Death Games Page 5

  ‘What particular place is that?’ She’d crossed her arms and was stepping from foot-to-foot as if to keep warm.

  ‘It’s off the A34 – only a few minutes from here in a car. Just after you cross over the M60, there’s a side road; it leads to the driveway of this massive hospital that’s been closed down.’

  ‘The spooky thing?’ The question came from a girl with dyed blonde hair.

  Jon regarded her. ‘Big clock tower, but all the faces on it have been smashed in.’

  ‘That’s it!’ She turned to the others. ‘Have you not seen it? Well creepy.’

  Heads shook. The Irish girl’s ponytail swayed.

  She continued speaking to her mates. ‘One time, this guy suggested going there. It was nearly dark, but you could just make it out at the end of the drive. Shitting myself, I was.’

  Jon gave a cough. ‘I’m wondering if anyone was over there last night. Early hours of the morning.’

  ‘Kelly liked using it,’ the blonde haired one stated, ignoring Jon to address her mates.

  ‘That where she liked to go?’ the Irish girl asked. ‘She kept that quiet.’

  ‘She can have it all to herself, no joking.’

  ‘Does Kelly work round here?’ Jon asked.

  The Irish girl glanced at him. ‘Usually. I’ve not seen her today.’

  ‘She were here last night.’ This came from the youngest-looking girl.

  Nice strong Lancashire accent you’ve got there, Jon thought. ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Midnight. I saw her then. She were with Julie. By that girl’s school over there.’ She nodded in the direction Jon had come.

  Levenshulme High School for Girls, Jon thought. ‘But not since then?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘This Kelly, do you know her surname?’

  That got him an incredulous look.’

  ‘What does she look like, then? Age, height, hair colour – that kind of thing.’

  The girl bit on her lower lip as she thought about it. ‘My height, brown hair with some blonde bits. How old is she? About thirty?’

  ‘Thirty?’ The Irish girl laughed. She looked at Jon. ‘And another few years. Very thin, she is. Usually, she’s in high heeled black boots and a little yellow puffa jacket.’

  ‘Don’t suppose any of you know how I could contact her?’

  ‘What’s it about?’ the Irish girl asked. ‘Do we need to be worried?’

  Jon understood the question. Had someone been attacked? Are we in danger, too? ‘There’s a chance she saw something, that’s all. Someone fleeing from the scene of a car crash.’

  The Irish girl shrugged, attention switching back to the road. The others were starting to turn away, too.

  ‘How about the girl she was with? Julie, was it?’

  The youngest of the three nodded. ‘She sometimes works through the day. If she’s desperate.’

  ‘Come back tonight,’ the Irish girl said. ‘Sure they’ll both be out tonight. Saturday, isn’t it?’

  ‘OK.’ He reached for a card, then remembered he hadn’t been issued any by the CTU. Checking his wallet, he pulled out one from his time in the MIT. After crossing the number out, he scrawled his mobile across the top. ‘Here – my number.’

  The Irish girl pocketed it without a glance. ‘Grand.’

  ‘Ignore everything but the number in biro.’ He wondered whether to ask the youngest one exactly how old she was. But he’d lost their attention. The only thing he was doing now was getting in the way of business. ‘Thanks for your help,’ he called over his shoulder, setting off back to his car.

  CHAPTER 7

  ‘Put him in bay three, please.’

  The orderly nodded, elbows flexing as he began to push. The gurney glided silently though the usual cacophony of sounds filling the Accident and Emergency Department at Manchester’s Royal Infirmary.

  Quickly scraping her black hair back, the nurse re-tied it with a maroon hairband then studied the screen before her. The computer banded patients according to a traffic light system of colours: ones who’d progressed through to red needed to be seen within the hour if the hospital was to meet government-set waiting-time targets.

  Currently, the screen was dominated by green and orange. For late morning on a Saturday, we’re doing well, she thought. After lunch, the sports injuries would start to appear. Footballers with twists and sprains, rugby players with dislocations and concussions, hockey players with broken fingers.

  She glanced at the wall clock. Time for my break, she thought. The one from nearly an hour ago. ‘Darren, OK if I grab a breather?’

