Death Games

by Chris Simms

  Jon couldn’t see the man who’d fled the crash trying to hide out inside the building. For a start, he’d have had to scale the fence – and, according to the report, one of his arms was injured.

  On Jon’s side of the fence there was about ten metres of driveway before it joined a road that, he guessed, curled round to merge with the A34 and the outskirts of Gatley.

  He examined the grass to the sides of the disintegrating asphalt. Among the usual items of litter he spotted a shrivelled condom. Then another. And another. By pacing about, he was able to count over a dozen more. He also spotted baby wipes and some balled-up tissues. Many were too white to have been there long. It figured, he thought. The spot was secluded, but easily reached in a car. Perfect place for prostitutes to bring their punters. He wondered if any business was being done around four o’clock, when the crash had taken place. Probably was.

  The wide strip of insulation tape completely covered her mouth. Her cheeks ballooned out then collapsed as she tried yelling again. He rose up to slam a fist into her temple. Air and mucus shot out from her nostrils and her head lolled to the side.

  He crouched back down and then it was just the sound of their ragged breathing in the tiny bedroom. Only able to use his right hand, he reached for the roll of silver tape and wound it round both her ankles. As she came to, she began trying to kick out with her legs. He sank back on his haunches and observed the tape as it flexed and strained. She couldn’t rip that. A brown bear couldn’t rip that.

  Grimacing with pain, he got to his feet. Holding his injured arm close to his chest, he circled round the back of her seat and checked the tape on her wrists.

  Eyes wide with terror, she could only stare ahead as the man dragged the chair into the narrow gap between the bed and the wall. Now she couldn’t tip it over, either. Almost as an afterthought, he took the roll of tape off the bed and wound more round the rear leg of the chair and the radiator pipe.

  Using one finger, he hooked the edge of the curtain back a fraction. Weak daylight. Dawn. The street beyond the window was quiet. Over the road, a man was arranging boxes of produce on a display stand at the front of his store. Onions, carrots, peppers, aubergines, potatoes and beans. The shop was just like the ones back in Shali.

  Satisfied with how things were arranged, the shop owner walked back towards the store’s entrance. The view of him became obscured by a red Porsche Cayenne parked directly outside. The man looked at it. Last night, in the dark, he hadn’t realised it was such a bright colour. That wasn’t good. People would notice such a car.

  He needed to move it, but how? He had only managed to get here by forcing the woman to drive him. Once she’d parked, he’d tightened his choke hold until she’d lost consciousness then dragged her into the flat.

  Things had gone so badly wrong. The pain in his head was regular and sharp. His shoulder felt like a hot skewer had been thrust into the joint and left there: he didn’t want to admit to himself it was dislocated. Beside him, the woman’s breathing was fast and shallow. He eased himself down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. I need rest, he thought. Just for a little while. Gradually, his eyes closed.

  CHAPTER 5

  His phone went off. ‘Spicer here.’

  ‘Jon, it’s Nick. Where did you go?’

  ‘Down the embankment by the side of the motorway. Wondering about this man who fled the scene.’

  ‘Right. One minute you were here, the next...You see anything?’

  ‘Not really. My guess is, from here, he’s walked it into Gatley.’

  ‘So worth asking a few questions around there?’

  ‘Could be, yeah. What are you up to?’

  ‘Going over the contents of the car. You bobbing back up here?’

  ‘On my way.’

  He found Nick and Hugh crouched beside the camcorder. Both now wore latex gloves. The machine looked like it had bounced some distance across the asphalt; the outer casing had come apart and the lens cap was missing. Hugh raised a camera of his own and took a couple of shots.

  ‘Definitely from the upturned Honda?’ Jon asked, bending forward.

  ‘Seems so,’ Nick replied, eyes on the piece of equipment. ‘Best thing we can do is bag everything up and get it back to base. Let the techies at it.’

  ‘How about the drone?’ Jon asked. ‘Have you recovered the camera for that?’

  ‘Yup,’ Nick replied. ‘Along with some other interesting items.’

  Back at base, they all slipped on gloves and spread the haul out on an examination table in a second-floor room.

