by Chris Simms
The section giving background details of the victim provided more of an explanation: Appleton had visited Mauritius in 2003 while sitting in session as a Law Lord.
‘Sitting in session,’ Iona murmured, a frown on her face. ‘And what, exactly, is that?’ Whatever it was, he’d returned to do it again in 2007. Wondering how anything got done before the Internet, she brought up Google and keyed in, Law Lord, sitting in session, Mauritius.
A site titled, The Judicial Committee of the Privy Council topped the results. Aware she was due over in the CCTV control room, Iona read the introductory screen as fast as she could.
The final court of appeal for several Commonwealth countries as well as the United Kingdom’s overseas territories, Crown dependencies and military sovereign base areas.
Five senior judges normally sit to hear Commonwealth appeals. Asked, over the years, for final rulings in a wide variety of laws, including pre-revolutionary French law from Quebec, medieval Norman law from the Channel Islands and Muslim, Buddhist and Hindu law from India.
Iona sat back. So, Appleton had visited Mauritius twice in his capacity as a Law Lord to settle cases that, for whatever reason, the court system on Mauritius felt unable to resolve. The buck had stopped with Appleton – and with his decision the last hopes of many people who felt wronged had been ended.
She thought about the man’s violent death once again. Burglary gone wrong or something more? And, if so, how did it all link to a chemical engineering student with an interest in Manchester’s tunnel system?
There was a contacts link at the base of the screen. Iona hurriedly keyed in the phone number and explained to the person who answered that she needed details of the cases heard by Reginald Appleton on the two occasions he’d sat in session on Mauritius.
‘You’ll need Ayo for information on that,’ the man replied. ‘You do realize it’s a Saturday, though?’
Iona wrinkled her nose in anticipation of bad news. ‘She’s not in at weekends then?’
‘I can put you through to her office. You may be in luck. We’re approaching the Michaelmas term so there’s a lot to sort out.’
The phone hadn’t completed its second ring before it was answered by a cheerful-sounding female with a strong London accent. ‘Ayodele Onako speaking.’
Iona introduced herself and began to outline what she needed.
‘It was so, so awful,’ the woman blurted, ‘hearing that news about Reginald.’
Iona could detect genuine grief in the other woman’s softly spoken words. ‘Sorry, Ayodele—’
‘Ayo, please.’
‘Sorry, Ayo. The man who put me through, he didn’t actually tell me what your role is there.’
‘Me?’ Her voice had lifted once again. ‘Oh, I just try to keep everything running smoothly. Organizing Law Lords – or Justices as they’re now known – isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. But I love it.’ She let out a throaty chuckle.
Iona guessed the answer glossed over a mountain of work. ‘Would you be able to get the case details?’
‘I was out there in 2007.’
‘Pardon?’ Iona replied, glancing at the time. Almost one. I need to get going for my slot at the CCTV control room.
‘When the Law Lords went out there in 2007, I accompanied them – to run the field office. They put us up in a very nice hotel, I can tell you.’ That deep chuckle once again.
‘Really? So how does it work, this sitting in session business?’
‘It’s always at the invitation of the particular country’s government. Generally, they wait until the number of appeals merit flying the Law Lords out there.’
‘How many cases would that be?’
‘Maybe eight? Each one usually takes half a day to a day; visits are always for one week.’
‘Can you remember any details from the 2007 cases?’
She drew out her words. ‘Well, let me think . . . to be honest, I rarely sit in court any more – my days of being a clerk are long over.’
‘Were the cases criminal ones?’
‘Criminal and civil. Both. There was one to do with the need to have a licence for tourist-related businesses, if I remember correctly. Another was an appeal against the Mauritius tax authority.’
‘Were the people who were making the appeals—’
‘The appellants.’
‘Were the appellants individuals?’
‘Individuals and groups. The tax authority one – that involved a whole load of businesses. Over a hundred, I think. Oh, yes, there was a criminal case that involved a sole appellant. He’d been charged with a drugs offence – cultivating cannabis, I think. His appeal was against receiving a penal sentence. I think he lost.’
