Scratch Deeper (29 page)

‘He . . . Sorry, could you identify yourself again?'

‘Detective Constable Khan. I work for the Counter Terrorism Unit up here in Manchester.'

‘That's where he is . . . at the Labour Party conference.'

Of course, Iona thought. Where else would he be? ‘Does he have a number I could contact him on?'

‘It would be preferable if I took yours and ask him to call you at his earliest convenience.'

No, Iona thought. I'm not leaving any more messages with people. ‘I can't wait for him to ring me.' She said nothing more, letting her silence force the other woman to speak again.

She eventually gave a small cough. ‘I see. I'd better warn you, he has a very busy schedule.'

The first thing Iona heard when her call was picked up was a mass of voices punctuated by the clink of cutlery. Someone nearby let out a loud guffaw.

‘Tristram Dell speaking.' His voice was deep and authoritative.

‘Mr Dell, my name is Iona Khan. I'm a detective with Greater Manchester Police.'

‘How did you get this number?'

‘The lady in your London office gave it to me.'

‘Did she? How can I help you, Detective?'

‘I need to speak to you in person, Mr Dell.'

‘In relation to?' He sounded faintly intrigued by the suggestion.

‘A very sensitive matter. It concerns Reginald Appleton.' The background noise took over once more as Iona waited for a reply.

‘Reginald?' he asked warily.

‘That's correct. Could I come to see you now?'

‘Impossible. It's almost nine. I'm about to go into the convention centre. The day's proceedings are about to begin.'

‘Where are you now, sir?'

‘In the Midland Hotel – why?'

‘You were in regular contact with Mr Appleton in the run up to his murder. Some of that contact was about the conference here in Manchester.'

He spoke away from the phone. ‘Yvette! So good to see you. Yes, I'll be along. Catch up later, yes. Bye.' There was a pause before he said quietly, ‘What leads you to assert that?'

‘A personal letter found from you in Mr Appleton's study. Emails on his computer.'

Silence again. The background noises were now fainter and Iona guessed the man had moved away from the throng. ‘I would be prepared to talk in a couple of days' time.'

‘Sorry, sir. There isn't time for that.'

‘Well, that's . . . regrettable.' His voice had the formality of someone delivering a statement. ‘However, I am unable to comment further without my lawyer being party to proceedings.'

‘Sir, we're concerned there has been a security breach. There was a particular letter we think you wrote to Reginald Appleton. In it, you may have mentioned certain details about the conference. Tony Blair and Gordon Brown are due to appear with Daniel Tevland –' Her sentence ground to a halt. I'm talking, she realized, to the person who arranged the whole thing. ‘They will be on stage together very soon.'

‘Who are you again?'

‘Detective Constable Khan, I'm with the Counter Terrorism Unit.'

‘Detective Constable? Forgive me, but why isn't someone of a senior rank contacting me about these concerns?'

Iona pursed her lips. ‘I'm sure they will, in due course –'

‘I sincerely hope they do, Constable.'

She heard voices and some laughter getting louder. He's on the move, she thought. ‘Who is A.B., sir? What are your plans in regard to the movements of Mr Blair –'

‘Morning, Michael. Did you get my—' The line went dead.

‘Mr Dell? Sir?' She looked at the screen of her handset. Did he just cut the call? She dialled his number again and got an answerphone message. He hung up on me. Unbelievable. Taking several deep breaths, she put her phone down and tried to calm her thoughts.

Whatever information Ranjit may have gleaned was, she realized, now of secondary importance. The priority had to be finding him and Vassen before they carried out their plan. Think, she said to herself, getting to her feet and beginning to pace again. Tunnels. You need to know about any tunnels. She went through her carry case and retrieved the card given to her by the constable who'd arrived with the keys to the tunnel beneath the Great Northern Warehouse.

‘Constable Davis, this is Detective Constable Khan. You escorted me down—'

‘Iona. Morning.'

‘Hi. Um . . . Mark. Are you on duty?'

‘Yeah, over at Silver Command. Things are completely manic. You?'

