Scratch Deeper

by Chris Simms

  ‘Yes, and a flat cap.’

  ‘OK.’ He closed his phone and sent a despairing look up at the sky. The fact she was still out there on her own, trying to keep tabs on a terror cell infuriated him. What was Wallace trying to prove? That he still had power over Iona? Or did he know something they didn’t? Something to convince him Iona hadn’t really stumbled over anything to worry about. It didn’t add up. Something wasn’t right.

  The familiar black half-spheres mounted on the corners of the office buildings caught his attention. CCTV cameras. A thought hit him and he turned to the pair of Sub-Urban Explorers. ‘You’re firm believers in the Big Brother state?’ He gestured up at the camera units.

  Chas shrugged. ‘What’s to debate?’

  ‘Come on,’ Jim replied. ‘I’ll show you something that will really freak you out.’

  They were in the lobby of the CCTV control room a few minutes later. As Jim waited for Colin Wray to appear, he walked back and forth, speaking to the bedraggled-looking pair. ‘This is where it all happens. Inside there,’ he pointed to the inner door, ‘is where all the views from all the cameras round town connect. Seventy-six of them covering the city centre alone.’

  The pair regarded the door with a mixture of awe and mistrust, both flinching slightly when it suddenly opened. Colin Wray stepped out. Nose wrinkling, he glanced briefly at Chas and Fraser then looked at Jim. ‘You better make this brief, mate.’

  Jim pointed at the pair. ‘Any chance they can accompany me inside? I need a quick word with someone in there.’

  Colin looked sceptical. ‘Are you two police?’

  They looked at Jim for an answer.

  ‘Would you believe me if I said they were working undercover?’ Jim asked.

  Colin sighed. ‘They’re not even police, are they?’

  ‘How about if they’re assisting me with an enquiry? They’ll be quiet as mice.’

  ‘Jim, you really take the biscuit bringing them in here.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry. Listen, lads, sit here and I’ll be back in a few minutes. We’re nearly done, I promise.’

  Colin turned round and swiped the card reader of the inner door. They entered the main room to a buzz of voices. Blinking as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Jim hoped he wouldn’t see Wallace among the many people standing behind the row of camera operators. The nearest of the watching group had American accents. ‘Why the yanks?’ he whispered.

  ‘They’re with Clinton’s security detail,’ Colin replied.

  Jim’s head turned. ‘Who’s?’

  ‘Clinton’s?’

  ‘Bill Clinton?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  Jim wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. ‘Clinton’s here?’

  ‘Appearing on stage with the Labour Party big-hitters, any minute now.’

  Ignoring the images filling the Barco screens, Jim looked over the other clusters of observers. Most were neat-haired men wearing dark, sober suits. He set off down the narrow room, head-cocked for any southern accents. Halfway along, he heard one. A tall man, late forties with grey-flecked hair. He was talking to a colleague who seemed a good fifteen years younger.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Jim said, addressing the older of the two. ‘Are you with MI6?’

  He looked round. ‘Sorry?’

  Jim held up his warrant card. ‘Are you with MI6?’

  He studied Jim’s face. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Could I have a word? I’m with the GMP. Sergeant James Stephens.’

  The man hesitated. ‘You need a word with me?’

  ‘Yes, it’s really urgent.’

  He whispered briefly to his companion. ‘Right.’ He turned fully to Jim, light from the Barco screens creating a halo round his hair. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘A colleague of mine in the Counter Terrorism Unit is shadowing two suspects out in Bury, just to the north of here. One is the prime suspect in the murder of an ex-Law Lord at his retirement home out in Mauritius. This man has now entered the country illegally, we’re not sure how recently. We think he has sensitive knowledge about the conference gained from personal correspondence in the study of the person he killed.’

  The MI6 officer looked like he was struggling to take it all in. ‘You are with the Greater Manchester Police?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This colleague you mentioned is in the CTU?’

