Death Games

by Chris Simms

  Instead, she fed the paper into the opening. Before it was fully through, she lowered the flap, trapping the paper. Its corner poked out, starkly white against the tarnished metal.

  She knocked softly and waited. As she expected, there was no reply. Turning an ear to the door, she closed her eyes. Was that movement? She couldn’t tell. But then she heard a faint rasp and opened her eyes. The tiny triangle had gone. She counted to thirty then knocked again, even more softly.

  There was a series of metallic clicks as the lock slowly released. Her pulse surged as the door opened a few inches. The corridor beyond was unlit. Nothing in the slice of darkness moved. Behind her, the silence of the street pressed at her back. She heard a car’s engine. The vehicle passed by, noise fading. She cleared her throat and was about to say something when the door opened wider. A hand and forearm emerged and, for an awkward moment, she thought he wanted to shake hands. Strong fingers locked on her wrist and she allowed herself to be yanked into the shadows beyond.

  CHAPTER 15

  Jon halted at the set of closed gates. They were wooden and six feet high. Mounted on the right-hand post was a camera. A small placard on the immaculate grass verge read, Pine Lodge. Sure enough, towering above the perimeter wall were the branches of several pine trees.

  He lowered his window and reached out to press the buzzer. A good thirty seconds passed before a voice spoke. ‘Yes?’

  Sing-song intonation somehow sweetened the word.

  ‘Jon Spicer, Greater Manchester Police.’ He raised his badge in the direction of the camera. ‘I have some news about your stolen Porsche, sir.’

  ‘You have found it?’

  ‘It would be best to come in and tell you.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Sorry.’

  A whirring noise started and both gates started to swing in, gradually revealing a short drive of grey paving blocks, well-tended lawns, several rose bushes and a large pond. The drive led to a turning circle before the property itself. What did they call this style of house? Jon asked himself. Stockbroker chic or something?

  Front steps led up to more of a portico than a porch. Roman pillars supported its overhanging roof. Mullioned windows. The building was attempting an old-world grandness, but the materials were all brand new. It just didn’t work. Not the balcony above the front door, not the elaborate chimneys, not the oversized oak front door with enormous brass ring.

  He let it fall against the wood and the echo of a pleasingly solid thud filled the hallway on the other side. No need to do that more than once, he thought. The slap of footsteps soon got closer and the door was opened by a tall, slender black man in a sweat-top and tracksuit bottoms. He was in bare feet. Looking up, Jon detected a hint of anxiety in his smile.

  ‘Mr Wilfred Iwobi?’ Jon extended a hand.

  The man hesitated for an instant then lifted his own hand. Jon felt uncertainty in his grip. Definitely nervous. Which would figure, Jon thought: when he’d rung VIP Cabs in Gatley, the driver had said his passenger from the previous night had asked to be dropped at a bus stop about half a mile up the road from Pine Lodge. ‘May I come in?’

  ‘Yes, please. This way.’

  As they crossed a smooth, marble floor to a side room, Jon said, ‘Nice place you have here.’

  Wilfred flicked the fingers of his hands. ‘It is too big, but I didn’t know this when I first came. My agent: he found it for me.’

  ‘How many bedrooms does it have?’

  ‘Six, but it is just me here.’

  They had entered a lounge of some sort; a pair of cream leather sofas, beige carpets, fresh lilies in a huge silver vase. The place looked like a show home. Wilfred shifted a set of controls to the arm of the sofa and sat down. Jon noticed the flat screen TV set into the wall above the fireplace. The frozen image was of a race track viewed through the windscreen of a vehicle. Before it were several high-performance cars: an Aston Martin, a couple of Ferraris, what looked like a Bugatti.

  The hearth was filled by a carefully-arranged pile of fir cones, some sprayed silver, some purple, some their natural colour. Jon could imagine the estate agent’s patter: continuing the pine motif from exterior to interior, so creating a relaxing sense of unity and blah-de-blah.

  Wilfred gestured at the other sofa. ‘So, you know where my car is?’

