Scratch Deeper (21 page)

‘Iona?'

‘Sorry, what?'

‘I said the NCP's network doesn't extend that far out of Manchester. But there'll be street cameras run by the town council in Bury. Private ones, too. Petrol station forecourts, entrances to office buildings, that kind of stuff. Once Colin has bedded down the day shift, I'll go back in and try to find out more.'

Thoughts were bombarding Iona as Jim spoke. Bury. Might the Mauritians be linked to the same mosque?

She reached across her desk and lifted the items Wallace had helpfully left there at some point. Below the file on the cleric was the list of Mauritian nationals and their addresses. All were dotted about the Bury area. No time to start checking them, she thought, not working on my own.

She glanced at the TV mounted on the opposite wall. It was tuned into BBC News 24 – coverage was now from inside the main hall of the conference. In the foreground were rows of exhibition stands. She saw signs for trade unions alongside those for Amnesty International, Liberty and Save the Children. People were crammed in among them, most moving slowly to the main seating area beyond. All of them were at risk.

‘Iona, are you still there?'

She turned from the images. ‘Sorry, yes. What did you say?'

‘I asked what you'll do next. Has Wallace showed his face yet?'

‘No.' She pictured him up in his office on the floor above. She could still hardly believe what Jim had told her the previous night – the gleeful brutality of it. How it had then been covered up. The story had ensured that the snatches of sleep she'd got were brief and troubled. ‘He's probably upstairs.'

‘So what now?'

She slid one of Wallace's printouts closer. The one with details of the football team. ‘Two seconds, I'm just typing something in.' She keyed the name Mauricien Exiles into Google and pressed enter. A homepage came up, a montage of players in a pale blue and claret strip. Tabs at the edge of the screen read, About Us, Join our Team, Fixtures, Results, League, Gallery. No Bhujun among the names of the squad.

‘What are you up to?' Jim asked.

‘Browsing a site. Hang on.'

She clicked on Gallery. More shots of football matches. The Mauritian team looked young and slimly built – unlike many of the teams of players they were up against. No sign of Vassen or his mate. A line at the base of the screen read, Last updated March 2010. The photos were well out of date.

She clicked on fixtures and the current season came up. At least they've maintained this bit, she thought, searching out the day's date from the table filling the screen. A home match versus AFC Elton. She looked at the time; kick-off was in fifty minutes. ‘I'm driving up to Bury.'

‘Why? What will you do there?'

‘I don't know.' She thought about the mosque again. ‘There's a football team made up of Mauritian ex-pats. They're playing a match later this morning. I can check them and their supporters out. You can be digging up what you can in the meantime.'

‘I don't like the idea of you driving up there on your own.'

‘Jim, I'll be fine. They play in a public park, it's not a risk.' She was back on Google typing in the postcode for the Jamia Masjd mosque. There it was, two minutes' walk from the town centre.

‘That's all you'll do? Visit the park and then go back to the office?'

‘Unless you work out where they went in Bury.'

‘If I do that, I'll be driving straight up to you.'

‘Jim, this isn't your shout. I don't want you to get in trouble.'

‘It's my day off. Nothing to stop me deciding if I fancy wandering round Bury on a grey Sunday.'

She smiled, glad to know he was there for her. ‘Call me with anything useful, yeah?'

‘You've got it. And Iona, have you got rid—'

‘I'm doing it right now,' she replied. ‘Speak to you later.' She cut the call before reaching up and tearing the word Baby from her monitor. Then she squashed the Blu-tack figure into a lump and lobbed it into her bin. A detective a couple of desks away was silently watching. She locked eyes with him. ‘Problem?'

He shook his head as he turned back to what he was doing. ‘None at all.'

The drive to Bury took much less time than Iona thought. Coming off the M66 motorway at the second junction, she followed the Rochdale Road right into the town centre, passing the tram terminal on her right. Rows of bus stops were before the low building and she couldn't help looking for her two suspects among the people sheltering from the chill breeze in the Perspex shelters.

