Scratch Deeper (3 page)

This investigation, Iona thought, isn't looking so trivial, after all. She kept the emotion out of her voice. ‘Anything else?'

‘I contacted the university. No Sri Lankan student called Muttiah is currently enrolled on a mathematics course.'

‘How about Vasen?'

‘Nope. It was at that point I thought it best to call you lot in.'

‘Right.' Iona lifted the file. ‘Looks like I'd better speak to this group. Have you contact details for this intermediary?'

‘It's all very cloak-and-dagger. There's a mobile number and an email address on the sheet at the back.'

‘Did you actually meet him?'

‘Only talked on the phone.'

‘Well, no time like the present.' She turned to the back of the file and took her mobile out. ‘He's got a funny name as his email address. Doc-P.' She put her phone on loudspeaker and keyed in the mobile number.

‘Who is this?'

Iona could immediately tell he was local; probably from the southern part of the city. She allowed some of the same accent to seep into her voice. ‘Hello, this is Detective Khan. Who am I speaking to, please?'

‘Police?'

‘Yes, I work with the Counter Terrorism Unit. You spoke to a colleague about an individual who joined the Sub-Urban Explorers. My colleague passed that information to me.'

‘Counter what?'

‘Terrorism Unit.'

‘Oh.'

Iona caught the hesitancy in the man's voice. He was now obviously feeling intimidated. ‘Don't worry,' she said reassuringly. ‘I'm only involved because this person appears to have been using a false identity. Something we're currently obliged to check out in cases of foreign nationals.'

‘Oh.'

‘Can we meet . . . sorry, I feel funny calling you Doc-P. Got a first name?'

‘Yeah, Toby.'

‘Can we meet, Toby? I'd like to get some more details from the people you . . . represent.'

‘They need an assurance, first. That nothing they tell you will be used against them.'

‘See what I mean?' Ritter whispered.

She rolled her eyes at the sergeant. ‘You have my word. My questions will only relate to the individual who was using the name Muttiah. What you guys get up to in your own time is of absolutely no concern to me.'

‘And it will be just you?'

‘Yes, if that's what you want.'

‘It is.'

‘Then it will be.'

There was a pause. ‘OK. We can meet in town this evening.'

Iona thought about her plans to have tea over at her mum and dad's. A Khan tradition on a Friday evening. Oh, well, not this week. ‘Great. Will the Sub-Urban Explorers be there?'

‘Not at the initial place we meet.'

She rubbed a finger across her forehead, keeping the exasperation from her voice. ‘But we'll go on to meet them?'

‘Only if you're alone.'

Like I couldn't have support just round the corner, Iona thought. ‘OK. Where and when?'

‘You know the Cornerhouse?'

She pictured the Art House cinema on the junction of Whitworth Street and Oxford Road. ‘I do.'

‘I'll be in the bar there. Eight tonight?'

I can make it for tea at the folks' after all, she thought. ‘Fine.' She flashed a mischievous grin at Ritter. ‘Oh, Toby. This being a blind date, how will I know who you are?'

‘Oh, yeah. Well . . . I'm six feet tall, twenty-two and I've got blond hair in short dreadlocks. I'll be wearing a maroon top with Howie's written across the chest. You?'

‘I'm five foot three, mid-twenties . . . and I'm not describing my chest to you.'

Silence.

‘Relax, Toby, I'm joking.'

‘Oh, right.' He sounded both bemused and intrigued. ‘What's your name again?'

‘Detective Constable Khan.'

‘Khan? So you're . . .' He let the question hang.

‘Half Scottish, half Pakistani. I'll be wearing a charcoal trouser suit. See you at eight.' She pressed red and stood.

Ritter was chuckling. ‘Which side of the family is from Pakistan?' he asked.

‘My dad's. He came here in the seventies to do a PhD in Persian Studies.'

‘Here in Manchester?'

‘No, up in Glasgow. That's where he met my mum.'

‘Ah.' He held up a finger. ‘Hence the name Iona.'

‘You've got it.' She smiled.

‘And is she an academic, too?'

‘Mum? No, far from it. She was working as a typist in the history department's office. They moved down here when dad was offered a place lecturing at the University of Manchester. I was six.'

