Scratch Deeper (20 page)

‘Good morning, Detective. It's Ayo here. I hope this isn't too early?'

‘Not at all, Ayo,' she replied, remembering that the other woman had promised to go over all the cases Reginald Appleton had been involved in during the two times he'd sat in session on Mauritius.

‘I've been through all the files. I would have called late last night, but it was the witching hour by the time I'd finished.'

‘You've been such a help, Ayo, really I—'

‘I wouldn't thank me too much, Iona. The man's name didn't feature.'

Iona felt her shoulders droop. ‘Really?'

‘I'm afraid not. No person with the surname Bhujun. I also took the precaution to check the name against Reginald's UK rulings as a Law Lord. No joy there, either.'

‘You were able to check them all, including the ones linked to terror suspects?'

‘Yes. The name didn't feature.'

Iona tilted her head back and blew out air in exasperation. ‘Not to worry. It's massively appreciated anyway.'

‘My pleasure. Do let me know if I can help any other way.'

‘Will do, thanks Ayo.' After hanging up, she dropped the phone on her bed. Damn, damn, damn. Still, she thought, turning to the door, Jim would be in the CCTV control room by now, reviewing the footage outside the library to see where Vassen and his friend were headed. At least that line of enquiry was still very much alive.

Navin Ramgoolan sat in his kitchen, stacks of leaflets arranged on the table before him.

He thought about his young nephew, Vassen Bhujun. An enquiring mind. A young man blessed with intelligence. Intelligence that had been recognized – first with a grant for school and university on Mauritius and then with a scholarship to undertake his Masters degree in England. He could have had such a bright future. But not now. Now the cousin, Ranjit, had arrived, things could only end badly.

There was something dark about Ranjit. Something dark and disturbing.

Navin looked at his leaflets. The events of almost fifty years before had been a catastrophe for them all. A disaster on which humiliation and then injustice had been heaped. I, Navin thought, appreciate that humiliation as much as anyone. Twelve years I've lived here in Britain, battling for our rights to be recognized. But never have I broken the law. Never have I turned to crime. Why must I resort to something like this?

He heard two sets of footsteps coming down the stairs. It was them. Their shadowy forms got closer and Navin cleared his throat in readiness to speak. ‘Vassen. It is . . .' His words died. ‘What has happened to you?'

His nephew moved awkwardly into the well-lit room. He was limping slightly and his lips were swollen. An angry graze stood out on his chin. ‘I was attacked, Uncle.'

Putting his glasses on, Navin got out of his chair and approached the younger man for a closer look. ‘Who attacked you?' He shot a suspicious glance at Ranjit, who was skulking in the doorway.

‘Two men. Locals, I think. They meant to really hurt me, Uncle. If Ranjit hadn't been there to fight them off I think I would now be in hospital. Maybe worse.'

Navin had placed his fingertips under Vassen's chin, gently lifting his nephew's head back for a better look. ‘Who were these men?'

‘I don't know,' Vassen answered, twisting his head away from his uncle's probing fingers. ‘Thugs. That's all.'

‘Where else are you hurt?'

‘My back. They hit me across it with a bat.'

‘Why did they attack you?'

‘Why?' Vassen replied. ‘Who knows? Because our skin is a different colour to theirs. Because they had a bad day and needed to take it out on someone.'

Navin cast a begrudging look in Ranjit's direction. ‘And you? Are you injured?'

‘No.'

‘Well, come in. Don't stand there. Sit down. Have some breakfast.' He removed a loaf of bread from a cupboard. ‘Thank you for helping Vassen.'

Ranjit acknowledged the comment with a nod. ‘It was nothing.' He sat down and gestured at the leaflets. ‘You are still going to do it?'

Navin peered over the top of his spectacles at the stacks of leaflets. ‘Of course. It will be the best chance I ever get to bring attention to our cause.'

‘Even though it will bring such trouble down on you?'

The old man picked up his security pass from the corner of the table. ‘What will be, will be.' Sadness subdued his voice. ‘My membership of the party has not helped get justice for our people. They care about us no more than any of the other political parties. All of them are the same.'

Ranjit looked hungrily at the pass as the old man ran its red lanyard through his fingers. Age had made the skin on his hands slack and wrinkled. ‘And is it tomorrow you'll go?'

