Scratch Deeper (28 page)

‘That kid had nothing to do with that. He'd thrown a few stones. He was about ten.'

‘He was a terrorist – he had a knife on him. I'm not getting into—'

‘You planted that knife on him,' Jim whispered. ‘You put it in his hand after he was dead. After they'd kicked him around like a fucking rag doll. Jonesy had stolen that knife from a house we'd searched the day before. You told him to go and get it when you realized the kid was dead.'

Wallace shook his head.

‘Know what Jonesy is doing now?' Jim sat heavily in the chair opposite Wallace. ‘He lasted a while as a security guard in some discount supermarket in Gorton. When he lost that job, he started selling
The Big Issue
. Now he sniffs aerosols. I spoke to him the other week. He still remembers running across the courtyard to fetch that knife. Following your orders.'

Once again, Wallace put his pen down. ‘That incident was fully investigated by the military police. They concurred with the events as reported.'

Jim's laugh was bitter. ‘Fuck off, Wallace. That report was a pack of lies. You knew it, we knew it, the whole fucking town knew it. Jonesy will back me up on that.'

‘This is all—'

‘Things were never the same after that, were they? Hearts and minds, that's what we were meant to be winning. Getting the locals onside. Digging wells and irrigation ditches. You lost us any sympathy or support we might have earned that day.'

Wallace uncrossed his legs in readiness to stand, freezing when Jim slapped his hand against the disfigured skin of his chest.

‘We were never petrol-bombed before that kid! But we were after. They fucking hated us being in their town after.' A tear spilled from Jim's eye. ‘And Ade dying? Ade burning to death in that Land Rover? That was because of you, you bastard. You're to blame.'

Wallace lowered his head and the only sound was Jim's ragged breathing. Head still hanging forward, Wallace eventually spoke. ‘You were in that cellar, too.'

Jim winced and fresh tears squeezed from his eyes. ‘I know I was. Every day I ask myself why I just stood there and watched. Every fucking day.' He raised his hands and pressed his palms against the sockets of his eyes. ‘I can still see it, still hear their screams. That kid down in the cellar. Ade trying to get the door of the Land Rover open. Do you still hear their screams?'

Wallace said nothing.

Jim wiped at his cheeks with both hands and cleared his throat. ‘Right,' he announced. ‘Now you know: fuck with Iona and I will take you apart, Wallace. You understand?'

Chin on his chest, the other man could have been asleep.

‘Look up!' Jim bellowed.

Wallace raised his eyes to see Jim straining forward in his chair, cords in his neck standing out. ‘Do you understand?'

‘Yes.'

Jim stared at him for a moment longer, then the tension left him. He got to his feet and started pulling on his shirt. ‘She'll be in first thing tomorrow with some news. Word has come from Mauritius – more information on Appleton's murder.' He paused at the door, tucking in his shirt. ‘You'll treat her report like you would any other detective's, is that clear?'

He waited for Wallace's nod before opening the door and walking out.

Wallace remained at his desk, arms quivering slightly as he went over what had just occurred. There was, he quickly realized, no room for manoeuvre. Jim had him trapped. The bloke was clearly teetering on the brink and there was no doubting he'd happily blow the lid on the Iraq thing. Human rights lawyers had sniffed around for years, making enquiries, trying to find a crack in the official version of events. If Jim picked up the phone, all their files would come back out in a flash.

He banged his hands down on the armrests of his chair. My office. The bloke walks into my office and gives me instructions.

An image of Iona began to burn in his mind. The little Paki bitch would be moving teams, all right. No way she was staying in his. I never wanted her anyway. He looked at the piles of paper covering his desk, musing that he never did pass on her report to MI6.

He wondered whether he should cover himself by sending it on now. That was if he could even remember where he'd put it. No, he decided. Better wait until tomorrow and see what the uppity little whore reckons she's unearthed. Probably will turn out to be a load of bollocks, anyway.

I
ona gave up on sleep and reached for her bedside radio. The presenter was discussing the likely impact of Blair and Brown's joint appearance later that morning at the Labour Party conference in Manchester.

