The Games People Play Box Set

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  What an exciting bribe. “Breakfast?”

  “Well.” Another pause. “Maybe. But questions and answers first.”

  The interview room was the usual thing of course, but vastly improved by the steaming mug of tea facing her. “Go on then. What’s the special treatment for? Do you want me to be a grass or something?” She sipped the tea, breathed in the steam, and felt warm for the first time in twenty-four hours. “And what’s wrong with my name? Common enough, I reckon.”

  “That’s just the problem,” said Sergeant Lizzy Vaughn. “Do you mind giving your birth date? And I wonder if you could tell me something about your parents and your sister. Did you ever have a sister? And did you know your father well when you were younger?”

  “He’s killed again,” said the morning news with a splutter of excitement. “Breaking news from Nottingham. A black plastic bag was found in a skip on the outskirts of the city late last night. Birds and foxes had split the plastic and revealed the body parts of a young woman. Some hours later someone called the police. This appears to be the work of Lionel Sullivan once more.”

  Grasping Ruby’s hand in hers, Sylvia sighed but the sigh caught in her throat. “So he’s out of this area,” she said. “That’s one blessing for selfish people like me with a horror of that creature turning up on my doorstep.”

  “He’s always moved around,” Harry said from the adjacent armchair.

  Sylvia looked over the top of Ruby’s bright head. “Oh, don’t say it. We’re not going to drive all the way to Nottingham to look in sheds.”

  “Well, not today. It’s pouring with rain. And we invited Darcey and Peggy for dinner tonight.” Harry waved an absent-minded hand, then scratched his ear lobe. “Anyway, monstrous crimes outside Gloucestershire aren’t our responsibility. Not that any of it is really.”

  Percival looked up over the top of the newspaper he was reading. “I hope not Harry. You’re not the type.”

  With a faint smile, Harry wondered which one was suffering the onset of dementia, Percival or his wife. It was the wife Amy who was playing with her teaspoon, stirring her coffee first clockwise and then anti-clockwise. She looked a little ruffled. “I used to be your type, Percy. That’s why you married me.”

  Putting down the newspaper with deliberation, Percival frowned. “Nothing to do with types or murders,” he said, staring at his wife. “Not the sort of thing I’d chose to say in front of the whole manor, my dear, but we married because I did love you.”

  “Did?”

  “Do, my dear Amy, do and always will.”

  Amy smiled. “Dear man,” she told him. “Quite insufferable. But quite delicious. Better than chocolate biscuits.”

  But the television had moved on from headlines and was now discussing the dreadful discovery in more detail. “As yet unidentified, the young woman found dead just outside Nottingham this morning, is still under investigation. The crime scene has been blocked off and the police are refusing to discuss their findings so far.” The reporter, an umbrella flapping in the wind was not keeping him particularly dry, approached a policeman standing in front of the turn to another narrow street. “Good morning, sir,” said the reporter. “Might I ask a few questions on this shocking morning?”

  The policeman, helmet brim dripping, shook his head and sent the drips flying. “No comment, mate. Too early for any conclusions. The forensic team only just moved in.”

  “Turn off that rubbish,” yelled Ruby, emerging from Sylvia’s half-hearted embrace. “It’s always bad news or no news. This time it’s both.”

  “The trouble is,” said Sylvia, “Lionel Sullivan’s horrific behaviour touches us closely. He killed poor Joyce. I know you didn’t like Joyce, Bluebell, but she’d had a vile life with that man, and then a vile death at his hand. Harry actually got him arrested the first time as you know. Oh God, if he’s started again – how does he manage to get away all the time? It’s four months since he escaped prison.”

  “He’s only killed once in that time. Well,” Harry changed his mind, “First his wife, and now this one. But we can’t really be sure yet if it’s his work.”

  “They’re not going to shout things out on television, are they?” called Stella from the sofa by the fire. “That monster’s killings always end in such carnage. Mutilation. Torture. Well, they won’t describe all that, will they? We’d all vomit back our breakfast. But if they suspect that man, then the corpse is in bits, you can count on it.”

