Death Games Read online

  He came to with a start. A woman’s face was almost above him. Her mouth was covered by tape. Wide, terrified eyes stared down at him. He blinked, utterly confused. Who was she? Where was he? He turned his head. A bedroom. I’m lying on a big soft bed. There was a roll of silver insulation tape in his hand. The same type of tape covering her mouth. I’ve been asleep, he realised.

  It made him angry to realise the woman had been watching him while he had slept. While he’d been vulnerable. He wanted to shove his palm into her face, to forcibly avert her gaze. He tried to sit up. A grinding in his left shoulder made him fall back with a gasp of pain. She looked away, breath starting to speed up. Who was she?

  Slowly and carefully, he raised himself into a sitting position. He had to cup his left elbow with his right hand. Every movement made him want to yell. What time was it?

  With his right hand, he reached down to just above his ankle. He realised he was wearing trousers. Denim jeans, dark blue. His fingers traced the outline of his knife, safe in the neoprene sheath that hugged his shin. He got to his feet and waited for waves of dizziness to pass. He looked at the woman. A little yellow jacket, black boots and a short skirt. He could see her legs, right up to her thighs. Tight loops of tape attached her hands to the chair. More of it had been wound about her ankles. The edges of her nostrils were rapidly flexing and she’d squeezed her eyes shut. I must have done this to her, he thought. Why?

  He checked the tape was secure then shuffled from the bedroom. A short corridor. A room at the end. Cautiously, he looked through the doorway to see if anyone was in there. Empty. He stepped carefully into the room. There was a mirror on the wall. He saw himself in the mirror and his eyes widened in shock: his hair was cut short and his beard was gone. There was a large bump above his right eye. Some minor cuts across his forehead and right cheek. He was wearing an orange top with three buttons at the collar. He stepped closer to the mirror. Small words on the top said Lacoste. Who had bought him this top? These jeans? On the wall above the mirror was a clock. Both hands were pointing upwards. Beyond the net curtains it was daylight. Almost noon, then. He stood in the middle of the room and willed his memory to work.

  It was obvious he was in a different country. Where he was from, no woman dressed like the one in the other room. Which country? It was cold. The room had a gas fire. There were shelves, but they were all empty. In the corner was a television and below it an Xbox. The packaging for the machine lay in the corner. He knew, somehow, he had thrown the packaging there and plugged the Xbox in to the television.

  Where, he wondered, is my phone? As he looked around, a dim image flickered in his mind. A trainer, the heel of it crushing a mobile against tarmac. He looked at his feet; he was wearing the same type of trainer. He closed his eyes and glimpsed his own hands prising the phone’s casing apart. A SIM card was snapped in two then thrown away. It disappeared in long grass. He’d thrown the pieces of his phone further down the slope. I destroyed my phone. Why did I destroy my phone? What happened?

  The window looked out on to a street. The kind of street you got in a city. On the far side of it was a grocery store. It looked similar to the kind from back home. Even the name: Mega-Mart. Where am I?

  A car went past and he glimpsed a sticker on its rear. GB. Great Britain. I’m in Britain. The realisation released a mass of memories. They flooded his mind, chaotic and unordered. A sliver of sky, viewed upwards from the floor of the lorry carrying boxes of peppers. Red, yellow, green. Arriving by ferry in a place called Hull. Seagulls, large as eagles. Their shrieks jabbing down from the grey sky. He saw a wide road. The green Honda waiting for him at a place where lorries parked. He had never seen so many lorries.

  Where was the man called Bilal, the one who had been in the green Honda? The one who was helping him? He could recall another stretch of coast. Driving to it had taken some time. A drone: he had been teaching Bilal how to fly a drone. Abruptly, he knew why he had come to this country.

  The realisation of what he’d been sent to do caused his heart to pound.

  He breathed deeply and tried to calm himself. Think! Night time. Travelling fast, in the dark. A line of little mirrors set into the middle of the road. They were the eyes of cats, Bilal had said. It was a good name. Then...then...nothing.

