Death Games

by Chris Simms

  ‘No, no. Could I come in so we can talk?’

  The lady beckoned her into a spotlessly neat front room. The wallpaper’s heavy floral pattern was broken by several framed photos. Shots from family events. She quickly spotted a portrait of Feiz in a school blazer and tie. Hair in a neat side-parting, he was standing at the front of the house with a nervous expression on his face. First day at secondary school? Iona sat in a peach-coloured armchair.

  Furat took the chocolate sofa alongside it. ‘I don’t know where Bilal is.’

  ‘When did you see your husband last?’

  ‘Yesterday. In the morning. He was visiting a client, but said he’d be back by the evening. Now he won’t...’ Her voice started to waver. ‘Every call goes to his answer phone.’

  ‘Where was this client he was seeing?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did he drive there?’

  ‘Yes. He has a silver Mercedes.’ She started struggling to her feet. ‘The registration will be here, I can – ’

  Iona lifted a hand. ‘That’s fine, Mrs Atwi. You can fetch it in a moment. How often does he go on overnight trips?’

  ‘Never. He always comes back, however late. And he rings me. He always rings me. Something must be wrong!’

  ‘When did he last call you?’

  ‘In the afternoon, at about six.’

  ‘And everything was fine?’

  ‘Yes. He said there’d been a delay, so he’d be a bit late.’

  ‘But you don’t know where he was calling from?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What line of work is he in?’

  ‘He imports. Fruit and vegetable, mainly. He has contracts to supply lots of restaurants. And quite a few academies and colleges.’

  ‘Local ones?’

  ‘Yes. Some in North Manchester. One or two out towards Liverpool, I think.’ She looked towards the window. ‘I don’t understand this.’

  ‘OK, try not to worry, Mrs Atwi, I can make some calls.’ She turned to the photos massed on the wall above the television. ‘Is your husband in any of these pictures?’

  The woman nodded.

  ‘Which one is the most recent?’

  She stared back with a fearful expression.

  ‘I’m not saying anything’s happened, Mrs Atwi. But it’s always helpful to have a recent photo – for making enquiries.’

  She turned. ‘This one. Our holiday from last year.’

  A heavy-set man with bushy eyebrows was standing in front of a jetty. Cornwall, Iona guessed. Somewhere like that. The day looked hot, but he was wearing dark brown trousers and a polo shirt with all the buttons done up. Waves of thick black hair undulated sideways across his head, sunlight catching on each crest.

  Iona stood and took out her phone. ‘May I take a photo?’

  ‘Yes.’

  As she scrolled to the camera option on her phone, she contemplated whether to go into the questions about the son. No, she decided. Not now. ‘And if I can have the registration of his car and a number I can reach you on, that would be great.’

  CHAPTER 8

  Jon turned into the industrial estate where his section of the CTU was located. The building they occupied was at the end of an avenue. Apart from a cluster of antennae and dishes sprouting from the roof – and the double strand of razor wire topping the perimeter fence – nothing indicated anything out of the ordinary.

  Jon showed his ID to the man on the front gate and was waved through. Half-way up the interior garage stairs, it occurred to him he had no idea where his desk was. If he even had one. He wandered up to the second floor office where items from the crash scene had been laid out. No sign of Nick or Hugh. He scanned the table, quickly spotting that the mobile phone, camcorder and drone camera were all missing. Tech department was top floor, Jon thought, heading for the stairs.

  He found the two men in a large open plan room that looked like a gadget-geek’s idea of paradise. Workstations were dotted about, most with at least two monitors on. Small clamps were set at regular intervals into a work bench that ran along the far wall. Lining the wall above it were shelves and racks full of gear. The far corner was occupied by a booth with large windows. A silver pipe emerged from its roof into the ceiling and Jon guessed the white door giving access to it would be part of an airlock to ensure the inner area remained free from any contamination. His nostrils were tickled by the smell of iron filings.

  Nick and Hugh were standing behind a bald-headed man. He was sitting before a screen, gazing intently at it as his right hand nudged a mouse around.

  When he saw Jon approaching, Nick lifted his chin. ‘How goes it?’

