The Games People Play Box Set

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “So you like it?”

  “Bloody hell, do I ever? It’s pissing marvellous. Two pillows and a comfy mattress. A proper oven, big enough for a frozen pie. Oh, Lizzie, you’re a marvel.”

  “Glad you like it.” Personally Lizzie thought they could have managed something a bit better, but evidently this would be enough for the moment. “Now, no temptation to go back to the old business? No? Good. You’ll have to survive on the dole for the time being, but without any rent or other bills to pay, you should be Ok. So no opening doors unless I shout my name through the letterbox.”

  “I’m going to read. Endlessly. Lay in bed and read. And watch that lovely big telly.” It wasn’t as large as she’d hoped for, but it worked, and it was bigger than she’d owned before. “Except Game of Thrones isn’t on anymore.”

  “I’ll be back to see how you’re getting on tomorrow. And the day after I hope we’ll get the one I really want you to speak with. That’s DI Morrison and I’ve told you all about him, so I hope you’ll feel like a long chat.”

  “You mean an interview.”

  “Well, yes, I do. But a friendly one, and right here, not at the station. I’ll be here too of course, and there might be another female DI. Rita Ellis. I’ve never met her but she sounds nice.”

  “I never thought cops could be nice till I met you.” Tracy sniggered. “But now I reckon you’re all bloody saints and angels.”

  “I’ll give you my blessing after you answer all DI. Morrison’s questions,” Lizzie grinned back.

  It was two days later, and the flat wasn’t quite so tidy when Lizzie thumped on the door, calling, “Tracy, it’s me, Liz, and DI. Morrison’s here too. I hope you’re home.”

  Tracy flung open the door as if expecting Father Christmas. She was well covered in jeans and a jumper, but barefoot. “Come in,” she beamed. “I’ll make tea. I haven’t got any coffee. And I take it you’re all on duty and don’t want booze?”

  “Tea,” said Darcey, “would be wonderful. The booze part can come another day. Meet my companion DI. Ellis. I see they’ve supplied some adequate accommodation.”

  “Adequate?” squeaked Tracy. “It’s bloody wonderful.” And she waved her visitors to the living room chairs. A well cushioned and blue striped sofa sank a little as both women sat. Morrison took one of the matching chairs and stretched his legs as Tracy marched back in with a tray of steaming mugs.

  Morrison drank his tea and disguised the twitch of muscular distaste. He finished the milky cupful and smiled at Tracy. “Well,” he said. “I had no idea you existed just a month ago, Miss Sullivan. And now you’ve suddenly become the most interesting person I have probably ever interviewed.”

  “Crap,” said Tracy, but she was smiling too.

  “Knitting?”

  “That girl needs a warm jumper by the sound of things,” said Yvonne, disappearing behind the swathes of purple fluff. “Poor little soul. And I met her mum once when she came here. So sweet. So desperate. And someone told me the girl likes mohair. I expect it was Sylvia who told me.”

  “I think that’s the jumper she was wearing when that lunatic snatched her up.” Sheila sat opposite, fiddling with the remote control on the radio. “But maybe she won’t want to be reminded of that.”

  “Oh dear.” Yvonne dropped a stitch and scrabbled to reclaim it on the thick red needle. The purple mohair on red knitting needles was attracting attention.

  Stella said, “Keeping busy, dear?”

  “Well, it keeps me off the street corners.”

  “But you won’t pick up any nice men with purple mohair, dear.”

  “Very funny, Stella dear,” Yvonne sniffed and continued knitting. “But it’s Sylvie and Harry I want to talk to. Whatever’s happened to that little girl, anyway? I’d like to know she’s all right.”

  It was Ruby who called from the other side of the room, closer to the fire. “She’s due back tomorrow. She phoned me last night. Always keeps in touch, you know.”

  The sound of the hoover echoed from upstairs and Stella flapped her hanky upwards. “I suppose that’s Lavender getting ready for them now.”

