by Chris Simms
Iona knew it – the place was on the next street from the convention centre. She was there in under a minute. Now, over five minutes later, the constable had still failed to arrive. Where was he? She glanced impatiently at the screen of her mobile once again, wondering whether to call Wallace back. This was bloody ridiculous.
‘Detective Constable Khan?’
She turned to see a uniform barely out of his teens walking casually towards her.
‘That’s a funny five minutes,’ Iona snapped, closing the space between them, wondering how long it would take them to get back to the command post.
The younger man’s smile fell, along with his outstretched hand. ‘I came as fast as I could.’
Not fast enough, Iona thought. ‘Has anyone actually filled you in on what’s going on?’
The officer had recovered a bit of his poise. ‘Yes,’ he replied, reaching into his pocket and removing a small plastic bag. Inside it were two keys. ‘I’ve come equipped.’
Equipped? Iona wanted to throw her arms out in frustration. Was this for real? Her eyes settled on the bag for an instant. ‘What are those?’
‘We’ll need them to get down to the tunnel.’
‘Down to . . .’ Iona’s words dried up. ‘To what?’
‘The tunnel.’
‘Sorry?’ She wasn’t sure if there was a trace of amusement in the man’s eyes.
‘The tunnel that runs under the convention centre? Access to it is via a flight of stairs in the Great Northern Warehouse.’
‘A flight of stairs? You know about the tunnel?’
‘Of course. It’s already been inspected and the entrance secured.’
‘It has?’
He nodded. ‘Two weeks ago. If not longer.’
Iona ignored a stray strand of hair, beginning to sense she’d just made a complete fool of herself. ‘I didn’t realize.’
‘No? No one mentioned it to you?’
No, they didn’t, she thought as Wallace’s face flashed up in her mind. Sheepishly, she extended a hand. ‘Sorry . . . I didn’t ask your name.’
A brief smile as they shook. ‘Constable Mark Davis.’ He produced a card and held it out. ‘Here’s my number – in case you ever need anything else.’
She took it, now feeling awkward and embarrassed. ‘Mark, sorry for being short with you – I had no idea we were aware of this place. Who inspected it?’
‘The same people who do it every year before the conference – a few from the CTU and a couple of people from Special Branch. Plus a sniffer dog. But it’s no trouble to double-check it if you want.’
Iona was now wondering if Wallace had been aware of the tunnel, too. ‘Well, I don’t know . . . I mean, if it’s been inspected and sealed already . . .’
The constable waved the bag with the keys inside. ‘It’s no trouble.’
Opposite them was the Radisson Edwardian. Just beyond it, a security barrier blocked off the top of Peter Street. Davis was now halfway across the empty road heading towards the old warehouse a little further along it.
As Iona began to follow, she went over her phone call with Wallace in her mind. He’d seemed genuinely shocked. But was it shock over the fact I was ringing him with knowledge about a tunnel? Surely he must have known about it if it was inspected every year. She stepped off the pavement, suspicion that her boss had let her embarrass herself swiftly growing.
By the time she caught up with the constable, he was rounding the rim of a shallow tier of seats leading down to a lawned area. In front of them loomed the sombre structure of the gigantic warehouse. As they reached the entrance, glass doors slid open to reveal its renovated interior. Immediately on their left were the blacked-out windows of a failed bar. Iona could make out the empty tables and chairs inside. ‘Where is this entrance?’ she asked, footsteps clicking on the shiny tiled floor.
‘Just up here. I rang ahead – should be someone to meet us.’ He led her round the base of an escalator which rose up to the shops, cinema and leisure centre on the floor above. Beyond the escalator was a bare corridor lined with a row of unoccupied shop units. It turned left to reveal a room with plain glass windows. ‘Here we go.’
Iona could see a man with a neatly trimmed beard waiting inside. The centre of the room was taken up by a table with a white architect’s model of the building they were now in.
Davis opened the door. ‘Brian Elliott? Constable Davis of the CTU. Was it you I spoke to?’
‘Indeed it was.’
