by Chris Simms
Iona lifted a price list from the counter and began to study it. It was almost a minute before Wallace came back on the line. ‘Ranjit Bhujun is in Bury?’ He sounded incredulous.
‘I have the address,’ she whispered. ‘I also spoke with our friend in Mauritius late last night. He believes Ranjit could have gained sensitive information from a letter in Appleton’s study.’
‘About?’
She glanced over her shoulder, aware the other two women could probably hear her. ‘What’s going on in town. Right now. Arrangements relating to the movements of certain key figures.’
‘Key figures? Who?’
‘Household names. Architects of the old party.’
‘Detective, are you not able to speak freely?’
‘That is correct.’
‘Then you need to come in and make a report. I don’t have time to play fucking guessing games.’
‘I can’t. They’re here – in a property just along from me. You need to send support.’
‘Negative – that’s not possible. Have you any idea of the activity levels we’re currently dealing with? How can you be sure it’s him, anyway?’
‘It’s him.’
‘Did you get a photo? Something you can send?’
‘No.’
‘No photo? Where are they, anyway? In that mosque?’
She fought the urge to scream. ‘There is someone due to make an appearance on stage in about an hour’s time.’
‘Is that so?’ His voice was loaded with sarcasm.
‘I believe Ranjit is fully aware of that fact.’
‘That, Detective, is completely impossible. I wasn’t aware of that fact until this morning. Only a few people in Gold Command were. Now, I want you back at Orion House.’
Iona shook her head. ‘I think correspondence in Appleton’s study referred directly to his appearance. Gordon Brown’s, too.’
‘Whose appearance?’
‘Tony Blair’s.’
‘Detective, I’m not talking about Blair. I’m talking about Clinton.’
Iona put the price list down and raised her hand to the side of her face, trying to shield her voice from the women. ‘Who?’
‘Bill Clinton. Plays the saxophone. Used to be in charge of America. Heard of him?’
‘He’s here?’
‘He’s on stage – alongside Tevland – in approximately fifty minutes’ time.’
Iona dropped her hand to see a figure emerge from the gate Ranjit Bhujun had gone through. The person’s head was bowed, face concealed beneath the rim of a flat cap. He seemed bulkier than Ranjit and not tall enough to be Vassen. The way he walked, too. It was slow, like an old person.
‘Detective,’ Wallace spoke again. ‘Get back here and explain exactly what’s going on.’
As the figure turned to cross the road, he looked up. It’s the old guy, Iona thought. The one who was watching the football match in the park. The team made up of Mauritians. As he made his way over the road, Iona saw he had a bulging backpack slung over one shoulder. ‘Sir?’
But Wallace had gone. The line was dead.
Sliding her phone back into her pocket, she placed a hand on the door, ready to follow once again.
FORTY-TWO
As they passed out of the tight cluster of residential streets, the old man kept his head down. It made following him easy. Almost too easy, Iona began to think, checking over her shoulder to make sure no one was shadowing her. The street behind was empty.
The fact he seemed so wrapped up in his thoughts started to cause her an increasing sense of alarm. She cast her mind back to the training session on how to spot the telltale signs of a bomb carrier. Profuse or abnormal sweating. Mumbling or praying to self. Bulky clothing. Trance-like state. Tunnel vision. Agitation or looking anxious. Suspect baggage.
He ticked at least three of those boxes.
A few minutes later they reached a main road. A drop opened up beyond the railings on the left and Iona was able to see down on to a set of train tracks. Old-fashioned signals stood like sentries before the platform where what appeared to be a steam train was sitting.
He turned left and Iona thought the road they were now on seemed familiar. There was a church up ahead and she realized it was the same one she’d seen him on the steps of the previous day. He continued past it before turning right down a narrow street which ran between the library and a modern building with a sign that said, The Fusilier Museum. She had time to mentally note they were on Moss Street before she saw the line of bus ranks up ahead.