‘Yes – I'm not in the office, though. Listen, I'm still looking into any tunnels that might be in the vicinity of the convention centre.'

‘Still?' He sounded vaguely amused. ‘The conference has already started, you realize?'

‘I know. But new information has come to light. Mark, when we were in the visitor centre, there was mention of a map. A council one with the whereabouts of all known tunnels beneath the city.'

‘Iona, you do know about the step-up in security?'

She hesitated. ‘No. As I said, I'm not at my desk –'

‘The announcement?'

‘What announcement?'

‘Doesn't matter.'

‘What announcement?'

‘You wanted to know about the council's schematic, yeah?'

She tapped a finger uneasily, the feeling of not being part of things suddenly back. ‘Yeah. I need to know what else is on it. The guy in the visitor centre mentioned the possibility of a tunnel running under Deansgate. Were there others? Maybe another encroaching beneath the ring of steel. Under the Midland, perhaps?'

‘You didn't hear this from me, but – yes, there's one under the Midland.'

‘There is?'

‘Approaches from the south-east, possibly once went to where the Bishopsgate Centre now stands. Inspected and the sole entrance sealed. Deansgate tunnel?'

She felt her eyebrows arch. ‘It exists?'

‘It exists, all right. But now only in parts. The tunnel's most intact at the cathedral end of Deansgate. As you go further along, more and more of it has been back-filled. Sections have also collapsed. Last decent stretch you can actually walk along for any distance ends roughly where Saint John Street joins Deansgate. That's a long, long way from the conference centre. Over one hundred and fifty metres. It's not deemed as a threat.'

She glanced at the view of the conference centre on her TV. Vassen and his companion were planning something, she was certain. It had to involve a tunnel. ‘That's really it? Nothing else?'

‘Not a thing. Now, I've got to go. Whoever's got you chasing this tunnel angle needs to find something better for you to do. Get yourself into the office, Iona. You're off the pace.'

Once more, she found herself staring at her handset. Off the pace? What did he mean by that?

R
anjit Bhujun flexed his head from side to side, unable to keep still. For the fourth time in as many minutes, he pulled the curtain back a few inches and peered down at the quiet street below. He searched for any new vehicles parked nearby. Vans or similar. Anything with a rear compartment where someone could be concealed. He searched for any workmen – technicians fixing cables, labourers digging up the pavement, council employees mending a streetlight. He scanned any window in the houses opposite that had net curtains drawn. Satisfied everything was fine, he turned to Vassen.

The younger man was kneeling at the foot of the bed. The bruises on his face seemed to have expanded and grown darker in colour. The briefcase he'd just slid out from beneath the bed was open. Vassen was staring at the row of four small Perspex vials in the tin. Each was full of dirty-looking powder.

On the floor next to it was the piece of equipment Vassen had taken from the laboratory at the university. Twin plastic tubes curved out of the top, trailed down and re-entered the grey casing at its base. A stainless-steel panel was inscribed with the words, GE Healthcare Frac-900.

Vassen was mumbling to himself, sweat standing out on his forehead.

‘What are you doing?' Ranjit asked.

Vassen's eyes were closed.

‘Are you praying?'

The younger man's near-silent recitation came to a finish. ‘Yes,' he answered in a soft voice.

‘Do you go to church?'

‘No.'

‘Did you? Back on Mauritius?'

‘No.'

‘But you believe? In God?'

‘I don't know. I didn't. But . . .' He looked at the vials again.

‘Let me show you something, cousin.' Ranjit crossed the bedroom, lifted a small hold-all from the floor and placed it on the bed. ‘Sit next to me.'

Face pale, Vassen did as he was asked. Ranjit had taken a small photo album from among his meagre possessions. The cover was made of a cardboard-like material. Mounted on the first stiff page were a couple of faded black and white photographs, the corners slightly buckled.

‘Home.' Ranjit stated.

‘Where did you get these?' Vassen whispered, wonder filling his voice.

