The Game

by Luca Veste

  Joanna Carter’s email account had helped, along with the private messages in her social media. That might be an issue if he was wrong – it wasn’t technically his case, but he’d managed to get access to it. He hoped it wouldn’t count against him.

  He waited for DI Bennett to arrive and settle into her office before taking a breath and making his way over there. He’d gone through half a pack of Polo mints and was currently chewing on gum. From DI Bennett’s look as he entered the room, he didn’t think he looked his best.

  ‘I was working late,’ Mark said, sitting down, the stack of papers in his lap. ‘Sorry about that. I know you wanted us to go home early—’

  ‘It’s fine,’ DI Bennett replied, interrupting him with a wave of one hand. ‘I’ve been dealing with delegating out another death this morning. Looks gang-related.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Some young lad, beaten to death in Walton. I’ve handed it over to Matrix to deal with. They think it’s a drug deal gone wrong. What have you got for me?’

  ‘I think we’re missing something with both Emily Burns and Joanna Carter. Something that links them together.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, it’s going to sound a little weird, but I need you to bear with me.’

  Mark began to speak, telling her about The Game and the little history he had found on it. It was patchy, nowhere near extensive enough, he knew, but he was building a complete picture slowly. Hoping the amount of information would be hard to ignore.

  ‘So, we have this thing online that is talked about a lot,’ Mark said, continuing his monologue. He glanced up at DI Bennett, who was giving away nothing. ‘We’ve seen this sort of thing before, but this seems to be more on the quiet. And it fits perfectly with what we saw Joanna doing on the CCTV. She was re-enacting the rules of one form of this game.’

  ‘She was being made to play some sort of game – that’s what you’re telling me?’ DI Bennett asked, and this time her expression had changed. ‘And she was either killed at the end, or killed herself to really atone for her supposed crimes?’

  ‘Yes… I mean, no, of course not really,’ Mark replied, hearing the eagerness in his tone. He couldn’t let her dismiss this so easily. ‘It doesn’t really exist. That’s not what I’m saying. It’s… it’s a form of punishment. Joanna and Emily did something wrong and they had to play a game to atone for it. Say, you got found doing something you were ashamed of and someone came along and said play this game and it’ll go away, you’d do it, right? If you struggle with life anyway, you might try it out, right? If you were desperate. Then, if it doesn’t work, they’re destroyed mentally.’

  ‘So, you’ve spent all night proving Joanna Carter committed suicide?’

  ‘No, that’s not the point,’ Mark said, unable to hide the irritation from his voice. Now he really was losing DI Bennett. ‘The thing is, I think this is murder. And there are two victims in the past week alone. And more.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Emily’s sister spoke with her about this game a few months ago. Stephanie wrote about it in college for an assignment and Emily was asking lots of questions about it. I went through the reports from her laptop and she googled different versions of these games. Joanna Carter did the same thing.’

  ‘I’m not following…’

  ‘It’s a link,’ Mark said, trying to keep his cool. To keep calm. ‘And that’s not all. It got me thinking, about the fact that Joanna’s body was found before Emily’s, but she died after. Something went wrong with both of these deaths – Joanna, we see someone following her on CCTV. And Emily was beaten before being killed. It was supposed to look like suicide. I started looking at missing people all over the country, who turned up dead.’

  ‘That’s a long list, I bet.’

  ‘Of course. I found that pretty quickly. I’ve found a number of cases that are similar though.’ He handed over a pile of printouts he’d been holding back for the right moment. This was it. ‘That’s six more deaths. Three in Newcastle. Three in Leeds. They were considered suicides, and someone noticed that each of them had displayed odd behaviour in the weeks leading up to them being found. And that’s not all. There’s probably more. This isn’t all just a coincidence. They were all found within days of each other as well. They thought it was a suicide pact each time, but they could never find a link. Not until now. There has to be more out there as well.’

