Scratch Deeper

by Chris Simms

  ‘Absolutely,’ Jim had replied. ‘That’s fine.’

  Colin had shown him to one of the operators monitoring the outlying areas of the city. ‘Howard? Can you take Sergeant Stephens here through some footage. He’ll give you the day and times. This is low priority, OK? I want you to break off if needed for anything else.’

  Jim sat forward in the chair. ‘Right, Howard, thanks for doing this. First, can we go to the platform cameras at the tram terminal in Bury? I need to see who gets on the ones going into Manchester on the seventeenth. Can we start with the very first tram of the day?’

  TWENTY-SIX

  Jamia Masjd mosque was on a narrow street – mainly residential properties with a few small shops. Most, including a halal butcher’s, were closed for the day. She saw a convenience store had its lights on, as did a tiny newsagent’s.

  The mosque formed one half of a large semi-detached house that stood out from the smaller, terraced houses on each side. The front of the white building had obviously been modified – a very sturdy-looking double door was flanked either side by narrow windows, each rising to a point. The clouded glass filling the frames was engraved with Arabic calligraphy. Every window was protected by a metal grill. Positioned directly above the doors was a sign, the top of which consisted of tiny Arabic letters. The bottom read, Jamia Masjd. Iona parked further down the road from it and pretended to take a call on her mobile, eyes on the rear-view mirror.

  It was hard to tell if the place was locked or not; no one seemed to be going in or out. After a few minutes, two people appeared from the rear of the building. Females, Iona realized, both wearing headscarves and loose clothing that went down to their ankles and wrists. A separate entrance for women, Iona thought, remembering Wallace’s words about how the mosque permitted their presence. Talking very quietly, they walked past her car and round the corner. Iona was debating whether to take a look round the back of the building when three Asian youths, seventeen at most, emerged from the convenience store.

  Leaning against the railings outside the entrance, they began to open cans of soft drinks while continuing their conversation. All were wearing jeans, trainers and casual tops. One had a zigzag pattern etched into his short black hair. Their speech was fast, accompanied by jabbing hand movements and bursts of laughter. They were barely ten feet in front of her vehicle and, Iona realized, now aware of her presence.

  Time, she thought, to go. She brought her imaginary call to a close and began to pull out. They all stopped talking as she passed, one ducking low for a better look at her.

  At the end of the road, she turned right and, checking to see no vehicle had trailed her from the direction of the mosque, followed the road back to the big roundabout. She took the exit leading to the police station, following the approach road to a sign that read: Police Vehicles Only.

  At the rear entrance a civilian worker buzzed her through then directed her to an office further into the building, saying that’s where the duty sergeant could be found.

  As Iona walked along the corridor, she conjectured on how much it would be safe for her to divulge. The fact she was CTU was bound to raise the officer’s eyebrows and – she had to assume – quickly become a source of conversation in the empty corridors of the newly built station.

  The duty sergeant was a large man in his late thirties, with blotchy red cheeks and a sparse covering of grey hair clinging to the sides of his head. ‘Morning,’ she announced, pausing in the doorway with her warrant card ready. ‘Front desk said you’d be here.’

  He looked up, apparently surprised at the presence of someone else.

  ‘DC Iona Khan.’ She approached the table he was working at, a hand outstretched.

  ‘Morning,’ he said, shaking it after another moment’s hesitation. ‘Sergeant Ray Healey. Sorry – I’m used to having this place all to myself on a Sunday morning. Everyone tends to be in the canteen if we’re quiet.’

  ‘Best place to be on a Sunday morning.’

  ‘It is. So, how can I help?’

  ‘I’m trying to trace the whereabouts of a young male, early twenties, seen disembarking from the tram and heading into Bury at about half past two on the seventeenth.’

  He sat back. ‘You’re a few days behind him, then.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is he on the system? Last known address in this area?’

  ‘No.’ She perched on the edge of the adjacent table and placed her hands in her lap. ‘I’m not even sure of his name.’

