Scratch Deeper (27 page)

‘That's what he is?' Iona asked, sitting back on the sofa. ‘A Creole?'

‘Yes.'

‘And what exactly is that?' Jim asked.

‘Mauritius is a mixing-pot of people and religions,' Harish responded. ‘Most of us can trace our ancestry back to present-day India and Pakistan. So we are mostly Hindu or Muslim. But there are also many Buddhists, originally from China. And the Creoles were first brought here from Africa as slaves.'

‘And they're the ones in the lowest-paid jobs?' asked Iona.

‘That is correct. I am not going to try and justify why, it is merely the reality.'

Iona toyed with the pen. ‘Which religion would you say most Creoles are?'

‘Overwhelmingly Christian. Roman Catholic, to be precise. Some have stuck to their original beliefs, Voodoo stuff. Some are nothing at all.'

‘Are you aware of any extreme religious views there, Harish?'

‘You mean are we harbouring al-Qaeda plotters?'

She could hear his smile.

‘Detective, there has never been any type of Muslim extremism unearthed here. Now, I'll search the evidence bags back at my office for this other letter Dell refers to. The one which goes into more detail about what's being planned for the conference. But I need to sleep at some point. My eyes can hardly focus; I've been staring at this screen so long.'

Iona remembered how late it was in Mauritius. ‘You must be exhausted.'

‘I am.'

‘Get some rest and call me after.'

‘Very well. Good night to you.'

The line went dead and Iona turned to Jim. ‘This . . . changes things.'

Jim was gazing into his glass. ‘You could say that.'

‘I'm going to have to bring Wallace up to speed,' she said apprehensively.

‘When?'

She glanced at her watch. Just after ten. She suppressed a sudden yawn, realizing she'd been on the go all day – and that was after just a few hours sleep on the sofa the previous night. ‘Now, I suppose. He's probably still in the office.'

Jim's eyes stayed on his drink. ‘You sure?'

‘He was there when I left. I don't think he was going anywhere for a while.'

‘No, I mean are you sure about letting him know about these developments now?'

‘Surely I have to.'

‘I'd go to see him first thing in the morning.'

Iona looked surprised. ‘How come?'

‘Because that gives Harish a chance to get back to you about this other letter. Plus, you could try and contact this Tristram Dell beforehand, too. Get some solid answers out of him, assuming he's prepared to talk. I doubt he'll like the fact you know all about his big project.'

Iona looked unconvinced. ‘You sure I shouldn't ring Wallace now?'

‘Iona, nothing's solid at this point. It's just stuff we suspect. Besides, lift your hand a second.'

She shot him a quizzical glance and then slowly raised her hand.

‘See? Your fingers are trembling. You need to break off from this. Like you just said to Harish, get some rest.'

She tucked her hand back under her armpit, knees pressed together. ‘You know what? I could be dropped in the middle of an ocean and still not feel as out of my depth as I do now.'

‘Hey, you're doing brilliantly. Better than I'd be doing in your position. But you can't keep going non-stop. That's when mistakes get made. Grab some sleep, even just a couple of hours.'

She took a huge breath in. ‘You're right.' Getting down on one knee, she began to gather her things together.

As she did so, Jim stared at the back of her head, thoughts clouding his eyes. One of his fingers began to bounce rapidly up and down on the base of his wine glass.

‘Are you on shift tomorrow?' she asked.

‘Not until noon.'

‘Lucky you.' She climbed laboriously to her feet. ‘Jim? Thanks for . . . I don't know: everything.'

His smile was tinged with sadness as he also stood. ‘Iona, that message I left on your answerphone. It might have been a bit drunken, but I meant what I said – I will always be there for you.'

She nodded once. ‘Thank you.'

They looked at each other for a long second and then she turned for the door. ‘OK to call you in the morning?'

‘Whenever you like.' He followed her out into the corridor and watched as she opened the front door.

She paused on his front step, cold air flowing into the hallway. ‘You'll be OK?'

He raised his eyebrows in question.

‘With . . . you know . . . everything you told me last night. You're dealing with it OK?'

Stretching out a hand, he brushed his fingers across the handle bars of his mountain bike. ‘Yeah. It was a relief to finally, to finally . . .'

