by Chris Simms
Jon tapped a finger on the counter. Have I got this wrong? He licked his lips. ‘Maybe.’
Behind him, Iona’s phone went off again. ‘Hello, sir. We’re still at the perimeter, yes. We’re talking to someone now. Is there any sign of Conway here? Erm, well ...’ Jon could sense she was looking at him.
He turned to her and nodded. It’s fine. Just say it.
‘At this point, no, sir. There isn’t. Yes, sir.’ She cut the call and gave an awkward cough. ‘He says the MIT lot are almost here. Soon as they arrive, we’re to return to base.’
Where a headmaster’s bollocking awaits me, Jon thought. Christ. The implications of it being a wrong call were sinking in. Because of him, attention had been diverted down a dead-end. They should have been checking Conway’s previous kill sites. He nodded at the security man. ‘OK, thanks for your help. Iona? We might as well wait out front.’
‘It was worth it,’ Iona said, pulling open the door. ‘He could easily have been heading here.’
He brushed past her and set off down the ramp. ‘Not sure upstairs will be so supportive.’
Iona called out behind him. ‘Wait!’
He turned round to see her pointing at a sign on the door that read: Identification Cards To Be Worn At All Times. ‘I just thought of something.’ She stopped the door from swinging fully shut. ‘Excuse me?’
The security man was now on the far side of the turnstile. He glanced back. ‘Yes?’
‘This is a biometric checkpoint. But you have identity cards, too. Are they swipe cards?’
‘Yes.’
‘What for?’
‘Various doors within the building. To control who has access to certain parts of it.’
‘And the system logs each time someone uses their card?’
‘That’s correct.’
She nodded at the monitor behind the desk. ‘So, you can go on there and tell us who is currently on site?’
‘I suppose so ... yes, it can show us that.’
‘Please.’
They watched from across the counter as he sat down and logged in. ‘Right, where will it be? Oh, yes. I head to this bit and select ...’ He squinted at the screen. ‘Odd.’
Jon leaned both elbows on the counter, vainly trying to see round to what was displayed. ‘Go on.’
‘Well, the security team for tonight is me, Rishi and Bruce.’
‘And?’
‘Well – I don’t know what Gavin Conway is doing here.’
‘Conway is on site?’ Jon demanded.
‘Six minutes ago, he used his card ...’ The security guy looked to the side and his eyes narrowed. ‘He’s come in via the FM Services desk.’
‘What’s that?’ Jon asked.
‘Council offices across on Lloyd Street. There’s a tunnel goes under the road to here. It’s restricted access and you need keys: but that’s no problem for us.’ The man removed a key and started to unlock the turnstile. ‘If you’re coming on-site, you really should be wearing a face mask.’
‘Fuck that,’ Jon replied, vaulting the counter. ‘Iona, call Pinner. Tell him I’ve gone in after him.’
Chapter 44
Gavin Conway swiped his pass for the third time: the last set of doors leading up from the underground walkway opened. He was now in the Town Hall’s inner courtyard. Waist-high blocks of neatly piled cobbles, wrapped in cellophane and mounted on pallets, blocked his way. Yellow power cables looped along the soot-stained walls to free-standing floodlights, all of which were off. A large door led into the main building, but he knew there was a camera trained on it. Keeping to the shadows, he walked quickly towards an archway that led to another, smaller, courtyard. Dark, mullioned windows surrounded him. On the far side was a smaller door. He hurried straight to that one and quietly let himself into the unlit porch.
Chipboard had been erected around the statues that guarded either side of the door. The brass handrail leading up the shallow flight of steps was encased in bubble wrap. At the top, he eased aside an orange and white concertina barrier and checked the dimly lit corridor. A short distance to his left was the main lobby. Out of sight on its far side was the front desk. That’s where the team who were on for the night would be. He listened. Faint music and, just audible alongside it, two voices chatting.
