Scratch Deeper (38 page)

Applause broke out on the monitor and the people who'd been silently watching all began to speak.

‘OK, we've got about ten minutes.'

Wondering what was going on, Iona looked in their direction. The clapping she could hear was obviously being transmitted from the main hall. Was it over? Had the speeches finished? Were her suspicions wrong? The thought thudded into her like a blow to the stomach. If I was wrong about this . . .

‘Can we do something about those spotlights behind the bar? Camera two is picking them up.'

‘Someone sort Angus's tie out, please!'

‘Tristram, you've got a call from the London office.'

The bright lights shining down on the interview area made it hard to see the people beyond their harsh glare. A thin, angular figure stepped out from the shadows. The interviewer, Iona thought. Angus something or other. The one always on the TV.

‘Tristram?' the same voice asked.

A tall man with tufts of hair sprouting out from behind his ears took off his glasses. ‘Tell her I'll ring back later, for God's sake.'

‘She says it's urgent.'

‘Once this is over,' he snapped irritably.

Iona moved round the low glass tables and cream-leather loungers, eyes now fixed on the man.

‘We need another glass on the table. There'll be four of them, remember. Come on, now, let's not drop a bullock.'

Iona continued towards the one called Tristram. He was now cleaning his glasses, fingers moving in small, tight circles.

A young woman in jeans, a puffer jacket and a pair of headphones stepped in front of her. ‘Can I help you?'

Iona raised her warrant card. ‘Detective Khan, Greater Manchester Police.'

Tristram's fingers stopped moving.

‘Mr Dell?' Iona asked.

His head swivelled but he said nothing.

‘You hung up on me earlier on.'

He replaced his glasses and peered down his nose at her. ‘What are you doing here?'

She cocked her head. ‘What are
you
doing here?'

He nodded in the direction of the cameras. ‘My job.'

You're in PR, Iona thought, her conversation with Harish Veerapen coming back. The groundwork Slattinger-Dell had been doing for the Labour Party. Something about expecting headlines at the forthcoming convention. ‘You told Reginald Appleton about the plans you were putting in place. Something in a letter. You told him—'

‘Detective Constable, isn't it?' His appeasing tone failed to mask a certain degree of tension.

‘Correct.'

‘I will gladly furnish you with the information you require. If you'd speak to my assistant over there, she can arrange a time for me to see you before I return—'

‘You're not listening!' Iona saw several heads turn and she realized that she'd shouted. She stepped closer and lowered her voice. ‘Mr Dell, we have no time. Whatever the threat is, I believe it concerns the very people you represent.'

‘They're leaving now,' someone called out. ‘We've got eight minutes, maximum.'

‘Detective, I fully appreciate the urgency of your work. But this really is not an opportune moment—'

‘You realize,' she said, raising her voice enough for those nearby to hear, ‘we're on a yellow alert? There is credible evidence of an attack being planned.'

The corners of his mouth twitched down in an involuntary grimace. ‘I . . . I have complete faith in the security measures that are in place . . .'

‘You told Appleton something. You breached that security. If anything happens, it will all be down to you!'

Dell's eyes slid to the sofa area. Iona followed his glance. The interviewer was bent forward, intently going over his notes. Iona felt a rush of dizziness as his name popped up. Angus Barr. Oh my God. In his email to the ex-Law Lord, Tristram Dell had mentioned an audience with A.B. ‘Is this . . .' She turned to the cluster of watching people. ‘Who is coming here? Who is on their way?'

They looked at her with quizzical expressions.

Iona turned back to Dell. His face was pale and he was mumbling something.

She brushed past him, closer to the group. ‘Who is arriving?'

A man lowered his clipboard. ‘Tevland, of course.'

Iona's gaze shifted to the seats alongside Angus Barr. Four glasses on the table. ‘Who else?'

‘Blair, Brown and Clinton.'

Tristram Dell started to speak. ‘How can there be a threat? The ring of steel – you call it a ring of steel. The site is secure.'

‘Did you tell Reginald Appleton about the plans for this interview? In that letter to him?'

