The Games Keeper (The Slim Hardy Mysteries #3)
What's The Games Keeper about?
Having fallen on hard times, disgraced soldier turned private investigator John “Slim” Hardy is hired by rich and enigmatic land owner Oliver Ozgood to uncover the identity of a mysterious blackmailer.The man is demanding a fortune in exchange for his silence. He claims to be Dennis Sharp, a former employee of Ozgood, and threatens to reveal secrets that will soil Ozgood’s family name and send the patriarch to prison.
There’s only one problem.
Dennis Sharp is dead, killed by Ozgood himself.
In search of answers, Slim moves to the remote rural hamlet of Scuttleworth in the Devonshire countryside, where he will confront demons both from within and without in his most challenging case yet.
There’s only one problem.
Dennis Sharp is dead, killed by Ozgood himself.
In search of answers, Slim moves to the remote rural hamlet of Scuttleworth in the Devonshire countryside, where he will confront demons both from within and without in his most challenging case yet.
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Chapter One
The kick hurt.
Had it not been for the bucketful of booze he had drunk, it would have hurt a lot more, Slim thought as he doubled over, tensing the stagnant remnants of his army-trained stomach muscles as the next kick came in.
‘Stay away. I’ve told you. I won’t tell you again.’
Fingers closed over the scruff of Slim’s collar. A clenched fist rose, caught in silhouette by a street light. Slim braced for the impact, but when the punch came it didn’t hurt as much as he had expected. He slumped to the pavement as his attacker cursed, shaking his hand.
That was the thing about faces. They were generally harder than the jostling bones of an untrained fist.
The man staggered away up the alley. Slim sat up, only for a metal rubbish bin lid to strike him in the side, followed by an upended refuse sack which rained stinking food matter over him, carrot peel and chicken skin sticking to his clothes and face.
‘You want to eat our rubbish, be my guest. But if I catch you at it again, you’ll find yourself in one of these bags. Got it?’
Slim, blinded by a paper bag of unidentified kitchen slops, nodded in what he hoped was the right direction. An overwhelming urge to say something sarcastic to rile the man further burned like an unreachable itch, but he resisted. A few seconds later the footsteps were gone. Slim pushed himself to his feet and stumbled back to the canal.
The Riverway Queen, the listing, derelict houseboat he now called home, appeared up ahead. Slim withdrew the key to the padlock he had bought with his last change and unlocked the door, moving the DANGER: KEEP OUT sign aside then propping it back up as he closed the door.
In the gloom he clicked the padlock shut through another loop on the inside then switched on the little paraffin lamp that hung from a hook in the ceiling.
The barge’s downward, left-tilting angle had taken some getting used to. At the bottom end, a pool of water sloshed around the feet of a table and chairs, rising and falling with the changing depth of the canal, but most of the boat’s insides were untouched. Nothing worked, but a fold-out sofa bed propped up on some sodden hardback books was comfortable enough, and there were plenty of cupboards to stock his booze.
He pulled off his clothes and dumped them into the dry sink. It was washing day tomorrow, especially now he had blood on his shirt. Rain was due in the morning, meaning tomorrow afternoon the canal would flow good and fresh. While he was used to smelling of musty damp and mulched plants—he washed both his clothes and himself in the canal, and soap was an unnecessary luxury—it always felt good to be truly clean.
He didn’t look too good in the little mirror above the sink. The paraffin lamp left half his face in shadow, but one eye was badly swollen. His beard was flecked with blood and was long overdue a trim or removal altogether. He stood out too much, and that was never a good thing.
He remembered once an old friend telling him that the homeless were invisible, drifting by beneath the eyes of the world. Slim had found that not to be the case. In the six months since his eviction, he had been assaulted three times including tonight. Once had been done lazily by a group of likely lads strutting back from a nightclub with nothing better to do, and once with rather more ferocity by a group of other homeless for the sin of sleeping on someone’s turf. Feet, fists, and even a piece of two by four used by one bearded shadow hadn’t hurt as much as Slim had thought they might. Bodies healed, he found. The heart and its delicacies were far less resilient.
