by Chris Simms
Wallace remained at his desk, arms quivering slightly as he went over what had just occurred. There was, he quickly realized, no room for manoeuvre. Jim had him trapped. The bloke was clearly teetering on the brink and there was no doubting he’d happily blow the lid on the Iraq thing. Human rights lawyers had sniffed around for years, making enquiries, trying to find a crack in the official version of events. If Jim picked up the phone, all their files would come back out in a flash.
He banged his hands down on the armrests of his chair. My office. The bloke walks into my office and gives me instructions.
An image of Iona began to burn in his mind. The little Paki bitch would be moving teams, all right. No way she was staying in his. I never wanted her anyway. He looked at the piles of paper covering his desk, musing that he never did pass on her report to MI6.
He wondered whether he should cover himself by sending it on now. That was if he could even remember where he’d put it. No, he decided. Better wait until tomorrow and see what the uppity little whore reckons she’s unearthed. Probably will turn out to be a load of bollocks, anyway.
THIRTY-FIVE
Iona gave up on sleep and reached for her bedside radio. The presenter was discussing the likely impact of Blair and Brown’s joint appearance later that morning at the Labour Party conference in Manchester.
Fresh anxiety washed through her and she threw the covers back, wondering how much of the night she’d been awake. It felt like most of it had been spent with her eyes fixed on the cream-coloured hijab hanging from the back of her door.
The tunnels, the damn tunnels. There had to be one the council didn’t know about, she thought. Her mind had repeatedly jumped to the constable in the CTU who’d shown up with the keys to the one beneath the Great Northern Warehouse. The council map he mentioned. Before setting off for the mosque, was it worth ringing him again? The fact she still hadn’t spoken to Toby especially irritated her. Jim was right; the guy would need to be frightened into co-operating. Nothing else was working. Every time she thought of Jim, his advice replayed in her head. Get in touch with Tristram Dell, the friend of the murdered Law Lord. Find out exactly what might have been divulged about the conference in that letter. Then would come Wallace – presenting him with the latest developments, trying to make him take it all seriously.
She scrunched her toes against the carpet. Too much needed to be done. Too much for one person.
Needing to do something just to force her thoughts on to another track, she slid her towel off the radiator and set off for the bathroom at the end of the corridor.
She felt slightly better after a brief shower, glad of the fact her three housemates were still all slumbering in their beds. After drying her hair and dressing in faded jeans and a fleece top, she trotted softly down the stairs to the kitchen.
After turning on the television, she turned to a breakfast show where the guest was flicking through that morning’s papers. The Independent had devoted the lower half of its front page to further revelations about America’s extraordinary rendition programme that were emerging as a result of WikiLeaks. The focus was now on a series of flights that had stopped at a remote US airbase on a British territory far out in the Indian Ocean.
By the time Iona had forced down some toast, there were sounds of movement on the floor above. The bathroom door banged shut and the boiler ignited just as her phone went off.
Mum, she thought, looking at the screen. What’s she doing phoning me this time in the morning? Fenella, she thought, a mental picture of her pregnant older sister suddenly before her. She hit the mute button for the telly. ‘Hi, Mum, everything OK?’
‘Yes, sorry to ring early, hen – but I thought you’d be up.’
‘I am. Did you see Fenella over the weekend?’
‘We did. She stopped by on Sunday. She had a printout from the scan. Iona, she’s going to be so big. I didn’t dare say, but it made my eyes water just thinking about it, poor lass. Anyway, she was asking after you. Are you getting enough rest with all this conference business going on?’
‘More or less. There’s been a few late nights, but it’s all over soon.’
‘Well, talking of the conference, we had some exciting news last night.’
Iona frowned. How could the conference possibly involve exciting news for mum and dad. ‘How do you mean?’
‘You know your father’s colleague in his department at the university? Andrew Trilling?’
‘Vaguely. He’s come to the occasional party you’ve thrown?’
‘Yes. Well, he was due to be speaking at a debate they’re having. Middle Eastern foreign policy. But he got something in his eye fitting some shelves. Bit of wood flew in. That’s not the good news, obviously. He has to go back to the Royal Eye Hospital this morning.’