Fresh anxiety washed through her and she threw the covers back, wondering how much of the night she'd been awake. It felt like most of it had been spent with her eyes fixed on the cream-coloured hijab hanging from the back of her door.

The tunnels, the damn tunnels. There had to be one the council didn't know about, she thought. Her mind had repeatedly jumped to the constable in the CTU who'd shown up with the keys to the one beneath the Great Northern Warehouse. The council map he mentioned. Before setting off for the mosque, was it worth ringing him again? The fact she still hadn't spoken to Toby especially irritated her. Jim was right; the guy would need to be frightened into co-operating. Nothing else was working. Every time she thought of Jim, his advice replayed in her head. Get in touch with Tristram Dell, the friend of the murdered Law Lord. Find out exactly what might have been divulged about the conference in that letter. Then would come Wallace – presenting him with the latest developments, trying to make him take it all seriously.

She scrunched her toes against the carpet. Too much needed to be done. Too much for one person.

Needing to do something just to force her thoughts on to another track, she slid her towel off the radiator and set off for the bathroom at the end of the corridor.

She felt slightly better after a brief shower, glad of the fact her three housemates were still all slumbering in their beds. After drying her hair and dressing in faded jeans and a fleece top, she trotted softly down the stairs to the kitchen.

After turning on the television, she turned to a breakfast show where the guest was flicking through that morning's papers. The
Independent
had devoted the lower half of its front page to further revelations about America's extraordinary rendition programme that were emerging as a result of WikiLeaks. The focus was now on a series of flights that had stopped at a remote US airbase on a British territory far out in the Indian Ocean.

By the time Iona had forced down some toast, there were sounds of movement on the floor above. The bathroom door banged shut and the boiler ignited just as her phone went off.

Mum, she thought, looking at the screen. What's she doing phoning me this time in the morning? Fenella, she thought, a mental picture of her pregnant older sister suddenly before her. She hit the mute button for the telly. ‘Hi, Mum, everything OK?'

‘Yes, sorry to ring early, hen – but I thought you'd be up.'

‘I am. Did you see Fenella over the weekend?'

‘We did. She stopped by on Sunday. She had a printout from the scan. Iona, she's going to be so big. I didn't dare say, but it made my eyes water just thinking about it, poor lass. Anyway, she was asking after you. Are you getting enough rest with all this conference business going on?'

‘More or less. There's been a few late nights, but it's all over soon.'

‘Well, talking of the conference, we had some exciting news last night.'

Iona frowned. How could the conference possibly involve exciting news for mum and dad. ‘How do you mean?'

‘You know your father's colleague in his department at the university? Andrew Trilling?'

‘Vaguely. He's come to the occasional party you've thrown?'

‘Yes. Well, he was due to be speaking at a debate they're having. Middle Eastern foreign policy. But he got something in his eye fitting some shelves. Bit of wood flew in. That's not the good news, obviously. He has to go back to the Royal Eye Hospital this morning.'

‘Mum, you've lost me here. Who's having a debate?'

‘Sorry, hen. They are, at the conference. People from all sorts of organizations. Not in the big hall. A side bit, but the conference all the same. Your father's had to go to do all the security clearance stuff.'

Iona felt her back stiffen. ‘He's what?'

‘Filling in for Professor Trilling. But he needs one of those security passes – you must know what I mean. Andrew was describing it when he rang. It has his photo on and other details.'

‘Dad's going to be at the conference centre?'

‘He's already there, Iona. Isn't it exciting? You might cross paths, if you get the chance to go down. His event starts at half past nine.'

Iona was on her feet, her free hand gripping the top of her head. ‘When did he set off?'

Muriel's voice faltered slightly. ‘About half an hour ago? Iona? What's wrong?'

She lowered her hand. ‘Nothing . . .'

‘You sounded shocked.'

‘Surprised, Mum. That's all. I'll ring him – see where he is.'

‘He's at the conference centre—'

‘No, I mean if he's inside yet. Maybe he's stuck in a queue, doing the checks. I . . . I could see if he is.'

Muriel sounded baffled. ‘You mean to say hello?'

