Death Games

by Chris Simms

  CHAPTER 12

  As she pulled up outside Furat Atwi’s house once again, Iona took a nervous breath in. Why, she asked herself, do I always get these jobs? You know why. Your boss had said as much: women’s work. Begrudgingly, she admitted it hardly suited the majority of her colleagues in the CTU.

  Her mind jumped back to the giant new detective who’d been trying to photocopy the image of Mr Atwi. On first seeing him enter the departure lounge, she’d sighed inadvertently; another SFO who would be equally at home working the doors of a nightclub. Probably ex-army. An opinion made stronger when he’d shaken hands with the other two detectives while hardly noticing her.

  Then she’d found him struggling with the photocopier. At the time, she thought it was lucky he hadn’t started trying to press the controls: his bloody great fingers would have probably cracked the touch screen. But he’d been genuinely mortified when she’d revealed she was a fellow officer. Others would have just tried to laugh it off.

  ‘So you’re happy to take the lead?’ The question had come from the family liaison officer in the passenger seat. A lady with long, dry brown hair and a slightly elongated face.

  ‘She’ll be focused on me, so I suppose I’d better actually tell her,’ Iona replied. ‘Feel free to jump in as soon as I have, though.’

  ‘Of course. However you’d like to play it.’

  As they walked up the front path, Iona could see there was someone else in the front room. She knocked three times and stood back. When the door opened she was surprised to see the nurse from Manchester Royal Infirmary’s A&E.

  ‘Hello,’ Iona said. ‘Elissa, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, hi there.’

  Furat Atwi appeared behind her in the corridor. Dread and hope seemed to be pulling her features in opposite directions. Her mouth wouldn’t move properly and her words came out slightly slurred. ‘Have you found Bilal?’

  Iona gave a non-committal nod. ‘May we come inside?’ Her eyes caught on the nurse’s. You’ve guessed, she thought. You know what’s coming.

  They filed into the front room, no one speaking.

  Iona glanced at Furat. You poor woman, she thought. Your husband and your son: both gone. She knew it was best to get straight to the point. As they all sat, she thought it was good the niece who worked as a nurse was also present – she’d have plenty of experience dealing with emotional trauma. ‘Mrs Atwi, there was an accident on the M60 in the early hours of this morning. One person died at the scene and I’m so sorry, but we believe that person was your husband, Bilal.’

  Furat stared back in silence.

  Iona’s eyes flicked down and she saw the woman’s fingers were tightly gripping those of her niece.

  ‘Why?’ Mrs Atwi whispered.

  Iona didn’t understand the question. She glanced at the FLO for help.

  ‘Why are we sure,’ the FLO prompted gently.

  ‘You don’t know, not for certain,’ Furat suddenly announced. ‘So don’t come here, into my house, and tell me that my husband is...’ Her voice was wobbling, cracked notes forcing their way in. ‘You can’t! You don’t know!’

  ‘When I was here earlier, I took a photo,’ Iona replied. ‘We were able to compare that...’

  The woman started to swallow back air, face now white. Her lips trembled. ‘This...no...it can’t...’

  ‘Aunty Furat,’ Elissa began to rub the woman’s hands. ‘Aunty Furat?’

  Iona needed to be out of the room. She got to her feet. ‘I’ll fetch a glass of water.’ As she walked softly down the corridor a low wail began to gather strength. By the time she’d reached the kitchen, it was a howl.

  Her own fingers trembled as she turned on the tap. She looked around. To her side was a shelving unit lined with glasses. She had half-filled one when the nurse appeared next to her.

  ‘You’re sure it’s him? Uncle Bilal?’

  Iona nodded. ‘I’m so sorry, Elissa. Were you close?’

  ‘Oh my God, she won’t be able to handle this.’ She took the glass from her hands and left the room.

  Iona ran her fingers through her hair and then followed her. The FLO was now beside Furat on the sofa. The stricken woman was leaning back, legs out straight, arms limp at her sides. She continued to draw in great ragged breaths as the FLO murmured quietly.

  ‘Aunty Furat?’ Elissa asked. ‘I have some water for you.’

  She closed her eyes and shook her head.

  The FLO nodded at the low table and Elissa put the glass on it without a word.