‘Mum, you’ve lost me here. Who’s having a debate?’
‘Sorry, hen. They are, at the conference. People from all sorts of organizations. Not in the big hall. A side bit, but the conference all the same. Your father’s had to go to do all the security clearance stuff.’
Iona felt her back stiffen. ‘He’s what?’
‘Filling in for Professor Trilling. But he needs one of those security passes – you must know what I mean. Andrew was describing it when he rang. It has his photo on and other details.’
‘Dad’s going to be at the conference centre?’
‘He’s already there, Iona. Isn’t it exciting? You might cross paths, if you get the chance to go down. His event starts at half past nine.’
Iona was on her feet, her free hand gripping the top of her head. ‘When did he set off?’
Muriel’s voice faltered slightly. ‘About half an hour ago? Iona? What’s wrong?’
She lowered her hand. ‘Nothing . . .’
‘You sounded shocked.’
‘Surprised, Mum. That’s all. I’ll ring him – see where he is.’
‘He’s at the conference centre—’
‘No, I mean if he’s inside yet. Maybe he’s stuck in a queue, doing the checks. I . . . I could see if he is.’
Muriel sounded baffled. ‘You mean to say hello?’
Iona nodded. ‘Yeah, I suppose. Let me ring him, OK? I’ll speak to you later.’
‘Just when you have a minute. I know how busy you are.’
‘Thanks, Mum, bye.’
She cut the call and sat back down, only aware that Jo was in the room when she heard her voice.
‘That didn’t sound so good.’
‘What?’ Iona’s gaze skittered across to the television. A sweeping shot of the conference centre’s plaza. Text at the bottom of the screen said live coverage would resume in forty minutes’ time.
‘The phone call.’ Jo nodded at the mobile clutched tightly in Iona’s hand. ‘Wasn’t bad news, was it?’
‘No . . . not bad,’ Iona murmured distractedly, heading quickly for the stairs. ‘Just need to ring my dad.’
She had selected Wasim’s number from her address book before she reached her bedroom. Closing the door, she listened to it ring. Come on, come on, Dad, answer your phone, come on.
‘Hello, I can’t speak right now. Leave me a message, please.’
Damn it! As the beep sounded Iona was suddenly unsure what to say. ‘Dad, hi, it’s me, Iona. Call me, please – soon as you can.’
She sat down on the edge of her bed, phone bouncing in her cupped palms as she jiggled her knees up and down. What do I do? Go down there and drag him out? What do I say? Mum’s been taken ill? Should I say anything? He won’t leave without a good reason. Do I say there could be some kind of an attack? He’ll want to know why he’s the only one leaving.
She let out a sigh of anguish. OK, OK, calm down. The thing hasn’t even started. Blair and Brown aren’t due on stage until later this morning. There’s no need to rush down there – yet. She looked at her phone once again. That bloody Toby from the Sub-Urban Explorers. Anger blazed at how he was ignoring her calls.
She brought his number u
p. Try and ignore this, she thought, jaw set tight.
THIRTY-SIX
‘Toby, it’s Detective Khan from the Counter Terrorism Unit. This is the last message I leave you. The position of your mobile has now been triangulated. If I haven’t heard from you by nine o’clock this morning, I’ll be paying you a visit. Not to your home address. I will arrive at your workplace with a snatch squad in full protective gear. You will be arrested under the Counter Terrorism Act, 2006. You will be held for twenty-eight days without charge. Your home will be like a building site when you get to see it again. Every single one of your friends and family will be dragged in and questioned. We will tear your life apart unless you call me.’
She hit red and took a deep breath. Am I, she asked herself, bad at my job? Last night I didn’t want to make that call. Now Dad’s at risk it was easy. So damn easy.
For a moment she wondered what the young man’s reactions would be when he heard the message. Anger? Fear? Resignation? Think what you like, she concluded, getting to her feet. I don’t really care.
