Savage Games

by Peter Boland

  Tannaz sat opposite. “Positive. Saw it on a local news feed.” She handed him her phone.

  Savage read the article on the screen, posted the day before:

  Father and son suicide tree tragedy

  Police have confirmed that the body of a man found hanging from a tree in the New Forest at the weekend is that of Luke Mosely, son of David Mosely who committed suicide in the same area over Christmas. Luke Mosely’s body was found by a dog walker, hanging from a low branch near to the car park at Dead Maids Wood. A typed note was found with the body, expressing how much he missed his father and wished to join him. Back in December, David Mosely also committed suicide in Dead Maids Wood. In bizarre circumstances, his body was discovered in January when two forest workers felled a Douglas fir, and found that David Mosely’s body had been hidden in its uppermost branches. Neither death is being treated as suspicious by the police.

  Savage reread the article, each time trying to make sense of it. The more he read it the more confused he became.

  “I don’t believe it,” he said. “Luke wasn’t suicidal. Nervous, maybe, and he certainly didn’t miss his father. He hardly knew him. Only met him a handful of times. He wouldn’t commit suicide because he missed his father.”

  Savage glanced at Tannaz for a reaction. She had become strangely quiet, which wasn’t like her at all. She’d had more time to think about this than Savage.

  “What if it was my fault?” She sniffed back a tear.

  Savage got to his feet and put his arm around her shoulders. “How in the world can this be your fault?”

  “Like you said, Luke wasn’t suicidal, and he didn’t miss his father. What if someone made it look like suicide. Killed him.”

  “Who would do that?”

  “Those scumbag drug dealers outside Tivoli Gardens. Remember, the driver said he’d kill Luke, said he’d find him and kill him. Then I go and break his mate’s wrists. Showing off my skills. What if they decided to get revenge, take it out on Luke? I went in too hard and they’ve killed Luke because of it.”

  Savage shook his head. “Rubbish. Firstly, they didn’t know who he was, and secondly it was me who rubbed them up the wrong way, not Luke.”

  “Yeah, they wouldn’t go after you or me, would they? They’re too cowardly. They’d go after Luke, because he was an easy target.”

  “How would they find him?”

  “There are ways. I’m sure a few free drugs would loosen a few tongues. They could’ve easily found out his dad lived there.”

  “Okay, let’s assume you’re right. Would they go to all that trouble of making his death look like a suicide? Type up a suicide note, take him out to the New Forest and hang him from a tree? I don’t think so. Not their style. Dumping his body under a bridge or in a canal is more their thing. Besides, Luke lived in London, not Southampton. They’d have to come up here, take him from his flat and then transport him back down to the New Forest. Seems like a lot of hassle.”

  Tannaz’s eyes flitted around the kitchen, looking for answers. “I don’t know, I just feel like it’s my fault somehow.”

  “Come on, Tannaz. This is nonsense. You’re not to blame here. That guy groped you, you defended yourself, that’s all.”

  “Then why do I feel so shitty?”

  “When a tragedy happens like this, it’s a natural reaction. To look around for someone to blame. I should know.”

  “Don’t you think it’s weird? A week after we’re there, and Luke’s dead. Too much of a coincidence.”

  “You’re right about that, definitely too much of a coincidence.” Savage’s voice became suddenly quiet. He slowly sat back down, as if he might collapse if the chair wasn’t there.

  “You okay, Savage?”

  “Mmm,” Savage mumbled, deep in thought. “You’ve got me thinking now, about what I said to Simon Wellington’s receptionist.”

  “What about it?”

  “I laid it on quite thick. Luke said Simon Wellington was dodgy, and I phoned up his office, all guns blazing, threatening to go to the press. Mentioned Luke’s name and everything.” Savage sighed. “When he said Wellington was dodgy, I’m wondering how dodgy? Dodgy enough to kill someone who was kicking up a fuss?”

  Now it was Tannaz’s turn to shake her head. “No way, not over a few records. Like you said, they’re probably used to it; people phoning up, getting angry. I’m sure people get evicted from those properties on a regular basis, lose their stuff, never see it again. Desperate tenants are their bread and butter.”

