War Games

by Douglas Jackson

  On the way, I noticed a red number ‘1’ on the answering machine, which meant I had a message. I clicked on play hoping it was news from Willie Dewar, but the voice was Dorward’s and it fairly seethed. ‘Savage, you’ve . . .’ I hit stop before he could go any further. It was obvious he hadn’t appreciated my TV appearance as much as I had.

  Aelish’s disembodied voice came from the living room. ‘Who was that? He didn’t sound very happy.’

  ‘Just somebody I’ve annoyed.’

  She laughed. ‘It’s nice to be back to normal.’

  CHAPTER 15

  Sunday, 10 June 2007

  At two the following afternoon I stood in the shade of a silver birch tree staring at the front door Jessica Taylor had been turned away from a couple of days earlier. Jessica had been reluctant to give me the address, but she changed her mind when I offered her a deal to share any inside information on the investigation into Shoaz Ahmad’s death. The fact that I wasn’t actually involved in the investigation made it a kind of one-sided deal, but Jessica didn’t need to know that.

  I recognised the familiar yellow fluorescent jacket at the gateway – a female cop this time – but none of the media scrum I’d expected. That would be explained by the statement Shoaz’s family had issued earlier in the day, and which I’d heard on the car radio, asking to be left alone. It looked as if the papers and TV had decided to respect their wishes, which was unusual but convenient. All I had to do now was get past the police minder at the door and convince Mr or Mrs Ahmad to talk to me. I’d thought about that, but not for too long. There really was only one way. I set off towards the house.

  As soon as she saw me, the WPC’s face assumed a determined expression that got more determined with every step I took. She was a big girl and I could imagine her giving as good as she got taking on the lads at judo, or tae kwon do, or whatever the cops do these days to prove who’s top dog. She opened her mouth to tell me to clear off, but I got in first.

  ‘Can you please tell Mr Ahmad that I have a message from his son?’ She blinked and her mouth stayed just the way it was. ‘My name is Glen Savage. I am a psychic investigator and I have an urgent message for Mr Ahmad from his son, Shoaz,’ I repeated. Only the first part of that sentence bore even the slightest relationship with the truth, but I knew it was the only thing that would get me through the front door. I’d worry about the subject matter of the message when I got inside. I gambled that word hadn’t filtered through to Glasgow that Glen Savage was never again to be allowed within a mile of the Ahmad investigation. It wasn’t a particularly good plan, but it was the only one I had.

  ‘Can you repeat that?’ She had a broad accent and as the look on her face changed from bemusement to disbelief I realised it was actually a rotten plan. Still, I gave it my best shot and did as she requested.

  ‘You must think I’m an idiot.’ She laughed. ‘Get lost before I call for back-up.’

  This was the point to regroup and try Plan B, but I didn’t have a Plan B. Hell, I hadn’t even had a Plan A. Fortunately, I didn’t need one.

  A man peeked out from between the tightly drawn maroon curtains of the house and I saw something light up in a face I recognised as Shoaz Ahmad’s father. He looked older than he’d appeared on TV, probably in his mid-fifties, but that might’ve been down to the cumulative effect of grief. I looked him in the eyes and gave him my Kirk minister’s solemn nod. I was fairly certain Mr Ahmad wasn’t a member, but that nod never fails to convey sincerity, even if the man doing the nodding has just been found in bed with his session clerk’s wife. The face disappeared, and after a few seconds the front door opened to reveal a short man in a dark suit and black tie.

  ‘Is there something wrong, officer?’ he asked.

  Ms Constable glared at me like a Great Dane that’s just been robbed of its dinner. ‘I have a message from Shoaz for his family, Mr Ahmad,’ I butted in quickly. He stared at me and I saw a mix of emotions fly across his face one after the other: consternation, disbelief, wariness and, finally, the one I wanted to see – hope. The pause gave me the chance to continue. ‘My name is Glen Savage. He asked me to visit you. May I come in?’

  He began to tremble, and for a moment I felt like walking away. But I’d made my pact with the Devil and now I had to see it through. He gathered himself like a boxer getting ready to step into the ring. ‘Enter,’ he said, moving aside to let me through the door. ‘Please.’

