Death Games

by Chris Simms

  Now the entire room was hanging on his words.

  ‘At present, we only have one prince who’s on active duty. Currently, he’s on his second tour out in Afghanistan.’

  Harry, Iona thought, sitting back. Oh my God, they’re going for him.

  Her senior officer looked around the room. ‘During his first tour a few years back, the prince made a few ill-advised comments about video games.’

  ‘It was a PlayStation,’ Iona found herself saying. She glanced up to see a dozen stony-faced men turning in her direction. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No, you’re all right,’ Weir replied. ‘Go on.’

  As the silence grew louder, she searched her memory for the details. ‘Erm, well – he’s an Apache gunship pilot with the British Army, isn’t he? While at Camp Bastion, he gave an interview to the British Press. In it, he said that operating the controls and weaponry systems of an Apache weren’t that different to playing on a PlayStation. Didn’t he actually use the word ‘game’? Something like ‘taking bad guys out of the game or similar?’

  Her DCI raised a thumb. ‘Ten out of ten, Iona.’

  ‘Bloody swot,’ the male officer next to her grunted with a good-natured grin. A few other colleagues chuckled in agreement.

  ‘Isn’t his older brother, William, something to do with helicopters as well? Coastguard or something?’ someone near the door asked.

  ‘The Duke of Cambridge?’ Weir replied. ‘Yes, I think he is. But he’s here, in Britain, so not a concern. Harry, however, is. The bad guys he talked about were none too pleased with his videogame analysis. They saw his comments as trivialising a religious and historic conflict – now they see a chance for payback.’

  A dark-haired officer at the end of the table half-raised a hand. ‘So why not just get him the hell out of the country?’

  ‘He refuses. Top Brass agree with him, as it happens. Two reasons for that. One, they fear it will be construed as a retreat of sorts. Don’t worry – he won’t be exposed to any real risk.’

  Among the general murmurings, another voice rang out. ‘How can that possibly be guaranteed?’

  Weir lifted a hand to bring silence back to the room. ‘He never really has done anything risky, to be honest. They don’t let him near any real action. Now all his flights are off: reconnaissance, everything. Second reason for not pulling him out is that, thanks to the intelligence from Feiz Atwi, the missile’s location is now believed to be known. I’ve not been given details, other than it’s currently within Isis-held territory in western Afghanistan.’

  ‘Then why not call in an airstrike and vaporise it?’ the same dark-haired officer at the end of the table demanded.

  Weir sat back and shrugged. ‘How should I know? Anyway, we now get to what our involvement in this is.’

  You’ve already said, Iona thought. Mopping up.

  ‘A thorough assessment of the entire Atwi family – and their associates – is now required. In Manchester, that consists of the people on the next sheet.’

  Iona flipped the page and cast an eye over the various photos. Some looked like they’d been gleaned from workplace personnel files, others were shots taken on the street. Which meant surveillance was already running.

  ‘As mentioned, the family live mostly around Manchester,’ Weir announced. ‘Three days ago, we put static observations in place outside the homes of all immediate family. Those cameras microwaved in the exterior images you can see. Now, there’s nothing to suggest any of these people are – or ever have been – in contact with Feiz since he vanished from this country and popped-up in Syria. But you know how these things are; we need to hold informal interviews with them all. Their phone and internet records are currently being accessed, so you’ll have some means of cross-referencing responses. Any shady stuff comes out, and we pass it back upstream to MI6.’ He put his set of sheets to one side. ‘Personally? I’m not expecting much – but let’s get it done, anyway.’

  As people began to get up, he raised his voice. ‘Last thing: do not reveal the fact their relative is dead. If they want to know why you’re asking questions, give them a line about him appearing in an Isis propaganda video. Fran here will let you know who you’re interviewing, along with all the background notes you should need. Iona? Can I have a quick word?’

  CHAPTER 3

  Sunlight glared through the rest-lounge windows. The double-glazed surfaces did little to dull the sound of a huge helicopter taking off outside.

  Seemingly oblivious to the air vibrating around them, a group of men continued to laugh. They were slouched in a semi-circle of armchairs, each one in green flight overalls. Facing them was a single plastic chair taken from the operations room next door. The man sitting in it was hunched over, as if in pain.

