War Games

by Douglas Jackson

  ‘All right. But if I’m to help you, we have to do this my way.’ I was convinced Assad Ali believed his daughter had been abducted. Now, I had to get him to convince me. ‘The first thing I need to know is if you’ve had any ransom demands, any visits or phone calls – anything strange at all?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. The police told me to get in touch if anything like that happened. Nothing.’

  I thought about that for a while. Assad’s millions seemed reason enough to make Gurya’s disappearance a priority. ‘They must have given a reason why they won’t investigate?’

  It’s a funny thing about lying. Some people can and some people can’t. I knew Assad was going to lie even before he did. ‘No-o-o.’ He drew out the word like a piece of spaghetti. ‘I don’t believe they did. They just said they were not convinced.’

  ‘Mr Ali,’ I stared at him, ‘I can only help you if you help me.’ I could have gone on, but sometimes ten seconds of silence is worth a hundred words. The muscle in Assad’s left cheek twitched as his natural honesty reasserted itself. He looked down at the floor.

  ‘You have to understand, Mr Savage, that although I was born in Glasgow and educated in this country, my background . . . my family background . . . carries with it certain obligations. My father ensured that our ties with his homeland in Pakistan remained very strong, it is my filial duty to see that they remain so. Fortunately, I have the funds to do that. Through the family we run an orphanage in Lahore and give substantial donations to several other charities, but . . . but financial commitments are not enough.’ Assad paused and I kept my mouth shut. It was interesting to watch a man who’d just sold his business to an international conglomerate for the best part of £100 million wriggling on a hook he’d forged himself. ‘My own sister married a cousin’s cousin and has lived perfectly happily in Pakistan for twenty years,’ he added lamely.

  ‘We’re talking about an arranged marriage?’ I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice. Arranged marriages weren’t exactly news to me, I read the papers, but I associated them with grocers and taxi drivers in Leeds and Leicester, not this urbane, university-educated Scot living in his Midlothian mansion. I looked down at the picture again.

  ‘Gurya has known Rashid since they were small,’ he stumbled on. ‘They have always been friends.’

  ‘What did Gurya think of the arrangement?’ I knew we were now repeating the conversation he’d had with the two cops. ‘Being married is different to being friends.’

  ‘Gurya understood her obligations, but . . .’ But? ‘She hadn’t yet agreed to the match. She was willing to talk it over with Rashid, but . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Ali,’ I interrupted. ‘I thought the families made the decision and the kids had to go along, like it or not?’

  His head snapped up and his dark eyes caught fire. ‘Do you think I would force my daughter into a marriage she doesn’t want, Mr Savage? Do I really look like that kind of man to you?’

  The answer was that I didn’t know yet, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. ‘I need to understand what Gurya thought you’d do, Mr Ali,’ I said gently. ‘And how strongly she felt about it. Would your daughter have run away to avoid an arranged marriage?’

  ‘No!’ He shook his head, but it was in confusion not denial. His face twisted into a pained grimace. ‘I don’t know.’ The words emerged as a long groan. ‘But she understood that I would never make her do something she did not want to do. My daughter did not run away, Mr Savage. When she went out on Saturday afternoon she was as happy as she is in that picture. We had discussions. We had arguments. We are a normal family. But believe me, Gurya didnot run away. She has been taken against her will. Please, you must help us.’

  At least now I understood why the cops didn’t want to get involved. It sounded as if Mr Ali had given them a hard time, and they don’t like that. Throw in an arranged marriage and a sixteen-year-old kid who was an adult in the eyes of the law and it added up to a no-win situation. Unless someone demanded a ransom, they’d put this down to a ‘domestic’ and look in occasionally on the Alis to see if things had changed. Maybe in six or seven weeks the wheels would turn and Gurya would become a missing person, but that was about it. One thing bothered me, though.

  ‘Did the police ask to see Gurya’s computer?’ I took it for granted that every teenager would have a computer of some sort.

  ‘No, they didn’t. When it was clear they didn’t believe us I asked them to leave.’