The road curved round to the far side of the town centre where larger, more modern buildings began to spring up. Bunting had been strung along the fence of a car showroom. The brightly coloured triangles swayed back and forth, the only things moving on the forecourt. Her eyes cut to the other side of the road and she spotted the brand-new police headquarters set back in the middle of what appeared to be former industrial wasteland.

As she waited for the set of lights in front of her to change, she reflected on the town. Like many others to the north of Manchester, Bury's population had been altered by large numbers of immigrants arriving from Asia.

Problems sometimes flared up – not as serious as the race riots that had ravaged many nearby towns in Yorkshire – but tensions still existed between the more established communities and the newly formed ones.

The lights glowed green and she filtered to the left, searching for signs to the recreation ground the Mauricien Exiles called home. A few minutes later, she was parking her car on a side road. The unkempt expanse of grass before her was dotted with dry leaves, blown from the cluster of trees at the far side of the park. What remained of their foliage was brown and Iona shivered involuntarily: winter would be here soon.

A couple of people were attaching nets to rusty goalposts while, out on the pitch, players warmed up. The Mauritians, in their claret and blue strip, were bunched together in their half, several footballs ping-ponging about between them. A smattering of people wrapped in coats and hats were lined up along each side. Wives, girlfriends and other people somehow connected to the team, she concluded. By the look of it, the visiting supporters had taken the left-hand touchline.

Iona went over what little training she'd completed for undertaking covert operations. Number one priority was to ensure the target remained unaware they were even being watched. And the best way to achieve that – apart from not drawing attention to yourself – was to let as few people as possible know that a surveillance operation was underway.

According to the training officer, you never knew which side a person was on. And that included officers from the local police force. She checked the photos she'd stored on her phone once again. The Bhujuns' mugshots were on it, allowing her to check likenesses while pretending to be sending a text or making a call.

That's a point, she thought, turning the handset over in her palm. Toby – the contact for the Sub-Urban Explorers – hasn't rung me back. She brought his number up again and called it. After two rings the line clicked and a recorded message said the number was temporarily unavailable. Iona frowned; has he just turned his mobile off on me? She tried again and got the same message before it even began to ring. He must have seen my number on his screen. Is he deliberately avoiding my calls? Quickly she typed him a text: Urgent message from DC Khan – call me.

A whistle sounded and she saw the match was now underway. After climbing out of her warm car, she zipped up her padded jacket and made her way round to the visiting team's touchline, reasoning that anyone connected to the Exiles would assume she was with them.

Eyes on the match, she studied the Mauritian players. Some seemed like they could be from India or Sri Lanka, some appeared to be part African-Caribbean. None were Vassen; that much was obvious. He would have stood out like that tall player England sometimes used. Crazy-legs Crane, Jim called him. There were, however, several shorter members of the team. Late twenties, early thirties, shaved heads and stubble.

She found herself studying one player who seemed to be especially competitive – using his shoulder to barge opposition players, tearing around after the ball with an intense look, swearing when anything went wrong. He was about five foot four, at the most.

Lifting her phone, she studied the image of Ranjit for a second. The player out on the pitch looked very similar. About the right age, too.

She listened to the voices, hoping to hear the name Ranjit called out. Eventually, he scored, punching the air with delight as he ran back for the restart. A thought occurred to Iona. She took out her notepad and pen then walked round the pitch. As she passed the Mauricien Exiles' substitutes, she felt their eyes on her.

‘Good morning,' one said, flashing her a wide grin. ‘If only our supporters were as beautiful as you.'

The player next to him cuffed him across the back of the head and they began to laugh. Blushing slightly, she approached an elderly man wearing a flat cap who seemed to be shouting the most instructions. ‘Excuse me.'

He glanced down at her distractedly. ‘Yes?'

She looked at the side of his face. He had a kindly air, even with his attention on the match. Like a cuddly uncle. ‘I write the blog for AFC Elton. What was the name of your player who just scored?'