  A member of his audience sat back and shook his head. ‘It’s not happening, Robbo. No way.’

  Robbo spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Come on, come on.’ Both hands were tightly gripping a tiny set of controls.

  ‘You took too long on the slalom,’ someone else giggled.

  Robbo was entirely focused on the toy helicopter hovering at knee level before him. A red and blue light on its undercarriage winked alternately as he manoeuvred it beneath a table. Seconds later, it emerged on the other side.

  ‘He’s done the tunnel! He’s done the tunnel!’

  Several eyes flicked nervously to the score chart on the wall. Topping it was a piece of paper that read ‘Murray the Magnificent’ (3:02). Then came ‘Gently Does It’ (3:04). Below that was ‘Red Devil’ (3:05). Other nicknames formed a column below the top three.

  ‘Get in there,’ murmured Robbo.

  Now the helicopter outside was a distant throb, the high-pitched whirr of the toy could be heard. It approached the final obstacle: an upturned bin. Someone had painted a large red dot at the centre of its circular base.

  ‘He’s gonna do it. He’s gonna bloody do it.’

  Fingers making minute adjustments to the match-like joysticks, Robbo positioned the tiny helicopter above it. His lips moved in silent prayer.

  The audience was now beginning to sit forward, laughter evaporating.

  ‘Time?’ Someone demanded.

  A stopwatch was raised. ‘Two minutes forty-six.’

  ‘Sweet Jesus.’

  Robbo cocked his head to each side. The toy was lined up: now he just had to land it. Bit by bit, he dropped it lower. Fifteen inches above the bin. Ten. Five. Three.

  A voice announced, ‘Two minutes fifty-five.’

  Robbo winced as the machine dipped fractionally to the right. He tried to gain height but a rotor caught the edge of the bin. The engine stuttered and the toy tumbled to the floor.

  The room erupted.

  ‘No, no, no.’ He kicked both feet out and raised his chin to the ceiling as grown men danced about with glee.

  ‘You shat out! You shat out!’

  ‘Buckled!’

  ‘Could not handle it!’

  ‘Loooo-ser!’

  The stop watch was positioned above his face.

  ‘Two minutes fifty eight. Could have been top, Robbo, could have been top!’

  ‘Bollocks.’ He placed the controls on the table. ‘Who’s next?’

  The man with the stop watch consulted his sheet. ‘Oh, this’ll be good. It’s the turn of our real, live, genuine member of the Royal Family: Howie.’

  ‘Why’s he called Howie?’ Robbo asked quietly.

  ‘Come on Robbo, think. Howie. House of Windsor. Yes?’

  ‘Ah,’ he smiled. ‘I get it.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ the one with the stop watch looked over at a slender man who was on one foot, dancing a little jig. ‘Howie? You’re up.’

  CHAPTER 4

  ‘Carnage. Total carnage.’

  In the back of the car, Jon nodded. As soon as they’d joined the motorway, gantry signs had told them it was closed at junction four. Traffic was being diverted off before then, and all surrounding roads were now gridlocked.


  They’d made their way along the hard shoulder at little more than ten miles-per-hour. Closer to the incident itself, cars were trapped; unable to carry on, unable to go back. Drivers had abandoned their vehicles to sit on the side barrier. Jon studied them as they crawled past: most seemed entranced by their smart phones. No one, he thought, talks anymore.

  A uniformed traffic officer waved them to a stop and approached the side window. Nick had the blue lights behind the radiator grill silently flashing, so the officer knew they were something official. ‘Gents?’

  ‘CTU,’ Nick announced, holding up his badge.

  The man pointed. ‘Parking’s to the side of the first ambulance.’

  Once out of the car, Jon tried to get a better impression of what was happening. Too many Chiefs, he thought. Too many Indians as well. Officials and their vehicles were everywhere. Fire and Rescue Service, Paramedics, traffic police, several people in fluorescent bibs, others in white overalls. ‘The full circus,’ he stated.

  ‘Even the clowns,’ Nick shot back with a sliding glance at several men in suits. The group was observing the scene with a detached, managerial air.

