Murder Game Page 6

  Leave the boys be.

  * * * *

  Smoke hangs in the air. It’s like when I was a kid, after all the fireworks had been let off. Smells similar too, although to be fair, there’s more of a burnt whiff to it. I imagine all her things have been destroyed by now, unless the firemen managed to put the flames out quickly. It doesn’t matter if they’re burnt or not, really. The idea was to create a diversion, get people out of their homes so I could get inside mine without being noticed.

  Mo’s date with death was earlier than Gerry’s. I wondered, in the woods, whether I was pushing it. You know, what with changing the time. But with fate lending a hand again I couldn’t pass the opportunity up.

  I wonder if it’ll be as easy tomorrow.

  Lucky that it’s winter. Gets darker earlier. More time to do what needs to be done before I’m missed. I found it easier to get rid of her body too. Faster. Like doing Gerry had been the only practice I needed.

  Now I just have to pull myself together, act normal again. Get on with the rest of the evening. Doesn’t seem like anyone suspects anything.

  That’s good.

  I’d been worrying about that.

  Chapter Nine

  The day dawned with an unusual fog. Ted Gancy looked out of his back bedroom window at the row of five houses. The fog must have been a result of the fire, smoke perhaps lingering, reminding him that life could be fleeting. From what he’d gleaned last night, after all the neighbours had gone home, Mo wasn’t dead. People enjoyed talking once you got them going, and firemen were no different. He’d offered them tea, had taken a tray of it out to them, and while they’d gratefully sipped, he’d found out all he’d needed to know. A policeman had supplied some information the fireman hadn’t—he’d questioned Ted as to whether he knew Mo well and if he had any idea as to why the woman would leave a note about having to go somewhere.

  Ted had an idea where she’d gone, and he couldn’t wait to tell the neighbours all about it. The majority of the lazy buggers wouldn’t be up yet, seeing as it was only six a.m. He thought of the nurse at the local surgery, the daughter of one of the women who visited the OAP club in town. Hilda, his tea companion as he liked to call her, had told him all about Mo after he’d mentioned her moving into the area.

  “The mad one,” she’d said, sitting with him at a round table while other visitors played dominoes or cards. “Recently let out of the nutty home, that one.” She’d picked at her iced bun, donated by one of the bakeries in High Street. “Felicity, that’s my daughter—remember me telling you about her?—has a weekly appointment to visit Mo. I’m surprised you never clocked that.” She’d winked and smiled.

  No, he hadn’t clocked it, and he was annoyed with himself for the lapse in concentration.

  “Same time every week?” he’d asked.

  “No, it varies. Your neighbour has a tendency to run—you know, just bolt when things get too much, trying to get back to the hospital, I assume—and Felicity didn’t want an ordered structure to her visits, otherwise your neighbour—Mo, isn’t it?—would know exactly when it was safe to sod off. I shouldn’t be telling you any of this, by the way, so you mustn’t repeat it.”

  “Of course not,” he’d said, knowing he would at some point.

  Now Mo had done a runner, Ted thought he could manage to impart the news of her madness without it getting back to Hilda or Felicity. He’d say the policeman had told him, or that he’d taken a walk down the lane because he’d wanted to collect some conkers and had heard Mo and the nurse talking. His imagination took hold. The nurse and Mo were out in the back garden—white lie never hurt anyone—and their conversation was loud enough that he’d made out every word.

  Pleased he’d found a solution to a problem he’d been wrestling with for a while—

  GOSSIP DIDN’T BODE WELL IF YOU KEPT IT INSIDE; IT WENT ROUND IN CIRCLES, CAUSING STRESS

  —he smiled, feeling lighter of spirit.

  Mo’s windows appeared as though they’d been painted black. He shivered, thinking a ghost had walked over his grave. It could well be a trick of the light and that he was seeing the charred internal walls. Creepy but a good source of conversation material. Better than watching the news, living down this street. Always something going on.