  ‘Not even . . .’ He paused. ‘Where did you say you’re from again?’

  ‘The Counter Terrorism Unit.’

  The eyebrows went up, just as expected. ‘Oh, right. Is this serious?’

  She nodded and he pulled himself upright. ‘Got a description for this person then?’

  ‘Well, kind of.’ She began to swing a foot back and forth then brought it to a stop, worried it was making her appear evasive. ‘He’s on the footage from the platform CCTV. I was wondering, how good are the cameras round the town centre? I was hoping to pick him up after he left the terminal.’

  The sergeant rubbed at a corner of one eye. ‘Not bad. Especially near the bus station and main precinct. A lot of pubs in that area. Gets patchy beyond there, though.’

  ‘Does Bury Council own them?’

  He nodded. ‘They do. But they’re very good at sharing.’

  She pondered how to tackle the issue of Vassen and his companion’s nationality without giving the sergeant more detail. ‘What are the chances of me being able to get hold of anyone on a Sunday?’

  ‘At the council?’ He looked amused by the suggestion. ‘I have a number, if you hang on.’

  As he started leafing through a file on an adjacent desk. Iona looked down at the pieces of paper covering the table he’d been sitting at. Log printouts – a list of all the incidents that had been reported in during the last twelve hours. ‘A lively Saturday night, then?’

  He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Average. I was picking out any priority crimes for the review in an hour’s time.’

  ‘What counts as priority for you in Bury at the moment?’

  ‘Same as all over, though we’re having a crackdown on burglary. Missing our target on that, we are. And racially motivated incidents, which we had yesterday evening. Some idiots in a van on the Woodhill Road shouting abuse.’ He picked up the file and brought it back to the table. ‘Any racial stuff we respond to immediately with a patrol car. Before the car got there, another report came in of an altercation close by involving two white males and two Asian males. So now I have to decide whether to count them as one incident.’

  Iona cocked her head. ‘Was anyone arrested?’

  ‘No, they’d all cleared off pretty sharpish. White males were observed leaving the scene in a van.’

  ‘What about the two Asians?’

  ‘They didn’t hang around either. Uniforms are still out there taking statements.’

  ‘Off who?’

  ‘The local resident who rang it in. Here’s the number for the council, if you want it.’

  Iona thought for a moment. ‘Does the Woodland Road area have much of an Asian community?’

  ‘It does. Pretty much the centre of it, as a matter of fact.’ He lowered the file. ‘This young male you’re after. What would his ethnic background be?’

  Iona pushed herself off the edge of the table and stood. ‘That we’re not sure about at the moment.’ Feeling him scrutinize her, she hoped her tone had sounded convincing. ‘I wouldn’t mind having a quick word with that resident myself, though.’

  ‘Be my guest,’ he responded, handing her the log sheet. ‘That’s got the contact details for the officers who’ve been dispatched to the scene. You’ve also got the details for the shop owner who was threatened by the occupant of the van and the witness to the altercation – an old boy whose flat overlooks one end of the alleyway where the incident took place. Want me to have the radio room let the attending officers know you’re on y
our way?’

  ‘Thanks.’ Iona took the sheet. ‘And Sergeant Healey? We’ll need to keep back the fact I’m CTU. Last thing I need is that blaring out of their handsets while they’re interviewing a witness.’

  ‘Understood. What should I say?’

  ‘How about I’m from Community Relations? Working out of the city centre.’

  ‘Sounds plausible. Community Relations it is.’

  ‘In fact,’ Iona added, ‘if any of your colleagues ask, it would be helpful if you could say that’s where I’m from.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Iona turned into the narrow roads that bordered on Woodhill Road. Hudcar was the first street in and, sixty metres along, was a pavement sign indicating no bikes. It was positioned at the mouth of an alley cutting back towards the main road with its cluster of takeaways, grocery stores and late-night shops.

  She pulled in and looked across the road. Directly opposite was a three-storey concrete-clad building with row after row of identical windows. Seventies-style architecture; probably regarded as modern-looking when built. Now bland and functional, at best.