  Dennis, sitting on the same couch and in danger of being poked in the eye with long red knitting needles, was grumbling quietly to himself with regard to silly women talking through his favourite radio programme, when he suddenly remembered something even more important than The Archers. “That old duffer from the cake shop, Iris, she chatted to me the other day when I went in there for a decent coffee. Says the other girl, Kate isn’t it? Well, she went to visit the girl who got kidnapped. Wanted to say sorry or something. Mother wanted to throw her out, and there was a right battle outside the house. The son came out and pulled the mother off. Bit of a fisticuffs. The cops got called. All very silly.”

  “What was silly about it?” demanded Stella. “Kate wanted to say sorry. Fair enough. The poor girl’s mother wanted nothing to do with that disgusting family. Fair enough. How could they know that Kate was different to her husband? Fair enough. Police were called. Fair enough.”

  It was the voice from behind the knitting that sniffed, saying, “But Kate knew, didn’t she? Maybe not all the details, but she knew girls were taken for the little triplet. Knowing and not saying. That’s dreadful and it makes her as bad as the rest.”

  “But threatened with death, and losing her daughter if she talked,” Stella added. “Fair enough.”

  “I think,” said Amy from another corner of the room, “it’s not fair at all. It’s dark, so it’s time for bed.”

  Percival looked up and folded his newspaper. “Only seven thirty in the evening, my dear. A little early.”

  “Well, that’s all very well,” Amy told him, slightly embarrassed, “if people are going to squabble and fight in the streets, my dear, I don’t want to get involved. My arms aren’t as strong as they used to be. I haven’t got into any big fights outside the pub since I was in my twenties.”

  Everyone stared and Percival looked somewhat perplexed. “Amy dearest, I married you when you were twenty-four. I really don’t remember you ever punching out the opposition. I think you’ve been watching West Side Story on the television again.”

  Since everyone was now staring at everyone else, everyone heard when the radio crackled and announced the breaking news. Another woman had been discovered outside Nottingham. The remains had been dismembered, and the body was as yet unidentified.

  “Oh, shit,” said Stella. “Here we go again.

  It was a large, bright bedroom and the spring sunshine was trickling between the curtains. She could hear the glass rattle in the wind but cuddled up in bed she didn’t have to worry about that. Indeed, she didn’t have to worry about anything, which seemed utterly blissful. Nightmares were still common, but even they weren’t every night anymore.

  Niles sat on the edge of her bed. “Well, little sister, is it nice being home again?”

  She nodded. “But it isn’t home really, is it?”

  “From now on, it is. Online generosity, and the nurses too. Even that woman at the Rochester Manor.”

  “Well, it’s a nicer house,” Eve admitted. “Bigger rooms and a bigger garden. And not close to the bloody cake shop anymore.”

  Niles paused. “That woman’s not to blame,” he said eventually. “The husband is off making big money and evading the law in the Middle East somewhere. The oldest triplet is dead. And the other one – well – he’ll die soon.”

  “He should be in prison.”

  “He is, in a way,” Niles said softly. “A mental institution, and locked up, never to be free. That’s prison, more or less. Hopefully they’ve stuck electric wires into his head. That’s what they do in those places, don’t they? Or cut bits of brain out?”

  “I don’t think they do any of that stuff anymore,” Eve said without conviction. “Anyway, I just don’t want to think about him. Talk to me about football or your girlfriend or what Mum’s making for dinner.”

  “Shepherd’s Pie, Liverpool
won yesterday which you know since you watched it and yelled your head off, and I haven’t got a girlfriend.”

  “Fibs, Niles. I saw you talking to her outside last night.”

  “Talking doesn’t mean wildly romantic. She’s just Jim’s daughter. I work with Jim, and the girl brought a message. I got rid of the last girl. She only wanted me since she thought I was famous. It was you she wanted to meet. I told her to get lost.”

  Eve lay back against the pillows. She still thanked the Lord every night for each of the four pillows, the two soft pink sheets, the soft luxury quilt, and the real toilet just outside. She had dreamed of a real bed, comfortably sleep-worthy and soft, for all those weeks. She had dreamed of her mother’s voice.

  “Night-night, my darling Evie. I’ll wake you with hot chocolate in the morning. Let’s say eight thirty?”