‘A problem shared and all that?'

He looked up at her. ‘Yes. It's true.'

‘Once this is over, we need to talk. What he was responsible for out there – something like that cannot be allowed—'

‘I know.' The words came out too loud and he repeated them more softly. ‘I know. He's been allowed to go unchallenged too long.' He made a shooing motion with his hand. ‘Now go. Away to your bed, you hear?'

She smiled. ‘OK, OK, I'm off.'

Once his front door had clicked shut, Jim marched straight into the front room. He stood staring at the bottle of wine, still two thirds full. Clenching and unclenching his fingers, he told himself no. Not yet. Not until you've done what needs to be done.

The keys to his car were on the shelf beside the photo of him and Iona in Manchester's big wheel. He dwelled on her face, those incredible turquoise eyes wide with mock-fright, her perfectly formed teeth exposed in a cheesy grimace. She's so beautiful, he thought. Even when she doesn't mean to be. One of his arms was round her, the other raised to the camera, thumb jutting up. He saw the look of sheer happiness on his own face and had to close his eyes.

Wallace must be stopped, he thought. It was simple. He looked at Iona's smiling face once again. I'm going to make him stop what he's doing to you. He focused on her eyes, so bright, intelligent and full of life. He will not rob you of that sparkle. He will not do to you what he did to me.

With another glance at the wine, he slid the car keys off the shelf, thinking about what Iona had just said. Wallace was in his office and didn't look like he was going anywhere.

W
allace could only stare as the door to his office swung open. He regarded the figure standing in the corridor with bewilderment.

‘Thought I'd find you here,' Jim said, stepping inside.

Wallace tilted his head, searching for anyone standing behind his former comrade.

Catching the look, Jim pushed the door closed. ‘I'm on my own.'

Wallace put his pen down. ‘How come you're here?'

Jim shrugged before glancing around. The office was characterized by what was absent from it. No family photos. No souvenirs or mementoes. Bare walls, aside from a few certificates. Nothing personal, no insight into the man. Barren, Jim thought. Just like his soul.

‘What are you doing?' Wallace's voice was curt and impatient.

Jim looked at him and sniffed. He closed in on Wallace's desk, still saying nothing.

Wallace seemed to acknowledge something. He sat back, a trace of a smile playing on his thin lips. ‘I'm surprised they even let you in.'

Jim was now looking towards the window. ‘It's not like there are many people about. Fuck all on this floor, as far as I could tell.'

Wallace raised himself slightly straighter, the mocking tone gone from his voice. ‘What do you want, Stephens?'

Jim scrutinized his old commanding officer. ‘You want to know what I want?'

Wallace sighed. ‘Yes. If you can get it out without choking. Still struggling with your . . . emotional issues? Smells like you are.' He tilted an imaginary glass to his lips.

Jim went still.

‘Your scars look like they've healed nicely.' The mocking tone had returned. He pushed his chair back so he could cross his legs. ‘Show up a bit though, when your face goes pale. What is that? Righteous indignation? Unresolved anger?' He nodded. ‘Have a seat. Let's talk about it.'

Jim shook his head and gave a tired laugh.

‘Oh, come on, Sergeant. You came here, don't clam up now you've got this far. Deep breath, isn't that what they advise in counselling sessions for emotional fuck-ups?'

‘Say whatever you want, Wallace, you piece of shit. I could not give a fuck.' He stared into the superintendent's face and saw a flicker of uncertainty in the other man's eyes.

Wallace licked his lips. ‘What's this about?'

‘Detective Constable Iona Khan.'

The super's eyes suddenly turned to slits. ‘Khan?'

‘This gets said only once, so listen. Any more of your shit occurs after this conversation and I will destroy you.'

Wallace burst out laughing. ‘You'll destroy me? Me?' He laid a forearm over the armrest of his chair, hand dangling loosely in the air. ‘I'm all ears.'

Jim took another step closer to the desk. ‘The mind games stop. All your shitty, sick little tactics. Your tests, your snide comments, the whispers you've been putting round the office. All of it stops.'

