Scratch Deeper

by Chris Simms

  As Iona climbed up she took a good look around. Beyond the security fence on her left was the Bridgewater Hall, home to the famous Hallé orchestra. Running past it on one side was the Rochdale canal, which then snaked out to the bleak industrial landscape of Trafford Park.

  Looming high into the sky directly behind the convention centre was the monolithic outline of the Beetham Tower, Manchester’s highest building. As her eyes travelled up it, she remembered the time Jim had taken her on the big wheel by Selfridges – the tower had dwarfed even that. Her gaze settled momentarily on the building’s mid-point: what was known locally as the Sky Bar, a trendy cocktail lounge that separated the Hilton’s hotel rooms below it from the private apartments above. She tilted her head to look at the very top where, she knew, the sniper team coordinating all the other rooftop rifle positions would be stationed.

  Away to her right was the rear of the five-star Radisson Edwardian Hotel, and hidden behind that, the Great Northern Warehouse which overlooked Deansgate. The road – and any tunnel beneath it – passed within a hundred metres of the convention centre. Close enough to represent a threat? She approached the group of security staff. ‘Excuse me.’

  They all looked round.

  ‘Is there a supervisor I could speak to? My name’s Detective Khan, Counter Terrorism Unit.’

  ‘Two seconds, boss.’ The man who’d replied then spoke into a microphone pinned to the top of his padded jacket. ‘Is Simon about? Got an officer from the CTU here needs to see him.’ He nodded and looked back at Iona. ‘Three minutes?’

  ‘Thanks.’ Iona turned round and leaned her elbows on the railings. A man was wheeling a trolley laden with white plinths up the sloping walkway, followed by another with a trolley full of palm plants and bouquets of exotic flowers. The wheels of their trolleys clunked every time they crossed the joints in the paving. A tall, elegantly dressed lady holding a clipboard gave them directions as they reached the main doors into the convention centre.

  From a flight of steps at the side of the building there appeared three men, one smart, two in jeans and trainers. They reached the railings beside Iona and, surveying the plaza below, started discussing camera angles. Iona realized she’d seen the distinguished-looking one on the television. The presenter of some kind of late-night current affairs programme.

  ‘Officer?’

  She turned to see a balding black man with a neat moustache approaching. Must be six foot six tall, she thought. In his left hand was a walkie-talkie.

  ‘Simon Armitage, security supervisor.’

  Holding out her warrant card, Iona stepped towards him. ‘Detective Khan, CTU.’ Once they’d shaken hands, she glanced about. ‘You guys must be busy.’

  Armitage rolled his eyes. ‘Full on, it’s been. And the thing hasn’t even started yet. Three days of madness when it does.’

  ‘I bet. Is it OK to pinch a few minutes of your time?’

  He glanced at his wrist watch, seemingly oblivious to the vast clock face directly above him. ‘Yeah – will ten minutes do? I’ve got a progress meeting at quarter to three.’

  ‘Should be fine, thanks,’ Iona replied, looking briefly towards the TV presenter. I don’t want him overhearing anything juicy, she thought. ‘Have you been involved with these things before?’

  ‘Yes – the Conservatives last year, then Labour’s before that.’

  ‘Seems funny how they politely take it in turns.’

  Armitage looked baffled. ‘What, like they should be fighting over the venue?’

  Iona nodded. ‘That’s how they normally act, don’t they? Arguing and squabbling like school kids.’

  The security supervisor looked amused. ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that. I suppose so.’

  Iona took a few steps away from the TV people and turned in the direction of the Midland Hotel, on the far side of the plaza. She studied the Victorian splendour of its ornate balconies and intricately patterned brickwork, wondering how best to voice her concerns. ‘This might seem funny me asking you about security arrangements, but I only recently joined the CTU.’

  ‘Fine with me,’ he replied. ‘Are you over at Gold Command for the duration? Working under ACC Lawson?’

  ‘No.’ She hoped she hadn’t sounded as awkward as she felt.

  ‘Whereabouts then?’