Navin looked up. ‘Tomorrow? Yes.' He sounded almost regretful. ‘When Blair and Brown are on stage. I will do it then, when the television coverage is best.' He looked at the clock on the wall. ‘I must go,' he announced, taking his brown overcoat off the peg by the back door and placing a flat cap on his head before letting himself out.

J
im had never seen so many people in the CCTV control room. Every desk before the two Barco screens dedicated to the convention centre and surrounding streets was occupied by an operator, their faces bathed by the giant screens' glow.

In the shadows behind them stood men in suits – many with southern accents. Most had their arms crossed and a constant murmur flowed among them. Occasionally, someone would move off to the side to take a call on their mobile phone.

The views on the bank of screens showed the ex-railway terminal from every angle. Other cameras were on the entry points, the operators constantly working the joysticks to scan the queues of people waiting to get in.

A tall man with streaks of grey hair reached out and placed a hand on the shoulder of the operator sitting before him. ‘Can you go in on that camera? Twenty-two?'

The operator nodded and he tapped a few keys. The view from camera twenty-two appeared on his desk monitor. ‘Zoom in on centre screen?' he asked.

‘No.' The man pointed to the left-hand edge. A small group were gathered near a lamp post. ‘That lot.' Above their heads a banner read, Extraordinary Rendition – We Demand the Truth. Their mouths were opening and closing in unison, some kind of chant. ‘Facial captures for each one.'

The operator went in closer, froze the image and then expanded a square-shaped field with a perforated line over each person's face. Another click on the keyboard brought up a command panel. The operator worked his cursor across the facial boxes, clicking on each one before selecting copy.

Jim turned back to his own screen. The supervisor had looked suitably pissed-off when Jim had asked to see eleven-day-old footage from outside the library.

‘This can't wait for a less busy time?' he'd asked.

‘Colin,' Jim replied, keeping his voice low. ‘If it could, believe me, I would not be here. I'm not asking for an operator to burn me any footage. Just dump me on a corner desk. I can do the searching myself.'

The supervisor had led him to the far end and sat him down at a spare workstation. ‘Twenty minutes. Then the full day shift arrives and I'll need this and every other seat in here.'

‘No problem; cheers, Colin.'

It had taken almost ten minutes to access the footage from outside the library at two o'clock on the seventeenth. Selecting camera forty-eight, the one positioned beyond the cenotaph, Jim skipped forward ten minutes. At eleven minutes past, Vassen and his companion left the library, trotting down the steps in the direction of the camera before heading to the right. The companion walked purposefully along, baseball cap on, head down.

Cursing, Jim watched until they disappeared from view. He tapped his fingers; the angle they were walking at meant they would have passed the tram platforms. ‘Come on,' he whispered, going to the main menu. He selected the tram platform cameras and scrolled down to St Peter's Square. Two options: inbound trams approaching from the direction of Salford on the city's outskirts. Or outbound, going the other way. Jim clicked on outbound. The view was from the end of the platform towards where the trams approached from Mosley Street.

The footage resumed, but after watching for three minutes, Vassen and his friend hadn't appeared. Aware time was ticking on, Jim went back to the menu. Last chance was if they passed the camera on the opposite platform. If they didn't, he'd have to start trawling footage from the nearby streets, and that could take hours. He selected inbound. This view was from the other end of the tram stop, looking along the platform and towards where trams trundled in from Salford.

After a few seconds, Vassen and his mate appeared. Jim felt his fingers clench on the joystick mounted in the centre of the desk. The two men quickly proceeded to directly below the camera where just the tops of their heads were visible. They stopped. ‘Come on, do something, will you?' Jim said under his breath. ‘Step round the woman with blonde hair. Look up. Check the sky. Just do something.' They remained still and Jim felt his eyes widen. Are they waiting for a tram? Oh, sweet Jesus, they're waiting for a bloody tram! He sat forward. This could lead back to wherever they were based.

The pair remained on the spot until a tram appeared, moving along the tracks which ran along side of the Midland Hotel. It came to a stop and he watched them both get on board. As soon as the tram began to pull away, he leaned across to the next desk. ‘Excuse me. You know the trams; how do you go about getting the timings for between stations? I need to track one on its way from Saint Peter's Square.'

