Death Games

by Chris Simms

‘But you’ll find yourself in far more pressured situations than that, Jon. So bear in mind that, however big a pain in the arse, Joe Public are not the ones you let rip at.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘They even come in useful.’ He reached for another piece of paper. ‘In his incident statement, he described how the mystery man fished a phone from his pocket, snapped its SIM, crushed the handset underfoot and flung the pieces into the grass verge.’

  Jon processed the information. ‘That was before he fled?’

  ‘Yes – as soon as the officer who’d helped him over to the barrier rushed off to deal with a car fire. Our man sat there with his head drooping forward. After a few seconds, he seemed to come around and immediately reached for his phone. It sounds to me like he was assuming he would be searched – so he got rid. But when he realised no-one was actually paying him any attention, he made off down the slope.’

  ‘So, before doing anything else, he destroys his handset,’ Jon mused. ‘That’s a worry. Have we found it?’

  Pinner nodded. ‘It’s already upstairs. Though they’re not hopeful of recovering any data. If we’re lucky, there might be a decent fingerprint.’

  ‘Shame. There must have been something worthwhile on it. Any more on his identity?’

  ‘The photo is with foreign office staff stationed out in Moscow. They’re liaising with the Russian police.’

  ‘What’s your view on it, sir? You reckon we’re looking at a planned attack? An active terror cell?

  ‘What do you think?’

  I’m thinking nice deflection, Jon almost blurted, his opinion of the other man immediately plummeting. ‘Me? I’ve not been here long, as you know. But as a police officer? I don’t like the feel of it. Not at all.’

  ‘Chief Superintendent Gower spoke very highly of you.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Gower. When it was being weighed-up whether to bring you on-board.’

  So that’s how my transfer came about, Jon thought. A nod and a wink from my old boss in the Major Incident Team.

  He pictured the silver-haired bear of a man. Jon knew the exact moment he had earned himself a permanent place in the older man’s good book. He’d been captaining Greater Manchester Police’s rugby team in the final of the Cheshire Cup. During the match, he’d knocked the opposition number eight out. In the club house afterwards, Gower had sought him out to congratulate him on the quality of the punch.

  Seems like, Jon reflected, my career’s been built on knocking other men over.

  ‘Everything OK with you, so far?’

  Jon’s focus returned to the DCI. ‘Fine, sir. One thing: I gave some cash to one of the working girls – the one who gave me the info on the red Porsche picking up her mate. Is there any way I can get that – ’

  ‘See the civilian support worker for your section. He’ll give you a form. I’ll sign it off, no problem.’

  ‘Thanks. It’s been...quite a first day.’

  ‘Certainly has.’ Pinner glanced at his watch. ‘Not long until your shift’s over. I’ll let you get on.’

  Once Jon had sorted the expenses claim with Peter Collier, he started typing-up his reports and logging everything on the CTU’s secure system. As he pecked laboriously away, he could hear Iona at her computer on the next row of desks. Her fingers on the keys sounded like a hoard of rushing ants. He couldn’t believe anyone could type so fast. To his dismay, she started shutting her computer down when he was barely half-finished. From the corner of his eye, he watched as she tidied some bits away on her desk. As she started to make her way over, Jon minimised his screen, sat back and looked to his side. ‘Are you all done?’

  ‘Yes.’ She glanced at his screen then at the mess of paper and old cups. ‘You?’

  ‘Just about.’

  ‘Right I’ll see you in the morning, then.’

  ‘See you in the morning.’

  It took him another forty minutes to complete his report, by which time a new set of detectives had started to appear. The night shift. After logging out, he went downstairs and into the departure lounge.

  Kieran Saunders was coming out of the men’s locker area. He was in a vest top and baggy shorts. Jon spotted the crest for 1st Battalion, The Royal Welsh on the chest of his top. ‘Jon. Not off home, are you?’

  ‘Yeah, I thought it was about time I did.’

  ‘A few of the boys, we’re down in the gym. A bit of sparring, like. Come and have a look.’

  Jon hitched a thumb at the outer door. ‘Maybe another time. I told the missus that – ’

  ‘Awww,’ the man lifted a hand to one ear. ‘All I’m hearing here are excuses.’