  Jim could see doubts creeping into the other man’s eyes. ‘I know this isn’t following the expected channels, but my colleague’s lines of communication are down. The suspect – a Ranjit Bhujun – is here. He is wanted by the Mauritian police for the ex-Law Lord’s murder.’

  ‘Are you talking about Reginald Appleton?’

  So you’re familiar with the case, Jim thought. ‘Yes.’

  The man considered the comment. ‘What is your involvement in this?’

  ‘I have been assisting my colleague. My point is, this should have all been flagged in a report. Can you check your lot in London were made aware of it? I’m afraid it’s fallen between the cracks somehow.’

  ‘Be more specific. What was the nature of this material in Appleton’s study?’

  ‘Details about the movements of Tony Blair and, possibly, other high-profile figures. They were sent to Appleton by a senior person at a firm of lobbyists in London.’

  The man’s hawk-like eyes were now fixed on Jim. ‘Who is this lobbying firm?’

  ‘Slattinger-Dell. Tristram Dell is an old acquaintance of Reginald Appleton’s. Slattinger-Dell has been conducting some kind of branding exercise for the Labour Party.’

  With a knowing nod, the man removed a mobile phone from his jacket and, edging away from Jim, made a call. He spoke quietly, eyes staying on Jim the entire time. After a few second’s wait, he lowered the phone and asked sharply, ‘Where in the CTU was this report supposed to have come from?’

  ‘The officer out in the field is a Detective Constable Khan,’ Jim responded. ‘Her report should have gone via her senior officer, a Superintendent Paul Wallace.’

  FORTY-FOUR

  Iona’s sense of isolation was mounting by the minute. The house opposite was still. Not daring to take her eyes off it, she could only listen to the commentary coming from the little television. The discussion refused to budge from Bill Clinton’s imminent appearance. Mind on where her father was, Iona half-listened to the phrases being bandied about the studio.

  One of the world’s great political showmen.

  Audiences eat out of his hand.

  Charisma and charm.

  A supreme speaker.

  Her phone went off and she lifted it to see the screen. Jim. Just the sight of his name made her feel better.

  ‘Where are you?’ he asked, voice tight with something that sounded like excitement.

  ‘Still opposite where Ranjit is holed-up.’

  ‘What number is the house you’re in?’

  She had to think for a second. ‘Thirty-four, why?’ She heard him call the number to someone else before his voice came back on the line. ‘Expect a quiet knock on the back door, any minute now.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘They’re clearing the street.’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘The cavalry, my beauty. They’re almost with you.’

  She risked a swift look over her shoulder. ‘I don’t follow you.’

  ‘Your support, Iona. They’re sealing off the street at each end. All residents in the vicinity of thirty-seven are being escorted away. Tell me that is the right number, please.’

  She stood up, craning her neck, trying to see to the end of the road. Everything appeared normal. ‘Who? Who is, Jim?’

  ‘The works.’

  ‘I . . . Why are you ringing me with this?’

  ‘Wallace hadn’t filed your report. The fucker did absolutely nothing with it. He’s been letting you run round Bury on your own.’

  She sank back on to the wicker stool. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I double-checked. MI6 had no idea.�
�

  Her mind was trying to leap in several directions. ‘You went to MI6?’

  ‘Too right. And bloody glad I did.’

  ‘Does Wallace know what’s going on?’

  ‘Maybe by now, he does. Listen, Iona, they’re asking me to get off the line. The guy co-ordinating this is about to call. His name is Alex.’

  Jim’s call ended and a second later her phone lit up again. ‘Iona, it’s Alex. You were just speaking with Sergeant Stephens.’

  She gave a single nod. Everything was moving so fast.

  ‘How are you doing, anyway? Got things under control there?’

  He sounded so calm and at ease, she couldn’t help feel reassured. ‘I’ve not taken my eyes off the house, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Good on you. Who do you think is in number thirty-seven?’

  ‘Two adult males.’

  ‘Vassen and Rhanjit Bhujun?’

