by Chris Simms
She reached the turn-off for Great Bridgewater Street. Rearing up out of the ground on its far side was the sheer glass walls of the Beetham Tower. The Sky Bar, she thought. It’s halfway up the tower, before it turns into private apartments. I’ll have a decent view of the entire area from up there.
Seeing the forecourt in front of the tower was empty of vehicles, she pulled up on it, put her hazards on and got out. ‘Police,’ she said, showing her warrant card to the approaching security guard.
He pointed towards the lobby. ‘We’re under strict instructions not to allow any parking here. Anti-terrorism precautions.’
‘I’m Counter Terrorism Unit,’ Iona replied. ‘Detective Constable Khan, it’s OK.’
He looked unsure. ‘I don’t know, we’ve been . . .’
‘Then catch.’ She threw him the keys and continued swiftly into the lobby of the tower. The reception desk was up ahead, lift doors to her left. Two police officers stood before them.
She approached them with her warrant card out. ‘Is the Sky Bar open?’
‘Not to the public, it isn’t.’
‘But these lifts will take me up there?’
They checked her identification before nodding. One pressed the button and the right-hand doors parted. An anxious flutter in her chest as she regarded the small space. Picturing her dad caused the feeling to vanish and she stepped inside. There was only one button.
As soon as the doors closed, the lift started to rapidly rise.
Jim stood at the locked main doors of the library, listening to the sound of traffic moving along Deansgate. The armed response officers he’d requested were on their way but, maddeningly, were having to come in via the visitor’s centre entrance at the far end of the building. Ian, manager of the facilities department, had gone to meet them almost four minutes ago.
In the silence of the deserted lobby, it suddenly seemed so easy for the two Mauritians. A rarely used part of the building, CCTV coverage not permitted because of the proximity of the toilets, old doors which – presumably – were relatively easy to open.
He looked back at the three stone figures forming a tableau on the landing of the main stairs. The female in the middle looked like the Virgin Mary, flowing robes almost brushing the two male figures seated at her feet. He tried Iona’s phone once more and, this time, got a number unavailable message.
Fraser spoke up from the shadows to the side of the doors, face made ghostly by the glow of his iPhone’s screen. ‘Crowd’s already on their feet. Blair and Brown are on stage. Big grins and back slaps all round. I expect the women in the front rows are saving their knickers for when Clinton makes his appearance.’
‘Yeah,’ sniggered Chas. ‘You, you and you. Why don’t y’all come join me backstage for a bit of a party?’
Fraser giggled in response. ‘I’ll get my saxophone out. Who enjoys blowing on a—’
‘Fuck’s sake, lads,’ Jim snapped. ‘Give it a rest, will you?’
They glanced at him then at each other. As a sullen silence fell over them, Jim heard the sound of heavy footsteps. The noise floated out, echoing lightly off the arched spaces above them, making it impossible to pinpoint where the sound was coming from.
Ian re-appeared at the top of the steps – a stoutly built man in his forties, bald head, goatee beard and tattoos on each forearm. Behind him were two armed officers, G36c carbines slung across their chests.
‘Down here, gents,’ Ian said, leading them towards where Jim was standing with his badge raised.
‘Glad to see you two.’
‘You were lucky to get us – it’s all kicking-off at the secure zone.’
The man had a Scouse accent. Drafted over from Liverpool, Jim thought. ‘Why’s it kicking-off?’
He shrugged. ‘Word from the top. Whatever it is, they’re shitting themselves. It just went to yellow alert as we came in here.’
A sudden chill went through Jim. ‘Not something linked to events in Bury, was it?’
‘No idea.’ He turned back to the other officer. ‘Steve, what was it?’
‘An alert on two males. Asian appearance, one six-two or so, the other a foot shorter with a shaved head. The boys at the perimeter got a proper briefing.’
It’s them, Jim thought. That must mean they weren’t in Bury after all. As he glanced down the stone steps, he thought of something else. Iona. Oh my God, if the Mauritians are still free, there’s no way she’ll have stayed in Bury. Not with her dad in the conference centre. He looked over his shoulder. ‘Fraser, what’s going on in the main hall now?’
