by Chris Simms
He looked at her. ‘Yes, Detective Constable, we did.’
‘Sorry.’ She gave a quick smile. ‘I didn’t mean to tell you how to do your job. So you’ll also follow up on the plumber and check the local hospitals?’
‘Where did you say you were from again?’ He now sounded mildly annoyed. ‘A Manchester office?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And will you be taking responsibility for making enquiries in the Asian community round here for the other two?’
‘If your boss is happy for me to do so.’ Iona let them pull ahead. ‘Just need to check something else with Mr Cooper. I’ll catch you up back at the station.’
Cooper didn’t seem surprised to see her when he opened the door.
‘Mr Cooper, something just occurred to me—’
‘Would you like to come in?’
‘No need,’ she said, double-checking the two uniforms had set off down the stairs. ‘The word you heard being shouted. You thought it was rancid. Any chance it could have been a name?’
‘A name? Rancid? You mean a nickname?’
‘No, a name that sounded similar to rancid.’
‘Well, now you say, it was more like a cry for help. A very scared cry at that.’
Shouting to his mate, Iona thought. She lowered her voice. ‘Could the word you heard being called have been Ranjit?’
‘Ranjit?’
She nodded and, after a moment’s thought, Cooper did too. ‘And you’re really in, what was it you said, Community Relations?’
She tried to look surprised. ‘Yes. Why?’
He bent down to bring his face closer. ‘My guess is you’re too sharp for Community Relations – whatever that’s supposed to be.’
She gestured to the side. ‘Thanks for your help. I’d better be going.’
He was still smiling as he stepped back and closed the door.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Iona crossed the road to where her car was parked. She looked at the mouth of the alley and the stretch of hedge bordering the road. Then she examined the pavement for any drops of blood or anything left behind. All the while she was able to feel Cooper’s gaze upon her. Finally, she glanced back to the block of flats. He nodded at her from behind his window, unconcerned that she knew he was watching.
She nodded in return then approached the alley itself. It ran straight for about fifteen metres then jinked to the right. She walked slowly up it, eyes sweeping from left to right. Sweet wrappers, crumpled cans and broken glass seemed to be the most common elements of the litter lining its edges.
At the bend was another street lamp, the base of the pole a tangled mass of graffiti. She crouched down; a few pear-shaped droplets of something dark had hit the fence panels to the left of it. Blood. From their shape, she guessed they had flown out from a point that was about waist height. There were more spots on the ground. Some act of violence had definitely taken place here.
Looking further along the alley, she saw that it stretched for another twenty-five or so metres before joining with the next road. Woodhill, she thought. On the ground ten metres in front of her was a plain white plastic bag. It had something in it. Looking in from above, she could see a takeaway menu and two cartons inside. The lid of one had been dislodged. It was full of rice.
If it had contained a half-finished tray of chips or the remains of a kebab, she could understand. But someone had dropped an entire meal, untouched. Why?
She continued on to the main road, stepped out on to the pavement and looked either way. Houses to the left, a couple of takeaway places about fifty metres to the right. Much further along, she could see more shops, one with an awning and crates of produce out the front. The grocer’s, she wondered, where the original call about a van had come from? The sign outside the takeaway place nearest to her read Al Kebabish. Back at the abandoned bag of food, she reached in and slid out the takeaway menu that had been placed alongside the order. Al Kebabish.
The man behind the counter was humming to himself as he stacked small bottles in an upright fridge. Beneath the glass counter was an impressive selection of food. Iona recognized samosas, bhajis and pakoras alongside skewers of lamb, coated in a sauce and ready to be cooked over a bed of charcoal in the corner. Filling the far wall was an enormous takeaway menu. ‘Hello, there,’ she said, smile at the ready.
He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Hello. What can I get you?’
Heavy accent, she thought. ‘Are you the owner here?’
He turned round, a suspicious look on his face. ‘Why?’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not from environmental health or anything like that.’