  “Maybe. That receptionist did have all the lines well-rehearsed.”

  “There you go.”

  Her logic made sense. But Savage didn’t feel any better. They stared at one another across the table. Each one thinking that they were somehow to blame. Each one feeling a cloud of guilt swelling inside them.

  Savage was the first to break the cold silence. “Okay, let’s get back to reality. We’re just speculating here, and that’s no good to anyone. Before we start condemning ourselves to a life of shame, we need to know what happened. We need intel. We need facts, otherwise we’re just dealing with our own opinions, and what we believe happened. And the problem with belief is it’s like clay, you can make it into anything you want. I think we can both agree that Luke’s death is too coincidental. And the suicide note makes no sense. We know that for a fact. We spoke to him. He didn’t miss his father because he hardly knew him. So I think we can work from the premise that someone killed him and made it look like suicide. Agreed?”

  Tannaz nodded.

  “So, we find out who killed him, and we make them pay. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” said Tannaz. “Starting with those shitty little drug dealers.”

  Chapter 8

  They drove back down to Southampton in silence. No stops for tea, no stopping to stretch their legs, no friendly banter. Savage was too wrapped up in his own thoughts about what had happened to Luke, churning it over in his mind, and he guessed Tannaz was too. A potent mix of guilt, disbelief, anger and confusion racked his brain, tortured him. Worst of all was the underlying feeling building inside him that by trying to help Luke, they may have inadvertently caused his death.

  Normally this would be the time that Jeff Perkins would make an appearance, berating and blaming him for Luke’s death, and possibly Dave’s too. Jeff always raised his ugly, imaginary head when Savage had strong feelings of guilt or remorse. Thankfully, Savage had Tannaz with him, his kryptonite, keeping the irritating little prick at bay.

  Savage’s foot never left the accelerator, apart from when he approached a section of the motorway where he was forced to drive at forty miles an hour for no apparent reason, except that someone had placed an endless procession of orange cones there, seemingly just for the fun of it. It made him want to put his foot down even more and go ploughing into them, but he kept his cool and kept to the speed limit. Tannaz, by contrast, kept pushing out sighs between her lips, her chest heaving as she did so, as impatient as he was to get to the bottom of this.

  After another hour of driving, they exited the motorway and headed towards Thornhill, arriving just after lunchtime. Turning into the estate, they weren’t surprised to see the burnt-out car still there, black and skeletal. A couple of local kids who should’ve been in school were playing on it, as if it were a hellish climbing frame. One kid stood on the pavement, hitting the side of it repeatedly with a big stick like John Cleese in Fawlty Towers. Normally, this image would have made Savage smile to himself. Not today.

  As they entered Tivoli Gardens, there was no sign of the silly, modified Vauxhall Corsa. Instead, parked in its place sat a large black BMW X5, the older boxier shape with blacked out windows, but still a handsome car.

  “Looks like our junior drug dealers have been replaced with someone more senior,” said Savage.

  He swung in behind it and pulled on t
he handbrake. Tannaz and Savage got out and approached the BMW on the driver’s side. Savage tapped on the window. With an electric whir it slid down. The car smelt of cigarettes and energy drinks. Savage clocked two substantial guys sitting in the front—heavy sections, as his old dad would’ve described them. Possibly in their late twenties, early thirties, the one in the driver’s seat wore a black L.A. Raiders cap. Neither man deigned to look at Savage or Tannaz or speak to them, as if it were beneath them. Round here, these two probably thought they were kings. Clearly, it was up to Savage to break the ice.

  “So, you a big American football fan?” Savage asked.

  “Huh?” said Baseball Cap, still not looking at him.

  “Your hat, L.A. Raiders, or should I say Oakland Raiders now, American Football team. Or maybe you’re an Ice Cube fan?”

  “Who’s Ice Cube?”

  “The rapper, wore a cap just like that one.”

  The guy just looked ahead, blanking Savage.

  “Look, what you after?” asked Baseball Cap, still not bothering to look at Savage.