‘Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Tevland, telling us all how thing’s are going to be different.’
Christ, thought Jim. If something’s going to happen, it’s going to be any minute.
‘What is this place, anyway, Hogwarts?’ Steve asked, craning his head back.
His colleague was eying Chas and Fraser mistrustfully. ‘And you are?’
Jim waved a hand in their direction. ‘It’s OK, they’ve been helping me. My name’s Jim, by the way.’
‘Tony. So, what have we got here, Jim?’
‘Not sure to be honest. Looks like a tunnel has been illegally accessed from the basement down here. There’s a chance the two suspects you just heard about are responsible.’
‘Tunnel?’ Tony’s demeanour was suddenly serious. ‘What kind of a tunnel?’
‘A very old one,’ Jim replied.
‘Where does it go?’
‘Could be towards the conference centre.’
The man’s throat bobbed and he looked at his colleague. ‘I’m not happy about going into some tunnel.’
Steve nodded in agreement.
Jim looked from one to the other, trying to hide his dismay. ‘Let’s just take a look at the opening, shall we? I may be wrong.’
Tony gestured reluctantly. ‘Lead the way then.’
Ian stepped forward, a giant set of keys in his hand. ‘I’ll get the door open for you.’
As he set off down the steps to the basement, Jim beckoned to Chas. ‘I’ll need you to confirm it’s the room you saw.’
The others waited on the bottom steps while Jim and Ian stepped through the basement door and into the narrow corridor. Ian searched through his keys. ‘Reckon it has to be this one.’ It turned surprisingly easily in the lock and he pushed it open.
Jim looked over the man’s shoulder. Its dimensions made the room beyond no more than a short extension of the corridor; it ran for about twelve feet before ending at a solid stone wall, partly obscured by a stack of dusty crates bearing the word, Fragile. A single bulb hanging from the ceiling provided poor light. ‘What is this room?’ Jim asked.
‘Just used for storage, by the looks of it.’
Jim examined the ancient-looking glass cabinets lining the side walls. Most of the shelves were empty, just a few leather-bound books lying on their sides. The piles of crates at the end had been moved aside to give access to a faded-green metal door set deep in the wall.
‘Well, I’ll be . . .’ Ian whispered. ‘I never knew that was there.’
Chas’ voice sounded from the doorway behind them. ‘This is it. I had to crouch down to see through the keyhole.’
The facilities manager looked dumbfounded. ‘See through which bloody keyhole? This area is out-of-bounds to the public.’
Jim approached the metal door. At its centre was an embossed crest. Above the shield-like shape was the word, Chatwoods, below it the word, Patent. The keyhole was huge.
‘What’s the biggest thing on your key ring?’ Jim whispered.
The facilities manager shook his head. ‘Nothing to fit that. I’d have to go through the key store, see what’s on the hooks in there.’
Jim pointed to the floor in front of it. ‘Someone’s opened it recently. Those scratches in the stone look new.’
‘Well, you lot have got me scratching my head,’ the manager said, looking back at Chas. ‘What did you mean about looking through the keyhole?’<
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Jim reached out and tried the lever-handle. It turned stiffly under the pressure of his hand.
Iona emerged into the Sky Bar.
The slate-coloured floor immediately in front of the lift gave way to wood after a few metres. The front part of the bar was dominated by high tables surrounded by minimalist stools. Beyond them were clusters of low-slung chairs, most facing the floor-to-ceiling glass that formed the walls. There was a lot of excited talking coming from round the corner and she stepped forward to see what was going on.
Several lamps, a fair-size bigger than the ones they used to illuminate crime scenes, were casting their glare on to an arrangement of armchairs and a sofa at the far end of the bar. Cameras on moveable stands were positioned between the lights.
A mass of cabling ran towards a desk on which were several monitors and what she guessed was recording equipment. Some of the people who were gathered round the screens called for quiet. The remaining people also crowded round the desk and a hush descended.