The room had the dusty aroma of disuse. As the man approached them, Iona took in his brown corduroys and navy jumper with a name badge. She realized he was looking at her. ‘Sorry – Detective Constable Khan, also of the CTU.’ The walls of the room were covered in framed photos of the warehouse from the time it was used to store freight.
‘Not the busiest of jobs, as you can see.’ Elliot pointed at the model in the room’s centre. ‘It hasn’t attracted quite the interest the developers hoped it would. The cinema complex does quite well, but that’s about it.’
Iona frowned, still unsure of what was going on. She circled a finger. ‘Where are we?’
‘The visitor centre,’ he replied. ‘Or what was meant to be the visitor centre. It’s too rarely used to warrant the name.’
‘So,’ Constable Davis announced. ‘We need to check the tunnel.’
‘No problem.’ Elliot turned to a monitor set in the wall and reached for the joystick mounted on the stand below it. The black and white view on the screen swivelled round to reveal what appeared to be the inside of a large, deserted warehouse. Bare brick walls and then a few steps leading down from a raised area at the side. ‘The only thing I ever see moving down there are rats. Obviously, you are in possession of all our keys at present, but I’ll gladly show you about. It’ll give me something to do.’
A feeling of nausea rose suddenly from the pit of Iona’s stomach. Oh, no, she thought, they’re talking about actually going down there.
Davis took out the bag containing the keys. ‘Lead the way then, Brian.’
Her sense of dread mounting, Iona watched as Brian removed three torches from the bottom drawer of a desk. He held two out. ‘Only the loading bay is lit. Once you enter the tunnel itself, it’s pitch black.’
Iona cleared her throat. ‘Um . . . you mean we’re going into the tunnel? Right now?’
Davis glanced at her with a look of surprise. ‘That’s the idea.’
‘Right.’ Iona nodded, aware he was scrutinizing her. I don’t believe this, a voice inside her head wailed. I do not believe this. ‘How . . . how far is it to get down there?’
Elliot didn’t need to think. ‘Just shy of sixty metres.’ He glanced down at their feet and gestured at Iona’s shiny shoes. ‘You don’t mind if they get a bit dirty, do you?’
Aware her indecision had been clocked by Davis, Iona fought to regain her composure. She firmly believed the constable would be reporting everything about this visit back. ‘How dirty are we talking?’ she replied, trying to smile. ‘These are Jimmy Choos, I hope you realize?’
‘Jimmy whats?’ Elliot asked.
‘I’m joking.’ Iona winked at Davis. ‘Marks and Spencer’s finest, more like.’
The constable grinned. ‘There’ll be a few puddles and a lot of the floor is just bare earth. But you’ll be all right.’
At the rear of the room was a grey metal door. A line of anti-tamper tape bearing the GMP logo stretched across it and on to the frame. Handing his torch to Iona, Davis stepped forward, scraped back the corner with a fingernail and peeled the entire length away. The thin material instantly buckled with countless little creases. He scrunched it into a ball before removing the heavy padlock halfway up. Next, he selected the other key and turned it in the lock below the door’s handle.
Behind the two men, Iona glanced nervously about. Was it her fear or did it seem reckless to start wandering around what could be the site of an intended terrorist attack? ‘Are you certain this is the only way
to access this tunnel?’
Elliot nodded. ‘Absolutely.’
‘What about each end of it? Surely it comes out somewhere?’
‘Both entrances were filled with tonnes of rubble and concrete then bricked up years ago. I suppose you could dig your way through – if you had enough men and heavy equipment.’
Iona weighed up the response. OK, she thought. Looks like we’re going down there. She took a deep breath.
‘Last thing,’ Brian said, glancing back. ‘You might want to button your jacket up. It’s pretty chilly down there.’
SEVENTEEN
On the other side of the door was a narrow passage with a concrete floor and walls. Elliot set off along it, talking over his shoulder. ‘Is this a routine check?’
‘Yes,’ Iona replied before Constable Davis could speak.
At the end of the passage a steep flight of steps came into view. Grasping the handrail, Elliot began to descend, followed by Constable Davis. Iona trailed behind.