  ‘Not a lot, so far.’

  ‘Black cabs got back to Hugh.’

  The other officer didn’t take his eyes from the screen. ‘No one picked up a solitary male with obvious injuries from the area.’

  Jon clicked his fingers. ‘Oh well, worth a try.’

  ‘Oh,’ Nick said. ‘The car with false number plates? The chassis number came back from DVLA; it matches a car that was stolen from Leeds over a week ago.’

  ‘Leeds?’ Jon said. That suggested a degree of organisation and pre-planning. The humming noise coming from the screen lifted in pitch. ‘This footage from the drone?’

  ‘Yup,’ Nick replied. ‘Carl here got us in. It’s just been trees and fields so far, like they’re practising.’

  Jon watched as the camera’s view gradually lifted. It cleared the tree in the foreground and empty countryside opened up. Now the view rotated round. Distant buildings. A string of pylons and, beyond them, a spire. The image tilted and the horizon appeared. Next came clouds, then only blue. Several seconds passed as wind buffeted the device’s microphone. Then clouds reappeared, followed by another glimpse of horizon. Momentarily visible on it was a faint mass of thin chimneys. Jon pointed. ‘That was...can you pause and go back? Just to where we could see the horizon.’

  ‘Sure,’ Carl answered. The footage went into a jerky rewind.

  ‘There,’ Jon said, a forefinger directed at the screen. ‘Isn’t that Stanlow Oil Refinery?’

  Nick craned his neck. ‘Good spot. Hugh? What do you reckon?’

  The other detective had crossed his arms. ‘Maybe.’

  Jon opened his mouth to ask what he was on about. There was no maybe about it. He cleared his throat instead. ‘You pass it as you go along the M56 towards North Wales.’

  ‘Which would make sense,’ Nick stated. ‘The RTA was on the M60 just where the M56 rejoins it. I think you could well be right.’

  Noticing Hugh Lambert’s lack of response, Jon kept quiet.

  ‘Let’s continue,’ Nick said.

  The footage resumed, camera tilting down at one point to reveal a nearby stretch of dual motorway.

  ‘Looks like the M56 to me,’ Carl stated.

  The device descended quite quickly, the sky slowly shrinking to a thin band at the top of the picture. Soon, it had been pushed completely out as fields filled the screen. Jon remembered reading an article written by a sky diver whose parachute had failed to open. It was this gradual replacement of sky by land that had registered most in his mind as he had fallen. Eventually, all he could see was green, rushing closer and closer and...he’d woken up in hospital, arms and legs in plaster, tubes all over the place. A fir tree had saved him: he’d connected with its tip and then ricocheted down through the branches.

  The camera was now at house height, and dropping all the time. A voice spoke, faint and muffled. The drone bumped down and a mesh of out-of-focus grass filled the screen.

  ‘Is OK?’ The words were spoken by a male, his accent heavy.

  ‘Yes,’ another man replied. ‘Not as difficult as I thought it would be. I press here? To turn it off...’ A blob of pink smothered the view. Part of a hand? The image cut.

  ‘How much more footage to go?’ Nick asked.

  Carl tipped his head to the side. ‘Another thirty-five minutes.’

  ‘May as well mak
e ourselves comfortable, then.’ Nick pulled up a chair and Hugh followed suit.

  ‘Mind if I bob down to the main office?’ Jon asked. ‘I wouldn’t mind getting on the system. See if anything’s showing on the overnight log for Gatley and the surrounding area.’

  Nick glanced up. ‘You’re thinking of the man who fled?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Go for it.’ He pointed at the two evidence bags besides Carl’s elbow. ‘We’ve got the phone and camcorder to go, yet.’

  Jon stepped back then paused. ‘Er...have I got a desk?’

  Nick sighed. ‘Desk? Desk? Is there no end to your demands?’ He grinned. ‘Fair point, mate. Main ops room, far left hand side. Yours is about half-way down.’

  ‘It’s easy to spot,’ Hugh added with a smirk. ‘It’s the one covered by everyone else’s crap.’

  Figures, Jon thought, heading for the door.

