The Silent Games

by Alex Gray

  As he was bundled into the car, he caught sight of a woman in the front passenger seat, holding up her hand to catch the men’s attention as she listened to the mobile phone pressed against her ear.

  ‘It’s Drummond,’ the female officer said, looking up at the men now on either side of their prisoner. ‘There’s an unidentified package in the Emirates Arena. We’ve to pass this one over and get our backsides across there now!’

  ‘What about the house?’

  ‘Later,’ she said shortly. ‘Get a move on.’

  McAlpin stood motionless, watching and listening through the crack in the kitchen door, sweat trickling between his shoulder blades. They’d be back to clear out this place in no time. He waited until he heard the sound of the car drive off from the kerb, then let out a long sigh, unaware that he had been holding his breath. Worsley’s kit was in the back room. But was there time to retrieve it?

  The big man crept through the flat and turned the key in the door. The room was in darkness, a blackout blind keeping it safe from prying eyes, but he did not dare turn on a light in case one of them was lurking out there still.

  He bent down and felt under the spare bed, fingers touching a long metal box that contained enough explosives to blow up the entire Commonwealth Games village and the stadiums around it. He pulled it gently, unsure just how volatile its contents might be.

  If they’d got Worsley then had they managed to locate the others? His bull head rose as he listened, but there was no sound to make him suppose that there was anyone else in the flat.

  Rising to his feet, he slipped out of the room and looked around. The rucksack he had made Worsley buy was lying behind the settee, still in its plastic carrier bag. It was a matter of a few minutes to stuff his new clothes into it, the metal box snugly wrapped inside. Then, with only a backward glance at the empty room, the big man closed the door behind him and began to stride down the street towards the nearest bus stop.

  Kenneth Gordon McAlpin would be heading out to Glasgow Airport to finish this job, one that other terrorists had failed to complete years before; and not before time either.

  Detective Superintendent Lorimer’s eyebrows rose in surprise at the sound of Drummond’s voice. He hadn’t expected to hear from the MI6 man again so soon.

  ‘We’ve got them,’ he said shortly. ‘Thank God! All of them except McAlpin.’

  Lorimer could hear the strain in the man’s voice. They were only days away from the opening ceremony.

  ‘You’d better get your officers out there now. Their explosives man told us he was harbouring McAlpin. False alarm out at the Emirates Arena held us up,’ he grumbled. ‘By the time we searched Worsley’s place there was no sign of McAlpin. But he can’t be far away. And he’s carrying the makings of the bomb they were about to use.’

  Lorimer opened his mouth to thank him, but the call had already been ended. Now it was a matter for the police to apprehend this fugitive, a man who was not only a dangerous killer but was also suspected of carrying some lethal explosives on his person.

  In a matter of minutes he had alerted several units, emergency services and firearms amongst them, plus their own anti-explosives team. Every train station, bus depot and airport was on alert through the British Transport Police, and many eyes were watching screens linked to the hundreds of CCTV cameras in and around the city. Thanks to Marlene McAdam, they also had a photofit of McAlpin’s current appearance: a big thickset man with a mere fuzz of ginger on his newly shaven head, the tattoos more than likely hidden from sight.

  Lorimer recalled the night on the Cathkin Braes when McAlpin had felled him to the ground. His fingers curled into fists as he thought about where the man would go. Would he have an alias of some sort by now? More than likely these groups were well prepared, with false names on a variety of passports.

  His mind worked furiously, trying to put himself into McAlpin’s shoes.

  If he were trying to make an escape armed with a box of highly dangerous explosives, where would he go to inflict maximum damage? The thought was no sooner in his head than he had grabbed his jacket and was heading for the car park.

  ‘Drummond, I think I know where he could be heading,’ he said, the security service’s mobile pressed to his ear as he hurried towards the Lexus. ‘Can you meet me there?’

