The Games Keeper

by Jack Benton

  He had cracked the bottle within a few steps as the forest and all its menace closed in, and drunk everything by the time he crested the hill out of the valley to find a three-quarters moon above him, its pale light a comfort after the oppressiveness of the forest.

  Somehow he had taken a wrong turn, and instead of emerging in Scuttleworth as he had planned, he was standing on a quiet lane surrounded by farmland, with Ozgood Hall visible through the hedgerow to his left.

  As the crow flew, it was barely half a mile, so Slim walked until he found a gateway then climbed over into a field.

  With the moon lighting his way, he stumbled along the hedge to the field’s end, then clambered up a muddy slope in the corner and dropped down into the adjacent field. His head was spinning as he crossed the last field bordering the manor house’s grounds.

  It rose ahead of him, three floors of ornate balconies, tall windows and white-washed walls. Slim felt like Gretel as he scrambled through the last hedge, eager to see up close a place outwardly beautiful which might prove to contain nightmares he could barely imagine.

  As he tumbled out of a stand of hawthorn onto a manicured lawn, his first thought was how a burglar might feel standing here. There seemed to be no guard dogs, and Slim guessed Croad acted as security. The cameras attached to each corner blinked with lights likely designed to advertise their presence and dissuade any opportunists.

  All of the lights barring a couple on the ground floor were off, and one higher on the second. Curtains closed off the lower windows, too thick even for shadows, but the light was stronger from the upper, suggesting the curtains were open.

  Three oak trees rose not far from the hedgerow. Slim stared at them, estimating the height of the upper branches. About level. High enough to see inside.

  It was a stupid idea and he knew it, but the sober, reasoning part of him was locked tightly away for the night. Slim grinned as he approached, gauging the difficulty of getting up into the lower branches from the branchless lower trunk.

  His luck was in. A shed stood nearby, its door open. A coil of electric cable hung on a nail just inside, caught in the only patch of moonlight.

  He used the cable to create a brace to get up into the lower branches. From there, climbing was easy, even as his vision spun from the exertion. Reminding himself repeatedly that he was taking a terrible risk yet at the same time not caring, he hauled himself up through the branches until he was level with the second floor window.

  A bedroom. A tangle of sheets topped a double bed, pushed out slightly from the wall as though someone had thought to move it and then changed their mind. A red carpet, grey curtains pulled open, a teak desk against one wall, a wardrobe against another, half open, an untidy disgorgement of clothes spilling from inside like the lolling tongue of a strangled beast.

  At first Slim thought the room was empty, then the tangle of bedclothes shifted and a naked woman appeared. Slim didn’t know where to look, but she bent and picked a night dress off the floor, slipping it over her shoulders. Even before she approached the window Slim knew this was Ellie. She was the same height as the girl he had seen, was the right age, had Ozgood’s hair colour and a set about her face that suggested power and calm.

  She opened a pair of balcony doors and stepped outside. She wrapped her arms around herself but stood there in her nightdress for some minutes, staring out into the dark, her gaze cutting right through where Slim crouched among the tree branches, not daring to move.

  What was she doing? What was she looking at? Slim was desperate to shout out to her, to ask, only the barest scraps of sobriety keeping his mouth shut. Even so, he was on the verge of just doing it anyway when the bedsheets moved behind her.

  ‘Shut that damn window,’ came a familiar voice. ‘It’s getting cold in here.’

  Slim hardly dared to breathe. As Ellie stepped back to close the doors, her expression unchanging, a naked figure rose out of the bedsheets, and in the instant before Ellie jerked the curtains shut, Slim caught a glimpse of Thomas Croad.

  43

  One thing Slim had come to like about Scuttleworth and its surrounds was that people enjoyed their coffee. Whether it was a need to stay awake in an otherwise dull patch of middle Devon or something else, he appreciated it as Joe Taber poured him a thick brew and handed it across the table. Slim, nursing a hangover, but also proud of himself for not immediately reaching for a bottle upon waking after what he had seen last night, clutched at it like a drowning man for a piece of driftwood.

  ‘A private investigator, you say?’

