by Chris Simms
‘Now, I’ve let you roam around looking for these two men, but I still say your focus should be—’
‘Sir, if the witness I’ve found is correct, they’re likely to be living within a stone’s throw of last night’s incident. They were carrying a takeaway curry when these two white—’
‘If I may finish?’
‘Sir.’
Wallace interlinked his fingers as he leaned forward. He started to speak slowly, clearly enunciating each word. ‘This cleric; you might be of the opinion he doesn’t represent much of a threat to the conference. Perhaps it all seems a little tedious to you. But I’d like to know what the likelihood is of him showing his ugly face in the city centre. If you are prepared – in principle – to go in, I need to know. We can work out the details at that point.’
She thought about Jim’s comment: how Wallace liked to test the allegiance and loyalty of those below him – test it through perverse acts like having a child beaten to death. ‘I . . . need to think about it. It seems to me we’re so close to Vassen—’
‘Go.’ He waved impatiently at the door. ‘There are a load of vehicle registrations we need to manually check against scans from the M60’s ANPR cameras. I’ll have them sent to your desk.’
She was reaching for the door when he spoke again. ‘You need to decide what you are, Detective Khan. There can be no in between.’
There it was again, she thought. Vague assertions. Faint insinuations. It’s like he thinks me visiting a mosque to report on those inside will somehow prove I’m . . . what? Worthy of his trust? ‘I don’t follow you, sir.’
‘Think about it. You played hockey at school. Scored a few goals, I gather. You’ve been part of a team. It’s the same thing here. We’re a team. We work for each other. Together. As one. That’s how we win. People who aren’t committed to our cause end up on the substitutes’ bench. Now shut the door on your way out.’
‘I’ll do it.’
He glanced up. ‘What?’
‘I said, I’ll do it. I’ll visit the mosque.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘You’re prepared to go in it?’
‘I’ll do it.’
‘Wearing the appropriate attire?’
‘Yes.’
He looked steadily at her. ‘Good . . . that’s good.’ Lifting a hand, he glanced at his watch. ‘The conference is pretty much over for the day. Tomorrow is when a lot of the big guns are on stage. How about you pay the place a visit first thing in the morning? See what the activity levels are at that point?’
‘OK.’
He sat back and gave her the faintest of smiles. ‘We’ll need to sort you out some robes, then.’
As she left his office, Iona had to suck in air. Her hands were trembling as she walked unsteadily towards the stairs.
THIRTY-TWO
‘I know what he is now. A bully. One who uses words, but that’s what he is.’
Jim’s face was set tight as he filled his wine glass. ‘Sure you don’t want any?’
She shook her head, wondering to herself how much he was now getting through. You never used to drink on a Sunday night, she thought. You were puking your guts up in the kitchen yesterday evening.
‘He’s not even a subtle one,’ Jim replied, carefully putting the bottle down. ‘Not out in Iraq, anyway. He’d slap and kick people out there. Would do here, if he could get away with it.’
Iona shook her head. ‘How does someone like him get into a position of such power?’
Jim snorted. ‘Because he does a job, Iona. He gets good results and no one’s prepared to complain about him. In fact, I hear most of his team rate him highly.’ He took a sip. ‘Besides, you’re assuming everyone who gets senior roles in the police are intelligent, balanced and reasonable individuals. Believe me, they are not.’
‘Should I be the one?’
He gave her a questioning look.
‘Who makes a complaint? Perhaps if I did, others may –’
‘No. He’s too clever, Iona. You’ll come out worse.’
‘But I can’t . . .’ She closed her eyes. ‘I dread going into work. He . . . he’s able to make me feel so small. And I hate that. I hate myself for allowing him to do that.’
Jim gazed at her with a pained expression. ‘Don’t stress about it. He won’t send you into that mosque.’
‘He had the clothing guys dig me out a hijab and proper dress.’
‘He’ll think up a bullshit excuse and call you back as you’re about to go in. Mind games, Iona. That’s what this is.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Yeah, it’s what he does.’
