor hurt another living person.”
Although having understood little of this, Milton smiled, enjoying meeting other people apart from his various weeping ladies, and his two brothers. Mr Paxivall made him feel he was deserving of attention. He also approved of his doctor’s name. “That’s a birdy, ain’t it?”
„I don’t think so,” said the psychiatrist. “You may know a Paxivall bird, but I am no expert. First, I’m afraid, there will be a trial. You will see your lady again, but you will not be permitted to touch her. She is angry with you for you badly hurting her.”
“Tell her I’s sorry. Honest. I really is. I’s sorry she done angry with me.”
“That’s not quite the same as being sorry that you hurt her, but I shall pass on your apology.”
“I ain’t sorry I done wot I done,” Milton gulped, “cos it were fantabulous. I done loved it. She were the best. And I weren’t gonna let Number One kill her off.”
“No doubt,” sighed Mr Paxivall, “that will stand in your favour when the trial commences. In the meantime, you’ll be coming to live in a large home some distance from here. The Langham Mental Facility, which I’m sure you will find comfortable. I shall arrange for someone to give you lessons in reading, writing, and speaking properly, which will continue until the trial, or until the hospital surgery is arranged, whatever comes first.”
“I doesn’t like lessons,” Milton sulked.
“You’ll like these,” decided the psychiatrist. “They come with chocolate bars. And plenty of them. Lego games are used as examples in mathematics. You will enjoy that too. And just be thankful that the death penalty no longer exists in this country.”
“Reckon I’s gonna call you Mister Birdie,“ Milton said.
61
Harry, Sylvia, Ruby and Iris attended Joyce’s funeral, which Sylvia had paid for. Morrison and Peggy also attended, and so did Rita Ellis. Detective Inspector Cooper Cramble did not attend. He was visiting his boss at the Met, to where he had returned, with a request to be sent on full duty to Dubai for a fortnight. His boss contacted Morrison for a brief report, received in return a long and detailed description of Cramble’s work and behaviour, and immediately the request for a visit to Dubai was declined.
The sky over the cemetery grounds hung heavy in layers of deep grey but down closer to the horizon behind the trees it was silver, with a shadowy gleam that promised spring. There were snowdrops sprouting across the ancient graves, and a tiny clump of daisies were pushing up in the grassy bank around the funeral parlour.
The press, now in huge numbers, had been asked to stay away and were clustered like daisies themselves outside the fence.
The cremation service was not prolonged. A small wooden box of ashes was handed to Sylvia.
Morrison heard her. “I’d like a word, Mrs Joyce if you and Harry wouldn’t mind. I won’t keep you a moment.”
They stood outside, peering past the dark grey and into the silver. “Most of our investigations have so far turned out as I expected,” Morrison told them. “Without a doubt, Joyce Sullivan was murdered by her husband some hours before Mark Howard, who was also a victim of Lionel Sullivan, though not such a sympathetic one. We’re aware that Mr Sullivan attempted to poison her husband, but we silently and diplomatically accepted that as attempted self-defence.”
“He got her in the end.” Harry sighed.
“An additional unpleasant fact,” Morrison continued, “is that a piece of female underwear was discovered hidden on the corpse.”
Sylvia and Harry stared back at him. “You mean her knickers?”
“What? Down her throat?”
“Not exactly,” said Morrison, lowering his voice. They were on the other side of the funeral parlour and could not be overheard, but Morrison was careful. “Yes, very brief female underpants, but not her own. The mixed DNA showed they had belonged to a young woman, a young prostitute who was found murdered by an unknown hand many years ago. Her DNA was mixed with Sullivan’s dried semen. Barely discernible after nearly twenty five years, but still sufficient for testing.”
Sylvia turned away. “Someone else’s knickers, thick with your husband’s semen, stuffed down your throat at death. And showing he’d kept those trophies all that time. Hidden somewhere. He must have gone back to some old hiding place.”
“Not discovered down her throat, I’m afraid,’ Morrison said. “Forced between her legs. Found once she was on the autopsy table. And I agree, it’s clear he has some special place for keeping souvenirs. I damn well wish we could find it.”
“So he’s killed more times than we knew of. And probably Milton and Mark Howard have too. Oh, bloody hell,” muttered Harry, “two serial killers in the same place at the same time. But at least one killed the other.”
“There are other interesting indications,” Morrison added with a half smile, “all of which to be kept private for the time being. For instance, according to blood spatter leaving the crime scene, and bullet casings found nearby, we believe Sullivan was shot while struggling with Mark Howard. We don’t know where he’d now be wounded, and clearly, there wasn’t a lethal shot, but one bullet at least must have entered the body, probably more. Howard’s gun is now missing, presumed taken by Sullivan. He never used a firearm before. Now he probably has one.”
“He could be staggering into a hospital somewhere, and about to die.”
