Scratch Deeper

by Chris Simms

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked, heading towards his usual armchair. When he saw she was waiting just inside the door, he looked momentarily disappointed. ‘Sofa’s free. Do you want tea? Coffee? I opened a bottle of wine . . .’

  ‘Umm, I’m OK for the moment, thanks.’

  ‘OK.’ He sat down in the armchair as she took the mid-point of the sofa.

  ‘So, what’s the score?’ he asked, reaching for his glass. ‘The footage from the control room won’t play?’

  ‘It’ll play,’ she replied, opening her case and sliding the laptop out. ‘But I can’t figure out how you zoom in and all that stuff.’

  He frowned. ‘Weird.’

  As the device booted-up, she tried to fill the silence between them. ‘He said it was straightforward, but . . . I don’t know . . . it’s probably something really simple. I can’t see how it can be too complicated; these things usually aren’t, are they?’ Realizing she was babbling, she took the CD out of its case and slotted it into the laptop. Another couple of seconds and the window of the media player appeared in the middle of the screen. ‘I can see the play, pause and stop buttons . . .’

  ‘Let’s take a look.’ He plonked himself down beside her. As he hunched forward their thighs came into contact. ‘Right, I see.’ He placed a finger on the track pad and moved the cursor to the top right-hand corner of the media player’s window. There was a tiny double-line symbol next to the cross for closing it down. ‘Somehow, your toolbar has been minimized.’ He clicked on it and a range of new buttons slid down. ‘There you go. Zoom in and out, play speeds – half, quarter, eighth and sixteenth. Adjustments for brightness and contrast. No idea what the last ones on the right are for.’

  Iona felt like a complete idiot. One click. A two-second job. ‘Thanks.’ She started to consider how quickly she could wrap things up and get back home.

  ‘Who’s the target, then?’

  ‘Oh. Here.’ By leaning forward, she inadvertently brought more of their legs against each other. Nightmare, she said to herself, allowing the footage to progress up to when Vassen and his companion came into view. ‘That’s them? See there? The one with the baseball cap just looked up slightly.’

  Jim moved the footage back to the point where the pair entered the picture. He then resumed the footage at eighth speed. They watched as Vassen ruffled his hair in slow motion. ‘Needs to use Head and Shoulders,’ Jim murmured. ‘Dandruff problem like that.’ The companion started to lift his chin and Jim’s finger hovered over the pause button. ‘Here’s a neat little trick.’ When the lower half of his face was exposed he pressed the button then dragged out a dotted line around the person’s head. ‘Always makes me feel like Deckard, when I do this.’

  ‘Deckard?’

  ‘You know, when he says to give him hard copy.’

  Mystified, Iona gave a little shake of her head.

  Jim wrinkled his nose. ‘My all-time favourite film?’

  ‘Oh, right.’ She shot a glance at his collector’s edition of Blade Runner, sitting in its special metal presentation box on a shelf below the telly. ‘How could I forget.’

  Jim moved the cursor to another icon in the media player’s toolbar and expanded out the field until the person’s face dominated the frame.

  ‘Nice work,’ Iona said appreciatively.

  ‘He’s a blue,’ Jim said, taking a sip of wine.

  ‘Mmm?’ Iona was reaching for her case.

  ‘Manchester City badge on his cap. Those things are two-a-penny round town. Get them in any souvenir shop.’

  She extracted the mugshot of Ranjit Bhujun she’d printed off earlier and held it next to the laptop’s screen. Resting her chin on her other hand, she studied the image for a moment. ‘No way to tell it’s definitely him, is there?’

  ‘Not really. Worth getting a copy, though.’ Jim selected another icon from the toolbar. A smaller box appeared asking where he wanted to save the image. ‘Got a memory stick? The printer’s in the front room.’

  ‘Somewhere in here.’ She rummaged around and handed it to him. ‘The view from the other camera is even worse – it’s situated a lot further away and almost behind them.’

  He stuck the memory stick in the USB port and, as the image was transferred, reached across Iona’s legs for the CD case. ‘Not included – footage from the tram platform,’ he said, reading the label.