Her eyes were still closed as a shiver went through her. He reached out a hand and was about to brush a strand of hair back from her face when she sat forward. His hand recoiled and he scratched at his ear.
Head down, she studied the laptop on the table. The CCTV footage was frozen on Vassen in the act of shaking out his hair. ‘I agree – it’s dust. The rucksack could have contained overalls – something to keep their clothes clean while they were below ground.’
‘Which leaves us trying to figure out where.’ From the table, he picked up a tourist street map of the city centre and unfolded it across his knees. ‘They set off down Long Millgate. That leads into Fennel Street, which passes between the cathedral and Chetham’s School of Music before joining Deansgate.’
‘And we know there are loads of tunnels running out from beneath the cathedral.’
‘Plus, you mentioned the one that’s supposed to stretch the entire length of Deansgate itself. Though I really find that hard to believe.’
‘Well,’ Iona sat back, ‘the bloke in the visitor centre in the Great Northern looked like he thought it existed.’
Jim was tracing his finger down the long, straight road. ‘Which still doesn’t get us anywhere near the convention centre itself. The thing is, what? A hundred metres away from the road?’
‘What if they’re digging their own tunnel?’
‘A hundred metres long? That requires some serious engineering, surely.’
‘The Sub-Urban Explorers said Manchester is built on a layer of sandstone, which is very easy to scoop out. It’s why there are so many tunnels in the first place.’
‘Talking of which, weren’t they meant to be getting back to you?’
Iona sighed. ‘The contact is avoiding my calls. Has been all day.’
‘What about that constable with the keys? He mentioned a secret council map to you, didn’t he? Something with the tunnels marked out on?’
‘Yes – but I’m not convinced even that shows where they all are, The SUE guys alluded to ones that the council are completely unaware of.’
‘So we need to get hold of them again. You have a mobile number for this contact, right?’
‘And a Christian name. Toby. That’s it.’
He rolled his eyes in response. ‘Shit.’
‘There’s the owner of the takeaway place on Woodhill Road who served Vassen and his mate. He saw their faces.’
‘But you can’t lean on him to make an identity without revealing Vassen and his mate are who you’re really interested in.’
‘Which we can’t afford to do.’
‘And this pair from the alleyway –’
‘One is no fixed abode. And the other one is a Geordie called Gary, who claimed to have been inside for some kind of robbery. It’s a dead end.’
Jim sipped at his drink, moving his lips in and out before swallowing. ‘I could try trawling council CCTV from around Bury. You never know, I might get lucky.’
‘What are the chances, Jim? Really?’
He gave her a look. ‘You’re right. Waste of time. If I had a week to do it in, maybe . . .’
Iona took another file out of her carry case. It contained the printouts on Reginald Appleton, the murdered Law Lord. ‘He’s linked, somehow. Has to be. I don’t believe Ranjit killed him for his cash. He may have needed the money to get over here, but something else is involved.�
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‘MI6 were happy to sign it off as a burglary.’
‘Yes, but that was before all this stuff came to light.’ She swept a hand at her files.
Jim rubbed the tips of his fingers across his forehead, saying nothing.
She glanced to her side. ‘What?’
‘Wallace ran the new information past them. And there’s been no come back.’
‘Meaning what?’
He let his hand drop. ‘As things stand, they obviously don’t believe this adds up to much. Nothing worth a response from them, anyway.’
She turned to look at him properly. ‘Is that what you think as well?’
‘No – I didn’t say that. But what have we got? A foreign student who’s outstayed his visa. There are legions of them.’
‘And a graduate in chemical engineering.’
‘OK, hundreds then.’
‘With an interest in Manchester’s tunnels.’
‘All of which – in the vicinity of the conference site – have been checked and sealed. What else have we got? Possible sightings of that person with another person suspected of murdering an ex-Law Lord – over in Mauritius. It’s not enough, Iona. Can you see that?’
