Scratch Deeper (11 page)

‘I beg your pardon?' The man was starting to sound exasperated.

Iona didn't know where the hell she was going with her questions. ‘Could the alarm have been triggered by something else? The safe being opened?'

‘Ah, I see. No, it was Appleton,' he stated emphatically.

‘Because . . .?'

‘He was found slumped at the top of his bed and it was his bloody fingerprint on the panic button above it.'

Iona lifted her chin. ‘I see. Sorry for going on . . . I was just trying to get it all straight in my head.'

‘If it is of reassurance, British Embassy staff were closely involved in the investigation. And someone flew over from your security services – MI6.'

‘Did they?' Iona murmured, thinking that Wallace's request to see the Appleton file would surely have triggered a flag with the security services down in London. Funny how a superintendent halfway round the world can get back to me faster than them. ‘So he checked the crime scene over, too?'

‘Yes – but alone. He played his cards very close to his breast.'

‘Chest,' Iona remarked.

‘Chest, yes. Close to his chest. But he quickly agreed – a burglary that escalated into something far more tragic.'

‘Your colleague mentioned to me that you have a prime suspect.'

‘Ranjit Bhujun.'

‘Why him?'

‘Forensic evidence left on the Henry Moore sculpture and the doorframe leading into Mr Appleton's bedroom.'

‘Fingerprints?'

‘Yes.'

‘He didn't bother wearing gloves?'

‘No. When we searched the accommodation of Mr Bhujun, it was clear it had been vacated several days before. There has been no sign of him since, despite one of the largest searches we have ever conducted. We believe it unlikely he is still here on Mauritius.'

Iona saw a box materializing in the bottom right-hand corner of her screen. ‘Your email just came through.'

‘Good. The photo of Ranjit is several years old, I'd better warn you. You should also be aware Ranjit had several debts, including rent owing on the place where he was staying. The man was in desperate need of cash. May I ask why you are interested in Vassen Bhujun, the cousin of Ranjit?'

Careful now, Iona thought. I don't know what I might be straying into here. ‘His visa permitting him to study here as a student expired. But we have reason to believe he is still in the country.'

‘And that is what concerns Greater Manchester Police's Counter Terrorism Unit?' The sarcasm in his voice was plain to hear.

‘Harish, I'm sorry to sound cagey. But you know how it is – this investigation is ongoing.'

‘As is ours. I sent you the file on Appleton. Now you are acting like the representative from MI6.'

Iona sighed. ‘OK. He's been making enquiries in Manchester about . . .' She searched for a suitable term. ‘The city's infrastructure. I don't know if you're aware, but Manchester is about to play host to the Labour Party's annual conference. The place will be awash with Members of Parliament in one day's time.'

‘I see. Thank you for being candid with me.'

‘No problem. But my enquiries? Can I ask that you play them close to your chest?'

‘Of course. If I can be of any further assistance, please call.'

‘Thank you.' After hanging up, Iona opened the superintendent's email. It included several attachments. Spotting a JPEG labelled Ranjit Bhujun, she clicked on it.

A police identification photograph took over the centre of her screen. Thick strands of black hair, not far off dreadlocks. Gaunt face and high cheekbones. She brought Vassen's photo back up and aligned the images side by side on her screen. The two were obviously related, but where Vassen possessed a youthful, innocent glow, Ranjit did not.

He stared out, sullen and hostile. Iona realized the man might have been born on a tropical paradise halfway around the world, but his face showed the same sour defiance she saw on the faces of the lowlifes it was her duty to deal with every day in Manchester. She was still staring into Ranjit's eyes when her phone gave a beep.

S
he checked the screen: a text from Jim. The details for his contact in the CCTV control room – a man called Colin Wray. Good timing, she thought, reaching for the phone on her desk and keying in the number.

After explaining the urgency of what she needed, Wray said that a quarter-past-one slot had come free, if she could make it over in time for that.