  The main ops room had three rows of desks running down it. Unlike the Major Incident Team, which was divided into teams known as syndicates, the Counter Terrorism Unit operated to what was known as the silo approach. Each officer could work independently or as part of a loose group brought together according to the skill-set required for that particular operation. If the operation demanded it, the entire branch could be involved. The system allowed small jobs to run alongside larger ones, so keeping every officer busy.

  As Jon stepped through the doors, he noticed a couple of photocopying machines to his left. Next to them were metal cabinets stacked with reams of printer paper.

  Less than half the desks were occupied. Sitting at some were detectives in plain clothes, sitting at others were uniformed officers. All were quietly working. Jon made straight for the left side of the room. That’ll be it, he thought, spotting a desk that was home to an assortment of folders, old print-outs and discarded vending machine cups. He quickly cleared a space in front of the computer, sat down and turned the computer on. As it booted up, he fiddled around with the seat’s controls, trying to find the lever that controlled its height.

  A voice behind him spoke: ‘On the left. Next to where the backrest connects.’

  He glanced round. A young bloke in chinos and a pale blue shirt was pointing at the chair.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Jon. He lowered the seat to a height that allowed him to get his knees beneath the desk. Then he spun the chair round and held a hand out. ‘Jon Spicer.’

  ‘Peter Collier, civilian support.’

  They shook hands and Jon turned back to the computer while speaking over his shoulder. ‘What do they keep you busy with, Peter?’

  ‘I’ll help anyone out on this row of desks, if they need it. Internal enquiries, file retrieval, checks on the system, any bits and pieces like that. Mine’s the end desk, by the photocopiers.’

  Jon glanced over his shoulder. ‘A useful person to keep on side, then.’

  The younger man grinned, obviously glad to feel appreciated. ‘Feel free to give me a shout.’

  Jon guessed he had just turned twenty. Short haircut, smooth skin and enthusiasm radiating off him. Here’s me, he thought, old enough to be his dad. ‘Tell you what, Peter. Can you check for any cars reported as stolen last night? Early hours of the morning – after half-three, from an area, say, one kilometre in diameter from junction three of the M60. Start south of the motorway around Gatley, then look north of it around Didsbury. That OK?’

  ‘Definitely,’ he said, hand brushing nervously at his lips. ‘by the way, Sir – ’

  Jon flicked a hand. ‘No need for sir. Jon’s fine.’

  ‘OK. I just wanted to say...’ Redness was spreading across his cheeks. ‘What you did over in Ireland? I think that was...’ He clenched a fist and held it up. ‘It took guts.’

  Now Jon felt his cheeks grow warm. ‘Cheers.’ The other man quickly retreated and Jon stared at the computer screen. It was obviously common knowledge throughout the CTU. The upper part of his left ear – or what remained of it – tingled as it always did when he was embarrassed. His mind flashed back to the car park by the pony auction place. When they’d ripped it away with a pair of pliers, his face had been pressed into tarmac that was strewn with straw and dung. He glanced in the civilian support worker’s direction. If you’d seen the state of me after that beating, he thought, you wouldn’t think I was so tough.

  He opened up the PNC and checked on the Missing Persons list for the Greater Manchester Area. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to find, but the man had got away from the vicinity of the car crash somehow – and it hadn’t been by public transport. Nothing weird reported around Gatley. Next he tried Greater Manchester division’s incident log. He knew the boundary separating the division of South Manchester from Stockport ran right through the area he was interested in, so he checked both logs for any car-jackings or other unusual reports. Nothing again. Maybe the guy had walked it – in which case, roadside CCTV was going to be the best option. And, from previous experience, he knew trawling it was mind numbingly slow, very costly and probably wouldn’t be approved – unless evidence emerged that the two men were up to something serious.

  Hearing movement, he looked back to see DI Grant striding towards him, a grin on his face. ‘More from the drone footage!’

  CHAPTER 9

  ‘Yeah?’ Jon rose to his feet.

  ‘Where’s Collier?’ Nick asked, slapping a piece of paper down on the desk.

  ‘Not sure.’ Jon glanced about. ‘He was just here.’

  ‘No matter,’ Nick replied. ‘They managed to film themselves – one of them, anyway. Here’s a still.’