  ‘Call them tomorrow. Ask them to send someone to check it for unusual internet contacts, anything out of the ordinary on social networking accounts she has. It’s something they should have done already and they’ll come running when they realise that.’

  ‘So you’ll help us, Mr Savage?’

  Of course I’d help, I needed the money. I just wasn’t sure how yet. I thought about the computer again, what else did every sixteen-year-old girl have? ‘I take it you’ve tried calling Gurya on her mobile phone?’

  When he turned to me his eyes were liquid. ‘It just keeps ringing out.’

  CHAPTER 5

  I went through a checklist in my head. ‘I need to know everything that happened on Saturday. I need a list of her friends and I want to talk to your estate workers.’

  He nodded. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘No, it won’t be. But it’ll do for a start.’

  ‘Money?’ he asked, and it was clear he was back on solid ground.

  ‘We can talk about money later, Mr Ali. I’m not a mercenary.’ That wasn’t strictly true, and in other circumstances money would have been the first thing on my mind, but I knew Assad Ali wasn’t going to argue about a few quid here or there.

  ‘I mean that money is not an issue, Mr Savage. I would give everything I have to get Gurya back. Whatever resources you require, you only have to ask.’

  It hadn’t occurred to me that when Assad said he’d put everything on the line to get his daughter back he meant exactly what he said. Normally, I prefer to work alone; just Glen Savage and the gift, and whatever brains and talents, skills and experience he can bring to the party. I suppose being able to kill a man in a couple of seconds with my bare hands or being able to live for a week on a pocketful of nuts and a cremated hedgehog will come in handy some day, but I suspected being able to call on unlimited funds would be more useful.

  ‘That’s good to know, I thanked him. ‘It could save a lot of time.’

  He scribbled in a notepad on the table beside him. ‘I’ll set up an account which gives you access to up to ten thousand pounds, but requires confirmation from me for larger withdrawals. Is that suitable?’

  I nodded and felt a warm glow inside. The advance would take care of the next hospital bill. It also meant I didn’t have to shell out from my dwindling reserves and wait for a month to get the cash back. ‘Now tell me about Gurya.’

  He told the tale quickly and succinctly, not a syllable wasted. The same way, I guessed, he would address a business conference. A week ago, Gurya Ali had left home just after lunchtime to cycle to Glendearg, the village about a mile away down the valley, where she planned to spend the afternoon with friends from her private school. According to the other girls they’d done what girls always do when they’re together; talked about clothes, shoes, music and – though he didn’t actually say so – boys. They shared fries and drank Irn-Bru or Coke at a local coffee shop before Gurya had left in time to reach home before dark. Only she’d never arrived.

  From what he’d said earlier, it was clear the two cops who’d been on the case had decided she was hiding out because of the marriage arrangement. You couldn’t really blame them. The Gurya Ali in the photograph didn’t look like a girl who’d be pushed into a wedding with a guy she didn’t love in a place on the other side of the planet. She looked what she was; a modern, sophisticated, intelligent young woman who was old enough to make up her own mind about what to do with her life. The cops had gone through the motions, checking out the route Gurya would
have taken, twice – once in the dark and once in daylight – without finding any signs of a scuffle or the missing cycle, a pink-framed, 21-gear mountain bike.

  It would be simple enough to interview Assad Ali’s estate workers – there were six of them, handymen, gardeners, a gamekeeper and a housekeeper-cum-cook – but I suspected all I’d get would be more background on Gurya. I already knew from Assad about her passion for horses, her interest in local history and how she’d often disappear for hours to walk the estate grounds and the hills beyond.

  Instead, I decided to start with her friends. Assad gave me a list of the girls she’d been with the day she disappeared, together with addresses and phone numbers. I asked him to call one of their mothers to arrange a meeting at the coffee shop where they’d eaten the previous week. When he’d completed the call I got him to take me to her room.

