by Chris Simms
She put her phone away and glanced at her watch. Eight forty-three. In about thirty-six hours, she realized, these streets will be crawling with delegates for the Labour Party conference.
SEVEN
The phone line clicked as Iona was placed on hold. She looked up from her desk. As usual, the office was very quiet. Many members of the Unit would be over at Gold Command, the operations centre set up especially for the Labour Party conference in the sports hall of the Police Training College at Sedgeley Park. Others would be at the Silver and Bronze posts located closer to the convention centre itself. That left a few civilian support workers and her.
Her eyes settled on the screensaver that someone in the IT department had loaded on to everyone’s monitor. Operation Protector, the block lettering boldly announced. The digital numbers below it read, fourteen hours, forty-three minutes. It was a countdown to midnight: when the security operation went live.
She examined the empty desk opposite hers. Detective Inspector Dave Ellis. The person meant to be her work partner, showing her the ropes, making her feel part of the team. Presently laid up at home with a slipped disc.
On getting in that morning, she’d tried to summon the will to call Jim and ask how he’d got hold of all the CCTV images relating to the case he was wrapping up. I’ve helped in so many cases where evidence from council CCTV featured, she chastised herself, and not once did it occur to me where all the images were actually recorded.
After a minute’s agonizing, she’d decided to prioritize contacting the University of Manchester to ask how she could obtain a list of all foreign nationals currently in the city on student visas.
The task, as the staff member in the admissions office had told her, was made considerably easier by the fact the present institution was the result of a merger, some seven years before, between The Victoria University of Manchester and the Manchester Institute of Science and Technology. The new establishment had close to forty thousand students, and not only were the seven thousand or so overseas ones on student visas listed by the admissions office, they were also categorized by nationality, sex and ethnic origin.
Iona had asked the staff member to bring up all those from Sri Lanka. As expected, Muttiah and Vasen were not among the nine names revealed. Examining the ethnic categories on the university’s online form, Iona asked the person to separate off all males who’d ticked ‘Asian’, ‘African’ or ‘Any other black background’ as their ethnic group and email the names over.
This had resulted in a list of just under two thousand, alphabetically listed, surnames. She scanned carefully through the lot. No Christian or surnames of Muttiah, as Iona expected. Worse, no Vasens either. In fact, none of the names beginning with V even came close to the name which Hidden Shadow thought he’d heard being used.
She’d tapped her pen against her lower teeth. It was no surprise the mystery person had lied about being Sri Lankan. But if he wasn’t actually over on a student visa either, the search for him would make finding a needle in a haystack seem simple.
She’d sunk lower in her seat, suddenly sensing that the grim reality of most police work was about to apply to this case: a slow, methodical sift of information. And, with the conference about to start, it was something she didn’t have time to do.
Studying the names again, she recalled that Hidden Shadow had mentioned something. What was it? She closed her eyes. It had been towards the end of the interview, when she was dying to get out of that bar. Something to do with the pair being in smart clothes outside the library. Like they were dressed for a graduation ceremony, that was it!
She called the person in the university’s admissions office back. ‘Do you keep a list of recent graduates? Or, better, the foreign nationals who’ve completed the course they were granted a student visa to undertake?’
‘We do.’
‘Great. Can I have all male names then for last year, please? Same ethnic search parameters as before. Oh, and any chance the alphabetical order can be by the Christian name this time, not surname?’
‘I think I can do that.’
Ten minutes later, she had a new list, numbering one thousand three hundred and fourteen. She scanned for those that began with M. No Muttiah. She continued to those that began with V. There were eight.
Vasava.
Vasilios.
Vassen.
Vedanga.
Victor.
Vimal.
Viraj.
Vougay.
Her eyes went back to the third. Vassen. Surname of Bhujun, from Mauritius. Of course, the university staff member had explained, there were also foreign nationals studying at Salford University and Manchester Metropolitan University, not to mention the various other Further Education institutions dotted about the city.
But Iona had a good feeling about Vassen Bhujun and, judging from what the police officer in Mauritius had just reported, her hunch had saved countless valuable hours of searching.
At that moment there was another click as the police officer came back on the line. ‘Sorry for keeping you.’
‘That’s OK. What time is it in Mauritius, by the way?’ Iona asked, transferring the phone to her other hand and reaching for a notepad.
‘Twenty past two in the afternoon,’ the woman replied, a mix of what seemed to be Caribbean and French in her accent. ‘Four hours ahead of you.’
‘Oh. Afternoon then. And you’re an inspector?’
‘That’s correct,’ the voice said.
She glanced at Dave Ellis’ empty chair. ‘We have the same rank over here.’
‘I know. The police force here is modelled on yours. We were a British colony until 1968.’
‘I didn’t realize.’ Feeling a little sheepish, she checked around – but there was no one to have overheard her minor gaffe. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’
‘Sheila Moruba,’ the inspector replied. ‘So, checking with immigration, we have no record of Vassen Bhujun re-entering the country.’
‘But, according to the university he was enrolled at over here, his course has already finished.’
‘We might be a small country, Detective Khan. Less than one-and-a-half million. But our immigration systems are as modern as yours.’