  Iona moved back to the doorway and signalled to Elissa. The two of them returned to the kitchen.

  Iona closed the door behind them. ‘Elissa, there are some things about the accident that are odd. I’m afraid it’s raised some questions...ones for the police.’

  Elissa looked in the direction of the front room. ‘You don’t mean you’re going to try and – ’

  ‘No – nothing will be asked of your Aunt. Not while she’s so upset. How well did you know her husband?’

  ‘He’s part of the family. Why?’

  ‘Were you close?’

  ‘No, not especially. He’s old fashioned. Women and men – there should be a distance.’

  ‘So how often did you speak to him?’

  ‘Very rarely – family gatherings. What was odd? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Do you think he was hiding anything? Perhaps to do with his business?’

  Elissa crossed her arms. ‘I don’t understand why you’re asking – ’

  ‘The car he was in, the one that crashed: it wasn’t his Mercedes. It was a different car.’

  ‘Where’s his Mercedes?’

  ‘We don’t know, as yet. However, the car from last night was being driven by your uncle, even though we have reason to believe it wasn’t his.’

  Elissa looked confused. ‘Really? Aunty Furat said he was on business.’

  ‘Did he sometimes go on business trips with other people?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I doubt it. Was he not alone, then?’

  Iona thought how to frame her reply. ‘He was the only fatality at the scene.’

  ‘He wasn’t with a woman, was he?’ Elissa whispered. ‘Please tell me this wasn’t some kind of...he wasn’t cheating on Aunty Furat?’

  Iona shook her head. ‘No woman was with him.’

  Elissa frowned again. ‘I can’t understand what he was doing, if he wasn’t in his Mercedes.’

  ‘Did your aunt ask you to come here?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your Aunt, did she ask you round?’

  ‘Yes, she rang me. After your earlier visit, she started worrying. I thought she would be calling about the video of Feiz. But she told me Bilal had gone missing so I came round as fast as I could.’ She gestured at the door. ‘Can’t these questions wait?’

  ‘Yes. Of course they can. And I’ve mentioned nothing about her son. I don’t think that should be mentioned at this point.’

  Elissa nodded her agreement.

  ‘The FLO can go with your Aunt for the formal identification and stay with her for as long as she needs.’ She paused. ‘Are you OK, Elissa?’

  ‘What, me? Yes.’

  ‘OK. I need to go, but I wanted your aunt to be aware, myself – or a colleague – will need to speak with her soon.’

  CHAPTER 13

  ‘Is it Julie?’

  The girl turned and looked Jon up and down. ‘Amy said you’d want a word.’

  Jon glanced along the leafy street. All the other girls were gone. Julie looked like someone just coming off a night shift: desperately tired. Some habit you’ve got to feed, he thought, noticing the long-sleeved top that covered her forearms. ‘Amy finished for the day?’

  ‘That or she’s got a job on. You wanted to know about Kelly?’

  ‘I do. Basically, if she was stood here with you around four in the morning last night. And if she wasn’t, where she might have been.’

  ‘She wasn’t with me. Not around then
. I tipped-up at just gone three. We were chatting for a bit. Half an hour, easily. Yeah, then this big car – hang on – ’

  She twisted her face into a smile then stepped nearer the kerb as a vehicle being driven by a man approached. It slowed down momentarily, but then carried on past.

  ‘Fuck. That’s you, that is. No-one’ll stop while you’re standing – ’

  Jon had taken his wallet out. He peeled off three tens. ‘That do? One minute, then I’m gone.’

  She took the money. ‘Big car. Red: one of those posh four-wheel drive things. Looked brand new. I know the make, just can’t think. Anyway, it cruised by a couple of times before stopping. Must have been nearly four when she went off in it.’

  ‘And you’ve not seen her since?’

  She stared at Jon for a second then shook her head. ‘This is about that motorway smash, yeah? In case she saw something to do with that? You’re not covering up something to do with Kelly? Something bad?’

  ‘No, I’m not covering up anything. You say this car was big. Like a Range Rover?’

  ‘No. Smaller than those things. One of those curvier ones.’

  ‘You mean less bulky than a Range Rover?’

  ‘Yeah, faster-looking.’

