Lynne Fox - The Armageddon Game

THE ARMAGEDDON GAME

by

Lynne Fox

AN M-Y BOOKS PAPERBACK

© Copyright 2020

Lynne Fox

The right of Lynne Fox to be identified as the author of This work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All Rights Reserved

No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with the written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended).

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

ISBN (Print): 978-1-912875-91-7

ISBN (epub): 978-1-912875-90-0

For John Fisher whose support and

encouragement never wanes.

Thank you.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My thanks must go to John Fisher for his helpful comments on the first draft. Also to Kevin Saunders for his erudite suggestions and for pointing out a glaring error!

PROLOGUE

The cottage stood alone against the barren landscape of the headland, with its back to the sea as protection against the worst of the weather it made a defiant stand against the crashing violence of the waves.

The only approach was a single track covered with a thick layer of snow and ice that crackled under Inspector Munroe’s tyres and hid the ruts and potholes. He drove with extreme caution, the journey a nerve-wracking test of his vehicle’s suspension.

Pulling up outside the front door, once painted a jaunty maritime blue but now peeling in layers, he stepped out of the car. His feet sank into the soft snow just deep enough that it topped the rim of his shoes, the warmth from his body melting it on contact. His woollen socks soaked up the moisture, the cold travelling up his legs at an alarming rate. He shuddered, shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and hunching down against the arctic atmosphere, trudged toward the cottage door.

The police tape had long since been removed, the only evidence of its ever being there a couple of short lengths still tied to the chicken wire fencing, flapping like ticker tape in the wind. The door was unlocked, forensic had gathered all its evidence months ago and the place was no longer of interest as a scene of crime.

Turning the round knob handle he pushed against the door’s resistance. The damp salt air had warped both door and frame so that he had to place his shoulder against it and use his full body weight to force it. Opening with a reluctant, ear-piercing shriek as it scraped over the wooden floor it was as though the cottage itself resented his intrusion.

Pushing it shut he stood with his back to the door, his eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom within. His breath hung in the air, frosted crystals of moisture; it seemed colder in here than outside. Instinctively he gathered his jacket closer to him as though huddling into a cosy duvet although it did nothing to dispel the cold. Nothing moved; the air inside the cottage was as still as the air inside a sepulchre, fetid with the lingering sweet smell of rotting flesh.

Outside the clouds briefly parted allowing the sun’s rays to pierce the grime on the window to his right sending a shaft of brilliance across the room. Like a macabre stage setting it illuminated a deep seated armchair.

With effort he took a couple of steps forward feeling he was dragging his legs through molasses; his eyes darting about the room as though expecting someone to be there.

Beginning in the far left corner he slowly and methodically canvassed every piece of furniture, every cloth covering. He pulled books from the bookshelf, opening each one and shaking them in turn. Idly he fingered a couple of the chess pieces, still laid out on the table, wondering if there was some significance in their positions on the board but he’d never played the game so its nuances meant little to him. Taking hold of one of the two wooden dining chairs he climbed onto it to give him more height and ran his fingers along the picture rail. What he was looking for he didn’t rightly know. The forensic team had gone over the scene with meticulous care; he didn’t doubt their diligence or expertise but there had to be something; something they had missed and he would stay here, searching, until he found it.

Three hours later, each of the four rooms examined and still nothing. He’d completely lost track of time, even the gradual fading of light hadn’t registered; he’d simply taken out his torch to examine things more closely. Now, as he looked out the window he realised there was no way he would be driving back tonight. The snow had increased to a blizzard whilst he was inside; now covering the earth like an animal pelt. It was a complete white-out, the screaming gale and ferocious crashing of the waves below him a disembodied voice of a soul in torment.

As he stood by the kitchen window his hand knocked against a kerosene lamp standing on the draining board. He lifted it cautiously and felt the weight and heard the slosh of its liquid fuel. Fumbling in his pocket he found his lighter and with a misplaced sense of relief, lit the mantle.

CHAPTER 1

It’s been three years since I was returned to St Joseph’s Psychiatric Hospital, the past two spent in the wing for the criminally insane because I’d killed Dr Metcalfe during one of our therapy sessions.

The authorities were none too pleased with me. Dr Metcalfe had been the hospital’s shining light, an advocate for adopting more humane treatment of the psychologically deranged. The general consensus had been that I was evidence such an approach was flawed so security had been enhanced, rules more stringently followed and any outside interference with the running of St Joseph’s strongly opposed.

There were no strait jackets or inmates manacled to beds and to my knowledge the one and only padded cell had never been used. It was more a case of constant surveillance. The security cameras had been increased three-fold and no-one from my wing ever went anywhere without a minder, two in the case of the more unpredictable.

I was now down to one having behaved myself impeccably since the Dr Metcalfe incident and he – his name was Alberto – was becoming more relaxed in my company. I’d never told why I’d killed Dr Metcalfe; there was little point as I knew they’d never believe me so I said nothing.

My new therapist, Dr Chang, brought all his many years of experience and knowledge to bear but still was unable to elicit my reason. He didn’t have the calm, self-assurance of Dr Metcalfe; his frustration was palpable. Quite a non-descript little Chinese man he wore suits made of a pale yellowish beige that his skin colour merged with so well that, in half light, it was difficult to determine where Dr Chang left off and the suit began.

Of course, Dr Chang’s therapy sessions and the many pills I obediently swallowed weren’t going to cure me because I wasn’t criminally or otherwise insane. I’d known exactly what I was doing, I always have. In the case of Dr Metcalfe it was clear, after what he’d told me, that whilst he was in control of St Joseph’s I would never be discharged so killing him didn’t exactly alter my situation.