After two flights the steps were replaced by metal ones and, peering over the handrail, Iona guessed they were a third of the way down the shaft. White tiles now lined the walls, the grout between them furred by some kind of prickly growth. Like going into the basement of an abandoned mental asylum, Iona thought, as sweat began to prickle her armpits.
After another two flights the walls were just bare brick. In places a deposit resembling limescale had oozed from the surfaces to form tiny, frozen waterfalls of grey. The clang of their feet on the dimpled steps was the only sound and Iona tried to think of a deserted beach, sun hovering over a distant horizon. ‘This was once a canal then?’ Her voice echoed slightly.
‘That’s right,’ Elliot called back. ‘The Manchester and Salford Junction Canal. It was built as a way of circumventing the congested city streets and high levies being charged by the Bridgewater Canal Company.’
He cleared the final steps and moved to the side of a thin corridor. ‘I actually work as a Blue Badge guide in the evenings. You can have the whole history, if you want.’
‘Why not?’ Davis replied. ‘I’ve been wondering about this place.’
Iona was trying not to think about how far below ground they were. Her feet didn’t want to leave the last step. To the side of it, a green bait box had been placed at the base of the tunnel wall. ‘Are there loads of rats down here?’
Elliot tilted his head. ‘They’ll have scarpered long before we reached the last flight. I wouldn’t worry.’ He placed his torch under one arm and rubbed his hands together. ‘So, the canal – which opened for business in 1839 – linked the Rochdale Canal, by the side of the Bridgewater Hall, to the River Irwell across town. Total length is about five hundred yards.’ He turned round and strode off down the corridor, followed by Davis.
Iona took a last glance up towards the surface and then set off after the two men. They emerged into a cavernous hall with smaller, arched openings at each end. A cloying smell of damp earth permeated the air.
The sense of space caused Iona’s feelings of anxiety to subside a little and she felt her breathing ease. This isn’t so bad, she said to herself. As long as we don’t have to squeeze into anywhere narrow, I can do this.
In the middle of the curving brick roof above her was the ubiquitous half-sphere of darkened glass. The CCTV camera, she realized. The images we could see on the monitor in the visitor centre. Next to it was a smoke alarm. Between the naked light bulbs dotting the ceiling hung spindly stalactites. Some, Iona guessed, were several feet long. A drip detached itself from one and hit the glistening earth below with a little plip.
Elliot approached some railings and pointed down. When he spoke, Iona could see his breath in the chill air. ‘The canal was widened here to create a loading bay for the narrow boats. A lot of the coal from the mines in Bolton and Bury was carried into the city from this point.’
‘Why did it close?’ asked Davis.
‘Never made any money. Just before it opened, the Bridgewater Canal Company slashed its levies for using the Castlefield locks. Then the railways, when they started to spread, offered a far faster means of transport.’
Iona visualized the frantic levels of activity that established Manchester as England’s industrial powerhouse. The fortunes made and lost in that brief window of time.
‘It was decided to turn it into an air-raid shelter in World War Two,’ Elliot continued. ‘The water was drained and a new lining of bricks put in, along with four generators to draw down fresh air, chemical toilets and rows of three-tier bunks.’
Davis looked around. ‘For how many people?’
‘The Air Raids Committee report put capacity at five thousand people. But I’ve seen documents in the archives stating thirty-six thousand bunk beds were brought down here. Who knows the actual amounts.’
Constable Davis glanced at Iona. ‘That’s about half the crowd who turn up to see United at Old Trafford. A lot of people.’
‘But I bet they weren’t down here eating prawn sandwiches,’ she shot back.
Chuckling, Elliot made his way down the steps and on to the old canal bed. ‘OK – I assume you want to check underneath the convention centre?’
‘Please,’ Davis answered.
As they followed Elliot towards the mouth of the left-hand tunnel Iona examined the black opening with apprehension. ‘How . . . how cramped will it be in the tunnel?’