Barely bothering to check for traffic, the old man crossed the road and made his way past the shelters. Iona looked with trepidation at the letters above the entrance of the building he was heading for. Bury Interchange for buses and Metrolink trams. There was only one direction the trams went from here: Manchester.
He continued along the covered walkway to a set of stairs and started down them. There was a tram waiting on the platform and he climbed straight onboard. Iona made her way down the stairs and hovered near a map of the Metrolink system. Do I stay with him? What about Ranjit? He’s back at the house on Barrett Avenue, probably with Vassen.
A rapid beeping noise started from inside the half-empty carriages. Stay, she decided, watching the tram doors slide shut. The whine of the engine increased and, as the tram pulled away, she rechecked the map, looking for journey times. The city centre was twenty-eight minutes away.
She brought up Wallace’s number and started jogging back towards Barrett Avenue. When her senior officer allowed her call to go through to his answerphone, her step faltered. He knows it’s me calling, she thought. He has the number for everyone in his team. ‘Sir, it’s DC Khan.’
She had to dodge sideways as a bearded man in flowing robes opened the rear door of an old Datsun parked half on the pavement. Its back seats were piled high with trays of aubergines.
‘I’ve just followed an elderly male – approximately sixty years old – to the tram station in Bury. He’s boarded a tram and is currently en route to Manchester. He’s of Asian or possibly Middle Eastern appearance and is wearing a flat cap, beige overcoat, grey trousers and black shoes. He also has with him a backpack that appears to be quite full. I repeat, a backpack that appears to be quite full. I’m returning to my previous location to keep watch on thirty-seven Barrett Avenue where Ranjit Bhujun is currently located. Sir? I need help, please.’
As soon as she cut the connection her phone started to ring. Jim. ‘Hello.’
‘It’s me. They’re with me now, just off the train.’
She dropped her pace to a quick walk. ‘Have you asked—’
‘It’s him, Iona. No doubt. I got that mugshot of Ranjit out and—’
‘I know. He went past where I was watching.’
‘Is support on the way?’
At his end of the line she could hear a tannoy announcement starting up. ‘No.’
‘No? Where are you? Sounds like you’re on the move.’
‘I am. I just followed an elderly male from the house Ranjit entered. The old guy was wearing a backpack, Jim. He got on a tram to Manchester.’
‘Hang on. You followed Ranjit on foot?’
‘Yes. I’m going back to the house now. I figured officers can intercept the old man when the tram reaches Manchester.’
‘You figured . . . I don’t understand this. Why do you reckon? What the hell is going on?’
‘I’m still out here on my own, Jim.’
‘Jesus Christ! What did Wallace say? You have reported in, haven’t you?’
‘Of course! He thinks I’m chasing shadows. Wanted me to come in, report what I’d found to him in person. I just don’t get it. The guy will not take this seriously.’
‘I will fucking have him.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I can’t believe you’re on your own out there.’
‘I can handle it. I’ll try Wallace again in a minute, but I don’t care what he says. I’m not leaving here. We
know where Ranjit is, and as long as that’s the case, he can’t do whatever they’re planning.’
‘I do not like this at all.’
‘Did you ask about the tunnels? Any near the convention centre the council don’t know about?’
‘Yeah, they mentioned a possible one. Hang on.’ His voice grew muffled. ‘Where did you say it was? Right. Iona? There’s one going from somewhere near Barbirolli Square. But it’s only an old storm drain.’
‘Which square?’
‘Barbirolli. It’s near the Bridgewater Hall.’
‘OK. And does it go towards the convention centre?’
‘Not to the main building. More to the edge of the site, where the annex is.’
She came to an abrupt halt. ‘Jim? I think that’s where my dad is.’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘I have to get him out.’
‘You have to do what?’
‘I . . . I don’t know what to do.’ She looked up the street, knowing her best option was to keep watch on the house.
‘Iona, don’t worry, we’re going to check the tunnel out now.’
‘Please hurry.’