  ‘I wasn’t sure about that,’ Iona replied, knees pressed firmly together. She glanced at the bottle of white. There were droplets clinging to the glass. Cold Muscadet, she thought. What we always treated ourselves to on a Friday evening.

  ‘The council also has cameras on every tram platform,’ Jim explained. ‘You’ve got the stop directly in front of the library. Saint Peter’s Square. The control room operative, was it Jamie Compton?’

  Iona shrugged. ‘It just got delivered across by someone.’

  ‘Well, whoever it was, he means there’s a chance your guys will be caught on that one – cameras are directed at the platform but some pick up people passing in the vicinity. How long were they in the library for?’

  She took her notebook out. ‘Not sure. The witness waited until they left – it couldn’t have been long because he was at the end of his lunch hour.’

  Jim tapped the rim of his glass. ‘Sure you don’t want any?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘OK.’ He poured himself another glass. ‘You need to think wider here. They didn’t just appear at the edge of Saint Peter’s Square. They approached it from somewhere. Similarly, when they left the library, it was to go somewhere. Maybe home.’ He gave her a meaningful look.

  ‘Of course,’ Iona whispered, feeling a tingle of excitement. The bottle of wine was like a magnet to her eyes. ‘Actually, mind if I do have a drink?’

  ‘Go for it.’ He passed her the bottle. ‘So, you need to check the cameras ten, fifteen minutes on. The tram platform ones tend to be positioned at a lower level, too. Might get a look under the rim of that baseball cap. Of course, if they actually caught a tram, you’re really laughing.’

  ‘Onboard cameras, you mean?’ Iona asked, taking a sip of her drink. That tasted good.

  ‘Those are the responsibility of the Greater Manchester transport system or whatever it’s called. Might be good for a face-shot. What I’m thinking is this: assume they did catch a tram. You then study platform footage along the line to see the stop they get off at. Then you’re getting close to where they’re operating from.’

  Iona nodded eagerly. ‘That would be brilliant.’

  Jim removed the memory stick. ‘I’ll get you hard copy,’ he said with an American drawl in his voice.

  ‘And can you print me another copy of Ranjit’s mugshot? It’s on the memory stick under his name.’

  Once he was out of the room, Iona stood. The investigation was moving forward. Not sure if it was the wine causing fresh energy to rush through her, she circled the coffee table, pausing in the doorway leading to the kitchen. Her eyes were moving about and she realized she was examining the room, searching for signs of anyone other than Jim. No low-fat versions of mayonnaise or salad dressing next to the bottles of sauces near the cooker. The recycling crate near the bin was almost overflowing with crumpled cans of Stella.

  ‘Here you go.’

  She whirled round, mortified at being caught snooping. ‘Great! Thanks.’

  He placed the printouts next to the mugshot and sat back in the armchair. ‘I don’t think it helps much.’

  ‘No,’ she murmured, looking down at the images as she retook her seat. ‘I can’t get hold of the one person who could say for certain.’

  ‘How’s work in general?’ he asked casually. ‘Is it still just you on this?’

  She nodded. ‘Dave Ellis, the detective I’ve been paired with, is off for the foreseeable future. I feel a bit, I don’t know, detached from the rest of the office. Still settling in, I suppose.’

  ‘But you’re getting on all right with the rest of the
team?’

  She tilted her glass, eyes on the shifting liquid inside. The newspaper clipping of Baby. The toilet rolls. Wallace and his mind games.

  ‘Iona?’

  Her vision had started to waver and she knew that, if she looked up, he’d immediately know something was wrong. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You sure? You don’t sound very convinced.’

  She kept her head bowed. Oh, no, she thought. Don’t start crying. Not now.

  ‘Iona?’

  It was no use. She lifted her chin and looked at him with eyes that were brimming with tears. ‘Jim? I don’t know what’s going on.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  He started to get out of the armchair but she held up a hand to indicate that he shouldn’t come any closer. ‘I’m OK.’ After a couple of deep breaths, she felt more in control of her emotions. She found a pack of tissues in her handbag and dabbed at her eyes. ‘It’s probably just me.’