‘I thought I couldn't hear any Scottish accent.'

Iona wrinkled her nose. ‘No. But you should see my headbutt.' She switched her voice to thick Glaswegian. ‘It's beazer.'

Ritter's laughter filled the room as Iona lifted her turquoise eyes to the ceiling. ‘Are the incident rooms still upstairs?'

‘Yeah, mainly on the floor above. Need me to show you up?'

‘No, don't worry. I thought I'd say hello to an old colleague. Another sergeant, as it happens. Jim Stephens?'

‘Jim? Yeah, he's up in room eight. Drug-dealing case, I believe.'

‘Great, cheers.' Iona started heading for the door, file held up. ‘I'll let you know how this goes.'

U
p on the second floor, Iona opened the swing doors and scanned the corridor ahead. Room eight was at the other end and, as she neared it, she could hear Jim's voice inside.

Right, she thought, slowing her step. How to play this?

Hesitantly, she peeped through the half-open door. Jim was standing at the far end of the room facing a large map of the city centre. She took in the immaculate creases in the shirt and trousers of his police uniform. Nothing changes, she thought, eyes lingering on his shoulders then dropping to the tight curve of his buttocks. She'd had three other boyfriends in her life and none of them had been quite like Jim.

Memories of life before they'd broken up caused a pang of sadness to stir. Lazy Sunday evenings on the sofa at his place, the hiss of the iron as he went over both of their uniforms interspersing his impersonations of whoever happened to be on the telly. She smiled at how rubbish his attempts at accents always were – not that it stopped him from trying. It was one of the qualities she loved in him most; not taking himself too seriously.

Jim was removing what appeared to be stills from CCTV footage. The images formed a thick border around the map. Two people, one in civilian clothes and one in uniform, were seated at the large table in the middle of the room, tidying piles of paper into folders. A brew table with a kettle on was just inside the door, several empty cups next to the tea and coffee. Iona sensed an investigation coming to an unsuccessful close. When Jim spoke, she could immediately tell the enthusiasm in his voice was forced.

‘Hey-ho, we'll get another chance to nail this bunch. I'll put a bet on that – I have a theory about these things.'

Iona found herself studying his profile. A young Paul Newman, that's how her mum fondly described him. The guy was horribly good-looking, she had to admit. Light brown hair that had been allowed to grow slightly tousled. It was still, essentially, a soldier's cut, but it was only when he turned his head that the movie-star comparison really floundered.

The scars were a lot more noticeable on the right-hand side of his face: particularly the one at the corner of his eye. Despite the army surgeon's best efforts, the skin there was pinched, giving her ex a slightly haunted look in moments when he let his jovial exterior slip. Then there were the burn marks showing just above his collar. Ridges and lesions that, she knew, half-covered his chest. She'd run her fingers over them so often.

Yet again she found herself wondering just what had happened during his time as a squaddie out in Iraq. He'd come close to telling her a couple of times when he'd been especially drunk. Whatever it was, the incident had left him with a deep sense of shame and remorse. He didn't know it, but the emotions would often surface when he slept, causing him to turn his head from side to side, the muscles of his jaw bulging out. It always amazed her that someone with such issues in his personal life held it together so well at work.

‘My money,' Jim continued briskly, as he tapped his finger on a photo that had been blown up larger than the others, ‘is on this character being back on our radar first.' Arms now crossed, Jim stared at the close-up of the man's face. Iona could make out a shaved head and leering mouth. ‘Law of Jug Ears, that's my theory.' He tried to put on a Mancunian accent but only succeeded in sounding like someone with a blocked-up nose. ‘The dumber the criminal, the worse their ears stick out.'

His two colleagues started laughing.

‘What's wrong with that? Seriously, someone should do a study on it,' Jim protested.

Iona listened to the laughter die down. I know, she wanted to chip in, he always goes on about the jug ears thing. Instead, she rattled a teaspoon in one of the empty mugs.

All three heads immediately turned.

‘What the bloody hell are you doing gate-crashing my debriefing?' Jim asked, blue eyes sparkling.

‘Cuppa tea?' she asked in a squawky voice. ‘Who wants a nice cuppa tea?'

