by Chris Simms
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 archite
ctural 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.’
This investigation, Iona thought, isn’t looking so trivial, after all. She kept the emotion out of her voice. ‘Anything else?’
‘I contacted the university. No Sri Lankan student called Muttiah is currently enrolled on a mathematics course.’
‘How about Vasen?’
‘Nope. It was at that point I thought it best to call you lot in.’
‘Right.’ Iona lifted the file. ‘Looks like I’d better speak to this group. Have you contact details for this intermediary?’
‘It’s all very cloak-and-dagger. There’s a mobile number and an email address on the sheet at the back.’
‘Did you actually meet him?’
‘Only talked on the phone.’
‘Well, no time like the present.’ She turned to the back of the file and took her mobile out. ‘He’s got a funny name as his email address. Doc-P.’ She put her phone on loudspeaker and keyed in the mobile number.
‘Who is this?’
Iona could immediately tell he was local; probably from the southern part of the city. She allowed some of the same accent to seep into her voice. ‘Hello, this is Detective Khan. Who am I speaking to, please?’
‘Police?’
‘Yes, I work with the Counter Terrorism Unit. You spoke to a colleague about an individual who joined the Sub-Urban Explorers. My colleague passed that information to me.’
‘Counter what?’
‘Terrorism Unit.’
‘Oh.’
Iona caught the hesitancy in the man’s voice. He was now obviously feeling intimidated. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said reassuringly. ‘I’m only involved because this person appears to have been using a false identity. Something we’re currently obliged to check out in cases of foreign nationals.’
‘Oh.’
‘Can we meet . . . sorry, I feel funny calling you Doc-P. Got a first name?’
‘Yeah, Toby.’
‘Can we meet, Toby? I’d like to get some more details from the people you . . . represent.’
‘They need an assurance, first. That nothing they tell you will be used against them.’
‘See what I mean?’ Ritter whispered.
She rolled her eyes at the sergeant. ‘You have my word. My questions will only relate to the individual who was using the name Muttiah. What you guys get up to in your own time is of absolutely no concern to me.’
‘And it will be just you?’
‘Yes, if that’s what you want.’
‘It is.’
‘Then it will be.’
There was a pause. ‘OK. We can meet in town this evening.’
Iona thought about her plans to have tea over at her mum and dad’s. A Khan tradition on a Friday evening. Oh, well, not this week. ‘Great. Will the Sub-Urban Explorers be there?’
‘Not at the initial place we meet.’
She rubbed a finger across her forehead, keeping the exasperation from her voice. ‘But we’ll go on to meet them?’
‘Only if you’re alone.’
Like I couldn’t have support just round the corner, Iona thought. ‘OK. Where and when?’
‘You know the Cornerhouse?’
She pictured the Art House cinema on the junction of Whitworth Street and Oxford Road. ‘I do.’
‘I’ll be in the bar there. Eight tonight?’
I can make it for tea at the folks’ after all, she thought. ‘Fine.’ She flashed a mischievous grin at Ritter. ‘Oh, Toby. This being a blind date, how will I know who you are?’
‘Oh, yeah. Well . . . I’m six feet tall, twenty-two and I’ve got blond hair in short dreadlocks. I’ll be wearing a maroon top with Howie’s written across the chest. You?’
‘I’m five foot three, mid-twenties . . . and I’m not describing my chest to you.’
Silence.
‘Relax, Toby, I’m joking.’
‘Oh, right.’ He sounded both bemused and intrigued. ‘What’s your name again?’
‘Detective Constable Khan.’
‘Khan? So you’re . . .’ He let the question hang.
‘Half Scottish, half Pakistani. I’ll be wearing a charcoal trouser suit. See you at eight.’ She pressed red and stood.
Ritter was chuckling. ‘Which side of the family is from Pakistan?’ he asked.
‘My dad’s. He came here in the seventies to do a PhD in Persian Studies.’
‘Here in Manchester?’
‘No, up in Glasgow. That’s where he met my mum.’
‘Ah.’ He held up a finger. ‘Hence the name Iona.’
‘You’ve got it.’ She smiled.
‘And is she an academic, too?’
‘Mum? No, far from it. She was working as a typist in the history department’s office. They moved down here when dad was offered a place lecturing at the University of Manchester. I was six.’
‘I thought I couldn’t hear any Scottish accent.’
Iona wrinkled her nose. ‘No. But you should see my headbutt.’ She switched her voice to thick Glaswegian. ‘It’s beazer.’