  The grown-ups, Jon thought. Senior ranking officers, or maybe IPCC. Pains in the arse, whoever they were.

  They signed in and made their way to the inner cordon. Beyond the line of tape was the crash scene itself. A white van, blackened by smoke, was being winched clear of a BMW Z3 with a crumpled bonnet. The way its front tyres pointed inwards, the car looked like it was curtsying to the larger vehicle.

  ‘That’s where he came through,’ Nick’s partner, Hugh, said, looking at the gap in the central barrier.

  Like Nick, he was somewhere in his early thirties, but about six inches taller and with a thinner, more angular, frame. As was usual when he first met someone, Jon had found himself categorising the man according to potential rugby position. Winger, he was tempted to conclude. Fast on his feet and useful if his team got him the ball when he was in space. But there was also the hint of strength in his wiry physique, and Jon wondered if he’d be better at second row. Nick, shorter and stockier, he had down as a fly-half. More of a decision-maker.

  ‘The iffy car is on the anti-clockwise lanes. We need to be on the other side,’ Nick announced.

  They made their way round the perimeter and climbed over the barriers. Jon examined the lanes: there it was, a dark green Honda lying on its roof.

  ‘Wonder how trampled the scene is,’ Hugh said.

  ‘Looks like the traffic officers backed-off, at least,’ Nick answered, leading the way. They flashed their IDs to a uniform and ducked beneath the tape marking the inner cordon. They passed an abandoned Interceptor vehicle beside a line of workmen’s bollards marking off the fast lane. If that was the lead pursuit vehicle, Jon mused, the driver and passenger would be long gone; whisked back to the station for a day of form-filling and interviews with every bastard under the sun.

  Someone had put evidence markers by a few items scattered across the empty lanes. A bag of ready-sliced carrots. A drink carton. He spotted a broken length of plastic that ended in a small rotor: an arm from the drone. The rest of it was ahead. They were now within metres of the upturned saloon.

  Another perimeter had been put around the car itself. Three figures in white forensics suits were beside the vehicle and Jon could see blood smeared across the road surface. The body had already been removed.

  He looked at the stretch of motorway behind them. People were lining the rails of the A34 where it spanned the motorway. ‘We could do with a tent,’ he observed. ‘To go over the vehicle.’

  ‘Good point,’ Nick muttered, glancing about. ‘Who’s even in charge?’

  Hugh called out. ‘Have we got a crime scene manager?’

  One of the people in white suits glanced over. Seeing three men in jeans, trainers and casual tops, the figure headed across. ‘That’ll be me,’ a female voice announced.

  Jon recognised the voice and looked round: Nikki Kingston. They’d worked on a couple of cases together when he’d been in the Major Incident Team. Nearing the men, she flipped the flimsy hood from her head. Thick auburn curls sprang out. Still got the cool hair, Jon thought.

  ‘Jon Spicer,’ she smiled. ‘Should have guessed you’d show up sooner or later.’

  ‘How’s it going, Nikki? This is DI Nick Grant and DC Hugh Lambert, Counter Terrorism Unit.’

  She frowned. ‘So who’s got this, them or you?’

  Jon cringed inwardly. She doesn’t know about my career change, he realised. ‘I’m with the CTU now, Nikki.’

  ‘You are?’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘Finally pissed-off the MIT bosses too much? Kicked your arse out, did they?’

  ‘Actually, they did.’

  Her smile wavered then fell. ‘Really?’ She searched Jon’s face. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t trying to – ’

  He waved a hand. ‘It’s fine. DI Grant’s in charge. What’ve you got for him?’

  Her eyes stayed on his for a split second longer. He knew what was going through her head. How come Spicer is assisting detectives far younger than himself? Wait until you hear my rank, Jon thought, stepping away.

  To his side, Nikki started to speak. ‘OK, you’ll see the driver’s body is no longer in situ. Not our decision, I’d like to stress. We’ve made a start on the vehicle’s interior...’