  One of the cars outside caught his eye. It was bright red. It seemed familiar. Did I drive that car? He couldn’t have: his shoulder was too painful. He could barely lift his arm. Did the woman own the car? The one in the bedroom? He thought that could be right. He had been in it; he was able to remember the smell of its leather seats. He concentrated on the memory of that smell and another image briefly emerged. Sitting behind the driver’s seat with his forearm across the woman’s throat.

  She knows, he thought. She knows what happened to me.

  CHAPTER 10

  Jon gulped down the last of his sandwich and stuffed the balled-up wrapper into one of the empty vending machine cups taking up the end of his desk. Should tidy that lot up when I get a minute, he thought, following Nick and Hugh into a meeting room.

  The detective inspector took the seat at the end of the table. ‘OK everyone, sit down anywhere. This won’t take long. First up, this is DC Jon Spicer. As one of the new intake of SFOs, he’s responsible for knackering all that overtime you’ve been enjoying of late.’

  Jon acknowledged the good-natured dig by inclining his head: recent austerity measures by the government had drastically reduced the number of Specialist Firearms Officers nationwide. Then the Home Office had decreed the threat from terror attacks warranted a big increase in the number of officers trained to use deadly force. But the government, keen to avoid an embarrassing u-turn, had sat on its hands for a while. The result was that the few SFOs still on the force had been inundated with opportunities for overtime. Jon was among the first batch of new SFOs to have been trained-up, and one of only six selected to bolster the CTU’s recently-formed Armed Response Unit.

  The detective opposite him leaned back in his chair. ‘Good to have you onboard, Jon. Not a moment too soon.’

  Heads nodded round the room.

  ‘Right, let’s bring you up-to-speed on this,’ Nick announced. ‘To my right on the wall behind me is a photo of Bilal Atwi, the fatality in the RTA on the M60 in the early hours of this morning. The car Mr Atwi was driving had been stolen from Leeds one week ago and then fitted with false number plates. Also travelling with Atwi was a male occupant who fled the scene. Among other items recovered from the car were the remains of a drone. Now, it could be the two of them are just a couple of minor criminals, travelling in a stolen, using their flying toy to scope out landed properties with a view to burgling them. It happens.’

  Jon glanced about: all eyes were on Nick. Everyone in the room knew that wasn’t the case.

  ‘However,’ the DI continued, ‘footage from the drone’s camera shows Stanlow Oil Refinery in the background.’ Nick’s glance stopped briefly on Jon. ‘A map also recovered from the crashed car had some handwritten notes in a foreign language.’

  ‘Arabic?’ someone asked.

  ‘Actually, no. We’re still waiting on what they are. The notes were written at a point on the map that’s within two kilometres of Wylfa, the nuclear power station on Anglesey. So we’re looking at the possibility they were undertaking reconnaissance for some kind of attack.’

  ‘Who is this Atwi character?’ the officer sitting next to Nick asked.

  ‘He appears relatively clean,’ Nick answered. ‘Of more interest to us is the son, Feiz.’ He pointed a thumb at the wall behind him. ‘Next to Mr Bilal Atwi is a picture of that son: he recently met his maker out in Syria. Feiz Atwi joined Isis almost three years ago. He was captured by a Syrian group opposing Assad who subjected him to some heavy questioning, as you can see. What Feiz coughed up has sparked a separate operation, called Stinger, that a team reporting to DCI Weir is handling.’

  Jon’s mind went back to the discovery at the photocopiers. Realising they we
re dealing with the same individual, he and the female detective had sat down to compare notes. She was undertaking routine background checks. When he asked what they related to, her answer had taken him completely by surprise. A stolen surface-to-air missile in Afghanistan? Jesus...he was looking at nothing more than a nicked car and suspicious behaviour on the M60. He zoned back in to what Nick Grant was saying.

  ‘Weir’s team is trying to establish if any links exist back to the wider Atwi family here. Worst-case-scenario is some kind of active terror cell is here in Manchester.’

  The detective opposite Jon shifted in his seat. ‘I’m never convinced about our Royals doing stints in the armed services. If they limited it to official ceremonies in all the regalia, fine – we wouldn’t have a problem. This active duty stuff: it’s asking for trouble.’