  Halfway up the wood-panelled stairs I felt the air turn cold. I’d experienced the sensation before, but the feeling of apprehension and gloom grew with every step I took. Assad led me to a door on the far side of the broad landing and I had to stifle the urge to shout out a warning as he reached for the handle. The feeling grew as the door swung open and I stepped into the room.

  Someone had died here.

  I stopped abruptly, closing my eyes against the wave upon wave of visions and feelings and sensations that came at me like supercharged ions. For a few moments I struggled for breath, and when I opened my eyes I found Assad Ali staring at me, waiting for the profound revelation that would reveal his daughter’s fate.

  ‘This house must be older than it looks?’ I said it as casually as I could, but my voice held a raw edge I couldn’t conceal.

  He frowned at the apparently pointless question, but I held his eyes and waited for a response that came after a second’s hesitation. ‘It stands on the site of an ancient peel tower,’ he shrugged. ‘It was many centuries older than the building you see as you approach. History does not fascinate me as it did my daughter. It is a home, no more and no less. But I understand that the tower was a stronghold of a family who fell foul of one of the Stuart kings. It was partially destroyed when he laid siege to it and Gurya believed the ruins were incorporated into Chapel House.’

  I turned away, happy with his answer, which explained the flickering, disconnected visions I’d experienced as I walked into the room: two men, one a grey-bearded elder and the other quite young. Desperate men fighting for their lives. Sword blades flashing in the candlelight and blood spattering the walls. And then the fire, the heat growing, smoke filling the lungs before the final breath and eternal darkness.

  I hadn’t been in a teenage girl’s bedroom for a long time, but I’d say this one was fairly typical. Pastel colours. Pictures of rock stars, footballers and horses. A scatter of cuddly toys. The brand new laptop the cops should have checked on Day One. A pile of CDs lay by a sound system and I flipped my way through them expecting the usual girly mix of boy bands and Beyoncé. They were there, but others surprised me. Nirvana, Jimi Hendrix, INXS, The Who and some crowd called the Kozmic Blues Band, who I’d never heard of until I saw the name of the lead singer.

  I showed them to Assad Ali. ‘Did she buy these recently?’

  ‘All I know is that she played them much too loudly and too often, though I would give anything to hear their awful noise again. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because these bands all have something in common. One of their members is dead.’

  The blood drained from his face. ‘Are you suggesting . . .?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything, Mr Ali,’ I said gently. ‘I need to know everything I can about Gurya’s life.’

  Assad Ali had brought me to the room in the hope that something in it would trigger an instant connection to his daughter. What I knew and Assad didn’t is that the only time the connection has ever happened for me is when the person I’m looking for is very dead. So the good news was that I still thought Gurya was alive. The bad news was that I had no idea how to find her. Then again, for ten grand I was willing to spend a long time trying. When I was ready to go we shook hands and Assad Ali struggled to find something to say. I knew there were no words that could express what he was thinking. His daughter was gone, he didn’t know where or why or if she was safe or even alive. All you can do is give them a little hope. I’m in the hope business.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Ali, she’ll turn up.’ It was all I intended to say; a reassuring platitude I had no reason to believe was true. But some other Glen Savage came up with the eleven words that emerged from my mouth – and the one that didn’t. ‘The one thing I do know is that she isn’t dead.’

  Yet.

  Suddenly, I was sweating even though the room was quite cool, and Assad Ali was starting at me as if I was glowing in the dark. I blinked and brought myself back to the present. ‘I know you’ll be tempted, but please don’t ring Gurya’s mobile again. Someone might want to use it to contact us and I don’t want the battery run down by unnecessary calls.’

  He said he wouldn’t and accompanied me to the front door. As I walked out into the sunshine I remembered one more thing.

  ‘Oh, and I’d like to talk to your wife later, if that’s possible.’

  He frowned. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Savage, that won’t be possible today. Farah has not left her bed since Gurya went missing.’

  Which left me wondering who I’d seen at the top of the stairs less than three hours ago.

