The Games Keeper

by Jack Benton

  51

  Another missed call had sneaked through. Slim, teasing down a coffee to medicate a beastly hangover, sat at the table in the living room, trying to make sense of everything.

  He had three dolls now, two men, and a burned boy. They were all crudely made, as though Dennis’s skills had gone to seed in the six years since his death.

  The cameras had been triggered. Slim had copied the feed file on the tablet and transferred it via a USB to his old laptop, which now sat open in front of him. A bird had at some point alighted on the one trained on the entrance, knocking it slightly askew, so that the view of the approach was half what Slim had wanted. The first couple of triggerings had been by birds, followed by one from a wandering cat, so Slim skipped to the end, where the figure of a hooded man could be seen taking the last few steps to the door and then bending down, standing up again, leaning close to the door, and then going inside. A minute or so passed before the figure re-emerged, did something to the door—presumably locking it—then disappeared from shot.

  Dennis Sharp, it had to be, leaving clues and then checking on Slim’s progress.

  Slim needed a drink. He had drunk his small supply dry but could find more booze in the village. Getting out of the trees would also clear the encompassing foreboding that now felt all around.

  He took the road. Cathy said nothing as he bought a bottle of brandy and a tin of beans and sausages. When Slim asked her to heat it, she said, ‘If you drink that first you won’t need it heated,’ which Slim took as a refusal and stumbled out of the shop, his fingers already working the bottle cap. He drank half the brandy on the way to the small village green, where he tried to sit on a bench but slipped off, ending in the grass alongside.

  His phone jabbed into his hip, and he remembered Don had tried to call him. He had another missed call too, this one from Kay. Afraid of what Don might say, he called Kay first.

  ‘Yeah? Slim, you all right? You don’t sound good.’

  ‘I fell off a bench.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Playing it by ear. One step at a time.’

  ‘Forwards or back?’

  Slim wanted to answer sideways, but was gripped by a sudden fit of laughter.

  ‘Slim? Are you okay? Perhaps a bit of time off the case might help. Why don’t you come down to London for a bit? I could put you up—’

  ‘Three days,’ Slim said. ‘My deadline.’

  ‘Why did you call?’

  Slim remembered. ‘I found something. A sample of Dennis Sharp’s writing from an old parish Christmas festival. It doesn’t match the ledger or the note. It’s not him. He’s not the blackmailer.’

  ‘Are you sure? Can you send me a copy, or if possible the original?’

  ‘Sure, I….’ Slim trailed off, remembering the table, the adjusted papers, seeing now what was out of place, what was missing.

  The paper from the community hall.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t.’

  Kay was still talking, but Slim lowered the phone to his lap and stared off into space. He could still hear a faint voice as he put down the phone and picked up the brandy instead.

  52

  ‘I’ve told you, you can’t drink in the community hall.’

  ‘I’m not in it,’ Slim said, his voice little more than a slur. ‘I’m sitting on the step outside. It’s raining. I’m getting wet.’ He gestured to the damp patches on his knees which were catching a trickle from a crack in the guttering overhead. For the last half an hour he’d been watching the trickle of water soak first one leg, then, after an adjustment, the other, finding a strange sense of comfort in the action’s regularity.

  ‘Well, why aren’t you in it?’ Mandy said. ‘It’s freezing out here.’

  ‘I couldn’t get the door to open.’

  ‘That’s because it’s on a latch. You have to lift it up first before you turn the handle. How much have you had to drink?’

  Slim lifted the bottle. ‘Is there anything left inside?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it.’

  ‘Then all of it.’

  Mandy sighed. ‘Come on, let’s get you inside and dried off. You can use the hand-dryer in the toilet to dry your jeans. But if you’re sick in there, I swear I’ll rub your face in it.’

  ‘I won’t be,’ Slim said. ‘I was already sick over there.’

  ‘Where?’

  Slim pointed. ‘There. That verge.’

  Mandy sighed. ‘Come on, get up.’

