Scratch Deeper

by Chris Simms

  He glanced at his monitor once again. ‘According to this old article from The Daily Telegraph, the attack was so ferocious they had to ID him off fingerprints. If dental records were a no-no, there couldn’t have been much left of his face.’

  Iona grimaced, partly at the suspicion that her boss was slightly thrilled by the grisly detail. It had occurred to Iona on more than one occasion that Wallace would have excelled as a criminal. But then again, she concluded, many of her fellow colleagues in the CTU looked like they might too. It was probably what made them so good at their jobs. ‘That level of violence,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t that normally suggest the attacker knew the victim?’

  Wallace sniffed. ‘You’re right. Overkill, I think they call it over in the Major Incident Team.’

  ‘I vaguely remember it being on the news,’ Iona replied. ‘Headlines asking if there was a dark side to paradise, that type of stuff. Won’t MI6 have taken an interest in something like this? A figure of the establishment, involved in some high-level stuff . . .’

  ‘Probably. I’ll ask the question.’

  One of Iona’s hands was hanging down at the side of her chair. She crossed her fingers. ‘Do you want me to follow up on this student character?’

  ‘Shit-bag,’ Wallace muttered, eyes now on the university printout with Vassen Bhujun’s name highlighted. ‘Coming here and taking advantage of our educational system.’ He glanced at Iona. ‘You went to uni, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, Newcastle.’

  Wallace curled a lip. ‘Is it true the Geordies count themselves more Scot than English?’

  She thought the question an odd one, especially considering the amount of contempt he’d heaped on the word Scot. Doesn’t he realize, she wondered, that I’m half Scottish? ‘I don’t know, really. It was mainly other students I mixed with.’

  ‘Right,’ he replied uninterestedly. ‘I heard they are. We could always rebuild Hadrian’s Wall for them, couldn’t we? Make it so the thing goes round the south of the city this time; that would put them firmly on the kilt-wearers’ side.’

  She gave a half-hearted smile. He’s definitely forgotten I was born in Glasgow.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, lighten-up, Iona,’ he chided her with a grin. ‘I’m only arsing around. Bit of joking – it’s what the CTU runs on.’ He looked down at the thin file Sergeant Ritter had passed on to her. Then he traced a finger across the notes Iona had typed up after her meeting with the Sub-Urban Explorers. ‘So your proposed next actions are to obtain visual identifications of our mystery Mauritians and to see what kind of an impression the one called Vassen Bhujun had on his tutor at the university?’

  ‘Yes, sir. And request the file on the murder Vassen’s cousin is the PS for.’

  The silence stretched out and she found herself trying to beam thoughts through the top of her boss’ bowed head. Say yes. Say yes. Say yes.

  He looked up. ‘Can I be straight with you?’

  The question caught her by surprise. ‘Yes.’

  He lifted the corner of Ritter’s file. ‘This thing that came out of Bootle Street. I put it your way because – with DI Ellis off sick – it seemed a nice one to ease you in with. You know a lot of our work here is intelligence gathering – this would allow you to do exactly that, with no major consequences if you didn’t make much headway.’

  Iona kept her eyes on him, not trusting herself to speak. So I did get the case because it appeared unimportant. Thanks a bunch.

  He sat back and lifted his eyebrows. ‘That got your goat, has it?’

  Iona gave a quick smile. ‘We’re being straight here?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Then, yes. It has.’

  He looked amused. ‘You’re new to this unit, Iona. Fresh into the job. It wouldn’t be in anyone’s interest to let you run before you can walk.’ There was a ping of an email arriving. His eyes cut to the screen and he cursed. ‘Despite the amount of credible threats I’ve got piling up here.’

  Iona felt herself flush. Could the man be any more patronizing?

  ‘Tell you what, give us a bit of time to think about it,’ he announced, sliding her report and Ritter’s file to one side and clicking his mouse. ‘If that’s all right with you.’

  Iona gave a curt nod and made for the door.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  She looked back with a frown. ‘I didn’t say anything.’