Of course, she thought, this is where the BBC stage their interviews. The view across Manchester on the television was a genuine one. Unnoticed, she crossed the bar to the vast windows.
As she hoped, she had a bird’s-eye view of the conference centre and the entire secure zone. She immediately picked out the annex to the main building. Dad, she thought. Dad. Her eye travelled the short distance to the main building. Would it be enough? Was he far enough away if Vassen and his accomplice somehow released ricin into the main hall? She felt a sharp spasm of guilt at how her concern was focused on just one man. There were thousands of innocent members of the public down there. Not to mention loads of her colleagues.
She watched two officers in high-visibility jackets crossing the plaza area. They’re jogging, she realized. From this high up, they really do look like ants. Each section making up the white curved roof of the main hall seemed unnaturally bright. A tram was crawling slowly along Mosley Street and she realized the thick glass in front of her face cut out all sound from the city below.
Her remoteness from the scene made her feel like, somehow, it wasn’t real. Like it was all some kind of show. One where the good guys would sweep in and save everyone. To her side, she could just hear the American accent of someone talking on the screen. Clinton, she realized. He’s down there, on stage right now. This will be when something happens, surely. And I’m too late. Too late to stop it.
Pressing her hands against the cool glass, she examined the streets beyond the perimeter fence. Where are you hiding? Where the hell are you hiding? You’re down there, somewhere none of us can see.
An image hit her: streams of people pouring out of the main doors. A panicked stampede of humanity, bodies falling down the steps. People vomiting and collapsing by the hundred, countless more trapped inside, crushed by the numbers fighting to flee.
The roof of the Great Northern Warehouse was a mass of masts. There were four figures at the side overlooking the plaza. Two snipers and their spotters. She could see the spotters sweeping their high-powered binoculars back and forth.
Applause broke out on the monitor and the people who’d been silently watching all began to speak.
‘OK, we’ve got about ten minutes.’
Wondering what was going on, Iona looked in their direction. The clapping she could hear was obviously being transmitted from the main hall. Was it over? Had the speeches finished? Were her suspicions wrong? The thought thudded into her like a blow to the stomach. If I was wrong about this . . .
‘Can we do something about those spotlights behind the bar? Camera two is picking them up.’
‘Someone sort Angus’s tie out, please!’
‘Tristram, you’ve got a call from the London office.’
The bright lights shining down on the interview area made it hard to see the people beyond their harsh glare. A thin, angular figure stepped out from the shadows. The interviewer, Iona thought. Angus something or other. The one always on the TV.
‘Tristram?’ the same voice asked.
A tall man with tufts of hair sprouting out from behind his ears took off his glasses. ‘Tell her I’ll ring back later, for God’s sake.’
‘She says it’s urgent.’
‘Once this is over,’ he snapped irritably.
Iona moved round the low glass tables and cream-leather loungers, eyes now fixed on the man.
‘We need another glass on the table. There’ll be four of them, remember. Come on, now, let’s not drop a bullock.’
Iona continued towards the one called Tristram. He was now cleaning his glasses, fingers moving in small, tight circles.
A young woman in jeans, a puffer jacket and a pair of headphones stepped in front of her. ‘Can I help you?’
Iona raised her warrant card. ‘Detective Khan, Greater Manchester Police.’
Tristram’s fingers stopped moving.
‘Mr Dell?’ Iona asked.
His head swivelled but he said nothing.
‘You hung up on me earlier on.’
He replaced his glasses and peered down his nose at her. ‘What are you doing here?’
She cocked her head. ‘What are you doing here?’
He nodded in the direction of the cameras. ‘My job.’
You’re in PR, Iona thought, her conversation with Harish Veerapen coming back. The groundwork Slattinger-Dell had been doing for the Labour Party. Something about expecting headlines at the forthcoming convention. ‘You told Reginald Appleton about the plans you were putting in place. Something in a letter. You told him—’
‘Detective Constable, isn’t it?’ His appeasing tone failed to mask a certain degree of tension.
