Scratch Deeper

by Chris Simms

  Table of Contents

  A Selection of Titles by Chris Simms

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  A Selection of Titles by Chris Simms

  The Detective Inspector Jon Spicer Series

  KILLING THE BEASTS

  SHIFTING SKIN

  SAVAGE MOON

  HELL’S FIRE

  THE EDGE

  CUT ADRIFT

  The Detective Constable Iona Khan Series

  SCRATCH DEEPER *

  * available from Severn House

  SCRATCH DEEPER

  Chris Simms

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain 2012 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9-15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  First published in the USA 2013 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of

  110 East 59th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022

  eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2012 by Chris Simms.

  The right of Chris Simms to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Simms, Chris, 1969-

  Scratch deeper.

  1. Police–England–Manchester–Fiction. 2. Terrorism–

  Prevention–Fiction. 3. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title

  823.9'2-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-357-0 (epub)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-035-5 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-535-0 (trade paper)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This eBook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  ‘When everyone is dead, the Great Game is finished. Not before.’

  Rudyard Kipling, 1865–1936

  PROLOGUE

  Reginald Appleton grunted from behind the gag, eyes bulging with terror. In his mind, the words he was roaring were clear. I heard you! Yes, I’ll tell you! Please, please, don’t hurt me any more.

  The pressure on the back of his neck eased, allowing him to turn his head so his face wasn’t pressed into the pillow. Nostrils flaring in and out, he filled his lungs, ears still ringing from the punches to his head.

  ‘What is it?’ the voice repeated.

  The hatred contained in the question made Appleton feel ill. He nodded as vigorously as he could. There had been the faint trace of French in the man’s voice. A local, then. Probably a Creole needing money.

  Rough fingers pulled the thick band of rubber away from his lips and something was thrust towards his face. The device beeped and a red light came on. ‘Say it.’

  ‘Eleven, thirty-three, ninety-nine, zero, four,’ he gasped. ‘There are dollars—’ The gag snapped back into place, rendering the end of the sentence incomprehensible.

  He felt his lower arms being yanked as the person checked his wrists were still bound tight. A hand patted the stubby Henry Moore sculpture on the bedside table.

  ‘Lie still. Don’t move. If you move, I’ll smash your skull in.’

  Appleton jerked his head back and forth against the pillow to indicate that he understood. Footsteps quickly crossed the room and he was alone.

  His heart was beating so strongly, it caused his shoulders to rock against the mattress. It’s a burglary, he said to himself. Stay calm. He’ll take the cash – how much is there? Ten, fifteen thousand dollars? He’ll be happy with that. He’ll go.

  Something warm began to tickle behind his ear. Blood, he realized. My head must be bleeding. He felt it creeping under his chin and across his throat. Anais will be dismayed when she sees the sheets. Cleaning them is going to take hours.

  Outside, the cicadas’ grating buzz rose to a crescendo and abruptly stopped. Now came the soft, insistent sound of waves lapping the nearby beach. Something thudded in his study further down the bungalow’s corridor. He recognized the sound – the door to the safe, swinging open and bumping against the wall. He’ll be removing the cash. Probably my watch. Margaret’s jewellery, too. The pearl necklace she always favoured when we dined out. It doesn’t matter. They’re only things.

  The thin whine of a mosquito passed his ear and he knew how the man had got in. He lifted his head and was able to make out the neat hole cut in the screen that covered the window he’d left open. Arching his head brought into view the red button of the panic alarm mounted in the wall above his bed. He cursed himself; why on earth didn’t you close the window? You grew complacent and now you’re getting what you deserve.

  The sound of the footsteps coming back caused the throbbing in his temples to quicken.

  The shadowy form came into view. Appleton could see a small bag hanging from one hand. The person looked down at him and the old man closed his eyes so they were almost shut, like a child pretending to be asleep.

  Then the figure walked over to the window. Appleton breathed out. He’s going. Thank the Lord, he’s going.

  But the person placed the bag on the floor. The objects inside made a faint chink. He turned round and walked back to the bed. Now Appleton really did close his eyes. Please go. You’ve got what you want.