Iona imagined Ranjit’s face. ‘I don’t suppose you remember his name?’
‘Detective, my memory isn’t that good!’
Iona nodded in understanding, eyes going to the screen clock once more. ‘Ayo, I’ve got an appointment I really must get to.’ She paused. ‘This is really cheeky, but is there any way you could check for me if a particular individual featured in any of the rulings where the appellant lost? From 2003 or 2007.’
‘I could try. How soon would you need to know?’
Iona screwed her eyes shut. ‘Today?’ she asked hopefully.
A hoot of delight came down the line. ‘How did you know I love a challenge?’
‘I don’t. But I would really appreciate your help, Ayo. It . . . it’s very important.’
The lady’s voice dropped again. ‘Iona, are you asking me to do this because you think there’s a link to Reginald’s murder?’
‘In confidence: yes.’
‘The police assured us it was a burglary. A small-time criminal – someone with previous convictions.’
‘It probably was,’ Iona replied, getting to her feet. ‘But I need to check it out for myself.’
‘Well, Iona, now I know this is about getting justice for Reginald, you can count on me. And if I can’t find time this afternoon, I will make it my bedtime reading for tonight. Tell me, what is the name of this person?’
‘Ranjit Bhujun.’
FOURTEEN
Iona looked up at the soulless structure of the Arndale’s NCP. Like something out of Stalinist Russia, she thought, squeezing round a small gap to the side of one ticket barrier.
A yellow line on the floor showed the way towards a stairwell. To her right a ramp led down from the floor above, an impressive spectrum of car paint smeared on the wall of the sharp bend.
Something must have been wrong with the spring in the hinge of the swing door to the stairwell because it flew open on her shove to crack loudly against the wall. The noise reverberated off the bare walls. ‘Oops,’ Iona whispered.
Tarnished silver lift doors were directly ahead, pay machines to her side. A metal yellow box was secured to the ceiling above, and behind the glass at the front end, the eye of a lens was visible.
Iona pressed for the lift and the doors opened immediately. No smell of urine, she thought with mild surprise, peeping in. Jim had been right: there weren’t any even floor numbers. She pressed three, ignoring the tremor of nerves as the doors slid shut, trapping her within the lift’s cramped confines.
When she stepped out on to level three, she saw a concrete ramp to her left, the obligatory scrapes of paint adorning that wall, too. Not liking the idea of meeting a vehicle coming down, she hurried up the incline, listening all the while for the sound of an approaching engine.
The far side of the floor above was dominated by a long row of obscured-glass windows. Beyond their tinted panes, Iona could just make out an expanse of glowing lights. The way they subtly shifted and altered made the place look more like a cocktail lounge or upmarket bar. She half-expected to hear the dull thud of a bass line as she neared the double doors at the centre. An intercom unit was mounted at the top of a waist-high metal pole. ‘Detective Constable Iona Khan, CTU. I have a one-fifteen appointment.’
The door clicked. ‘
Please enter.’
She stepped into a reception area with a sofa, potted plant and camera in the ceiling. Before she could sit down a side door opened and a middle-aged man wearing black trousers and a charcoal-grey top with the NCP logo on its chest stepped out. ‘Colin Wray; I’m the team leader on duty today.’
‘Hello, there. Iona Khan.’
After shaking hands, Wray swiped an ID card and showed Iona through to a narrow passageway lined with staff lockers. He swiped again at the far end and Iona followed him into the darkened room beyond.
‘Sorry about the low ceiling,’ Colin said. ‘That’s what comes of building a control room within the confines of a car park.’
‘No problem.’ She added her signature to the signing-in book and was led by Colin round a partition wall. Two rows of desks stretched the length of the main room, operators with headsets manning the front one. Iona saw they were all wearing the same grey NCP top, sitting in grey chairs on a grey carpet. The quiet way they all were murmuring made them seem like worshippers; disciples at prayer.