  She had dreamed of smiles, of people waving to her in the street. Of learning to drive and buying a car – the first in the family. She had dreamed of plates piled high with dinner. Oh, the perfumes of roasted food. Of creamy cakes. Of fried eggs, bacon, onions, sausages. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Snacks and drinks. More than she could eat. More than she could want. Ice cream. Chocolate eclairs – oh, my dear sweet God almighty, let me rediscover happiness. Just simple satisfaction. That dreamy contentment that slips into your head almost unseen. On a warm sunny day with a bright blue sky over the hills. Birds singing. The kitten trying to climb into bed with you,. and its furry coat tickling your chin. Your favourite song on the radio. Mum poking her head around the door, “Aren’t you asleep yet, my love? Want another hot drink?”

  There had been so many yearning dreams. Not for wild excitement or the happiness of love and riches. No, just the contentment of a peaceful day. Hopes fulfilled.

  She looked sleepily at Niles. “You’re such a darling, Niles.”

  “Shall I go ahead and kill the bugger, Evie?”

  “What? And be as bad as him?” She had put on weight and the forty kilo wretchedness which had nearly cracked her bones was now a comfortable fifty-eight. The little pads of flesh on her stomach and thighs were now her pride and joy. Once in the past, she wouldn’t have wanted them. But she was still scraggy and still pale as a zombie. “Leave the poor little sod alone. He’s sick. Terribly sick. It’s his brother Maurice that ought to die. He was the one that grabbed me, and he knew exactly what for. Nearly as bad as the creepy Mark. So the pig should die too.”

  “More difficult. He’s abroad.”

  “Niles, I don’t want you in prison. To come and visit you in the clink. Oh, please! Let’s just learn happiness all over again from the beginning.”

  Her hair was growing back. A few of the cuts and scratches were fading. One of the smaller burns had disappeared. She had been through four operations and hadn’t suffered from any of them. The relief of being free, of seeing and hugging her family, and the kindness that the nursing staff and police had shown her had been almost enough to obliterate the pain. Pain? She’d experienced enough of that, and any minor discomfort seemed no problem at all.

  Niles kissed her cheek. She kissed him back. She hoped she might be lucky enough not to dream of Milton for once.

  65

  “Do you have any idea where your mother is now?” asked Sylvia. “or don’t you want to know?”

  Tracy had agreed to meet Sylvia and Harry. She had liked the idea. “Are they nice?”

  “I find them intelligent and extremely pleasant,” Morrison nodded. “They are particularly helpful and have been of considerable assistance over the past few years.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t suggest you meet people we think are horrible,” said Rita. “I suppose you think the oldies are usually silly and boring?”

  “I’d sleep with Bill Nighy any day,” said Tracy, but everybody had ignored her.

  It was the following morning when Sylvia and Harry trooped in with Darcey and Rita, squashed into the little living room, and were brought the usual mugs of hot weak tea. Morrison had already spoken to Tracy for several hours the day before, and Rita had asked Harry and Sylvia to skirt the real story, and simply chat around the edges.

  Tracy had shrugged at Sylvia’s question. “I never want to see her again. But it’s been a few years, so sometimes I admit I get curious. Is the old cow still alive? As for my dad, please kill him off quick.”

  “I suggest automatic combustion,” muttered Rita.

  “Only the good die young,” said Harry, tapping his own head. There was a small bald patch, but his brown hair still grew around the edges.

  Dad’s in his early fifties,” said Tracy. “That’s not young anymore. I’d shoot him myself if I thought I could get away with it.”

  “So you might know where he is?”

  “Well actually,” frowned Tracy, “I might. Two possibilities. He was born in Leicestershire, somewhere in the north with the winds blowing like hurricanes. He told me he was blown from the womb, and that’s what gave him acromegaly. He could even go back to try and find his old home. But he hated his mum too, so I doubt he’d be sentimental about it..”

  Rita was writing furiously, filling pages of her notebook. Harry said, “The shed he loved in Gloucestershire doesn’t exist anymore. And there have been two nasty murders in Nottingham. That’s near Leicester.”