Ritter’s laughter filled the room as Iona lifted her turquoise eyes to the ceiling. ‘Are the incident rooms still upstairs?’
‘Yeah, mainly on the floor above. Need me to show you up?’
‘No, don’t worry. I thought I’d say hello to an old colleague. Another sergeant, as it happens. Jim Stephens?’
‘Jim? Yeah, he’s up in room eight. Drug-dealing case, I believe.’
‘Great, cheers.’ Iona started heading for the door, file held up. ‘I’ll let you know how this goes.’
THREE
Up on the second floor, Iona opened the swing doors and scanned the corridor ahead. Room eight was at the other end and, as she neared it, she could hear Jim’s voice inside.
Right, she thought, slowing her step. How to play this?
Hesitantly, she peeped through the half-open door. Jim was standing at the far end of the room facing a large map of the city centre. She took in the immaculate creases in the shirt and trousers of his police uniform. Nothing changes, she thought, eyes lingering on his shoulders then dropping to the tight curve of his buttocks. She’d had three other boyfriends in her life and none of them had been quite like Jim.
Memories of life before they’d broken up caused a pang of sadness to stir. Lazy Sunday evenings on the sofa at his place, the hiss of the iron as he went over both of their uniforms interspersing his impersonations of whoever happened to be on the telly. She smiled at how rubbish his attempts at accents always were – not that it stopped him from trying. It was one of the qualities she loved in him most; not taking himself too seriously.
Jim was removing what appeared to be stills from CCTV footage. The images formed a thick border around the map. Two people, one in civilian clothes and one in uniform, were seated at the large table in the middle of the room, tidying piles of paper into folders. A brew table with a kettle on was just inside the door, several empty cups next to the tea and coffee. Iona sensed an investigation coming to an unsuccessful close. When Jim spoke, she could immediately tell the enthusiasm in his voice was forced.
‘Hey-ho, we’ll get another chance to nail this bunch. I’ll put a bet on that – I have a theory about these things.’
Iona found herself studying his profile. A young Paul Newman, that’s how her mum fondly described him. The guy was horribly good-looking, she had to admit. Light brown hair that had been allowed to grow slightly tousled. It was still, essentially, a soldier’s cut, but it was only when he turned his head that the movie-star comparison really floundered.
The scars were a lot more noticeable on the right-hand side of his face: particularly the one at the corner of his eye. Despite the army surgeon’s best efforts, the skin there was pinched, giving her ex a slightly haunted look in moments when he let his jovial exterior slip. Then there were the burn marks showing just above his collar. Ridges and l
esions that, she knew, half-covered his chest. She’d run her fingers over them so often.
Yet again she found herself wondering just what had happened during his time as a squaddie out in Iraq. He’d come close to telling her a couple of times when he’d been especially drunk. Whatever it was, the incident had left him with a deep sense of shame and remorse. He didn’t know it, but the emotions would often surface when he slept, causing him to turn his head from side to side, the muscles of his jaw bulging out. It always amazed her that someone with such issues in his personal life held it together so well at work.
‘My money,’ Jim continued briskly, as he tapped his finger on a photo that had been blown up larger than the others, ‘is on this character being back on our radar first.’ Arms now crossed, Jim stared at the close-up of the man’s face. Iona could make out a shaved head and leering mouth. ‘Law of Jug Ears, that’s my theory.’ He tried to put on a Mancunian accent but only succeeded in sounding like someone with a blocked-up nose. ‘The dumber the criminal, the worse their ears stick out.’
His two colleagues started laughing.
‘What’s wrong with that? Seriously, someone should do a study on it,’ Jim protested.
Iona listened to the laughter die down. I know, she wanted to chip in, he always goes on about the jug ears thing. Instead, she rattled a teaspoon in one of the empty mugs.
All three heads immediately turned.
‘What the bloody hell are you doing gate-crashing my debriefing?’ Jim asked, blue eyes sparkling.
‘Cuppa tea?’ she asked in a squawky voice. ‘Who wants a nice cuppa tea?’
He glanced at his watch. ‘Let’s break there. Julie, Matt – this is Iona and she can’t make a decent brew to save her life.’
The pair regarded her uncertainly.
‘Seriously,’ Iona said. ‘Does anyone want a drink?’
With polite shakes of their heads, the two got to their feet and headed for the door, Matt muttering about having to get to the bank, Julie saying she needed to check emails.
Once they were gone, Iona looked at Jim with the beginnings of a smile. ‘Hello, there.’
He kept to his side of the room and nodded. ‘Hi.’