  Mark waited as DI Bennett leafed through the pages, sitting back in his chair. It wasn’t as heavy on detail as he would have liked, but he thought he’d done enough.

  She would see what he could see now.

  ‘I fail to see how any of this has any relation to our case.’

  Mark thought he had heard her wrong. ‘I don’t…’

  ‘Mark, you’re clearly overworked and knackered. All you’ve given me here is a silly ghost story kids have told each other and some suicides hundreds of miles away. People kill themselves every day. They’re not all connected.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘But nothing, Mark,’ DI Bennett said, pushing the papers back his way and folding her arms across her chest. ‘This is ridiculous. You’re asking me to believe, what, exactly?’

  ‘The Game… it’s being used somehow. They’ve been chosen or volunteered to do it and then they’re being murdered.’

  ‘There’s no evidence for that—’

  ‘Yes, there is,’ Mark said, and now he was shouting. He didn’t care anymore. ‘Emily’s blood being found away from her body was for a reason. It’s because it was supposed to look like she killed herself in that yard. Only it didn’t work out that way and she almost escaped. Then, whoever it was panicked and put her where she was found. Probably to frame her uncle when it became obvious she’d been strangled, rather than slit her wrists. It all fits. I bet you anything, if we look into those other deaths, we’d find the same thing. And there’ll be more, I reckon. It’s obvious.’

  DI Bennett didn’t say anything, staring him down. She cocked her head, studying his face.

  ‘Look, I know this sounds crazy,’ Mark said, lowering his voice and trying to salvage the moment. ‘Nothing about this makes any sense, but we can’t just ignore what’s been happening here. This isn’t what it looks like. And more people are in trouble. Holly Edwards, the girl who came in and confessed to Joanna’s murder – that could be part of this game. We need to pick her up and find out.’

  ‘We’re charging Richard Burns with murder at around lunchtime, I think,’ DI Bennett said, her voice betraying no reaction to what he’d just laid out for her. ‘Forensics came back on his car this morning. They found Emily’s hair in it and we also found blood. Will take a few days to confirm it, but it’s enough for a charge for now.’

  ‘Her hair? Of course it’ll be in his car. She’s his niece. The blood could be from any time—’

  ‘That’s enough, Mark,’ DI Bennett said, talking over him. ‘This is my fault. I should have noticed this was all a bit much for you. It’s understandable, it really is, but you’re seeing connections when there aren’t any. The CCTV might not be as we see it – maybe Rich Burns was stooped over. It’s only a short clip. It could be unconnected. Joanna could have seen something she shouldn’t have and been killed to keep her quiet. Emily was definitely killed by her uncle. There’s just not enough evidence to suggest otherwise. Holly Edwards is a troubled girl, who is now being assessed by the mental health team. That’s all there is to this. Just look at the facts. That’s all I’m asking you to do.’

  ‘You can’t ignore this.’

  ‘I have to, Mark. For now.’

  Mark closed his eyes and wished he could go back. To before this week, when all he had to contend with was being ignored or ridiculed. This was somehow worse.

  God really hates a trier.

  ‘Let me keep working on this angle. That’s all I’m asking for, okay?’

  DI Bennett stared at him, then stood up and walked closer to him. ‘Take the day a
nd consider things a little more clearly. I don’t want to see you back here until tomorrow. You need to get some rest and let us get on with things. There’s nothing here, Mark. Maybe a little space is what you need, so you can see what’s really going on.’

  ‘I don’t want to do that,’ Mark said, but could see it was too late. If this was a US cop show, it would be about the time he was being asked for his gun and badge, but it wasn’t that. This was the UK and real life. He was being sent away so he couldn’t interfere any longer. Quietly moved aside. ‘You just want me out the way, isn’t that right? So you can shut this case down, wrap it up in a neat little bow. Charge the uncle, because it’s always a family member, right? That’s what you said to me the other day. You can’t see it being anything else, other than a man related to a dead girl.’

