Scratch Deeper (19 page)

‘Visit it. That was the implication. Jim, I've never set foot in a mosque in my life. You know how mum and dad raised me and Fenella.'

‘He wants to send you into a mosque dressed up like a Muslim woman?'

‘I'd have to be to get in. Long sleeves, ankles covered. Something covering my head, at least.'

‘What about back-up?'

‘He didn't mention any. Everyone's so busy with the conference about to start. None of this was a formal request – it was more about me dropping in at a prayer session and looking around.'

Jim was gripping his glass so tightly, she was afraid it might shatter. The last of his wine was gulped down. ‘There is no way – no bloody way – an officer with no training and no detailed briefing would be sent into a situation like that. He's testing you, Iona. Seeing how far you're prepared to go.'

‘I don't get you.'

‘You're new to his team, right? He's seeing if he can trust you. The fact – and I am so sorry to say this Iona, I really am – the fact you're part Pakistani will be a problem for him. He'll have doubts about where your loyalties lie, I know it. So he's seeing what you'll do to keep him sweet, to be part of his team . . .'

His words trailed away and Iona got the impression he was no longer talking about her situation; he was remembering something that had involved him.

He shook his head. ‘Bastard. The guy is a complete bastard.' He jumped up. ‘More wine? I'll get a bottle.' He crossed into the kitchen without waiting for a reply.

Iona kept very still. This was making her want to be sick. Fighting to control the waves of queasiness, a thought hit home: while they were discussing Wallace, there was still a chance of getting to the truth about the incident in Iraq.

He walked back in, unscrewing the cap. Another glass for him, a top-up for her. ‘Jim,' she said softly, no intention of touching her drink. ‘You didn't have any major issues with Wallace for two reasons.' He seemed lost in thought. ‘Jim? Did you hear—'

‘I did, yes.'

‘What was the other reason?'

When he looked up at her, she almost had to break eye contact. There was such intense emotion on his face. Anger. Shame. Despair. This is it, she realized. This is the thing that torments him when he's asleep. ‘Jim?'

His eyes were moist. He blinked. ‘I . . . I . . . it doesn't matter.' He drank again.

She wanted to reach out and take his hand. ‘Jim, we're both mixed up with this man. I need to know what it is, what you're not saying.'

He dragged air in through his nose and she could see the muscles in his jaw working. When he spoke, he sounded hoarse. ‘I did as he asked.' A tiny groan came from his throat. Physical pain. ‘I did as he asked.'

‘What did you do?' she whispered.

He gritted his teeth, head going slowly from side to side. Trying to deny the memories.

‘Jim? Tell me. Please.'

Suddenly he was out of his chair and running for the kitchen. He reached the sink as a column of liquid shot from his mouth. By the time she got to his side, wine was gurgling noisily down the plughole. She rubbed a hand up and down his back as he continued to throw it up. ‘That's good, Jim. Get it out.' She realized he was sobbing between retches. A long drool of spit hung from the end of his lips. He let his forehead lean against the edge of the sink for a second and then he started to slide towards the tiled floor, knees drawing up under him.

She crouched at his side and ran a hand through his hair. An arm wrapped round her waist as he tipped forward, causing her to lose her balance. She ended up on the floor with him, his head in her lap. Eventually his breathing calmed. As she stroked the side of his head, she was able to feel his pulse through a vein in his temple.

His eyes were closed as he mumbled, ‘He was so young.'

‘Who was?' she breathed, wishing she could turn off the harsh strip light glaring down on them. ‘Who was so young?'

‘The kid we killed.'

Cigarette smoke swirled round the interior of the van. Gary spoke up from its rear. ‘The places they eat. Trays of lentil slop, dog meat on skewers, all that shite. That's where to find them.'

Lee glanced in the rear-view mirror. ‘There are a couple on Woodhill Road. They stay open late.'

Martin was drumming his fingers on the dash board. ‘You all hear that?' he drawled. ‘We're a-havin us a Paki hunt!'

The van headed through a few sets of lights before turning on to a road lined with shops. A couple of jewellers, shutters drawn down. A sari-makers, rolls of brightly coloured material in the window. On the pavement outside a grocery store a man with a long beard and a little lace cap was reaching up with a hooked stick to lower the awning.