She was back on the road which cut across the top of Barrett Avenue a couple of minutes later. The nail salon didn’t give a good view of the property Ranjit had entered and she looked around anxiously, fighting the temptation to just carry on back to her car, race over to the convention centre and get her dad out. No, she told herself. You must stay with Ranjit.
She set off down the opposite side of Barrett Avenue to number thirty-seven, scanning the houses on her side of the road.
They all looked dark and quiet, their owners probably at work. Praying for a light to be on in one of them, she kept walking, aware she was now in full view of the property Ranjit had disappeared inside.
Something colourful on a front step caught her eye. A pair of kid’s wellies. The steel-blue light in the front window flickered slightly. There’s a television on inside, Iona thought, walking swiftly up the garden path. Knocking gently on the door, she removed her warrant card from the pouch pocket of her fleece as subtly as she could.
A woman of about thirty opened the door. ‘Yes?’ she asked cautiously.
Holding her identification close to her chest, Iona gave the woman a big smile. ‘Madam, please don’t look alarmed, but I need to come in.’
‘Sorry?’ she said, frowning as she saw what was in Iona’s hand.
Wishing she was tall enough to block the view of the house-owner from anyone watching behind, Iona kept smiling. ‘Just move back a step, Madam.’
The woman was obviously unsure about obeying the instruction.
‘It’s fine,’ Iona said, moving on to the front step. ‘Just do as I say, please.’
Warily, the woman retreated a step. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I’ll tell you,’ Iona said, slipping through the door and immediately closing it. Breathing out, she tried to sound reassuring. ‘I need to keep an eye on a house over the road, that’s all. Here,’ she slid a card out from behind her police badge. ‘Call the main switchboard, they’ll confirm who I am, OK?’
Looking troubled, the woman gestured at the hallway phone. ‘I don’t know. I’m calling my husband. He works nearby.’ She shot a glance at the doorway of the telly room. ‘Are we in danger?’
Iona could hear the tinkling sounds of a kids’ programme. ‘No. Absolutely not. Just carry on with what you were doing. Call your husband, by all means. But please don’t ask him to come home. Don’t look out the window, either.’ Handing her the card, she set off up the stairs. ‘Whose is the room that overlooks the road?’
‘Mine. Ours. Mine and Richard’s.’ She was looking up through the banister’s spindles with a fearful expression.
‘Net curtains?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll need to keep all the upstairs lights off. Don’t worry, I’ll be out of your hair very soon.’
Their bedroom was large and untidy. On a chest of drawers in the corner was a small television and DVD player. Children’s books formed a precarious tower beside it. A cream-coloured duvet lay askew on the double bed. Iona spotted a bra and knickers lying across the sheet and she pulled the corner of the duvet over them to spare the woman downstairs any embarrassment.
The room gave a good view of the road. Iona moved the wicker stool from in front of a make-up table and sat down facing the window. A line of little socks were drying on the radiator barely beneath her nose. Curtains or blinds were drawn across almost all the windows of number thirty-seven. A light appeared to be on in one of the upstairs rooms and she thought she glimpsed movement there. The woman’s footsteps were coming up the stairs.
‘I rang the number,’ she hesitantly announced. ‘You seem genuine.’
Iona didn’t turn round. ‘I am. My name’s Iona, by the way.’
‘Oh – Sarah.’
‘How old is your little one?’
‘Evie? She’s two. Sorry, it’s a right mess in here.’
‘I honestly didn’t notice,’ Iona said, glancing back.
The woman was straightening the bed and plumping the pillows. ‘Erm . . . do I offer you a drink? Who is it you’re watching?’
‘A suspect in a fraud case.’
‘Benefit fraud, you mean?’
Iona nodded, happy if the woman was satisfied with that explanation.
‘Which number house?’
Not wanting to reveal the exact property, Iona said, ‘Actually, a cup of tea would be brilliant. I haven’t stopped all morning.’
‘Right. Give me two minutes.’
‘And I know this is odd, but would you mind putting the telly on? Any news channel will do.’