  It didn’t look like Mrs Johnson was home. She was usually up and about at this time, an early riser the same as him, although she tended to be up around seven. When Ted had been young, he’d often wondered why his granddad never slept in. Now he understood. Life, as Ted had grown older, sped past, and the subject of mortality had become a large factor in how he lived. Getting up at five-thirty meant more hours in the day. More things to notice and ponder over. It filled the time now Emily wasn’t here. Gave him something to do until he took his last breath and joined her.

  His chin and bottom lip wobbled, so he left the window and made his way downstairs. It didn’t do to dwell on some things, did it. Things you couldn’t change. No, time moved on and you had to get on with it—even if you didn’t want to. And, God, he didn’t want to. Hadn’t since Emily had died because of that wretched tumour. Twelve years alone, it had been. Twelve bloody years of filling his life with nonsense, searching out everyone else’s business so he didn’t have to think about his own. And it got him talking to people, got him out of the house, instead of stagnating in his chair by the fire, a blanket on his knees and a pipe stuck in the side of his mouth.

  He’d never wanted to be old, not in that way. His cane, though—the damn thing had brought it home to him that he’d soon be pushing up daisies. Sometimes he tested himself to see if he could stand without relying on it to hold him up. The pain in his hip was excruciating if he did that, but he ignored it, defiant, fighting against it until he couldn’t cope with the agony any longer and gave in. Accepted that he needed the bloody thing.

  He propped it against the kitchen cabinet and leaned forward to inspect his garden through the window. A nice garden, that, making him almost self-sufficient if you didn’t count meat, eggs, milk and all the other things a person couldn’t grow. His runner beans had been lovely this past summer, as had his peas, and the empty bamboo sticks jutting out of the ground now made him a little melancholy. He still went out there every night, the ritual ingrained in him even though nothing was growing at the moment.

  It gave him something to do.

  After making a pot of tea—loose leaves, no teabags in his house—he left it under the cosy to brew and took his morning trot up and down the back garden path. It reminded him of when he walked down the lane in the evenings sometimes. He wouldn’t be lying when he told the neighbours he’d been down there collecting conkers the other night. All he’d be lying about was the overheard conversation.

  “That’s all right, isn’t it, Emily?” he asked, eyeing the fog-laden sky. “I know you don’t hold with lies, and you’ll be cross with me when we meet again because of all the things I let slip out to other people, but you understand, don’t you?” He nodded. “Always did understand. Lovely wife, you.”

  He blinked a few times. Crossed his arms over his middle and clasped the brown leather pads on the elbows of his thick beige cardigan. He’d had to teach himself how to sew those on, what with Emily gone. She’d been a marvel at sewing—by hand or machine—and good at knitting too. If she’d been here, she’d have made little Ben a fair few cardigans and jumpers, taking them round to Julia, pressing a pile of them into her hands and asking if she could have a hold of the boy. She’d have calmed him down too—

  HAD A WAY WITH BABIES, DID EMILY

  —and would have said, too young or not, that boy would benefit from gripe water.

  Ted had passed that snippet on to Gerry once, when the three-week-old baby’s wails had got a bit too much one night. The next day, Gerry had delivered a parcel at Ted’s—thermal socks Hilda had got Felicity to order for him on that newfangled internet—and he suggested ways to help. Gerry had frowned at first, but once Ted had explained how the baby could have
colic and that gripe water would bring up any trapped wind, his features had relaxed.

  Seemed Ted’s advice hadn’t been followed. Not then, anyway. Maybe, after Gerry had stormed off the other night, Julia had given in and medicated the baby. He’d certainly been quiet since. If Ted hadn’t seen the mite for himself last night, alive and fast asleep in his pushchair, he might have suspected she’d done something wicked. Snapped from lack of sleep and smothered the lad.

  It was nice to be proved wrong sometimes.

  Back inside, Ted poured his tea then shuffled into the living room so he could stand at the front window and take stock of the street coming awake. Opposite was a green that spanned the length of the road, dotted with slender birches. The whiteness of their trunks was interspersed with slashes of black. If Ted didn’t know better he’d say young thugs had attacked them with penknives, the inner bark visible through the slits. The branches wavered in the slight breeze, the buggers looking like dried-out, interlocking expanses of veins.