‘Pleasantly spacious, as a matter of fact,’ Elliot answered. ‘The narrow boats it was built to accommodate were quite wide.’
‘Like ant hills,’ Davis remarked, pointing to the little mounds of powdery earth dotting the floor.
‘Aren’t they?’ Elliot responded. ‘It’s trickle-down from the ceiling.’
A sudden image of the bricks collapsing under endless tonnes of mud and stone flashed up in Iona’s mind. Don’t be stupid, she told herself, pushing the thought aside.
Elliot stopped short of the entrance and turned his torch on. At the side of the archway faint letters below an arrow said, To Bay Three. ‘From here on we provide our own light.’
The trio of spots cast by their torches bobbed and danced as they picked their way slowly along the dark tunnel. Every now and again Elliot would direct the beam of his torch ahead to provide a dizzying glimpse of the low roof stretching away. Iona could feel her heartbeat had picked up. Dozens of stalactites hung down, like streamers from a party held a lifetime ago.
Occasionally, she directed her torch off to the side and examined the waist-high towpath running alongside them. Scattered along it were fragments of broken brick, the odd length of cable or gnarled and rusted bits of metal. She passed some stacked pieces of wood, the uppermost ones rotted to a thick layer of splinters. Everything was encased in a grainy layer of brick dust and the sound of dripping water was all around.
‘Brian?’ Constable Davis whispered theatrically.
‘Yes?’
‘Has anyone ever died down here?’
‘As a matter of fact, they have.’
They walked on in silence for a few more seconds, Iona clearly able to hear the thud of her heart.
‘Brian?’ Davis again.
‘Yes?’
‘What happened?’
The other man gave a low laugh. ‘A boatman called Samuel Bennett drowned. He was returning to his vessel from the pub and fell in. His body floated out of the tunnel a few days later.’
‘Will you two stop it?’ Iona hissed. There was a splashing noise and she looked down. A shallow expanse of watery brown sludge was at her feet. As she stepped carefully over the remainder of the puddle both men suppressed their giggles.
They reached a partition wall that stretched across the tunnel. An open doorway at one side led into the next bay. Elliot shone his torch to the right. A row of brick cubicles lined a side recess. ‘Some of the air-raid toilets. The third one along still has one in it.’ The beam picked out what looked like a large metal top-hat turned upside down. Rust had half eaten the rim away and what
remained of the wooden door was spread across the floor.
Several bays later, they emerged into a wider area with a flight of stairs stretching up.
‘What was an entrance,’ Elliot said. ‘These steps once led all the way up to the street.’
‘Hang on,’ Iona cut in. ‘You said there were no other ways to get down here.’
‘There aren’t,’ Elliot replied, torchlight etching deep shadows across his face. ‘They dug it as an extra air-raid shelter entrance but it’s been bricked in and concreted over.’
‘Where did it come out?’ Iona pointed her torch beam up the steep steps. Darkness defeated the thin shaft of light after about ten metres.
‘Grape Street.’
He led the way up to the first landing where an archway had been built into the right-hand wall. ‘Through here, mind the step.’
They entered another passageway that, judging from the echoes, opened into something far bigger. She played her torch beam about and realized the space they were now entering made the loading bay seem poky.
‘Where are we?’ Davis asked at her side.
‘Directly below Central Station, the last main passenger railway terminus to be built in Manchester,’ Elliot announced with a flourish.
And now the convention centre, Iona thought, climbing down a knee-high ledge on to bare earth. She aimed her torch up. The beam was just able to illuminate colossal spans of brick. The ceiling they supported was slightly shiny and black. ‘Is that the actual underside of the convention centre’s floor?’
‘Correct.’
Iona pictured the mass of people scurrying about on it, all completely oblivious to what was below their very feet.
‘That main arch,’ Elliot remarked, jumping down beside her and shining his torch to their left, ‘is the second largest unsupported span in Britain. Exceeded only by one down in London’s Saint Pancras station. Shall we check around?’
‘If you don’t mind,’ Iona replied, feeling like she was in a cathedral during a power cut.
‘What actually are we looking for?’ asked Davis.