She lifted her chin and stared up at the ceiling. ‘I know . . . I know . . . Hidden Shadow, damn him. He’s the only person who can confirm if it was really Ranjit outside the library.’
Jim was nodding. ‘You’re right. Get a positive ID on Ranjit, confirmation he’s here in Manchester, and the whole thing changes. Wallace will have to take it seriously.’
She straightened her back, letting out a yawn as she did so. A thought caused her mouth to suddenly shut. ‘Blair and Brown are on stage tomorrow. If you’re talking terrorist targets, they must be the best on offer for the day.’
‘What time are they on?’
‘Late morning. Eleven, I think.’ She felt her eyes being dragged back to the still of Vassen outside the library. Would it be the next day when they tried something?
Jim let out a short and bitter laugh. ‘A big part of me wouldn’t mind if their plan succeeded.’
She looked at him, horror-struck.
‘If it was only those two who were in the firing line,’ he hastily added. ‘Blair took us into Iraq, remember? All that bullshit about WMD. Brown kept the occupation going. So many people died as a result.’
‘And so many people will die if the Bhujuns carry out an attack. I’ve seen the centre, Jim. It’s not just politicians in there. There are thousands of people – charity workers, non-government organizations, kids! I saw a bunch of kids out the front, leafleting for some cause or other. And how many of our colleagues are there as part of Operation Protector? I can’t believe you just said that.’
‘You’re right, sorry.’ Jim drained his wine and put the empty glass on the table. ‘We spoof it.’
‘Spoof what?’
‘This Toby character. You’ve been ringing him all day?’
She nodded.
‘And his phone has been on?’
‘Yes – it just gets diverted to answerphone.’
‘Which means that – with the phone company’s cooperation – you can triangulate the location of his mobile. It’s a Sunday – chances are he’s been at home at least some of the day.’
Iona looked confused. ‘That thought had occurred. But the amount of paperwork to access that kind of information. Wallace would never sign if off, anyway.’
‘Toby doesn’t know that. You’re CTU. Ring him again. Use the threat of anti-terror laws to put the shits up him. He’ll call you back quick enough.’
She picked nervously at the corner of the laptop’s keyboard. ‘I’m not sure . . .’
‘Iona, he’ll fall for it. Make up something about how you’ll be able to get the co-ordinates of his phone by midnight. If he doesn’t call you –’
‘I’m not sure about using the threat of the anti-terror law is what I meant.’
‘Why? I don’t understand.’
‘I made a promise, Jim. I said that what they told me about Vassen and the tunnels was in confidence and it wouldn’t be used against them.’
‘So you break your promise. Tough.’
‘And confirm all their fears.’
‘What bloody fears?’
‘That we represent some fascist surveillance state, that we lie, that we can never be trusted . . .’
‘Iona, what are you on about? You just said: if they are planning an attack, God-knows-how-many people’s lives are at risk. The guy isn’t returning your calls. The nice and soft approach ain’t working.’
She continued to pick at the plastic casing.
‘I’ll call him, if you want,’ Jim announced. ‘Doesn’t bother me.’
‘No,’ she announced quietly. ‘It has to be me.’ Resignedly, she reached for her mobile just as it started to ring. Seeing the name on the screen caused her head to rock back with surprise. ‘DC Khan, here.’
‘Detective, it’s Superintendent Harish Veerapan, from Mauritius.’
She could hear the weariness in his voice. ‘Superin—’
‘I hope you don’t mind me calling; I realize it’s late evening in Britain.’
‘Not at all – what time is it over there?’
‘One forty-three in the morning. I’m ringing because I have just found some very significant new information. It concerns the murder of Reginald Appleton.’
THIRTY-THREE
Iona’s eyes widened. ‘Significant new information about Appleton’s murder?’
‘Yes. There’s a link . . . I’m still trying to work it out.’