  They reminded him of the backs of his hands, minus the liver spots.

  That had been an eye-opener when he’d been forty, seeing his hands had already begun to resemble an old person’s. They still shocked him now if he bothered to inspect them. That they belonged to him seemed alien, wrong. He’d been fascinated with Granddad’s hands as a kiddie, and he’d traced the bulging veins and marvelled at how the skin had a zebra-stripe pattern on it, made up of ridges and grooves that time had placed there when it had spied the fact that elasticity was losing its hold.

  Shame he didn’t have a grandson to do the same to him.

  Shame he didn’t have any kids.

  “Got no one at all, have we, Emily?” he murmured.

  But there were the neighbours, an extended family of sorts, and if he needed them he was sure they’d be there for him. Sarah, despite her rude snorting last night, was always at home, and Nora was a nice sort. Yes, he’d be all right.

  The postman sailed past on his bike. He stopped out of view, so Ted took his tea with him out onto the doorstep. His front garden was immaculate, give or take a few stray leaves the wind had gusted onto his grass since last night. He stepped onto the path with the intention of picking them up, then remembered he had his house slippers on and dew might seep through the soft rubber soles. Instead, he sipped his tea, noting that Nora had a wedge of letters being stuffed through her letterbox. Probably offers on all those games her sons constantly played. Then Sarah got one brown envelope—a bill to be sure—and one white. And Vicky Staff, the young single woman who was nearly always drunk when not working, she had a slim parcel about the size of one of those DVDs.

  No one else appeared to have had any mail.

  As the postman came back along the street, Ted quickly hobbled to the end of his path, winced—

  HIP PLAYING UP SOMETHING ROTTEN

  —and leaned on the top of his wooden gate.

  “Got anything for Mo Beckett?” he called casually.

  The postie stopped, his brakes squeaking, then back-pedalled to Ted.

  “You want the Royal Mail to sort that out for you,” Ted said, nodding at the bike. “Can’t expect you to go out in all weathers with dodgy brakes. If a frost comes on, there’s no telling where you’ll end up. A ditch, in the middle of a busy road—doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?”

  “Will do, and no, it doesn’t bear thinking about.” He reached back to his bag and pulled out a clump of letters held together with a thin brown elastic band. “Mo Beckett, you said?” He flipped through them. “She’s got a couple, why?”

  “If you go round the corner you’ll find out, but I’ll tell you anyway. House fire. I’d like to hold her mail for her until she comes back. Is that allowed?” Ted knew it probably wasn’t. “I’ll sign to say I have them if need be.”

  “House fire? Bloody hell. She all right?” He handed two letters to Ted.

  “Not there at the moment, so I haven’t had a chance to speak to her.”

  The postman shook his head. “What caused it, d’you know?”

  “I do.” Ted folded then tucked the letters into his cardigan pocket. “Spoke to the firemen last night. Early suspicions are that she’d left something on the hob and a tea towel or some kind of material caught alight. Makes you think, doesn’t it?”

  “It bloody does. Anyway, thanks for that.” He nodded at Ted’s pocket. “Taking in her mail. I’ll have to be getting on. I’ll drop anything else for her to you until I hear otherwise.”

  “And I’ll give it to her if she nips back in the meantime.”

  Ted waved, itching to get back indoors so he could have a little nose and see if he could glean anything as to what the envelopes contained. With the postman safely round the corner, Ted went inside. His remaining tea had gone lukewarm, so he swilled his cup out then poured another, all the while conscious that the letters were burning a hole in his pocket.

  He chuckled at that. “Burning a hole… Shouldn’t laugh, really. Sorry, Emily.”

  Fresh tea poured, he sat at his dining room table and inspected the envelopes. One was square and plain white, some circular or other, but the second was brown and rectangular with a window in the front. He gently squeezed the top and bottom so the envelope bowed and he could peer downwards through the little window. A cheque by the look of it.