  ‘Not exactly, sir.’ Jon produced a notepad and pen. As he sat, the leather felt cool through his trousers. ‘But there has been a sighting. You reported it as stolen from outside Belugio’s, by the Printworks, between ten in the evening and five in the morning?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  Jon lifted his eyebrows and smiled. ‘Much luck?’

  The man looked confused. ‘Luck?’

  ‘On the tables. Did you come out on top?’

  ‘Oh.’ The man tilted his head. ‘A little bit, yes.’

  ‘Good stuff. Not many do.’

  ‘No, not many.’

  ‘So, you left at five, only to find the vehicle wasn’t there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jon pretended to jot something down. ‘Do you still have the keys?’

  ‘The keys?’ White flashed at the corners of his eyes as he looked momentarily away. ‘No.’

  ‘Where do you normally keep them: jacket, trousers?’

  ‘Trousers. Maybe they were stolen from me in Belugio’s?’

  ‘In which case, the casino should be alerted. CCTV in those places is exceptional. I imagine they could pinpoint the exact moment you were pick-pocketed.’

  ‘Really?’ He didn’t look overjoyed at the news.

  ‘How did you get home, sir?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘When you discovered your vehicle was missing, how did you get home?’

  ‘Oh, a black taxi.’

  ‘One you flagged down?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you were home by, what, six? A bit before?’

  ‘A bit before, yes. Maybe twenty to six.’

  Jon sat back. ‘Sir, I should warn you now, lying to the police and falsifying a stolen vehicle report is a serious matter. Would you like to tell me the truth?’

  ‘The truth?’ He frowned. ‘That is it what I am doing – telling you the truth!’

  ‘No, sir, that’s not what you’re doing. How about I tear this page out and we start again?’

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about. You came here with news about my car, but now – now this.’ He jabbed a finger at Jon’s notebook.

  ‘Sir, you claimed your car had been stolen. Whether you like it or not, by making that report, you’ve started a process.’

  He gritted his teeth and waved both hands at Jon. ‘Pfeesh! Go! Get out! I am not talking to you anymore.’ He reached for the controls. The action unfroze and the roar of an engine filled the room.

  Jon glanced at the massive screen. Normally, he thought, I’d just turn the thing off, but he had no idea where the bloody thing’s power button would be. Instead, he got up, stepped over to the skirting board and pulled the mass of plugs from the wall. The screen abruptly died.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Wilfred’s mouth was open. He looked left and right, as if seeking support from imaginary witnesses. ‘This is un-fucking-believable!’

  The swear word came out with a hint of Mancunian and Jon had to hide his grin as he sat back down. He thinks I’m a bloody football referee. ‘A car from VIP Cabs in Gatley dropped you at a bus stop about half a mile from here at four-fifty-two this morning. Now, I can retrieve all the CCTV from Belugio’s and find out when you really left that place, if you were there at all. Obviously, things will start to become a lot more formal if I have to do that.’

  ‘I will call my agent. He...he will come. You must speak to him, not me.’

  ‘Wilfred, this isn’t something your agent can fix. This is a criminal matter. If you want your agent, fine, tell him to meet you at the police station on Plymouth Grove in Manchester. Or...’ Jon tore the blank page from his notepad, folded it
over and put it in his jacket pocket. He lifted his pen and looked at the other man.

  Wilfred sat forward, head dipping for a few seconds. He looked up. ‘A man attacked me and stole my car.’

  ‘A man? Where was this?’

  ‘I do not know, exactly. Near to the motorway.’

  Now Jon did start taking notes. ‘The M60?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘About four o’clock in the morning.’

  Christ, thought Jon. It was a carjack. That’s how he got away. ‘I take it you were stationary at the time? Your car wasn’t moving?’

  ‘Yes – I had parked. It was in a little turning.’ He licked his lips. ‘I was listening to some music.’

  Course you were, Jon thought. At least you’re not trying to claim you were just walking your dog. ‘Mr Iwobi, I have reason to believe you weren’t alone. That’s not a problem, but it is important. Do you understand? Whoever was with you in the car, that’s not something that needs to go any further than us.’ He looked at Wilfred and saw the shame on his face.

