Scratch Deeper (2 page)

Her thoughts went to the police station tucked halfway up the narrow side street on the opposite side of the road. I'm going to be late. Can't stand being late. Agitatedly flicking one forefinger and thumb, she reflected on why she was visiting the station. It was just over a month since she'd learned that her application for a place in Greater Manchester Police's Counter Terrorism Unit had been successful. Quite a result for someone who'd only joined the force four years ago.

And the timing couldn't have been better: the Labour Party's conference was due to start in two days' time and the Unit was flat out coordinating the security operation.

In terms of profile and importance, this was the Unit's big day. So when Iona was tasked with looking into a report of a foreign student using a false name, her initial reaction was one of disappointment. The assignment meant being marginalized from the Unit's number one priority. No place for her in the daily briefings, no part to play in making sure the conference went smoothly. A simple case of false identity. She'd made sure she didn't appear crestfallen as her boss had handed her the scant details. But, she'd been thinking all the while, couldn't something so inconsequential have waited until after the conference was over?

A car's engine being revved returned her to the present. In front of her, an elderly woman carrying a shopping bag was halfway across the road walking towards her, her head bowed as she took small, determined steps. Not for the first time, Iona thought the traffic lights simply didn't allow long enough for people to get across. The Porsche Cayenne's engine revved again, the vehicle's lines giving it a bullish appearance. Iona glanced at it. Come on, she said to herself. There's no need for that. The woman soldiered on, clearly perturbed by the fact that the safety of the kerb was still a dozen feet away. As cars in the far lanes began moving again, Iona realized the traffic lights must have started flashing orange.

The Porsche also started inching forward, its thick bumper now overhanging the white lines delineating the crossing point. Iona stepped out to give the elderly lady a hand and the vehicle's horn blared, making both of them jump. The driver poked his head out of the side window, a mobile phone pressed to his ear. ‘Oi, the lights have fucking changed!' he shouted. ‘Get out of the road!'

Iona pointed to the lady. ‘I'm helping her!' She turned to the woman. ‘Would you like a hand?'

Her eyes cut nervously to the vehicle menacing her. ‘Thank you, yes.'

The driver of the Porsche now started trying to edge his vehicle round them. Iona watched in disbelief until its front corner had come to within inches of the lady's spindly legs. Right, that's it. She reached into the jacket of her brand-new trouser suit and produced her warrant card. ‘You!' she barked, thrusting it towards the windscreen. ‘Take your foot off the pedal. Now.'

His mouth dropped open. Yeah, Iona thought, you're not the first person to be surprised by someone like me having a police badge. The tone of the engine dropped, as did the driver's hand holding the mobile phone.

Iona stood her ground until the woman had made it safely to the pavement. ‘OK, missy?' the driver called out amenably. ‘OK for me to go?'

Missy? She regarded the man behind the wheel. ‘Sir, pull over to the side of the road, please.'

He raked strands of oily-looking hair back over his head. ‘Officer.' His voice was now infused with courtesy that rang fake. ‘You were both causing an obstruction.'

‘And you were talking on your phone at the wheel of your vehicle. Pull over so the cars behind you can get past.'

The condescending smile disappeared from his face. ‘This is a fucking joke.'

Iona remained exactly where she was. ‘Pull over, please.'

After noting down the man's details and informing him that he'd be receiving a notice of prosecution in the post, she watched the vehicle nudge its way into the slow-moving stream of traffic. A few seconds later, the lights changed again and she was able to hurry across Deansgate and up Bootle Street towards the Victorian police station where she'd started her career.

The edge of the side street had been dug up and then deserted by the workmen. As Iona skirted round the red and white plastic barriers she peered into the pit. Its sheer sides comprised of several layers. First, a couple of inches of tarmac sitting on an older layer of the same material. Then a gritty band of shale which, after about two feet, gave way to dark soil. In the dirty puddle at the bottom, half-submerged cables coiled like serpents in a swamp. Items of litter had blown in. A crisp packet. Several cigarette butts. A hamburger carton.