  Jim was on the edge of his seat, wine glass cradled in his hands. ‘What’s happened?’

  She reached for her own glass and took a large sip. ‘I made a bad decision today. Not a disastrous one – but not a good one either. Now I’m copping a load of flack . . . which is fair enough. That’s how it works in any station, I know that. But this . . . it just doesn’t feel right.’

  He sat back, a wary look now on his face. ‘Tell me.’

  She tried to explain the day’s sequence of events, and at the mention of Wallace, his lips tightened. By the time she’d described how it had been her boss’ idea to set up the toilet-roll arrangement, his face was white.

  ‘What?’ she asked, perplexed by his reaction. ‘Do you think he’s being out of order?’

  When Jim spoke, his voice was different. Low and almost menacing. ‘Anything else been happening to make you feel uncomfortable?’

  She searched his face before replying. ‘Yes. That article the Manchester Evening Chronicle ran? Remember it?’

  He nodded. ‘Probably some bright spark’s idea in the press office.’

  ‘Probably. No one has ever owned up to it. The headline was, “The Baby-Faced Assassin”. My nickname in the hockey team at school. That got stuck to my monitor, which seemed—’

  ‘Who stuck it there?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘No one held their hand up?’

  ‘No.’

  He ran a finger round the rim of his glass. ‘Go on.’

  The sense that his questions were leading to something had started to unsettle her. ‘Today it got trimmed down to just Baby. That’s what they’ve started calling me.’

  He looked up, eyes glittering with anger. ‘Who?’

  ‘Pretty much everyone, now. Certainly all the more senior detectives. I’m not sure how to react. I mean, it feels demeaning. Or am I overreacting? I don’t want to get labelled a humourless cow—’

  ‘Take it down.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Take it down, Iona. You don’t want that on your monitor. Do other detectives call each other things like that?’

  She considered the question. ‘No. It’s all Browny or Smithy or Greggsy. Like they’re in a football team.’

  ‘Exactly. I know you want to fit in, but you need to take it down. Someone addresses you as Baby, ignore them. Don’t even look at them until its Detective or Iona or Khany, if they want. They’ll soon learn. What else?’

  She wondered about mentioning how Wallace was trying to steer the focus of the investigation towards the mosque in Bury. But to do so would give credence to Jim’s comment in the incident room at Booth Street – the one about how her race had helped her get into the CTU. ‘Not really.’

  Jim seemed to be weighing something up. He shifted forward in his seat, refilled his glass then looked at her almost as an afterthought. ‘Top up?’

  ‘A splash, thanks.’

  He poured more in, replaced the bottle and stared at the floor.

  ‘Jim? What’s on your mind?’

  His shoulders rose as he took a long breath in. ‘It’s how he operates.’

  She didn’t want him to be talking about her boss; it opened up so many horrible possibilities. ‘Who?’

  He drained a good third of his drink. ‘Wallace.’

  She felt like the sofa had started to buckle around her. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I doubt he was behind that story getting into the Chronicle. But I’ll put money on him being the person who stuck the clipping to your monitor.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I said, it’s how he operates.’

  ‘But how do you know? You’ve never worked with him, have you?’ As he lifted his glass again, she saw that his hand was shaking slightly. ‘Have you?’

  ‘Not in the police.’

  ‘Then . . .’ Suddenly, it clicked. The army! He was talking about the army – something he was never willing to do. Wallace had said he’d also served in it when he was berating me about explosives. ‘Where did you work with him?’ she asked cautiously.

  He finished his drink, tipped more in and set the bottle down. ‘Iraq.’

  ‘While you were a squaddie?’

  He lowered his head. ‘He was my CO. We were both in the Kings Regiment – it’s where you go if you sign up in Manchester. We were posted to the same base out there. Not really a base, even. A fortified compound in a town north of Basra.’

  Oh my God, she thought. The thing that happened – he said once it was to do with Iraq. Is he opening the lid on that box? ‘Did you have some kind of run-in with him out there?’

  Jim said nothing for a few seconds. ‘I was trying to warn you, Iona. That message on your answerphone I left – about how he’ll use you.’