  A crop-haired officer with a mass of tattoos on his forearms sat forward. Definitely ex-armed forces, Jon thought, as the man started to speak with a Welsh accent.

  ‘My old man? He was serving on HMS Invincible during the Falklands war back in the 1980s. Remember that kicking off? Prince Andrew was also serving aboard the Invincible, flying helicopters. Sea Kings. They were all shitting themselves, convinced the Argies would target their ship because it had Royalty on it.’

  Nick sat back. ‘Seems flying helicopters runs in the family.’

  ‘Queen and Country, isn’t it?’ Hugh Lambert chipped in. ‘Helping out their mum.’

  The comment drew a few smiles.

  ‘Anyway, it is what it is,’ Nick said. ‘Weir’s team will continue to question members of the wider family. Analysis of their phone and internet usage has been prioritised. Us lot? DCI Pinner is overseeing our operation: we’ll be taking a much closer look at this car crash. Upstairs are trying to access Mr Atwi’s phone along with a camcorder, both recovered from the crash. Drone footage is being studied to establish where it was taken. We will be going over Mr Atwi’s business dealings: if there is some kind of terror cell, was he helping to finance it? Last thing is the mystery man who fled the scene. Jon?’

  He straightened up. ‘Firstly, it appears he’s injured his left arm. That’s according to the passenger of the interceptor that was first at the scene. The officer helped him to get clear of the wrecked Honda. Our mystery man was badly dazed, probably concussed – but the officer didn’t have time to make a proper assessment before he vanished. I’ve checked taxis and trains in the immediate area: no joy.’ He sent a questioning glance at Nick. ‘In case he was on foot, I believe CCTV cameras are...’

  Nick waved a hand. ‘Being taken care of.’

  ‘The only other thing, then – and it’s a shot in the dark to be honest – is the chance he was seen passing a nearby location that’s being used by working girls. I’ve been asking around – ’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ Hugh Lambert chuckled. ‘Questioning them in the back of your car?’

  A few of the other officers started to grin.

  ‘Thought he looked flushed when he arrived back earlier,’ Lambert laughed.

  Jon regarded the other man in silence. Eventually the other officer’s eyes made their way back to him. ‘What? Just a joke, mate.’

  ‘Right,’ Jon replied. ‘Hilarious.’

  The door opened and Carl, the techie from upstairs, poked his head in. ‘Nick, you asked to let you know straightaway if I got anything.’

  The DI beckoned. ‘What is it?’

  ‘A still from the camcorder: could be the other person from the car.’ He edged his way round the table and placed a sheet down before Nick. ‘Basically, whoever was filming decided to get a bit of the drone. Mostly, it’s close-ups of the thing being readied for take-off. Looks like they’re in a field, next to a big chunk of rock with a tortured-looking pine tree beside it. He steps back at one stage and zooms out slightly. Catches the other man’s head. Less than two seconds’ worth – this is the best image.’

  Jon stood up for a clearer look. A leanly-built man was crouching over the drone, head bent forward. He was wearing an orange polo top and his short black hair was being stirred by a light breeze. At a guess, he was thirty. ‘Could I see that?’

  Nick slid the photo across. ‘Does it match the description from the interceptor driver?’

  Jon sat back down and studied it for a second. Because the man was leaning forward, most of his face was hidden. But Jon could make out a broad forehead and the bridge of a strong aquiline nose. ‘Can’t see who else it could be.’

  Nick clenched a fist. ‘Ace. We need the interceptor driver to see a copy and confirm it, but good stuff. Carl, any luck with the phone?’

  ‘Not as yet.’

  ‘OK, everyone, we’ll work out who’s doing what. This knocks aside any other stuff you’re on for the time being, so get out there and clear your decks.’

  As everyone began to get up, the officer with the Welsh accent appeared at Jon’s side. ‘You been shown the gym, yet?’

  Jon had read the facility had something down in the basement. ‘No, I heard it’s good though.’

  ‘A few of us head down at the end of our shift. It’s got a proper boxing ring. You ever done any sparring?’