  ‘Mr Ahmad, I don’t think . . .’ The cop tried to intervene. But she was too late.

  ‘Please,’ he repeated, waving me in. As I walked up the four stone steps and into Shoaz Ahmad’s home I saw another pair of dark eyes watching me through the curtains.

  CHAPTER 16

  The front door closed and the narrow hallway went dark. Mr Ahmad excused himself and moved past me, skirting the stairway on my left, to open a door about four paces ahead to the right. He ushered me forward and I entered a large room lit only by the sunshine that filtered through a few gaps in the thick curtains. The silence that greeted me in the gloom was heavy and unnatural, and it took me a few seconds to realise we weren’t alone.

  A small, plump woman wearing a white kameez and with her hair covered by a scarf sat on a couch facing the doorway. She kept her head down so I couldn’t see her face, staring at slim, delicate-fingered hands wrapped around the handkerchief in her lap. She was much younger than Mr Ahmad, but the pose, and the women who sat to each side of her in the traditional position of support, told me she was his wife and Shoaz Ahmad’s mother.

  ‘Please, sit.’ He gestured towards an armchair to the right of the couch, next to the window, where I realised he must have been sitting earlier. I nodded my thanks and did as I was told, sinking unexpectedly deep and struggling to find a dignified position that suited my long legs. The room was about twice as long as it was broad, with what the shops like to call soft furnishings at the front, near the window, and a dining area with a wooden table and half a dozen chairs to the rear. By now my eyes had become accustomed to the darkness and I was able to make out the individuals seated around the table. Five of them: three men and two women. The two younger men were clean-shaven and looked to be in their mid-twenties; the third wore a heavy beard. He might have been anywhere between thirty and forty-five, and some instinct told me he was the one who had studied me from the window. The women were seated at the closest end of the table with their backs to me, but I could tell one of them was wearing an all-encompassing black burkha of a type I always find quite sinister. The men had the sunken-eyed look that accompanies days without sleep, and their expressions ranged from hostile to outright dangerous. The last time I’d seen that look was in a pub in west Belfast where I’d only made it out with the help of a Browning automatic pistol and a back-up team. I waited for Mr Ahmad to introduce us, but he seemed to have forgotten my existence. Instead, he stared distractedly about the room, rubbing his hands together as if he was trying to keep warm. The silence stretched out until you could feel it vibrate like an elastic band on the point of breaking. As the uncomfortable seconds turned into uncomfortable minutes I became more aware of my surroundings. Every house has a unique scent. My house on the hill above the Tweed smells of damp fishing clothes and the almost intangible sweet-and-sour odour of chronic illness. I have friends whose homes are overwhelmed by the pungent aroma of old dog, yet each dog gives off a subtly different olfactory signal. The Ahmads’ house wasn’t like that. It was a culture thing, a feeling of not belonging. Some combination of human scents and cooking smells that my brain couldn’t quite compute and a heavy, sweet perfume that reminded me of Turkish delight but wasn’t. The nearest thing I could come up with was a place I’d visited in Kowloon – but what had gone on there wasn’t the sort of thing you should think about in a home that’s in mourning.

  ‘Tea?’

  I tore my eyes away from the far end of the room and turned to find Mrs Ahmad looking expectantly at me. Tears had left distinct tracks through the thick kohl that
surrounded her dark eyes, but there was a steadiness to her gaze that made me think she was handling this better than her husband. ‘Would you like some tea?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Milk and sugar?’

  ‘Just two sugars, please.’

  She rattled out a quickfire burst of what I assumed was Urdu and one of the younger women hurried out of the room. When she had gone, Mrs Ahmad followed up with a second volley of words aimed at her husband that brought him instantly and obediently back to the present. He looked at me with a dazed smile that wasn’t a smile.

  ‘You said that Shoaz had a message for us, Mr Savage. Please tell us what he had to say.’