  She helped Slim inside. A few minutes later, with Mandy mothering him in a way that could serve as practice for her own impending parenthood, Slim found himself sitting at a table with a strong coffee, nursing down a plate of dry digestive biscuits which Mandy claimed would ‘soak up whatever’s still in there.’

  Nearby, his jeans hung over a chair in front of a radiator and a towel lay over his legs. The spinning sensation was beginning to ease.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said as Mandy came in, carrying an empty bucket.

  ‘You can’t see it anymore,’ she said, holding up the bucket. ‘I washed it into the ditch. What were you eating? Looked like Plymouth city centre on a Friday night out there.’

  Slim shrugged. ‘Beans.’

  ‘I suppose at least you’re getting some nutrition. Do you always drink like this?’

  Slim shrugged. ‘Off and on. And when I’m stressed.’

  ‘What’s stressing you now?’

  ‘I’m being stalked by a dead man,’ Slim said. ‘But I’m not sure why.’

  Mandy smiled, perhaps thinking it was a joke. ‘Sounds like that movie Ghost. The one with Demi Moore and Patrick whatshisname. I watched it last Christmas. He was trying to tell her something. Perhaps that’s what your ghost is doing.’

  Slim sighed. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I’ve gotta clean the kitchen. You stay here.’

  Slim nodded. What if Mandy was right? What could it be?

  He still had the three dolls in his pocket, the one Shelly had thrown, and the two found outside his cottage. He pulled them out, looking them over. Two men and a burned boy. Two men … he frowned.

  Kay’s words: the way you interpret things isn’t always the same as the rest of us.

  One was slightly haphazard, it’s limbs not straight. And the tuft of white hair … he looked closer. It hung around the figure’s neck but there was a spot of glue on the body where it had come detached.

  Not a man.

  A sheep.

  One man, a sheep, a burned boy.

  They had to be connected. Dennis, from beyond whatever he called a grave, was attempting to tell Slim something.

  ‘I need to make a phone call,’ Slim said.

  He stumbled outside. Standing under the covered porch, he called Don.

  ‘Slim! I’ve been trying to call you.’

  ‘Sorry, Don, I got held up. I have another request. So sorry, I’ll owe you hugely for all of this. I wondered if you could look into something else for me. It’s about the abattoir again.’

  ‘That’s why I was calling. I found something. This could be massive, Slim.’

  Slim felt a prickle of excitement race up his arms. ‘Go on.’

  ‘It came about at random. I was just watching some TV doc about crap farming practices … anyway, I got this idea and I changed tack. I stopped searching for published material and went looking for stuff that fell under the radar. I got in touch with some editors from conservation journals, things like that. And one came up with the money.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Way back in 1998, a journal called Eco Survival had a sub from a Devon-based environmentalist claiming that a certain Devonshire abattoir had allowed a chemical called CHT to leach into the groundwater. Used as a steriliser in meat production, it’s now officially on a banned substances list. However, back then, it was considered potentially hazardous if not contained adequately. This guy claimed a spill of by-product had leached into groundwater, causing cancerous growths in sheep drinking f
rom local streams and also possibly affecting the wells providing drinking water for more than a dozen local families. The man argued that the abattoir be held liable and accountable.’

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘There were flaws in his science, issues with the content. He was asked to rewrite parts of it and resubmit. He never did.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He died.’ A long pause. ‘Cancer.’

  ‘Did the journal know?’

  Don laughed. ‘The editor had no idea until I told him on a return call. I rang around hospitals, pulled some strings.’

  ‘You have the man’s name?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I hope you’re sitting down, Slim. The man’s name was Julian Sharp, Dennis’s father.’

  53

  Mandy had gone home. Slim, rapidly sobering up, was glad for the quiet as he searched the library for the information he needed.

  A topographical map had the wells clearly marked. Four in all, and it was obvious from their general locations which houses they had serviced.

  One had serviced Shelly’s old cottage. Another was right under Kenny Kent’s property.

  The pictures of Colin Kent made sense now. He wasn’t thin, he was sick.