She continued on to the police station, made her way through the front doors of the building and glanced round the lobby. Behind the Perspex screen of the reception desk a civilian worker she didn't recognize was busily sorting through forms. On the wall above the woman a CCTV camera peered down.

Iona approached the desk and, aware no one else was in the waiting area to see her do it, went up on tiptoes. ‘Excuse me,' she announced, warrant card at the ready. ‘Detective Constable Khan to see Sergeant Ritter.'

T
he woman behind the reception desk regarded the badge next to Iona's photocard. ‘Counter Terrorism Unit?' She sounded surprised as she picked up a phone.

Feeling self-conscious, Iona brushed back a strand of raven-black hair. I knew it, she thought. I should never have had it cut in a bob. Makes me look like a schoolboy. And a young one at that.

‘Sergeant Ritter?' the woman asked. ‘I have a Detective Constable Khan from the CTU here for you.' She nodded before addressing Iona. ‘You can go through – head straight on and he'll meet you coming the other way.' The reinforced door at the far end of the counter clicked. Iona pushed it open and stepped through to the narrow corridor beyond.

She almost smiled. Since she'd worked here, the foyer might have been given a makeover so it resembled the lobby of a bank, but on this side things hadn't changed one bit. Memories came back of being fresh in police uniform, walking the beat round central Manchester, convinced – just like every other new recruit – that people were staring at her back with incredulous expressions.

A man was walking briskly towards her, late thirties, short hair in a side parting. ‘Constable Khan? Sergeant Ritter.'

She held out a hand. ‘Really sorry to be late, I got caught up with something on Deansgate.'

‘Not a problem,' he replied as they shook. ‘It's Bill, by the way.'

‘Iona. This place hasn't changed.'

He moved aside to let a couple of uniforms squeeze past then started back up the corridor, glancing over his shoulder as he did so. ‘You were based here?'

‘Just a short stint,' she replied, following behind. ‘My very first rotation on qualifying. Four years ago, now.'

‘Oh. Well, I don't think the place has had much more than a lick of paint in all the time I've been here.'

‘Which is?' Iona asked.

He blew air from the side of his mouth. ‘Mid-nineties. Same time as the bomb – that was my welcome to the job.'

Iona's mind bounced back to June 1996. She'd only been eleven, but the events of that day were among her strongest childhood memories. Shopping with her mum in the maze of little streets that used to sit alongside the Arndale. Uniformed officers suddenly appearing, arms out, voices raised, alarm showing in their eyes.

It was the first time she'd properly appreciated what power the job conferred. The reassuring way a female officer had addressed her mum. Come on, let's get you both clear of this area. Iona had stared up at her, in awe of the officer's businesslike desire to protect. Right then she'd decided that's what she wanted to do in life.

They'd been herded up to the far end of Market Street. Bewildered and mildly scared, they were trapped in the crowd by the side of Debenhams when the thing had gone off. She still remembered the tremor beneath her feet, like an invisible tram was rumbling by. Then the billow of smoke rolling up from the direction of the Arndale, the echoing boom replaced by a chorus of shrill alarms, fine shards of glass tinkling down from the sky, shortly followed by scraps of paper. ‘Still seems incredible no one died.'

‘Doesn't it?' The man gestured to an open doorway. ‘Right. What I've got for you – it's an odd one, really.'

She stepped through. There seemed to be even less space in the ground-floor rooms than she remembered.

‘I'm over here.' The sergeant made his way to a desk in the corner. ‘Don't suppose you've ever heard of a group called the Sub-Urban Explorers?'

Iona dragged a spare chair over from the next workstation, sat down and raised an eyebrow. ‘No.'

‘Didn't think you would have. Bunch of student types and general misfits from what I can make out. They grub around, finding ways into the various passages which run under Manchester.'

Iona had heard rumours of the many secret tunnels which were believed to lie beneath the city's streets. Her mind went back to the hole in the road outside the station. The pool of water at the bottom. You never really consider what's under your feet, she thought, as Ritter opened a file. ‘This lot like to creep along them, taking photos and posting reports. It's all on their website.'