From a fridge that didn’t work he took a beer that wasn’t cold and popped the tab. It tasted bad—out-of-date because that was cheaper—but it took away a little of the pain.
Maybe tomorrow he would stop drinking again. He had stopped recently—less than two weeks ago he had quit for three days. It had gone so well he’d washed his suit and made it to the job centre to look for work.
Then something happened. He had seen someone who looked like someone else, or heard a voice that sounded like one of those which haunted him, and he’d found himself in a pub, drinking what was left of his unemployment money.
He opened the fridge again, looking at the dark line of cans. That he hadn’t drunk them all, that he could keep a supply, it was surely a sign of control.
It wasn’t all bad. There was still hope.
He sat down on the sloping sofa bench, feeling the uncomfortable creak of the boat beneath him. He’d been down worse than this before. He had to stay positive, and dream, if not hope, for something better.
He took a sip of the beer.
#
A buzzing near to his face woke him. Slim reached out to swat what he at first thought was a fly, but found his old Nokia phone under fingers numb from cold.
Despite his grogginess it amused him to find the phone charged in a houseboat with no power. Then he remembered an hour he had spent sitting in a MacDonald’s toilet with his phone plugged into a wall socket hoping for a call back about a construction job.
The call hadn’t come, and that had been, what, two, three days ago now? Slim forced a smile as he scrambled to press the answer button. It was a good thing he didn’t get many calls.
‘Hello?’
‘Slim? Is that you? You sound like hell.’
‘What’s new? How are you, Kay?’
Slim’s old army friend who now worked as a forensic translator laughed.
‘I’m good, Slim. Same as ever. How are you really, Slim?’
‘Not had the best week, but it’s Sunday, isn’t it? It all starts again tomorrow.’
‘Slim, it’s Monday.’
‘Well, like I say, I’m not having the best of weeks.’
Kay laughed at the apparent joke. Slim just smiled at the phone while wishing his headache would clear.
‘I wondered if you had a spot in your schedule,’ Kay said.
Slim smiled at the irony. ‘I can probably fit something in,’ he said.
‘I got a call from an acquaintance I knew from my last tour,’ Kay said. ‘He wants someone investigated for attempted blackmail.’
‘He could call the police,’ Slim said. ‘It’s not really my area of expertise.’
‘He doesn’t want the police involved,’ Kay said. ‘I know what you can do, Slim. I’m sure you can help.’
‘What makes this case the kind of mess that would interest me?’
‘The man to be investigated has been dead for six years. My contact wants to know how that’s possible.’
Slim sighed. ‘It’s easy. Faked death, identity change. Happens all the time. How can your contact be sure the man is dead?’
There was a long pause, and Slim began to think Kay had hung off. Then there came a quiet outtake of breath and Slim understood.
‘Tell me, Kay. Believe me, there’s not much I can’t take. How does your contact know the man’s dead?’
‘Because he claims he killed the man himself.’
The kick hurt.
Had it not been for the bucketful of booze he had drunk, it would have hurt a lot more, Slim thought as he doubled over, tensing the stagnant remnants of his army-trained stomach muscles as the next kick came in.
‘Stay away. I’ve told you. I won’t tell you again.’
Fingers closed over the scruff of Slim’s collar. A clenched fist rose, caught in silhouette by a street light. Slim braced for the impact, but when the punch came it didn’t hurt as much as he had expected. He slumped to the pavement as his attacker cursed, shaking his hand.
That was the thing about faces. They were generally harder than the jostling bones of an untrained fist.
The man staggered away up the alley. Slim sat up, only for a metal rubbish bin lid to strike him in the side, followed by an upended refuse sack which rained stinking food matter over him, carrot peel and chicken skin sticking to his clothes and face.
‘You want to eat our rubbish, be my guest. But if I catch you at it again, you’ll find yourself in one of these bags. Got it?’
