Scratch Deeper

by Chris Simms

  The younger man was kneeling at the foot of the bed. The bruises on his face seemed to have expanded and grown darker in colour. The briefcase he’d just slid out from beneath the bed was open. Vassen was staring at the row of four small Perspex vials in the tin. Each was full of dirty-looking powder.

  On the floor next to it was the piece of equipment Vassen had taken from the laboratory at the university. Twin plastic tubes curved out of the top, trailed down and re-entered the grey casing at its base. A stainless-steel panel was inscribed with the words, GE Healthcare Frac-900.

  Vassen was mumbling to himself, sweat standing out on his forehead.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Ranjit asked.

  Vassen’s eyes were closed.

  ‘Are you praying?’

  The younger man’s near-silent recitation came to a finish. ‘Yes,’ he answered in a soft voice.

  ‘Do you go to church?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you? Back on Mauritius?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you believe? In God?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t. But . . .’ He looked at the vials again.

  ‘Let me show you something, cousin.’ Ranjit crossed the bedroom, lifted a small hold-all from the floor and placed it on the bed. ‘Sit next to me.’

  Face pale, Vassen did as he was asked. Ranjit had taken a small photo album from among his meagre possessions. The cover was made of a cardboard-like material. Mounted on the first stiff page were a couple of faded black and white photographs, the corners slightly buckled.

  ‘Home.’ Ranjit stated.

  ‘Where did you get these?’ Vassen whispered, wonder filling his voice.

  The top image showed a group of small children waving to the camera from the veranda of a crudely built wooden building. All the girls were wearing floral dresses and white, sleeveless shirts. Each boy was wearing white shorts and a shirt. Their black hair was thick, like Vassen’s. Some were hanging from the wooden railings, laughter lighting up their faces.

  ‘That was the schoolhouse,’ Ranjit said quietly.

  The image below it was of a wide clearing, dense palm trees forming a perimeter. Pathways had been worn across the thin grass, one leading towards a cluster of huts. A small fishing boat lay in the shadow of each building.

  Another path branched off to a larger building with a cross jutting up from the apex of the roof. Adults were gathered in front of its open doors. Out on the grass, several children were playing with a couple of dogs, whose legs – captured in the act of running – were slightly blurred.

  ‘These photos were Aunty Lizette’s,’ Ranjit announced. ‘She was sent them by someone from the Colonial Office – he came to make a film about our lives.’

  Vassen’s face was sombre. ‘When?’

  ‘Sometime during the fifties.’

  ‘Before –’

  ‘Yes. Before they removed us. The people who did this to us claimed to be Christians. How could a Christian do what they did?’ He paused. ‘I wonder if the church is still standing. Aunty Lizette said they killed our dogs, once we were all in the naval boats. Rounded them up and clubbed them to death.’

  The younger man cleared his throat and Ranjit saw there were tears in his eyes. He closed the book. ‘Aunty Lizette died earlier this year. How many of the older generation are now left? Fewer and fewer. It’s for them, Vassen. That’s why we must do this.’

  The younger man gave a nod.

  ‘Now,’ Ranjit continued. ‘We need supplies – water, some food. There’s no way to tell how long we’ll have to hide afterwards. I think it best we stay below ground for as long as we can. Look at the pictures, cousin. Look and remember. We wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t done what they did. They are the guilty ones in this, not us. When I get back from the shop, you need to be ready to go.’

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Iona had scrolled down to Paul Wallace’s number when her phone’s screen lit up. A split second later, it started to ring. She looked at the number, hoping desperately it was her dad. The name on the screen was Toby. Finally, she said to herself, accepting the call.

  ‘Hello, Toby.’

  ‘You leave a message like that and then, every time I ring, your phone’s fucking engaged?’ he whispered. ‘Are they on the way here?’

  Iona glanced at her watch. Almost nine. The poor guy was already at work and under the impression he was about to be lifted. ‘No, they’re not.’