‘So where are you from?’
‘I work in Community Relations, alongside the police.’ She removed her warrant card and held it up for a moment. ‘There was a report last night of a white van in this area. Its occupants were threatening people. The owner of the grocer’s further along? He called us to report they’d shouted racist abuse at him. Were you working here last night?’
‘I didn’t hear anything.’
‘OK. Did any of your customers mention a van to you? We’re very keen to trace the vehicle.’
He looked sceptical. ‘A bit of offensive language? Wouldn’t it be better if you stopped the BNP coming here and handing out their leaflets?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘I only wish we could, believe me.’ She checked the doorway behind her. ‘We think it was more serious than just offensive language. They might have assaulted a couple of males round the corner from here. There was some kind of disturbance.’
‘Really?’ Now he looked interested.
‘Within minutes of the call from the grocery store. How busy were you last night?’
‘Usual – mostly deliveries until ten, then a few passers-by later on.’
‘Did you have anyone in here ordering food at, say, twenty past eleven?’
His eyes settled on the window behind her as he thought. ‘Maybe.’
‘Sir, if there was, there’s a very good chance they saw this van. They may have even been approached. The victims of the assault have yet to report it, so we’re just going off a call from a member of the public at this time.’ She could tell he was deciding whether to say anything more. ‘Sir? This is in the interests of your community. If people get away with whatever happened last night, they’ll come back bolder next time.’
His fingers scratched at his sleeve and he avoided her eyes. You know something, she thought. You know who you were serving at around that time. Now you’re wondering if they were the ones who were attacked.
‘If they call in again, I’ll get them to ring you.’
Them, Iona thought. You are talking about my guys, I’m sure. ‘Sir, that’s really appreciated. But what if they don’t come back? They could possess vital information.’
‘Listen, one of them’s been popping in a bit recently. I’ll mention it to him. But if he hasn’t contacted you, I’m not putting your lot on to him, OK?’
Aware that exerting too much pressure would only create suspicion, Iona nodded gratefully. ‘That’s fine, thank you. He just needs to ring Bury Police Station. The incident has been logged.’ She turned to go then looked back. ‘Oh. The witness who reported the possible assault. He said one of the Asians was tall. Thin build, floppy fringe?’ She let the question hang, eyes not leaving his face.
The take away owner gave a reluctant nod. ‘That’s him.’
Iona retraced her steps, her mind buzzing. It was Vassen and his mate, surely. Tall, thin, floppy fringe. A name called out that sounded very similar to rancid. She looked at the houses in the vicinity. They must be living within walking distance of here. Her heart thudded faster at the thought.
She came to a halt by the takeaway bag, trying to decide whether to retrieve some evidence bags from her car when her phone started to ring. ‘Jim,’ she said, seeing his name on the screen. ‘How’s it going your end?’
‘Good. Where are you?’
‘I called in at the cop sho
p in Bury. Something very interesting was on the log of overnights.’
‘What?’
Unable to tell if anyone beyond the fences either side of her could hear what she was saying, Iona continued towards her car. ‘I’ll fill you in later. A racially aggravated incident.’
‘Right . . .’ Jim sounded slightly confused. ‘You want my news?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ve got them coming into town on the day in question – they boarded the nine forty from Bury and disembarked at Victoria Station twenty-four minutes later.’
‘Jim, that’s brilliant. I don’t suppose the footage . . .’
‘No clear shots, I’m afraid. Our man with the baseball cap is beginning to remind me of that one from the Pet Shop Boys. Could never see his bloody face either.’
‘Pet Shop Boys?’
‘The pop group? Oh, forget it. You’re too young. Anyway, they leave via the exit on to Long Millgate, where the station’s CCTV coverage ends. Few things, though.’
Iona was now at her car. No sign of Cooper in his window. She unlocked the vehicle, got in and shut the door. ‘Go on.’