  “Since it’s not his territory,” Harry nodded back, “Morrison won’t be in on it. But I bet the Nottingham cops will be over to discuss it with him. Darcey’s the Sullivan expert. So we can ask him tonight.”

  “Too early,” said Sylvia. “He won’t admit a thing yet. And I wouldn’t be surprised if he cancels our dinner date anyway and buzzes off to Nottingham for a couple of days. Not his territory – true – but he’ll be called on as an expert. Consultations. He’s our Sullivan guy now, isn’t he! What a horrid title.”

  “So we follow?” grinned Harry.

  Sylvia interrupted him before he started making B&B reservations. “Not until after we talk to Darcey. Yes, I know I’m bossy but I’m not Maid Marion, and I have no interest in Nottingham forest until we know for sure about bloody Lionel.”

  The phone call was predictable. “He’s had to sprint off to Nottingham,” Peggy said. “And so has Rita. She was going to babysit. So I can’t come either. Besides, Atticus has toothache. Sorry, we’ll make it again soon.”

  “As we expected,” Harry said, clicking off his phone. “But I’m not letting that man go. Sullivan, I mean – not Darcey. But a long weekend in Nottingham could be pleasant enough.”

  “Well, you know how to follow a SatNav now so we wouldn’t get lost.”

  “Actually,” Harry chewed his lip, “I rather miss getting lost sometimes. Being lost used to take me to interesting places.”

  Sylvia closed her eyes. “Once it nearly got you killed. But I suppose that’s why you have such an exhausting determination to catch the vile man. But please, Harry, not tomorrow. Let’s leave on Saturday, and not at dawn.”

  The long and bitter winter had fizzled into March showers, daffodils and daisies with a few bright blue-sky-days bringing hope of better to come. But it was grey and windy when Sylvia clamped her navy wool over her silver hair, kissed Ruby goodbye and clambered into the front passenger seat of the Lexus. Harry had been waiting with the engine running, so the heating was already blowing hot air, and Sylvia leaned back in relief and unwound her scarf. “Alright then, my love. Let’s head off into the northern wilderness.”

  “Gloucestershire weather isn’t much better than the Midlands.”

  But it was warm in the car with the heating full on, and the seats nice and hot. two sheepskin rugs and a Burberry throw, just in case and two flasks of piping hot tea supplied by Lavender, with the radio playing Sibelius quite softly in the background. The music stopped for the ten o’clock news. The recent discovery of a mutilated female corpse wrapped in a black rubbish bag and discovered in an old skip on a nearby building site. The body has been difficult to identify, but Lionel Sullivan who escaped from prison several months ago is suspected as the killer. Now final identification has been made, but the police have not yet announced the name. The dead woman is thought to have lived locally and disappeared only a few days preceding the discovery. The police will hold a press meeting at two o’clock this afternoon, and we will bring you the news as soon as possible.

  “Oh, so fascinating,” Harry sniffed. “How would we live without the media?”

  “Might be more interesting after the police announcement,” Sylvia suggested. “So get a hotel room with a television, just in case.”

  But it was during dinner at the local pub that Sylvia and Harry were able to discuss the snippets of news the police had earlier released. Sylvia was mopping up the gravy she’d spilt down the front of her jumper from her pie. Harry said, “We never met the poor girl. But it sounds like Sullivan
is out and about again.”

  “She was only eighteen.” Sylvia looked up from her deep cleaning attempt.

  “We’ll see Morrison tomorrow,” nodded Harry.

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday.”

  “Police stations don’t close for church. And at home, Sunday would catch Darcey in his Winnie the Pooh flannelette pyjamas. But here, he’ll be working. He wouldn’t come all this way just to stay in bed.”

  But it was not DI Darcey Morrison they saw the next day when they turned up at the station. The uniform behind the desk nodded, eyed them over, and picked up the phone on the desk, clicked a button of some sort, and muttered, “Wait over there. Won’t be long.”

  There were two chairs. But as soon as they sat, DI Rita Ellis bounded in, shiny blue mackintosh soaked over the shoulders. “Didn’t expect you,” she said. “But it’s nice to see you again. Come with me and we’ll have some coffee. Darcey isn’t here at present. He’s in a meeting with the Nottingham chief. But he’ll come and join us when the seniors have finished with him.”