As the van cruised past, Martin wound down the front passenger window. The sudden rush of air ripped into the haze of cigarette smoke as he slapped the side of the vehicle with his palm. ‘We're coming for you, mullah-motherfucker!'

Gary's hand shot forward and he slapped the side of Martin's head. ‘Shut it!'

Martin brought his arm back inside. ‘He's a fucking—'

‘Keep quiet. What if he rings the pigs? White van just went past my shop, some gobby dickhead shouting abuse . . .'

‘Sorry,' Martin replied.

Gary was now sitting forward, forearms resting on the back of the front seats. The road curved gently to the left. Up ahead were the bright signs of a couple of food places.

‘There's two,' said Lee, now sounding nervous.

A couple of men emerged from one. The taller one was thin with a mop of dark hair. His companion was much shorter, hair shaved close. Hanging from his right hand was a white bag.

‘Slow,' Gary hissed.

Lee touched the brakes and dropped down a gear. Gary quickly checked the road behind. No traffic. All eyes were on the pair as they ambled along, deep in conversation. They reached the top of an alley and set off down it.

‘Where'll that lead?' Gary's voice quivered with excitement.

‘Just a cut-through, probably. To the next road,' Martin whispered.

‘Pull over,' Gary commanded.

The van came to a stop and Gary reached down to the floor. He handed the screwdriver to Martin and the hammer to Lee. ‘Let's go take these fuckers out, yeah?'

Martin deep-breathed as he reached for his door handle. ‘Yeah.'

‘I'll stay in the van,' Lee suddenly announced, putting the hammer in his lap.

Martin looked over his shoulder. ‘Fuck off.'

‘No, serious. We can get away quicker if I do.'

Martin swivelled the other way to look at Gary.

‘Fuck him,' Gary said. ‘Could tell he was a shitter.' He spoke into Lee's ear. ‘You drive round to the next road. Wait for us at the other end of the alley. What will you do?'

Lee kept looking straight ahead. ‘Drive round. Wait for you.'

‘Good lad. And remember, these are your tools. So make sure you're there.'

The rear doors opened and Gary jumped out. Slamming them shut behind him, he set off across the pavement, baseball bat held close to his side. Martin followed him through the pool of orange light cast by the street lamp above the end of the alley. Then they were into the shadows beyond.

The two men were about twenty metres in front, heads bowed as they talked. Six-foot-high concrete panels ran along either side of the alley, giving it a canyon-like feel. Names, comments and pictures covered the stone-grey surfaces.

At the halfway point, the alley jinked to the left, another street lamp lighting the way. Gary and Martin were now ten metres behind the pair. Some small noise caused the two men to look back: they saw a pair of white men charging at them, one with a baseball bat raised to shoulder level. The bag hit the ground, rice spilling from the top. The taller of the two was slower to get moving and, as he struggled to keep up with his shorter companion, he began to stumble.

The baseball bat connected with the back of one thigh, driving the knee coming forward into the rear of the other. He sprawled forward. ‘Ranjit!' he yelled. ‘Ranj—'

The baseball bat came down again, this time across his back, cutting the word off.

Gary watched the shorter man sprinting away before looking down. ‘Your rat mate's left you.'

The man on the ground was getting to his knees, one forearm raised. ‘Ranjit!'

Martin stepped forward and swung a foot. The kick caught the man in the throat. He fell back against the concrete panels and started to make a croaking noise. ‘Speakey English, you fuck.'

He coughed a couple of times then reached out and tried to stroke at Martin's shoes. ‘Please,' he rasped.

Martin kicked the man's hand away. ‘Get the fuck off me.'

‘Fucking embarrassing.' Gary lifted the bat again, his eyes fixed on the whorl in the thick black hair at the top of the man's head.

A shadow – moving low and fast – entered the periphery of Gary's vision. He felt a heavy impact and the next thing he knew, he was lying on his back, the street lamp shining down at him. The concrete fence shook and he saw Martin bouncing off it and falling over, screwdriver clattering to the ground. Gary realized he was winded: all he could do was silently open and close his mouth.