All were facing a bank of six enormous floor-to-ceiling screens. They comprised of many smaller images, each one a different view from around the city. Every few seconds, each image would shift to another. A real-time recording of a day in the life of Manchester, Iona thought. Segmented and scrutinized for the sake of public safety. ‘That’s really quite something.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Colin replied, circling to the centre desk in the deserted second row. ‘This is me. Supervisor’s spot.’
Iona noticed the small bubble of black glass in the ceiling just behind his desk. But who, she wondered, is watching you? A familiar two-tone beep caused her head to turn. She examined the front row. ‘Is someone here patched into the police network?’
Colin looked slightly defensive as he touched a radio unit on the corner of his desk. ‘We all are.’
Iona made an effort not to look taken aback. ‘Really?’
The team leader nodded. ‘We have been for a year or two now. Once we’d established a sufficient level of trust with the powers-that-be on your side of things.’
‘So are you employees of the NCP or the police?’
‘The NCP, but everyone has been vetted by Greater Manchester Police to act as a civilian worker.’ He pointed to a pair of walky-talkies next to the police radio unit. ‘We’re also linked to Storenet and Nitenet – the communications system run by the many shops and drinking establishments our good city boasts.’
Iona glanced at the banks of screens and thought, these guys have a better idea of what’s happening on the streets than we do.
The operator directly in front of them started to speak in softly modulated tones. ‘What’s the problem, sir? Your credit card’s not working? Don’t worry, that machine you’re at can be a bit temperamental. Yes, I can see you. Yes, right now. From the little camera in the ceiling to your left. That’s it; you’re looking straight at it. OK, sir. If you could try cleaning the magnetic strip of your card. Wiping it on your sleeve should be fine. Good. Now try swiping it in the machine again. Success? That’s fine, sir. My pleasure. Drive safely now.’
Iona was impressed; she could name quite a few officers who could have done with going on the customer relations course this lot had obviously been through. She looked at the three screens on Colin’s desk. ‘How does this all work?’
The team leader gestured to a chair and she sat down. ‘OK. These two monitors give me the view from specific cameras – so, currently, I’m tapped into one at the end of Market Street and one mounted on the roof of the Great Northern Warehouse.’
Iona looked down on people making their way along the streets.
‘The third monitor is just a normal computer screen for logging incidents,’ Colin continued, reaching for a joystick mounted at the centre of his desk. ‘This lets me turn, tilt and zoom.’
Iona raised her eyebrows. ‘And how powerful are these things?’
‘Oh, very. Watch.’ The view from the top of the Great Northern tilted up until they were looking across Manchester’s rooftops. Then suddenly, they were surging over them, homing in on the curving structure in the distance. It soon filled the screen, individual panels on its smooth surface clearly visible. ‘The Imperial War Museum over at Salford Quays.’
Iona leaned back. ‘What’s that? Two, three miles away?’
‘Something like that. Or we can go in close.’ Colin zoomed back and then tilted the view down on to the junction of Deansgate and Quay Streets. Iona remembered helping the old lady across it the previous day. The team leader focused in on a car turning left and hit a button. The image froze. Using the arrow buttons on his keyboard, he then positioned the cross hairs over the front of the vehicle and expanded it out. The vehicle’s registration filled the screen. He then tracked up and to the right and zoomed in again. The date printed on the car’s tax disc was clearly visible. ‘And that’s from not far under two hundred metres. This is the best system in the country – as good as the one covering the Square Mile in London.’ He pointed to the giant screen at the end of the row. ‘That Barco will be allocated solely for the conference’s secure zone.’
‘The Ring of Steel,’ Iona murmured.
Colin smiled. ‘Indeed. Generally, we have a few guests up here during the conference – people from MI5, Special Branch, a few from your unit.’ He tapped a button and the frozen image of the car was replaced by a view of traffic as it continued to negotiate the busy junction. ‘Where did the incident you’re interested in take place?’
‘Outside Central Library.’
‘The main entrance? By the tram stop in Saint Peter’s Square?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think that’s covered by at least two cameras. Date and time?’