  ‘You’re out-of-fucking-order, you know that? Yeah, course you do. Not that you give a shit – you’re a fucking pig. All pigs are the fucking—’

  ‘Toby, shut up.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. True colours and all that. Happy to drop the nicey-nice shit now aren’t—’

  ‘Shut up and listen to me. Please.’

  There was a slight pause. ‘What?’

  ‘Things are serious, Toby. I need to speak to Hidden Shadow. Right now. Let me have his address and phone number.’

  ‘We had an agreement. You promised, for what that’s worth.’

  ‘That was then. Now it’s different. How do I get hold of—’

  ‘What’ll you do? Threaten him with the full treatment, too? Throw in the option of extraordinary rendition? You lot like that, don’t you? Passing on innocent people for a bit of harsh interrog—’

  ‘The snatch squad are still here, Toby.’ Iona was imagining her father, queuing to get through the security check at the perimeter. ‘You want to discuss this in a cell? We can do it that way.’

  ‘You can’t contact Hidden Shadow.’

  ‘Why?’

  Toby now sounded like he was relishing the conversation. ‘There’s no phone signal where he is.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s potholing. Out in the Peak District, somewhere near Castleton. No phone signal underground.’

  Iona sat back on the bed. She could not believe this. ‘Where near Castleton?’

  ‘I don’t know. There are dozens of spots around there. He could pop up from any of them.’

  ‘Well . . . when’s he back? It’s Monday morning. Hasn’t he got work?’

  ‘He’s taken today off. Could be tonight. Could be earlier. You might get lucky – it was raining in the night.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘In the night – there was rain. Not good for potholing. Floods?’

  Iona felt a glimmer of hope. ‘So he might be heading back to Manchester early? How’s he travelling?’

  ‘Train. Hathersage station.’

  ‘Where does he stay when he’s there?’

  ‘He’ll have a tent. They’ll either sleep out or stay the night underground.’

  ‘Who’s they?’

  ‘Him and Thompski, they always go together.’

  ‘Thompski?’

  ‘You know, you met him down in the . . .’

  So that’s his name, Iona thought, an image of the taciturn companion from the Temple of Convenience in her mind. She wrote the name down. ‘I need their mobile numbers, Toby.’

  ‘Shitting hell.’

  ‘Their numbers.’

  ‘What if I ring them and leave a—’

  ‘There’s no wriggle-room here. Their numbers, please.’ He read them out and she noted them both down before repeating them back. ‘OK, I’m going to call them now and I’ll keep calling them until I get an answer. If either contact you in the meantime, you must get them to ring me immediately. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And make sure you answer your phone, Toby. No voicemail.’

  ‘But I might be in a meeting. I can’t—’

  ‘No negotiating! Put it on vibrate or something. You have to answer it if I call.’ She pressed red and keyed in the numbers for Hidden Shadow’s phone. Her call went unanswered. Same for Thompski’s phone. In an attempt to quell a rising sense of panic, she had to start sucking in air through her nose and blowing it out through her mouth.

  An urge to see what was happenin
g at the conference centre took her. She turned to her little telly. Some kind of interview. The camera was trained on a politician in full flow. Iona found her eyes wandering to the view through the plate-glass windows behind him. Below the grey and featureless sky, she could see the massed buildings of Manchester in the foreground, rolling countryside and the faintest suggestion of hills in the far distance. They’re filming in the Sky Bar, she thought. Halfway up Beetham Tower. She recalled that was where the BBC conducted its interviews during the yearly conferences.

  If the camera moved towards the windows and then angled down, the view, she realized, would be of the conference centre itself. Wasim would be down there, maybe even in sight as he crossed the plaza to the conference centre steps. She bit at her lower lip, wondering what to do.

  They should be flooding the whole of Bury with plain-clothes officers, she thought bitterly. Every available person from Bury’s station should be out looking, too. People at the Metro stop, people walking the streets. The entire CCTV control room should have Vassen and Ranjit’s mugshots in front of them. As should every officer on the perimeter of the secure zone. She groaned with frustration as it dawned on her that all those measures depended on the two Mauritians not being down in the tunnels already. If they were, every single camera was useless. Every officer checking faces would be wasting time.