Martin had got on to all fours when the silhouette reappeared, this time rising high into the air. It landed with both feet on the base of Martin's spine. He went flat and still. The dark figure started to look round and Gary turned on his side and tried to curl into a ball. He felt a knee jam into his back and a hand slid under his chin. Leathery fingers started to force his chin up, exposing his throat. The blade of a knife glinted and still he couldn't get in any air to scream.

‘Ranjit!' The other one's voice. ‘Ranjit!' Rapid words were spoken. Gary couldn't understand what was being said but he recognized the pleading note in the flow of the younger man's words.

For a moment the only sound was rapid breathing coming from just above him. Then the grip on Gary's chin eased as the man's weight shifted. An instant later it felt like one buttock, then the other, was punched. Finally his lungs were able to inflate and he started to bellow as red-hot pain lanced out from where he'd been stabbed.

I
ona clicked her front door shut behind her. She could hear morning TV in the kitchen as she started for the stairs up to her room.

‘Iona? Is that you?'

Curse it, she thought. I just wanted to grab a quick shower and get back to the office. She paused, one hand on the banister. ‘Yeah, hi, Jo. Good night, last night?'

Her housemate appeared in the kitchen doorway. She was wearing tartan pyjamas and suede slippers with fluffy tops. ‘Yes.' Her eyes travelled up and down Iona. ‘You weren't in the office all night, were you?'

Iona glanced down at her crumpled work suit. ‘Oh, no. I . . . just finished late.'

Jo cocked her head to the side, an impish look in her eyes. ‘So, where've you been?'

Iona hooked a strand of hair over her ear. ‘Just sorting some stuff.'

‘Just sorting some stuff?' Jo let out a deep and dirty laugh. ‘Yeah, it looks like you've been sorted. Anyone I know?'

‘Jo!' Iona couldn't keep from smiling. ‘You are such a potty-mouth.'

‘Come on, you can tell Aunty Jo.' She beckoned. ‘I'll make tea.'

Iona gestured to the stairs. ‘I've really got to be back in work.'

She raised her lower lip. ‘Seriously? It's Sunday morning – not even ten o'clock.' She clicked a finger and pointed behind her. ‘The Labour Party conference, yeah? They've got camera crews down there right now.'

Iona could hear the enthusiastic tones of the TV presenter. The one with the thinning hair and floppy hands whose show was a Sunday morning fixture on the BBC.

‘At least give me a clue,' Jo said. ‘Work colleague? Blind date? Someone you just collared outside the kebab shop?'

‘I was at Jim's.'

‘No!' She widened her eyes and clamped a hand over her mouth. ‘No! Is that good? I thought he was history.'

Iona's hand wiggled at her side. ‘I don't know.'

‘You don't know? You can't just start doing him again – well, you can. But . . . I can't believe it. Jim? He's a bit gorgeous, I have to admit—'

‘Jo, I slept on the sofa. We had a lot of stuff that needed to be discussed.'

Her friend's face was now serious. ‘OK, but do you reckon . . . you know . . . are you getting back with him?'

Iona shrugged as she started up to her room. ‘One step at a time.'

Once in her room, she turned her little telly on. They were filming, she realized, by the entry point she'd used to get into the secure zone. The camera was looking over the perimeter fence to the front of the Midland Hotel. It lingered on the Labour banner draped above the front entrance before panning down to street level.

The road was heaving with people. Among them she could see numerous protestors and activists trying to hand leaflets to delegates as they made their way into the mouth of a fenced-off corridor leading to the security-check building.

She saw people in wheelchairs chanting their cause, an elderly man holding up a placard that read, Nukiller Power – a crime against God. Next to him a group of children wearing T-shirts which bore the words, Kids Count. Two elderly women were struggling to lift a banner emblazoned with Christians against the Cuts.

Patches of yellow were sprinkled about: police officers in high-visibility jackets. She studied her fellow officers, men and women quietly keeping an eye on things.

You're all targets, Iona thought, eyes fixed to the screen. All of you are targets.

Her phone beeped as she was putting on her dressing gown, ready to nip down the corridor to the shower. An 0207 number; someone calling from London. ‘Hello, Consta— Detective Constable Khan speaking.'