Iona took out her notebook. ‘About one fifty-five in the afternoon, on the seventeenth.’
The team leader turned to his computer monitor, brought up a form and entered the details in. ‘No problem. Let’s make it ten minutes either side of that time to be safe. I’ll get Jamie to action it.’ He raised his chin and spoke over the top of the row of monitors. ‘Is Jamie about?’
One of the operatives glanced back. ‘Lunch break.’
Colin grunted. ‘He’s our main guy for Alpha One coverage. I’ll get him on it when he reappears. He can then transfer the relevant footage to a disc and have it delivered to you later today.’
‘That’s it?’ Iona asked, taken aback by how quick the service was.
‘That’s it.’
‘And can I play this footage? Freeze it, zoom in, that sort of stuff?’
‘Of course. It comes loaded with a media player to enable that. Just put it into the CD slot of your computer – it’s very easy to use.’
Iona smiled. ‘Well, Colin – I have to say how impressive this is.’
‘We aim to please.’
‘I don’t know what this all cost the NCP, but I think the council got a very good deal.’
Colin winked. ‘You should see the weekly revenues from the city centre car parks.’
FIFTEEN
Right, Iona thought, stepping back out of the CCTV control room lobby. Time I had a look round the convention centre itself. As she set off back down the ramp, her mobile began to ring. Jim’s name flashed up on the screen. Feeling guilty, she let it ring out. By the time she’d reached the floor below a message alert had pinged. She accessed it as she trotted down the rest of the stairs.
‘Iona, it’s me. Did you get my text OK? I assume you did. Listen, I know you’re pissed off. I don’t blame you, having to deal with an idiot like me. Can we talk? I . . . I really need to talk to you. It’s hard to say what I need to over the phone. If we could meet up? It’s important. Call me, OK?’
So, she thought, you know I’m pissed off. Congratulations. Try actually apologizing for the crap you came out with in that incident room and I might ring you back.
At the bottom, she turned right and opened the exit door to the side of the p
ay machine. A long corridor led into the Arndale. She weighed it up; a stroll through the busy surroundings of a shopping centre or back through the grim interior of a car park. Neither option particularly appealed, but at least cutting through the Arndale got her out closer to where the Labour Party conference was being held.
When she emerged on to the pedestrianized Market Street, it was with a renewed interest in the black poles topped by half-spheres of darkened glass. The cameras, she realized, were everywhere. By the time she’d turned the corner on to Cross Street she’d counted five, and on reaching the town hall her total was up to twelve. Another four were dotted about Albert Square. They’re probably, she thought, up in that dim room watching me now.
She continued past the library and on to Mount Street where a couple of police vans were parked on the wide pavement outside the grandiose Midland Hotel. Her way forward was now blocked by a line of the anti-ram bollards linked by stout metal arms. The pavement on the other side led to the front of the convention centre with its enormous clock sheltered by the overhang of its curved roof. The seven-foot-high security fence barred her way.
‘No access, I’m afraid,’ a uniformed officer said, stepping towards her. ‘Where are you after getting to, love?’
Iona clocked another two officers to the side of the vans, these ones clutching semi-automatic weapons. She fished out her badge, hoping no colleague was about to appear and ask what she was doing down here. ‘I’m with the CTU.’
The officer scrutinized it a little too carefully. ‘So you are. You need to come through?’
‘Please.’
She was waved towards the security-check building that had been erected at the side of the Midland Hotel. Another officer checked her badge.
‘You realize that as from midnight tonight, you need a valid pass to get beyond this point?’ he asked.
‘Yeah,’ Iona responded, painfully aware that only CTU officers assigned to Operation Protector had been issued them. ‘I do.’
He led her past the metal detecting machines to the doors at the other end.
‘Thanks,’ Iona said, walking down the ramp and making her way across a plaza being scrubbed clean by half-a-dozen council workers. The spotless paving stretched across to some wide steps that swept up to the convention centre’s main entrance. A couple of commercial vans were parked at the bottom and four private security staff were grouped at the top.