  They left the car outside and scurried over the road, getting splashed by passing cars, and bundled into a small café which lacked lighting but gained a deep rich perfume of frying bacon and hot coffee.

  “We’re sure it’s him,” Rita said, steam in her eyes. “The poor little girl was found in pieces, although not as badly mutilated as some of his victims in the past. We don’t think that’s especially relevant since it depends on what sort of accommodation he has. If he can’t sit around and play his filthy games in private for a week or more, then he has to make the whole thing quick. And that’s what’s happened by the looks of it.” She leaned forward, elbows on the small coffee-ringed table. “I don’t suppose your unexpected arrival means you have some magic information?”

  “Unfortunately no,” Sylvia apologised. “But this whole disgusting crime sounds very rushed. You know one time the monster committed the murder in the usual way, and the usual place down south, but then managed to move elsewhere for the burial, just to confuse the police. So it’s not as if he’s never moved around before. This sounds a bit like that time. But we can’t be sure of anything, not with him.”

  “How’s Milton Howard?” asked Harry suddenly.

  “Who? Oh – yes, of course.” Rita was surprised. “I’ve stopped following up on that one. That Met creep Cramble is still chasing the money laundering business, but he hasn’t been financed for flying off to Dubai, so he’s not achieving very much. The last I heard of Milton he was waiting to have his legs fixed. But I expect he’s still at the psycho home now.”

  “Is that what it’s called? Or just politically incorrect?”

  “It’s the Theodore McBride Institute. Same difference. A home for the criminally insane, and basically the end of the run for the sociopath and psychopath instead of prison. Personally, I think Lionel Sullivan should have been sent there, and might even get some help. He certainly won’t get any in a high-security prison. I hear Milton still keeps asking for his lady. But I can’t feel sorry for him. I certainly do for Evie.”

  “You’ve followed up on her instead?”

  “Gracious yes,” Rita said. “How could I not? It’s only two months or less, so she’s still in a terrible condition. They’ve moved house to somewhere more private and much nicer. Funds from both the council and the police. Well deserved. I’ve seen her twice, and I intend going again, but there’s not much I can help her with anymore.”

  Harry ordered another coffee. “So that last case is sorted but still has its terrible ramifications. Maurice Howard is presumably getting ridiculously rich in Dubai. But surely he’d still try and keep in touch with his little triplet?”

  Rita had no idea. “That’s up to Cramble and the doctors. Not my case.”

  “You and Morrison are both still on Sullivan’s then?”

  “Indeed we are.” Rita leaned forwards again. But if you still keep in touch with Kate Howard, we wouldn’t mind knowing anything of interest.”

  “By all means,” said Sylvia, finishing the glass of water she’d asked for after a boiling hot espresso. “She still runs the shop, and now she’s got Iris living there with her. They do the cooking together, and it seems Iris hasn’t approached a fruit machine in months. Life is getting better for some if not for others. But the last time I spoke to Kate, she denied any contact with her husband.”

  “It’s what she told us too, I wonder?” Rita was pulling out her notebook when Morrison came in.

  63

  “It wasn’t like that,” mumbled the girl. “Actually it was sort of horrible and I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I can understand that,” Sergeant Vaughn. London based, nodded with an encouraging smile. “But this could be extremely important, Tracy. Look – call me Lizzie. And just relax. Forget about this being a police interview. You agree to talk and answer everything I ask, and we can sit over the road in that café, and I’ll get you whatever you want for breakfast. They’ve got an alcove which is fairly private. What do you think?”

  “What are you going to ask?”

  “Everything,” Lizzie said at once. “About your family and every detail you can think of. Agree to that, and I’ll buy you the biggest breakfast you’ve ever eaten.”

  “Just because I’m Tracy Sullivan? My mother’s a bitch and I hardly knew me dad. Your other cop didn’t even believe that’s my name.”

  “Let me explain,” said Lizzie. “But first of all, agree to talk.”