Directly in front was a short passage leading to the main stairs. He glanced at his watch. Whoever’s turn it was to be doing the rounds should be on his way to the far wing of the building, where he’d start on the second floor before working his way down to the official function rooms on the first floor. Finally, he’d emerge at the main staircase in about fifteen minutes’ time.
He checked the deserted corridor again. The intricately tiled floor had yet to be covered by protective sheeting; that meant walking along it would make less noise. He looked to his right. A succession of pointed arches led off into the distance. He knew that at the far end was a small lift. Should he risk that, or take the main stairway? That would be quieter, but more exposed. Plus, there was another camera positioned at the top of the initial flight. He would be in its view every single step he climbed.
He decided on the lift. All he had to do was take it to the sixth floor and then walk halfway along the corridor to the clock tower’s door. Not so bad, considering all he’d been through to get here. Once he had that open, he could lock it behind him and no one would be able to follow. Glancing down at the holdall, he held a forefinger out. Shush now, he thought. We don’t want to be making any noise.
‘What’s your name?’ Jon asked.
‘Andy.’
‘Which way to your control room, Andy?’
‘To your right,’ he replied. ‘Round the corner and up the steps.’
‘Come on!’ Jon ran down the ramp and onto the rubber matting beyond. The doors into the building were massive and heavy. He shouldered his way through and found himself in a lobby that still echoed with the sound of his arrival.
His first thought was how poor the light was. It took a second for his eyes to adjust. Stone pillars and pointed archways were spread out before him. Above, patterns on the vaulted ceiling were barely visible in the half-light. At his feet, a tiled floor. It was like being in a medieval banqueting hall. There was a reception desk to the side. Two blokes behind it, both looking at him in surprise. Behind him, he heard Andy coming through the door.
‘Where’s your CCTV?’ Jon asked. ‘I’m police.’
The two at the desk were still just staring at him.
‘Gavin Conway’s on site,’ Andy announced, moving past Jon. ‘Come in via FM Services.’
The older one of the pair behind the desk scratched at his beard. ‘What’s he doing here?’
Andy looked questioningly at Jon.
‘Just help me find him,’ Jon stated. ‘Any camera picking him up?’
No one moved.
‘Rishi?’ Andy said, clapping his hands. ‘Cameras?’
‘Right.’ He stepped into the rear room.
Jon looked around once more. Corridors branched off in several directions. He moved further into the main lobby. Through the largest arch, he could see a huge, curving stairway. Statues scrutinised him from dark recesses. Hanging from the ceiling above was an elaborate, unlit, chandelier.
‘Can’t see him,’ Rishi announced.
‘How do you get to the clock tower?’ Jon asked.
Andy appeared at his side. ‘Access to that is on the sixth floor. Little wooden door. He likes the clock tower, does Gavin.’
Jon regarded the other man. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Any excuse, he sneaks up there.’
‘Can you take me?’
‘Yeah.’ He pointed off to his right. ‘There’s a lift at the other end of that corridor. But it’ll be fastest if we go up the stairs. I’m assuming we’re in a hurry.’
‘We’re in a hurry,’ Jon replied, setting off. ‘And we need light!’ he shouted back to the desk. ‘Every bloody bulb in this building! I want them all tu
rned on.’
‘He’s already gone, sir,’ Iona said. ‘I couldn’t stop him.’
At the other end of the line, DCI Pinner sighed heavily. ‘The MIT team will be there any second. He really couldn’t wait?’
‘To be fair, sir, no. Conway got on site almost ten minutes ago. He’ll be in the main building by now. With Olivia’s baby.’
‘I understand,’ he said more quietly.
Her last comment hit home, as she’d hoped it would. ‘Shall I stay here?’
‘Yes. Make sure the MIT lot can get in. I’ll contact DCI Parks and let her know what’s happening. And I’m heading there myself. See you shortly.’