‘Yes,’ Sarah answered, sounding confused. ‘Richard has it on BBC News 24, if that’s OK.’
‘Perfect.’
The screen came to life. A female presenter was talking excitedly to camera from outside the conference centre’s main entrance. The text across the band at the base of the screen read, Clinton due to appear.
‘. . . official confirmation – yes, Kirsty. He’s here. Touched down at Manchester Airport just after nine, we understand. Now, the press office wouldn’t give details of any speech or, indeed, if he’ll even make one. But the symbolism of his appearance is plain; we, the Democrat Party, can do business with Daniel Tevland. And the fact he’ll be walking out on stage with Tony Blair and Gordon Brown also means that the Labour Party’s old warring factions are happy to move on, united behind their new leader. Even Manchester’s grey weather cannot dampen spirits around the venue. Political conference? More like a pop concert!’
FORTY-THREE
Jim squatted down to examine the padlock. Strands of old spider web stretched across its keyhole. Flakes of rust lay across its top, fallen from the bars of the grille it secured. The opening behind it was pitch-black. He looked up at Hidden Shadow.
When the two Sub-Urban Explorers had alighted from the train at Piccadilly station, the first thing Jim asked, after showing his badge, was their real names.
The one who Iona had referred to as Hidden Shadow looked at his companion, who was glaring defiantly at Jim.
‘Don’t you think it’s time we dropped the tags?’ Jim had said wearily. ‘Come on, a Christian name. It’s all I’m asking. Mine’s Jim.’
Hidden Shadow ran his tongue across his teeth. ‘Chas.’
‘Thank you, Chas.’ Jim looked expectantly at the companion.
‘Fraser.’
‘Right, Chas and Fraser, let’s drop your stuff off in the Transport Police’s office round the corner. The sooner we get this sorted, the sooner you two can go home and have a warm shower.’
From his position by the grille, Jim placed his hands on his knees. ‘When did you last access this, Chas?’
‘Two years ago?’
Jim stood. ‘Looks like you were the last to have done that.’
Chas lifted a grubby hand and examined a nasty scrape running across his knuckles. His hair w
as matted and he smelled of damp earth. ‘I’d agree.’
‘And you got in here?’
‘Yeah, the padlock that used to be there was very basic.’
You mean easy to pick, Jim thought. ‘How far does it go?’
‘Seventy-five metres at the most.’
Jim stepped over the low shrubs forming a screen round the narrow opening. The curving white expanse of the convention centre’s roof was visible between the buildings to either side of him. A few office workers looked down from upper windows. Jim realized that the passageway would be impossible to access during daylight hours without arousing suspicion. He wandered across the strip of grass, back to where Fraser stood smoking a roll-up. ‘And it doesn’t have an entrance at the other end?’
‘Nope,’ Fraser replied sulkily.
‘Bricked-up,’ Chas announced, joining them. ‘It was probably once an overflow from the underground canal, who knows?’
Iona answered his call after half a ring. She sounded sick with worry.
‘It’s secure,’ Jim said emphatically. ‘And it hasn’t been accessed in a very long time.’
‘Jim, they’ve overlooked something. They must have. Something’s going to happen, I know it.’
‘Are you back at the property where our friends are?’
‘Yes, opposite it.’
‘Not on the street?’
‘No, in a house. It’s OK, I’m safe.’
‘What’s the score with Wallace?’
‘I left another message to ring me. This time with the office manager.’
‘What did he say?’
‘That Wallace is up to his eyeballs, but he’d pass my message to him in person.’
Jim looked at his watch. Ten twenty-one. ‘OK, he’ll get back to you soon. He has to. Let me know when he does.’
‘I’m worried about the old guy. His tram will get into Manchester soon. What if Wallace puts my message to one side?’
‘Leave that with me. I can call the Bootle Street nick and get them to let officers on the platforms know. He’s an old guy, you said, Middle Eastern appearance and wearing a backpack?’