He glanced at his watch. ‘Let's break there. Julie, Matt – this is Iona and she can't make a decent brew to save her life.'

The pair regarded her uncertainly.

‘Seriously,' Iona said. ‘Does anyone want a drink?'

With polite shakes of their heads, the two got to their feet and headed for the door, Matt muttering about having to get to the bank, Julie saying she needed to check emails.

Once they were gone, Iona looked at Jim with the beginnings of a smile. ‘Hello, there.'

He kept to his side of the room and nodded. ‘Hi.'

Still sore, she thought, now wondering whether she should have popped in at all. It was Jim who'd told her that the Counter Terrorism Unit was increasing its numbers. They'd ended up both applying for a place, but only Iona had got in. She put her file down and flicked the kettle on. ‘Keeping busy, then?'

He turned to the montage of images and let out an exasperated sigh. ‘Just crashed and burned on a technicality. The CPS' fault, not ours – thank God.'

Iona was spooning coffee into a pair of clean mugs. She was about to add a sugar to Jim's when he said, ‘Just milk, cheers.'

She glanced across with surprise. ‘Since when?'

He patted his stomach. ‘Got to watch the gut.'

‘You're joking?'

He shook his head.

Oh, please, Iona thought. No way you're getting fat. I know where this is coming from: not getting into the CTU. Now you're afraid life is passing you by. ‘I think you can allow yourself a bit of sugar for a while yet. There aren't many guys in their mid-thirties in as good shape as you.' She splashed milk into the cups and carried them over, a glance going to the wall. ‘Drugs thing, was it?'

Jim took the drink she was holding out and also turned to the images. ‘Almost a month's worth of surveillance work. Not sure how many hours we spent fiddling about with footage from council CCTV. You know when you've just had enough of something?' He cast a despondent look around the room.

She waited for him to ask how her new job was going but his eyes were on the collection once more. ‘So what else is new?'

‘Mmm?' He looked at her. ‘Same old, same old. Helping out with a misper as soon as we clear this room. Young lass went missing two days ago.'

Iona nodded knowingly. ‘Boyfriend or partner?'

‘Single, according to her parents.'

‘Does it seem like they're right?'

‘Apparently; from what a couple of her close friends have stated.'

‘No recent partners she . . .'

‘What?' Jim jumped in. ‘Dumped?'

Their eyes touched for a moment before Iona looked away. You know the reason why we broke up, she thought. And until you cut out the drinking and share with someone whatever's eating you, none of your relationships are going to survive.

The silence began to grow heavy. Looking slightly embarrassed, Jim tasted his coffee and grimaced. He walked over to the brew table and added a spoonful of sugar. Iona studied his back as he resolutely stirred his drink. His movements were stiff. Tense. I shouldn't have come up here, she thought. It's too soon. ‘Well, suppose I'd better be making a move. They'll be expecting me back.'

She crossed over to the doorway and paused to take a couple of sips, not wanting it to appear too obvious she was abandoning her drink. She felt his hand on her arm.

‘Hey,' he said softly. ‘Why don't you pop over to mine this evening? I'll cook – we haven't caught up with each other in weeks.'

Damn, she thought. I was afraid this would happen. ‘You know . . .' Her voice had lifted slightly and she wondered why she was sounding apologetic. ‘I'm due round at mum and dad's. Friday night, remember?'

‘Yeah, but after that?'

She made a face. ‘To be honest, Jim, I'm really knackered. I've been running around loads since . . . you know, switching to this new role.'

She could see the hurt on his face and guilt surged through her. How, she asked herself, do you always make me feel in the wrong?

His eyes had dropped. ‘Yeah, I noticed the new outfit.'

She brushed uncertainly at her lapel. ‘Do I look all right?'

He pushed his lower lip up. ‘Yeah.'

Cheers, Iona thought. That was really convincing.

‘You didn't say what brought you here.' He glanced at the folder she'd left on the table beside them.

She lifted one shoulder momentarily, careful to underplay things. ‘Some bloke using a fake ID. I'm surprised it even ended up with the CTU. I don't know – the inspector I've been paired with is off sick. Probably couldn't think of anything else to give me.'