‘Sorry – I wasn’t implying they weren’t.’
There was a slight pause. ‘Well, Vassen Bhujun has not passed through Customs and Immigration since leaving for Britain over a year ago.’
Which means if he is still here, Iona thought, it’s illegally. ‘OK, thanks very much.’
‘You also asked if he is known to us.’
‘Yes,’ Iona replied. ‘I appreciate you can’t just send me his criminal record – if he even has one. But, you know, it tends to be the same names that crop up again and again. At least it is here in Manchester.’
‘I can tell you – in confidence – he has no record. But his name recently came up as a possible associate of a man we’ve issued an arrest warrant for.’
‘Who’s the man?’
‘A relative of his, Ranjit Bhujun – the prime suspect in an ongoing murder investigation.’
‘Really?’ Iona’s mind went back to what Hidden Shadow had said. The man with Vassen had looked like an older brother or uncle. ‘What kind of a relative?’
‘Cousin.’
Iona felt a little jolt of adrenaline. ‘But Vassen wasn’t involved?’
‘No. Vassen was in Britain when the murder was committed – his address was searched in case Ranjit was hiding there. The rooms were empty.’
‘When did this murder take place, then?’
‘Around six months ago. It was unusual in the sense that the victim was British.’
Iona imagined a tourist mugging gone wrong. Some poor soul straying into the wrong part of town. ‘A holidaymaker?’
‘No. The person owned a property here. On a very exclusive part of the island. He was killed in his bed.’
‘So it was a burglary?’
‘The file is wi
th the Major Crimes Investigation Team. If you put in a formal request, I imagine they’d share it with you.’
‘OK, I’ll arrange for that as soon as possible. But can you give me any details in the meantime? I’m really up against it here.’
‘Yes – I remember the incident well. You may, too. The case made the news for two reasons. Firstly, it was a very brutal and senseless murder. The thief had already emptied the contents of the safe when the owner of the property managed to free a hand and hit the button for the panic alarm above his bed.’
‘Free a hand? He’d been tied up?’
‘Yes. The assailant had got in through an open window of the villa. Cut through the mosquito screen, bound and gagged the victim, then forced him to divulge the combination for the safe. When it was being emptied, the victim set off the alarm. The thief returned to the bedroom and bludgeoned him to death. As I said, brutal and senseless.’
‘So a burglary gone wrong.’
‘I believe that was the final conclusion.’
‘You mentioned a second reason why it stood out.’
‘Yes – the victim. He was quite a prominent figure here on the island. At least in official circles.’
‘Who was he?’
‘Reginald Appleton.’
Iona screwed her eyes shut. The name sounded vaguely familiar. ‘Appleton . . . what did he do in Mauritius?’
‘He had a retirement property here, a very large one. In Britain, he was a Lord – a very senior part of your legal system.’
Iona opened her eyes. ‘The Law Lord? You’re talking about the judge: that Appleton? I do remember, it made the news here . . .’
‘The whole thing is very embarrassing. Especially as the prime suspect has not been caught.’
‘Ranjit Bhujun is still at large?’
‘Yes – though not thought to be in Mauritius any longer.’
So your borders aren’t quite as watertight as you were making out, Iona thought. Which is understandable, considering you’re an island, like us. She considered the fact Vassen had been seen with another man of a similar appearance. Am I dealing with some kind of terrorist cell? I need that CCTV footage, she realized. And I need more information on Appleton as well. ‘OK, thanks Sheila. I’ll get a proper request for the file on the murder. Speak to you soon.’
While replacing the receiver with one hand, she was typing into the search box of Google with the other. Appleton, Law Lord.
EIGHT
Ten minutes later, Iona had contacted the UK Border Agency. As she waited for the person to get back to her, she turned to the Wikipedia entry she’d printed off for Reginald Appleton. Four pages of dense text. Iona skimmed over the opening pages.
Born in 1937, in Kent, educated privately and then at Queen’s College, Oxford, where he won the Vinerian Scholarship. Called to the Bar in 1965, made a QC just eleven years later in 1976 and then a judge in 1980.
All par for the course so far, Iona thought, reflecting for a moment on her own – failed – application to Oxford. Still, she gave a quick smile, if I had got in I’d have probably ended as a merchant banker or something similar. Living in London, working in the Square Mile, hours from my family. No, three years reading maths at Newcastle University and then into the police is suiting me just fine.
But this guy, she thought; he’d been born into the establishment and was obviously destined to become part of the establishment. Made a Judge of the High Court of Justice, Chancery Division in 1984 followed by a Lord Justice of Appeal from 1991 to 1996. Then, at fifty-nine years old, he was appointed Lord of Appeal in Ordinary and created a life peer by the title Baron Appleton. Retired as a Law Lord in 2009, just prior to the title changing to Justice of the Supreme Court.
At which point, Iona thought, he invested in a property on Mauritius. No doubt the plan had been to see out his twilight years in a tropical climate, cocktails on the verandah, fresh seafood and stunning sunsets. Except the poor man had been battered to death in his bed.