  Bollocks, Jon thought, not wanting to create any kind of bad impression with the men he’d be shoulder-to-shoulder with out in the field. ‘Go on, then.’

  The gym, Jon had to admit, was impressive. A little too much of it had been given over to workstations, but its centre was dominated by a long rack of free weights. Exercise mats were spread out on either side of it, with several Swiss Balls and Bosu Balls in the corner. Unusually for a work-place gym, it didn’t smell like someone had stuffed several pairs of old socks and pants under the floorboards to fester. He noticed the extractor fans set into the ceiling.

  Hanging mid-way down one side of the gym was a row of punch-bags. They stretched away in a long line right to a boxing ring, raised about eighteen inches from the floor. Not full size, Jon guessed, but it couldn’t have been far off.

  A group of three men were gathered at its edge; inside the ring, two pairs were swinging away at each other’s heads. Jon immediately saw their hands were encased in 18 ounce boxing gloves. The padding was so thick, it was like being biffed with a cushion: unless the other person really let rip, there was little chance of walking away with anything worse than a nose-bleed.

  ‘Oh, Tommo’s going for it, tonight. Look at him!’ Kieran called out as they approached the ring. ‘Do him, Tommo, he needs a good pasting.’

  Jon couldn’t help grinning at the sight of a five-foot-eight man ferociously wind-milling away. His much larger opponent was patiently fending off the blows, waiting for the barrage to weaken.

  ‘Two minute rounds,’ Kieran said, eyes glued to the fighting. ‘Just keep swopping it round like that. Killer, it is.’

  As Jon watched punches being traded, he felt a tightening in his chest and a tingling in his arms. A buzzer went and a couple of the men who’d been fighting gratefully backed towards the ropes. They were swiftly replaced by two who’d been spectating. The buzzer sounded once more and they were off. To Jon’s surprise, none of the men seemed like experts. Some had a proper guard up, one or two were on their toes, dancing – but, for the most part, it was a simple lung-busting slug-fest.

  ‘Fancy a little go?’ Kieran was looking at him knowingly. ‘You do, don’t you?’

  A smile caught the corner of Jon’s mouth. ‘I’ve not come with any kit.’

  ‘Fuck that – go bare-foot, man. T-shirt and jeans is fine. Andy! Chuck me and the new boy here some gloves, we’re going in!’

  Two pairs of gloves flew through the air.

  Jon’s trainers came off, and as he tugged at his socks, he sneaked a look at the other man, wondering if this was some king of initiation-test in disguise.

  But Kieran’s face only showed genuine glee as he said, ‘Now, I don’t want to be waking up on any hospital ward, big man.’

  Jon laughed. ‘I reckon it’s me needs to watch you.’

  ‘Oh, you’d better watch me. Float like a butterfly, I do. Balletic, it is.’

  They’d worked their gloves on when the buzzer sounded again.

  Jon climbed through the ropes, the springy canvas of the ring rough against the soles of his feet. Turning round, he saw Kieran before him, capering around like a village idiot.

  ‘Look at the footwork! Just look at it!’

  Jon raised his gloves and, with a quick shrug of his shoulders, touched them against his forehead. He’d arrested plenty of p
eople who liked to clown about, shooting-off stupid comments in the build-up to actual physical contact taking place. In his experience, the tactic arose for two reasons: sometimes the person was crafty, using it as a distraction before lashing out with a surprising viciousness. Other times, the person was genuinely unhinged and, because they relished the prospect of violence so much, they just couldn’t contain their excitement.

  The buzzer sounded.

  Kieran bounded forward with a banshee-screech and let rip with a wild flurry of punches. Right, left, left, right, left, right, right. Definitely unhinged, Jon thought. I think I’m going to get on well with this guy. He kept his gloves up and his eyes open. The other man was letting the elbow of his non-punching arm ride far too high. Jon shuffled forward as Kieran skipped about, just out of reach.

  ‘Oh, he didn’t even see them coming. I’m just too fast, just too –’ He exploded forward again, trying to repeat exactly the same attack.

  Jon let him get a rhythm going, dipped a shoulder and drove a glove into the other man’s abdomen, just below the ribs.