  ‘Really?’ he said, eyes on his monitor. ‘Thought I heard a “Yes, sir” there.’

  Iona took a breath in. ‘Yes, sir.’

  But Wallace now appeared oblivious to her presence.

  Back at her desk, Iona’s gaze caught on the small square of newspaper that someone had neatly Sellotaped to the top of her monitor several days before. It was the headline from the piece on her the Manchester Evening Chronicle had published. No reporter had ever spoken to Iona directly, and the paper had been kind enough not to feature a recent photo of her, but that hadn’t stopped them unearthing plenty of information on her past. First was the fact she’d won a scholarship to Manchester High School for Girls through her prowess at hockey. Obviously inherited – the article had alleged – from her university lecturer father, Wasim Khan, who had represented Pakistan at hockey in the 1976 and 1980 Olympic Games. While at the school, Iona had risen to the position of deputy head girl and had also excelled at chess.

  The paper had even got hold of a grainy copy of her school hockey team’s photo. Iona was middle of the front row, several inches shorter than most of her team mates. The fact she was the side’s top scorer, the caption stated, led to her nickname, The Baby-Faced Assassin.

  It was these words that had formed the headline. Now they were firmly attached above her computer screen. The Baby-Faced Assassin. At first, she’d just laughed it off and left it there. But the week before, someone had asked her something and, rather than use her name, had used the word Baby.

  She hadn’t been sure what to do. The prospect of having The Baby-Faced Assassin as a work nickname didn’t seem too bad. But what if everyone started shortening it to Baby? That made her uncomfortable. Surely it would label her as ineffectual, even ridiculous? Should she just quietly remove the clipping? But if she did, would her new colleagues class her as precious and lacking a sense of humour?

  Realizing she was dwelling on the dilemma yet again, she pushed the thoughts away and looked round the near-deserted office. So what am I meant to do now?

  Wallace’s words came back to her. Give us a bit of time to think about it. She tapped her fingers on the armrests of her chair in frustration. He’ll never know, she said to herself, that I continued with my lines of enquiry. After all, half of them are ongoing; I can always claim the people concerned rang me back. She allowed herself a small smile as she reached for the phone.

  The same person in the admissions office at The University of Manchester answered. Iona’ first question was to enquire if the university would have in their system any photograph of Vassen Bhujun.

  ‘There should be one for his NUS card,’ the person responded. ‘Though I imagine those of the last year’s graduates may well have been archived. I’m not sure.’

  ‘Would you mind finding that out and getting back to me?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Any idea of how long that might take? I’m sorry to press you.’

  ‘I’ll get on to it right away.’

  ‘Thanks. The other thing I need to know is who Vassen Bhujun’s tutor was in the chemical engineering department.’

  Within a minute, Iona had the man’s name and contact details. Ian Coe. A down-to-earth-sounding name for a professor, Iona thought as she keyed in his phone number and listened to it ring.

  ‘Ian here.’ The young-sounding voice had a pleasant timbre to it. She guessed he was somewhere in his thirties.

  ‘Hello, this is Detective Constable Khan speaking, Greater Manchester Police.’

  A slight delay. ‘I . . . sorry, the police?’

  Iona gave a slow nod. ‘Yes, th
at’s right. I’m calling about an ex-tutee of yours. I’d appreciate the chance to speak to you about him.’

  ‘Oh . . . right, sorry. You threw me there.’ He gave a quick chuckle. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Vassen Bhujun. He graduated last year. An overseas student – from Mauritius.’

  ‘Bhujun, Bhujun – it’s not ringing any bells, I’m afraid. If you give me a chance to dig out last year’s list . . .’

  ‘Professor Coe, how about you do that while I drive over? I can be with you in no time.’

  ‘In no time,’ he mused. ‘I take it this is urgent?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Well, I’m here in my office for the next hour or so, if that’s any—’

  ‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Right . . . jolly good . . . you know where to find me?’

  Iona looked down at her pad. ‘Office twelve, third floor, Faculty of Chemical Engineering, Lower Albion Street.’