He blinked rapidly. ‘I do not recall—'

Iona felt sick. ‘We're not in the ring of steel. This building is outside the secure zone.' The convention centre was never the target, she thought, looking around her with wild eyes. This was.

The air in the pitch-black passage smelled of mould.

‘Where the bloody hell does that go?' the facilities manager murmured.

‘Got a decent torch?' Jim asked.

The manager pushed past Chas and Fraser angrily. A few seconds later, he stomped back in to the tiny room with a powerful-looking flashlight. ‘From my little store cupboard.'

Feeling the weight of its metal casing in his hand, Jim switched it on. The narrow passage was instantly bathed in its brilliant beam.

‘Fuck me,' the manager stated.

Walls of roughly hewn sandstone. A floor that sloped gently downwards and, at the far end, another door just visible. It was slightly ajar. More darkness was on its far side.

‘What the heck is down there?' the manager asked with a fearful glance at Jim.

‘The Deansgate tunnel,' Chas said quietly. ‘Legend.'

‘Deansgate tunnel?' The manager was still looking at Jim, seeking clarification.

‘He's right. Tony? Can you come in here?'

The others moved aside to let the armed officer through.

‘No way,' he immediately said. ‘That is not happening. Not without support, detailed plans of what we're going into and ballistic shields.'

‘Tony,' Jim hissed. ‘You realize what this is about? Where that might lead?'

He shook his head, hands not moving off his weapon. ‘I'm armed response. You want to go chasing al-Qaeda down there? Call the frigging SAS.'

Jim blinked slowly in an effort to keep calm. The nagging suspicion Iona was in the city centre wouldn't leave him. ‘Tony, we have to do something. Now.'

‘Yeah, we call my boss and dump this all on him. That's what bosses are for.' He unhooked his handset from the shoulder strap of his body armour, frowning when he realized the channel was silent.

Jim sneaked a quick look at Tony's sidearm. A Glock 17, sitting in a drop-holster that incorporated three anti-snatch features. Any armed officer who valued his job would fight to a standstill before losing his weapon.

‘You're right.' Standing up, Jim started shooing Chas and Fraser towards the doors. ‘Out! Everyone out! We leave this to the specialists.'

Chas and Fraser started backing away, Ian cursing when one of them stood on his foot. The retreating press of bodies forced the other armed officer out of the door.

Jim gestured for Tony to go in front of him, the heavy metal torch held at his side. He focused on the back of the man's head, the curve of bone just behind his ear. Now, he thought. He lifted the torch up and brought it down in a sharp chopping movement, knowing the impact would cause the officer to blackout for a few seconds.

Tony's legs buckled and he fell forward on to his knees. With one hand, Jim reached out to the door and shut them both in. The Glock was free an instant later, Tony toppling senselessly into a cabinet, the glass immediately splintering. From the other side of the door came a shout.

‘Tony! What's going on! Tony!'

Jim pulled Tony by the straps of his vest away from the cabinet and carefully lay him down across the base of the door.

‘Tony!' his colleague shouted from outside. ‘You OK in there!'

Jim plunged into the dark opening at the other end of the room and turned the torch back on.

The lift doors to the hotel lobby opened on a wall of backs. Among the police uniforms were people in civilian clothes. She spotted curling wires emerging from earpieces to vanish down collars. Security personnel, she thought, from any number of organizations.

‘Excuse me,' she said. None of them reacted; all their attention was focused towards the hotel entrance. ‘Excuse me!'

Several turned their heads to examine her with indifferent expressions. Their unwillingness to move suddenly made her feel trapped inside the lift. Anxiety surged up from her stomach.

‘I need to get past!'

A ripple of movement and she squeezed through a gap. Out on Deansgate she could see unmarked vehicles blocking off the road, lights silently flickering behind their radiator grilles. Her own vehicle had vanished.

A police motorbike swept into view from the direction of Great Bridgewater Street. They're on their way, Iona thought. They're coming.

