Death Games

by Chris Simms

  ‘Soon, they’d be round to politely ask how you intend paying for your stay,’ his wife added with a laugh.

  Jon stepped back to look along the length of their boat. Its name was painted on the side: McNoon. ‘Lovely looking yacht you have. So this is what you do now?’

  ‘Only for the summers,’ Sue replied. ‘Mike would keep going through the winter, but I get too cold. We fly back to Australia when it starts to turn.’

  ‘And the boat?’

  ‘Dry dock it somewhere,’ Mike answered. ‘Probably in Spain. Your prices in the UK are way too high.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ Jon said. ‘What a superb way to spend the year.’

  They smiled modestly.

  ‘Say you were on Anglesey,’ Jon said, swilling his coffee round. ‘You had a Rib that you needed to launch at some point, but you don’t want to draw any attention to it. Where might you keep it?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘Depends how long I was here for.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If it’s a while, I wouldn’t keep it in the water. It rots stuff. Me? I’d keep it on its trailer, tow it inland and chuck a tarp over it.’

  ‘Let’s assume it needs to be launched pretty fast,’ Jon said.

  ‘So a barn or inland storage facility would be out. What are we talking about here, smugglers?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Somewhere private?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And I’m not bothered about cost?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I’d rent a place with its own mooring, assuming it’s not a flying visit. A holiday home at the water’s edge.’

  Jon glanced at Iona. ‘Holiday home. Now there’s a thought.’

  She nodded her agreement and finished her drink. ‘Sue, that was just what I needed, thanks so much.’

  ‘Yup – I feel human again,’ Jon stated, handing his cup over, too. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  Iona waited until they were out of earshot before saying in an American accent, ‘I think we’re gonna need a bigger boat.’

  Jon looked at her appreciatively. ‘Jaws. Aren’t you a bit young to be quoting from that?’

  ‘I love all those old classics. Jaws, Alien, Taxi driver: they’re brilliant.’

  ‘Old classics? I wouldn’t say – ’ Jon stopped himself. To her, he realised, films like that were old classics. They’d been made before she was born. He felt old. ‘You’re right, we can never cover this on our own. Surely Weir needs to start involving the local police? Unless he wants us to do a long-term booking at that motel and spend the next few months here.’ He glanced at his watch. They’d be serving breakfast there soon, and they had already paid –

  Iona’s phone went off.

  Seeing the caller identification, she raised an eyebrow. ‘Speak of the devil. Morning, sir. We’re just leaving the first location on our list. Thing is, sir, we think that, given the scale of the area, it – ’ She stopped speaking. Then she stopped walking. Jon came to a halt. Her eyes went to him, the start of a smile tickling the corners of her mouth. ‘Really? That’s confirmed? Beyond all doubt?’ Her entire face lit up. Elation, relief, incredulity. ‘I don’t know what to say... that’s...oh my God.’ She looked at Jon properly. ‘Yes, I’ll let him know. Jon, the French coastguard boarded a vessel at the edge of their territorial waters. They got it.’

  ‘Got what?’

  ‘The Stinger.’

  CHAPTER 43

  ‘That’s bordering on obscene.’

  ‘Most important meal of the day, breakfast.’

  ‘Should be your only meal of the day, eating that much.’

  Jon slid in at the opposite side of the table. He picked up his napkin and theatrically shook it out. A magician preparing a trick. ‘Now, behold as I make it vanish.’

  She shook her head. ‘If you piled all that between two slices of bread, Scooby-Doo couldn’t open his jaws wide enough.’

  Jon regarded his plate. Maybe he had gone a bit silly at the self-service buffet. But he’d only had the hotel biscuits and a cup of coffee – and it was way past his usual breakfast time. Anyway, things called for a celebration. ‘Edge of international waters and heading this way. Close one.’

  ‘And only because they left the marina near Cherbourg without informing the harbour master.’

  ‘Just like that guy from the Australian navy said,’ Jon responded.