  “We’re not buying today, gentlemen,” said Savage. “We just need to know the whereabouts of the guys who used to sell here.”

  The guy didn’t answer. The window buzzed back up again. Savage clamped both his hands on the top of it. The window stopped. A furious pair of bloodshot eyes turned to face Savage. “Take your hands off my goddam window.”

  Savage removed his hands, holding them up in a surrender. “We just need to know where the fellows in the Corsa are. You know them?”

  Nothing.

  Tannaz chipped in. “They’ve got stupid names, Bonafide Ride or something.”

  “Listen. We’re working here. Now if you’re not buying you can go—”

  “Yes, I know,” said Savage. “We’ll be out of your hair as soon as we know where those guys are, scout’s honour.”

  Baseball Cap swore, the other guy sniggered, as if he couldn’t believe the effrontery of Savage—or the stupidity.

  “Do you know who you’re talking to, asshole?” said Baseball Cap.

  “No,” Savage replied with as much honesty as he could muster.

  “You’re talking to someone who’s better than you, get it?”

  “Okay, got it. You’re better than me,” said Savage. “Now if you could just tell me where the guys in the Corsa are.”

  Baseball Cap shook his head then reached into his inside jacket pocket, pulled out a handgun and stuck it through the half-open window, aiming it at Savage’s face.

  Savage instantly recognised the weapon, a Baikal IZH-79, small, black and compact. The most popular illegal handgun on British streets, usually smuggled in from Russia where it was made.

  Baseball Cap narrowed his eyes. “Now you don’t listen too good, do ya, bruv?”

  Savage feigned utmost terror. Face white with panic. Staring down at the barrel. It gave him the opportunity to give the weapon a once over. The gun had clearly been oiled, probably when Baseball Cap first acquired it, but it hadn’t been maintained since. Lint and dust from his pocket clung to the metal, giving it a fuzzy appearance here and there. It would still fire, no problem. The Baikal was designed to be simple, designed to be reliable. It told Savage all he needed to know about its owner. No experience with weapons, just there for intimidation. Probably never been fired, wouldn’t want to waste the ammunition, as it would be hard and expensive to replace.

  Raising his hands even higher Savage said, “Please, please, don’t shoot.” A natural response. A logical response. The expected response Baseball Cap got every time he drew his piece. No doubt he enjoyed it. Revelled in it. Made him feel big. Probably even felt relaxed about it. So he didn’t spot the fact that with his arms raised, Savage’s hands were only a few inches away from the weapon.

  In the next split second, two things happened. Blindingly fast. Savage jerked his head to the left, moving out of the line of fire. At the same time, he grabbed the barrel with both hands, twisting the whole gun around, one hundred and eighty degrees. Baseball Cap had no choice but to let go. He didn’t want to of course. Body mechanics forced his hand, literally. Savage had two hands on the gun, Baseball Cap only had one. Two always beats one. If he had held onto the gun, his wrist would’ve snapped.

  In the blink of an eye, Savage snatched the gun away. He took a step away from the car, out of Baseball Cap’s reach, just to be on the safe side and ensure he didn’t do the same to Savage and snatch it back, although it was highly unlikely.

  Savage aimed the gun at Baseball Cap, who was still dazed by what had just happened. The guy in the passenger seat raised his hands.

  “Look into my eyes,” said Savage. Baseball Cap ignored him, fixated on the muzzle of the gun, probably the first time he’d had his own gun pointed at him. “I said look into my eyes.” Savage said it louder this time. The guy jumped out of his trance, stared at Savage. “That’s better. Now, in your opinion, do I look like the type of guy who’d shoot someone in the face?”

  Baseball Cap didn’t answer.

  “I said—”

  “Yeah, yeah you do,” said the guy in the passenger seat, stuttering the words out.

  “Correct. I have before and no doubt I’ll do it again. Whether you two want to join the illustrious list of people whose brains I’ve blown out of the back of their heads is entirely up to you. I couldn’t care less. Now I am going to ask a question and you are going to answer. Ready?”

  They both nodded.