  ‘It has nothing to do with that…’

  ‘Really?’ Mark shouted, and now he could see movement outside the office. ‘I came to you because I thought you’d be willing to listen and understand that there’s more to this than just a couple of dead teenagers. Instead, I get laughed at. Just like I have been since I joined the team. That’s all you lot think of me. Not that I’m one of you, but someone to baby and treat like an interloper. That’s right, isn’t it? I should have known better.’

  ‘It’s time to leave, Mark,’ DS Cavanagh said from behind him, standing in the doorway.

  Mark looked at him, then back at DI Bennett. ‘I thought you were better than… than them out there. Guess I was wrong.’

  He didn’t say another word, grabbing his papers and walking out of DI Bennett’s office. Mark grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, sending it spinning a few feet as he did so. He heard the clatter of something falling to the floor as he left, the door slamming behind him.

  DS Cavanagh caught up with him as he was waiting for the lift. He pressed the button a few more times, with increasing force, avoiding the man’s gaze.

  ‘What?’ Mark said, when Cavanagh’s presence at his side became too annoying.

  ‘Get a couple of hours’ sleep and then get back to it,’ DS Cavanagh replied, leaning against the wall and folding his arms across his chest. ‘There’s something more going on. And if you’re the only one who can see that, then so be it. If you need anything, give me a shout. I’m a phone call away. It’s better if you’re not here for now though.’

  With that, DS Cavanagh walked away before Mark had a chance to say anything in response.

  It wasn’t until he was sitting in his car minutes later, knuckles turning white on the steering wheel as he gripped it, that reality began to set in.

  He’d probably just screwed himself up royally.

  He wanted to bang the wheel in frustration. Wanted to scream and shout his feelings away, but it wouldn’t help him. It wouldn’t help anyone.

  There was only way out.

  He had to prove he was right.

  Forty-Six

  Mark drove from the station car park, then pulled into the new retail park further down Great Homer Street. His phone jittered in his hand, as the adrenaline running through him took hold. He forced himself to close his eyes and breathe in and out a few times, but it made no difference.

  He looked at his phone and saw a number of missed calls from Natasha. A couple of messages asking him to call her. Mark navigated to the contacts on his phone, then pressed on the last number dialled. Heard the tone a few times, then voicemail kick in. Waited a few minutes, then tried again.

  There was still no answer on Natasha’s phone.

  He closed his eyes again, phone in his hand, waiting for her to call him back.

  Back to the case at hand, he thought. His personal life could wait.

  There was no way that they would warn Emily’s family off speaking to him. It hadn’t been that bad, he thought. So he’d lost his temper a little bit – it wasn’t like he’d smashed the incident room up or anything like that. He’d shouted and been thrown out. It could have been much worse.

  He would put speaking to the family again on the list.

  On the passenger seat, the information he’d gathered the previous night was stacked up. He opened his eyes, began leafing through some of the papers, hoping to find something more. Something else he could take back and show DI Bennett or any of the others. Something tangible. One part of him could see the reality of the situation. What he’d tried to pass on to DI Bennett and how stupid it had all sounded.

  His phone lay dormant in his other hand, coming to life with a quick swipe. Something had been bugging him since the previous night – something he had read or heard. A distant memory he couldn’t quite grasp.

  He opened the anonymous Facebook account on his app and began looking around his feed. Saw the link to a news story from the Liverpool Echo article, which is when it finally clicked.

  He’d seen a mention a few days earlier – before he’d known about the existence of The Game. He clicked on the page and began searching back to the previous news articles, looking for the correct one.

  There were more than a few about the events of the previous week. He went through them all as quickly as he could, trying to find the one he’d seen. Reading through endless comments, searching for the one he could only just remember.

  It had mentioned The Game. He was sure of it.

  It took him ten minutes to finally find it. By that point, his phone was almost dead, so he had to attach the charger in his car to keep it going.

  She played The Game and lost. Shame it wasn’t the other twin. Would have been more fun.