  I can’t wait, she decided. I’ve got to go to Wallace with what I’ve got. He must see the threat, surely? He must contact Gold Command and get them to issue a yellow site alert.

  She was down the stairs and almost out the front door when her phone’s ring tone stopped her in her tracks. Dropping her carry case on the mat, she looked at the screen. Unknown number. ‘Detective Constable Khan speaking.’

  ‘Good morning, Iona. It’s your observation post out in Bury reporting in.’

  A split-second of confusion and then the penny dropped. ‘Mr Cooper?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘It certainly has. I just had an eyeball of one of your suspects. The shorter one with the shaved head.’

  ‘You’ve seen him?’ Her heart felt like a bird, trying to flutter free of her chest.

  ‘He just passed by with an empty carrier bag dangling from one hand. He went down the same alley, on the way to the mini-mart on Woodhill Road, I should imagine.’

  Iona was fumbling for her car keys. ‘Was it him? The one whose picture I showed you?’

  ‘I’d say it was. Hurry and you can see for yourself – my guess is he’ll soon be returning this way with his shopping.’

  Iona slammed the door and started running down the front path.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Iona glimpsed Mr Cooper up in his window as she swung her car on to the forecourt of his block of flats.

  She strode quickly up to the front entrance, relieved to hear his voice coming from the little panel as she neared the door.

  ‘Come straight in, it’s open.’

  Out of sight of the road, she was able to run up the stairs to Cooper’s flat on the first floor. Once more, he was waiting for her in the corridor. ‘Any sign?’ she asked, slightly out of breath as she jogged towards him.

  He shook his head as he waved her in. When the door was closed, he said, ‘Under twenty-five minutes. You must have motored.’

  ‘Yes,’ she responded, recalling her mad dash round the outside lane of the M60. ‘I haven’t missed him?’

  ‘He hasn’t been back this way, that’s for sure.’

  ‘You said he had a carrier bag?’

  ‘That’s right. A reusable one – made from canvas or some kind of cloth.’

  ‘Baseball cap on his head?’

  ‘Not this time.’

  Iona sent up a silent thanks. In the dim front room, she could see that Cooper had positioned the fold-out chair next to the armchair. Both were several feet back from the window.

  ‘I’ve been keeping the lights off. The chairs are as far back as possible without losing the view down on to the road,’ Cooper announced, closing the door behind them and rubbing his hands. ‘Forgot the feeling you get from doing this type of stuff.’

  ‘That’s great, Mr Coop—’

  ‘Come on, it’s Bob. First-name terms if we’re surveilling.’

  ‘Bob,’ she said, smiling briefly.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d be showing up on your own. Or is your support positioned nearby?’

  ‘No – it’s just me. For now.’

  He looked mildly perplexed. ‘Is that so? What about optics? A camera?’ he asked, glancing at her carry case.

  She realized she’d turned up without anything. ‘No . . . as a matter of fact, I haven’t.’

  He gestured at the small pair of binoculars on the window sill. Green rubberized casing, the sort birdwatchers favoured. ‘You’re welcome to use mine.’

  Feeling like a complete amateur, she thanked him and got her phone out, eyes on the entrance to the alley. ‘Once I can confirm he’s our man, I’m sure things will happen very quickly.’

  ‘Sit yourself down. Tea or coffee?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’ She perched on the edge of the wooden chair, phone cradled in her hands.

  He leaned his forearms on the back of the armchair. ‘I’m dying to know what type of threat this man poses.’

  She didn’t turn her head. ‘Sorry, I can’t say.’

  ‘I understand. He’s dark-skinned, so I’m assuming it’s al-Qaeda or related. He looks like he could have had training – the way he carried himself. You’ll want that support when it comes to taking him down.’

  Iona thought about the events in the alley. Two young men, both armed. One ended up being stabbed, the other injured. ‘I certainly don’t intend to do it alone.’