‘First, the short one’s carrying a rucksack on the way into town. Full of stuff, by the look of it. Second, Long Millgate – do you know where it leads?’
‘Nope.’
‘Deansgate. Runs right past the cathedral.’
Iona sat back. ‘Vassen’s interest in the fabled Deansgate tunnel. It fits.’
‘There’s more.’
‘There is?’
‘Oh, yes. The footage you obtained where they reappear outside the library just before two in the afternoon. That’s four hours later. When they do, it’s minus the rucksack. So that’s been left somewhere. And Vassen, when he’s walking along ruffling his hair? I don’t reckon that’s dandruff he’s shaking out. I reckon it’s dust.’
Iona swallowed. ‘A tunnel. They’ve been down a tunnel.’
TWENTY-NINE
After hanging up, Iona looked across the road. She could see Cooper back in his spot, nose buried in a book.
He opened his front door with the same knowing smile. ‘Detective Constable Iona Khan.’
‘Hi, there. May I come in?’
‘Please.’
She walked into his front room and waited for him to indicate that she could sit. ‘Thank you,’ she said when he pointed to the sofa.
‘Would you like a drink, coffee or tea?’
She placed her carry case beside her. ‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’
‘So,’ he stated, taking the armchair by the window. ‘How did searching the alley go? I don’t think those two uniformed officers more than glanced down it.’
‘There had definitely been some kind of disturbance.’
‘You seem to be doing an awful lot under your remit of Community Relations.’ The same mischievous look was back in his eyes.
She looked away and found herself gazing at the packed bookshelves. Biographies of great leaders, politicians, studies of famous battles, a whole section on the Second World War. ‘Mr Cooper, were you in the army?’
‘I was.’
‘For how long?’
‘Longer, I suspect, than you’ve been alive.’
She looked back at him, searching once more for any indication he was belittling her.
‘Not that I’d ever ask a lady her age,’ he hastily added. ‘I served for thirty-three years.’
‘Thirty-three? That’s . . . quite a stint. In one,’ she searched for the correct term, ‘bit?’
‘No, several bits,’ he smiled. ‘I started in the regular army – as a squaddie. Then moved to the Paras then moved again.’
‘You’ve seen a lot of the world, I bet.’
‘Oh, here and there.’
She had the impression that was an enormous understatement. ‘Which parts did you enjoy most?’
‘Detective, one jungle is much like another. One mountain as cold as the next. Deserts are deserts, wherever you are. Sadly, I wasn’t there for sightseeing trips. Often, I hardly moved out of the coffin-sized hole I’d dug.’
She glanced at the bookshelves again. Jim had often mentioned the extreme feats of endurance members of the SAS put themselves through: lying for days in one spot while gathering intelligence on a target, all bodily waste going into plastic bags. She couldn’t see any books on the elite unit. ‘That was after you moved on from the Paras?’
‘It was. Now, I think you know the area of the army I was in. What I’m wondering is, what part of the police are you in?’
She kept eye contact. ‘Counter Terrorism Unit.’
His nod was slow and measured. ‘A lot of resources have been ploughed into that. A sought-after unit to be in, I imagine.’
She reached for her carry-case. ‘Mr Cooper –’
‘Bob.’
‘Bob, I have a couple of images here. Do you think they might be the people you saw coming out of that alley?’
‘I’ll do my best.’
She removed the mugshots of Vassen and his companion.
‘Something told me you weren’t really looking for the white guys,’ he said, taking the printouts and studying each one. He tapped on Vassen’s face. ‘Him. Not sure about the other. He was on the far side of the taller one, who obscured my view.’
She took a deep breath. ‘How sure are you?’
‘Sure as I can be.’
It was them, she thought. It had to be. She directed a quick look out at the mouth of the alley. They had been right there, only hours ago. ‘Mr Coo— Sorry, Bob. There’s a takeaway place on the next street. I think the man you identified visits it quite regularly.’