She gestured at Jim, who quickly passed her the pen lying at the end of the table. ‘Harish, can I put you on speakerphone? I’m with a colleague here, I get the feeling we’ll need to note this down.’
‘That’s fine. I’ve been thinking about the case – your suspicions that Ranjit Bhujun is now in England. I don’t suppose you’ve found him?’
‘Not yet, but I think we’re close.’
‘I had another look at the items recovered from Mr Appleton’s study, considering things from the angle that – maybe – it wasn’t a burglary.’
Iona was now sitting on the edge of the sofa. ‘And?’
‘Have you heard of an outfit in London called Slattinger-Dell?’
She immediately started to write it down. ‘No.’
‘According to a very understated website, they’re a brand consultancy that also specialize in promoting their clients’ interests within parliament.’
‘Lobbyists,’ Iona muttered.
‘Sorry?’ Harish said.
‘Lobbyists,’ Iona stated more strongly. ‘People who try and sway government policy.’
‘Well, they certainly appear to be capable of doing that.’
‘Why?’
‘After Daniel Tevland wrestled power from the previous leader, he appointed Slattinger-Dell to revamp the Labour Party’s image; to present it as a viable government-in-waiting.’
Iona thought of the flurry of photo shoots Tevland had been in since his election. It had all been very slick. ‘So how does this connect to Ranjit Bhujun?’
‘Ah, that’s the interesting bit, Detective. Are you ready?’
‘All ears.’
‘Slattinger-Dell is jointly owned by a man called Tristram Dell.’
‘Sorry, what was the Christian name?’
‘Tristram. My pronunciation may be out.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ Iona frowned. It seemed faintly familiar.
‘He was a senior civil servant in the Foreign Office for many, many years before retiring to establish Slattinger-Dell. The contacts he made have obviously served him well.’
‘Probably, it seems to be how these things work.’
‘Prior to joining the civil service, he was at Oxford University –’
Iona’s shoulders flinched as the connection suddenly came together. ‘He studied with Reginald Appleton. There’s . . . there’s something to do
with their families . . . hang on.’ She reached for Appleton’s file once more.
‘Appleton’s daughter, Lucinda, married Dell’s son, Nicholas,’ Harish announced.
‘That was it.’ Iona got on to her knees and started spreading the printouts from Appleton’s file across the floor.
‘Now,’ Harish continued. ‘Among the items from Appleton’s study was a letter from Dell. In it, and I quote here, “The project I outlined in my last email is progressing well – hopeful of continuing the party’s rehabilitation at the coming conference. Essential we get the old guard to unite behind Daniel if he is to truly take the party forward as its new leader”.’
Iona looked up at Jim.
Harish’s voice carried on from the mobile propped up on the coffee table. ‘The old guard. What do you think he means by the old guard?’
‘Not what,’ Jim said. ‘Who.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Harish,’ Iona cut in, ‘that was my colleague, Jim, speaking.’
‘Hello, Harish,’ said Jim in a slightly overloud voice. ‘The old guard – Labour’s previous leadership. Once known as New Labour.’
‘Ah,’ Harish said. ‘What I thought. Blair and Brown – those two.’
Iona was staring at Jim. She didn’t need to say the two ex-Prime Ministers were due on stage the next day, possibly alongside Tevland himself. ‘What else was in the letter?’
‘That was it. So I went to Appleton’s residence and spent some time trying to access his emails. The one he referred to in that letter is now on the screen in front of me.’
‘You’re there now, in Appleton’s villa?’ Iona asked.
‘Much of it is irrelevant, but there is one part worth hearing. I quote, “Regarding the project, have now held discreet meetings with several key figures. Overall, it’s very encouraging. Negotiations taking place to secure an audience with A.B. Will write to you properly as I can’t stand communicating via email – but expect some headlines at the conference in September! Hope to make it over before Christmas. Yours as ever, Tristram”.’
Iona was looking at Jim as she spoke. ‘He said, “write to you properly”. That means there’s another letter.’
‘My impression also,’ Harish replied.