  ‘Yes. I work for the BBC,’ Slim added, preparing to unravel the spiel he had used on previous cases to get quiet men to talk. ‘There’s been some interest in a documentary on the Ozgood family, and our researchers came across the twin tragedies of the Sharp brothers, Steve and Dennis.’

  ‘Well, I couldn’t tell you much about Steve. Didn’t even live down here then. Moved down in 2007. The yard was going cheap, fancied a quieter life.’

  Joe Taber was a thickset man in his late fifties. He wore greasy overalls with the comfort of a man who could have been born in them. Wide spectacles were constantly pushed up a shallow nose above a mouth that had a permanent downward droop, making Taber look miserable unless he openly smiled.

  ‘You were called to examine Dennis Sharp’s car, weren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right. Closest guy around and I’d seen plenty of wrecks up in London. Held some authority in a backwater like this.’

  ‘I’d like to know how that went, if there’s no problem with you talking about it.’

  Taber shrugged. ‘Didn’t you get a look at the police report?’

  ‘Yeah, I did. I just wanted to hear it in real time.’

  Joe gave half a shrug. ‘Not a lot to tell. They called me up, had me drive down there, look over it, see if the crash was caused by anything mechanical. The fuel tank had burst, the igniting petrol setting fire to the dashboard and the seats, but there was nothing particular wrong with that car besides its age. It was a junk heap. I heard Dennis Sharp rarely drove, so it was likely he wasn’t familiar with the ice on the road. A lot was made of his supposed local knowledge, but as I said, he wasn’t much of a driver. Plus, he’d gone through that barrier at speed, judging by the impact damage to the front bumper and radiator. Reckless speed, if you ask me.’

  Slim leaned forward. ‘Is there any possibility that the car had been tampered with?’

  Joe Taber frowned as he shook his head. ‘I don’t know what kind of TV shows you watch, but the kind of tampering you’re suggesting just wouldn’t work in a practical sense. Sure, if you know what you’re doing, you could strip down the wires to the brakes, make them liable to fail, but you’d have no way of knowing when they might fail. They could go slowing into a junction, and what point would that have?’ He sipped his coffee. ‘In any case, I did take a look. Nothing had been done. It was just bad luck, poor maintenance, and reckless driving.’

  ‘According to the police report, Sharp was doing approximately forty-five when he hit that barrier.’

  Joe Taber clicked his fingers. ‘Exactly. You go and take a spin along that road. Let your brakes off after that last curve at the top there and see what natural speed you get. Nope, he was accelerating into that corner as he hit the ice. Makes any tampering to the brakes irrelevant.’

  ‘So you think it was completely innocent?’ Slim said.

  ‘Oh, I never said that,’ Joe said, ‘and I would have told them if they asked but none of the police down there cared for my opinion.’

  ‘And what was it?’

  ‘That he hit that barrier and crashed because he had someone on his tail. He was being chased.’

  44

  ‘I don’t suppose Mandy’s about?’ Slim asked Cathy as he paid for a can of all-day breakfast and a packet of Worcester Sauce flavour crisps. ‘I just wanted to ask her something.’

  ‘Don’t have designs on my daughter, do you?’ Cathy said, lifting an eyebrow.
<
br />   ‘Pretty sure she wouldn’t be interested in an old pensioner like me.’

  ‘Well, there’s no one around here of her own age I’d approve of,’ Cathy said.

  Slim smiled. ‘That Jimmy Kent seems like a nice boy.’

  Cathy rolled her eyes. ‘Kid’s a brainless thug, just like his dad.’

  ‘It must have been hard for Kenny after what happened to his wife and child,’ Slim said. ‘Bringing up a son as a single father can’t have been easy.’

  Cathy shrugged. ‘I guess I’m a little hard on him. It’s funny, but old stereotypes from school never go away. He’s all right, is Kenny. I’d have a friendly word if he ever came in my shop.’

  ‘Perhaps you should consider, um, restocking from time to time?’

  Cathy cocked her head. ‘Look at you, the big city guy telling us village idiots how to run our businesses.’ She smiled. ‘You have to balance it right, otherwise the wrong people start to show up. I’m happy to pass the time with old Helen from down the road but the last thing I want is to have to make small talk with Oliver Ozgood, or even worse, that ghastly Thomas Croad.’