  ‘That’s right.’ The fact help had arrived was beginning to sink in. The danger to her father was over. She wanted to cry.

  ‘No one else?’

  ‘As far as I’m aware, no.’

  ‘The house number you’re in and location within the house, please.’

  ‘Thirty-four, first floor, bedroom overlooking the street.’

  ‘OK. My two planners will be with you any second. Good lads, the both of them. They’re about two properties away, coming along the back alley.’

  ‘You’re here?’

  ‘No, I’m in the CCTV control room in Manchester. There’s a helicopter above you. Live images are being relayed from it. Don’t worry, it’s too high for anyone on the ground to know it’s there.’

  ‘Do I stay where I am?’

  ‘For the moment. How much charge is on your phone?’

  She held it away from her face. ‘Down to one bar.’

  ‘Stay on the line. One moment.’ She could hear vague voices in the earpiece. From downstairs came three quiet knocks. ‘That’s them.’

  ‘Sarah!’ Iona called over her shoulder. ‘Can you let them in? It’s fine, they’re police.’

  Alex spoke. ‘Are they with you?’

  ‘The owner is letting them in.’

  ‘Great. Well done, Detective, I hear you’ve been doing this on your own. I’m hanging up, OK?’

  Footsteps were coming up the stairs. She glanced round. Two scruffy-looking blokes in civilian clothes were approaching the doorway. The taller one was carrying a large green kit bag.

  ‘Yes, she’s here,’ the other one said into his earpiece, removing a laptop from his jacket. ‘OK, will do.’

  The taller one was unzipping the kit bag. After removing a shotgun from inside, he held up a packet of sandwiches and a can of drink to Iona. ‘Brought you some scoff. Now, which house is it?’

  Iona pointed to thirty-seven.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Jim stepped back out into the lobby of the CCTV control centre. To his relief, the two Sub-Urban Explorers were still there. Both looked bored and pissed off. ‘Sorry, lads, that took a minute or two longer than I thought.’

  He went over to the main door and pulled it open. The knowledge that Iona was safe and the situation under control filled him with a sense of exhilaration. He wanted to skip off to the nearest pub and have a drink. Only the fact that the MI6 officer wanted to question him further stopped him from giving in to the urge. One thing seemed certain: Wallace was well and truly screwed.

  ‘Thanks for your help in this. Sorry if it got heavy-handed.’ He stepped aside. ‘You better know that there’s every chance you’ll be contacted again about this.’

  ‘That’s it, then?’ Fraser scowled, getting off the sofa.

  ‘Yup. Free to go.’

  They moved past him and out into the cold of the NCP car park. An uneasy glance passed between them. Jim stopped the door from fully closing and poked his head out. ‘What’s up?’

  Chas’ lips twisted as if he was trying to remove something unsavoury from his mouth.

  Fraser started to step away. ‘Doesn’t matter. Come on, let’s do one.’

  Jim looked from one to the other. ‘Hey, may as well say it – if you reckon it’s important.’

  Chas shrugged. ‘We were thinking about the tunnels – any near the convention centre that might have been overlooked.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘That bloke from Sri Lanka or wherever he’s really from. There’s this one location. We’re pretty sure it was talked about in front of him. He could have gone looking for it himself.’

  Jim pulled the door fully open. ‘Come in,’ he announced resignedly. ‘You’d better give me the details.’

  They re-entered the lobby and Jim gestured to the sofa. ‘Have a seat.’ He was sinking into the armchair when a call came in from Iona. Pushing himself back up, he turned to face the wall. The clock on it read ten thirty-eight. Seeing the time made Jim feel uncomfortable, but he couldn’t put his finger on why. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Fine. I’ve had no word from Wallace yet.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about him,’ Jim replied, thinking he would probably have packed his things and left Orion House before Iona got back.

  ‘The crew who showed up here – it’s more like a military operation. People are now in the houses on each side of number thirty-seven. They’ve got those devices up against the walls, the ones for detecting sounds and thermal images.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Still in the house opposite.’

  ‘No sign of them?’