Slim, blinded by a paper bag of unidentified kitchen slops, nodded in what he hoped was the right direction. An overwhelming urge to say something sarcastic to rile the man further burned like an unreachable itch, but he resisted. A few seconds later the footsteps were gone. Slim pushed himself to his feet and stumbled back to the canal.
The Riverway Queen, the listing, derelict houseboat he now called home, appeared up ahead. Slim withdrew the key to the padlock he had bought with his last change and unlocked the door, moving the DANGER: KEEP OUT sign aside then propping it back up as he closed the door.
In the gloom he clicked the padlock shut through another loop on the inside then switched on the little paraffin lamp that hung from a hook in the ceiling.
The barge’s downward, left-tilting angle had taken some getting used to. At the bottom end, a pool of water sloshed around the feet of a table and chairs, rising and falling with the changing depth of the canal, but most of the boat’s insides were untouched. Nothing worked, but a fold-out sofa bed propped up on some sodden hardback books was comfortable enough, and there were plenty of cupboards to stock his booze.
He pulled off his clothes and dumped them into the dry sink. It was washing day tomorrow, especially now he had blood on his shirt. Rain was due in the morning, meaning tomorrow afternoon the canal would flow good and fresh. While he was used to smelling of musty damp and mulched plants—he washed both his clothes and himself in the canal, and soap was an unnecessary luxury—it always felt good to be truly clean.
He didn’t look too good in the little mirror above the sink. The paraffin lamp left half his face in shadow, but one eye was badly swollen. His beard was flecked with blood and was long overdue a trim or removal altogether. He stood out too much, and that was never a good thing.
He remembered once an old friend telling him that the homeless were invisible, drifting by beneath the eyes of the world. Slim had found that not to be the case. In the six months since his eviction, he had been assaulted three times including tonight. Once had been done lazily by a group of likely lads strutting back from a nightclub with nothing better to do, and once with rather more ferocity by a group of other homeless for the sin of sleeping on someone’s turf. Feet, fists, and even a piece of two by four used by one bearded shadow hadn’t hurt as much as Slim had thought they might. Bodies healed, he found. The heart and its delicacies were far less resilient.
From a fridge that didn’t work he took a beer that wasn’t cold and popped the tab. It tasted bad—out-of-date because that was cheaper—but it took away a little of the pain.
Maybe tomorrow he would stop drinking again. He had stopped recently—less than two weeks ago he had quit for three days. It had gone so well he’d washed his suit and made it to the job centre to look for work.
Then something happened. He had seen someone who looked like someone else, or heard a voice that sounded like one of those which haunted him, and he’d found himself in a pub, drinking what was left of his unemployment money.
He opened the fridge again, looking at the dark line of cans. That he hadn’t drunk them all, that he could keep a supply, it was surely a sign of control.
It wasn’t all bad. There was still hope.
He sat down on the sloping sofa bench, feeling the uncomfortable creak of the boat beneath him. He’d been down worse than this before. He had to stay positive, and dream, if not hope, for something better.
He took a sip of the beer.
#
A buzzing near to his face woke him. Slim reached out to swat what he at first thought was a fly, but found his old Nokia phone under fingers numb from cold.
Despite his grogginess it amused him to find the phone charged in a houseboat with no power. Then he remembered an hour he had spent sitting in a MacDonald’s toilet with his phone plugged into a wall socket hoping for a call back about a construction job.
The call hadn’t come, and that had been, what, two, three days ago now? Slim forced a smile as he scrambled to press the answer button. It was a good thing he didn’t get many calls.
‘Hello?’
‘Slim? Is that you? You sound like hell.’
‘What’s new? How are you, Kay?’
Slim’s old army friend who now worked as a forensic translator laughed.
‘I’m good, Slim. Same as ever. How are you really, Slim?’
‘Not had the best week, but it’s Sunday, isn’t it? It all starts again tomorrow.’
‘Slim, it’s Monday.’
‘Well, like I say, I’m not having the best of weeks.’