  The senior nurse glanced up from his spread of patient notes. ‘Go for it.’

  She walked along to the next bay where another band five nurse was working. ‘Maria, are you OK to cover me? Nothing urgent needs doing.’

  The Philipino nurse smiled serenely. ‘That’s fine.’

  She walked behind the main desk and into the staff area. Her locker was in the corner. Once she’d retrieved her phone and a bottle of water from it, she looked around for a seat. Frank the Delivery Man was standing before the vending machine, making his selection.

  She crossed to the opposite corner, sank gratefully into the nearest chair, kicked her Skechers off and put her feet up on the opposite seat. She started checking her Facebook page. Saturday night and she had nothing lined up. She came off shift at five. Normally, there was no way she’d be staying in – not with being off work tomorrow. Normally, she’d be furiously making plans. Nicole and Judy were going to the new Japanese place in Didsbury. That was an option. Shamin had suggested a cycle ride: no thanks. Marcus had a spare ticket for the Funk n Soul Club at Band on the Wall.

  ‘Elissa, how’s you?’

  She suppressed the urge to groan. Frank the Delivery Man was harmless, but he couldn’t take a hint. And the last thing she wanted was to be making polite chit-chat. She looked up with a smile. He was standing before her with that cheesy grin of his, a coffee in one hand, a Kit Kat in the other.

  ‘Hi Frank. I’m fine, thanks. You?’

  ‘Mmmm, not so bad.’

  Her eyes strayed back to her phone. ‘Good to hear it.’

  ‘Having a little break, are you?’

  ‘Yeah, just a quick one.’ She brought up Marcus’, post, wondering if the ticket was still spare. It would be fun. You should try, she told herself. Try to be the person you once –

  Her seat shifted as Frank flopped down beside her. ‘Traffic was terrible on the M60. There’d been a crash near junction three. The whole thing was closed. Luckily, I came off at junction nine of the M6, went up to the M62 and came into the city that way. I mean, it adds on a good twenty minutes, that. But no other choice with the M60 out.’

  Reluctantly, she placed her phone face down in her lap. ‘I bet. Many more deliveries to make?’

  ‘Stepping Hill. After that, more portable Nitrous Oxide canisters for the North West Air Ambulance.’

  ‘That’s not too bad, is it?’

  ‘No.’ He examined his cup, pursed his lips and blew a crater into the layer of foam.

  ‘So, what’s the gossip?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘Not much really.’ He lowered his voice. ‘No change to the schedule of our celebrity friend out on – ’

  She widened her eyes at him and he stopped speaking.

  ‘Sorry.’ He checked no one had been in hearing distance. ‘Oh, me and the missus are going to an agricultural show at Chatsworth on Sunday. About twenty shire horses are going to be there in a ploughing competition.’

  ‘Sounds interesting.’ She flipped her phone back over, wondering about the ticket once again.

  ‘Elissa Yared?’

  She looked up. A female, about her age, in jeans and a purple gilet with a white shirt beneath it. Black hair and bright – piercingly bright – blue eyes. Amazing eyes, Elissa thought. ‘Yes.’

  The woman gave a quick, almost apologetic smile. ‘Detective Constable Khan. Really
sorry to interrupt, but is there any chance...?’

  Elissa watched those brilliant blue eyes shift to Frank – and stay on him.

  He stared back for a moment, then blinked. ‘Ah, right.’ He turned to Elissa. ‘I need to get going anyway. I’ll drink this in the van.’

  ‘OK, see you about, Frank.’

  As soon as he was clear, Iona pointed to the seat he’d just vacated. ‘Mind if I sit down?’

  ‘Be my guest.’ Elissa took her feet off the opposite chair and sat up straighter.

  ‘I hope I didn’t interrupt anything – but you didn’t seem that, you know –’ She glanced at the door Frank had just walked out.

  ‘That obvious, was it?’ Elissa sighed. ‘He’s all right – just I was in the middle of doing something.’ She waggled her phone.

  ‘Don’t let me stop you,’ Iona replied, starting to unzip a small attaché case.

