Scratch Deeper (4 page)

‘You mean they've got you flying solo with it?' He was trying to sound encouraging.

‘First one.'

He considered her answer, the haunted look creeping across his face. ‘What sort of a fake ID – passport or something?'

‘No, not even that. He was using one name with a group of associates then was overheard being addressed differently by someone else.'

‘What?' Jim sounded incredulous. ‘The mighty CTU are handling that? Hardly a threat to national security, is it?' The laugh that escaped him carried within it a note of scorn.

The sound cut right through her. Thanks a bunch, Iona thought. I've only tried to be nice here. ‘It could be when the person is of Middle Eastern appearance, studying at the uni on a temporary student visa and showing an unhealthy interest in the venue for the Labour Party conference.'

The sarcastic grin fell from Jim's lips and he blinked. ‘Middle Eastern appearance?'

Great, Iona thought. Now I've really rubbed his nose in it. ‘Well . . . he was dark-haired and tanned.'

He crossed his arms. ‘Ah – there you have it.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Come on, Iona.'

Frowning, she sought out his eyes. ‘What?'

‘Surely you can see . . . you know . . . why they chucked it your way.'

She stepped back, hoping this wasn't heading in the direction she thought it was. ‘Sorry?'

He hesitated a moment. ‘You want me to spell it out?'

She felt anger rising up. ‘Yes, I think you should.'

‘Forget it. Ignore me.'

‘No, come on, Jim. Spell it out, please.'

He took a deep breath as if to say, here we go. ‘The nature of CTU stuff – it usually involves ethnics. They needed a few non-white applicants onboard to deflect the usual bullshit accusations.'

Ethnics? Iona stared at him in disbelief. ‘I never thought I'd hear you say something like that.'

‘Like what?'

‘That the only reason I got in was because I'm half-Pakistani.'

He lifted a hand. ‘Not the only reason, obviously. But you know what I mean . . .'

She put her cup down on the table too quickly. Coffee sloshed over the side. ‘No, I don't know what you mean.'

He spread both palms. ‘Surely you agree it was a factor?'

It had occurred to her once or twice. But she wasn't about to admit it. All she could do was shake her head as she snatched up her file.

As she stepped through the door, he spoke from behind her. ‘Iona, that came out all wrong. Please, don't just storm off.'

Now in the corridor, she turned round, wondering where the Jim she'd fallen in love with had gone. ‘You need to be careful. You are turning into one bitter and twisted man.'

I
ona pulled up behind her parents' gleaming Audi A5. Definitely getting trendier in their old age, she thought, reflecting on their gradual transition from bulky, but practical, Volvos when she and her sister were growing up to the sleeker, racier model now on the drive.

Her gaze travelled to the decrepit old caravan parked behind it. Faint traces of moss had begun to establish themselves in the joints connecting the body panels. Now I just have to persuade them to get rid of that old heap and start going on cruises or something.

Memories of travelling from one midge-infested Scottish caravan site to another returned as she locked her Nissan Micra and walked up to the front door. Seconds after the bell chimed she could see a tall figure through the stained-glass window set into the centre of the door. Dad, she thought affectionately, as his stooped form got closer. The door swung open to reveal Wasim wearing slippers, jeans and the usual old cardigan.

‘Iona,' he smiled, bending to give her a hug. ‘Look at you in your smart work clothes.'

She searched out his deep brown eyes, so kind and considerate. ‘Are they OK? Not too . . . sober? I don't want to appear like an accountant. But not some kind of media type either.'

‘No, no,' he replied reassuringly as her mother, Moira, appeared at the kitchen end of the corridor. Wasim glanced back at her. ‘Iona looks great, don't you think?'

Moira's blue eyes twinkled with pride as she rested one forefinger against her lips. ‘Mmmm . . . something missing. I know!' Her Scots accent contrasted sharply with Wasim's sonorous tones. ‘A bit of colour for your lapel; your deputy head girl's badge from school!'

Iona glanced fearfully from one parent to the other. ‘I look like a school kid. I do, don't I?'

‘Nonsense,' Wasim said, suppressing a smile. ‘Don't listen to your mother.'