Kay laughed at the apparent joke. Slim just smiled at the phone while wishing his headache would clear.
‘I wondered if you had a spot in your schedule,’ Kay said.
Slim smiled at the irony. ‘I can probably fit something in,’ he said.
‘I got a call from an acquaintance I knew from my last tour,’ Kay said. ‘He wants someone investigated for attempted blackmail.’
‘He could call the police,’ Slim said. ‘It’s not really my area of expertise.’
‘He doesn’t want the police involved,’ Kay said. ‘I know what you can do, Slim. I’m sure you can help.’
‘What makes this case the kind of mess that would interest me?’
‘The man to be investigated has been dead for six years. My contact wants to know how that’s possible.’
Slim sighed. ‘It’s easy. Faked death, identity change. Happens all the time. How can your contact be sure the man is dead?’
There was a long pause, and Slim began to think Kay had hung off. Then there came a quiet outtake of breath and Slim understood.
‘Tell me, Kay. Believe me, there’s not much I can’t take. How does your contact know the man’s dead?’
‘Because he claims he killed the man himself.’
What are people saying about The Clockmaker's Secret?
From bestthrillers.com:
Bottom Line: An absolute feast for noir and paranormal thriller fans alike. Highly recommended.
Slim Hardy is a functioning alcoholic who has paid his dues to the military. More recently, he has embarked on a career as a private eye, where he is tasked with figuring out exactly what Ted Douglas is doing in a remote cove every week. What seems like a straightforward marital affair gets turned on its ear when Hardy witnesses what appears to be an exorcism, spirits and other strange phenomenon. Being a man of reason, Hardy digs deeper to find out exactly what's going on. Could Ted really be having an affair with a ghost?
Jack Benton is the pen name for this exciting new series, authored by none other than prolific horror and sci-fi author Chris Ward. Amidst scores of predictable detective novels, The Man by the Sea is anything but formulaic. And yet, Benton has served up a perfectly satisfying tale for pulp fans with a dash of the supernatural.
With its rolling fog to keep secrets away from prying eyes (like strange rituals and performances of Romeo & Juliet), Benton’s setting, Cramer Cove, is mesmerizing. Finally, Benton has packed the novel with a tight cast of characters that aren't quite who they seem at first glance. With the stage set for even more adventures with Hardy and Co., readers should relish this new must-read series.
See this review on Bestthrillers.com
Bottom Line: An absolute feast for noir and paranormal thriller fans alike. Highly recommended.
Slim Hardy is a functioning alcoholic who has paid his dues to the military. More recently, he has embarked on a career as a private eye, where he is tasked with figuring out exactly what Ted Douglas is doing in a remote cove every week. What seems like a straightforward marital affair gets turned on its ear when Hardy witnesses what appears to be an exorcism, spirits and other strange phenomenon. Being a man of reason, Hardy digs deeper to find out exactly what's going on. Could Ted really be having an affair with a ghost?
Jack Benton is the pen name for this exciting new series, authored by none other than prolific horror and sci-fi author Chris Ward. Amidst scores of predictable detective novels, The Man by the Sea is anything but formulaic. And yet, Benton has served up a perfectly satisfying tale for pulp fans with a dash of the supernatural.
With its rolling fog to keep secrets away from prying eyes (like strange rituals and performances of Romeo & Juliet), Benton’s setting, Cramer Cove, is mesmerizing. Finally, Benton has packed the novel with a tight cast of characters that aren't quite who they seem at first glance. With the stage set for even more adventures with Hardy and Co., readers should relish this new must-read series.
See this review on Bestthrillers.com
What else is there to know about The Clockmaker's Secret?
I grew up not far from Bodmin Moor, where the story is set.
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Narrated by: Kevin E. Green
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- ASIN : B07GSM1LKK
- ISBN-10 : 1720144338
- ISBN-13 : 978-1720144335
- ISBN-13 : 979-8831782479
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Narrated by: Kevin E. Green
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