The Only Game
‘One of Britain’s most consistently excellent crime novelists’ Marcel Berlins, The Times ‘ keeps one on the edge of one’s wits throughout a bitterly enthralling detection thriller’ Sunday TimesWhen a four-year-old child is abducted from an Essex kindergarten, Detective Inspector Dog Cicero soon realizes that this is no routine investigation.Something about the child’s mother troubles him. Maybe it’s the fact that she comes from Derry, and Cicero’s Northern Ireland scars go deeper than his ruined face. But he can’t help feeling there’s more to it than that.Soon Cicero finds the odds are stacked against him both personally and professionally – not that he will let that stop him. For he’s a gambling man, and when death’s the only game in town, a gambling man has got to play.
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REGINALD HILL
THE ONLY GAME
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Harper HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 1991 under the author’s psuedonym Patrick Ruell
Copyright © Patrick Ruell 1991
Reginald Hill asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is >available from the British Library
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HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.
Source ISBN: 9780007334858
Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2015 ISBN: 9780007391912 Version: 2015-09-17
Contents
‘Life is either comedy, tragedy, or soap,’ said Oliver Beck.
‘All right. What are these two?’
A middle-aged couple strolled by them on the promenade deck.
‘He’s tragic, she’s comic, together they’re soap,’ said Beck promptly.
She laughed out loud and for the next half hour they lounged in their deck chairs, categorizing passers-by and giggling together behind a glossy magazine.
The all-seeing purser intercepted her as she went down to the gymnasium.
‘Miss Maguire,’ he said grimly. ‘I think you should remember you’re a recreation officer on this ship, not a first-class passenger.’
‘We could soon change that,’ said Beck casually when she told him.
‘For what?’
‘For good maybe.’
She’d come to his cabin for a night cap, but she knew then she was going to stay.
It was her first time and she modestly turned aside as she slipped off her pants. His hand flapped her buttocks, more a caress than a slap, but she spun round, modesty forgotten, and blazed, ‘Don’t do that!’
A small child being dragged unwillingly along a busy street, her mother pausing to lift the girl’s skirt and administer a sharp slap to the upper leg. ‘I’ll really give you something to cry about, my girl, if that’s what you want.’ People passing by, indifferent. ‘Sorry,’ he said. She saw a veil of wariness dim the bright desire in his eyes. I’m spoiling it, she thought desperately. A child again, but now a child wanting to please, she raised her right leg till it pointed straight in the air, then bent her knee and tucked her foot behind her head against the cascade of long red hair.
‘Can you do that?’ she challenged.
‘Oh my God,’ he said thickly. ‘That’s real crazy.’
If she amazed him with her double-jointed athleticism, she amazed herself even more with the depths of her sensuality. Afterwards they rolled apart, exhausted, and she examined his face. In the liner’s public rooms he looked smooth, sophisticated, a successful businessman in his thirties, clearly at least ten years her senior. Now, his hair tousled, his face muscles relaxed with satisfied desire, he looked barely twenty.
‘What are we?’ she asked softly. ‘Tragic, comic, or pure soap?’
He grinned and lost a couple more years.
‘None of those, my crazy Jane,’ he murmured. ‘There’s a special category for people like us. We’re the ones who decide what the rest are. We switch them on and off. We’re the Immortals, baby. We’re the Gods.’
And lying there, lulled by the great seas streaming under the ship’s bow and bathed in the afterglow of those ecstasies which had lifted her out of this time, this space, into a universe of their own creating, she almost believed him.
The sea again, that same sea, picked up in handfuls and hurled like gravel against the storm windows of their house on Cape Cod. A ringing at the door bell. Two men in sou ’westers.
‘Mrs Beck?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s bad, I’m afraid, Mrs Beck. Your husband’s boat. They’ve spotted some wreckage.’
‘But that could be anything. In weather like this …’
‘They found this too.’
An orange life preserver. Stencilled on it ‘The Crazy Jane’.
Still she protests. ‘But that doesn’t mean …’
The second man, impatient of hope, cuts in. ‘He was wearing it, Mrs Beck. We’ll need you for identification.’
She begins to sway, clutches the door frame for support
