by Chris Simms
‘The raw product he was using was a processed form of mamona oil. I didn’t even question what mamona oil was – to me it was just some kind of cash-crop they grow on Mauritius.’
The presenter on the screen paused in his questioning of a politician that Iona had seen countless times on the TV. He glanced at his watch and turned to camera. She was able to lip read him say, about ten minutes. ‘Please, Professor, get to the point.’
‘Mamona oil is known as castor oil in other parts of the world. There’s an aqueous phase which is left once the oil is extracted from the castor beans—’
‘Aqueous phase?’
‘The waste. A dark, syrupy sludge. That, Detective, is very toxic. Processed castor oil is known as PGPR. Polyglycerol polyricinoleate. Do you follow?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Ricin, Detective. The aqueous phase contains ten per cent ricin. Separate it with a fraction collector and you can obtain the poison in its pure form.’
Iona turned to the window. The team were now crouched below the ground-floor windows and to either side of the front door. ‘Call them off!’
The officer’s head whipped round. ‘What?’
‘Call your team back! The house. They’ve been using it to make ricin.’
Jim crashed back out into the lobby. Chas and Fraser were sitting on the sofa like audience members of a show.
‘You’ve got a big problem, haven’t you?’ Chas asked cautiously.
‘Fuck, yes. You were mentioning a tunnel just before. Where is it?’
‘It’s more of an access point. Part of the Deansgate tunnel.’
‘Deansgate tunnel?’
Chas nodded. ‘I made it down there, just the once. I told your colleague, the one in the Counter Terrorism Unit.’
‘Tell me.’
‘It was when they were building the new offices and stuff in front of the law courts a few years ago. Where the Manchester Evening Chronicle is based.’
Jim knew where he was talking about – the new complex contained a Wagamama noodle bar and Armani shop on its ground floor.
‘To build it, they had to dig up a big section right on the edge of Deansgate itself.’
‘And that’s where you found the tunnel?’
‘Just a section of it. I made it down there during one lunch hour. Only had time for a quick look about. The section was about sixty, seventy metres long, bricked up at both ends. Fucking big it was, once. There was loads of silt and rubble on the floor, though. Some places almost to the roof. My guess was—’
‘Chas, get to the point.’
He blinked. ‘Yeah, sorry. Right, I followed it in the direction of the cathedral. Just before it ended at the bricked off part, I spotted this little door. Wooden – well knackered. The lock was half-hanging off. I got it open and there was this passageway sloping up. Very narrow, not much more than shoulder width. Stone floor, like cobbles, but flatter. So I walk along it for about twenty steps, using the light from my mobile phone. It ends at another door, this one metal and newer. Much newer. No way I could get that open – but there was a key hole in it. So I look through it. Some of the view was blocked by boxes or something, but through the cracks I could see this narrow room on the other side. The walls were lined with these glass-fronted cabinets. Narrow metal frames to them. Inside were loads of old books, some of them—’
‘How far did the Deansgate tunnel go in the other direction – towards the conference centre?’ Jim interrupted.
‘As far as Saint John Street, maybe a bit further.’
‘How far – roughly – is that from the centre?’
‘A long way,’ Fraser said. ‘Well over a hundred metres.’
Jim couldn’t see how two men – maybe assisted by an old man – could dig a tunnel that length. And besides, what would it join? The subterranean canal Iona had inspected only a couple of days before?’
‘Only possibility is if this Muttiah bloke knocked through the brick partition sealing the tunnel off below Saint John Street,’ Chas continued. ‘Say he did and there’s another navigable stretch beyond. Say then there’s a side tunnel off that bit going in an easterly direction. It would be getting you very close to the conference centre. Chance is miniscule, but you never know with these tunnels . . .’
Jim’s mind was back on the CCTV footage from outside the Central Library. Vassen shaking dust from his thick mop of hair. The missing rucksack. They’d deposited that thing somewhere. ‘But this way in you found on the construction site. That building was finished ages ago.’