  Jon looked at the image. It was out-of-focus, but he could make out a man with thick, wavy black hair. Judging by the jowls and double-chin, Jon guessed he was about fifty. Maybe older. His bushy eyebrows were tilted; the expression on his face was tentative, as if by even touching the drone he might damage it. ‘Nice selfie,’ Jon stated matter-of-factly.

  Nick snorted. ‘Reckon it’s the one who did a runner?’

  ‘No – too old. And his hair’s not short enough.’

  ‘So it’s the fatality, then.’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Hugh’s sifting through the remaining footage. In the meantime, we need this copied and circulated...’ He looked about for their support worker.

  ‘Leave it with me,’ Jon said, lifting the sheet of paper up.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s no problem.’

  ‘OK, thanks. I need to nip upstairs and bring the branch manager up-to-date. If this thing merits further work, it’ll be to focus on this.’ He rubbed a thumb and forefinger together. ‘Whatever this pair were up to, they needed money to be doing it. Someone, somewhere has put up the funds.’

  Follow the money, Jon thought. The trusted technique for any investigator. Nick set off across the room and Jon approached the photocopiers. They were a damn sight more modern than the ones he was used to. Everything’s shiny, he thought, in the CTU. The bloody thing didn’t even have buttons: just a touch screen. He squinted at the menu, trying to work out where, among the complex mix of symbols, was the one he needed to just do a few copies. Was that, he asked himself despairingly, too much to ask?

  Someone came through the doors and he looked to his side, hoping to see Peter Collier. But it was the really short girl with the bright blue eyes. The one who’d been smearing brown crap into a detective’s hair.

  ‘Stuck?’ she asked.

  He flapped a hand over the screen. ‘No green button. What was wrong with a green button?’

  She smiled. ‘Just stick it in the slot on the top. How many copies do you need?’

  ‘Twenty should do,’ he replied, thankfully stepping aside. How tall, he wondered, is she? The top of her head was about level with his elbow. He watched her slender finger as it made contact with the glass; the machine beeped in response, as if appreciating the deftness of her touch. It began to whirr and the sheet he’d placed in the top slot was sucked out of sight.


  Jon put his hands in his pockets. ‘You’re not just an expert with the eyeliner, then?’ He glanced down at her, quite pleased with his turn of phrase.

  She gave him a questioning look.

  ‘Before – you were putting make-up on two detectives. Do you help out in here, too?’

  ‘Kind of,’ she said, looking back at the machine.

  Jon hesitated. Had he trodden on her toes? Her reply had been a bit short. ‘So how many of you are there in civilian support?’

  She bowed her head for a second then turned fully to him and held out a hand. ‘We’ve not been introduced. Detective Constable Iona Khan.’

  Detect – ? Jon felt the floor shift. Oh my God, Spicer, you have just made such a tit of yourself. ‘When I saw you out...I assumed, you know, that...’ Her hand was still out. It was like a child’s. He made sure to grasp it lightly and was surprised by the strength of her shake. ‘I’m sorry. I feel like a right twat...I mean idiot.’ He knew he was bright red.

  She hunched a shoulder. ‘At least you didn’t mistake me for a cleaner.’

  He searched desperately for something else to say. But every comment he came up with would just make the hole deeper. Glaciers could have formed by the time the machine came to a stop. At bloody last, he thought.

  ‘They all get spat out here.’ She reached to the side of the machine and took the sheets out from a tray. Glancing at the top one, she shot him a look.

  Jon’s hand was outstretched. All he wanted to do was grab them, say his thanks and scuttle back to his seat.

  ‘Who’s this?’ she asked.

  ‘Not sure, yet. It’s a still from some drone footage. Why?’

  She handed him the sheets, took out her phone and brought up an image. Her glance went from her screen to the sheets and back again. ‘What do you reckon?’

  Acutely aware how much he towered over the other detective, Jon moved back a fraction. ‘About what?’

  She held her phone up so he could see the display. A man’s pudgy face filled the screen. Wavy black hair, heavy eyebrows, somewhere around fifty. He looked at the photocopies in his hands. Same bloke.