Sylvia frowned. “I doubt it. That monster could swallow a handful of bullets and still keep going. At least we know where Milton Howard is. No chance of escape.”
Morrison began to walk away but continued speaking. “Milton will go to trial, be found guilty, and returned to the psychiatric hospital where he’ll stay for the rest of his life. There are vast sums of money in his name in a trust fund, so he’ll be given private medical treatment, but that won’t drastically improve his brain. The financial gains of crime are always confiscated, but since most of that double-dealing and laundering was undertaken abroad, some of the funds cannot be proved to have come from illegal activity. It seems that Maurice Howard has now taken over Mark’s business, but a large amount of Mark Howard’s money has disappeared and we assume this was immediately stolen by Lionel Sullivan after the murder and before we were able to trace the deposits. The corpse was found without either wallet or cas
h, and presumably, this was open to theft. Howard’s car, a Bentley according to Maurice’s wife, is also now missing. Lionel Sullivan will be harder to find as he drives a luxury car and keeps a vast amount of money safe in a bank under some false name.”
“We have to talk to Kate.”
“She’s been talking to us,” Morrison said. “She says Maurice had a silver Audi, and he disappeared in that. She wants to go back to the cake shop she was running, sell the house where she lived with her husband, and just live above the shop with her daughter in cramped comfort. I assume she’ll be hounded by the media. You’ll find her there if you want her. Peggy and I would love to see you soon too, come over to dinner Friday evening.”
“And we have to make some sort of arrangement for Iris. An old people’s home, or Rochester Manor with us, or buy her a little apartment.”
“Generous. I can sort out a place of care.”
“I think it has to be extra nice or she’ll be back at the casino.”
“She could live with Kate. Babysit the child. Help with the cooking. Enlarge the café business.” Harry scratched his ear lobe. “After all, it was Iris, wasn’t it, that taught Kate to cook as a little girl?”
“We’ll talk Friday.” He was walking away once more, when he turned, frowning as though he had just changed his mind about saying something. “Just thought perhaps you should know that the young woman, little more than a girl really, whose DNA was on those underpants, she was Linda Driskell, daughter of a back-street prostitute, and was put to work the streets herself at age fourteen.” He sighed. “Her biological father was Lionel Sullivan. I’m not sure whether he knew. I don’t know whether she knew.”
“Oh shit,” mumbled Harry.
“So now we have another avenue to check,” Morrison mumbled, partially to his shoes. “The dead girl’s mother. Secondly, are there other children by the same father?”
Sylvia gulped. “Would it matter anymore?”
Morrison raised one greying eyebrow. “A cold case, perhaps, but a relevant one. If Sullivan knows – and one thing makes me think he does – then it’s an essential investigation, not simply a cold case.”
It was afterwards that Sylvia said, “I’m booking a holiday. As far away as I can. Africa. There’s a place there, a cheetah sanctuary and you can stay, and help feed babies, and help with conservation. Touring. Wildlife of every kind. And help animals and people instead of hearing about murder and sick behaviour.”
They stood outside their own car, waiting for Iris and Ruby, both of whom were now speaking to the avid journalists at the fence.
Harry grinned. “I’m most certainly coming on that holiday. Sounds brilliant. Book it for any time they’ll let us in. Cuddling cheetahs sounds like fantastic therapy.”
“I sort of invited Ruby after her – you know, attempted suicide. But however miserable she must have been, others have had it far worse.” Sylvia leaned against the Lexus bonnet. “I can’t stop thinking about Joyce and how she felt when Lionel finally got her. I keep wondering if he did revolting things to her before he killed her. She must have practically died just seeing him as he grabbed her.”
“And then tragic little Eve.” Harry opened the driver’s door and climbed in. He leaned back but opened the window. “How long has it been? Ages. She suffered more than I can possibly imagine. And her parents too. Her family’s delightful, thank goodness. But it won’t be enough to stop her remembering.”
“Nightmares for life. Which is why I want to escape. Cowardice, of course, but common sense too.” Sylvia shook her head, pulled her scarf tighter, and climbed into the passenger seat beside Harry. “And now the whole thing about this long lost daughter. Long dead daughter, I should say. And did Sullivan know who he was killing?”
“But it might not have been rape since she was on the game. Maybe he had no idea who she was, just paid for a quick job, then left.”
“With her knickers? But I suppose we can’t even be sure it was him who killed her. Yet using her clothes like that certainly indicates something – linking his daughter to his wife. But of course, poor Joyce wasn’t the mother.”
“So who was?”
“It might be on record. It’s an unsolved murder. A cold case.”
“So many questions. Did Lionel know? Did the girl know? Was it murder by someone else? Or was it the nastiest answer, which is that Lionel Sullivan knowingly raped and murdered his own daughter, and hid her knickers away in some safe place even while he was in prison?”