Iona nodded. ‘Yeah, I suppose. Let me ring him, OK? I'll speak to you later.'

‘Just when you have a minute. I know how busy you are.'

‘Thanks, Mum, bye.'

She cut the call and sat back down, only aware that Jo was in the room when she heard her voice.

‘That didn't sound so good.'

‘What?' Iona's gaze skittered across to the television. A sweeping shot of the conference centre's plaza. Text at the bottom of the screen said live coverage would resume in forty minutes' time.

‘The phone call.' Jo nodded at the mobile clutched tightly in Iona's hand. ‘Wasn't bad news, was it?'

‘No . . . not bad,' Iona murmured distractedly, heading quickly for the stairs. ‘Just need to ring my dad.'

She had selected Wasim's number from her address book before she reached her bedroom. Closing the door, she listened to it ring. Come on, come on, Dad, answer your phone, come on.

‘Hello, I can't speak right now. Leave me a message, please.'

Damn it! As the beep sounded Iona was suddenly unsure what to say. ‘Dad, hi, it's me, Iona. Call me, please – soon as you can.'

She sat down on the edge of her bed, phone bouncing in her cupped palms as she jiggled her knees up and down. What do I do? Go down there and drag him out? What do I say? Mum's been taken ill? Should I say anything? He won't leave without a good reason. Do I say there could be some kind of an attack? He'll want to know why he's the only one leaving.

She let out a sigh of anguish. OK, OK, calm down. The thing hasn't even started. Blair and Brown aren't due on stage until later this morning. There's no need to rush down there – yet. She looked at her phone once again. That bloody Toby from the Sub-Urban Explorers. Anger blazed at how he was ignoring her calls.

She brought his number up. Try and ignore this, she thought, jaw set tight.

‘T
oby, it's Detective Khan from the Counter Terrorism Unit. This is the last message I leave you. The position of your mobile has now been triangulated. If I haven't heard from you by nine o'clock this morning, I'll be paying you a visit. Not to your home address. I will arrive at your workplace with a snatch squad in full protective gear. You will be arrested under the Counter Terrorism Act, 2006. You will be held for twenty-eight days without charge. Your home will be like a building site when you get to see it again. Every single one of your friends and family will be dragged in and questioned. We will tear your life apart unless you call me.'

She hit red and took a deep breath. Am I, she asked herself, bad at my job? Last night I didn't want to make that call. Now Dad's at risk it was easy. So damn easy.

For a moment she wondered what the young man's reactions would be when he heard the message. Anger? Fear? Resignation? Think what you like, she concluded, getting to her feet. I don't really care.

Next, she called Harish Veerapan. Four hours ahead. That meant it was noon over there. Her call was answered on its third ring. ‘Harish? It's Iona Khan.'

‘Morning, Iona. I was about to ring but it seemed too early—'

‘Any luck?'

He groaned. ‘I am surrounded by a sea of paper, Detective. But no other letters from Tristram Dell – not written after the email I found yesterday, anyway.'

‘Have you searched through all his stuff?'

‘Yes, everything. It's not here, I'm sure. My concern is the letter is now in the possession of the wrong person.'

‘Mine, too, Harish. OK, thanks, anyway.' She dropped the phone on her bed, turned the computer on and began to pace up and down, willing it to boot-up faster. Finally it was ready for her to go online. The website for Slattinger-Dell, as Harish had mentioned, wasn't trying to impress. In fact, it was so understated to appear almost empty. She went straight to the unobtrusive bar of tabs at the bottom and selected, contact.

An address in Parliament Square, nearest tube stop Westminster. Appropriate enough for the type of work the company specialized in, Iona thought, dialling the office number.

A woman who sounded like she was into her fifties answered the phone. Clipped, Home Counties accent. An image of Miss Moneypenny sprang up in Iona's mind. ‘Good morning, this is Detective Constable Khan from Greater Manchester Police. Could I speak to Tristram Dell, please. It's extremely urgent.'

‘Mr Dell is not in the office today, I am afraid.'

‘Would you have a mobile phone number for him? As I said, it's extremely urgent.'