  Jon circled the car until the far verge came into view. According to the report that was relayed to them en route, the passenger had to be helped across to the barrier. Then he’d vanished. Jon wandered over to the hard shoulder. Beyond the barrier was a mass of low bushes and young trees. The slope fell away quite sharply. He lifted his gaze; the residential streets of Gatley would only be a few minutes’ walk away. Immediately before him was a lightly wooded swathe of wasteland. Visible above the tree tops was a clock tower. What, he wondered, was that doing there? The derelict hospital, he realised. Manchester Convalescent Home.

  It had closed in the late nineties and, since then, was occasionally targeted by developers. But nothing had ever happened, and gradually the austere Victorian building had started to crumble and collapse.

  To his right, the empty motorway lanes separated out immediately beyond the A34 flyover. If I was fleeing a scene, Jon thought, it certainly wouldn’t be in the direction of more roads. He headed left, towards the cars stuck behind a line of temporary barriers. The vegetation to the side of the motorway opened up enough to reveal a stream. Something, Jon thought, that would feed the nearby Mersey as it meandered its way towards the Manchester Ship Canal to the east of the city. A natural obstacle to anyone on foot. He started to turn round.

  ‘Excuse me! Hello?’

  He glanced in the direction of the voice. A man was looking over with a frown on his face. One hand was bouncing impatiently on the barrier’s upper edge.

  ‘We’ve been stuck here bloody ages. No one’s telling us a thing. Can you?’

  Jon lifted a hand in apology. ‘Afraid not.’

  The woman standing next to him spoke up. ‘They said we’d soon be turning our vehicles round. Going back to junction two, or something. That’s what they said earlier.’

  ‘They’re probably still waiting for traffic levels to die down before they do. I’m sure someone will let you know...’ His eyes moved back to the clock tower. The derelict hospital’s grounds were massive. The person who fled would have had to –

  ‘Well, can you ask?’ The man’s voice again. His tone was insistent, and angry. ‘I mean this is bloody absurd. I work on Saturdays.’ He gestured at his car. ‘I need to be on my way!’

  Jon couldn’t hear himself think. ‘As I said, as soon as it’s feasible – ’

  ‘Can you lot not appreciate that?’

  Irritation tickled the back of Jon’s neck. ‘You lot? Who is you lot?’

  The man swept a hand towards the crash scene. ‘All of you just milling about, over there. If that upturned car was dragged to the edge of the carriageway, we could all get past.’


  Count to five, Jon said to himself. Nice and calmly. What was it with some people? The man had obviously seen a body being taken away. He knew someone had died in the crash.

  ‘Seriously,’ the man continued. ‘Can you not have a word with someone?’

  Jon glanced past the man. Knew it, he thought. Knew he’d be driving a BMW. ‘We’ve all got jobs to do, Sir. Let us do ours, then you – ’

  ‘No. I’ve been patient. Patient is not getting me anywhere. I’m tired of patient. What I want – ’

  ‘Sir, you’re not listening. I said – ’

  ‘No! You need to listen.’

  Jon held a hand up. Enough. ‘Sir, the best thing you can do is shut up, OK? Get back in your car, close the door and stay in there.’ He held eye contact.

  The man blinked. ‘Well, really...that’s...you can’t say that. What’s your name?’

  Jon took a step closer. ‘DC Spicer.’ He said it like a challenge.

  ‘Right...well...’ The man was retreating towards his vehicle. He opened the driver’s door. ‘I shall make a note, in that case.’

  ‘You do that.’ Jon turned round and walked back to the cluster of bushes. He stepped over the barrier and picked his way down the slope. Soon, he came to a fence topped with rusty strands of barbed wire. Turning right, he followed the perimeter of the old hospital’s grounds to a corner. A slip-road off the motorway was immediately in front. Keeping beside the fence, he followed it to a pair of padlocked gates.

  He looked up the driveway. The abandoned hospital was like something out of a horror film: he pictured dank basements and dusty attics, lonely rooms at the end of long corridors. Standing a good five metres higher than the rest of the building was the clock tower. Its roof tiles were stained green and, the way their curved lower edges overlapped reminded him of fish scales. Old and rotting. The clock face itself was mostly smashed through. Chipboards covered all the ground floor windows. Springing from various nooks and crannies were clumps of vegetation: buddleia bushes or something similar.