‘Sir.’ She pocketed her phone. Pinner and Parks. Things were going to get lively. She leaned over the counter and spotted the release button for the outer gate on a console beside the keyboard. The bloody thing was too far for her to reach. Gripping the monitor, she slid it across and used its corner to press down on the button. Then she unhooked the fire extinguisher from the wall, hurried out of the Portakabin and down the ramp. The lock mechanism was buzzing. She opened the gate with a sense of relief and propped the fire extinguisher against it. Job number one complete. Next, she called for an ambulance. A precaution she hoped wouldn’t be necessary.
What, she thought, should I do now? She turned round to examine the main building. Its lower floors were obscured by a thicket of scaffolding, at the top of which was a wooden walkway. Above that, was a steeply-angled roof. She let her eyes travel along its crest to the looming clock tower. Was that Conway’s plan? To end it all up there? By tilting her head back, she could see some kind of balcony above the shining white clock face at the top. If he jumped off that, where would he land? She dropped her gaze. Somewhere on the lower roof. Perhaps straight on to the vertical poles of scaffolding. A shudder gripped her.
Keeping an ear out for the sound of sirens, she walked back into the Portakabin and hopped over the counter. Emerging through the door at the far end, she surveyed the area before her. All the scaffolding at the base of the building had been encased in yellow foam. A sign affixed to one of the poles said, ‘Main Entrance’. The arrow pointed to the right. Looking in that direction, she saw a rubber walkway that disappeared round the corner of the building. Just beyond that were the gates at the corner of Lloyd Street. She turned her head in the other direction. About thirty metres away was a row of skips, several overflowing with empty cardboard boxes. Judging by the head-high stack of rolls directly before her, this area must be where lorries deposited their cargos for ferrying into the building.
She moved closer to see what the rolls were made of. Was it bubble wrap? The stuff she so loved to pop as a kid? She pressed her palm against the nearest one and felt the bumpy surface beneath the wrapping give slightly. Yes. Industrial-sized rolls of bubble wrap. Metres of the stuff.
She returned to her previous position where she could keep an eye on the perimeter gate. But the presence of the dark clock tower behind her was irresistible. She stared it once again. To her surprise, a series of floodlights positioned at its base started coming on. Bright beams of light shining upward. Then the turrets at the top began to glow purple. Next, the building’s windows began springing to life. Row after row. Jon, she thought. He’ll have told them to do that. With all the lights on, Conway would have nowhere to hide.
Chapter 45
The lift rose with a gentle rumbling noise. Gavin Conway looked about the confined space. Like the rest of the building, it dated from the century before last. Protective sheets of foam had been taped to the lower panels of wood. A thick plastic sheet covered the carpeted floor. The buttons were enamel, set into a panel of polished brass. The speed of the thing matched its appearance: slow and stately.
He thought about the rest of the building. It was, effectively, a museum piece. In the Banqueting Hall on the first floor, all the paintings were in the process of being taken down, ready for transportation to a storage facility somewhere in Cheshire. Even the courtyards were being meticulously taken up so each stone could be cleaned and, eventually, returned to its former position. It would be a shame to not see the building once it had been returned to its former glory.
The lift seemed to be even slower than usual. He placed the holdall on the floor and opened the zip. If it wasn’t for the purple smudge on her eyelids, he would have thought the little thing had already died. Just to be sure, he checked her cheek with the back of his forefinger. Still warm. He decided then that he’d go off the clock tower backwards, holding the baby away from him at arm’s length, offering her up so the mother could claim her. His gift.
A gentle bump let him know the lift had arrived on the sixth floor. As the doors slid open, he froze. Something wasn’t right. Cautiously, he stepped out. Why were all the lights on? They never had them on at night.
The lift was set into a recess and he edged his head round to check the corridor beyond. Empty. The door to the clock tower was halfway along. Low and made of thick wood, it had a single small window of frosted glass near the top. Nothing to indicate that, on the other side, one-hundred-and-seventy-three steep steps spiralled up to a narrow balcony that was littered with the shredded remains of dead pigeons.