  “Where are the guys who used to sell here? Your predecessors. The ones in the Vauxhall Corsa—”

  “Mayflower Park,” said the passenger, quicker than a game-show contestant anticipating a question.

  “You sure?” asked Tannaz.

  “I’m sure, by the skate ramps, selling weed to the skaters,” said the passenger.

  “Good,” said Savage. Without taking his eyes off the two men, Savage stripped the handgun down to its constituent parts with the speed and dexterity of a conjuror. It took barely a second. He let the components drop to the ground where they pinged and clanged on the pavement. “You can go now,” Savage said. “You never come back here, understand?”

  They both nodded.

  “Well,” said Savage. “Go on, off you trot.”

  Baseball Cap hit the ignition, revved the engine. Stalled it. Tried again, and drove off, wheel-spinning all the way.

  Savage scuffed the components of the dismantled handgun along the ground with his foot until they tumbled into a drain, each piece plopping as it hit the water below.

  “You still need to teach me that,” said Tannaz.

  “It’s easy, just use your foot,” Savage replied.

  “No. Idiot. The flippy thing with the gun. It was the first thing I asked you to teach me, remember?”

  “All in good time. Come on, let’s find Mayflower Park and see if we can get some answers.”

  As a venue for dealing drugs, Mayflower Park was an aesthetically far more attractive proposition than Tivoli Gardens. A long flat sleeve of green grass, it stretched out parallel to Southampton Water with a wide tarmac promenade running along the water’s edge. In the summer, Savage could imagine the place crowded with sightseers and sunbathers, and little families with pushchairs, dawdling along with ice creams in their hands, marvelling at the spectacle of unfeasibly large luxury liners docked in Southampton, floating cities that would take on passengers bound for the Caribbean and Mediterranean. Today, the only thing threatening to arrive on a cold weekday in early March was a spot of drizzle. The place was bleak and empty, with a handful of cars dotted around the car park, including a ridiculous modified Vauxhall Corsa with a fat exhaust pipe. They pulled up next to it. The car was empty.

  Savage and Tannaz got out, looked around. It didn’t take long to find their target. Off in the distance, a lonely tracksuited figure sat shivering o
n top of a metal skateboard ramp, eyes down on his phone, one hand punched deep into his pocket. The owner of the Corsa, the guy with fledgling facial hair, no doubt hoping to catch kids ducking out of school at lunchtime. Bonafide Ride, as he liked to call himself.

  “Okay, Tannaz,” Savage said. “You wait here, stay out of sight behind the van. I’ll circle round and approach him from the opposite side. He’ll see me coming, make a run for it back to his car, where he’ll run smack bang into you.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” she said.

  Savage took a wide arc around the skate park, skirting a belt of trees that gave him some cover. He needn’t have bothered. The lad never took his eyes off his screen all the while Savage was creeping up on him. Crossing the dirty concrete, stained with fading graffiti, Savage got within a few feet of him before the guy swivelled his head round, did a double take, recognised Savage and made a run for it. Savage gave chase. He had to hand it to the young guy, he could sprint and he created plenty of distance, putting on a spurt of speed as he got closer to his car. Just before he got there, he looked over his shoulder to check his pursuer, turned back and ran straight into Tannaz, who headbutted him on the nose.

  Chapter 9

  The guy went down like a sack of cement, landing on his back, head thumping against the ground. Clutching his face, blood spilt out of both his nostrils. Tannaz dived on top of him, fist pulled back, ready to do more damage. “Why did you kill Luke?” she screamed.

  “Tannaz! Stop!” Savage got to her just before she hit him again. “We just want to talk to him, remember.”

  “But he killed Luke.”

  “Who the hell is Luke?” Bonafide Ride said, sounding nasally, as if he had a cold.

  “We don’t know if he killed Luke,” said Savage. “Now get off him, and let’s get him to his feet.” Tannaz obeyed. Savage held out his hand to the guy and pulled him to his feet. Without warning, Savage then grabbed him and shoved him hard up against the back of the van, winding him. If Tannaz had been playing bad cop, then Savage was playing psycho cop.