‘You’re right,’ Chas replied. ‘Next time I tried to go back, it had all been back-filled with concrete. Then the new building went up over the top of it.’
‘So how could anyone –’ Jim paused. ‘The metal door looking in on that store room?’
They both nodded.
‘The room was lit by this single bulb up in the ceiling,’ Chas said. ‘The fitting was really distinctive.’
‘Why?’
‘It was like a metal tube. The thing went up and then ran all the way across the ceiling and out through the wall. We worked it out eventually. The place was closed for about four years. Big heritage project. We’ve been back since it re-opened. The security on the doors getting you out of the public areas was way beyond us. But Vassen? We know he’s good with locks. He got up the clock tower of the town hall one time.’
Jim scratched at the back of his neck. ‘You’re ahead of me here. Which building was this storeroom in?’
‘Heard of the John Rylands Library?’
Jim had. The old Victorian building with its Gothic architecture and bricks the colour of dry blood had stood at the mid-point of Deansgate for well over a hundred years.
FORTY-SIX
Iona was on her feet and staring across at the house. Beside her, the man with the laptop continued speaking into his radio. ‘Yes, it has to be Silver Commander. Negative, we are not located in the Outer Zone.’ He listened for a second. ‘It’s code three – chemical. Silver Commander needs to call it. The elderly male seen leaving the house will have arrived in the city centre over quarter of an hour ago. If he’s entered the secure zone via an official entry point, ricin will not have shown up as part of the standard security checks.’
‘What’s he talking about?’ Iona asked the colleague.
‘Whether to declare Operation Lock-In at the secure zone. Problem is, if you do that you could trap everyone on the site with a terrorist carrying ricin.’
The words caused Iona’s head to jerk round. Wasim. He won’t be able to get out. She sat on the end of the bed, hands clutched between her knees.
The officer spoke again. ‘No, we did not come with CBRN suits. This entire area will need to be evacuated. We think two suspects, possibly more.’
Iona spotted something happening on the television. People in the audience at the convention centre were looking round. Several near the front had stood and were looking off to the side with bemused or angry expressions. The camera moved round, catching fluttering movement in the far distance. The picture blurred as the cameraman tried to refocus.
Iona felt like the floor had turned to sponge as she crossed the room and turned the sound up.
‘. . . kind of a disturbance to the rear of the hall. Yes, I can see a man on the balcony. He’s throwing something down on to the audience below him.’
Iona stepped away from the television and bumped into the end of the bed. Her legs didn’t belong to her. Everything seemed disconnected and unreal.
The commentator began to talk again. ‘It’s . . . I’m not sure . . . Handfuls . . . handfuls of what appears to be paper. Are they leaflets? They look like leaflets.’
Now the picture homed in on a single figure. He was leaning against the balcony railing, reaching down and flinging his arm outwards, squares of paper drifting through the air.
‘He’s shouting. I’m not sure if our microphones are picking this up, but he’s shouting about Sagossia. Oh, that’s a relie
f. Security staff are now on the scene. They’re making their way towards him.’
The camera had closed right in on the person and Iona felt her mouth drop open. ‘It’s him! The one who got on the tram!’
The officer near the window looked round at her.
‘There!’ Iona pointed at the screen. ‘He’s in the main hall!’
‘Hold the line.’ The man at the laptop cupped a hand over his mouthpiece. ‘What the fuck are you on about?’
‘The one who I saw get on the tram. That’s him, on the TV!’
Now looking completely bewildered, the planner turned to the screen. The elderly man was moving along the balcony in order to keep ahead of the nearest security guard hurrying in his direction. Two more were at the other end of the balcony and closing in from that side.
‘Return Sagossia!’ the man bellowed. ‘Return Sagossia to its rightful people!’
He threw out his arm again and another handful of flyers were released into the air. ‘Return Sagossia!’
‘Are you sure that’s him?’ the officer with the laptop asked.
‘Yes!’
