Deadly Game

by Matt Johnson

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry.’

  ‘You realise we may be about to listen to a life-changing conversation.’

  ‘For us, you mean.’

  ‘I do, yes. What Nell already knows – and what we are about to listen to – is a conversation between a Secret Service Director and an MI6 officer who has orchestrated the deaths of an MI6 team of soldiers. The motive for that operation appears to be to prevent them selling top secret information. And that is information we are now party to.’

  ‘You’re certain they’re behind it, then?’

  ‘Do you need any more convincing, Toni?’

  ‘No … I guess not. Nell also heard it, of course.’

  ‘Correct … and, if they say what we’re expecting, we have to be prepared to deal with the consequences.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘I’m not sure … I just wanted you to be prepared, that’s all.’

  Toni spun around in her chair to face the tea room. ‘I’ll get Nell.’

  With Stuart still making the most delayed brew in service history, Toni, Nell and Batey huddled around the PC and continued to listen.

  ‘Indeed … as you say, they are not fools. So, what did you decide to tell them about Al Anfal, Howard?’

  ‘Enough to put them in no doubt they could take it no further.’

  ‘You made it perfectly clear this is a matter of national security?’

  ‘And that anyone who compromises the matter will be dealt with.’

  ‘Hmm … very well. So, Fellowes’ report will blame Monaghan.’

  ‘I’m certain it will.’

  ‘That’s good. Perhaps this hadn’t turned out as badly as it might have. And, to be frank, when Monaghan went off track we always knew this might happen. What about the two remaining policemen, Jones and Finlay?’

  ‘According to Fellowes, they are out of the loop, no knowledge of Al Anfal and no reason to think that the deaths of their mates weren’t Monaghan pursuing his own agenda.’

  ‘Good. We really didn’t need any more loss of life.’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure about Batey, though. He wasn’t at all happy that I had used one of his team as a scapegoat.’

  ‘I hope you made it clear that was her own fault. If she’d heeded the warning to steer clear of Collins, it wouldn’t have been necessary.’

  ‘My words exactly. I’m just a little wary of Batey’s reputation.’

  The recording went quiet.

  Toni glanced once more at her line manager. He was steely-faced. If he was disturbed at listening to the discussion, it didn’t show. For her, though, there was no doubt. Howard Green had intended to end her career in the Service, and the Director had known about it. Batey had been right when he’d warned they needed to be prepared for what the recording would reveal.

  It was the Director who spoke next.

  ‘Leave it with me; we’ll talk in a day or two. Batey is a good man … due to retire soon and I had thought it likely that Fellowes would replace him. I need to give it some thought.’

  ‘In the meantime, do you still want me to deal with Collins?’

  ‘Yes, have your man on standby.’

  ‘I thought that the TV exposé effectively destroyed him?’

  ‘It did, but his connection with Cristea Publishing worries me. And he knows about Al Anfal, his book makes that clear. The fact that he seems to think it’s an artefact doesn’t diminish the effect of revealing the name. The whole operation might have been ruined.’

  ‘The damage is done, you mean?’

  ‘Possibly. Eliminating Collins would, to some extent, be shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted.’

  ‘What if he does a second book to cash in on the first?’

  ‘It would all depend on what he wrote. But he’s a risk I’m not comfortable with.’

  ‘A problem best sorted, perhaps? It might be tidier if I had Grady terminate his contract.’

  ‘Very well … do what you’re good at, Howard. Like you say, it would be tidier. And, I’ll let you know as soon as I have Fellowes’ report on my desk.’

  The call ended. Nell paused the play-back before speaking. ‘The next call is to a mobile. He tells someone called Grady to pack his bags for another job. The call ends without a response from the recipient.’

  Toni blew out her cheeks. ‘Well … that confirms what happened to Chris Grady and why Howard wouldn’t talk about him. He is an MI6 asset.’

  ‘A hit man,’ said Batey. ‘No doubt one of the pair that took out McGlinty.’

  ‘So, where does this leave us?’