  ‘That bad, is it?’

  Cathy sighed. ‘It’s bad enough my husband working at Vincent’s.’

  ‘Isn’t there other work in the area?’

  ‘Nothing without a decent commute. Although, there are times when I wouldn’t miss a few extra free hours each day.’ Before Slim could reply, she added, ‘The truth is, we’ve talked about it, and while I’d like him to go elsewhere, he says he’s happy enough. It’s not easy work, as you can imagine, but he’s satisfied with it, and the pay’s not bad.’

  Slim nodded. ‘I guess that’s something.’ He handed her a five pound note. ‘If Mandy comes back in the next half hour, tell her I’ll be over at the community hall.’

  ‘You planning on moving in?’

  ‘If I can find a barn with the right sized hayloft, I’m thinking about it.’

  With his all-day breakfast slowly cooling in a plastic tub, Slim headed out. He was only halfway to the community hall when his phone rang. Putting his lunch down on the edge of a stone wall, he plucked his phone out of his pocket.

  He frowned, hesitating to answer. Croad. What if the old man knew what he had seen?

  He was still thinking when the call hung up. A second later his phone began to ring again, so this time he answered.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Where’ve you been? I got a call from Mr. Ozgood. He wants an update. It’s only a week until November 9th, the date in the letter. You made any progress?’

  ‘Some. Doing what I can.’

  ‘I’ll be over there at three. I need something concrete to show Mr. Ozgood. His patience won’t last forever and I think he’s starting to panic that there’ll be no progress. Your head’s on the chopping block.’

  Slim suppressed a sigh. ‘All right.’

  ‘Good. See you there.’

  Croad hung up. Slim scowled at the phone, wishing the old man would stay out of his way. He had done little to help and now it seemed there was a conflict of interests. Was he protecting Ellie for Mr. Ozgood or for himself?

  Slim gave a slow nod. It was time to take things up a level. He called up an old friend. ‘Alan, it’s Slim. How are you doing?’

  Alan Coaker, a former platoon mate of Slim’s, had formed a locksmith’s merchant in London after leaving the army. Unlike a regular locksmith’s, it also branched out into rather more high-tech security equipment.

  ‘Slim, good to hear from you. It’s been a while, and I always wonder if you’re still alive.’ Alan gave a gravelly cough. ‘What are you after?’

  ‘I need a favour.’

  Alan laughed. ‘There’s a surprise. Let me guess, you want me to extend you some credit like last time?’

  Slim grimaced. ‘I’d much appreciate it. I’m good for it, I promise. I’m working for a rich man this time around.’

  Alan sighed. ‘I like you, Slim, which is why I always hope you’re right. Okay, tell me what you need.’

  After Slim reeled off his requests, Alan sighed. ‘You don’t ask for much, do you? Just this once. Consider it a rental, so I want it all back undamaged. Got it?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I’ll order a courier. It’ll be down there this evening. Let me know where it ought to be sent.’

  ‘Thanks, Alan. I owe you one.’

  ‘One?’ Alan laughed. ‘I think we’re in double digits by now.’

  45

  There had to be a clue somewhere, Slim thought as he leaned over his notebook. He had filled three pages so far with lists of names and events as he slogged his way back through old parish council magazines. It might be nothing, but there could be a clue hidden in among the notes to someone’s involvement in something. Cathy, for example, had led monthly litter-picking events for nearly five years, before abruptly quitting. Her replacement, a lady named Tina Tremlett, had lasted only three months before handing it over to someone called John Dovetail. A clue, a hint at something, or just part of the ever present shallows of the river of country life?

  After three coffees and two hours of note-taking, his eyes were starting to blur, so he put the magazines aside and flicked through a couple of picture books he had found.

  The light was already fading. One more day almost gone, less than a week until the supposed deadline. What would happen if Ozgood failed to produce the money? Would Dennis Sharp appear out of the shadows like a contemporary Robin Hood to shoot down the landowner with an arrow between his eyes?