‘I'll be there,' Iona replied, checking the clock on the corner of her screen. Twenty-five minutes' time. She turned her attention to the photo of Ranjit Bhujun once again. He looked dodgy, that was for sure. But was he more than just a burglar who had turned violent?

After minimizing the image of him and Vassen, she scrutinized the other attachments. A folder marked crime-scene photographs. Clicking on it opened up a bank of thumbnails across her screen. Her eyes skirted those of a figure in a bed drenched with blood.

The third row of images switched to another room: Appleton's study, she guessed, clicking on one. As usual with crime-scene photographs, the combination of arc-light glare and camera flash had robbed the room of all warmth and homeliness. She spotted the wall-safe, its door hanging open, documents and paperwork spilling on to the floor. A lamp lay on its side, the green glass of its shade broken.

The next image was of Appleton's desk – a large, wooden one with a computer and keyboard on one side. Letters and printouts covered the centre part of the work area, and the upper drawer was half open. A large, framed photograph stood next to the printer. Iona could make out a female form in white at the centre of the assembled people. That's a wedding dress, she thought, recalling something in Appleton's Wikipedia entry about a daughter. Lucy or similar. Bushes covered in exotic-looking blooms flanked the gathering, and encroaching at the top of the image were a few wispy palm fronds. A wedding on Mauritius by the looks of it, Iona concluded, closing down the screen and clicking on the crime-scene report.

The Mauritius police emblem topped the form, followed by fields detailing the senior investigating officer's name, date, location and time of incident.

She read through the details of Appleton's property – purchased in 2008. Iona's eyes came to a halt. That was the year before he retired as a Law Lord. Obviously had lined up the island as a potential retirement spot on a previous visit. Maybe the daughter's wedding.

The section giving background details of the victim provided more of an explanation: Appleton had visited Mauritius in 2003 while sitting in session as a Law Lord.

‘Sitting in session,' Iona murmured, a frown on her face. ‘And what, exactly, is that?' Whatever it was, he'd returned to do it again in 2007. Wondering how anything got done before the Internet, she brought up Google and keyed in, Law Lord, sitting in session, Mauritius.

A site titled, The Judicial Committee of the Privy Council topped the results. Aware she was due over in the CCTV control room, Iona read the introductory screen as fast as she could.

The final court of appeal for several Commonwealth countries as well as the United Kingdom's overseas territories, Crown dependencies and military sovereign base areas.

Five senior judges normally sit to hear Commonwealth appeals. Asked, over the years, for final rulings in a wide variety of laws, including pre-revolutionary French law from Quebec, medieval Norman law from the Channel Islands and Muslim, Buddhist and Hindu law from India.

Iona sat back. So, Appleton had visited Mauritius twice in his capacity as a Law Lord to settle cases that, for whatever reason, the court system on Mauritius felt unable to resolve. The buck had stopped with Appleton – and with his decision the last hopes of many people who felt wronged had been ended.

She thought about the man's violent death once again. Burglary gone wrong or something more? And, if so, how did it all link to a chemical engineering student with an interest in Manchester's tunnel system?

There was a contacts link at the base of the screen. Iona hurriedly keyed in the phone number and explained to the person who answered that she needed details of the cases heard by Reginald Appleton on the two occasions he'd sat in session on Mauritius.

‘You'll need Ayo for information on that,' the man replied. ‘You do realize it's a Saturday, though?'

Iona wrinkled her nose in anticipation of bad news. ‘She's not in at weekends then?'

‘I can put you through to her office. You may be in luck. We're approaching the Michaelmas term so there's a lot to sort out.'

The phone hadn't completed its second ring before it was answered by a cheerful-sounding female with a strong London accent. ‘Ayodele Onako speaking.'

Iona introduced herself and began to outline what she needed.

‘It was so, so awful,' the woman blurted, ‘hearing that news about Reginald.'

Iona could detect genuine grief in the other woman's softly spoken words. ‘Sorry, Ayodele—'

‘Ayo, please.'

‘Sorry, Ayo. The man who put me through, he didn't actually tell me what your role is there.'