The top image showed a group of small children waving to the camera from the veranda of a crudely built wooden building. All the girls were wearing floral dresses and white, sleeveless shirts. Each boy was wearing white shorts and a shirt. Their black hair was thick, like Vassen's. Some were hanging from the wooden railings, laughter lighting up their faces.

‘That was the schoolhouse,' Ranjit said quietly.

The image below it was of a wide clearing, dense palm trees forming a perimeter. Pathways had been worn across the thin grass, one leading towards a cluster of huts. A small fishing boat lay in the shadow of each building.

Another path branched off to a larger building with a cross jutting up from the apex of the roof. Adults were gathered in front of its open doors. Out on the grass, several children were playing with a couple of dogs, whose legs – captured in the act of running – were slightly blurred.

‘These photos were Aunty Lizette's,' Ranjit announced. ‘She was sent them by someone from the Colonial Office – he came to make a film about our lives.'

Vassen's face was sombre. ‘When?'

‘Sometime during the fifties.'

‘Before –'

‘Yes. Before they removed us. The people who did this to us claimed to be Christians. How could a Christian do what they did?' He paused. ‘I wonder if the church is still standing. Aunty Lizette said they killed our dogs, once we were all in the naval boats. Rounded them up and clubbed them to death.'

The younger man cleared his throat and Ranjit saw there were tears in his eyes. He closed the book. ‘Aunty Lizette died earlier this year. How many of the older generation are now left? Fewer and fewer. It's for them, Vassen. That's why we must do this.'

The younger man gave a nod.

‘Now,' Ranjit continued. ‘We need supplies – water, some food. There's no way to tell how long we'll have to hide afterwards. I think it best we stay below ground for as long as we can. Look at the pictures, cousin. Look and remember. We wouldn't be here if they hadn't done what they did. They are the guilty ones in this, not us. When I get back from the shop, you need to be ready to go.'

I
ona had scrolled down to Paul Wallace's number when her phone's screen lit up. A split second later, it started to ring. She looked at the number, hoping desperately it was her dad. The name on the screen was Toby. Finally, she said to herself, accepting the call.

‘Hello, Toby.'

‘You leave a message like that and then, every time I ring, your phone's fucking engaged?' he whispered. ‘Are they on the way here?'

Iona glanced at her watch. Almost nine. The poor guy was already at work and under the impression he was about to be lifted. ‘No, they're not.'

‘You're out-of-fucking-order, you know that? Yeah, course you do. Not that you give a shit – you're a fucking pig. All pigs are the fucking—'

‘Toby, shut up.'

‘Yeah, that's right. True colours and all that. Happy to drop the nicey-nice shit now aren't—'

‘Shut up and listen to me. Please.'

There was a slight pause. ‘What?'

‘Things are serious, Toby. I need to speak to Hidden Shadow. Right now. Let me have his address and phone number.'

‘We had an agreement. You promised, for what that's worth.'

‘That was then. Now it's different. How do I get hold of—'

‘What'll you do? Threaten him with the full treatment, too? Throw in the option of extraordinary rendition? You lot like that, don't you? Passing on innocent people for a bit of harsh interrog—'

‘The snatch squad are still here, Toby.' Iona was imagining her father, queuing to get through the security check at the perimeter. ‘You want to discuss this in a cell? We can do it that way.'

‘You can't contact Hidden Shadow.'

‘Why?'

Toby now sounded like he was relishing the conversation. ‘There's no phone signal where he is.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘He's potholing. Out in the Peak District, somewhere near Castleton. No phone signal underground.'

Iona sat back on the bed. She could not believe this. ‘Where near Castleton?'

‘I don't know. There are dozens of spots around there. He could pop up from any of them.'

‘Well . . . when's he back? It's Monday morning. Hasn't he got work?'

‘He's taken today off. Could be tonight. Could be earlier. You might get lucky – it was raining in the night.'

‘What?'

‘In the night – there was rain. Not good for potholing. Floods?'

Iona felt a glimmer of hope. ‘So he might be heading back to Manchester early? How's he travelling?'

‘Train. Hathersage station.'

‘Where does he stay when he's there?'

‘He'll have a tent. They'll either sleep out or stay the night underground.'