The next section detailed the man’s life outside his role as a Law Lord. Had received a blue from Oxford for rowing. Married in 1962. His wife, Margaret, had died of cancer in 2003. He was a jazz aficionado and had published what was widely regarded as one of the finest biographies of the pianist, Oscar Peterson. In 1995, his eldest daughter, Lucinda, had married the son of Tristram Dell – a senior civil servant who – until his retirement – had worked in the Foreign Office. The man had also graduated from Oxford in the early fifties.
Iona’s eyes stopped moving. Did the two men know each other before their respective children got married? Were they more than just contemporaries?
She moved to the next section, titled Selected List of Cases Decided. A series of bullet points detailed various actions. One plc company versus another, a shipping corporation versus a chartered bank, a private name versus an insurance company. Then, in the early years of the new millennium, a series of decisions where the defendant was listed as either the Secretary of State for the Home Department or the Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs. She searched for any more details on what the cases had been about. Just dates and a few letters that obviously denoted some kind of reference code.
The final subheading read, Opinions in Terrorism Cases. Iona’s eyes narrowed. Of course, she thought; the man was a Law Lord in the years following on directly from 9/11. The start of the Bush and Blair administrations’ so-called War on Terror. She sat forward, eyes now fixed on the text. Appleton had been involved in a variety of judgements. Again, the cases were listed, but with no accompanying detail.
The concluding few lines stated that, in the long tradition of English judges deferring to the executive in matters of national security, Appleton had been no exception. Which meant, Iona thought, going along with the government.
She highlighted one of the decisions where the defendant was listed as Secretary of State for the Home Department and fed it back into Google. An obscure legal website came up. The judgement related to the detention without charge of several foreign prisoners that were being held in Belmarsh prison under the Anti-terrorism, Crime and Security Act 2001.
Iona brushed hair back from her face. This was all getting very murky. The nature of Appleton’s job had made him a symbol of the British establishment. Then he was involved in cases like that. A terrorist’s dream target, surely. She glanced uneasily towards the corridor leading past the stairs up to her boss’ office. If this cousin – the prime suspect in the Appleton murder is over here – and the Labour Party conference is about to kick off, we could have a problem. Her dad’s words came back to her; the observation Blair and his old cronies were due to be sweeping into town. This, she thought, is something Wallace needs to know about.
The phone to her side went off. ‘Constable – I mean, Detective Constable Khan speaking.’
‘Forgot your rank there? It’s Dominic Edwards.’
The Border Agency official I spoke to earlier, Iona thought. ‘That and being in a new office. Keep setting off to my old one in the mornings.’
He chuckled. ‘I’ve had a search on the system.’
She tilted her head so she could wedge the phone against her shoulder. The strand of hair she’d tucked back over her other ear fell forward again and she blew at it from the corner of her mouth. ‘Did you have more luck than me?’ she asked, pulling off the cap of a biro.
‘Afraid not. You’re right – Vassen Bhujun was granted a student visa to undertake a one-year course at the University of Manchester. That visa expired in June, but there is no record of him leaving the country.’
‘So you have his file?’
‘Yes – right here.’
‘Is there a photo with it?’
He gave a little cough. ‘I believe there was a human error – that’s polite-speak for someone dropping a bollock. No photo with the paperwork.’
Iona sighed. ‘OK. So he shouldn’t still be here. How many other people in the country on student visas promptly v
anish when it expires?’
‘You want the official number or the real one?’
‘Real one, please.’
‘We don’t know.’
She frowned. ‘Roughly, then. Thousands?’
‘Higher.’
‘Ten thousand?’
‘Keep going.’
‘Twenty thousand?’
‘Keep going.’
‘Bloody hell. So, what happens in those scenarios?’
‘You want the official version or the real one?’
She sensed a quagmire of unknown depth. ‘Let’s have the official version this time.’
‘We send out enforcement officers to check their last known address, flag their names with various government agencies, pro-actively pursue any leads we might unearth. In reality, if they change name, they aren’t going to be troubled by us. Especially if they start working cash-in-hand.’
‘Thought you might say something like that,’ Iona muttered gloomily.
‘Sorry.’
‘Hey – not your fault.’
‘Anyway, that’s the good news. You want the bad?’
She took hold of the receiver and tilted her head to look up at the ceiling. ‘The bad?’
‘He’s a possible terrorist suspect, is he not?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘His paperwork lists the subject he was here to study.’
Iona closed her eyes. Damn, I should have asked that of the university. ‘What was it?’
‘Chemical engineering.’
‘Well,’ Iona said, getting to her feet, ‘that’s just pants. Thanks, Dominic. Time I spoke to my boss about this.’
NINE
‘This is looking a bit tasty,’ Superintendent Paul Wallace said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Especially the Appleton murder.’
Iona took in the nasal-twang in the man’s voice. Wallace was a born and bred Mancunian who’d grown up on the east side of the city where some of its poorest neighbourhoods were found. She had heard somewhere that he was ex-army, but she wasn’t sure of any details. What she did know was that he’d been in the CTU from its inception. A beak-like nose, slightly hooded eyes and a fuzz of brown hair made him look faintly like something out of the muppets.