  Jon took a seat and surveyed the items: the various parts of the drone, a Sky-Eye IV that looked quite expensive. In an evidence bag next to them was the camcorder and its case, that had been found wedged beneath the vehicle’s passenger seat. Beside that was a mobile phone, found in the jacket of the dead driver. Jon’s gaze went to the end of the table where the maps from the vehicle’s glove compartment were lined up. One had been folded open at the coastal area around Wylfa, the nuclear power station on Anglesey. In the blue expanse of sea at the left-hand side of the page, a few words had been written in black biro. They certainly weren’t English – but neither were they Arabic or Russian. Whatever the language, Jon thought, it’s not a well-known one.

  Hugh was leaning over the sheets, camera clicking away. Next to him, Nick lifted the camcorder and fiddled with the controls. ‘Either the batteries are dead or it’s bust.’

  ‘Looks like it took a bit of a clattering,’ Jon stated.

  ‘Yeah. One for the tech boys.’

  Jon glanced at his watch. Almost eleven already. And no point in me sitting here, he thought, with a quick glance round the room’s sterile white walls. He stood and went over to the window. Immediately beyond the security fence at the rear of the building was the Manchester Ship Canal. He studied the slowly moving brown water. Follow that upstream, he realised, and I’ll be back in the city centre in two minutes. The urge to be out there was an itch. ‘I’m not doing much good here. How about I have a nose round Gatley? I could check any taxi places and all-night garages. Gone four in the morning, a bloke with an injured arm? Good chance someone spotted him.’

  ‘More than happy for you to do that,’ Nick murmured, attention still on the camcorder.

  ‘Probably worth contacting Manchester black cabs, too: see if any were flagged down in the area.’

  Nick gave a nod. ‘Good point. Put someone on that, can you, Hugh?’

  Jon caught a flash of irritation on the other man’s face.

  ‘Yes, boss,’ the other detective replied.

  ‘Do we know where the two from the Interceptor were taken?’ Jon added. ‘The passenger who helped the mystery man out of the crashed car; I wouldn’t mind having a quick chat – ’

  ‘No chance,’ Hugh cut in. ‘They’ll be buried. IPCC, IA, crash scene investigation: the queue will go right down the corridor at Longsight.’

  ‘Longsight? That’s where they were taken?’ Jon headed towards the door. ‘I’ll give it a go. Probably’ll love a break from all those suits.’

  Nick looked over. ‘Ten out of ten for optimism. Let me know how it goes.’

  Longsight was the main police station for the city centre. Jon had worked out of it numerous times during his years with the MIT: the specialist unit had several rooms at their disposal there. As he trotted down the steps into the Counter Terrorism Unit’s parking area, he fought the temptation to check his vehicle was still in its space. It’ll be there, he told himself. No one will have borrowed it. No one can get at the weapons box. Stop bloody fretting.

  Because he had to avoid the M60, getting to Longsight station took almost thirty minutes. Once inside the main building, he headed straight for the canteen. A uniform, barely in his twenties, came round the corner. Seeing Jon, he almost stopped in his tracks.

  It’s like being an outlaw, Jon thought sadly. ‘Excuse me, the Interceptor driver and his passenger? From the big RTA on the M60 earlier on. Do you kn
ow where they are?’

  The constable licked his lips and looked to the ceiling. ‘Upstairs briefing rooms. I think the driver is now in with IA.’

  ‘Thanks mate.’ Jon stepped aside and the man scurried by with an uncomfortable look on his face.

  Jon ducked into the canteen, got two brews from the machine, along with several sachets of sugar and a stirrer. Up on the first floor, he spotted five men in suits sitting outside Briefing Room 3. Not slowing down, he made a bee line for the door and looked through the glass.

  A knackered-out-looking officer was writing away at a table. Jon gave a quick knock then began to push the door open with his elbow.

  ‘Hang on a moment,’ one of the waiting men said. ‘We’ve been – ’

  ‘Just taking him in a tea,’ Jon said, raising the cups in explanation as he backed in. ‘He’s been on shift since yesterday.’

