Scratch Deeper (25 page)

‘The lanky one and the shorter one; could you identify them if I were to show you a photograph?'

Lee's eyes shifted suspiciously. ‘What? You going to charge them?'

Iona tilted her head, hinting it may be a possibility. ‘Could you identify them?'

‘The taller one, probably. The short one was on the other side of him as they went past. Didn't see him.'

‘What about when you first saw them – on Woodhill Road, before they entered the alley?'

He shook his head. ‘We were behind them. Only saw their backs.'

Iona wanted to stamp a foot in frustration. Is no one able to get a good look at the companion's face? ‘What about Martin and Gary?'

‘Not sure. They were closer, for sure. Had to have been if he stabbed Gary in the arse cheeks.'

Iona floated a glance to the top of the stairs. ‘Where are they now?'

He shrugged again. ‘Not a Scooby-Doo.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I dropped them off on the other side of town. Fucking glad to get rid and all.'

‘Didn't they need treatment at a hospital?'

‘Gary wasn't going to A and E. Not for a stab in the arse.'

‘So you dropped them off where?'

‘On the Manchester Road, near Fishpool.'

‘You don't know where they went?'

‘No.'

She held eye contact until he looked down.

‘Believe what you want,' he said. ‘But that's what happened.'

Iona cursed to herself. The pair would be lying low, that's if they were still in the area. Two more people who could potentially identify Ranjit Bhujun really was in the country – and both wanting to avoid the police. Damn it! She closed her notebook. ‘Keep your phone on, Lee.'

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that it?'

‘For the moment, it is.' She stepped back outside and pulled his front door shut.

S
peeding round the M60 on the way back to Orion House, Iona found herself switching to Radio 5 Live. She glanced at herself in the rear-view mirror. Why are you doing that? You never listen to this station. A studio discussion was underway, several commentators dissecting the essence of the latest speech made at the conference. Are you, she wondered, expecting the programme to be suddenly interrupted? A voice to announce that, due to unknown developments in the city centre, coverage is suspended?

The panel concluded their analysis and the presenter began to talk about upcoming highlights – tomorrow's being the most talked-about. Tony Blair, Gordon Brown and – according to unconfirmed reports, the new Labour leader himself, Daniel Tevland – all on stage together. To Iona, the announcement seemed more like a portent. She sped up, anxious to be back at her desk.

Up in the main office, the atmosphere was noticeably tenser, even with half the desks empty. Euan had told her it was always like this once a major operation got underway – everyone praying that, if anything happened, it wasn't while they were on shift. Things wouldn't relax until the event was officially over.

She approached her desk with a mounting sense of discomfort. There was the yellow Post-it note stuck to her screen. Abruptly, she found Wallace's intrusive, yet impersonal, way of communicating annoying.

Why can't he leave a voicemail or an email like anyone else? Why this ridiculous little system of paper notes? Part of her suspected the answer; it got him out of his office on the floor above, allowing him to prowl around, monitoring those below him.

Call by when you get in. P.

She wanted to scrunch the square of paper up, throw it in her bin and claim, when asked, that it must have detached itself and drifted to the floor. Still, she consoled herself, at least the clipping of Baby wasn't back. Turning on her heel, she set off for the stairs.

‘Enter.'

She pushed open the door and stepped into his office. ‘Just got back, sir.'

‘Close the door, Detective.'

After doing as he asked, she turned to see him gesturing at the chair beyond his desk. What Jim had revealed to her the previous night came flooding back and she couldn't look at him as she crossed the room.

‘So, take me through the delights of Bury on a Sunday morning.' He leaned back.

‘Pretty quiet to be honest, sir.'

‘Figures. What was the score?'

‘Sir?'

‘The football match. Who won?'

‘Oh, I crept away at half time. Once I knew neither Bhujun was there.'

‘Anyone score while you were there?'

‘The Mauritian team got one.'

He looked disappointed. ‘And the mosque?'