  ‘Are you sure? Cheers.’ She started typing a swift reply to Marcus, asking if the ticket for the Funk n Soul Club was still free. Her finger moved towards send, but she didn’t touch the screen. She tried to decide if she could face it.

  ‘Plans for the weekend?’ the detective asked.

  She placed her phone to the side, message unsent. ‘Yeah. A friend has a spare ticket for this funk night –’

  ‘Band on the Wall?’

  ‘Yes.’ She looked at the officer. ‘You know it?’

  ‘Bloody love it.’

  ‘It’s great, isn’t it?’ She pictured herself at the venue. Usually, she ended up dancing non-stop. Keeping that image in her head, she reached for her handset and pressed send. ‘Fingers crossed I haven’t missed it.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Iona replied. She let a second pass then opened her notebook. ‘OK, Elissa, there’s nothing formal about this; background enquiries, that’s all. They concern a relative of yours.’

  Elissa’s smile faltered. ‘I thought you were here about someone who’d come in for treatment.’

  ‘No, it’s about your cousin, Feiz Atwi.’ Iona watched the nurse’s face carefully.

  ‘Him? He left the country ages ago.’

  ‘Do you know of his whereabouts since he left the UK?’

  She pursed her lips. ‘You know I do. I’ve been spoken to before. Questioned. He went out the Middle East to join Isis.’

  ‘Are you aware of which countries he’s been to?’

  ‘No, but I’m guessing Syria. Why?’

  Iona jotted the essence of her reply down. ‘As I said, it’s just routine stuff. We think he features in a recent propaganda video.’

  Elissa looked queasy. ‘You don’t mean...not one of those ones where the poor prisoners...’

  ‘No,’ Iona interjected as soon as she realised where Elissa’s suspicions were leading. ‘Nothing like that.’

  ‘Where is this video? I mean, is it on the internet? Will everyone see it? His mum and dad, they’ve been spat at, you know? On the street, people spat at them when news first got out about Feiz.’

  Iona was cursing the badly-considered choice of cover story. ‘No, there’s no cause for concern. The footage was, I believe, seized by a foreign intelligence agency. It won’t be made public.’

  Elissa didn’t appear particularly reassured.

  ‘Since leaving the country, has your cousin made contact with you?’

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Has he ever attempted contact? Social media, maybe. Even just a text.’

  ‘No. I’ve explained this before; I didn’t know the guy.’

  ‘How about other people you know. Has he been in contact with anyone?’

  ‘I’m not aware of it.’

  ‘Not even his immediate family?’

  ‘The Atwis? They disowned him. Bilal and Furat, his mum and dad, they gave an interview to the Manchester Evening Chronicle, they were so ashamed.’

  ‘I’m aware of that. But has he contacted them in any way since?’

  ‘They haven’t said. Which part of the police are you from? Is it the Counter Terrorism Unit?’

  Iona was careful to keep eye contact. ‘Yes.’

  Elissa thought about that for a few seconds. ‘It was men before.’ She glanced up. ‘Who came to see me. That sounds sexist, I know. But...it was.’

  ‘OK, Elissa, I need you to think very carefully about this. Phone records, internet use: it can all be checked. It’s better you tell me now of anything you might have heard. Even the smallest thing.’

  ‘What, you’ll be going through my phone records?’ Elissa sounded outraged.

  Iona didn’t want her turning hostile. ‘If communication from Feiz is tracked to this country, that might happen. I wanted you to realise that.’

  ‘No one’s heard anything, I’m ninety-nine percent sure of that. Someone would have said if they had, I’m certain.’

  Iona noted her responses down. ‘What are your views?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You said Feiz’ parents were ashamed when he left to join Isis. How about you?’

  ‘Ashamed?’ Her eyes drifted for a second. ‘More sad, actually. Feiz wasn’t ever political. He was just a bloke who lost his way. He couldn’t find work – nothing long-term, anyway. So he decided to join Isis.’ She shrugged. ‘Now he’s stuck. Even if he wanted to get away, where does he go? Back here, he’ll just be arrested. He’s ruined his own life.’

  Iona kept writing. ‘And Isis. How do you feel about them?’