  Hands gripped his shoulders. As he was turned on to hi
s back, he felt the hairs of his chest pulling clear of the blood that must have pooled beneath him. His bound wrists dug painfully into the small of his back. Fringed by thick strands of long hair, the dark face looked down, all but a silhouette against the moon filling the window behind. The buzzing of the cicadas was starting up again.

  ‘The password for your computer.’

  Appleton’s breath caught in his throat.

  The thick band of rubber was peeled down. ‘Password.’

  Appleton felt tears sting his eyes. ‘Lucinda64.’

  As he gave his daughter’s name and year of birth he sent up a silent prayer. Please let me see her face again.

  The gag snapped back and the man vanished from view. Appleton stared at the ceiling. The tropical heat seemed to have vanished. He wanted the password. If this is a burglary, why would he want the password? He must be after something on the computer. Why not just take the hard drive? This doesn’t make sense. I’m not important any more. I’ve retired.

  He tilted his head back to stare at the red button. Could I turn myself over and get on to my knees? Raise myself up and press it with my forehead? Smash your skull in. That’s what he said he’d do if I move.

  He lay there until the cicadas fell silent again, allowing him to hear the plastic tap of his computer’s keyboard. The printer started to whirr. This isn’t a burglary. Jesus Christ, this isn’t a burglary. I’ve got to do something.

  He started rocking himself from side to side, trying to build up enough momentum to turn on to his front. No strength, he thought. Not since the hip replacement last year. He thought of his daughter and grandchildren back in Britain. James and Sophie running down the drive to meet him with their arms outstretched.

  By bunching his hands into fists he was able to form a fulcrum at the base of his spine. He began to rock himself again and, with a push of his hands, finally flipped himself over. He was back in the patch of blood, now cool and sticky.

  The keys continued to tap as he sucked air through his nostrils. Not enough oxygen was getting in. He felt dizzy and faint. Sweat was running down his temples. Or was it blood? You can’t stop, he said to himself. Not now you’ve moved. Bit by bit, he brought his knees under his chest. Groaning with the effort, he managed to slowly raise his shoulders up. Down the corridor, the printer continued to click and whirr. The Henry Moore sculpture caught his eye and he had to look away. Nearly there, he thought, focusing on the red button and shuffling from one knee to the other. Almost close enough, almost close—

  Something black moved in the periphery of his vision.

  Appleton swivelled his eyes to the side.

  The person stood watching. When he spoke, Appleton could tell he was smiling. ‘I hope you’ve enjoyed your time on this island.’ His voice dripped with contempt.

  Appleton kept absolutely still, eyes full of fear.

  The man shook his head as he reached for the stubby sculpture on the bedside table. His hand bounced as he measured the weight of it. ‘Time to pay for what you did to my people.’

  He raised the chunk of stone and Appleton’s cheeks puffed out as he tried to scream. The base of the sculpture thudded into the back of his skull and the old man pitched forward. He saw Margaret, waiting for him in the bluebell woods where she so loved to walk. And then the lump of rock came down again, this time causing a fleshy crunch. Appleton slumped to his side and two thin lines of blood hissed into the air, pattering against the mahogany headboard. The sculpture was brought down again and again, shattering and then pulverizing facial bones beneath it.

  Eventually, the man stopped. He gazed down at the corpse, his breath undisturbed by the effort. The dripping sculpture was dropped on to the blood-spattered bed and the cord tying Appleton’s wrists was loosened enough for one hand to be pulled free. Carefully, the man lifted the slack arm up, straightened Appleton’s forefinger out and carefully pressed it against the panic button.

  As the shrill alarm drowned out the cicadas’ song, he counted to ten then strode across the room, picked up the bag and climbed back through the hole in the mosquito screen.

  ONE

  Iona Khan got to the pedestrian crossing just as the little green man went out. Drat, she said to herself. Deansgate lay before her. One of Manchester’s oldest roads, its lanes cut a wide swathe across the city.

  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.’

  TWO

  The 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.