Scratch Deeper (33 page)

‘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!'

J
im 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 was 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?'

‘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.'

I
ona'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.