  ‘That’s it. I’ll have his notes ready, Detective Constable . . .’

  ‘Khan. See you shortly.’ She hung up, wondering what else needed covering off. Loads. For a start was confirmation the person the Sub-Urban Explorer saw outside the library was actually Vassen Bhujun, chemical engineering graduate from The University of Manchester. The person’s mugshot for the NUS card – when it came – was only one half of what was needed, Iona realized. CCTV footage of the person who blanked Hidden Shadow was the other. Jim was the guy with the knowledge about that.

  She thought about the verbal sludge he’d left on her answerphone the previous evening. He’d sounded really pissed. Biting at her lower lip, she pondered whether to ring him. Oh, crap, she decided: his parting comment to me in the incident room at Bootle Street was personal; my need to speak to him is professional. That takes priority. She reached for her mobile, brought up his number and pressed the green button.

  ‘Iona?’ His voice sounded cautious, even a little contrite.

  ‘Morning. How’s the head?’

  ‘All right, why?’

  ‘I could hardly understand a word of that message you left me last night.’

  Silence.

  ‘You don’t remember, do you?’ Iona asked.

  ‘No . . . I mean, yes. I kind of do.’ He cleared his throat. ‘When did I . . .?

  ‘Before nine in the evening, Jim. You were really pissed. And really ranting.’

  ‘Sorry, got carried away . . . a few with the boys after work.’ His voice dropped. ‘Actually . . . I do remember some of it. And I mean what I said, Iona.’

  She sighed. Did he mean the stuff about me being Wallace’s puppet? Or the self-pitying declaration of love? She wasn’t sure which was worse. ‘You know those stills you had pinned to the wall? The ones taken outside the library?’ At the other end of the line she heard someone in the background start to speak.

  ‘Well, well.’ His voice was now all cheerful. Iona instantly knew he had adopted his usual persona for the benefit of whoever was in the vicinity. ‘Not arsed making contact for weeks, now I can’t get her off my back.’

  Very funny, Iona thought. ‘Did they come from council-run CCTV?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘How did you get hold of the footage? Is there a department or something like that I can call?’

  ‘You can call? Why?’

  ‘This case I’m working on. My guy was spotted right outside the library.’

  ‘Have you got an exact time and date?’

  She thought about the notes she’d taken in The Temple of Convenience. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was it in the past four weeks?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you’re in luck. Everything’s deleted after one month. But if it’s in the last four weeks and you know exactly when, it’s a piece of piss. Do you want me to have a word? I have the number for my guy in the control room right here.’

  ‘You do?’ Iona hesitated, uneasy about accepting his offer of help. ‘I’m not sure when I’ll be able to visit. Where is it, the town hall or something?’

  ‘You know the massive NCP car park attached to the back of the Arndale?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In there.’

  ‘The car park?’

  ‘You’ve never been there?’

  Iona pictured the grim, windowless, structure. Naked concrete, strip lights and exhaust fumes. ‘The Arndale’s NCP? Why on earth is the control room there?’

  ‘The entire city’s CCTV system is run by the NCP. They did a deal with the council – you give us all the city centre car parks to run, we’ll install you a state-of-the-art CCTV system and control room. They were linking up cameras for all their car parking sites anyway, so it was no great hassle to cover the streets, too.’

  ‘Suppose it makes sense. So where exactly is it?’

  ‘Well, it’s a bit strange.’ Jim had lowered his voice to sound mysterious. ‘A bit weird.’ He stretched out the final word, voice dying slowly away.

  She refused to smile; why did he always have to clown around? ‘And why’s that?’ she asked in a businesslike way.

  ‘Basically, it’s in between levels. Kind of floor three and a half.’

  ‘Jim,’ she said, unable to keep the beginnings of a smile from her face. ‘I think you’ve been reading too many Harry Potter books.’

  Her ex laughed. ‘It’s true! The car park lift only has uneven floor numbers. One, three, five and so on. So you go up to three, get out, walk up the ramp to the level above and there it is.’

  ‘Floor four, then.’