  Iona draped an arm across the back of the chair next to her. The bowl before her still held a few cubes of melon and sliced grapes. On her side plate was a single croissant. With her coffee-coloured skin, Jon thought she belonged outside a street cafe in Europe. Barcelona. Venice. Monaco. Somewhere drenched in sun, anyway.

  He began sawing through his stack of bacon. ‘Three men on board?’

  She took a sip of tea and nodded. ‘That’s what Weir said. No paperwork, nothing. North African in appearance. That’ll be French security speak for Algerian or Moroccan.’

  ‘And the charts they had out were for the Irish Sea. How long did they think it would be before they reached this part of the coast?’

  ‘Mid to late afternoon.’

  ‘It must have been a rendezvous. Our man meeting them somewhere out at sea for the transfer. Question is, where would be the best place to set out from? The Wirral or here?’

  ‘If the target was a flight leaving from Liverpool airport, does it matter? Once the missile was ashore, they could pick any number of places to launch it.’

  Jon chewed for a while. ‘This place has more secluded spots to access the sea, in my opinion. Isolated coves, little inlets, tiny beaches. You’ve seen the map.’

  Iona brushed crumbs from the tablecloth. ‘I’d be interested to know what the thinking is for their escape plan.’

  ‘Manchester airport?’

  ‘No. If a passenger plane was brought down, all flights would be suspended. They wouldn’t be leaving by air.’

  ‘Ferry over to Ireland?’

  ‘Same, I imagine. The entire country would go into lock-down.’ She lifted a finger. ‘But they have the Rib. It’s fast. Larger ones can handle the open sea. That could be how they were going to do it.’

  ‘Over to Ireland?’

  ‘Maybe further? France. Even Spain?’

  ‘The bastard boat. Locate that and we locate them.’

  Iona pulled her croissant in half. ‘Another thing: what if word about the missile being intercepted gets back to our two? Once they know it’s all off, they’ll go straight to a contingency plan.’ As her fingers flicked out, a flake of croissant dropped through the air. ‘They’ll be gone.’

  Jon’s eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  He sighed. ‘What else did Weir say?’

  ‘He didn’t. They’re liaising with the French. We’re to stay put until then.’

  ‘I’m not happy sitting on my arse doing nothing. How about we carry on looking?’

  ‘That’s not what Weir’s instructions were.’

  ‘You know, the Australian navy guy had a point,’ Jon said quietly. ‘A secluded spot inland and you cover the boat with a tarpaulin. Or a holiday home with a private mooring – which would make it far easier to come and go as you please.’

  ‘You’re suggesting we go off script?’

  There was a mischievous glint in Jon’s eye. ‘I might be.’

  ‘Officially, we’re to await further instructions.’

  ‘Officially. He didn’t specify what, exactly, we do in the meantime.’

  She propped her chin on a hand and studied him. ‘Remind me: how was it you got thrown out of the Major Incident Team?’

  Jon dipped his head to stuff some sausage into his mouth. ‘You think we should stay put?’

  ‘If that’s what we were asked to do, yes.’

  One cheek now bulged with food as he looked back up at her. ‘You could argue we’re using our initiative. Don’t they like you using your initiative in the
CTU?’

  ‘They do.’

  ‘Well?’

  She sighed. ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘Well, it’s either check inland holiday homes for any boats and trailers, or check ones on the coast with private moorings. We haven’t time to do both.’

  Iona weighed it up. ‘Which one will there be less of?’

  ‘Private moorings, I should think. You know, there was a holiday lettings place near the supermarket. They could direct us to any of that type of property they have on their books. Ones that are currently occupied.’

  ‘Are you sure you didn’t have this planned out already?’

  Jon laid his cutlery down. ‘How could I?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she murmured, checking her watch. ‘And you want to start now?’

  ‘May as well. But if we’re going to do this, let’s go about it properly.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  He nodded at her phone. ‘Can you go on the system and get us the file of that bit of drone footage they filmed on the island?’

