Scratch Deeper (17 page)

‘No, sorry, love. It's double-dutch to me. Listen.' He lowered his voice. ‘If I'd known how cruel they were going to be with you, I would never have just stood by.'

She looked around, realizing they were now the only two people in her half of the office. ‘Cruel? Did you think it was cruel?'

‘I'd say so,' he replied uneasily. ‘It was obvious you weren't happy.'

She pursed her lips. ‘Just embarrassed, really. But thanks.' She leaned closer to her screen, hoping he'd say goodnight so she could focus on getting the media player to work.

‘They probably felt they had free reign – because of Wallace.'

She looked back at him. ‘Sorry?'

Euan nodded down at her bin. ‘That joke with the toilet rolls.'

Iona checked around to make sure no one was in ear-shot. ‘That was Wallace?'

‘He didn't actually make it; but it was his idea.'

Iona felt like her chair was sinking down. ‘How do you mean it was his idea?'

‘When he came in and had a word with a few of them – saying about how you thought you'd uncovered a bomb plot. The tunnel that had already been inspected?'

Iona nodded. Word had come from Wallace, then. Not the uniform sent from the silver command post. I don't believe it. ‘He knew about the tunnel?'

Euan's hand fluttered. ‘He said to write the name of it on the side of the tubes. So . . . yeah, he seemed to know.'

She shook her head. If he knew the tunnel's name, he must have been aware of the situation all along. Which means he deliberately used it as a way of humiliating me. Why? She felt tears stinging her lower eyelids. Why would he do that? Suddenly, she felt very vulnerable. ‘Thanks, Euan.' She reached up and squeezed his hand. ‘Thanks for letting me know.'

He hung on to her fingers. ‘My pleasure, darling.' He glanced across the empty desks. ‘Don't show them any weakness. This lot – half of them think they're bloody Rambo. And don't stay too late, will you?'

‘No.' She smiled as he made his way towards the doors. The implications of what he'd revealed were billowing out in her head. What was going on? The sense that Wallace had some kind of agenda was now unshakeable. Why would he encourage me to look into the Vassen thing and then use it to ridicule me? Was it a way of putting me in my place because he thought I'd overstepped the mark? And the mosque in Bury. What was all that about?

She tried to focus on the image of Vassen and his companion on her screen. But the rows of empty desks at the edges of her vision seemed to be crowding in. She glanced to her side. There were a few officers on the far side of the room. Two were leaning back in the seats and quietly chatting. One caught her eye and then looked away. The office had taken on an oppressive air and she knew that her ability to concentrate had been shattered. Home, she decided. I'll take the disc home and try to go over the footage there.

C
lusters of people were out on the streets of Whalley Range. Couples going for meals. Groups heading for the pubs and bars in Chorlton. People walking with a purpose, the prospect of a night out injecting their legs with energy.

Iona parked her Nissan Micra outside the large semi-detached house where she rented a room. The place looked dark and deserted. She turned the key in the front door and, as soon as it opened, the harsh beeps of the burglar alarm greeted her. So everyone's out, she said to herself as she keyed in the code. And why wouldn't they be? Most normal people my age are.

She flicked on the hallway lights and wandered down to the kitchen. Jo, junior member of a firm of architects in town, had left a scrawled note on the kitchen table.

We're in The Lion. Maybe going on to the Warehouse Project later. Catch us up?

Iona pictured the pub overlooking Chorlton Green. It would be packed, probably with quite a few twenty-something unattached men. How many weeks is it since I've had a good snog, let alone anything else? She thought sadly of her time with Jim. That's where I'd normally be now, she reflected. At his place sitting on the sofa, music on, dissecting their respective days over a bottle of wine . . .

She opened the fridge, selected a can of diet coke then made her way slowly up the stairs to her first-floor room. The top step gave its customary creak, the noise made larger by the surrounding silence.

After unlocking her door, she threw her jacket and bag on the bed and turned on the laptop on the desk in the corner. As it clicked and whirred, she scanned her shelf of CDs. Nothing took her fancy. She searched again more slowly. Too jolly, too mellow, too heavy, too upbeat, too loud. Giving up, she pressed the button for the radio. A frantic dance track blared out and she turned the machine off.