Next, she called Harish Veerapan. Four hours ahead. That meant it was noon over there. Her call was answered on its third ring. ‘Harish? It’s Iona Khan.’
‘Morning, Iona. I was about to ring but it seemed too early—’
‘Any luck?’
He groaned. ‘I am surrounded by a sea of paper, Detective. But no other letters from Tristram Dell – not written after the email I found yesterday, anyway.’
‘Have you searched through all his stuff?’
‘Yes, everything. It’s not here, I’m sure. My concern is the letter is now in the possession of the wrong person.’
‘Mine, too, Harish. OK, thanks, anyway.’ She dropped the phone on her bed, turned the computer on and began to pace up and down, willing it to boot-up faster. Finally it was ready for her to go online. The website for Slattinger-Dell, as Harish had mentioned, wasn’t trying to impress. In fact, it was so understated to appear almost empty. She went straight to the unobtrusive bar of tabs at the bottom and selected, contact.
An address in Parliament Square, nearest tube stop Westminster. Appropriate enough for the type of work the company specialized in, Iona thought, dialling the office number.
A woman who sounded like she was into her fifties answered the phone. Clipped, Home Counties accent. An image of Miss Moneypenny sprang up in Iona’s mind. ‘Good morning, this is Detective Constable Khan from Greater Manchester Police. Could I speak to Tristram Dell, please. It’s extremely urgent.’
‘Mr Dell is not in the office today, I am afraid.’
‘Would you have a mobile phone number for him? As I said, it’s extremely urgent.’
‘He . . . Sorry, could you identify yourself again?’
‘Detective Constable Khan. I work for the Counter Terrorism Unit up here in Manchester.’
‘That’s where he is . . . at the Labour Party conference.’
Of course, Iona thought. Where else would he be? ‘Does he have a number I could contact him on?’
‘It would be preferable if I took yours and ask him to call you at his earliest convenience.’
No, Iona thought. I’m not leaving any more messages with people. ‘I can’t wait for him to ring me.’ She said nothing more, letting her silence force the other woman to speak again.
She eventually gave a small cough. ‘I see. I’d better warn you, he has a very busy schedule.’
The first thing Iona heard when her call was picked up was a mass of voices punctuated by the clink of cutlery. Someone nearby let out a loud guffaw.
‘Tristram Dell speaking.’ His voice was deep and authoritative.
‘Mr Dell, my name is Iona Khan. I’m a detective with Greater Manchester Police.’
‘How did you get this number?’
‘The lady in your London office gave it to me.’
‘Did she? How can I help you, Detective?’
‘I need to speak to you in person, Mr Dell.’
‘In relation to?’ He sounded faintly intrigued by the suggestion.
‘A very sensitive matter. It concerns Reginald Appleton.’ The background noise took over once more as Iona waited for a reply.
‘Reginald?’ he asked warily.
‘That’s correct. Could I come to see you now?’
‘Impossible. It’s almost nine. I’m about to go into the convention centre. The day’s proceedings are about to begin.’
‘Where are you now, sir?’
‘In the Midland Hotel – why?’
‘You were in regular contact with Mr Appleton in the run up to his murder. Some of that contact was about the conference here in Manchester.’
He spoke away from the phone. ‘Yvette! So good to see you. Yes, I’ll be along. Catch up later, yes. Bye.’ There was a pause before he said quietly, ‘What leads you to assert that?’
‘A personal letter found from you in Mr Appleton’s study. Emails on his computer.’
Silence again. The background noises were now fainter and Iona guessed the man had moved away from the throng. ‘I would be prepared to talk in a couple of days’ time.’
‘Sorry, sir. There isn’t time for that.’
‘Well, that’s . . . regrettable.’ His voice had the formality of someone delivering a statement. ‘However, I am unable to comment further without my lawyer being party to proceedings.’
‘Sir, we’re concerned there has been a security breach. There was a particular letter we think you wrote to Reginald Appleton. In it, you may have mentioned certain details about the conference. Tony Blair and Gordon Brown are due to appear with Daniel Tevland –’ Her sentence ground to a halt. I’m talking, she realized, to the person who arranged the whole thing. ‘They will be on stage together very soon.’