  As Kieran staggered backwards with a look of shock on his face, Jon closed the gap and started with a series of little jabs with his right. As soon as Kieran’s focus went to that glove, he hooked him with a left to the head.

  The other man was laughing as he fell into the ropes. ‘Mother-fucker! Got a punch like a bastard zebra kicking.’

  It was now obvious Kieran had no real technique: this was only ever going to be a simple trade-off in punches. Which was fine. Jon lowered his guard and beckoned to him with a grin. ‘Come to Daddy.’

  ‘It’s the rumble in the jungle!’ Kieran said, pulling himself upright. ‘Here we go!’

  He launched another untidy assault and this time Jon let a couple of blows land before replying with one of his own. Within seconds, they were toe-to-toe, swinging away in time with each other, both suppressing laughter each time a punch connected properly. By the time the buzzer went, Jon’s shoulders and biceps were burning.

  ‘Bloody good go, that, cheers!’ Kieran’s eyes were sparkling, his face bright red.

  ‘Yeah, cheers.’ Jon started to pull a glove off.

  ‘Hey!’ Kieran said. ‘You’re up for another now, kiddo.’

  Jon’s smile dropped. He hadn’t realised the two-round-rule would apply to him. He glanced to his side; a few more detectives had appeared while they’d been fighting. Hugh Lambert was climbing swiftly into the ring, Jon the sole focus of his stare.

  ‘Watch this arse-wipe,’ Kieran breathed. ‘He won some kind of boxing prize in the Paras.’

  Jon turned to him. ‘And what makes you think he’ll want to pair up with me?’

  Immediately picking up on the mocking tone in Jon’s question, Kieran laughed. ‘Well, I don’t think it’s me who’s in his sights.’

  Lambert lifted one shoulder, touched an ear against it then did the same on the other side. He bounced on the balls of his feet a few times, all the while drilling Jon with his stare.

  Jon gave him a coquettish smile. Just to wind him up a little more.

  Lambert removed a gum-shield from his mouth. ‘Hear you’ve been claiming back the cash you’ve been blowing on whores.’ He cast a glance to the side, checking the comment had been heard.

  ‘It’s a tough job,’ Jon countered. ‘But someone had to do it.’

  The buzzer went off again.

  Lambert slotted his gum-shield back in and put his guard up.

  The first thing Jon thought was: feet. He’s moving really well. Jon lifted his own arms, trying to ignore the ache in his shoulder muscles.

  Lambert tested the water with a jab and Jon immediately knew he was in trouble; the other man had a freakishly long reach. Just as he started to get a sense of Lambert’s rhythm, a couple of body shots thudded dangerously close to Jon’s liver.

  He barely had time to adjust before the punches went back to head height, each one measured for maximum impact. Thank Christ he’s wearing 18 ouncers, Jon thought, head reeling.

  Knowing he had to do something, Jon feinted with his right, then released his left. A move that rarely let him down. One moment his glove was heading straight at Lambert’s face, the next it was extending into empty air. A big impact on his temple and Jon just had time to bring his gloves up either side of his head before two more came in.

  Shit, I’m getting leathered here. Ducking from side to side, he peeked through his defence, saw Lambert’s feet were flat, planted his front foot as close to them as he could and swung a crook-armed punch at waist height. He felt a good connection and straightened up, knowing he was now inside Lambert’s superior reach. Time to pay him back with –

  The other man’s head clashed with his.

  ‘Woah, woah, woah!’ Kieran’s voice rang out from the side. ‘You can’t fucking head-butt.’

  Lambert danced back, eyes not leaving Jon. ‘Accident. You OK?’

  ‘Yeah, fine.’ Jon touched a glove to his right eyebrow. It came away spotted with blood. He could see the other two fighters had stopped to watch. OK, he thought. I’m in a straight scrap, here. Just happens we’re wearing pads on our fists.

  Wondering how much longer could be left, he moved forward again, knowing his only chance was to get back inside Lambert’s defence. But the other man knew exactly what he was doing and kept his distance, punishing Jon all the time with jab after jab. Jon kept going forward, but eventually another blow caught his temple. His lead leg buckled. Desperate not to fall, he threw both arms round Lambert’s midriff, happy to see out the rest of the bout by wrapping up the other man.