  Jon thought back to his rugby-playing days. Cheadle Ironsides had taken on an Australian coach for a couple of seasons who incorporated punch-bags into the training sessions. Jon remembered the dead weight of his arms after only two minutes of pounding away at the thing. ‘A bit.’

  ‘Come along. Let off a bit of steam with the lads. You’ll enjoy it.’

  ‘Cheers, I will.’

  ‘Kieran Saunders, by the way.’ He held out a hand.

  They’d started to shake when Jon’s phone started up.

  ‘I’ll let you get that.’ The other man dropped his hand.

  ‘Right, see you later, cheers.’ Jon fished his handset out and looked at the screen. The number wasn’t familiar and he was about to press call divert when something told him it was worth taking. ‘DI – ’ Swiftly, he corrected himself. ‘DC Spicer here.’

  ‘It were you before, out Burnage way?’

  He knew immediately who it was: the youngest of the three prostitutes he’d spoken to earlier. ‘Yeah, it’s me.’

  ‘That Julie, she’s back. The one I said was working with Kelly last night.’

  Jon waved in Nick’s direction, then lifted a thumb. ‘I remember.’

  ‘Kelly takes them to that mental-place that’s shut down. Her.’

  ‘And Julie’s there now?’

  ‘Aye. On the corner, next to that school.’

  CHAPTER 11

  He re-entered the bedroom with the knife in his hand. The fat blade was four inches long, before narrowing suddenly to a cruel point. She saw the weapon and the muscles in her neck bulged, tendons flexing in and out as she strained backwards in the seat.

  A fine row of serrations ran along the upper edge of the knife. He looked at her throat, at the ridged cartilage showing beneath her skin. He knew from experience that a rapid sawing motion would open her neck up in a few seconds. First the muscles, then the gristle of the windpipe, swiftly followed by the jugular veins and carotid artery. The hiss and spray that followed.

  He placed the knife on the bed and raised a finger to his lips, hoping the gesture was a universal one for quiet. She seemed to understand, judging by how she went still. He removed imaginary tape from his lips then pointed to her mouth. He raised his eyebrows in question.

  She nodded.

  He stepped closer. Moisture was making her skin glisten and there was a sharp smell coming from her. He half-peeled off the upper layers; that was the easy part. When he reached the layer attached to her skin, it would be different. Her flesh seemed welded to the material’s tacky underside. As he pulled harder, the skin stretched like rubber. Tears appeared from her closed eyes.

  He yanked sharply and part of the tape came away red with blood. Her head jerked back and she gasped through the bloody corner of her mouth. His hand stayed poised before her face, but she didn’
t try to scream.

  He made a clicking noise with his tongue, as if calling to a dog.

  After a few seconds, her eyes opened.

  He opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. How to say it in English? He didn’t know. ‘You.’ He pointed to the window and then gripped an imaginary steering wheel. ‘You?’ He pointed to the floor. ‘Yes?’

  She stared back at him.

  He repeated the actions again. ‘You?’

  Her head shook and she tried to say something from the side of her mouth.

  He couldn’t understand the words. He raised and lowered his hands, trying to get her to speak more slowly. Instead, she spoke faster. He heard the word please. She kept saying it.

  The only words he knew were things like hello, please and thank you. In school, he had been taught Russian. He also knew just enough Arabic to get by. He tried Russian. ‘Chto sluchilos?’

  She continued to babble at him, chin now wet with blood.

  That only left his native tongue, which was hardly spoken beyond the Caucasian mountains where he grew up.

  Her voice was getting louder, more shrill. It was no good. He smoothed the tape back in place, glad to put an end to her noise.

  In the front room, he raised a hand to his face and pressed at his temples with a thumb and forefinger. Trying to squeeze his memories free. After a few seconds, he squatted before the Xbox. He could recall the people teaching him how it worked. He could clearly picture the childish game they’d shown him: the brightly-coloured dragons that lived in a mountain-top world, high above the fluffy clouds. There were lots of caves for storing gold coins and other treasure. The dragons flew around and could speak to one another and he knew that was how he was meant to keep in contact. He knew all this but it still did no good. As a means of communication, the game was useless – unless he could remember the words he needed to log on.