  Cooper straightened up. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. Sure I can’t make you a drink?’

  Iona thought about the prospect of being in the loo when Ranjit reappeared. ‘No, thanks.’

  Once he was out of the room, she lifted her mobile and, between quick glances across the road, tried her father’s number once again. Answerphone. Well, she tried to reassure herself, if Ranjit’s here, no attack on the centre is about to take place. She stole a swift look at the books lining the shelves to her left.

  Her phone rang and she almost dropped it in her rush to examine the screen. Toby. ‘DC Khan here.’

  ‘Yeah, I know that. They just got the nine twenty-eight from Hathersage. Arrives in Manchester Piccadilly at ten twenty-two.’

  She looked at her watch. That was in three quarters of an hour’s time. Blair and Brown were due to take the stage just over half an hour after that. Time was slipping by so fast. ‘Why didn’t they call me?’

  ‘No idea. They were piss-wet-through and cold? Preferred to get on a warm train than speak to you? Who knows?’

  Damn it, she said to herself, trying to gauge the quickest way to get to them. It was all little rural stops from Hathersage, right until the train reached Stockport. By then it was only another ten minutes into Manchester itself. ‘They should have called me.’

  ‘I’m sure they’re gutted they didn’t. Probably they’re looking forward to the reception committee you’ll have waiting for them at Piccadilly.’

  Iona was trying to think. There was no way she could abandon her watch for Ranjit – as things stood, it was the best bet she had of confirming he really was Vassen’s companion.

  ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I said, can I go now?’

  His attitude was really beginning to grate. ‘Will they have gear with them? Kit bags, for instance?’

  ‘Yeah, them. Coils of rope, helmets as well.’

  ‘OK, you can go Toby. Same arrangement applies, though. I call, you answer.’ She cut the call and brought up Jim’s number. The phone reached its fifth ring before he picked up. ‘Jim, it’s me. Listen, what time are you on duty – noon, wasn’t it? I need you to do something—’

  �
�Hey . . . slow down, for Christ’s sake. Say all that again.’

  He sounded groggy with sleep. How much more, she wondered, did you drink after I left last night? ‘I need a favour, Jim. I don’t know who else I can ask.’

  ‘Right, OK.’

  She could hear a rustling sound and pictured him sitting up in bed, rubbing at his dishevelled hair.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘The Sub-Urban Explorer who can identify Ranjit from his mugshot. He’s arriving at Piccadilly station at ten twenty-two. That’s in about forty-five minutes’ time. He uses the name Hidden Shadow and he’s with another male, also twenty or thereabouts, called Thompski. They’ll be carrying potholing stuff: kitbags, rope and helmets – should be easy to spot. Can you meet them off the train? You’ve got a copy of Ranjit’s photo – on your computer from when you printed it off before. We need this bloke – Hidden Shadow – to confirm it really was Ranjit outside the library and we need to know if any tunnels the council are unaware of exist in the vicinity of the conference centre. Got that?’

  ‘Yeah. Confirm identity of Ranjit, ask about existence of any tunnels near the conference centre the council are unaware of. What time are they getting to Piccadilly again?’

  ‘Ten twenty-two.’

  ‘So where are you now?’

  ‘Bury. There’s been a probable sighting of Ranjit out here. I’m waiting to see if he returns this way.’

  ‘Wallace sent you out with a team, then?’

  ‘No. Why would he?’

  ‘Well, why else would you . . .’ His words stumbled to a halt. ‘You’ve been to see him this morning?’

  ‘No, I came straight from mine when I got the call.’

  ‘So you haven’t . . .’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Who are you with?’

  ‘It’s just me.’

  ‘You’ve gone out there on your own?’

  ‘Yeah. Once I can say without doubt it’s Ranjit, I’ll ring Wallace.’

  ‘Iona, you can’t be out there all alone—’

  ‘Jim, it’s fine. I’m up in a flat. Listen, there’s something else: my dad’s in the conference centre for a debate. He’s there right now.’