  A stabbing impact at the base of his skull and Kieran’s shout of protest was drowned out by a high-pitched humming. Next thing, Lambert’s knee started lifting towards his face.

  Jon sensed his chance: he tucked his chin in, letting the blow come. As it connected with his forehead, he hooked a fore-arm round the back of Lambert’s knee. Then he yanked his elbow back like he was starting a lawnmower. It was a tackle technique he’d used in more rugby matches than he could remember.

  Lambert found himself on one foot, arms flailing as he hopped backwards, trying to not go over. Keeping his body low, Jon started to pump his knees. When he felt he had enough momentum, he looked up, saw the side of the ring was a couple of metres away and launched the other man at it. The ropes flexed briefly. Jon planted his feet wide, and as the other man came bouncing back, he swung with all his strength.

  Lambert’s head snapped to the right, gum-shield flying through the air. He keeled over, arms and legs splayed out.

  There was a moment’s silence then everyone was jumping into the ring. The two other fighters crouched down at Lambert’s side. Kieran grabbed Jon’s arm and pulled him towards the far corner. ‘Alright? You need some tissue on that. Here.’ He took the large blue roll being lifted by one of the other officers. ‘Get us one of those ice-packs, too, Ian. From the first-aid kit. Mate? Wonderful punch,’ he whispered. ‘Bloody wonderful.’

  The vision in Jon’s eye was now blurring red. ‘Did he head-butt me?’

  ‘And the rest! Used his elbow on the back of your head, too, the dirty bastard.’

  Jon twisted round to see where Lambert had fallen. Colleagues had sat him up, but his eyes were all over the place.

  CHAPTER 22

  As the Xbox powered up, Elissa glanced surreptitiously at the man yet again. She still couldn’t believe it. He was now sitting on the sofa, left arm supported by the makeshift sling she’d fashioned from a sheet. Every now and again, he’d test the arm by bring his elbow out a few inches. That has to hurt, she thought. Surely.

  The home page was now showing on the screen. She scrolled across to the search box and, using the on-screen alphabet, keyed in Internet. Within seconds, she was on Google Translate.

  What, she wondered, should I write? The cursor moved with annoying slowness across the onscreen keyboard as, letter by letter, she spelled out four words.

  Bilal Atwi is dead. />
  There was no need to even click enter; the Russian translation appeared automatically in the adjacent field.

  The man sat forward, face bathed in the screen’s silver glow. He glanced at Iona with suspicion, then gestured for the controller.

  By selecting the reverse button, the Latin alphabet was replaced by the Cyrillic one. She handed him the controller.

  Gradually, his question appeared. How do you know?

  She took the controller, switched back to the Latin alphabet, and typed a reply. His wife is my Aunt. I was at her house when the police came to tell her.

  He sat still, seeming to process this information.

  She so desperately wanted to know what the plan was. How they were going to carry it out. She typed another question. Do you remember what happened?

  He shook his head.

  Retrograde amnesia? she wondered. He must have received a concussion when the car crashed. He knew who Uncle Bilal was, but what had happened in the run-up to the accident seemed to have been lost.

  She started a new sentence. The car you were in crashed.

  He looked at her with a frown, clearly not sure whether to believe her.

  She typed again. Uncle Bilal died at the scene. You got away.

  Inviting an answer, she offered him the handset. He ignored it.

  She worked the controller again. How did you get to this house?

  For some reason, he looked towards the window, but said nothing.

  The laborious process of selecting each letter was starting to frustrate her. I am trying to help you.

  He read her words then examined the fingers of his left hand as they curled in and out.

  You must tell me. The information Uncle Bilal passed on came from me. She nudged his leg and pointed at what she’d written.

  He looked back at her, started to reach for the controller then changed his mind.

  Whatever the plan was, it was obvious he needed support to carry it out. Now Uncle Bilal was dead, that support had gone. She typed another comment. You cannot do this alone. Let me help you.

  The comment caused him to stand. He walked over to the window, paced about before it, looked at her briefly then turned his back.