  Mrs Ahmad looked at me expectantly. I heard a snort of disbelief from the back of the room that I chose to ignore. The tea arrived, strong and dark and sweet, and I sipped it for a while, letting the tension grow and wondering how the hell I always managed to get myself into situations like this. There was no message from Shoaz Ahmad. He was just a face I’d seen on the TV and in the newspapers. A dark-skinned Asian boy with short, tidy hair and a shy smile. But his presence was all around me in this room. Not a psychic presence, a physical presence. Every psychic, whether he’s genuinely one or not, must be part conjuror and part actor. For the false prophets, the reason is obvious: if they have nothing to say they must find other ways to convince the gullible and the desperate that their voice is worth listening to. For me, it’s usually different, but, even when I hear the voices and see the visions, the actuality of my experience sometimes isn’t enough to get the message across. I always like to have an edge. When you’ve walked country lanes where a leaf out of place could be the difference between life and death and searched houses that are likely to come down on your head if you flick the wrong switch, your powers of observation tend to become well honed. While we’d been waiting I’d put those powers to good use.

  ‘First of all, you should be aware that I visited the place where the body of your son Shoaz was found.’ I was fairly certain Mr Ahmad already knew this because he’d recognised me at the window and the most likely reason for that was that he’d seen me on the TV news. All that mattered was that it reinforced my credentials and therefore my credibility in his eyes. There were people in this room I knew I wouldn’t convince, people with smouldering dark eyes who were staring at me now, but the only ones who really mattered were Shoaz Ahmad’s parents. ‘Second, I should tell you that I’m what is known as a psychic and that, in certain circumstances, I have had contact with those who have passed away.’

  He nodded and looked towards his wife, who studied me intently in a way that made me feel as if she could see right through me.

  ‘When I was on the hill with the police, the spirit of your son came to me, not in a vision or in words, but as a sense of what and who he was. I congratulate you; he is a bright boy with a good heart.’ I saw Mr Ahmad flinch and his wife put her fist to her mouth. For a heartbeat I wondered if I’d made a mistake, but there was nothing for it but to keep going. ‘He is hard-working and honest, a friend to his friends. A boy I would be proud to call my son. He is unhappy that he has caused you grief, but not unhappy with the place he finds himself. He looks forward to playing football in Paradise . . .’

  ‘You blaspheme!’ The shout was accompanied by a loud thump from the table as the bearded man slammed his fist on the wooden surface and got to his feet. He wasn’t tall, but he was broad-chested, with long arms and a wrestler’s shoulders. I tensed, but Mr Ahmad turned and waved him down. ‘Enough, Gulam. This is my house, Shoaz’s house, and you will respect it. Mr Savage is our guest and here to support us, as you are. Let him speak.’

  The ending I’d planned – ‘and chasing girls’ – didn’t seem so appropriate now, but I sensed I’d already done enough. I’d laid it on thick, but I’d given the Ahmads what they wanted to hear. That their son might have spent too much time with his tearaway pals down by the river, but he was a kid to be proud of and he wasn’t unhappy. The glimpse I’d caught of the football team grinning from the picture frame beside the fire place, and the trophy beside it, had let me end with a touch of authenticity. Glen Savage at his best. Or his worst? Maybe, but it wouldn’t do any harm and it might do the Ahmads some good, and sometimes that’s the best you can hope for.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I explained. ‘There is nothing more. It is the way of these things; the moment comes, and it goes. But it may come again.’ Mrs Ahmad fixed me with eyes that held a plea, and I addressed my next words to her. ‘It would help if I had something that Shoaz was close to; a toy or a present,’ I said gently. ‘Something he loved. It might provide a link to him.’

  ‘So, a fraud and a thief!’ Gulam was on his feet again and this time he wasn’t going to be quiet. ‘I also saw this man on the television, and I was curious enough to make inquiries about him. Does he tell you that he has taken money from hundreds, maybe thousands of people? And for what? For nothing. Does he tell you that he is being investigated by the authorities in Scotland and America. No. All he tells you is lies. You defile your son’s memory by listening to him.’

  I opened my mouth to defend myself, but I didn’t have to. Just for a second I thought Mr Ahmad was going to physically attack him. His face worked with fury and his voice was so ragged with outraged honour that he could barely get the words out.