  She looked up at him. ‘Actually, I’m not involved directly with the security operation. I’m working on a related case. But my boss reports into Lawson.’

  He looked confused. ‘OK. It’s just I’ve got to know a few of your colleagues in the CTU over the years. Who’s your boss?’

  ‘Superintendent Paul Wallace.’

  ‘Wallace?’ Something like a shadow passed across Armitage’s face. ‘How do you find working with him?’

  The question had been posed flat, all the casual curiosity in the man’s voice gone. Iona tried to make eye contact, but the man was making a point of studying his walkie-talkie. ‘He’s very good at what he does. Why? Do you know him?’

  Armitage sniffed. ‘Not really. We’ve crossed paths. I doubt he’d know who I am, though.’

  She felt there was plenty missing from the man’s reply and was wondering whether to ask anything more when Armitage gestured to the plaza.

  ‘What do you need to know?’

  ‘Well, apart from the convention centre itself, what else does the secure zone encompass?’

  Armitage nodded at the rear of the Midland. ‘That place, obviously. It’s where the majority of politicians are booked in.’

  ‘Seems logical,’ Iona commented. ‘You couldn’t get much closer to where the action is.’

  ‘Nice and easy to wobble back after a hard day of discussing politics.’ He raised an imaginary glass to his lips.

  She tilted her head. ‘You get that going on?’

  Armitage gave a knowing nod. ‘Plenty.’ His eyes cut to the hotel. ‘Back when they were built, the two buildings were joined by a walkway covered by a glass canopy. Passengers arriving at the rail terminal could then proceed directly to their hotel rooms. No nasty Manchester rain to soak the wife’s ostrich-feather hat.’

  ‘Of course.’ Iona glanced behind her at the convention centre. ‘I forgot it was originally a rail terminal.’

  ‘Central Station. The Midland Hotel and the Great Northern Warehouse were all part of the same development. Passengers to one place, freight to another.’

  ‘Nice little set-up,’ Iona mused. ‘But the secure zone doesn’t stretch round the Great Northern, too?’

  ‘No. It includes the Radisson Edwardian but that’s it.’ He gestured to the other hotel on the far side of the plaza. ‘Also fully booked by politicians, assistants, researchers, delegates, lobbyists and God-knows-who.’

  ‘How many people actually attend it then?’

  Armitage puffed his cheeks out. ‘In total, over ten thousand. Right now, you’ll be lucky to find an empty hotel room anywhere in central Manchester.’

  Iona pictured the hordes of people who would be descending on the centre the very next day. Was some kind of terrorist cell hoping to also sneak in? ‘And access is only through the security point like the one I came through?’

  ‘Correct – and only with a valid pass, no matter who you are.’

  ‘How does a member of the public get hold of a pass?’

  ‘Join the Labour Party and then pay the application fee for the conference. You get a photocard pass after submitting your passport and driving licence details. Plus you need a reference – someone to vouch for you.’

  ‘Do you guys take care of all that?’

  ‘No – they use an organizer who specializes in secure events. The actual checks on each delegate are carried out in conjunction with Greater Manchester Police. You didn’t know?’

  Iona hadn’t been told about it. But then again, she thought, that’s no surprise. ‘And that process applies to . . .?’

  ‘Everyone. Party members, parliamentary staff, corporate and charity reps, exhibitors and
technicians, media personnel, the lot.’

  She nodded at the workers now walking back to the floristry van. ‘Including them?’

  Armitage studied the men for a moment. ‘They look like people employed by the conference centre direct. In which case, they will have been booked in advance and had temporary passes issued by the centre specifically for the work they’re carrying out.’

  ‘And how many outside contractors will be accessing the secure zone between now and the conference finishing?’

  Armitage shook his head. ‘Including caterers, cleaners, waiters, bar staff, all that stuff?’

  Iona nodded.

  ‘Not sure. Hundreds? I know the list has been looked at by your people. Shall we go inside? I can dig a copy out if you want.’

  Iona looked around, unsure if focusing on contractors should be a priority. It didn’t seem likely Vassen Bhujun would be using his real name, anyway.