  Dennis Sharp had known, and he had known the Ozgood family was somehow responsible for the boys’ deaths.

  A cover-up, exposed in tableaux, right in front of Ozgood’s face.

  Slim couldn’t see the full display in the pictures, but he could see enough. Figurines of dead kids, cancerous sheep, and there, to one side, two men with blue shirts holding another man dressed in black.

  An expose, a taunt.

  The net’s closing, Oliver, that tableaux said. Your time is coming.

  Slim checked the dates. December the 22nd. The same night of Sharp’s supposed death. Had the man arguing with him been Ollie Ozgood?

  Yet Sharp had somehow survived the crash, and was now hiding out, slowly slipping clues to Slim.

  He frowned. It still didn’t make complete sense. Who was the blackmailer? Was it someone working with Dennis Sharp?

  Croad, perhaps?

  Slim’s phone rang. As though thought-police were on his tail, Croad’s number flashed up.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mr. Ozgood called again. He wants a conference call with you tonight. He wants answers. We have three days. Do you have anything?’

  Slim hesitated. Croad was the last person he wanted to trust.

  ‘Yeah, I do. I have proof Dennis is alive.’

  ‘What proof?’

  Fingering the doll in his pocket, Slim said, ‘Pick me up in an hour from outside the church.’

  ‘What are you doing there?’

  ‘Just pick me up.’

  Slim could almost see Croad scowling.

  ‘All right.’

  Slim headed for Kenny Kent’s place. A light was on inside the cabin. As Slim entered through the gate he saw a metal pipe half a metre wide sticking out of the ground with a tin lid fitted and bolted over the top. An old well, the rust and sealed pipe fixtures showing it was no longer used.

  The car was gone but a figure moved about inside the cabin. Slim went in without knocking, disturbing Jimmy Kent, who was dragging a bookcase across the floor.

  ‘Jimmy.’

  ‘What the hell do you want?’

  ‘Is your dad about?’

  Jimmy stood up straight, puffing out his chest like a bird preening its feathers. He clenched his fists and advanced towards Slim with a scowl on his face.

  ‘You’ve got a nerve coming here.’

  ‘Save it. I don’t have time for this. I need to talk to your dad. It’s about your brother.’

  Jimmy’s brow furrowed, almost covering his eyes. He pouted as though chewing gum, and took another step closer.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘That’s for me and your father to discuss. When will he be back?’

  ‘Nothing you can say to him you can’t say to me. Why don’t you just get lost? My dad doesn’t need you bringing up all this.’

  ‘Jimmy, it’s important. When will he be back?’ When Jimmy just stared, Slim added, ‘I know all about him.’

  ‘You bastard, coming around here telling all your lies—’

  Jimmy leapt forward, right arm swinging. Slim had expected it and was waiting. He stepped in towards Jimmy’s midriff, lowering his centre of gravity, and elbowed Jimmy in the stomach as the younger man’s punch glanced harmlessly off his shoulder.

  Jimmy collapsed to the ground, winded. He stared up at Slim with eyes full of hate as he gasped for breath.

  ‘God knows what that girl sees in you,’ Slim said, shaking his head. ‘Do you know she’s pregnant?’ he added, hoping Mandy would later forgive him. Jimmy’s eyes widened as though he thought Slim was making it up, but Slim was on a roll. ‘It seems she’s getting responsible,’ he snapped. ‘Perhaps you could try doing the same. Or if you’re going to blow your own head off, at least find something with some potency.’

  ‘What do you want from my family?’ Jimmy wheezed.

  ‘Answers, and confirmation. Tell me if you know anything. We don’t have to involve your dad at all.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Colin didn’t look much like you, did he?’ Jimmy’s scowl was replaced by a look of surprise. ‘Did your dad know?’

  Jimmy’s expression changed again, this time puckering up as though he might start to cry.

  ‘He figured it out later. After Colin died. The bitch left a note before she went and left us.’

  ‘What bitch?’

  ‘My mum. I didn’t know at the time, but years later, one night after he’d had a few, Dad told me what she did.’