‘Well, as I said, I only parked near it for a few minutes. I did observe two women leaving it via an entrance at the back. I think you're right that they have separate doors for males and females.'

‘Probably.' He neatened a stack of papers, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. ‘It could be very easy getting a visual confirmation if this cleric is in there.'

‘The women I saw, they were wearing traditional dress. Their heads were covered.'

‘Yes, you'd need to go togged-up. A hijab and long-sleeved dress would do. You wouldn't need to be peering out from one of those letterbox numbers some of them wear. Not unless you wanted to.' His lips twitched with a small smile. ‘What I'm getting at, Detective, is you need to start approaching this more under your own initiative.'

‘You're saying I should go in there alone and without back-up? Surely there are protocols—'

‘There you go again, Detective. If you want your hand holding, you should have stayed in uniform. We don't mollycoddle our officers here, whoever they are.'

Whoever they are? Iona wasn't sure what he meant. That I'm female? That I'm mixed race? She looked questioningly at him but he was busy examining a sheet on his desk once again. The silence started to drag. ‘Meaning what, sir?'

‘Pardon?'

‘You said, whoever they are. Do you think I expect to be treated differently? And if so, why?'

He was smiling again. ‘I didn't say that.'

‘You said . . . you implied that I was –'

‘Do you expect to be treated differently, Detective?'

‘Not at all.'

‘Good, because that's not how things work here. The officers who get ahead here – in my team – they're not shy about stepping up to be counted. They don't need any encouragement.'

It was like he was speaking in riddles, she thought. Deliberately using vague language. Deciding to change tack, she said, ‘On the day Vassen Bhujun and his accomplice were seen outside the Central Library, they showed up on CCTV footage at the tram terminal in Bury.'

He looked up sharply. ‘Really?'

‘On leaving the library, they caught a tram there.'

‘To Bury?'

‘Yes.'

He appeared to be surprised by the information. ‘That's interesting.' Crossing his legs, he picked at the stitching of his shoe. ‘All the more reason we get an assessment of what's going on in that mosque.'

‘I've also learned that – when they caught the tram into Manchester in the morning, they were carrying a rucksack.'

‘How did you discover that?'

‘A contact in the control room,' she replied. ‘He went through the morning footage for me.'

If Wallace was impressed at her show of initiative, it didn't show. ‘Facial on this accomplice?'

Iona shook her head. ‘My point is this: that's a four-hour gap. And when they show up outside the library, the rucksack is gone and Vassen is shaking his hair like he's getting dust out of it.' She looked at her boss. ‘What if they've been in a tunnel during that time?'

Wallace rolled his eyes. ‘Hang on. Vassen's shaking his hair, so they've been in a tunnel? What about he's arranging it after having been in the shower at his gym? Or he's been having it oiled or lacquered or whatever his type do? You're jumping to conclusions again, Detective.'

‘There was an incident among the overnights in Bury. A violent altercation between two white males and two Asian males. All of them fled the scene. The description of the two Asian males fits our men. A witness heard a name very similar to Ranjit being called out.'

‘Very similar to?'

‘Yes.'

‘But not exact?'

‘Well, he was in his flat. It was through the glass—'

‘Detective Khan? Admirable work, but the threats currently sat here on my desk are real, they're credible and they apply right now. Let me mention a few.' He placed a forefinger on one of the intelligence reports. ‘The threat from Irish-related extremism is currently high, due to recent phone intercepts between three members of the Continuity IRA. We've got a few domestic single-issue groups causing concern. Plane Stupid, according to a well-placed source within the group, are intending to obstruct ministers at the main entrance with some kind of stunt. Combat Eighteen are planning to gather in Albert Square tomorrow, no cameras there, so we don't expect them to stay in that location. Something just came in about Father's For Justice – one particular individual who's just gone off the radar. Those are our home-grown extremists. The threat from international terrorism is moderate; want the details?'

She opened her mouth but he spoke over her.

‘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.

‘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.