  ‘The way I see it we are in exactly the same situation we were, except we now know our Director is also part of the operation.’

  ‘You mean we say nothing … do nothing.’

  ‘I think we do exactly what they expect. You finish the Hastings report and blame Monaghan; I’ll deal with the issue of your security pass and ensure you are fully exonerated. In normal circumstances the Director might have considered you a security risk, but we now know that’s not the case.’

  ‘As he knows full well who was behind the killing?’

  ‘Correct. And, like he says, I’m due to retire soon, so, who knows, he may even decide to promote you.’

  Toni half smiled, her fingers digging deep into her neck as she attempted to ease the tension she was now feeling.

  ‘Best you call Robert Finlay,’ Nell interjected. ‘Put his mind at rest.’

  Toni caught the confused look on Batey’s face. It was another error she would need to explain. ‘I’ll do it tomorrow, Nell, thanks.’

  Chapter 79

  After the girl had been shot, the guards unceremoniously bundled Lynn back to the cell. She counted her way past six similar doors, all locked, all seemingly leading into lock-ups like hers.

  A few minutes later, she heard heavy doors being opened and slammed shut. The others were also being returned. After that, she waited, listening in vain at the door for any further sign of voices or movement.

  About an hour later, they came for her again.

  Any notion to try and spring an ambush was quickly destroyed as soon as the cell door was opened. From behind the torchlight came a narrow torrent of water. She felt its icy blast before she saw it coming. A high pressure hose had been turned on her, the jet knocking her clean off her feet and blasting her body. Torch beams were played on her soaking, struggling form as the hose operator focussed the jet on her head, body and legs. Rolling across the floor, she scrambled to her knees, desperately trying to evade the torrent. But the power of the water was too much. This wasn’t a fight she could win. Curled into a ball, shivering and whimpering, she surrendered, begging silently for it to stop.

  No sooner had the water been turned off than the order was given for her to remove all her clothing. She ignored the instruction. Don’t make this too easy … show them you aren’t beaten, girl, she told herself. It was a pointless gesture. Multiple hands grabbed her roughly from behind. Three men held her down while a fourth ripped her shirt and trousers away. Socks and underwear offered little resistance to the strength of her attackers. Within a minute, the order to strip had been enforced. Then there was silence.

  Prostrate on the wet floor and shaking uncontrollably, an awful realisation came to her. Lynn knew her will was already weakened and, with no shoes or clothing, she had been rendered vulnerable. Hunger and isolation had now been followed up by humiliation. Escape was already seeming a forlorn hope.

  As the men returned, lifting her bodily from the floor, she experienced an odd sense of relief that, at least, the uncertainty was about to end. A hood was pulled over her head. As it was already dark, she wondered why. Thoughts of a barbaric execution returned.

  A few yards from the cell door, the men heaved her upwards and then onto a flat surface. It felt like a table.

  Galvanised by a new wave of fear, she fought as best she could. Blinded and desperate, striking out in all directions with arms and legs, even teeth. I
t was hopeless. Within seconds, both arms were restrained and she was stretched out. Two hands were on each arm, two on each ankle. They stretched her out, facing upwards.

  Another man joined in. Five of them, she now counted. This one rested himself across her thighs, his bodyweight pinning her down. The table was smooth, warm. Wood, she thought; remember details. One day, she hoped to be recalling them when these bastards were put away. She stopped fighting. Better not to risk injury until she might have a better chance, when the odds were more even. They were going to take her. For now … accept the inevitable.

  The men holding her arms wrenched them downwards, forcing her shoulders into an unnatural angle. It hurt, though only slightly, but she cried as if in agony. They must think her weak, think her unable to fight, then soon, perhaps very soon, she would surprise them. Then a sound reached her. A familiar sound. The ratcheting of cable ties … plastic handcuffs.

  Thin plastic was forced over both hands. Lynn heard the sound of the ties being tightened and then felt pressure, tight pressure, as her wrists were firmly clamped to the table legs. The pain increased, agonising this time, the ties were too tight. It had to be for a reason. What were they doing? Cold, wet hands grasped her neck and throat.