  He was probably going to be booked for speeding, though that was the last thing on his mind as the Lexus raced along the outside lane towards Glasgow Airport. There would be no time to park anywhere properly. Barely enough time for Drummond to alert the Transport Police about their intentions. And the detective superintendent knew that it might be only a matter of minutes before they intercepted their quarry.

  The bus rolled to a halt beside the concrete island, its door sighing open to allow the passengers to climb down and wait for the driver to take their luggage from the hold. Only a few moved away from the crowd, those with backpacks or briefcases, who headed towards the entrance of the airport. Destinations awaited them all, places where the sun shone more brightly or where home beckoned after time spent in Bonny Scotland. The mood was subdued, the passengers in that nowhere time between bus and plane, a feeling of patience building up for the procedures of passport control and body searches that were part of travelling in a world where terrorism held sway.

  One, a tall, burly man with a black baseball cap emblazoned with the Glasgow 2014 logo, took a pair of sunglasses from his pocket and put them on, hardly breaking his stride. He had broken away from his fellow passengers and now he was crossing the last strip of tarmac that separated him from the entrance to the airport.

  Once inside, he would merge in with the crowd, set down his rucksack beside a line of waiting passengers and saunter back out again into the sunshine. As the door to the airport grew closer, his fingers inched towards his pocket, feeling the bulge of the hidden device that would detonate the bomb.

  A silver Lexus screeched to a halt yards from the man hurrying towards the door marked Departures. McAlpin caught sight of a familiar figure running towards him, followed closely by a sandy-haired man who was looking straight at him.

  He hesitated for a moment, then stopped, raising the backpack in both hands.

  ‘Come on then,’ he sneered, waving the bag above his head. ‘One more step and I’ll blow your brains out!’

  The tall man continued to walk towards him as though unconcerned for his own safety, the other retreating, waving people back.

  ‘Hand it over, McAlpin. There’s been enough bloodshed already,’ Lorimer said.

  The big man shook his head and grinned. ‘Take you with me, won’t I?’ He laughed out loud. ‘Well here you are. Catch!’

  The backpack flew through the air, a dark shape against the pale blue sky, and for a moment both men seemed to freeze as they watched its rise and descent.

  Then, as McAlpin continued to look up, Lorimer rushed at the man, grabbing his legs in a well-timed rugby tackle.

  As the two men crashed to the ground, Lorimer was aware of the sound of running feet. Then other hands reached down, Drummond and the transport officers intent on containing the man who was groaning in a heap on the ground.

  As they hauled McAlpin to his feet, Lorimer did not notice the dark baseball cap rolling away from him, its logo turning and turning until it came to rest, the green G winking in the summer sunshine.

  He looked at Drummond, who was standing guard beside the backpack containing the explosives, a question in his eyes.

  ‘The area’s been evacuated,’ the MI6 man told him.

  Drummond turned to acknowledge the man in khaki uniform who had appeared by their side. ‘Right, Sergeant. It’s all yours,’ he said, taking a few steps aside, allowing the soldier to examine the backpack.

  ‘I reckon he hadn’t the brains to set this thing off,’ the sergeant told the detective superintendent. ‘At least, let’s hope not.’

  Drummond raised his eyebrows and grinned, then sketched a salute of farewell as he made to follow th
e officer from the bomb squad who was carrying the backpack away.

  Lorimer stood there for a long moment, a solitary figure gazing at the airport buildings, trying not to imagine the smoke and rubble that could have been there instead.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  23 July 2014

  ‘Pity it didn’t work out the way we’d hoped,’ Peter MacGregor sighed. ‘Wonder what happened to the boy?’

  ‘A girl will be behind it somewhere, I bet you,’ Joanne replied, giving her husband’s arm a squeeze. ‘Handsome young fella like that. Anyway, we got tickets, just not so close to the royal box as he promised.’

  ‘What annoys me most is not having my dirk,’ Peter grumbled, indicating the top of his kilt stocking where the sgian dubh should have been inserted.