  The devil visited him then, sitting on one shoulder while Emily rushed in and sat on the other. He shouldn’t have ripped open mail that wasn’t his but he’d done it before he’d had a chance to hear what Emily had said. Drawing the cheque and accompanying letter from the envelope, he faltered and—

  CASH, MADE OUT TO BLOODY CASH IN THIS DAY AND AGE

  —shook his head. The letter, from an insurance company, said the investigation into her husband’s death had been finalised; therefore, payment was enclosed.

  Payment for the sum of half a million pounds.

  Ted sucked in a breath. A cheque for that much, made out to cash, was ridiculous, but maybe she’d requested such a thing. He stuffed the cheque and letter back into the envelope, both envelopes back into his pocket, and patted it while he thought of what he should do. He’d opened it, and Mo would know when she came home and he had to give it to her. If she came home, what with her being demented and having a penchant for running off.

  “I know, Emily. I was wrong. Yes, yes, I’ll do that. Later. I’ll sort it later. Put it in another envelope then post it after it gets dark. There’s a post box at the top end of the lane, remember? I know it’ll be delivered to me even though I’ll address it to Mo, but she won’t know any different. My secret’s safe. And I won’t do it again. I won’t do any of this horrible kind of thing again.”

  Chapter Ten

  Later that night, Ted stood beside his empty bamboo canes and thought about how he ought to sort that envelope out and get it posted. Although Mo might not come back anytime soon, it was best to do it now rather than later. Emily would keep on at him if he didn’t. But having a cheque in his pocket for such a huge amount wasn’t something a person managed every day, was it, and with it sitting there he got a sense of being wealthy. What would he buy if the money were his?

  And it could be. It had been made out to cash.

  That was so odd, so careless.

  “I can’t cash it,” he said quietly, picking up a dead field mouse by its tail and disposing of it in the wheelie bin at the bottom of the garden. “It could be traced.”

  Fear pervaded his stomach, and he shook a little, blaming it on having touched a dead animal. He stood still for a moment, waiting for Emily to chime in, but she remained silent. He knew what she’d be thinking, what she’d be saying.

  He went inside. “I’ll go now. Go and check whether anyone’s around, then I’ll come back and write the envelope out.”

  Despite it being cold, he left the house in his slippers—no coat, his cardigan would do—and used his cane to support him while no one was around to see him using it so readily. Round the corner, Mo’
s house seemed more sinister than it had this morning, and he shrugged off another shiver. Someone opened a door behind him—either Julia or Mrs Johnson—and he turned to see who it was.

  “You all right, Ted?” Julia asked, folding her hands beneath her armpits as she balanced on her doorstep.

  “Yes, you?” He walked towards her, stopping at her garden gate.

  “I was just…” She blushed, looking pretty for it, the light from her hallway bathing her face. “I hoped it was Gerry’s brother coming to get these bags out of the way.” She gave them a glance then returned her attention to him.

  Intrigued, Ted asked, “So you don’t want him back then?”

  “God, no.” She left her doorstep to stand on the path, pulled her door to after making sure it was on the latch, and joined him at the gate. “I can’t wait to see the back of his things to be honest.”

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t say it, but I’m glad to hear it. Your baby’s certainly calmed since Gerry’s been gone.”

  “He has.” She shrugged.

  “Good for you.” The envelope seemed to flutter in Ted’s pocket. “I need to go. See if the post box is full before I put something in it. You know what those youths are like these days. If they see any mail as high as the slot they’ll steal it. Wouldn’t want that to happen with what I have to post.”

  “No, I don’t blame you. Right then. I’ll be off.”

  Ted waited until she’d gone inside before he continued walking. That had been a stroke of genius, telling her that, and it was true, the kids did pinch the letters sometimes. Turning right, he shuffled down the side of the young couple’s house and turned right again into the lane that ran behind the row of back gardens. He peered into the post box and, seeing layers of mail, told Emily he would go home and deal with the cheque tomorrow.

  Something in his peripheral caught his attention, though. Something at the other end of the lane. A bit discomfited, he ambled down there, squinting into the darkness where the lane joined the alley that stretched along the backs of the houses in his street.