Immaculately dressed hotel staff were lined up behind the front desk. Iona crossed the lobby as quickly as she could without actually running. ‘Who is in charge of the building's utilities?'

A smartly turned out lady of about forty, black hair scraped back in a tight ponytail, inclined her head. ‘My name's Georgina and I'm the assistant duty manager. Is there a problem?'

Iona nodded. ‘I need a caretaker or whatever the title is.'

‘We do have a maintenance department. But if it's just a problem with your air conditioning or hot water, it's normally possible to get—'

‘Air conditioning?' Unobtrusively, Iona placed her identity on the counter. ‘Where is the air conditioning controlled from?'

More police and plain-clothes officers were filing in through the main doors.

‘There's a plant in the basement. The units are located down there.'

‘For the entire building?'

‘Yes.'

‘Including the Sky Bar?'

‘Yes.'

‘I need access, right now.'

The woman leaned forward. ‘You do realize the whole building has been searched?' she whispered. ‘I think they even put security tape on the door to the plant room.'

They won't have entered through the doors, Iona thought. They'll have come up from below. ‘Please, get whoever it is immediately.'

The employee lifted the phone and pressed a button. ‘Is Walter still on duty? Please send him to front reception. Yes, right now.' She replaced the phone. ‘He's coming. As I said, your colleagues were very thorough; they are every year. The building's residents have to hand in their key fobs for the underground car park weeks before the conference starts. The concierge buzzes each person through in person.'

Iona was transferring her weight from foot to foot, arms tightly crossed. ‘How many people live here?'

‘In the apartments above the Sky Bar? About two hundred and twenty.'

‘And the hotel part?'

‘There are two hundred and eighty-five rooms.'

‘Fully booked?'

‘Always when the conference is on. But everyone is vetted.'

‘So right now, in this building, how many people are here?'

‘I don't know – including staff, about one thousand.'

Iona was thinking about the exact location of the huge tower. It stood between the wide lanes of Deansgate and the site of the conference centre. There was no need for any tunnel to branch out far from beneath the road – not if the tower was the target.

‘Ah, Walter. Could you show this police officer the basement?'

A grey-haired man with a bulbous red nose was approaching from the direction of a Staff Only door at the end of the counter. He wore white overalls. ‘Morning.'

Iona stepped towards him then halted. She looked over at the lifts. There were now about ten uniformed officers gathered there. Several looked like they were Tactical Aid Group – massive great blokes trained for dealing with crowd disorder. She veered off in their direction. ‘Can I borrow a couple of you, please?'

They regarded her in the usual assessing way. ‘You what, love?'

She raised her badge. ‘We need to check the plant room down in the basement.' She dropped her voice for emphasis. ‘It's very urgent.'

A dubious look passed along the line before one stepped forward. ‘Always happy to accompany a lady in distress. I'm Marcus.'

‘Cheers, Marcus. And who's coming with you?'

He beckoned to a colleague. ‘Come on, Stewart.'

‘Thanks,' Iona said as another left the line. She gestured at Walter. ‘Let's go. Quick as you can.'

He led them back to the door he'd come through. A couple of steps down and they entered a long corridor, one side of which was clogged with cardboard boxes. ‘I've told them that's a fire hazard,' Walter said, pointing down. ‘They don't listen.'

After turning left, they passed two more sets of doors before reaching a stairwell. ‘You want the plant room? Incoming services? Gas, water, electricity? Boilers?'

‘Wherever the air conditioning units are,' Iona responded.

‘Same place. It's two flights down. The plant room is located at the end of the lower one.'

‘On which side of the building?' Iona trailed him down the bare concrete steps, the uniformed officers' utility belts clinking behind her. ‘Is it the side nearest to Deansgate?'

‘Yes, side nearest Deansgate.'

Not much more than the width of the pavement away, she thought. ‘You worked here long, Walter?'

‘Me? Since it opened.'

‘What was here before this thing went up?'

‘Well, the building's footprint was dictated by the arches and buttresses supporting the railway going into the Great Northern Warehouse. All of it was swept away when they dug the foundations – which were far easier to lay than planned.'