  Slim kept his gaze steady. ‘Colin was sick, wasn’t he?’

  ‘How’d you figure all this out?’

  ‘It was easy once I realised what I was looking at. What was it? What did he have?’

  Jimmy looked away. ‘Leukemia,’ he said, staring at the floor. ‘He was having treatment but it wasn’t looking good. Dad said once that the fire might have been a mercy. A lot quicker than it might have been.’

  ‘And your mum, she couldn’t get over it?’

  Jimmy winced, squeezing his eyes shut. A tear dribbled down his cheek. ‘She jumped off the overpass.’

  ‘You think she failed you.’

  ‘I don’t think anything. I was a seven-year-old kid. I needed her too.’

  Slim stared at Jimmy, hating himself for dredging up such misery. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, throwing off his own regrets, trying to focus.

  ‘So you know what it’s like, don’t you? Being without a parent? You want to let history repeat itself?’

  Jimmy opened his eyes. The malice had gone, replaced by a look of resignation.

  ‘Pregnant,’ he muttered.

  ‘I’m guessing it’s yours.’

  Jimmy looked up at him. ‘Why’d you bring all this up? All this about my brother? What has it got to do with you?’

  ‘I don’t think your brother got the justice he deserved.’

  ‘And what, you’re like some Lone Ranger come to serve it up? Look at you, you’re just an old drunk in a duffel coat.’

  Slim nodded. ‘Then make it your life’s ambition not to end up like me.’ He took a step closer to the door. ‘No need to tell your dad I called. You told me everything I needed to know.’ He turned towards the door then paused, looking back. ‘For what it’s worth, which I know isn’t much, I’m sorry.’

  Jimmy stared at him but said nothing. Slim turned and let himself out, walking away into the cold.

  54

  Cathy rubbed her eyes, wiping away a tear. ‘Who the hell are you, coming round here saying all this stuff?’

  Slim gave her a tired smile. ‘I’m an old drunk in a duffel coat.’

  Cathy shook her head. ‘Well, I guess it doesn’t matter now, does it? The games club, Mary never missed a week. The affair was long over, although from what she sa
id, it had only ever been a silly fling, but she felt it her duty to let Dennis see his son. Colin, he didn’t know, of course. He might have by now if he had lived.’

  ‘She confided in you?’

  Cathy sighed, sniffing back more tears. ‘Some, not everything. I knew she’d fallen out of love with Kenny years before, but Jimmy was Kenny’s son and she couldn’t bear to break up the family.’

  ‘Did you know she was going to kill herself?’

  Cathy buried her face in her hands. ‘Oh, Slim, I sometimes wish you’d never shown up. I’ve never spoken of any of this, not even to Tom. I knew she was low after Colin’s death. She was heartbroken. She came to me, desperate, after a row with Kenny. He suspected, and he’d asked her straight out. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him, so she’d run off. I told her to go back, to sort it out. She agreed, but she never did. She went to that damn bridge. She left a note in her handbag, sealed, addressed to Kenny.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Cathy looked up at him. ‘Why did Ozgood have to call you? All of this is buried, over. We’ve moved on.’

  Slim swallowed. ‘Not everyone has,’ he said.

  Cathy let out a gasp then aimed a slap at him. He took a step back to avoid it.

  ‘What are you trying to prove?’ she said under her breath.

  ‘Can I speak to your husband?’

  Cathy frowned. ‘What? Tom?’

  ‘If he’s back from work, yes please.’

  ‘I don’t see what….’ Cathy continued to stare at him as she trailed off. ‘Slim, no, please don’t tell me….’

  ‘Can I speak with him?’

  Cathy gave a silent nod. She went back through the curtain and Slim heard a couple of doors open and close. Cathy was gone a long time, but when she finally returned, heavy footfalls followed behind hers.

  Cathy appeared through the curtain. A shadow appeared behind her, materialising into the figure of a man, a clear head taller and broader too, the kind of body that could haul a heavy sheep carcass out of the maintenance door at the back of an abattoir, across a field and down into a wood.