She took the CD out from her carry case. The laptop loaded it up without problem and she gazed at the window filling the screen. Right, she said to herself. You've got a play button. She clicked on it and the silent footage started up once more.

Hidden Shadow appeared from under the portico; Vassen and his friend stepped into view. She paused, un-paused, paused, un-paused until the moment Vassen's companion lifted his chin. The lower part of his nose, mouth and jaw were in view. But without zooming in a lot closer, the image was useless.

She checked her mobile for any new messages. The last text was from Jim. Nothing from Toby. She called him again and got the same stupid Mexican message.

‘Hello, Toby. DC Khan speaking. It's now . . . twenty past nine, Saturday night. When you get this message, please call me. It's not a problem how late. Thanks.'

She put the phone down and reached for the computer's mouse. Methodically, she worked her way through the tool bar at the top of the screen. Not a single way of playing about with the image came up. Her eyes went to her mobile once again. There was one person, she thought, who would definitely know how this damn thing works. The same person who's always been there, giving me advice, telling me how to play it with all the office politics that goes on. Jim. He'll know.

‘Fucking move. Go. Go. Go!'

‘Where?'

‘There!'

‘There?'

‘Yes.'

‘You sure?'

‘That or die.'

‘Holy shit, OK.' He swallowed. ‘Here I go.'

The sound of breathing became snatched and erratic as quick footsteps crunched on the gritty surface. He was halfway across the empty road when tracer rounds began to whip overhead. Milliseconds later the crackle of automatic fire filled the air.

‘Don't stop, stay low.'

‘Holy shit! Holy shit!'

‘The humvee. Get behind that fucked-up humvee! OK. Now switch to the rocket launcher. Do it, before they try sneaking round the side.'

Sharp clangs as bullets ricocheted off the burnt-out vehicle's armour.

‘Where's the fucking air support?'

‘You don't get it. Not at this stage.'

‘Shit! Where are they firing from? That building with the smashed-in roof?'

‘No, the palm trees. They're prepping an RPG, you need to let rip with that rocket, right now.'

‘What am I aiming at?'

‘The middle tree will do.'

The thin barrel on the screen changed to something far thicker.

‘Soon as you fire, switch back to the M16.' The man on the end of the sofa looked back down at the little mound of powder on the coffee table and continued separating some of it to the side. ‘You can pick the fuckers off when they break cover. There'll be four of them.'

A third man, this one sitting in an armchair in the corner of the room aimed the remote at the sound system and upped the volume even higher.

‘Time to die, you rag-head fuckers.' The view on the TV screen lifted, rising above the humvee's bonnet to reveal a little cluster of palm trees about twenty-five metres away. On the side of the half-collapsed building next to them was a poster, faded Arabic letters just visible. In the distance, a ripple of dusty-looking hills met with the sun-bleached sky.

The rocket launcher recoiled and a faint arc of smoke vanished in the direction of the trees. A bright ball of orange, followed by bits of trunk flying out. The palm fronds were still shaking violently as the rocket launcher was replaced by M16.

Four figures – their heads and faces obscured by red-checked material – broke to the left.

‘Light them up,' the man at the end of the sofa stated quietly.

The one sitting at the centre of the sofa was hunched forward, body tense, controller held towards the TV. ‘Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!' he yelled, spent cartridges flying from the weapon as its muzzle flashed.

The one in the armchair started laughing manically. ‘Oh, yeah, stroke my bell-end, you pussy-fucks.'

Little puffs of red vapour appeared behind three of the sprinting men and they spun and collapsed. The last one turned and tried to raise a pipe-like weapon on to his shoulder. M16 clattered again and he flew backward.

A message filled the screen. Area cleared.

‘Yes!' the man with the controller was panting as he lowered it to his lap and sat back. ‘Never made it this far before!'

The man next to him had got down on one knee. A straw hovered over the powder as he drew in air through his nose. The thin white line on the coffee table started to evaporate.

The one holding the controller watched him then turned to the third man in the armchair. ‘What's his name again?'