  The man hesitated enough for Jon to raise a foot and kick the door shut. He turned round. ‘Brought you a brew.’

  The person was looking up with a confused expression. ‘Right...OK.’

  ‘I figured it wouldn’t have crossed the minds of the twats out there.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he agreed, sitting back. ‘It hadn’t. Who are you?’

  Jon plonked the drinks down then dropped the sachets and stirrer between them. ‘DC Jon Spicer. I’m with the Counter Terrorism Unit.’ He waved at the form the man had almost completed. ‘It’s not about the pursuit.’

  The officer laid down his pen with a look of relief. ‘Is my driver, Steve, out yet?’

  ‘Internal Affairs are talking to him, apparently. Sorry, what’s your name?’

  ‘Paul.’

  ‘Was the dash-cam in the car turned on, Paul?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Then you’re in the clear. This,’ he flicked a hand at the paperwork, ‘is just a formality.’

  The man appeared like he wanted to believe it. ‘Except the lad we were after was so young.’

  ‘Control had terminated the pursuit, correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you’ll be fine. Trust me.’

  The man tore the top off a sachet. ‘You’re here about the iffy car?’

  ‘Yeah – the guy you helped out of it. The one who vanished.’

  ‘It was bizarre. Last thing I expected.’

  ‘What was he like, this bloke?’

  ‘Late twenties, early thirties. Short black hair, lightly tanned complexion.’

  ‘Ethnicity?’

  ‘Not sure. Romanian? Albanian?’

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘He reminded me of that footballer. The one who’s always boasting about being God’s gift.’

  ‘Not sure who you mean.’

  ‘Zlatan, is it? Zlatan Ibramo-something or other. He’s got a long curving nose, eyes set quite deep, prominent forehead.’

  ‘Did he speak?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not a word?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘According to the report relayed to us, he was injured.’

  ‘Apart from looking like he’d just been in a cage with Conor McGregor?’

  Jon smiled. ‘Something about his arm?’

  ‘As I helped him over to the verge, I could see his left arm was hanging awkwardly. Dangling.’

  ‘What sort of shape was he in, physically? Fat, thin, average?’

  Paul considered the question. ‘Certainly not fat. In good shape, thinking about it. I had my arm round him. Yes, very good shape. Solid. And he was getting out of that car, no question. He was groggy, could hardly stand – concussed, I’m pretty sure – but that wasn’t stopping him.’ The officer paused. ‘You think, to manage that, he had military training, maybe?’

  Jon ran a hand across his chin. ‘That’s what I’m worried about.’

  CHAPTER 6

  Jon’s phone was pressed to his ear as he made his way across the car park at Longsight station. ‘It’s Detective Constable Spicer.’

  ‘You can use first names, Jon,’ Nick replied.

  ‘Right.’ He patted his pockets with his free hand, momentarily panicking that he’d mislaid the keys. What if someone had...He caught site of the car just as his palm caused metal to chink in his jeans.

  ‘Still there, Jon?’

  ‘Sorry, yes. I’ve just chatted to the passenger from that interceptor, the one who – ’

  ‘Good going. How did you get in to see him?’

  ‘Ways and means, as they say.’

  The DI laughed. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The man who fled appeared Romanian or Albanian – lightly tanned. Resembled a footballer called Zatlan, or something.’

  ‘Zlatan Ibrahamovic? He’s Swedish, but his dad’s from Bosnia.’

  ‘Him, anyway. He didn’t speak. According to the officer, the fact he was able to make off from the scene was a feat in itself.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘The car had flipped and rolled: the bloke had mushy legs, was groggy and his left arm was injured.’

  ‘OK. So you’ll have a wander round Gatley?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jon thought about the condoms littering the grass at the turn off into the abandoned hospital’s grounds. ‘That and something else. There’s a chance a spot nearby is where sex-workers are taking their punters. Someone may have seen something.’

  ‘Sounds worth a shot. I’ll leave you to it. Oh, and Jon? They’ve just reopened the motorway, so no need for any more side-roads.’

  ‘Bonus.’