‘Me?' Her voice had lifted once again. ‘Oh, I just try to keep everything running smoothly. Organizing Law Lords – or Justices as they're now known – isn't everyone's cup of tea. But I love it.' She let out a throaty chuckle.

Iona guessed the answer glossed over a mountain of work. ‘Would you be able to get the case details?'

‘I was out there in 2007.'

‘Pardon?' Iona replied, glancing at the time. Almost one. I need to get going for my slot at the CCTV control room.

‘When the Law Lords went out there in 2007, I accompanied them – to run the field office. They put us up in a very nice hotel, I can tell you.' That deep chuckle once again.

‘Really? So how does it work, this sitting in session business?'

‘It's always at the invitation of the particular country's government. Generally, they wait until the number of appeals merit flying the Law Lords out there.'

‘How many cases would that be?'

‘Maybe eight? Each one usually takes half a day to a day; visits are always for one week.'

‘Can you remember any details from the 2007 cases?'

She drew out her words. ‘Well, let me think . . . to be honest, I rarely sit in court any more – my days of being a clerk are long over.'

‘Were the cases criminal ones?'

‘Criminal and civil. Both. There was one to do with the need to have a licence for tourist-related businesses, if I remember correctly. Another was an appeal against the Mauritius tax authority.'

‘Were the people who were making the appeals—'

‘The appellants.'

‘Were the appellants individuals?'

‘Individuals and groups. The tax authority one – that involved a whole load of businesses. Over a hundred, I think. Oh, yes, there was a criminal case that involved a sole appellant. He'd been charged with a drugs offence – cultivating cannabis, I think. His appeal was against receiving a penal sentence. I think he lost.'

Iona imagined Ranjit's face. ‘I don't suppose you remember his name?'

‘Detective, my memory isn't that good!'

Iona nodded in understanding, eyes going to the screen clock once more. ‘Ayo, I've got an appointment I really must get to.' She paused. ‘This is really cheeky, but is there any way you could check for me if a particular individual featured in any of the rulings where the appellant lost? From 2003 or 2007.'

‘I could try. How soon would you need to know?'

Iona screwed her eyes shut. ‘Today?' she asked hopefully.

A hoot of delight came down the line. ‘How did you know I love a challenge?'

‘I don't. But I would really appreciate your help, Ayo. It . . . it's very important.'

The lady's voice dropped again. ‘Iona, are you asking me to do this because you think there's a link to Reginald's murder?'

‘In confidence: yes.'

‘The police assured us it was a burglary. A small-time criminal – someone with previous convictions.'

‘It probably was,' Iona replied, getting to her feet. ‘But I need to check it out for myself.'

‘Well, Iona, now I know this is about getting justice for Reginald, you can count on me. And if I can't find time this afternoon, I will make it my bedtime reading for tonight. Tell me, what is the name of this person?'

‘Ranjit Bhujun.'

I
ona looked up at the soulless structure of the Arndale's NCP. Like something out of Stalinist Russia, she thought, squeezing round a small gap to the side of one ticket barrier.

A yellow line on the floor showed the way towards a stairwell. To her right a ramp led down from the floor above, an impressive spectrum of car paint smeared on the wall of the sharp bend.

Something must have been wrong with the spring in the hinge of the swing door to the stairwell because it flew open on her shove to crack loudly against the wall. The noise reverberated off the bare walls. ‘Oops,' Iona whispered.

Tarnished silver lift doors were directly ahead, pay machines to her side. A metal yellow box was secured to the ceiling above, and behind the glass at the front end, the eye of a lens was visible.

Iona pressed for the lift and the doors opened immediately. No smell of urine, she thought with mild surprise, peeping in. Jim had been right: there weren't any even floor numbers. She pressed three, ignoring the tremor of nerves as the doors slid shut, trapping her within the lift's cramped confines.

When she stepped out on to level three, she saw a concrete ramp to her left, the obligatory scrapes of paint adorning that wall, too. Not liking the idea of meeting a vehicle coming down, she hurried up the incline, listening all the while for the sound of an approaching engine.