Slowly, as if the possibilities were overshadowed by the unpleasant probability, both Sylvia and Harry sighed and changed the subject.
“And do we go to Milton’s trial?”
“We don’t know Eve, but we know the parents. We’ll see first whether they want us.”
Iris and Ruby were trotting up the bush wrapped pathway towards the car park. “Thank goodness. Let’s get back to those roaring fires.”
“And bed. And booking that holiday.”
“But secretly dreaming about damned Lionel Sullivan, what he did to his daughter, and whether he still intends coming after us.”
It was two days later when they saw Paul Stoker’s interview on television. Stella called them over. “Probably rubbish, but possibly interesting. He was the fellow who wrote that trashy little bestseller about Lionel Sullivan and mentioned both of you.”
Sylvia squashed into the space beside Harry since half the manor residents were watching the programme.
The interviewer was enjoying the revelations, and Stoker, wearing an ear-splitting smile, was evidently enjoying it too.
“Of course,” Stoker said in answer to one question, “we’re told that Sullivan murdered his wife. But she wasn’t legally married to him since he’s still married to his first wife.”
“We’re heard something of such a rumour,” the BBC reporter murmured doubtfully. “Something of a cold case murder, now supposed to have been committed by Sullivan.”
“That’s the rumour.” Stoker smiled. “But not the actual truth. He was married young to a whore by the name of Claire, but walked out on her after a few years. She brought up their two daughters alone and put the elder girl on the streets as little more than a child. Eventually, the girl traced her father. Sullivan went back to see his wife. They murdered the daughter between them.”
The interviewer shook his head. “Do we have proof of such a monstrous act? Why would they do such a thing?”
“No proof,” Stoker said as every resident of Rochester Manor held their breath. “Not yet. But I happen to know it’s the truth, and I happen to know why.”
“But you must know, Mr Stoker,” the interviewer leaned forwards, “this puts you in great danger from Lionel Sullivan himself. He may believe you know too much. I assume you’ve talked to the police?”
“Naturally.” Paul Stoker kept grinning. “And the police have offered protection. As you know, I was once thought to be the guilty party myself. Well now, they owe me protection, don’t they!”
“But if you claim witness protection,” decided the interviewer, “you can’t appear on television, Mr Stoker.”
“I’m not afraid of that silly old weasel,” Stoker proclaimed. “And I’m writing another book. I know the secrets, and I know the truth. I’m calling it ‘The dark truth behind the Sullivan Lies.’ The publishers are screaming out for it. So don’t forget. Buy it and find out what really happened. You’ll be surprised, I promise. And Sullivan won’t be catching me. Not in a month of climbing up chimneys.”
Apologies for the cliff hanger. However, you don’t have to wait long to find out. Get Daisychains to find the answers.
And do remember that when a reader leaves a review, an Angel gets their wings!
DAISY CHAINS
62
There was one thing she didn’t know about yet. But she was arrested at midnight.
The cell was the usual thing , no privacy, plenty of claustrophobia, and felt almost as damp inside as it had outside. A London
spring. So it had been raining as usual. Visiting this particular cell wasn’t the first time either. It hadn’t changed. One bed. One toilet. One pillow. Not that her own flat was much better. And a very kind female officer had brought her a cup of hot tea, and that really was a first.
She’d been avoiding the rain in doorways and under awnings, half looking for business and half just hoping to catch up with Luna and go off for a coffee at McDonalds or some all-night place. She’d whirled around at the male voice, but it certainly wasn’t business.
“I’ve been watching you. What’s your name?” Full uniform and an accusatory stare.
Five to twelve, but the street lighting was a yellow glare which disguised both stars and moon and showed up everything else instead. The streaks of drizzle still dripped from her hair. “Tracy Sullivan. And I haven’t been doing anything wrong. I’m looking for my mother.”
“Now let’s have the correct name, miss. And I know quite well it’s not your mother you’ve been looking for. It’s male customers. So now you’d better come with me.”
“Oh shit.” At least the cop didn’t cuff her, so she let him shove her into the back of the car.
It was the following morning before they questioned her. “Alright, you can go. Just stop walking the streets at night, and use a little sense.” Pause. “One question before you go.”
“Is it still raining outside?” She had neither coat nor cardigan.
“Not a question from you,” grinned the female police sergeant. “One from me. Evidently, you told Constable Wentworth your name was Tracy Sullivan.”
Nodding, and trying not to answer with the usual scowl. “That’s my name. I don’t know why your idiot cop didn’t believe me. Nothing odd about that name.”
“Well, actually there is.” The Sergeant pushed open another door. The trouble is, the name isn’t exactly uncommon. So, well, do you mind talking for just a few minutes? It’s not an arrest, I promise. But it’s important. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
The Games People Play Box Set Page 56