  ‘Not as yet. How about the old guy?’

  Jim felt his spirits drop like a stone. Oh, shit. His eyes went back to the clock. The tram would have arrived in town over ten minutes ago. Plenty of time for him to have got into the convention centre.

  ‘Did they lift him as he came off the tram?’ Iona asked. ‘What was in the backpack?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied, walking towards the inner door. No means of calling the main room.

  ‘But they did pick him up?’

  Now pulling open the main door, Jim held down the buzzer outside as Chas and Fraser watched him intently.

  ‘Jim?’ Iona asked. ‘What are you up to?’

  He kept his finger on the buzzer.

  Wray’s voice sounded from the speaker. ‘All right, Jim! Bloody hell—’

  He cut across the team leader’s complaint. ‘Let me back in, Colin. Now!’

  ‘OK.’

  Iona was speaking again. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I’ll call you back.’ He pressed red and pointed his mobile at Chas and Fraser. ‘You two, stay here.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Fraser smirked. ‘We will.’

  The inner door opened a crack and Jim practically shoved Wray back into the corridor beyond. ‘We need to send out an alert to officers at the secure zone!’

  Iona found herself staring at her phone. Oh my God, had the old man with the backpack been missed? He could be inside the convention centre by now. Was he the one really carrying out the attack? Were they all in the wrong place? She looked at the little TV. The sound had been turned down, but it was still tuned into BBC News 24.

  The view was of the main plaza. It was now largely empty, just a few catering staff in white suits carrying crates of glasses. Police officers at the edges were looking out through the perimeter fence. A pair of delegates were jogging up the steps to the main entrance where more security personnel stood. Text appeared at the bottom of the screen. Clinton due on main stage.

  The officer with the laptop was clicking his fingers at Iona. ‘They’re not picking up any movement in number thirty-seven. You’re sure the targets are inside?’

  ‘As sure as I can be. I . . . left my position for about twelve minutes to follow a third suspect as far as the tram station.’

  He lowered his radio and gave her a disbelieving look. ‘No one had eyesight of the house for almost quarter of an hour?’

  His outraged tone caused a stab of anger. ‘It was me, OK? Just
me, I had no support. What was I meant to do?’

  He looked away, speaking into the radio as he did so. ‘We need to go in. Move the teams into position.’

  Iona turned back to the television. Coverage had now cut to inside the building. The main hall was rammed with people – every seat taken, thousands of faces looking expectantly in one direction. The camera swung through one hundred and eighty degrees to focus on the enormous stage. Spot lights angled up from the front edge swept slowly back and forth across the Labour Party emblem dominating the back wall. A figure was crouched before one of the podiums, busily adjusting something at its base.

  Iona’s mouth felt dry as she thought of her father in a room just seconds away from the main hall. Get out, she wanted to scream at the telly. Just get out of there! Her phone started to ring and she could only just summon the will to look down at it. A number with the Manchester prefix was on the screen. ‘Hello?’

  ‘DC Khan?’

  She thought she recognized the voice. Softly spoken, but confident. ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s Professor Coe. You came to see me at the university? Vassen Bhujun was one of my tutees.’

  ‘Yes, I remember. Professor, can I call you back?’

  ‘Well – I think you need to hear this. I’ve put my finger on something very disturbing.’

  She hunched forward, still watching the screen. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘There they are,’ whispered the officer at the window. Iona glanced down. Black-clad officers were in the garden of number thirty-seven, crawling along the base of the wall towards its front door.

  ‘It relates to the piece of equipment I suspected Bhujun of taking. The fraction collector.’

  ‘OK.’ The footage on the TV had returned to the make-shift studio in the Sky Bar from earlier on. Iona suddenly wondered if the view across Manchester beyond the plate-glass windows was actually some kind of special effect. A computer image beamed on to giant screens in a studio that was really down in London.

  ‘His thesis was about manufacturing a less expensive alternative to cocoa butter.’

  ‘Yes, I recall.’