The nearest security guard lunged at the old man, catching him by the neck and forcing him into a headlock. Gasps of concern rose up from the watching crowd. The old man continued trying to shout as the other two security guards reached him. One twisted his arm back as the other yanked the rucksack out of his hands. They started bundling him along the balcony. A wave of talking was breaking out as the camera continued to track the old man’s removal.
‘There we have it,’ the announcer faltered. ‘It, it seems some kind of protestor has chosen this precise moment to make his views be known. What those views were, I’m not entirely sure. We’ll keep you informed as more details emerge, but for now, it seems all attention is turning back to the main stage.’
The officer with the laptop was speaking again. ‘Did you get that? The person just removed from the main conference hall was the same person who boarded the tram from here. Correct, the same person. Yes, he left the property we’re currently surveilling.’ He nodded his head a few times. ‘Understood.’ Looking up, he spoke to Iona and his colleague. ‘We’re pulling back. An engineer has patched into the phone line for thirty-seven. A negotiator will try to make contact. We’re out of here.’
Iona took another look at the television. The old man was no longer in view. ‘Someone needs to get hold of one of the leaflets he threw. We need to know what it’s about.’
The planner with the laptop had now closed it and was setting off out of the room. ‘They’ll be interrogating him, don’t worry. Come on, let’s go.’
Iona followed the two officers down the stairs, through the kitchen and out the back door. Uniformed officers were emerging from the backyards on either side of the alley, herding residents towards each end. She saw a police van reversing round the corner, its hazard lights flashing.
As they strode past clusters of blue and green wheelie bins, Iona took her phone out and started scrolling through her address book. Other officers were out on the road directing everyone away from Barrett Avenue. The two planners made a beeline for an unmarked car that was parked with its front doors open.
‘Hugh!’ the one carrying the laptop barked. ‘We need the obs points at the rear to stay in place. We don’t want these guys going anywhere.’
Iona found the number she was looking for and pressed green.
‘Madam, you can’t stay here.’ A hand gently took hold of her upper arm and she tried to shrug it off. ‘Madam, you can make your call where it’s safe to do so. Now I need you—’
She produced her identification and held it up to the uniformed officer. ‘I’m with the CTU.’
The female officer let go of her arm.
‘Ayo, it’s Detective Constable Khan.’
‘Detective! I was just looking for your number. Have you seen the television?’
‘Where is Sagossia, Ayo? Have you heard of it?’
‘Yes, it was one of Lord Appleton’s final rulings. Sagossia is an island—’
The driver of the police van revved the engine, obliterating Ayo’s words. ‘One of Appleton’s rulings?’
‘Practically his last.’
‘Where is Sagossia?’
‘The Indian Ocean.’
A memory hit home. A recent item in the news. Something to do with extraordinary rendition. Was it an American military facility? Somewhere flights carrying terror suspects had been landing? ‘Did Appleton rule on someone who was tortured there?’
‘No – the ruling related to events going back some fifty years. The island’s inhabitants were forcibly removed by the British Government back in the sixties and relocated to Mauritius.’
The people filing past Iona looked scared and confused. She heard one asking about how long before she could go back to her house: her cat was still inside the property. Officers were aggressively calling out, beckoning them to a line of barriers further down the road. ‘Why were they removed?’
‘To make way for an American airbase.’
That’s it, thought Iona. It’s an airbase.
‘The inhabitants have been fighting for the right to return ever since. Our government resisted and resisted, despite several rulings going in the islanders’ favour. It finally went to the Law Lords in 2008.’
Iona heard a voice calling out the word, sir. She glanced to her side to see a young constable leading a woman of about fifty towards the vehicle with the front doors open. The taller of the two planners had an elbow on its roof, busily talking into his radio.
‘Sir!’ the young officer called again.
‘What was Appleton’s role?’ asked Iona.
‘He was the lead Law Lord on the case. It was Reginald who wrote up the final judgement.’
