by Chris Simms
‘Every government since has been complicit in the cover-up,’ Ayo replied. ‘That includes three prime ministers – starting with Harold Wilson – and over a dozen cabinet ministers.’
‘What about Blair’s government?’
She sighed. ‘Iona, Tony Blair used the royal pejorative to circumvent a high court judgement finding in favour of the islanders’ right to return. That means he resorted to the divine right of kings. Then there’s Lord Appleton’s ruling, when he found in favour of the Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs. That was the islanders’ final chance gone. Secretary of State at that time –’
Iona could see the dark outline of the cathedral up ahead. It seemed to be crouching on its elevated piece of land. To her right was the River Irwell. She was now on Deansgate itself. ‘Ayo, I didn’t catch that. Who was in charge at the Foreign Office?’
There was no reply.
Iona risked a quick look at her mobile, hoping the call hadn’t been lost. The screen was blank. She reached forward and pressed the green button. No! Oh, damn it, no!
The phone’s battery had run out.
Jim was going to start marching along Cross Street towards the town hall when Fraser called out to him. ‘Quicker to cut through here.’
He followed the two younger men across St Anne’s Square, passing the old church with its paving slabs made of grave stones.
‘Good little tunnel under there,’ Chas nodded. ‘Leads into an old crypt. Skeletons and everything.’
Jim could only shake his head as he trailed the men who, suddenly, looked at ease in their surroundings. They rounded the corner on to Deansgate and there, a short distance further down, was the John Rylands library. The Gothic architecture of the place stood in stark contrast to the modern buildings on either side. Intricate stone carvings were etched into the frames of the church-like windows, ornate balconies protruded higher up and, above them, battlements ran along the top.
Sirens were ringing out from the direction of the convention centre and, as they walked, Fraser was flicking through screens on his iPhone. ‘Been an arrest in the main hall.’
Jim looked sharply to his left. ‘What does it say?’
‘Just breaking now. Lone protestor, up on the balcony, chucking leaflets about something down on to the audience.’
‘Elderly male, was he?’
‘Doesn’t say.’
He reached for his own phone and tried to ring Iona. Engaged. As they jogged over a pedestrian crossing Jim looked up at the imposing building.
‘This was all slums, beerhouses and factories when it was built,’ Chas said. ‘A bit of civilization amid the chaos.’
Jim had the abrupt impression of the city as something that evolved, continually putting down layer on layer in a never-ending process of change. He went to mount the shallow steps leading up to doors that looked more suited to a castle.
‘Shut,’ Chas called. ‘After they did the big refurb. You get in through the visitor centre down the side.’
They scooted round the corner on to a wide plaza. To the left, beyond a line of young trees, the signage in the windows of the Armani shop shone gaudily out. They headed towards a low, white-walled structure that jutted out from the dark and sombre stone of the library’s rear.
Chas shuffled through the revolving door and into the brightly lit space beyond. As Jim followed, he glimpsed a cafe area at the far end. He approached the front counter, badge at the ready. There was an attractive, dark-haired woman typing away behind the counter. ‘Hello, I’m with the police. Is there a basement to this building?’
She nodded calmly, taking her hands of the keyboard and crossing one over the other.
‘We need to go down there,’ Jim said, voice low and urgent.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Her words carried the trace of an American accent.
‘Can someone in your maintenance or facilities department take us down? We urgently need to look around it.’
‘Oh . . . all right. One moment.’
She picked up her phone and pressed a couple of buttons. Jim turned round, watching as two men – both carrying bags over their shoulders – strolled straight past the front desk into the library’s main part.
‘Someone’s on the way,’ she said.
‘Can anyone just wander in?’
‘Of course. We are a public library. Anyone is welcome to use the Historic Reading Room up on the first floor.’
‘You don’t need to be a member?’
‘Only if you’re borrowing books.’
‘What about bag inspections. Is there nothing like that?’