Bob’s eyes lit up as he handed the printouts back. ‘You need an observer? I have some experience in that particular field.’
Iona smiled, removing one of her cards as she did so. ‘Then I’m sure you know the drill. If you see either of them, here’s my mobile number.’
He took the card and slid it into the pages of his Robin Cook memoirs. ‘My new bookmark.’
‘Obviously, this is all in the strictest—’
‘How aware are the officers who were here before?’
‘Sorry?’
‘In case they come back. I need to know what they know about you.’
‘They have been told I’m from Community Relations, that’s all.’
‘Fine,’ he replied.
She gathered her things and stood. ‘Don’t worry about seeing me out. And thank you, Bob. Call me, whatever time it is.’
‘Understood.’
From the way he was sitting there, Iona suspected he’d already started his vigil. ‘Of course, I don’t expect you to pee in a carrier bag.’
‘No?’ He clicked his fingers in mock-frustration.
The drive back to Bury’s police station took her past the town’s library and then a large church. As its bell tolled out, Iona slowed to allow some members of the departing congregation to cross the road. The sign before it said, St Mary’s Roman Catholic Church. Sunday Mass was at eleven thirty. On the front step was a figure putting on a flat cap.
She was looking away when the flat cap registered in her mind. Her eyes returned to the church entrance. The man was chatting warmly to the priest. The old guy from the side of the football pitch, she realized, watching as he reached out to clasp the vicar’s hand. She moved forward once more, passing some kind of council offices, all the lights off. As she turned the corner, her mobile started to ring and she checked the screen. Wallace. Just seeing his name filled her with revulsion. ‘Hello, sir,’ she said, pulling over.
‘Where are you, Detective?’
‘Up in Bury, sir.’
‘You are?’ He sounded surprised. ‘Doing what?’
‘Looking into the Mauritian community, as you asked. I’ve been observing a football match involving that team whose details you gave me.’
‘Anything interesting?’
‘No sign of our pair from outside the library.’
&
nbsp; ‘How about the mosque? I need intelligence on that place. Have you given it more thought?’
‘Been there, sir. Only for a quick drive past. It seemed pretty quiet.’
If he was pleased, it didn’t show in his voice. ‘And now you are . . .?’
‘Heading back to Bury Police Station to liaise with officers there. Another thing; there was a racially aggravated incident last night I’d like to look into.’
‘When will you be back?’
‘Mid afternoon, hopefully?’
‘Update me when you get in, Detective.’
‘Sir.’ She dropped the phone and wiped her fingers on the side of the seat.
Back at the station, she found the duty sergeant just coming out of his review meeting, a sheaf of papers in his hand. Motioning to her, he led the way back to the room he’d been in earlier. ‘Any luck?’
‘Some,’ Iona replied, stepping inside. ‘Can you arrange for a scene-of-crime unit to drive out to the alley? There’s an abandoned takeaway and some blood spatter about halfway along it. It wasn’t right for a Community Relations officer to start collecting evidence.’
‘Didn’t my officers check that area?’
‘Didn’t seem so,’ Iona mumbled, aware she’d just shown them up. ‘Weren’t they due to follow up on the white van?’
He twisted round and retrieved a piece of paper from the table behind him. ‘A. J. Neill, plumber. There was a website with contact details.’
‘Have they tried ringing?’
‘No – I said to leave it with me for the moment. Sent them to deal with a couple of burglaries out in Freetown.’
‘Thanks, Sergeant. Mind if I make the call?’
‘That’s what I thought you’d want to do.’
THIRTY
Iona listened to the person’s mobile phone ring. If you owned a plumbing business, she reasoned, you’d have your phone switched on at weekends, surely? Burst pipes, broken washing machines, that kind of thing. Just when she thought it was about to go to answerphone, the call was picked up.
‘Adrian here.’
The man sounded a lot older than Bob Cooper had made out. ‘A. J. Neill, plumbers?’
‘That’s me. What’s the problem?’