‘Correct.’
‘I will gladly furnish you with the information you require. If you’d speak to my assistant over there, she can arrange a time for me to see you before I return—’
‘You’re not listening!’ Iona saw several heads turn and she realized that she’d shouted. She stepped closer and lowered her voice. ‘Mr Dell, we have no time. Whatever the threat is, I believe it concerns the very people you represent.’
‘They’re leaving now,’ someone called out. ‘We’ve got eight minutes, maximum.’
‘Detective, I fully appreciate the urgency of your work. But this really is not an opportune moment—’
‘You realize,’ she said, raising her voice enough for those nearby to hear, ‘we’re on a yellow alert? There is credible evidence of an attack being planned.’
The corners of his mouth twitched down in an involuntary grimace. ‘I . . . I have complete faith in the security measures that are in place . . .’
‘You told Appleton something. You breached that security. If anything happens, it will all be down to you!’
Dell’s eyes slid to the sofa area. Iona followed his glance. The interviewer was bent forward, intently going over his notes. Iona felt a rush of dizziness as his name popped up. Angus Barr. Oh my God. In his email to the ex-Law Lord, Tristram Dell had mentioned an audience with A.B. ‘Is this . . .’ She turned to the cluster of watching people. ‘Who is coming here? Who is on their way?’
They looked at her with quizzical expressions.
Iona turned back to Dell. His face was pale and he was mumbling something.
She brushed past him, closer to the group. ‘Who is arriving?’
A man lowered his clipboard. ‘Tevland, of course.’
Iona’s gaze shifted to the seats alongside Angus Barr. Four glasses on the table. ‘Who else?’
‘Blair, Brown and Clinton.’
Tristram Dell started to speak. ‘How can there be a threat? The ring of steel – you call it a ring of steel. The site is secure.’
‘Did you tell Reginald Appleton about the plans for this interview? In that letter to him?’
He blinked rapidly. ‘I do not recall—’
Iona felt sick. ‘We’re not in the ring of steel. This building is outside the secure zone.’ The convention centre was never the target
, she thought, looking around her with wild eyes. This was.
The air in the pitch-black passage smelled of mould.
‘Where the bloody hell does that go?’ the facilities manager murmured.
‘Got a decent torch?’ Jim asked.
The manager pushed past Chas and Fraser angrily. A few seconds later, he stomped back in to the tiny room with a powerful-looking flashlight. ‘From my little store cupboard.’
Feeling the weight of its metal casing in his hand, Jim switched it on. The narrow passage was instantly bathed in its brilliant beam.
‘Fuck me,’ the manager stated.
Walls of roughly hewn sandstone. A floor that sloped gently downwards and, at the far end, another door just visible. It was slightly ajar. More darkness was on its far side.
‘What the heck is down there?’ the manager asked with a fearful glance at Jim.
‘The Deansgate tunnel,’ Chas said quietly. ‘Legend.’
‘Deansgate tunnel?’ The manager was still looking at Jim, seeking clarification.
‘He’s right. Tony? Can you come in here?’
The others moved aside to let the armed officer through.
‘No way,’ he immediately said. ‘That is not happening. Not without support, detailed plans of what we’re going into and ballistic shields.’
‘Tony,’ Jim hissed. ‘You realize what this is about? Where that might lead?’
He shook his head, hands not moving off his weapon. ‘I’m armed response. You want to go chasing al-Qaeda down there? Call the frigging SAS.’
Jim blinked slowly in an effort to keep calm. The nagging suspicion Iona was in the city centre wouldn’t leave him. ‘Tony, we have to do something. Now.’
‘Yeah, we call my boss and dump this all on him. That’s what bosses are for.’ He unhooked his handset from the shoulder strap of his body armour, frowning when he realized the channel was silent.
Jim sneaked a quick look at Tony’s sidearm. A Glock 17, sitting in a drop-holster that incorporated three anti-snatch features. Any armed officer who valued his job would fight to a standstill before losing his weapon.