  ‘Probably wouldn’t have got it past security,’ replied Joanne. ‘My, but they sure are careful, aren’t they? Never expected the military to search everyone’s baggage and put us through those X-ray machines. Like going through the airport all over again. Anyway, here we are,’ she said excitedly, gazing round at the ranks of people above and below them, the stadium filled to capacity for the opening ceremony of the Glasgow Commonwealth Games. The excitement was almost tangible as the crowd gave an appreciative roar, then everyone got to their feet.

  ‘Is that . . . ?’ Joanne’s eyes turned to a familiar figure entering the front row below them.

  ‘Sure is, darling.’ Peter grinned, clapping and cheering with the rest of the enormous crowd. Then, as a band struck up the first notes of the National Anthem, the sound of cheering was replaced by a wave of voices singing.

  Joanne felt her husband’s fingers entwine with her own and tears misted the woman’s eyes as she watched the royal figure standing motionless and dignified below them.

  Asa pressed her face to the window of the Land Rover, ignoring the man and woman who had come all the way to bring her safely home. A holiday, they’d said, the Nigerian officer interpreting their words for the girl. We would like to see the animals and the birds in your country, they had explained. And so she had been content to travel with Bill and Maggie, her two new friends, plus the lady from the embassy who was there acting as a translator.

  The dust from the red earth blew up in twin clouds either side of the vehicle as they trundled over the pitted track, scrubby trees showing where elephants had been, branches split and broken as they foraged for food. Sometimes the Scottish woman would exclaim at the sight of a baboon running for cover as the Land Rover came too close; often the man was looking skywards, binoculars trained on some hawk or other, things that Asa had taken for granted all her young life but that seemed to be a new treat for these white people.

  Looking up, Asa stared at the sky above her, an African sky, wider than the ocean they had crossed. And it seemed to the girl that the blue heavens were holding out their mighty hands, enfolding her in a blessing: the promise of sun, rain and starlight.

  The vehicle turned at last into a flat clearing surrounded by a cluster of simple whitewashed houses, their roofs made from sheets of corrugated metal. Beyond them, past fields of tall green maize, she caught a glimpse of the thatched huts where her grandparents had been born.

  A young girl, her hair braided tightly to her head, appeared from behind one of the buildings, then waved and yelled as the Land Rover came to a stop. In response to her cry, people began to emerge from the houses, until there was a small crowd of men, women and children running along the path towards them, their clothes bright splashes of colour against the dusty ground.

  Asa stepped out, her legs weary after so much sitting.

  Everything seemed so much smaller than she remembered. The few houses were as nothing compared to the city where she had been, the twittering weaver birds simply part of the landscape after the noises of traffic and shouting people.

  ‘You’re home now, Asa,’ Maggie said, and the girl turned, hearing her voice. Home, the woman had said.

  Asa smiled. She had learned only a few words of English, but as she walked towards the village and the welcoming faces of her African friends, she knew that this was one word she would never forget.

  Epilogue

  Daylight dazzles in its fading

  a yellow sky above dry yellow bush,

  tawny, like the lions

  coming to feed at the waterhole.

  A tree full of twittering weavers

  stands out starkly

  in this African gloaming.

  Then, like a gauzy veil

  the blue deepens

  and the first star sparks.

  The horizon spreads its burning fire

  Like a sudden wind – though it is windless.

  Water reflects back a vision

  of ink-black trees

  drowned in molten lava.

  Then frogs and crickets chorus

  louder and persistent

  as the veil thickens into darkness.

  Author’s Note

  The sgian dubh (Gaelic for ‘black dagger’) is a sharp knife about six inches in length. Traditionally worn in the right kilt sock with the handle showing, it was once a blade concealed in the armpit out of sight of any potential enemy. The hilt was often embellished with a rare jewel, a practical means of carrying wealth secreted in a Highlander’s apparel. The black (dubh) referred to the black bog oak from which the handle was usually made, as well as the blackness of evil intent.