‘Oh, that's Guillaume,' the old man answered, looking at the play. ‘Widdy! Push up more, don't stand so deep!'

Damn, thought Iona, not Ranjit. She started writing the name down, no idea if she was spelling it correctly.

‘That's not right,' he said, peering down at her pad. ‘The team sheet is there. In my file sitting on the kit bag.'

‘Ah, right, thanks.' She turned to the canvas holdall. A red file was laid across it. She crouched down and opened it. The sheet of paper in the uppermost sleeve contained a list of names. She glanced at the letterhead which read, Mauricien Exiles, Manager – Navin Ramgoolan. Coach – Pravind Dulloo.

Tracing a finger down the list of players, it took her three seconds to see no Bhujun or Ranjit featured. Flipping the file closed, she thanked the old man and returned to her spot. When the half-time whistle sounded, she used the opportunity to walk back to where her car was parked.

What next? She asked herself, sitting back in the driver's seat. But she knew the answer already. She took the
A to Z
out of her glove compartment and sought out the little symbol for a place of worship. The Jamia Masjd mosque. Barely the distance of a fingernail away.

She drove back to the set of lights by the garage and took the third exit down Bolton Street, knowing it would lead to the road which ran right past the mosque. Just a look, she said to herself. Nothing more than that.

Jim slid a chair alongside the operator. When he'd walked back into the main part of the room, he thought Colin was about to start physically shoving him towards the doors. It had taken a lot of quiet persuasion – bordering on pleading – before the supervisor had finally relented.

‘Only when there's nothing else coming in, understood? If we need him for anything – even a little old lady needing help with the ticket machine in a car park – he drops your stuff to do it.'

‘Absolutely,' Jim had replied. ‘That's fine.'

Colin had shown him to one of the operators monitoring the outlying areas of the city. ‘Howard? Can you take Sergeant Stephens here through some footage. He'll give you the day and times. This is low priority, OK? I want you to break off if needed for anything else.'

Jim sat forward in the chair. ‘Right, Howard, thanks for doing this. First, can we go to the platform cameras at the tram terminal in Bury? I need to see who gets on the ones going into Manchester on the seventeenth. Can we start with the very first tram of the day?'

J
amia Masjd mosque was on a narrow street – mainly residential properties with a few small shops. Most, including a halal butcher's, were closed for the day. She saw a convenience store had its lights on, as did a tiny newsagent's.

The mosque formed one half of a large semi-detached house that stood out from the smaller, terraced houses on each side. The front of the white building had obviously been modified – a very sturdy-looking double door was flanked either side by narrow windows, each rising to a point. The clouded glass filling the frames was engraved with Arabic calligraphy. Every window was protected by a metal grill. Positioned directly above the doors was a sign, the top of which consisted of tiny Arabic letters. The bottom read, Jamia Masjd. Iona parked further down the road from it and pretended to take a call on her mobile, eyes on the rear-view mirror.

It was hard to tell if the place was locked or not; no one seemed to be going in or out. After a few minutes, two people appeared from the rear of the building. Females, Iona realized, both wearing headscarves and loose clothing that went down to their ankles and wrists. A separate entrance for women, Iona thought, remembering Wallace's words about how the mosque permitted their presence. Talking very quietly, they walked past her car and round the corner. Iona was debating whether to take a look round the back of the building when three Asian youths, seventeen at most, emerged from the convenience store.

Leaning against the railings outside the entrance, they began to open cans of soft drinks while continuing their conversation. All were wearing jeans, trainers and casual tops. One had a zigzag pattern etched into his short black hair. Their speech was fast, accompanied by jabbing hand movements and bursts of laughter. They were barely ten feet in front of her vehicle and, Iona realized, now aware of her presence.

Time, she thought, to go. She brought her imaginary call to a close and began to pull out. They all stopped talking as she passed, one ducking low for a better look at her.