  That ruled out a Volvo, BMW or Audi, then. Something more sporty. ‘Maybe a Porsche Cayenne?’

  ‘That’s it! Porsche. Dead expensive.’

  ‘What about the registration? Or driver? Get a look at him?’

  ‘Windows were smoky. Or it was dark inside. He whistled her over.’

  ‘And that was that? She jumped in and off they went?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Which way?’

  ‘That way.’ She tipped her head to the left. ‘She would have taken him to that spot near the hospital. Always does, if they don’t have somewhere of their own.’

  ‘OK, cheers. Don’t suppose you have any way of contacting her?’

  ‘No. Just chat with her round here and that’s it.’

  ‘What was she wearing last night?’

  ‘Yellow jacket. Black boots and skirt.’

  ‘Right. Did Amy give you my card with the phone number on?’

  She patted her thigh. ‘Got it.’

  ‘When you next see her, get her to call me, could you? Another thirty for you, if she does.’

  ‘Yeah, sure. Like you’d come back to pay me.’

  ‘I would, actually. That’s a promise.’

  She met his eyes for a second then shrugged. ‘OK.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Back in his car, he called base and asked for Peter Collier. ‘Any joy on cars stolen around Gatley?’

  ‘I’ve literally just come off the system. Nothing in the time-frame you gave me, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You’re sat at a box now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Just go back on the system, would you? Have a look for anything involving a red Porsche Cayenne, recent model.’

  ‘No problem. Shall I call you back?’

  Jon didn’t want anything else the civilian support worker had to deal with getting in the way. ‘I’ll stay on the line, thanks.’

  ‘OK. Hang on.’

  Jon sat back. Further up the road, he could see Julie’s stick-thin frame lurking between the trees. All alone in the woods, he thought. What a life.

  ‘Jon? It’s Peter. One Porsche Cayenne, described by the owner as Flame Red, was reported as stolen from the city centre last night.’

  ‘Really?’ He reached for his pen. ‘Where from?’

  ‘Outside the casino by the Printworks. He said he’d parked it at ten, but it was gone on his return at five o’clock.’

  Jon winced. Could the person who stole it then have gone cruising for prostitutes? Stranger things went on in Manchester on a Friday night. ‘Have you got the owner’s name and address?’

  ‘Right here. You might recognise the name.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘He plays up front for Bolton United.’

  ‘Football?’ Jon made a face. ‘I couldn’t name you more than two players in England’s team, let alone Bolton’s. Which division are they in?’

  ‘Jesus, you really don’t have a clue. Promoted to the Premiership last year. You honestly didn’t know that?’

  Jon was used to the confusion his lack of football knowledge caused. With Manchester City, Manchester United, Liverpool, Everton and Blackburn all so close, football was a failsafe source of conversation for most in the region. ‘Rugby, mate. That’s my sport.’

  ‘Ah – you prefer just punching the other team.’

  Jon studied the assortment of bumps and grooves in the skin of his knuckles. Mementos from his playing days. ‘There’s a bit more to it than that. We also kick, gouge and head-butt.’

  The other man laughed.

  ‘Where’s he living, then?’

  ‘Out in Lymm.’

  Very nice, Jon thought. He’d played a few good matches against Lymm RUFC in his time. The place was out in rural Cheshire and rather pricey. ‘Bloody footballers; they’re paid far too much.’

  ‘The house is called Pine Lodge,’ Collier replied. ‘I get the feeling it isn’t small.’

  ‘No, me neither. And what’s he called, this footballer?’

  ‘Wilfred Iwobi.’

  Jon glanced up. The only customer who’d gone into the minicab place in Gatley at around four-thirty in the morning had been described as black. ‘African is he?’

  ‘Nigerian, yes.’

  ‘Interesting.’ Jon started his engine.

  CHAPTER 14

  Elissa stood in the front room of her flat with tears running down her cheeks. Her chin lifted with a brief in-draw of breath before another sob racked her ribs. She let it die away in its own time. With the back of her hand, she wiped at her eyes. She sniffed loudly. Come on, stop this. Be strong.