  CHAPTER 44

  She tried to keep her mind off things by flicking through a book. Something from the shelf in the corner of the room about Snowdonia. Lots of nice photographs of sheep-dotted valleys, golden beaches and tumbling streams.

  Doku simply couldn’t sit still. Hearing him pace around the cottage brought back memories of a visit to Chester Zoo. Some kind of rare desert creature that had restlessly patrolled its enclosure with a desperate intensity, as if puzzling over how it had been trapped. Watching the miserable animal had made her sad and she had often wondered since how long it had kept moving before succumbing to the lethargy of its neighbours.

  ‘Pochemu ih net? Pochemu oni ne otvechayut?’ Doku would mutter each time he checked the cave doors and found them still closed.

  The digger’s engine coughed to life shortly after nine. The instant it started, he dropped to all fours and crawled over to the window. He bobbed his head above the sill for a second. The rapid juddering of a drill joined it. Unpleasant, harsh sounds that shattered all sense of peace. Sometimes a raised voice calling truncated instructions. More. Enough. Stop.

  From the sofa, she observed him. ‘It’s OK,’ she whispered, reaching for the phone. ‘Only workmen.’

  The Russian translation did little to calm him. After watching through the windows for a while, he stood up and extended his pacing to the entire cottage. The ceiling creaked as he moved about above her, then his foot on the stairs before he entered the room once more. There was now no point in lifting her gaze as he came in; his attention was fixed on the TV as he crossed the room, checked the screen then turned away in disappointment.

  Shortly before eleven, the gravel on the drive began to crunch. She was off the sofa and at the window in an instant. Through the net curtain, the approaching workman appeared insubstantial. But his footsteps were solid and heavy.

  She moved out into the corridor and looked up the stairs. He was crouching at the top, one hand loosening the evil-looking blade from his ankle. The bell rang as she raised her hands to him. ‘Stay there, stay!’

  Not waiting for a reply, she went through to the kitchen, quickly checking the room as she crossed to the door. Plates on the table. Two cups. A carton of orange juice. Everything looked normal. She opened the door to a heavy-set man with long brown hair tied back in a ponytail. Stubble covered his lower face and his blue overalls were speckled with mud.

  ‘Morning love, sorry to disturb.’

  Not opening the door any further than necessary, she smiled at him. ‘That’s fine.’

  He tried to see past her, interest apparently piqued by a lone young woman coming to the door. ‘Here on holiday then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s lovely.’ He gestured back to the road. ‘Wasn’t sure if anyone was here. No car on the drive.’

  ‘I put it in the garage.’

  ‘Oh, right. So...’ His glance went to her hand.

  She knew what he was checking for: a wedding ring.

  He hitched the waist of his overalls up a bit. ‘Enjoying your stay?’

  It was like being in a pub. Some married saddo about to try his luck. ‘Could you keep your voice down. My partner? He’s in bed recuperating from a recent operation. How can I help?’

  He stepped back, voice now matter-of-fact. ‘We need to cut the water off; you might want to fill the kettle and a few pans.’

  ‘The water?’

  ‘Only for a few hours.’

  ‘What are you doing out there?’

  ‘Improving the drainage to keep that road from flooding.’

  ‘Right – I will do. Thanks for letting me know.’

  He was already walking away.

  ‘When will it come back on?

  ‘Three at the latest.’

  She swung the door shut and almost jumped backwards. Doku was there, knife in his hand. Part of her was thrilled. No one was going to touch her, not with him around.

  CHAPTER 45

  Iona popped her phone on the dashboard and hit play. A buzzing noise filled the car and, on screen, the field started to fall away.

  ‘There’s the tortured pine tree that techie guy, Carl, mentioned,’ Iona remarked. ‘Left hand side.’

  ‘Got it. Does look bent over in pain, doesn’t it?’

  ‘He didn’t think they were in a garden when they shot this. More like open countryside.’