  ‘You talk to me of Shoaz’s memory, you . . . you who tried to lure him away from us. You have betrayed my hospitality. You dishonour us by your words.’ He was the smaller man, but this was his home and his presence within it dwarfed Gulam’s. ‘You will leave now.’

  Gulam huffed and puffed and was all for having another go at me, but his brethren from the top table hustled him out of the room and the two women followed them. I heard the front door slam.

  ‘I apologise for my friend’s rudeness. He means well, but . . . Thank you for coming here. Your words meant much to my wife, and to myself. My son died alone without ever having the chance to say the Shahada. He died with nothing but his faith to comfort and sustain him, and now the police say we cannot give him the traditional rites until the investigation is complete. You must understand that we are bereft, all of us. At least you have given my family something to hold on to. If . . . if Shoaz should . . . come to you again . . . ask him . . .’ Mr Ahmad put his arm around his wife in a gesture of comfort. He swallowed and his voice, which had been on the point of breaking, regained its strength. ‘Ask my son, Mr Savage, why this evil person slaughtered him like some halal offering. Ask my son why they had to take away his heart.’

  Heart. The word rang in my head like a cathedral bell and the pieces of the jigsaw fell into place one after the other. At first I thought he was being metaphorical, but then I remembered the reaction when I’d mentioned that Shoaz had a good heart. No wonder they’d looked shocked. His heart. That was it. That was the trophy that the killer had taken. But why? I had to bite my lip to stop myself from asking a dozen questions that the Ahmads could never have answered. I had what I’d come for; it was time to go.

  As I rose, Mrs Ahmad thrust a large parcel into my hands. It was an innocuous misshapen thing wrapped in blue-and-gold striped paper, but as soon as I touched it I felt as if an electric shock had run through me. My head whirled with blurred images and I felt as if I’d been transported to another world. Words tumbled from my mouth in a language I couldn’t understand and they recoiled with faces frozen in shock.

  ‘What did I say?’ The words emerged as a scratchy croak.

  Mr Ahmad stared at me wide-eyed, his mouth twitching and two glistening tears running parallel down his cheeks. His wife’s hands were shaking as they reached out to take mine. ‘You are not the man you think you are, Mr Savage.’ I opened my mouth to interrupt, but she shook her head. ‘Shoaz is with God now. God’s Warrior will lead you to the one you seek.’

  ‘How . . .?’

  ‘You spoke with my son’s voice Mr Savage,’ she said simply. ‘For a short time you gave him back to us. Now fin
d his killer.’

  CHAPTER 17

  I made my way back to where I parked the Capri, about half a mile away. The gift can be a demanding mistress and this time it had taken the strength from my body and the quickness from my mind. As I walked I tried to assess what I had been given, and why. Whatever was in the parcel had linked me to Shoaz Ahmad in a way standing at the spot where he’d been found never could. At the same time I felt a mixture of elation and dread. Dread, because this was new. The gift provided me with knowledge, however obscure. It had never before used me as a channel between its world and mine. Since Tumbledown I’d convinced myself I was in control. Clearly that assumption was wrong. But the encounter had provided me with a tantalising clue.God’s Warrior. Two words that conjured up an image of a fiery angel of vengeance and a sense of relentless power. Who was God’s Warrior and how would he lead me to Shoaz Ahmad’s killer? And then there was the heart. Why had the killer removed it from his victim’s body? I knew that the heart has powerful symbolism both in the physical and the metaphorical sense, but there are easier trophies to take if you want something to remember your victim by. The fact that he had chosen the heart told me something about the killer, but I wasn’t yet sure what it was. It seemed to me it would take a major effort, and possibly a lot of practice, to remove somebody’s heart. That might mean the killer had some medical knowledge, but it could just as easily be a butcher’s apprentice. One thing was certain, Shoaz hadn’t been killed where they found him. His father had talked about a halal offering. Halal is Moslem ritual slaughter by cutting the throat. If someone had slit Shoaz Ahmad’s throat on the hill, the place would have been soaked with his blood.