  The nearest mini-cab place was above a Top-Toppings pizza outlet beside Gatley train station. The owner stated that the last person who’d climbed the stairs into the cramped little office to ask for a cab was just after 4.30 am. A lone male. Jon had felt a brief tingle of excitement. But the person had been black, dressed smartly and with no injuries.

  Next, Jon checked the station’s ticket office. The man behind the counter said it closed at nine in the evening. A side gate gave access to the platform after that but, after midnight, no trains actually stopped at the station.

  Back out on the street, Jon looked around, imagining the place at after four in the morning. Ghost town. Every shop would have been dark and empty, traffic lights flicking from green to red for no reason.

  You’ve crawled out of a car, he thought, leaving all your stuff behind. And you’re injured. You don’t want to be staggering around in the open. The sound of nearby sirens are filling the air. His mind went back to the fenced-off driveway of the old hospital. Where working girls did what they had to do.

  By the time he dropped off the Mancunian Way and joined the flow of traffic moving along the A6 towards Piccadilly Station, a light rain had started up. He looked to his left; the wide border of grass that flanked the road was now covered by a motley collection of tents. Clothes lines had been strung between the few spindly tree trunks. Sleeping bags, towels and items of clothing hung limp in the fume-filled air. The owners were probably all in the city centre, begging. A group of four men squatted in the porch area of a larger tent, a pan balanced on a small cooking stove. Manchester’s own Jungle, thought Jon. Migrants, asylum-seekers and the homeless, reduced to this. What is happening to the world?

  At the junction with Fairfield Street, he hesitated. It’s been so long since I worked the city centre in a uniform, will they still be there?

  He turned right, driving for the wasteland of industrial units, breakers’ yards and lock-ups that lay behind the city’s main train station. After patrolling the criss-crossing streets for a few minutes, he saw a female form standing in the shadow of a railway arch off Temperance Street.

  You’re not there admiring the fine Victorian brickwork, Jon thought, pulling up. He locked the car and tried the handle to double-check before ambling in her direction.

  She’d sussed him well before he started reaching for his ID.

  ‘I’m moving,’ she said, stepping out into the light drizzle, arms crossed over a flimsy coat. She was somewhere in her thirties,
he guessed. Her short skirt revealed bare legs that were mottled purple. She looked freezing.

  ‘Don’t be on my account,’ he replied. ‘I’ve only got a question, if you can help...’

  The artificial lines of her eyebrows lifted as she stepped back out of the rain. Jon ducked in beside her and turned to face the road. ‘There’s this place near the motorway by Gatley. Sort of a side road. It’s being used by working girls.’

  ‘Gatley? Other side of the M60?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Bit of a way, that.’

  ‘What I was thinking. Where do you reckon the girls using it would be coming from? I mean, you’re not going to drive all the way out there from round here, surely?’

  ‘Probably Burnage. They’ve been cracking down in Withington, since it turned posh.’

  ‘Burnage?’ Figures, thought Jon. For a start, it was straight along the A34 from Gatley. ‘Any particular part of it?’

  ‘Just drive about. Where it gets near Levenshulme.’

  ‘Great, cheers.’ He stepped back and looked off down the road. There wasn’t a car in sight. ‘It’s quiet.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said in a tired voice. ‘I’ll give it a bit longer and then I’m off to bed.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  He drove as fast as he could out of the city centre, aware that, as the day wore on, fewer and fewer girls would still be out. When he got to Burnage Park he turned left and got lucky almost straight away: four females, sheltering beneath the trees that lined the edge of Cringle Field.

  He pulled over and climbed out, ID open in his hand. They watched his approach, faces showing a mixture of emotions as they spotted his badge. Irritation. Frustration. Trepidation – at least on the one who looked youngest. ‘It’s all right,’ he called out while still several metres away. ‘I’m only after some information.’

  Their postures softened slightly and all eyes seemed to go to the tallest girl with a dark ponytail who was standing nearest to him.

  ‘What information would that be?’

  Her Irish accent took him straight back. Memories of Siobhain – the girl who’d lured him over to Galway and then manoeuvred him into a confrontation with a criminal gang involved in dog-fighting. ‘I’m wondering if any of you use a particular place near here. For taking a punter.’