  There was little Slim felt sure of, besides one or two minor things that likely had no bearing at all.

  He was looking through a book of old local primary school pictures when he heard the main doors open with a creak. Mandy appeared, hands in the pockets of her jacket, the bulge around the zip hiding a more incendiary bulge beneath.

  ‘Heard you was looking for me.’

  Slim looked up. ‘I just had a couple of questions.’

  ‘Like what? I might have been busy.’

  Slim smiled. ‘Sorry. I imagine life is pretty hectic around here.’ As Mandy rolled her eyes, he added, ‘First of all, do you know Jimmy’s friend Kevin?’

  ‘Kev? Yeah. Why?’

  ‘Do you have a contact for him? I’d like a word with him about something he said.’

  ‘Got his Facebook.’

  ‘I’m old fashioned. Do you have a telephone number?’

  ‘What do you think I am, the Yellow Pages? Look, give me your number and I’ll pass it on.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  As Slim fumbled for his phone, Mandy sauntered over, peering over Slim’s shoulder.

  ‘What you looking at pics of primary kids for? You some kind of perv?’

  ‘No, I’m—’

  ‘Whatever.’ Mandy started laughing. ‘That’s me, see there. Pretty, weren’t I?’

  Slim looked down at the grainy class photograph, estimating the blonde girl with the beaming smile to be nine or ten. He then looked up at the current version. She had soured a little, but the prettiness was still there.

  ‘You haven’t changed all that much.’

  ‘Just doubled,’ Mandy said, patting her stomach.

  ‘There is that,’ Slim said. He lifted the book, a collection of local school class photos dating back several decades. ‘Some of them are dated, but most of them don’t have names,’ Slim said. ‘Do you think you could find Dennis Sharp?’

  ‘I could have a look,’ Mandy said. She sat down, opening the book in front of her. ‘I remember these pictures were donated by locals,’ she said. ‘There was this guy compiling local information for a history book, something like that. Don’t think he ever finished it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Mandy shrugged. ‘Think he died. I’ll ask Mum. She’ll know. Ah look, here we go. 1986. I think he was a bit younger than me mum, so he’d have been in school in this pic.’ She slipped a slightly faded picture out of its plastic jacket, turning it over. �
��You’re lucky. This one’s labeled. That’s him there, third from the left.’

  She turned the picture over, handing it back to Slim. The boy was about eleven, blond, tall for his age, but already broad shouldered. The other kids all had their arms straight, but Dennis had his hands clasped together as though unsure what to do with them, and while the boys on either side wore broad smiles, Dennis just stared straight ahead.

  ‘Mum said he was a real heartbreaker. You can see it, can’t you?’

  Slim frowned. ‘He looks familiar.’ He flicked forward a few pages to the pictures he had been looking at when Mandy arrived, ones that were clearer and had better colour. ‘There,’ he said, pointing at a boy standing on the end of a back row. ‘I’m guessing that’s his brother, Steve. Sorry, half-brother.’

  Mandy stared at the picture for a long time before she looked up. Her face wore an expression somewhere between defeat and regret.

  She gave a slow shake of her head, followed by a sigh.

  ‘No, that’s not Steve. That’s Colin Kent.’

  46

  Mandy didn’t want to talk about it, making her excuses and leaving. By the time Slim packed up and made it to the shop, it had shut early, a cardboard sign in the window apologising for a family emergency, maybe due to design, maybe not. Slim didn’t dare talk to Kenny Kent, and he didn’t even want to see Croad, even though they had an arranged meeting. He considered going to see Shelly again, but the churchyard seemed imposing and he’d had enough of getting hit.

  Clora welcomed him with her usual request for a cup of tea. A crumb-covered plate suggested some bread product had been lunch, and Slim dutifully washed it in the sink before returning with two steaming mugs.

  ‘Colin Kent was Dennis’s son,’ he said by way of greeting as he settled into an armchair.

  Clora sighed. ‘So I’ve heard whispered over the years. I never asked him and he never told, but I knew Mary used to religiously take Colin to games night at the community hall. Whether that was a cover for letting Colin meet his real dad, I don’t know.’