‘Anything of value has to be signed out. Rare books and manuscripts cannot be taken from the Elsevier Reading Room, if that’s what you mean.’
I was thinking about monitoring what people were bringing in, Jim thought, crossing his arms. Ranjit and Vassen could have been passing in and out of here pretty much as they pleased.
‘Erika,’ a voice said. ‘Are these . . .?’
‘Yes. Um, Officer?’
Jim turned to see a man of about twenty. His shirt, trousers and shoes were black and his hair was tied back in a ponytail. There was something apologetic about his demeanour. Trainee, Jim thought. ‘Hello.’ He extended a hand. ‘We need to take a look round your basement area, please.’
‘Certainly. Is there something amiss?’ He led them along the counter to a set of spotless steps. Halogen lights shone down from the white ceiling.
‘We’re not sure,’ Jim replied, checking Chas and Fraser were behind.
‘Because the security is very robust,’ he replied, pointing to the ubiquitous black half-sphere above. ‘It’s all monitored.’
‘What’s exactly down here?’ Jim asked.
‘Toilets, baby changing and a locker area. Through here are the storage facilities for the parts of the library’s collection we don’t keep out on display. Two of the world’s twelve remaining complete Gutenberg Bibles are in here.’ He unlocked a door marked, No Access. Immediately beyond was a second door with a camera mounted above it. He swiped a card attached to his belt by a looped cord. They entered a wide area dissected by row after row of locked shelving units. Books of every shape and size were lined up behind the thick Perspex fronts. Jim saw digital panels with temperature and what he guessed were humidity levels on the end of each unit.
‘Is this the area you wanted to inspect?’ the library employee said, stepping aside.
Jim looked at Chas for confirmation. The Sub-Urban Explorer was peering about. The more he looked, the less happy he appeared. ‘Are there side rooms? Something with a door set into the wall?’
‘Not as such,’ their guide replied. ‘There are doors in the partition walls to stop the spread of fire.’ He continued down the central aisle, using his swipe card to open one so they could look into an identical area beyond.
Chas was shaking his head. ‘It’s all too . . . new. What I saw, it was old. The walls weren’t white. The cabinets weren’t these new things. They had thin metal frames, glass that looked warped.’
Jim addressed the library employee. ‘This area was dug out recently?’
‘Yes.’
‘We need to be in the old part. A cellar or basement that’s below the original building.’
‘Nothing of value is stored there any more. All the rare manuscripts, the original—’
‘We’re not interested in the library’s collection,’ Jim interrupted.
Chas clicked his fingers, the sound quickly snuffed out by the confined space. ‘And the light. It had this weird tube thing for the wires.’
‘That’s definitely the old basement,’ the staff member replied. ‘When it was built, the library was one of the first in Manchester to use electric light. All the wiring had to be done by plumbers and they used pipes to run the cables through.’
‘That’s where we need to be,’ Jim said. ‘The old basement.’
They retraced their steps to the ground floor. At the
top of the stairs, the staff member opened a door marked Private and led them along a narrow corridor with a stone, not polished concrete, floor. Door after door was set into the old brickwork on their left, silver-clad pipes ran along the low ceiling just above their heads. He unlocked another door at the far end and they stepped on to a landing halfway up a curling set of stone stairs.
‘Cool,’ Chas whispered.
‘This is the front of the building,’ the library employee announced. ‘We’re on the staircase leading up from the old entrance out on to Deansgate.’
‘Deansgate?’ Jim asked, stopped dead by the incredible architecture. Stone pillars shot up all around him, each one bursting out in a fan of struts to form multiple vaulted ceilings, the centre of each studded with carvings of oak leaves, dragons or gargoyles. Mullioned windows let in light, but not enough to banish the shadows clinging to the swirling grooves of the stone banisters.
‘That’s right,’ he replied, descending the flight of steps to the lobby area before the old doors. ‘These are permanently locked, now.’ He turned back on himself to gesture at another, narrower set of stairs.