  The drunken rant, she thought. Or was it? The look on the face of Simon Armitage – the security guy at the convention centre – came back to her. When she said she worked under Wallace. The measured way he asked her how she found him. ‘Warn me about what?’

  His eyes crept up to meet her face. ‘I didn’t have any major issues with the man because of two reasons. One was my colour.’

  Iona felt the sofa tilt again. ‘He’s racist, you’re saying.’

  Jim’s smile was grim. ‘Out there, anyone who wasn’t white got treated differently by him. With soldiers, it was subtle. Who got the shit jobs, who got the cushy ones. Iraqis? They . . . to him they weren’t even people. Just a threat – not to be trusted. Iona, he’s a nasty piece of work. I’m sorry if the way I went about trying to tell you—’

  ‘He wants me to check out a mosque. One over in Bury. It’s been linked with certain extremists.’

  ‘Extremists?’ A note of alarm had entered Jim’s voice. ‘What do you mean, check it out?’

  ‘Visit it. That was the implication. Jim, I’ve never set foot in a mosque in my life. You know how mum and dad raised me and Fenella.’

  ‘He wants to send you into a mosque dressed up like a Muslim woman?’

  ‘I’d have to be to get in. Long sleeves, ankles covered. Something covering my head, at least.’

  ‘What about back-up?’

  ‘He didn’t mention any. Everyone’s so busy with the conference about to start. None of this was a formal request – it was more about me dropping in at a prayer session and looking around.’

  Jim was gripping his glass so tightly, she was afraid it might shatter. The last of his wine was gulped down. ‘There is no way – no bloody way – an officer with no training and no detailed briefing would be sent into a situation like that. He’s testing you, Iona. Seeing how far you’re prepared to go.’

  ‘I don’t get you.’

  ‘You’re new to his team, right? He’s seeing if he can trust you. The fact – and I am so sorry to say this Iona, I really am – the fact you’re part Pakistani will be a problem for him. He’ll have doubts about where your loyalties lie, I know it. So he’s seeing what you’ll do to keep him sweet, to be part of his team . . .’

  His words trailed away and Iona got the impression he was no long
er talking about her situation; he was remembering something that had involved him.

  He shook his head. ‘Bastard. The guy is a complete bastard.’ He jumped up. ‘More wine? I’ll get a bottle.’ He crossed into the kitchen without waiting for a reply.

  Iona kept very still. This was making her want to be sick. Fighting to control the waves of queasiness, a thought hit home: while they were discussing Wallace, there was still a chance of getting to the truth about the incident in Iraq.

  He walked back in, unscrewing the cap. Another glass for him, a top-up for her. ‘Jim,’ she said softly, no intention of touching her drink. ‘You didn’t have any major issues with Wallace for two reasons.’ He seemed lost in thought. ‘Jim? Did you hear—’

  ‘I did, yes.’

  ‘What was the other reason?’

  When he looked up at her, she almost had to break eye contact. There was such intense emotion on his face. Anger. Shame. Despair. This is it, she realized. This is the thing that torments him when he’s asleep. ‘Jim?’

  His eyes were moist. He blinked. ‘I . . . I . . . it doesn’t matter.’ He drank again.

  She wanted to reach out and take his hand. ‘Jim, we’re both mixed up with this man. I need to know what it is, what you’re not saying.’

  He dragged air in through his nose and she could see the muscles in his jaw working. When he spoke, he sounded hoarse. ‘I did as he asked.’ A tiny groan came from his throat. Physical pain. ‘I did as he asked.’

  ‘What did you do?’ she whispered.

  He gritted his teeth, head going slowly from side to side. Trying to deny the memories.

  ‘Jim? Tell me. Please.’

  Suddenly he was out of his chair and running for the kitchen. He reached the sink as a column of liquid shot from his mouth. By the time she got to his side, wine was gurgling noisily down the plughole. She rubbed a hand up and down his back as he continued to throw it up. ‘That’s good, Jim. Get it out.’ She realized he was sobbing between retches. A long drool of spit hung from the end of his lips. He let his forehead lean against the edge of the sink for a second and then he started to slide towards the tiled floor, knees drawing up under him.