  ‘All right, misery-chops,’ he said light-heartedly. ‘Floor four if you want to ruin it all and be boring.’

  ‘Got a phone number for it?’ she asked. ‘Or do I just attach a message to my owl?’

  She could tell from his voice that he was grinning. ‘I’ll text you his name and number.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘And Iona – what I said to you in the incident room yesterday? That was out of order.’

  She waited for an actual apology.

  ‘Iona? Did you hear? I’m a dickhead. I wasn’t thinking when I blurted it out.’

  Wasn’t thinking? That’s not saying sorry. Not even close.

  ‘Iona – we really need to talk. There are things . . . things you need to know.’

  She dreaded the thought of him begging for another chance. Saying no left her feeling so bloody awful. ‘Listen,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ve got to go, OK? I’ll give you a buzz.’

  Before he could say anything more, she cut the call.

  TEN

  Iona’s footsteps echoed on the stone floor as she strode along the third-floor corridor of the Faculty of Chemical Engineering. From somewhere deep in the building there came the dull thrum of vibrating machinery. Outside the row of windows to her left towered a huge cylindrical vat with lettering on the side: BOC Liquid Nitrogen. The place was more like an industrial plant.

  The door to Professor Coe’s office was the last one on the right. The wooden box attached to the wall next to it had a few corners of envelopes and sheets of paper poking through its slot. She knocked twice and her hand was still in the air when he called out from inside.

  ‘Come on in!’

  The door opened on a modest office with white walls and a wooden floor. A leafy plant on the cabinet in one corner softened things a bit. She spotted an expensive-looking mountain bike leaning against the wall next to it. Suspension on the rear and front forks, just like Jim’s. She felt a little stab in her chest. Ian Coe was half out of his seat, a hand held towards the empty chair on the other side of his desk.

  He was, as she had suspected, about thirty-five. Pale brown hair, cut short. Oval lenses to his rimless glasses. Kind, intelligent eyes. ‘Hello, there, Detective – please, take a seat.’

  ‘Hello,’ she replied, taking out her identification.

  He waved it away. ‘I vaguely remember the piece in The Chronicle. Your father lectures here too?’

&nbs
p; Iona felt herself blush. That stupid, damned article. ‘He does, yes.’ They shook hands across the piles of paper covering his desk. ‘You seem to have as much form-filling as we do,’ she observed as they both took their seats.

  He glanced down with a look of irritation. ‘These? Requisition forms for missing equipment are what these are. We’ve just had the departmental audit signed off. Better late than never. Anyway, I’d offer you a drink, but it means a walk down to a rather soulless canteen.’

  Iona was taking her notebook out. ‘That’s fine. As you guessed on the phone, I’m a bit short on time.’

  ‘Yes.’ He turned to a printout draped across the keyboard of his computer. ‘My tutorial notes for Vassen Bhujun.’

  Iona looked hopeful. ‘Don’t suppose you have his photo?’

  An uncomfortable expression flashed across the professor’s face. ‘No. Is he . . . Is this about making an identification?’

  Iona caught what he was getting at and shook her head. ‘There is no body. We just need to trace him.’

  ‘Is he not back home in Mauritius?’

  ‘No.’ Iona clicked her pen. ‘How did he strike you as a student?’

  Ian lifted a shoulder. ‘What am I expected to say? I can tell you he was very conscientious. Attendance record was one hundred per cent. No issues with handing work in late. Always turned up for his tutorials on time.’

  ‘And what about as a person?’

  The professor sat back. ‘Perfectly normal. I mean . . .’ A hand was briefly raised. ‘Detective, I’ll be honest. He was one of hundreds of students. I’m not here to provide pastoral care. He had no issues keeping up with course work. In fact, I see here, he graduated with a first.’

  ‘How much would his course have cost?’

  ‘Overseas student? MSc in Chemical Engineering? He wouldn’t have got much change from twenty thousand pounds. Students like him are a valued source of revenue for the university.’

  ‘Almost twenty thousand?’

  ‘Yes – I can’t say offhand exactly what he was charged. But the standard rate is around that.’