  ‘Do not fight this.’ A male voice, older than the others.

  Fight? she puzzled. And just how could she do that? It was obvious now what was coming. They were going to rape her. The realisation brought understanding, an appreciation of what all rape victims go though at the point where they surrender to the inevitable. As the men continued to bind her, Lynn made herself a promise. One day, they would pay.

  But they didn’t rape her.

  Someone tied a tourniquet around her left arm. It tightened. As Lynn felt a sharp pain in her left forearm, the reason for the hood and the restraints became clear. They had needed to turn lights on to work and had to ensure that she kept still while a needle was pushed into her vein. They were going to sedate her … they wanted to stop her resisting.

  Someone leaned close to her. She smelled his sweat. Then a voice in her ear – the same powerful voice from earlier.

  ‘Welcome to paradise, Lynn Wainwright.’

  And then, Lynn realised it wasn’t a sedative that was coursing through her veins. As the drug started to take effect, as she felt a sense of wellbeing flood her body, the horror of what it was hit home in her mind. She was lost … even if they found her now she was as good as dead. She prayed for the one chance she might have: the alternative reaction some users described, where their body rejected the chemicals, causing them to experience vomiting and nausea rather than pleasure. Her prayer went unanswered.

  The heroin went straight into Lynn’s bloodstream. The first sensation was like pins and needles. It started in her chest then moved to her spine. She felt herself smiling. Beneath the pleasure, her brain fought for a short time to resist the effects. The drug quickly won the battle of wills. For a moment, her back arched and then a sensation like a rush of tiny pinpricks spread throughout her whole body. Then came the lights. Bright, flashing, like lightning, then waves, and in all kinds of colours, then combinations of colours.

  Within a minute of the needle penetrating her flesh, she relaxed. There was no need to fight … no need to worry. They’d all be OK, the guys, her parents … everything would be fine. Everything would be fine.

  Chapter 80

  The remainder of Saturday was lost to red herrings in the search for Lynn Wainwright.

  Lynn’s job in SO19 and the recent tension over raised security threat levels inevitably caused the Met senior management to conclude her disappearance might be linked to some form of terror attack. Even at grass roots level, wild theories were in abundance, from an attempt to impersonate Lynn to strike at a sensitive target, through to Lynn having committed suicide or run away to escape the pressure of the shooting enquiry. The truth was, nobody knew.

  Whatever the explanation, she needed to be found, and quickly.

  I didn’t get home until early evening and, as I opened the front door, the smell of cooking reached my nostrils. Jenny had made dinner for just the two of us. It was steak, a favourite of both of us. Luckily for me, I’d remembered the wine.

  On the dinner table were candles and as I had walked along the hallway I noticed one of my favourite James Taylor numbers was on the CD player. I’d been expecting some kind of argument, a heated debate, at least. The warm reception was a relief.

  Jenny had arranged for her mother to look after Becky overnight. We settled down, enjoyed the food, chatted houses, and other normal things. Although we touched on the subject, I tried to avoid talking about work and the reports on the television concerning the missing WPC. I was slow to raise it, but at some point I knew I was going to have to broach the subject of my need to head down the M4 the following morning.

  Marica’s email came up as we started our dessert. But it had been put to bed by the time I’d cleared my plate. Jenny told me my assurances were accepted, and, besides, we had more important things to talk about.

  I was confident now there wasn’t going to be a ‘we’re separating’ speech and, as the wine flowed, I was feeling well and truly relaxed. It was a good moment for my wife to break the news to me.

  She was pregnant.

  My reaction was also a surprise. I cried. So much so that my chest heaved and my eyes streamed. I figured it was a combination of relief and joy. I never let on that I had been half anticipating a ‘Dear John’ speech.

  Once I had managed to compose myself, we hugged and kissed. I patted Jenny’s tum and made a joke about teaching the sprog to play cricket. I’ve no idea where that came from as cricket had never really been my game.

