‘But now that I’ve told you I’ll have to kill you. Those are the rules. Sorry you won’t be around for the big day.’
Saleem made ready to kick the log away.
‘Untazar!’ a voice called out. It was Mustafa. ‘I want to do it,’ he said in heavily accented English as he walked over.
Saleem looked between Mustafa and Gunnymede with a grin. ‘Mustafa wants to be the one to kill you. He used to work for the British Army. In Basra. How long for?’
‘Two year,’ Mustafa said.
‘SRR wasn’t it?’ Saleem asked.
‘Special Reconnaissance Regiment,’ Mustafa said.
‘He worked in the kitchen. Mustafa was going to kill a bunch of ’em but he was laid off before he could. He’s a bit of a thug is Mustafa.’ Saleem removed his toe from Gunnymede’s log. ‘One last thing. What was your mate’s name?’
‘Granger.’
‘When we found Granger he was still alive. Straight up. He was wounded. He couldn’t walk. But alive.’ Saleem raised his hands so that Gunnymede could see them. ‘I strangled him with these. I wrapped them around his throat and squeezed until he died.’
Gunnymede stared at Saleem as the man held up his hands and for a few seconds he forgot his own life was literally hanging by a thread while wanting to tear the Arab apart.
Saleem stepped away and Mustafa put his boot against the log. Back to reality. Gunnymede’s hands strained in vain to break the bonds, his throat braced against the noose. Where was all the pomp and ceremony? The video. The banner with armed fighters in prayer. Didn’t they want more information out of him? Surely this wasn’t it.
Mustafa moved the log a little.
A Daesh fighter came running from the courtyard and between the ancient stones. ‘Aircraft!’ he shouted.
The air was suddenly filled with the sound of fighter jets. As one, every man ran as fast as he could. The best place to be during an air raid was the catacombs of the building Gunnymede had just left. A jet screamed overhead with a deafening roar and a rocket slammed into a building. Explosions detonated in rapid succession. Saleem took off as fast as he could. A nearby strike shook the ground. Gunnymede felt it quiver up the log and through his legs. He and the Kurds fought to stay balanced.
But Mustafa had not run. He remained, looking at Gunnymede for a second. Gunnymede could see the death in his eyes. Mustafa kicked the log away as another rocket struck nearby and broke into a run. The log fell beneath Gunnymede’s feet and the noose slammed tight around his neck. He swung inches above the ground, his feet kicking out in desperation to find anything to step onto. He pulled frantically against the bonds that tied his hands. His face turned red as he choked.
Death was seconds away.
Chapter 7
The week in Dartmoor dragged by as Bethan had hoped it would. With no-one to talk to and a poor internet connection, she made her way through two novels, half a bottle of scotch, two bottles of wine and covered some thirty miles of moorland. She’d been so chilled that she’d forgotten to complete her case report or read the file she’d brought with her.
By Saturday afternoon, her need to organise and tie up loose ends steered her towards her small dining table by the window where she’d placed her laptop and work papers. A gust of wind hit the window with a gentle thud and she looked onto the moor, never tiring of its prehistoric beauty. It was a cold, blustery day with a sweeping wind that stroked the tops of the heather in swirling waves. Rain sprayed against the glass as grey shadows eased over the folds of land like whale ghosts.
Her phone chirped on the table. Who dared to interrupt?
She checked the number. DCI Dillon. Anyone else and she might’ve ignored it. ‘Hello boss,’ she said in a cheery tone.
‘How’s your leave going?’
‘Well, you told me that I deserved it. Vigorously pursue diversions was your command. Forget all about work. Cleanse it from your mind. Yet you call.’
‘Your leave ends tomorrow,’ Dillon said. He was in his office in Scotland Yard, the River Thames outside his window.
‘Which is not today.’
‘Have you finished the Macaw report?’
‘Almost,’ she said.
‘Accounts need it to finalise the budget.’
‘Monday for sure.’
‘Did you get to the Carlton case?’
She eyed the unopened file on her desk.
‘Not a problem if you haven’t,’ he said. ‘I have something else for you.’
‘That’s a shame. It was going to be tonight’s bedtime read.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Why are you sorry?’
‘I meant I was hoping you might be otherwise distracted.’
‘It’s not your place to hope for such things.’
Dillon suddenly realised he’d been inappropriate. ‘What I meant was ... I’m just being fatherly,’ he said, backtracking.
Bethan was amused by his stuttering. ‘Fathers don’t usually hope their daughters are distracted at bedtime in the manner you meant.’
He fought to recover. ‘I worry about you at times, that’s all. You work very hard and I don’t like to think of you without companionship.’
‘I like being alone,’ she said, wistfully, picturing him rolling his eyes.
‘Okay. See you Monday.’
‘Why exactly did you call me?’
‘Oh, yes. You’re off to Albania.’
‘Albania?’
‘As in the Balkans.’
‘When?’ she asked, frowning at the thought.
‘Monday morning. Early. Don’t be late. The weather is warm but dress with cultural sensitivity. It’s seventy per cent Muslim.’
‘If you were culturally sensitive, you’d send a man.’