  ‘Are you responding to specific intelligence?’ Armitage asked, breaking her train of thought.

  She pondered the question. What am I responding to? A potential terrorist plot by an unknown group over from Mauritius, one of them with an interest in Manchester’s mysterious tunnels. It all seemed a bit shaky. ‘Tell you what, can you just walk me round a bit more? It’ll give me a chance to . . . assess things.’

  Armitage shrugged. ‘OK. You mean inside the centre?’

  ‘No. Outside, if that’s all right.’

  ‘Follow me.’ Armitage led her along the walkway hugging the perimeter of the building.

  Iona noted several poles topped by clusters of cameras. Others were secured to the upper parts of the centre’s outer walls. ‘You have your own CCTV control room inside?’

  ‘We do. It was all upgraded a year ago. Top-notch equipment.’ He trotted down some stone steps which led to a fenced-off section of wheelie bins. Even they had a camera trained on them. Beyond, a brick arch led into an underground car park. ‘The trains used to enter the terminal from that direction,’ Armitage stated, pointing to the rear of the half-empty car park and then sweeping his arm over his head. ‘Travelling over giant arches that are all gone now, obviously. Freight would be shunted off to the Great Northern which had upper and lower platforms, much like Grand Central in New York. From there, the goods could be carried on to their destinations by three different methods.’

  Iona heard the clink of bottles coming from the underground car park. A van with a wine merchant’s logo had been backed towards a double doorway leading into the basement of the centre. A man was stacking boxes of Moët on to a porter’s trolley being held by a colleague. A third person emerged from the centre itself, pushing an empty cart before him. ‘How do you get access to down here – other than by surrounding roads?’

  Armitage considered the question. ‘You can’t. There are two ways in from Windmill and Watson Streets. Obviously this area is a potential security risk because of the volume of cars that will be parked here. Every delegate has to give the registration of their vehicle when applying for a pass – whether they’re arriving in that vehicle or not. The access points I mentioned are permanently manned and only vehicles with registrations showing on the log are allowed through. A unit of sniffer dogs will be on-site too, by this evening. They’ll be led round for regular checks.’

  How the hell, she wondered, could you attack this place? With each political convention held here, the security systems would have been refined and then refined again. She walked up a couple of the steps to bring her on more of a level with Armitage. ‘Can I ask what you did before this job, Simon?’

  ‘British Army for sixteen years. Why?’

  Army, Iona thought, shrugging a shoulder. Like Wallace, like Jim, like so many people in the police or security industry. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Helped implement security systems for overseas operating bases.’

  Iona looked at the wall beside her. ‘And as it goes, this place is pretty much watertight?’

  Armitage narrowed his eyes. ‘Nothing’s ever one hundred per cent. But put it this way, when I was working abroad – Northern Ireland, Iraq, Afghanistan – I put security systems in place that gave a fraction of the protection we have here. Minefields and machine gun towers excluded, of course.’ He flashed Iona a smile.

  ‘Right.’ She tried to smile back. Was there a threat? Or, she thought, am I at risk of looking an idiot here?

  Armitage glanced at his watch. ‘Hate to say this, but I’ve got my quarter-to-three meeting.’

  ‘Of course, sorry.’ She turned round and they started climbing the steps side by side. The sound of more bottles being unloaded brought back a remark Armitage had just made. ‘You mentioned freight was moved on from the Great Northern Warehouse by three different methods. Road and rail were two?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘So what was the third?’ Her phone started to ring and she held up a finger, glancing at the screen. Unknown number. ‘Sorry,’ she said to Armitage before taking the call. ‘Detective Khan speaking.’

  ‘Hello, it’s Ian Coe here. You visited me at the university earlier—’

  ‘Professor,’ Iona cut in. The man sounded tense, almost panicky. ‘Did you speak to that colleague?’