  The hold-all on the coffee table was fully unzipped, contents exposed. A wash bag, rammed with items. A couple of sets of clothes; practical stuff. Jeans, a hooded fleece, t-shirts, a sweatshirt, a rainproof top. Loads of socks and underwear. Lying on the items were two framed photos. Her eyes welled up as she reached down and took them out. She turned and carefully placed them back on a shelf, outstretched fingers trailing uncertainly as her hands lowered.

  The CDs on the next shelf caught her eye and she bent forward to survey them with affection. Memories of certain songs, points in her life that withstood the flow of time. Several books were lined up next to them and first her gaze, then her fingertips, caressed them. Never Let Me Go. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time. A Life of Pi. Of Mice and Men. Her smile grew wider. Why’ve I kept a GCSE text?

  She straightened up and moved towards a cabinet. The Naff Nick Nacks was what they’d called it. Her and her brother Tarek. She grinned at the twee ornaments gathered over the years from family holidays in seaside towns along Britain’s coast. A pair of pink grinning pigs. A porcelain thatched cottage. A thimble with a picture of a windmill. A pepper pot with an outline of a crab and the word Cromer. It had started out as a childhood joke between her and her brother. The collection numbered seventeen. Seventeen summer holidays spent together, as a family.

  There was no object for the previous summer.

  A thought struck and, repeating the holiday routine her brother had so carefully maintained, she turned the TV and DVD player off at the mains. In the kitchen, she did the same with all the appliances. The fridge and freezer she left on, unwilling to let perfectly good food go to waste. She wondered what would happen to it.

  She studied the spider-plant on the windowsill. The thing had lasted years; first in her room at nursing college, then at her parents’ and now here. She tried not to think of its green leaves turning dry and yellow.

  Back in the front room, she breathed deeply. She felt her pockets: over eight-hundred pounds. All the cash she had in the flat. She reached down for the hold-all’s zip, but stopped half-way through closing it. Quickly, almost guiltily, she retrieved the two
photos and placed them back inside the bag. One was of her brother, sitting on a see-saw, legs outstretched, mouth wide with laughter. The other was of her mum and dad, walking on a beach, arms interlinked, sunlight dappling the sands of Scarborough beach behind them. It’s for you, she told herself. I’m doing this for you.

  The walk took her less than ten minutes. Uncle Bilal had never actually said it was the address he’d be using, but a recent throw-away comment about council rates he’d made allowed her to guess he still owned the anonymous ground-floor flat.

  On the way, she stopped at a small park, sat on a bench in the corner and took the back off her mobile phone. The SIM card was dropped down a drain, the phone itself tossed into the brown water of a deserted boating lake.

  He’d bought the flat years ago as an investment, had even offered to rent it to her when she first qualified as a nurse. But, by then, she’d agreed to share with her brother. That had been fortunate as it saved her from admitting to Uncle Bilal that she really didn’t want to live on a run-down street in Longsight. By now, she guessed, he would have changed the deeds so his name didn’t feature. And taken what other measures were needed to ensure it couldn’t be connected to him.

  The holdall was making her right arm ache as she walked slowly along the road. Looking about, she saw the neighbourhood bore all the hallmarks of a low income area. Independent shops with cheaply-produced signage. Faded colours and dated fonts.

  Paradise Phone. Fax / photocopy / mobile accessories / phones unlocked.

  Ismail Hair Salon.

  Nafees & Sons, specialists in sarees and dress fabrics.

  Kwality Shoes.

  Aleezy Fried Chicken.

  A to Z Convenience Store.

  Glasses 4 Less – opticians.

  K.W. Fashions. Bridal Wear, Loose Garments and Shalwar Kameez.

  At first, she wasn’t sure if she’d got the right number. What was a bright red Porsche Cayenne doing on the drive? Maybe, the people who owned the flat above had parked it there. Or someone nearby, taking advantage of a driveway that was never used and a flat that seemed unoccupied. All the curtains were drawn.

  She carried on, checking right to the end of the road for Uncle Bilal’s Mercedes. It wasn’t there. Wherever he’d left the vehicle, it was a safe distance from the flat. She walked back, this time turning up the short drive. She took the folded-up piece of paper from her pocket. As she lifted the flap of the letterbox it made a creaking noise. She resisted the temptation to crouch down and peep through.