  The comment had been left a couple of days earlier, but now, it seemed like it was something he shouldn’t have scrolled past. It was buried under a number of similar comments. Now, it took on a much different light, given what it said.

  The Game…

  It was the capitalisation of the word, so odd in comparison to the rest of it. He had dismissed it without even thinking – yet, with what he knew now, it meant more.

  It meant that whoever had left the comment could know something.

  He clicked on the name of the person who’d left the comment, knowing what was probably going to be the result.

  ‘Bastard.’

  There were no details to be seen; all hidden from non-friends. He sent a friend request anyway, hoping it would be accepted without thinking. Then he looked at the name, expecting it to be as fake as the picture.

  The picture…

  He clicked on the pictures that were on the profile, a vast array of different anonymous and cartoony characters coming on screen. Even on private profiles, the pictures were available. A history of profile photos switched over a number of years. He swiped through them, eventually finding one that he thought might be the real person.

  He was young. Around fourteen or fifteen, he guessed. He looked at the date of the profile picture, realised it was around three years old.

  The name could be real then, he thought.

  Mark dialled another number. ‘Cav, it’s Mark,’ he said, and heard an intake of breath over the phone.

  ‘Didn’t think you’d be calling me this quick,’ DS Cavanagh replied, trying to act cool and calm, he thought. People listening to his conversation possibly.

  ‘Yeah, something has just come to me,’ Mark replied, keeping his voice straight, trying to sound as normal as possible. ‘I need an address…’

  * * *

  All he’d needed was a name and an area. That was enough to get an address for the lad. It sometimes worried him how easy it was to find people, but at that moment he was glad it was that way. DS Cavanagh had been almost entirely silent on the call, before texting him the address he’d needed.

  That was two of them in the shit if he didn’t get a result now.

  He’d tried calling Natasha again on the drive there, but it was still ringing out and going to voicemail. He considered leaving a message, but thought better of it. It would only end up sounding garbled and desperate. He needed to wait until this was over.


  The house was in a nice area to the north of the city, bordering the posh bit of Formby and beyond. It was situated in a small cul-de-sac of detached houses, all with their own driveways and manicured lawns. A world away from the council estates a mile or so down the road. He stood back on the doorstep and waited for an answer. Knocked again when a few more seconds went by.

  A woman in her forties answered the door, a teatowel in her hands, soap bubbles running up her forearms. She was in full make-up and dress, as if she were about to go for a nice meal. It was almost lunchtime, Mark thought. How the other half live…

  ‘Morning,’ Mark said, wondering if she would give him even a little time before closing the door. His ID was in his hand just in case. ‘I’m Detective Constable Mark Flynn, from the Merseyside Police. I’m looking for John Redwood. Is he home?’

  From the look of surprise on her face, he guessed that was the last thing she’d been expecting him to say. She stood open-mouthed for a second, then seemed to find herself again. ‘He’s… he’s in bed, I think.’

  ‘Can I come in and have a chat with John? It’s important.’

  She still didn’t move, so Mark lifted his warrant card, just to slam the point home a little further. He doubted she would remember his name very quickly, but he didn’t let her linger too long on looking at it.

  ‘Please, come in,’ she said, stepping back and letting the teatowel hang at her side limply. She offered her hand and Mark took it, then wiped it discreetly on his trousers as he moved into the house; her hand was still damp, slick with some kind of cleaning product. Her voice was barely constrained Liverpool – the accent of the upper middle class in the city, just prim and proper enough to be accepted into different circles than the norm. ‘Excuse the mess, but I wasn’t expecting visitors.’

  Mark turned to her and smiled. ‘That’s okay. You have a lovely home. He’s upstairs. is he?’

  He didn’t wait for a response before stepping onto the stairs, hearing a little noise of agreement, before taking them two at a time. It was as much as he’d been expecting when he’d arrived – the rest of the house immaculate, doors opened, all of them apart from one.