  ‘What? Would I like having to wear a hijab? Pack in my job and stay at home? Be forced to watch daily beheadings in Piccadilly Gardens?’

  Iona glanced up to see Elissa looking at her with arched eyebrows. ‘OK. As I said, it’s only background stuff.’

  ‘Really?’ Elissa replied aggressively. ‘Are you sure about that? You know about my brother, don’t you?’

  Iona nodded: it had featured in the notes she’d been given back at the office.

  ‘Tell me what you’ve heard,’ Elissa demanded. ‘What the official version currently is.’

  ‘He was killed almost a year ago when the hospital he was in was accidentally struck by a missile – out in Afghanistan. He was there as a doctor, working for Medics International.’

  ‘Accidentally struck, was it?’

  Iona was about to reply yes, but paused. ‘That’s what the report said.’

  ‘Who fired that missile?’

  ‘I…I don’t recall.’

  Elissa nodded. ‘That bloody figures.’ She looked down at her lap then glanced around the room. ‘He used to work here. Not in this department. Paediatrics. We shared a flat together.’

  In Didsbury, Iona thought. 4a Cattermere Avenue. You still live there. Alone, now. ‘It must have been very hard for you, what happened.’

  Elissa bowed her head. ‘It still is.’

  Iona found herself studying the side of the other woman’s face. She looked lost. No, worse than that: she looked bereft.

  Then a double blip came from the woman’s phone. She flipped it over to see the screen and smiled briefly.

  ‘Did you get the ticket?’ Iona asked, closing her notebook.

  ‘I did,’ Elissa replied.

  Iona stood. ‘Well, enjoy it. And thanks for your time.’

  Elissa watched the detective go. A video of Feiz; was that the truth, or were they fishing for something else? She wondered whether to ring Aunty Furat to see if the police had called on her yet.

  She felt unsettled and anxious knowing the stress that was caused to Furat when police came knocking at her door. The elderly woman would be beside herself, certain there was other news about her son. Stuff being held back. Lying in a dark bedroom: that would be how the wretched woman would probably spend the next day or two. Battling a migraine.

  Raising her phone, she looked at Marcus’ message. She didn’t feel like going now. She tapped out an apology: a family issue had just cropped up.

  Iona was about to get back into her car when she saw the parking ticket pinned bene
ath a windscreen wiper. Had the attendant been trained to ignore police notices that were propped on dashboards? Good luck chasing that fine, she thought, unlocking the vehicle and tossing the ticket onto the passenger seat.

  Right, next on the list. She slid the sheets from her attaché and the names she saw caused her heart to sink. Bilal and Furat Atwi: Feiz’s parents.

  When Weir had pulled her to one side at the end of the briefing, it had been to tell her the job of interviewing them was being given to her. He had asked as if it was some kind of favour: a female officer knocking on the door would be far less intimidating for the couple than a male.

  She double-checked the address. Park Crescent, Rusholme. A stone’s throw away from the Curry Mile, the stretch of road a little way out from the city centre that was bordered on both sides by dozens of restaurants, sari shops, jewellers and confectioners selling brightly-coloured Mithai.

  As she started the car, she thought about the woman she’d just interviewed. They were within a year of each other’s age. She seemed nice. A little worn out, but, part-way through a Saturday shift, that was only to be expected. Besides, Iona thought – nurses, teachers, police officers: we’re all permanently knackered, aren’t we? Or was Elissa more than tired? Sad? Even depressed?

  Iona found herself hoping she enjoyed it at Band on the Wall; a carefree night of dancing would do her good.

  When Iona pulled up outside the house, the first thing she saw was a woman standing at a ground floor window. She was staring out with a worried look on her face. The woman’s hair was silver.

  As the front door opened, Iona raised her ID. ‘Furat Atwi?’ The woman was probably in her early fifties: a bit young to have gone so grey. She nodded apprehensively. ‘I’m Detective Constable Khan. Could I come in for a quick word?’ For a moment, she thought the lady was about to lose her balance.

  ‘Is it Bilal?’ she asked, one hand seeking out the door frame.

  Iona frowned. ‘Your husband? No, I’m here to – ’ She paused. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I don’t know where he is! I thought, for a moment, you were here to...’