  Nowadays it is worn as part of a full Highland dress, often at Burns suppers, where it is used to cut open the traditional haggis.

  Although the setting of this book is the Commonwealth Games, all the characters and events connected to them are fictional.

  Acknowledgments

  It never fails to astonish me how willingly so many people give of their time and expertise to assist me in researching my work. Without them the novels would lack those authentic touches that I believe bring my stories to life. I have many people to acknowledge, experts in their own fields, letting me share the secrets of their professions. Several Scottish police officers must be thanked, including those in the anti terrorist squad at Stewart Street; DC Mairi Milne, whose words of wisdom keep me on the right track, and DI Bob Frew, who never minds my sporadic emails coming out of the blue; Dr Marjorie Turner, friend and consultant forensic pathologist without whose aid Rosie would be standing waving a scalpel in the air and not knowing what to do with it; Baillie Liz Cameron for introducing me to the right people; Jim Doyle of Glasgow City Council for sending me the extensive information about child trafficking; David Grevemberg’s team at the Glasgow 2014 offices, especially Janette Harkess and Matthew Williams; David Robertson for being so willing to assist me in forensic matters; my friend Kate MacDougall for pointing me in the right direction about child protection; Stuart Wrigley of Terry’s Tattoo Studio for being so willing to teach me all about the art of tattooing and even allowing himself to slip between the pages of the story as himself; Dr Fiona Wylie for the sound information about toxins and their effects; Professor Jim Fraser for his wonderful suggestions about explosive devices. And there are others whose support is invaluable to me: my great editor Jade Chandler, who is continually helpful; David Shelley (who seems happy to have me as his longest-standing author); my agent, the one and only Jenny Brown, who understands all the stresses and strains that are part of being a writer; Moira, without whom my diary would be a shambles, and the rest of the LB team, who do so much work; my family, who accept me despite the awful things I do to people between the pages of books, especially my husband, Donnie, who is the best roadie this crime-writing lady could ever wish for.

  Announcement to Keep the Midnight Out

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Alex Gray’s next riveting novel featuring DCI Lorimer

  KEEP THE MIDNIGHT OUT

  Available from Witness Impulse

  Summer 2018

  An Excerpt from Keep the Midnight Out

  Chapter One

  They called it ‘the splash’; t
hough the boat that crept silently, oars dipping lightly in and out of the water creating myriad bubbles of phosphorescence, made little sound at all. It was vital to keep quiet; the time for frightening the fish would not come until the net was properly laid across the mouth of the burn. After that the oars would be raised high and brought down with force, driving the sea trout from their shadowy lairs straight into the trap. It was illegal, of course, had been for decades, but that did not stop more intrepid poachers sneaking in at dead of night and lying in wait for the fish. Unfair, unsporting, the fishery bodies claimed, though most folk here, on the island of Mull, recognised the thrill of rowing under the stars and risking some wrath from the law enforcers.

  Ewan Angus Munro glanced back over his shoulder to see his son playing out the last of the splash net; the ancient cork floats now in a perfect arc across this narrow neck of water. Young Ewan looked towards his father and nodded; the first part of the deed was done and now all that remained was to ensure that the fish would be scared out from their hiding places by the sudden noise of oars thrashing on the surface so that they would rush towards the net.

  The old man turned the boat with an expertise that came from many years of practice, then headed back towards the shallow channel. He raised the oars, resting them in the rowlocks, water dripping like molten rain from their blades. The small craft was allowed to drift a little before Ewan Angus turned to his son again, the eye contact and nod a definite signal to begin the second stage of their night’s work.

  Young Ewan Angus stood, legs apart, perfectly balanced in the centre of the boat, one oar raised high above his shoulder as the older man watched him, eyes full of approval. The boy had been given more than just his father’s names: his flair for the splash, too, had been passed down from father to son.