  “But I think he’s more likely to be back in Gloucestershire,” said Tracy, leaning forwards as though divulging wicked secrets. “It’s where he met Joyce. He sort of made up stories to himself about being good and settling down to be happily married. I mean, it was bigamy anyway, but that’s not the point. He loved the forests. Oh, they had a proper scruffy little house somewhere, not that I ever got invited there and wouldn’t have gone anywhere near him even if he’d asked. But before Joyce, he lived in a sort of thatched cottage place deep amongst the trees on the Wiltshire border. I never went there either, but I heard what it’s like. And I know he kept all his precious souvenirs there. They were the only things that mattered to him in the end.”

  Into the pause following this story, Sylvia asked softly, “I don’t want to be awkward. But you seem to know a lot about where he went and how he felt over the past years, even though you hate him and didn’t go near him.”

  Tracy stared back into Sylvia’s intrusive gaze. Then she put her head down and shrugged. “OK, yes, it’s true.” She looked around. There were four pairs of eyes glued to her reactions. She sniffed, then laughed. “Who was it said, ‘If you keep telling the truth you’ll get caught out sooner or later.’? And I think it’s a proper saying in the Middle East – ‘The truth is a special and valuable thing. You can’t just give it away to everyone.’”

  “And the truth is?” said Harry with a studied smile.

  “He wrote to me when he met Joyce. A private message thing on my Facebook. I never gave him my address. But he kept sending messages for a little while. I answered once. Only once. Then he stopped after he got that disgusting shed. Some of the messages were just plain crazy. You know he’s mad, don’t you?”

  “Not so mad he couldn’t carry on a good job driving a luxury coach all over England and some of Europe,” Darcey pointed out. “And arrange a fairly complicated prison escape.”

  “Do you,” Rita asked, “still have those messages on a computer somewhere?”

  “I don’t have a laptop or a computer or anything,” Tracy said with another shrug. “Only the phone. I suppose you could find old stuff on that, but I’ve never used it for anything except business.”

  Sylvia leaned back. “Would you find this cottage, do you think?”

  “Oh, I doubt it.” Tracy was collecting empty mugs. “He didn’t ever give me exact directions. I doubt he ever wanted me to find him.”

  “I think,” said Sylvia, I should buy you a nice laptop, and invite you down to Little-Woppington-on-Torr for a week or so. Do you fancy a boring holiday?”

  “The dream of my life,” grinned Tracy.

  “You won’t want to lose this nice new flat,” Harry
said. “But we’ll find you a nice place to stay for a week or two. Motel? B&B? Air B&B? Hotel? Above the pub?”

  “That’s the one,” she sat up at once. “Bloody perfect. Not too far from your place, and a new number for this phone so I don’t get the creeps phoning in the middle of the night.”

  “We’ve got a couple of really cosy pubs nearby,” Harry told her. “And we can chat over dinner. All five of us.” He raised both eyebrows at Darcey and Rita who were sitting patiently sipping the tea neither was enjoying.

  Everyone nodded politely. “That’s it then,” said Sylvia, reaching for her scarf and gloves. I shall phone for a reservation as soon as we get back to the hotel. Will you drive up with us tomorrow?”

  “Or come with us?” suggested Morrison. “Not that we’re fighting for your company, and I’m no better a driver than Harry. But we can go through a few formalities on the way.”

  Sylvia awoke with a bruise on her arm. She stared at it with surprise. “I suppose you elbowed me in the night to stop me snoring.”

  He grinned and lightly kissed the little bruise. “I don’t remember it if I did. Having a bad dream I expect. So let’s order breakfast in the room and get ready for a long drive home.”

  “Tracy’s cosy tavern is booked. And they said the sun was actually smiling.”

  “We’ll arrive too late to see it.”

  She had planned it for days. Beneath the barbed wire, the matted ivy and the steel spikes, there was a low gap in the fence. A stray dog had been digging perhaps, a rabbit or even a badger. Foxes were good at getting in and getting out. A soon as she had seen it, she had known what she had to do.