At their top, Jim saw a sign that read, Men Only. Please Note: These Are Working Toilets. Photography Is Not Permitted From This Point. Thank You.
‘The door to the dust store, as we call it, is down here,’ the library employee said.
Jim scanned the ornate archway at the top. ‘No CCTV?’
‘Not down here, for obvious reasons.’
In the gloom at the bottom of the stairs were two doors. The one on their left was slightly ajar and Jim could see a white-tiled toilet area that looked unchanged in over a century. The door on the right was plain wood with painted lettering in its centre reading, Private.
‘In here?’ their guide asked, sounding unsure.
‘Please,’ Jim replied.
He used a key to open it up and flicked the light switch just inside. A row of single ceiling bulbs came to life, each one connected by a dark pipe which was bolted to the curved ceiling. The place smelled of sawdust.
‘This is it,’ Chas said from the doorway behind Jim.
The library employee led the way once more. ‘This passage goes the entire length of the building. To the right are the old storage bays.’ He stopped at the first recess, which was barred by a metal gate.
Like a dungeon, Jim thought, looking in. Behind it were empty cabinets and stacks of wooden chairs. Right at the back a pale face was staring in his direction. He felt a brief jolt of alarm before realizing it was just a stone bust.
‘I’m not sure what would be of interest . . . the bays housing the old generators are further along . . .’
‘We’re going the wrong way,’ Chas called out from behind them. ‘You’re leading us away from Deansgate.’
He’s right, thought Jim, turning on his heel.
Chas was standing at the end of the corridor, thumb gesturing to an unmarked wooden door behind him. ‘What’s through here?’
The library employee frowned. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘Have you got a key?’ Jim asked.
He examined his set. ‘No. I’ve . . . you know? I’ve never had cause to open it.’
Jim waved a hand at Chas. ‘Step aside, mate, you’re cutting off the light.’
The two Sub-Urban Explorers pressed themselves up against the wall. Jim looked up to the ceiling, immediately spotting that the metal tube carrying the light cabling went through the stone above the door. Directing his gaze to the floor, he could see scuff marks on the dusty floor. He craned his neck to look more closely at the scrolled metal of the door’s small handle. Sticking to its side was a small smear of dry soil. ‘Did you touch this, Chas?’
‘No.’
‘We’ll need the key,’ Jim said, looking back at the library employee.
‘The key,’ he murmured. ‘Yes. I can fetch Ian, he’s my boss.’
Jim straightened up. ‘While you do that, I need to make a call.’ He took his mobile out and immediately saw the light was blinking red. No signal down here, he realized, setting off back up the stairs.
By the time Iona had weaved her way through the traffic clogging Deansgate she was almost weeping with frustration. It had gone quarter past eleven when she reached the junction with Peter Street. She turned into it and accelerated briefly before screeching to a halt in front of the yellow barrier blocking the road. She leaped out of her car, warrant card raised. ‘DC Khan, CTU! I need to get into the conference centre.’
The pair of officers held their arms out to block her path. ‘Hey! You cannot abandon a vehicle here!’
She tried to push past but they shoved her back. ‘The keys are in the ignition, you move it. I have to get into the conference centre.’
Three other officers set off towards them from their position on the far side of the road.
‘Wait up!’ said one of the officers manning the barrier. ‘Just wait up, OK? Let me see that ID again.’
She held it up to him. After taking a proper look, the officer started speaking into the handset of his radio.
Iona stepped away from them. The stretch of road beyond the girder-like barrier was still fairly crowded with people leafleting and others who obviously didn’t possess passes into the centre itself. In the walkway between the outer and inner perimeter fence were two more officers. Both were watching her suspiciously. Further down the road, before the Midland Hotel, was the opening for the main entry point into the secure zone. It was about thirty metres away. Pretending that she was about to lean her forearms on the metal barrier, she ducked under it and started sprinting for the entry point.