Wallace cocked his head, as if his hearing was playing tricks. ‘You come in here accusing me of . . . what was it again?' He reached for a pen. ‘Repeat what you just said, I want this word for word.'

Jim placed both hands on Wallace's desk and leaned forward. He spoke slowly. ‘I said your mind games stop right now. The newspaper cutting on her computer. The joke with the toilet rolls. Sending her into that mosque to gather intelligence.'

Wallace had stopped taking notes when Jim mentioned the newspaper cutting. ‘Who's been . . . was it her? Has she been discussing an operation with you?' He looked Jim up and down. ‘Why the hell has she . . . hang on . . .' His lips peeled back. ‘Are you fucking her?'

Jim's eyes dropped, just for a moment.

Wallace placed his pen on the desk and grinned. ‘You're fucking her, aren't you? You're slipping it to our little Iona. Christ, Jim, she's only just out of school uniform. Mind you, you always seemed a bit too keen on the school kids in Iraq. Handing out sweets, letting them play with bits of your kit. Teaching them English. Classic kiddy-fiddler stuff, now I think—'

Jim slammed both palms down on the table. ‘Shut the fuck up!' He stood back and raised a hand, pressing the ends of his fingers against his temple. ‘You're so wrong, aren't you? Up here? I forgot about the stuff that comes out of your mouth.'

Wallace sneered. ‘I'm bored by this, Stephens. Now, fuck knows what you were thinking about coming in here, but you've just kissed goodbye to what remains of your police career. And Khan? Don't worry, I'll be looking out for her, all right.' He reached for his pen. ‘Who's your boss over in . . . what godforsaken little station do you work out of, again? I know we didn't want you here.'

Jim lowered his hand, saying nothing.

Wallace seemed to gain encouragement from his silence. ‘You know why I scratched your application to this unit? Same reason I kept you down in the army. Can't trust you, mate. Never quite sure where your loyalties lie.'

‘My loyalties?' Jim asked quietly.

Wallace nodded. ‘That's right. Loyalty. I'm just glad you were never watching my back on any patrol. Now, Sergeant, give me the name of your senior officer and start hoping I have a change of heart and decide not to take this any further.'

Jim started to smile.

Wallace frowned impatiently. ‘I said, the name of—'

A low chuckle rose up from Jim's throat and the flicker of uncertainty reappeared in Wallace's eyes. He tapped the point of his pen up and down on the piece of paper, creating a cluster of little dots.

Finally Jim's low laughter died down and he sighed. ‘You think that will work?'

‘Letting whoever has to manage you know just how unhinged you are?' Uncertainty had crept into Wallace's voice. ‘Your chances of promotion will hardly look rosy.'

‘I have no career, you prick. I have nothing. No girlfriend, no family, nothing. All I have is a sense of fucking shame.'

At the mention of shame, Wallace blinked.

‘Yeah.' Jim nodded. ‘You know what I'm talking about. I can carry on doing what I'm doing until retirement or they can kick me out. Doesn't bother me.'

Wallace let out a derisive snort.

‘You don't believe me?' He leaned forward again. ‘Then look into my eyes. I do not fucking care what happens to me.'

Wallace swallowed nervously. ‘What do you want?'

‘Keep away from Iona. Assign her to a different team in the CTU and never go near her again. I'll be watching. Any of your shit carries on and I'll go on record about what you did in Iraq. I'll bring both of us down.'

Wallace checked the door was closed. ‘I have no idea what you are referring to,' he stated deliberately, eyes now sweeping across Jim's shirt.

Spotting the direction of Wallace's glance, Jim undid the top buttons of his shirt and yanked it over his head. ‘No wire. Nothing recording this.'

Wallace stared at the rivulets of scars running across Jim's chest.

‘When they dragged that kid off the street and into our compound, you should have ordered them off him,' Jim said, his voice raw with emotion. ‘You should have pushed him back out through the gates and told him to run home. But you didn't.' A finger was thrust towards Wallace's face. ‘You hooded him and you told them to take him down into that cellar.'

‘I have no idea—'

‘Shut up! Shut your lying fucking mouth. You let the boys crack into some booze, you got them angry, you goaded them –'

‘Our base was coming under mortar attacks. Every single day!'