  *

  The village of Glendearg is only two minutes from Chapel House by car and I estimated Gurya would probably have been able to cover the distance in less than ten on her bike. The route took me along the main road for three hundred yards, then on to a narrow single track that cut off to the left, bounded by sparse bushes and a few spindly beech trees. On the way, I passed an old church covered in scaffolding hidden among the trees on the boundary of the Ali estate, and I noticed a tradesman’s van beside it. It was possible the workers might have seen something on the day Gurya disappeared and I made a mental note to drop in on them on the way back.

  Glendearg turned out to be a compact community tucked in the lee of a sugar-loaf hill. The main street consisted of a ribbon of terraced cottages once occupied by miners who’d dug tin and coal in the valleys nearby. A century ago they’d have been dark, cramped places: a main room, kitchen and a couple of tiny bedrooms, with the toilet a bucket in a freezing shed at the bottom of the garden. Now they had the polished look that only comes with investment and every one had been extended either upwards or outwards. But Glendearg’s real wealth lay on the outskirts and on the side of the hill where large, expensive detached houses clung together in clusters of twenty; homes, I suspected, to executives in Edinburgh’s booming financial centre – and the girls Gurya had come here to meet.

  Three of them waited for me in the coffee shop along with one of their mothers, a well-groomed blonde who said her name was Jill. The girls introduced themselves: Alice (green-eyed and pretty, dark and slightly petulant), Joanna (small, mousy and nervous) and Gemma, who had her mother’s blonde hair and the confidence to match. I gave Gemma and her mum the benefit of the old Glen Savage grin. Joanna kept her head down and Alice looked at me as if I’d just bid £500 for her virginity.

  I ordered three Cokes and two coffees and sat down at a table beside them. While the waitress brought the drinks, Jill and I chatted about the weather, which was warm but probably going to be wet, before I decided we should get down to business. I asked them about school. Gurya proved to be clever, popular with just about everyone, and destined to be the head girl. They ran me through the meeting at this very table a week earlier and confirmed, more or less, what Assad had said.

  No, Gurya hadn’t been on edge, or unhappy. On the contrary, she’d been cheerful and outgoing as always. When she left she said she’d see them on Monday, because she’d planned a hill walk for the Sunday as long as the rain held off. A pattern emerged, with Gemma providing most of the answers, Alice adding the odd fact or nodding
in confirmation, and Joanna sniffing every time Gurya’s name was mentioned. When I broached the awkward subject of the arranged marriage all three of them came out spitting like cornered wildcats, and even Jill looked horrified.

  ‘Gurya would never agree tothat,’ Gemma cried. ‘She said she wouldn’t let them dictate her life. She was Scottish, not some . . .’ Her mother gave her a look and she bit back whatever she was going to say. ‘She liked the boy, but she said she could never marry him. He was just too . . .different.’

  ‘Did she ever mention running away?’

  They gave each other a look that answered my question.

  ‘Do you think she’d have done it? Is there any possibility that’s what happened?’

  Gemma shook her head. ‘No. She . . . we talked about it. But, you don’t know Gurya, she’s a strong girl, really strong. She’s going to be a surgeon one day. If her parents forced her to go to Pakistan to marry she said she’d rather die.’

  Which raised a different possibility, but I remembered the girl in the picture, the life force leaping from the picture frame. Gurya Ali was a fighter; I doubted she would take that way out. I decided to try a different tack.

  ‘Are you Gurya’s only friends in the village?’

  Three pairs of eyes locked on mine.

  I held my hands up. ‘Hey, I’m not her father. I just need to know everything I can if I’m to have the best chance of finding her. I don’t care if she’s been smoking behind the bus shelter with some of the village girls’ – Gemma’s blue eyes flashed and I read something in her face – ‘or boys.’

  In the long silence that followed I could hear a clock ticking, although I hadn’t noticed one when I came in. A rush of steam hissed from the coffee machine and a chair scraped as the only other customer got up to pay his bill.

  ‘Tell him, Gemma.’ I thought it would be Gemma’s mother, but the voice was Joanna’s.