  ‘You mean, you will not...not need to tell anyone what I was doing there? Back home, my family, if they – ’

  ‘No – I can’t see why we’d need to. Were you in the casino that night?’

  He nodded.

  ‘And you left at what time?’

  ‘After three o’clock. I drove round for a bit. I don’t know why. I was bored, I didn’t feel tired. Here,’ he looked up at the ceiling. ‘Here is empty. I sometimes drive around, to see the drunken people holding onto each other, walking home.’

  Jon suddenly realised: the man was lonely. Desperately lonely. Outside the football club, he probably had nothing. No friends. Family thousands of miles away. His best pal was a bloody PlayStation. ‘So you’re driving around...’

  ‘...and I saw these ladies. One stepped forward and nodded at me. She waved. I do not know why I stopped. But I did stop.’ He lowered his head once more. ‘I did stop.’

  ‘She directed you to the little turn-off?’

  ‘Yes. And we had not been there long. There was an almighty sound. A big bang. She said it was from the motorway nearby. She said there might be sirens, but only up there – not where we were. I didn’t want to stay, but she said it was fine, we would be safe – but this was not so. Soon after, my door opened very suddenly. A man pulled me.’ Wilfred lifted a hand and gripped the collar of his sweatshirt tight. ‘He pulled me like this, right out of the car. When I sat up and looked, he was in the back. He had a knife and he was telling the girl, he made her sit in my seat. The knife he pointed here.’ He pressed a forefinger to the side of his neck. ‘She closed the door and they drove away.’

  The point of Jon’s pen hovered over the page. ‘He forced her to drive off in your car?’

  ‘Yes. His arm – the left one – I think maybe he could not use it. That is why he made her.’

  Christ, Jon thought. We need to locate that Porsche; he’s got a hostage.

  CHAPTER 16

  Iona pored slowly over the news report on her screen, interest piqued by Elissa Yared’s comments on the circumstances of her brother’s death. Whoever had put her police file together hadn’t done a good job: none of the report’s findings featured in it. All the file mentioned was how Tarek, the brother, had been killed in Kunduz, Afghanistan, when the hospital he was working in had been accidentally hit by an American missile strike. US forces had claimed the hospital grounds were being used by the Taliban to fire on nearby Afghan armed forces.

  But the article on her screen told a very different story. It claimed the attack was not only unprovoked, it was premeditated. The Medics International hospital was a protected facility – and the Americans had been repeatedly given the facility’s GPS coordinates. A spokesman from the organisation had stated that the American military’s claim that the hospital grounds were being used by Taliban fighters was absurd. Why, in that case, had the helicopter’s Hell Fire air-to-surface missiles been aimed only at the main hospital building? Eleven Medics International staff and fourteen patients had been killed. Many of the sick people had been burned alive in their beds. Tarek was one of five doctors to lose his life.

  Following the attack, investigations by the United States, Nato and Afghan government had found no wrong-doing on the helicopter crew’s part. Medics International had rejected the findings as being a sham and had demanded an independent international investigation. This never happened and, almost two years after the event, the US military had quietly exonerated the helicopter crew and army personnel who had been in charge of the operation.

  Iona printed the article out, added it to a couple of others then made her way into the meeting room. This time, she was able to grab a place at the corner of the table. Moments later, DCI Weir called for quiet.

  ‘OK, everyone, here’s where we are. Internet records came through a couple of hours ago; nothing suspicious so far on the ones that have been analysed. Some phone records are taking longer – or they are from certain providers.’ He consulted his sheet. ‘Adrian, you’ll be getting the ones for Ashraf Atwi tomorrow; Iona, you should have ones for Elissa Yared by end-of-play.’ His head turned. ‘Ritchie, same for the ones on your list. Now, interviews: has everyone seen the people on their list?’

  Nods from round the room.

  ‘Good. Let’s start in the corner. Iona?’