  ‘Not yet. He’ll be available soon. It’s something else, something I should have twigged when you were here. The internal audit I mentioned, it was there, literally under my nose. I can’t believe I didn’t—’

  ‘Not so fast.’ Iona replied, trying to keep up with the rush of words. ‘Internal audit?’

  ‘The paperwork all over my desk. The requisition forms for missing equipment?’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘One item that vanished . . . it was worth over five thousand pounds. Vassen Bhujun’s thesis was on using liquid chromatography to purify proteins. He used that exact piece of equipment – more than any other student.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘A GF Healthcare Frac-900. I have the form for it here in my hand. Bhujun often worked unsupervised in the laboratory where it was kept—’

  ‘What is a Frac-900?’

  ‘A fraction collector. For high performance liquid chromatography. Enough to manufacture large amounts of purified product. Laboratory-size amounts.’

  Oh my God, Iona thought. Is he building a bomb? ‘I’ll be in touch.’ She ended the call, the thought crashing around like a pinball in her skull.

  ‘That sounded urgent,’ Armitage stated.

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘It was.’ She started hurrying up the steps, scrolling through her address book for Wallace’s number.

  ‘The third method,’ Armitage announced behind her. ‘For transporting freight from the Great Northern Warehouse . . .’

  ‘Mmm?’ Iona replied, barely listening to the man’s words. Bhujun had the knowledge and the means for producing large amounts of material.

  ‘It was by canal.’

  ‘What was?’

  ‘The third method they used.’

  ‘Canal?’ Iona paused on the top step and looked down. There’s no canal leading from the Great Northern, she thought, lowering her phone. It’s all roads and pavements. ‘Was that filled in at some stage?’

  ‘You know the canal that runs along the side of the Bridgewater Hall?’

  Iona nodded. ‘The Rochdale. It leads out to Trafford Park.’

  ‘Way back when, there was a little spur that came off it. It passed right under our feet, below the Great Northern and connected with a river across town. The Irwell, I think –’

  Iona felt her heart drop. ‘There’s an underground canal that passes beneath the convention centre?’

  ‘Was,’ Armitage replied. ‘It was drained of water and closed decades back. Never made any money for the company that dug it.’

  Iona pointed both forefingers down at her feet. ‘Here? Directly below us? There’s a tunnel?’

  ‘That’s right. But it’s been sealed off for years.’

  Iona raised her mobile once more. T
hat’s how they’ll do it. That’s how they’ll carry out their attack.

  SIXTEEN

  Iona paced up and down the pavement outside the coffee shop. When she’d rung Wallace, her revelation about the tunnel had seemed to leave the man momentarily lost for words.

  ‘Who told you about it again?’ he’d finally asked.

  ‘A security supervisor at the convention centre. He knew all about the history of the place – what it was originally—’

  ‘You’ve been looking round the convention centre itself?’ He’d sounded mildly taken aback.

  ‘Yes . . .’ Iona had realized the visit wasn’t strictly related to the search for Vassen Bhujun and his mysterious accomplice. Surely, she asked herself, Wallace isn’t about to start getting funny about that? ‘Sir – the tunnel runs right under where I’m standing.’

  ‘OK – stay put,’ he’d replied after another second’s silence. ‘There’s a silver command post near to you – I think they have responsibility for perimeter security. I’ll call you back.’

  Unable to just stand around waiting, Iona crossed the spotless flagstones of the plaza, trying to visualize the forgotten tunnel beneath her feet. An underground canal. If it was big enough to carry barges, how much material could have been piled there by a would-be bomber? Enough to blow the place sky-high. Her mobile had gone off again as she was approaching the security-check building.

  ‘They’re sending someone for you,’ Wallace had announced. ‘A constable called Davis.’

  ‘Constable?’ Iona asked, shocked at the lack of response. She’d been expecting a lot more people than just a junior rank in a uniform. Maybe he was only escorting her back to the command post where she’d brief the rest of the team. She swallowed; perhaps even ACC Lawson would be there.

  ‘Yes, a constable. He shouldn’t be long. Instructions are for you to wait outside the Starbucks to the side of the library. The one on the corner of Peter Street.’