  The patrol car had managed to find a parking space on the building’s forecourt. Jogging across the road, Iona assessed the sight-lines to the alley. They were good, with a streetlight helpfully positioned right where the cut-through joined the pavement of Hudcar Street. The witness would have had a decent view across.

  She buzzed flat eight, home to a Mr Cooper.

  ‘Who is it, please?’ a brusque voice asked a few seconds later.

  ‘Iona Khan – I’m from Community Relations? I believe you’re talking to a couple of officers about last night’s incident?’

  ‘I am.’

  Iona stared at the perforated grill. It didn’t emit a buzz. ‘May I come in then?’

  ‘The more, the merrier. Please push the door.’

  She gave it a shove and stepped into the lobby area. A notice board with details for Dial-a-Ride, posters for coffee mornings and advertisements for ballroom dancing classes. A sign pointing up the stairs directed her to flats seven to twenty-four. Cooper’s was on the first floor and, on stepping into the short corridor, she saw a tall, elderly man standing half out of a doorway. He was holding himself very upright as he raised a hand. ‘This way, Officer.’

  As she got nearer, she took in the fact he was wearing a shirt and tie under his oatmeal cardigan. Grey flannel trousers with creases as neat as the ones Jim liked to press into his uniform. I bet you’re ex-Forces, Iona thought, holding a hand out. ‘Mr Cooper?’

  He finished whatever he was saying to the people in his flat and looked her up and down with bright, intelligent eyes. ‘Identification?’

  Iona flinched with surprise then started reaching for her warrant card.

  ‘I’ll let you off this time.’ He moved aside, face stern, though one eyebrow was wavering.

  Is he joking with me? Iona wondered, lowering her hand. She gave him a tight smile as she stepped through the door.

  ‘They let them in small nowadays – the police.’

  She shot him a sideways glance but could see no mocking expression on his face.

  ‘I remember when,’ he continued, ‘you had to be a strapping six-footer, at the least. Mind you, I don’t think female officers were even allowed in then. Not to walk the beat, anyway.’

  She turned to properly face him in the short corridor. There was definitely a mischievous gleam in his eye and she decided to risk a riposte. ‘Well, things change, sir. We even have radios nowadays – not tin whistles.’

  His face broke into a grin and the stiffness went from his shoulders. ‘Ha! Very good, very good. A sense of humour – that will get you far in life. Now, a cup of tea?’

  Relieved that she’d judged him correctly, Iona returned the smile. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

  ‘OK. Your colleagues are in the front room, straight ahead.’

  On entering, she saw two male officers squashed up on a small sofa, both balancing cups and saucers on their knees. One gave her a pained expression, as if to say, I know, I know, just tolerate him and we can be out of here soon.

  ‘Please,’ Cooper said, appearing next to her. ‘You have the seat.’

  She realized that, apart from the sofa, the modest room only had one armchair. ‘I don’t mind standing. I’ve been in my car most of the day.’

  ‘Absolutely not.’ Between the wall and a line of shelves stretching from floor to ceiling was a narrow gap. From it, he removed a wooden fold-up chair and opened it out. ‘I keep this for when my daughter and her husband visit with my grandson.’ He paused a beat. ‘You might notice it’s a little dusty.’

  It was obvious there was no way he’d allow her the deckchair. She sat down and looked around. The comment about dust had obviously been made in jest; the entire place couldn’t have been more clean and tidy. Military background, no doubt about it, she decided.

  ‘We were running over what Mr Cooper saw last night,’ the officer on the left announced. He placed his cup and saucer on the small table before him. ‘It was just after eleven thirty, wasn’t it, sir?’

  Oh, no, Iona thought, hearing that the officer was using that special voice people reserve for addressing infants or the elderly.

  ‘That’s correct,’ Cooper said, placing his hands on his knees and looking more serious. ‘Shouting at first. One voice. Male. The same word. Rancid. I put my book to one side, turned my reading lamp off and looked out.’