‘Who are you again?’
‘Detective Constable Khan, I’m with the Counter Terrorism Unit.’
‘Detective Constable? Forgive me, but why isn’t someone of a senior rank contacting me about these concerns?’
Iona pursed her lips. ‘I’m sure they will, in due course –’
‘I sincerely hope they do, Constable.’
She heard voices and some laughter getting louder. He’s on the move, she thought. ‘Who is A.B., sir? What are your plans in regard to the movements of Mr Blair –’
‘Morning, Michael. Did you get my—’ The line went dead.
‘Mr Dell? Sir?’ She looked at the screen of her handset. Did he just cut the call? She dialled his number again and got an answerphone message. He hung up on me. Unbelievable. Taking several deep breaths, she put her phone down and tried to calm her thoughts.
Whatever information Ranjit may have gleaned was, she realized, now of secondary importance. The priority had to be finding him and Vassen before they carried out their plan. Think, she said to herself, getting to her feet and beginning to pace again. Tunnels. You need to know about any tunnels. She went through her carry case and retrieved the card given to her by the constable who’d arrived with the keys to the tunnel beneath the Great Northern Warehouse.
‘Constable Davis, this is Detective Constable Khan. You escorted me down—’
‘Iona. Morning.’
‘Hi. Um . . . Mark. Are you on duty?’
‘Yeah, over at Silver Command. Things are completely manic. You?’
‘Yes – I’m not in the office, though. Listen, I’m still looking into any tunnels that might be in the vicinity of the convention centre.’
‘Still?’ He sounded vaguely amused. ‘The conference has already started, you realize?’
‘I know. But new information has come to light. Mark, when we were in the visitor centre, there was mention of a map. A council one with the whereabouts of all known tunnels beneath the city.’
‘Iona, you do know about the step-up in security?’
She hesitated. ‘No. As I said, I’m not at my desk –’
‘The announcement?’
‘What announcement?’
‘Doesn�
�t matter.’
‘What announcement?’
‘You wanted to know about the council’s schematic, yeah?’
She tapped a finger uneasily, the feeling of not being part of things suddenly back. ‘Yeah. I need to know what else is on it. The guy in the visitor centre mentioned the possibility of a tunnel running under Deansgate. Were there others? Maybe another encroaching beneath the ring of steel. Under the Midland, perhaps?’
‘You didn’t hear this from me, but – yes, there’s one under the Midland.’
‘There is?’
‘Approaches from the south-east, possibly once went to where the Bishopsgate Centre now stands. Inspected and the sole entrance sealed. Deansgate tunnel?’
She felt her eyebrows arch. ‘It exists?’
‘It exists, all right. But now only in parts. The tunnel’s most intact at the cathedral end of Deansgate. As you go further along, more and more of it has been back-filled. Sections have also collapsed. Last decent stretch you can actually walk along for any distance ends roughly where Saint John Street joins Deansgate. That’s a long, long way from the conference centre. Over one hundred and fifty metres. It’s not deemed as a threat.’
She glanced at the view of the conference centre on her TV. Vassen and his companion were planning something, she was certain. It had to involve a tunnel. ‘That’s really it? Nothing else?’
‘Not a thing. Now, I’ve got to go. Whoever’s got you chasing this tunnel angle needs to find something better for you to do. Get yourself into the office, Iona. You’re off the pace.’
Once more, she found herself staring at her handset. Off the pace? What did he mean by that?
THIRTY-SEVEN
Ranjit Bhujun flexed his head from side to side, unable to keep still. For the fourth time in as many minutes, he pulled the curtain back a few inches and peered down at the quiet street below. He searched for any new vehicles parked nearby. Vans or similar. Anything with a rear compartment where someone could be concealed. He searched for any workmen – technicians fixing cables, labourers digging up the pavement, council employees mending a streetlight. He scanned any window in the houses opposite that had net curtains drawn. Satisfied everything was fine, he turned to Vassen.