  Jon could see Carl was right. The camera was pointing straight down at scrubby grassland dotted by gorse bushes and a stone outcrop. As the drone lifted higher, the land at the top of the screen dropped abruptly away. There followed an apron of rippling rock and then the sea. The water had a greenish hue, and as it grew deeper, the rock soon vanished beneath its murky depths. The drone rose higher; whoever was controlling the camera must have directed it to look forwards, not directly down. Ocean filled the screen, as far as the eye could see.

  ‘Right, he said at about forty seconds, the view swings to the left,’ Iona said. ‘Not that I can tell what’s happening anymore, all I can see is water.’

  Distant land encroaching at the bottom left-hand corner of the screen allowed them to get their bearings. Iona waited until the view improved before she pressed pause. ‘That’s it.’

  Grey and squat, the power station dominated a bulbous head of land that extended a short way out to sea. ‘That’s a distance, he estimated, of six to eight miles. Which means it was filmed somewhere to the west of Amlwch.’

  ‘Still a long way off for a recce, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes. Shall we carry on?’

  Jon nodded.

  The view rotated back to the open sea and, for the next half a minute, they listened to the annoying whirr of the drone’s engine. At one point, it changed pitch, but until the coastline suddenly crept into the bottom of the screen, it had been impossible to tell the thing had been descending. It continued to drop smoothly then, at head height, swept to the side, thick grass suddenly jumping up to envelope the lens. The footage cut.

  Iona slid the map of Anglesey across her lap. ‘From here, Amlwch is about fifteen miles away. We just stick to the A5025.’ Her finger followed the red line as it jerked its way north then west as the coast curved round. If the island was a clock, Amlwch sat at a point just before one.

  As they drove along, the amount of space seemed strange. Rolling fields with little in them. An occasional half-collapsed farm building. A few strings of meagre trees where the land dipped too sharply for a farmer to use for cultivation. And always an awareness that, just beyond view, the sea lurked silent and still.

  Earlier, when they’d called in at the lettings agency, the owner had calculated there were fourteen properties with coastal access on their books. Of those, eleven currently had people in them.

  Describing the actual location of each property was far from easy: aside from the A5025, most of the roads on the top end of the island had no designated number. The owner of the lettings agenc
y explained that using a satellite navigation was pretty much useless; post codes were only a rough guide and frequently led down tracks only negotiable in a Land Rover. Far better was to use the old way of navigating: landmarks. The turn after the white cottage with roses at the front, the lane immediately after the old windmill, the hidden drive half-way along the approach road to Hen Borth Beach. Jon had slid a look at Iona. This was going to be a nightmare.

  The owner had also pointed out that Holyhead had a second, smaller, lettings company: Menai Cottages and Caravans. It also had some coastal properties in north Anglesey: probably about four. Then there were a smattering of properties let privately and at least two that belonged to the National Trust that the public were free to book.

  It was more than they could ever hope to cover in one day.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ Iona asked, holding up the sheet for each property once they were outside the office. ‘Concentrate on these?’

  ‘May as well,’ Jon replied.

  By lunch time, they’d only located two. Driving slowly past the first, they saw a line of small wet suits draped over the garden fence. The sounds of children playing in the back garden carried in through Iona’s open window.

  The other appeared empty.

  ‘You’ll need to take a closer look,’ Iona stated. ‘Elissa Yared? She knows me.’

  ‘Good point,’ Jon replied. He parked further down the lane then wandered back on foot. As he neared the front drive, he readied the property descriptions the owner of the lettings agency had printed off. If anyone asked, he was a holidaymaker, scouting potential holiday spots.

  There was a salmon pink bungalow next door with an old lady sitting out front. Jon held up a hand in greeting. ‘Hello.’

  She watched him warily.

  ‘I’m camping with my family, but my wife is interested in renting a cottage for next year. The place next door looks nice. Does it get busy?’

  ‘This time of year, it does. You’ll need to book early.’

  He had to lift a hand to shield his eyes from the sun as he surveyed the cottage. ‘Anyone in it at the moment?’