  It was at that point I decided to confide in Jenny about the document. It had crossed my mind to lie – invent a line of enquiry that meant a trip down the M4. I’m glad I didn’t. Honesty proved the best policy. As I explained where it had come from, my promise to Bob Bridges’ widow and the fact that the translator wanted to see me about it, she mellowed. So long as I promised to be home by the afternoon, she was happy about my going to see Dr Armstrong.

  The rest of the evening was a blur. Jenny limited herself to one glass of the wine, which meant that I had to finish the bottle. We went to bed early, made love like teenagers and then drifted off in each other’s arms.

  Chapter 81

  West London to the Black Mountains in Wales turned out to be a long journey in such a small car. I made good progress, though, the motor whining loudly as I maintained a steady seventy. I had to turn the radio up loud to drown out the combined noise of engine and wind. The music helped pass the time and distracted me from the confused thoughts that were still hurtling around my brain. I couldn’t work out whether I should feel elated or fearful. I was on an emotional high but still I was left with a nagging sense of impending doom. I figured it wouldn’t go away until Toni got back to me with her conclusions over Monaghan.

  Dr Armstrong had suggested arriving about ten, so I had set off just before eight. Being a Sunday, there was very little traffic to slow me down and, as an extra blessing, the regular weekend roadworks on the M4 also seemed to have finished. It was only when I pulled into Membury services that I realised I had missed calls on the mobile. There were six; someone really wanted to speak to me.

  I cursed as I flicked through the phone menu to identify the callers. Numbers withheld – all six. It could have meant calls from a police switchboard, calls from our temporary MI5 home, or, maybe, from Dr Armstrong. There was no way I could tell. Whoever it was, I noticed that the most recent call had been only four minutes before I had pulled into the services car park.

  I decided to grab a coffee and then wait to see if the caller tried again. I wasn’t disappointed. My phone rang as I walked into the services. It was DCI Bowler.

  ‘Where are you, Finlay?’ he asked, the anger evident in his voice. ‘I want everyone in the office. You and Nina are the only people Naomi hasn’t been able to get ho
ld of.’

  I smiled to myself. Here we go again. I had to be economical with the truth. Where I was and the direction I was heading, I could reveal. The reason, definitely not.

  ‘I’m … err … halfway to Wales, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You’re where?’

  ‘On my way to Wales.’

  I could hear Bowler’s tone change completely. ‘I’ll call you straight back,’ he said, and without another word hung up.

  I didn’t have to wait long before the phone rang again. A lead had come up on Lynn Wainwright. Bowler explained to me that, overnight, a Gloucestershire Constabulary traffic unit had stopped a Mercedes on the M5, near Gloucester. A woman had been found in the boot after two men had decamped from the car. She claimed to have been slave-trafficked, then put to work at a factory.

  Importantly, she said she had information about a policewoman who was being held captive.

  The local police had contacted the Met incident room that morning.

  ‘It’s a bit of luck you’re that side of the country. Can you get down to Gloucester and interview this girl?’ Bowler asked.

  I was a little surprised to be asked, given my lack of CID experience. ‘On my own?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, on your own, Finlay,’ he replied, angrily. ‘Have you any idea how many sightings the incident room are following up on in an attempt to find Lynn Wainwright?’

  ‘But this comes from a connection with traffickers,’ I protested.

  ‘Which may or may not amount to anything. Look … I’ve volunteered your help to assist the team dealing with her disappearance. It’s a favour to them as you happen to be in the right place. They’ve got people in Manchester, Birmingham and even in France following up on leads. If you talk to this girl and you think there’s something in it, I’ll ask them to send some people down to support you. For now, you’re it, OK?’

  Just in case, I asked the DCI if Naomi Young could fax Gloucester HQ the photographs of the Relia murder suspects. He promised to do so. I grabbed a scrap of paper from the floor nearby and wrote down their names. We would need to know if the escaped slave girl recognised them.