  Iona glanced at the book on the window sill beside her. Point of Departure by Robin Cook.

  ‘The shout came again,’ Cooper continued. ‘My, I thought, the vocabulary is finally moving on from sick, which is the word I seem to hear most often. This is sick, that is sick—’

  ‘And two Asian males appeared first,’ the other officer cut in.

  Cooper nodded, turning to Iona. ‘Forgive me for speaking plainly, but they were of a similar colour to you. Indian, I’d say?’ He arched an eyebrow as the two uniforms regarded her with uncomfortable expressions.

  Casually, she hunched a shoulder. ‘I’m half-Pakistani, as a matter of fact. For my forms, would Asian be best? That includes India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Bangladesh. Accurate enough?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘And what about physical descriptions? Did you get that far?’

  The uniform on the left began to read. ‘One was six foot or just over. Adult, early twenties, dark hair to his collar, thin build. The other was shorter, shaved head. Possibly older, athletic build.’

  Interesting, Iona thought. The description fits my guys. She trod her hopes back down. ‘How short, would you say?’

  Cooper lifted his chin slightly. ‘Five-three? And he was helping the taller one, who was limping and had a hand to his face – like he’d taken a knock. My view was obscured as they first came out – by the van the other two eventually got in to.’

  Iona’s eyes bounced between the pair of officers on the sofa. ‘The others being the two white males?’

  ‘Yes,’ Cooper replied. ‘A few minutes later, they also emerged.’

  ‘And they got into this van?’

  Cooper nodded.

  ‘Was there anything written on it?’

  The left-hand uniform gave a cough. ‘A. J. Nell or Neil, Plumbing.’

  ‘There was a telephone number, I’m sure. But I couldn’t make it out,’ Cooper added.

  Iona shook her head. ‘This is incredibly useful, don’t worry.’

  ‘The Asians proceeded right,’ the uniform announced, reading from his notes. ‘Continuing along the pavement towards the junction with Coniston Road, at which point they passed from Mr Cooper’s sight. Then, about three minutes later, two white males, also in their twenties, made their way from the alley.’

  ‘Those two had come off worse.’ Cooper wagged a finger. ‘Even though one had a baseball bat. He was using it as a kind of walking stick. The driver of the van – young man, too – had to open the back doors up. Between him and th
e other one – who was bleeding from the head – they got him into the vehicle. He was swearing all the time, the injured one. Stabbed, he kept saying. He stabbed me.’

  The older uniform looked at Iona. ‘We’ll do a check on local A&E departments.’

  She nodded. ‘And run a check on all local plumbers, I suppose.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Iona addressed Mr Cooper. ‘Sir, if we were to obtain photographic records of any of these people, do you think you could say if they were the ones you saw?’

  ‘Who? The white males in the van?’

  ‘Yes. And also the ones of Asian appearance.’

  ‘I’d certainly give it a go. That street light brings out the shadows on a person’s face, but I’d try.’

  ‘Great.’ Iona looked out the window. The alleyway was directly opposite, no tree branches or hedge to obscure the view. And the old boy obviously still had his marbles. She checked along the window sill but couldn’t see any glasses.

  ‘Thanks for your help, Mr Cooper,’ the older of the uniforms said. ‘If anything else comes up, I hope you don’t mind if we call on you again.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said, getting back to his feet.

  Iona stood and held out a hand. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  There was a crafty look in his eye as he inclined his head. ‘My pleasure . . . is it Detective Constable?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, slightly uneasy at his interest.

  ‘Detective Constable Khan of Community Relations?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He gave a knowing nod as the uniforms gathered their things.

  Once out of the flat, the two uniforms set off along the corridor. ‘Glad to get out of there,’ the younger one muttered. ‘Did you see all the military books on his shelves? Thought he was going to start up about the war at any moment.’

  Ignoring the comment, Iona addressed the older officer. ‘Have you canvassed the surrounding properties?’

  ‘Yes. Nothing doing.’

  ‘Including the houses on the other side of the road, near the alley?’