The operator removed a folder from his top drawer. ‘Timetable in there, mate. Just work on it taking two minutes between each stop and you can't go wrong.'

‘Thanks.'

Jim checked his watch; it was now less than ten minutes before the day shift arrived. He ran a finger along the timetable. St Peter's Square to Mosley Street. How likely was it they'd only catch a tram to a stop a couple of hundred metres away? Not very, he decided, moving on to Market Street. Again, hardly worth the journey. Next stop was Shudehill, a fairly decent walk from the library.

He scrolled through the tram platform menu, selected Shudehill and entered a time of two fifteen. The platform view came up as the tram pulled to a halt. Five people got on, two got off. A pair of teenage girls.

He checked his watch. Seven minutes until the day shift. The next stop was Victoria station, connecting point for trains going off in all sorts of directions. He typed in two seventeen and pressed play. The tram was already in and he could see the platform was busy with waiting passengers. Jim cut to quarter speed as the tram's doors opened. People started spilling out of each carriage, five, ten, twenty, thirty of them. He froze the image and started zooming in. No baseball cap. He let the footage continue, watching until the tram moved forward once again. Making certain they hadn't disembarked there had cost another minute.

Next stop: Woodlands Road, a residential area on the city's outskirts. He added two more minutes to the timer. The tram pulled in: no baseball cap or tall lad alighted. Three minutes until the day shift was meant to start.

Crumpsall, Bowker Vale and Heaton Park revealed nothing. By the time the tram got to Prestwich, Jim could hear new voices coming into the room. Eyes glued resolutely to the screen, he became aware of a person by his side. Jim spoke from the corner of his mouth. ‘Just a second, OK? Then you can have your seat.'

Nothing at Prestwich. Same for Besses o' th' Barn. Now Colin's voice, coming from the row in front. ‘Jim? You're holding up my day shift.'

He glanced up. ‘I've just got three more stops until the end of the line. Please, mate.'

Colin looked like steam was about to erupt from both ears. ‘One more minute, OK?'

Jim scrolled to Whitefield and moved the timer on two minutes. Six people got off, none any good. Second to last stop was Radcliffe. Over a dozen alighted and Jim was frantically scanning them when Colin appeared next to him and leaned down to whisper, ‘Jim, don't make me look a complete arsehole in my own office. Not today of all days. I gave you until eight o'clock. It's now almost five past.'

‘I know, I know.' Jim clicked on the final stop, added two minutes
to the timer and pressed play. ‘I'm moving, OK? Let me get my things together and I'm off.' He handed the train timetable back to the neighbouring worker and lifted his jacket from the back of the chair. ‘Thanks, Colin. Really sorry I ran over a bit on the old time.'

The supervisor started trying to usher Jim away from the desk. ‘You know this is the big one. Any other time and it wouldn't have been a problem.'

‘Appreciated.' He made a show of patting his pockets, trying to spin things out for a second or two longer. ‘Nearly forgot my phone, there.' He turned round to retrieve it. On screen, the tram had stopped and a mass of passengers were moving along the platform.

As Jim leaned closer to the screen, Colin spoke behind him. ‘Come on now, Jim. I've been reasonable.'

‘This is it, mate. Just a second more . . .' Middle-aged women with shopping bags, a young couple – the woman pushing the buggy as the man struggled to light a cigarette. Behind them, a gaggle of young lads, some with their hoods up.

‘Jim –'

He glimpsed a taller male with a floppy black fringe. Vassen! The flow of people shifted and Jim saw the baseball cap for a split second. No clear view of the face, but it was him. It was the two of them. Holding up a hand in thanks, Jim started towards the exit, phone pressed against his ear. ‘Iona, I've got them! They caught a tram to Bury. Did you get that? They got off at Bury.'

‘B
ury?' Iona said. ‘You're sure?' She looked up at the ceiling – could Wallace have been on to something after all? The mosque with that cleric was in Bury. She realized the screensaver on her office computer had changed: now the conference had started, the ticking clock had been replaced by five words. OPERATION PROTECTOR IS NOW LIVE. The words drifted slowly up to bounce off the top of the screen and begin a lazy descent. If they're going to launch an attack, she thought, it could be at any moment.