The uniformed officer was now at the unmarked car. ‘Sir! This lady has information about number thirty-seven.’
The planner looked round. ‘What is it?’
‘She lives on Hacking Street, the one on the other side of Barrett. The rear of her house faces the rear of thirty-seven.’ He nodded at her. ‘Go on.’
‘Ayo, one moment.’ Iona turned to listen.
‘Well,’ she said nervously, ‘it’s the two younger men who’ve been staying with Navin.’
Iona moved closer to the car.
‘Navin being the house owner?’ the young uniform prompted.
‘Yes,’ the woman replied. ‘He works for the council and has done for years. Lovely man.’
‘Does he wear a flat cap?’ Iona asked.
She nodded. ‘Yes, he does.’
‘What about the two younger men?’ the planner demanded.
‘They were blocking the alley. I was going to say something.’
‘Blocking the alley?’ he said warily.
‘With Navin’s car. He keeps it in a lock-up on Canning Crescent, round the corner. Anyway, I didn’t need to in the end because they left.’
The planner shot a concerned glance at Iona. ‘When?’
‘Just after ten.’
Iona looked at her watch. Almost three minutes past eleven. She felt sick.
‘I think they were going away for a while,’ the woman added. ‘They had rucksacks and everything.’
Dad, Iona thought. She whirled round and started sprinting back to where her car was parked.
FORTY-SEVEN
Iona had passed over the M60 and was approaching the outskirts of Manchester when her phone started to ring. She put it on speakerphone and wedged it into the holder on the dashboard. ‘Ayo, can you hear me?’
‘Yes. It sounds like you’re in a car.’
‘I am.’
‘Is it safe for you to talk?’
She checked the speedometer. Sixty-four miles an hour in a forty zone. Her attention went back to the road ahead. At least there weren’t too many cars about. ‘You were saying about this case involving Sagossia.’
‘Are you sure it’s safe? I can ring you back . . .’
‘No, I need to know.’
‘You sound upset, Iona. Is everything OK?’
‘Ayo, please. I’m just . . . I’ll just listen, OK? You talk.’
‘Very well. I’ve accessed the notes and I was correct. It was one of Reginald’s last rulings – and possibly his hardest. I remember how much it troubled him at the time.’
‘Why?’
‘The Sagossians were treated appallingly, and still are, I suppose. Back then, it was the days of the Cold War. Russia’s influence was growing in Asia and the Americans needed an airbase in the region. They settled on Sagossia – which was owned by the British. The problem was the island was inhabitated by around two thousand or so people. The British agreed to clear them from their homes. They were rounded up, shipped over one thousand miles to Mauritius – also owned by the British at the time – and simply dumped there. Many died in the slums of Port Louis from starvation or disease. Others, apparently, committed suicide.’
Iona braked and swung out on to the white lines to avoid a moped rider emerging from a side street. The lights at a pedestrian crossing up ahead were turning to orange and she held her hand on the horn to deter an old couple from stepping out. They looked in astonishment as she shot past.
‘Iona? Can you hear me?’
‘Yes. Carry on.’ She eased her speed back up into the fifties.
‘The British Government then leased the island to America and embarked on a campaign of, frankly, deception. This was maintained by successive administrations for the next fifty years. You see, they couldn’t acknowledge the existence of the Sagossians, especially since – technically – they were British citizens.’
‘How do you mean not acknowledge they existed?’
‘Proper residents would have democratic rights. So they were made out to be transient workers, not an indigenous population.’
‘Like gypsies or something?’
‘A few Man Fridays was the unfortunate term one British diplomat used to describe them in a recently released private memo from the time.’
It was the first occasion in any of their conversations that Iona had heard anger in Ayo’s voice. The turn-off flashed by for Sedgley Park, where Gold Command was located. She pictured the chaos that would currently be breaking out in that place. Another half a mile and she’d reach the cathedral where the road merged with the end of Deansgate. ‘So who is the grievance with now if this all happened decades ago?’