  She placed a hand either side of her daybook. ‘I saw Elissa Yared in her workplace at the MRI, where she works as a nurse in the Accident and Emergency department. Nothing gave me cause for concern. I then went to the address of her aunt and uncle, Bilal and Furat Atwi. As we now know, Bilal was killed in the crash on the M60 early this morning.’ She glanced about to check she still had the room’s attention. ‘Things from here are looking a little murky. I don’t think the wife had any knowledge of her husband’s whereabouts or what he was up to.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Weir asked.

  ‘When I first got there, she was extremely anxious. Thought I was there with news on his whereabouts, in fact. When I later returned to inform her of his death…’ Iona shook her head. ‘She didn’t fake her reaction. I realise that doesn’t mean she’s in the dark about whatever her husband has been up to, but, well – I’d be surprised if she knew. In her present state, she’s not able to be questioned.’

  ‘When will she be?’ Weir asked, noting something down.

  ‘An FLO is with her; she’ll let me know. Apparently, a doctor came out to give her sedatives because she’d started to hyperventilate.’

  Weir’s eyes were narrowed. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. When I returned to break the bad news, Elissa Yared, was there.’

  ‘The nurse at the MRI?’ someone asked.

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘What’s her connection to the Atwi family?’

  Weir gave a cough. ‘Elissa’s mum is Bilal Atwi’s sister. The mum is called Bushra Yared, following her marriage to a man called Gibran Yared. It’s also worth pointing out that Gibran Yared was a Maronite Christian, also originally from Lebanon.’

  ‘Was?’ someone asked.

  ‘He died recently, as did the mother. Back in the 1980s, they fled during the Lebanese civil war and came to Britain. Everyone clear so far?’

  Another question came back: ‘What religion are the Yared children, Elissa and Tarek?’

  ‘None, as far as I know,’ Weir replied. ‘Iona, your thoughts?’

  ‘No obvious sign of Elissa being anything. The aunt, Furat Atwi, had summoned Elissa for some company. I tried to talk to Elissa about her uncle Bilal in a bit more detail, but she didn’t really know him. Contact was, according to her, very rare.’

  ‘Did you believe her?’ Weir asked.

  ‘Yes. Well...almost.’ She glanced about, knowing that hesitancy did you no favours. ‘I think so...but I’d like to see her phone records to be sure. And I’ve also done a bit more digging into her brother’s death in Afghanistan. The file did
n’t provide much depth.’

  ‘He was helping treat Taliban wasn’t he?’ someone replied.

  ‘That’s what the file might lead you to believe,’ Iona answered, reaching for a photocopied sheet. ‘Actually, the US military claimed there were only Taliban fighters hiding in the hospital’s grounds. But the organisation – Medics International – disputes this.’

  ‘But not whether Taliban were receiving medical assistance in the hospital?’ Weir asked.

  ‘That’s not the point,’ Iona replied. ‘Even if they were, you can’t bomb hospitals. Under international law, it’s a war crime.’

  ‘I don’t see where you’re going with this,’ Weir replied.

  Iona lifted another sheet. ‘The incident has never been properly investigated. In fact, it was swept under the carpet – which left question marks over exactly what Tarek was doing out there.’ She looked at the colleague who’d spoken before. ‘You said just now he was helping the Taliban. I doubt you’re the only person who suspects that. The father spent the last months of his life campaigning for an independent investigation in order to clear his son’s name.’

  The officer at her side looked up at the sheet that depicted the family tree. ‘When did he die?’

  ‘The father? Three months ago. Heart attack while protesting outside the Houses of Parliament. Here.’ She held up another photocopy. ‘An article on his death from the Evening Standard.’

  ‘And her mother?’ Another officer asked.

  ‘Died within two months of learning her son had been killed out in Afghanistan. Natural causes.’

  Weir tapped his fingers against the table. ‘So you’re saying what, Iona?’

  ‘The Yared family seem very respectable and law-abiding. The son was a doctor, the daughter a nurse. Neither have any kind of police record. OK, they’re linked to the Atwis through marriage, but I don’t think the connection is anything more than that.’ She shrugged. ‘I just wanted to flag it up. As a family, the Yareds all seem to be dying, one way or another.’