‘Gary,' he replied, nodding to the music as he finished off his can of Stella.

‘Fuck all else to do inside but play them games,' Gary said, looking up.

The one with the controller studied him admiringly. ‘What were you inside for, again?'

Gary got to his feet and rotated heavily muscled shoulders. ‘This and that. A raid on a Paki shop that went wrong.' He paced over to the flat's front window and looked down on the street below. ‘Good to be out, it is.'

‘Lee,' the one in the armchair said, thrusting a can towards the sofa. ‘You need to fucking catch-up, mate.'

Lee placed the controller to his side, opened the can and gulped deeply.

As he did so, Gary caught the man in the armchair's eye and prompted him with a little nod.

Martin raised himself up. ‘So, what's the plan?'

Lee lowered his can. ‘Next map? I've not done the airfield.'

Gary's eyes went to slits as he glanced at the screen. ‘Fuck that. Spent fucking months stuck in a cell doing that.' He turned to the window, drinking in the massed lights of Bury. ‘You like wasting rag-heads, Lee?'

‘Fuck, yeah.'

‘Should have seen some of the ones you get inside. Weasely little shits. Half of them shouldn't have even been over here in the first place.'

Martin cracked open another can of Stella. ‘Three meals a day. Probably couldn't believe their luck.'

Gary flexed his head from side to side. ‘Used to see them scurrying off for their prayers. Arses in the air, muttering in foreign.'

Lee's face was sour. ‘They should put them on a plane home. Why are they even in this country?'

Gary gave Martin another look.

Tapping the side of his can, Martin said, ‘Lee, they still let you keep that works van at weekends?'

Lee nodded.

Gary perched on the edge of the sofa, one knee jigging up and down. ‘What do you keep here, mate? In case someone tries to break in?'

Lee stared at him for a moment then nodded in the direction of the cupboard in the corner. ‘Baseball bat.'

‘That it? Got a toolbox with your job?'

‘Yeah.' The reply took a moment to come out. ‘At nights I keep it in that same cupboard.'

Gary was on his feet. ‘Sound.' He crossed the room, pulled open the cupboard doors and crouched down. An aluminium baseball bat was placed on the dirty carpet. ‘Nice.' The toolbox came out next. The catches clicked and the lid was lifted back.

As Gary rummaged about, Martin was mouthing along to the music, his eyes slightly glazed.

Gary stood, a long screwdriver hanging from one hand, a claw hammer from the other. He was grinning. ‘Lee. You a talker or a doer?'

A
s Iona approached Jim's front door, she tried to smooth her nerves. It was, she realized as she pressed the bell, the first time she'd visited since breaking things off with him. She stepped back, clasping her carry case in front of her.

The door was opened a little too quickly and he regarded her with an anxious look.

You look as uncomfortable as me about this, she thought.

‘Hi,' he said tentatively, stepping back. ‘Come in.'

‘Thanks.' As she squeezed through the gap between him and his mountain bike propped in the corridor, she caught a sweet and fruity aroma. Alcohol, she thought.

‘I'm in the telly room,' he announced, now awkwardly squeezing round her.

She caught his eyes and saw they had a dull shine. How much, she wondered, has he had? And will it have been beer or spirits? He always gets morose if it's spirits.

The telly room was as neat as ever. Her glance touched on the framed photo of the two of them high above Manchester, pressed against each other in the pod of the big wheel. She felt a needle of dismay that he still had it on his shelf. On the coffee table was an open bottle of wine and two glasses, one half full. She waited for an offer of a seat.

‘Would you like a drink?' he asked, heading towards his usual armchair. When he saw she was waiting just inside the door, he looked momentarily disappointed. ‘Sofa's free. Do you want tea? Coffee? I opened a bottle of wine . . .'

‘Umm, I'm OK for the moment, thanks.'

‘OK.' He sat down in the armchair as she took the mid-point of the sofa.

‘So, what's the score?' he asked, reaching for his glass. ‘The footage from the control room won't play?'

‘It'll play,' she replied, opening her case and sliding the laptop out. ‘But I can't figure out how you zoom in and all that stuff.'