He turned his head. Was that the sound of sirens? He edged round the corner and went into the first room on the right. Just a few weeks ago, this had been full of council employees. Now, it had been stripped. A few square patches of the carpet were still intact, discolouration revealing where people had once walked to and from their desks. The rest of the carpet tiles had been pulled up and tossed into an untidy pile in the centre of the room. Bare shelves stretched along the side wall.
He crossed to the windows. The sirens were much louder, now. Directly beyond the small glass panes was the wooden walkway of the scaffolding. Planks of wood prevented him from seeing down into Albert Square, but pulses of blue light were bouncing off buildings on the far side. So, the police have arrived, he thought. But not fast enough.
Iona could hear the cars’ sirens long before she saw the vehicles themselves. Why have your sirens on? Now he knows we’re here. She watched as three cars raced round the corner and pulled to a halt near their vehicle. She held up a hand as doors started to open. As the first detectives reached her, she readied herself to let them know what was happening.
‘This the way in?’ the first officer asked, hardly breaking step.
‘Yes. Do you need me to bring you up to speed?’
‘No, you’re alright love,’ he said. ‘Just point me in the direction of the control room.’
Shocked, she moved aside. ‘Right. Head into the Portakabin. You’ll need to climb over the counter. Go through the door at the other end and you’ll see the signs.’
‘Cheers.’ He turned to his approaching colleagues. ‘Boys! Follow me.’
She watched in silence as they started to file past. All men, mostly wearing suits. A couple met her eyes for a second before looking away. Really? she thought. Not one of you is going to—
A bottleneck formed on the ramp. The last detective was forced to stop right next to her. He spoke at her from the side of his mouth. ‘Is it true Spicer’s already in there?’
The nearest detectives turned in her direction.
‘Yeah,’ Iona replied. ‘He went in about five minutes ago.’
The one who’d asked the question shook his head before speaking to his colleagues. ‘Can’t fucking help himself, can he?’
As they continued edging into the Portakabin, Iona found herself staring incredulously at their backs. ‘Well, I suppose if he hadn’t worked this out, you lot would still be driving round empty NCP car parks in Ancoats.’
‘Yeah,’ the detective said over his shoulder. ‘But how will it play out? It’s Jon Spicer.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Iona demanded.
‘Usually, not very well.’
Another car came to a halt and a lady with curly black ringlets of hair and a large mole on her left cheek m
ade her way quickly across. A female officer, Iona thought. Finally.
‘You’re DC Iona Khan?’ she demanded in a cold voice.
Any hope for a more reasonable attitude instantly evaporated. ‘Yes.’
‘DCI Parks. You’ve been working with DC Spicer, correct?’
‘I have. He went in after Conway about—’
‘So, you have a number for him?’
‘Sorry?’
‘A number. You have his phone number.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Ring him and tell him to get out.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Ring him. This is an MIT operation. Tell him to get out. Now.’
Jon bounded up the stone stairs two at a time. As he ascended, he passed empty plinths that, he guessed, were once home to busts of serious-looking men. The historical figures who’d built Manchester into an industrial powerhouse. He got to the first floor and grabbed the handrail, immediately registering the layer of bubble wrap beneath his hand.
As he set off up the next flight, he checked the security man was keeping up. He was, just. At the third floor, the decor noticeably changed. Less grandiose, more plain. He guessed he was entering the functional part of the building; areas not designed for entertaining dignitaries and hosting official functions. By the fifth floor, he’d lost sight of the security man. He paused on the landing and glanced at the window. Blue lights were flickering in the square below. The MIT had arrived, then. He wondered if he’d have worked with many of the team. He wondered if many of them remembered him fondly. Maybe one or two, at most.
The security guard came into view, but he was puffing badly. Spotting Jon further up, he came to a stop. ‘Thank God for that. You need the bloody key. I can’t keep up with you.’
Jon immediately started back down. ‘How will I know which door?’
‘It’s the only one made of varnished wood. About halfway along. The rest are white. You can’t miss it.’
He took the key from the man’s shaking fingers. ‘Do you think he could have his own one?’