  Tracy talked. It was three hours later that Sargeant Vaughn trotted back to the station and marched in to see her DI. “Very smart of you, Lizzie,” DI. Charley Finch said with faint scepticism. “Perkins was quite sure the girl gave a false name. How could she not have known we were searching for her, for goodness sake?”

  “Simply because she’s on the game, boss.” Lizzie’s grin of beaming satisfaction had not yet convinced her chief. “Lives in a dump with three other hookers. They share the room and they share the pimp. He doesn’t sound much nicer than Sullivan. Her life must have been vile since birth. I want to help.”

  “Her, or me, Lizzie?”

  “Both, sir.”

  “But,” decided the DI, “you haven’t told me yet why you’re so convinced it’s the right girl.”

  Lizzie sat without being asked. “Well, no birth certificate. But she described Lionel Sullivan to a Tee. Her mother’s a bitch called Gertie, but hates the name so calls herself Grace. Tracy ran away from home where, surprise surprise, she was abused. It’s all in such detail, sir, no one could have made it all up on the spur of the moment..”

  “We need proof, Lizzie.” The chief tapped his fingertips together and frowned over them. “If this is all correct, you’ll get a chocolate milkshake over at Kaloon’s.”

  Slightly smirking, Lizzie said, “I’ll go and visit tomorrow. She gave me her address.”

  “Go today,” said the inspector.

  The house was less of a dump than Lizzie had expected, but it smelled of brothel business, and it certainly didn’t smell of cleaning liquids or air fresheners. Lizzie rang the bell. Someone poked their head out of the top window, three floors up. “Tracy?” Lizzie called.

  “Basement,” shouted down the head upstairs. Different door.”

  Downstairs was worse. The steps were dark cement, narrow and dirty. The brown painted door was peeling, but a large knocker in the shape of a smiling fish appeared to welcome visitors. Lizzie knocked.

  Tracy answered the door in her dressing gown. “Oh bloody hell, thank goodness,” she mumbled, pushing her hair back from her eyes. “I thought it was a client. I don’t want any pissed blokes just at the moment, thanks. But I didn’t expect you either, Lizzie. I only got to bed about two hours ago.”

  “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

  “Never mind. Come in,” grumbled Tracy, pulling her dressing gown tighter. “As long as it’s good news and not just more questions.”

  “Both,” Lizzie assured her. Inside wer
e two rooms, each just about large enough to turn around in without banging on the walls. The fractionally larger was the bedroom, black satin sheets with a frilly quilt now on the floor. They sat in the living room which had managed to squash in a very grubby pair of red fake-leather chairs, a television and a kitchenette with one gas-ring and a dirty, cracked sink.

  Presumably watching Lizzie’s expressions, Tracy giggled. “Admiring my palace?”

  With sudden undiplomatic honesty, Lizzie pulled a face. “Don’t you make enough money for something better than this?”

  “A back-handed compliment, I suppose,” Tracy said. “So you think I’m so gorgeous I should be charging a hundred quid a pop? As it happens, I try not to work much. Not every day, anyway. I bloody hate it, so I just lock up and turn the phone off and go to bed for a couple of days. All I get up for is the odd cup of tea and a cheese sandwich.”

  “I’ll go out later and bring something back. Or order a curry to be delivered or something.” She sat gingerly on one of the red plastic chairs. “But if you can make tea -?”

  They both sipped tea. “My mum was on the game,” Tracy said, peeping through steam from the large chipped mug. “I don’t know if she liked it, we never talked much. But I suppose it’s the only job I ever knew. Sort of like the family business. And no, I don’t make much. I don’t care. I like going down on chilly evenings and sitting on the embankment watching the boats on the Thames.”

  “Really?” Lizzie was surprised, even interested. But she remembered her own job. “You don’t have a birth certificate handy, do you?” Tracy shook her head. “Oh well, never mind,” Lizzie said. “What’s your birthdate? I’ll remember to send a card.”

  Tracy sniggered again. “1987. Yeh, I know, old enough to know better.”

  “Same as me,” Lizzie said, scribbling notes. “I’m sure you look younger than that.”