Iona sat forward to examine the printout. A standard forum-style page, with a list of titles and dates.

Medlock Culvert, June.

Bunker storm drain, June.

The Works drain, August.

Lumb Clough Brook, sewer overflow, August.

Cathedral steps, September.

‘Each to their own,' she murmured.

‘True,' Ritter responded. ‘If you overlook the fact half these places are out-of-bounds to the public, private property and general deathtraps.'

‘And crawling with rats, I should think,' Iona added.

Ritter shuddered. ‘Which is why I'm only too happy to be passing this on to you.'

‘Yeah, thanks for that.' Iona gave a quick grin. ‘So, where does this false identity come into it?'

Ritter flicked over a couple of sheets. ‘OK. This is from someone referring to himself as an intermediary for the Sub-Urban Explorers, or SUEs. The actual members of the group are wary about meeting – in case we try to arrest them.'

‘They don't think we've got better things to do?'

‘This lot? They're nothing if not paranoid. You can guess the type – we're agents of a fascist state, they're fighting for freedom.'

Iona nodded wearily. ‘We're out to get them and harvest their DNA. Feed their data into our evil state computers . . .'

‘You've got it,' Ritter smirked. ‘Until someone mugs them and runs off with their laptop, then they're suddenly very keen to get in touch.'

They shared a smile.

‘According to this intermediary, the group were approached a while back by a newcomer who wanted to become a member. He was a . . . lightly tanned gentleman.'

Iona caught the hitch in the comment and glanced up. ‘It's OK, you don't have to be all politically correct with me. Lightly tanned, meaning what?'

Ritter eased back in his seat as he consulted his notes. ‘He described the person as Middle Eastern.'

‘So Arabic?'

‘I suppose so.'

Iona nodded. ‘Go on.'

‘This gentleman seemed particularly interested in any tunnels that might be in the vicinity of the G-Mex, or what's known nowadays as the Manchester Centre.'

An alarm bell began to ring in Iona's mind: that little detail hadn't been mentioned by her boss when he'd handed the job to her. The Manchester Centre was the enormous convention building in the middle of the city where the Labour Party conference was about to begin. Voice now serious, she asked, ‘This newcomer – is he still with the group?'

‘No. They wanted to concentrate on a new tunnel system they'd found beneath the university. The guy stopped showing up and emails to his address now come back as undeliverable.' He closed the file and slid it towards her. ‘Over to you.'

She placed it on her lap and brushed her fingers lightly back and forth across the cover. ‘How do they know his ID was fake?'

‘He told them he was called Muttiah, over from Sri Lanka on a student visa studying maths. Then, a week ago, one of the members of the group who goes by the name of Hidden Shadow –'

Iona frowned. ‘Hidden Shadow?'

‘His user name on the forum. They all use silly tags. Oldskool, Buddah, Skiprat. I said they're a bit sad. Hidden—'

‘Sorry to butt in; is the name Muttiah one of these tags as well?'

Ritter shook his head. ‘I asked that. The guy said he wasn't bothered with a tag – Muttiah was fine.'

‘OK.'

‘So, Hidden Shadow was outside Central Library and saw the man calling himself Muttiah. He raises a hand in greeting and gets blanked for his trouble. This Muttiah was now wearing smart clothes and he was with another person of similar appearance. Hidden Shadow lives up to his name and follows the two of them to the Local Studies section. He keeps behind a bookcase and listens in. Neither of them are speaking English, but the older one's asking the younger one loads of questions. Except he keeps addressing him as Vasen – or something sounding very similar.'

Iona hooked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Interesting. Maybe a surname?'

The sergeant shrugged. ‘Possibly. The reason I reported it to you guys is because, after about fifteen minutes, they return the book to the shelves and leave. Hidden Shadow scoots over – if that's what shadows do –'

‘Maybe glides?'

Ritter smiled. ‘Glides. Yeah, that's better. He glides over to see what they were studying. The book is an architectural account of the convention centre, right up to the plans for an annex, built on the side of the main building a few years ago.'