The three officers crossing the road broke into a run, trying to cut her off. She headed straight for them, forcing them to check their step before jinking sharply to the right. Outstretched fingers brushed her sleeve, failing to get a firm hold. They started yelling at her to stop as she raced into the fenced-in corridor which led to the security check.
Standing in front of its entrance were two officers in black vests and black baseball caps. They raised their automatic weapons at her. ‘Armed police! Get down! Fucking get on the floor!’
She stopped as if a cliff had opened up before her and raised her warrant card towards them. ‘I’m police.’
‘Get on the floor!’
They kept their weapons on her as footsteps approached rapidly from behind. Iona half-turned, directing her identification at the men she had just dodged. ‘Detective Constable Khan, CTU!’
The first to arrive snatched her warrant card before shoving a knee into her back. She slammed into the tarmac and lay still, arms out by her sides.
A moment later, she heard someone call, ‘She genuine?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘What the fuck are you playing at?’
She looked up. They had surrounded her, a ring of furious faces looking down. ‘Can I get up?’
They stepped back and she climbed to her feet. ‘I have to get in,’ she said breathlessly, glancing between them towards the security check. The armed officer’s weapons were still half-raised.
The one holding her ID handed it to a colleague who began to scrutinize it. ‘No one gets in or out.’
She looked up into his puce face. ‘Listen, I know I don’t have a pass—’
‘No one goes in or out. Pass or not, it doesn’t matter.’ He crossed his arms and stared down at her.
Iona took a breath in, about to try again.
‘Operation Lock-In,’ someone said to her side.
Her eyes bounced along the line of angry faces. ‘Operation Lock-In?’
‘We’re on yellow alert – you’re bloody lucky not to have got yourself shot.’
‘Who is she, Sarge?’ One of the armed officers stepped into view, weapon now lowered.
‘A detective in the CTU,’ the man holding Iona’s warrant card responded, handing it back to her. ‘What’s this about?’
‘Why aren’t they evacuating?’
T
he sergeant shrugged. ‘We’re on standby for further instructions. Why?’
Iona bit her lip, wondering how much to say. ‘It was me . . . I’d been following two suspects. You haven’t picked anyone up at the perimeter?’
‘Two males, Asian appearance? One shorter with a shaved head, late twenties?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded eagerly, suddenly hopeful.
He shook his head. ‘That’s who we’ve been briefed on.’
She couldn’t help looking between the shoulders of the officers hemming her in. The roof of the conference centre rose up behind them all. ‘Things are carrying on inside?’
The armed officer spoke. ‘They’re on stage right now.’
Iona needed space to breath. They were all staring at her, some with curiosity, others with irritation. ‘You’ve got the suspects’ descriptions,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know.’
A few nodded.
‘Sorry to have caused any hassle; my mobile gave up the ghost. I didn’t know.’
Several stepped back again, a few murmuring quietly.
‘I’ll . . .’ She pointed to the street. ‘I’d better get my car. Sorry, guys.’ Someone at the back said, stupid bitch under his breath.
‘This is going in a report, you realize?’ the sergeant stated. ‘No bloody way it isn’t.’
Iona gave a nod. ‘Of course. My fault, my mistake.’
She made her way back out of the fenced corridor and on to Peter Street, aware dozens of eyes were upon her. Fighting back tears, she set off towards her vehicle. They’re here, she thought. I know they’re here. And no one has seen them because they’re not above the ground. Her eyes dropped to the pavement and she pictured black and dripping tunnels beneath her feet.
Back in her car, she executed a three-point turn and drove slowly to the junction. An overwhelming sense of helplessness washed through her. She looked at her dashboard clock. Eleven twenty-two. Not knowing what to do, she turned left. They’ve found something nearby, she thought. They must have. Some way below ground we’ve all overlooked. She scanned the front of the shops lining the road. Not here. These places are too busy. They’d have needed somewhere quiet. An isolated building.