Moira let out a throaty laugh, one arm now outstretched. ‘I'm messing with you. You look the business, my love. It's just still bloody weird you being out of that police uniform.'

Shoulders relaxing slightly, Iona approached her mother and embraced her.

‘Just finishing this email,' Wasim said, retreating back into his study.

The two women stepped into the kitchen and Iona looked at the old circular oak table. It had only been laid for three. Moira caught where her daughter was looking and said, ‘Fenella is stuck at the hospital. There are loads ahead of her still waiting for their scans.'

‘Shame,' Iona replied, thinking of her older sister who was expecting twins. ‘I was really looking forward to seeing the photo.'

‘She'll be here later – it won't take all evening.'

Iona flicked a hand towards the door. ‘I can't stay long, Mum. Work stuff. Sorry.'

Moira looked momentarily disappointed. ‘Not to worry, we've got you for a short while.' She lowered her voice so it didn't carry beyond the kitchen. ‘How's it going with Jim? Is he still taking it badly?'

Iona pursed her lips. It didn't help, she thought, that Jim and her mum had got along so brilliantly. ‘We argued, Mum.'

A pained look appeared on Moira's face. ‘What about?' she whispered.

Iona hesitated before replying. If there was one way to wipe out any warm feelings her mum still had for Jim, it would be to tell her what he'd said earlier on. She recalled incidents outside the playground at her primary school in Glasgow. There were no other Asian kids in her class. The parents of any child who used the word Paki soon regretted their kid's language when Moira stormed up to them, demanding to know where their kid had learned the word. ‘It's not . . . I'd rather not talk about it.'

The silence that followed was punctuated by a steady dripping sound coming from the direction of the sink. Iona glanced at the dodgy tap. The wrench and spanner that had been lying on the window sill when she'd last visited were still there. ‘Not fixed yet?'

Moira gave an exasperated wave. ‘Oh, your father had another go. But you know how he is with stuff like that.' She was about to say something more, but stopped herself.

Yeah, I know, Iona thought. Jim would have mended it in less than a minute. Just like he re-attached the loose curtain rail in the telly room, repaired the lawnmower when it started misfiring, sorted your boiler when it kept cutting out . . .

‘Sorry, hen,' Moira said. ‘I didn't mean to, you know.' They heard the door to Wasim's study open and Moira whispered quickly, ‘Maybe talk about it later?'

Iona nodded. Almost everything she'd ever done had been a source of pride for her parents – until she'd joined the police. Wasim tried not to show it, but her choice of career obviously troubled him. The fact she'd also started seeing a colleague who'd previously served in the army bothered him even more.

Moira had picked up an open bottle of red. ‘A wee splash?'

‘Just a dash,' Iona replied, taking her usual place as Wasim wandered in with a newspaper and almost-empty glass of wine.

‘Iona has some work things to do later, Was,' Moira announced, half-filling a glass.

‘Really?' he asked, extending his own in Moira's direction.

‘Afraid so,' Iona said.

‘So come on, then,' her mum asked, topping up her and Wasim's drinks. ‘How's it all going? You don't know how many people are still commenting on the newspaper article about you.'

Iona cringed as she thought about the recent piece in the
Manchester Evening Chronicle
. Someone – and she had yet to find out who – had tipped off the news desk that Iona, one of only three female officers with Asian blood in the entire Greater Manchester Police, had just started working for the CTU. ‘Maybe they wouldn't be commenting on it if you weren't wandering the streets of Altrincham shoving it in everyone's faces,' she countered.

Grinning, Wasim sat down as Moira raised her fingertips to the base of her throat. ‘
Moi?
Would I do such a thing?'

‘Yes,' Iona smiled, catching sight of the paper her dad was unfolding. ‘
The Times
? Dad, I thought you refused to have anything to do with Murdoch's evil empire.'

Saying nothing, Wasim shook the sheets straight. The front page headline caught Iona's eye. New information coming to light over the extent of the United State's extraordinary rendition program.

‘The paper boy missed us again and it was the only thing they had left when I went to the shop,' Moira said. ‘Anyway, what have they got you working on now? It must be manic with that conference about to start.'

She looked up at her mum, embarrassed to admit she hadn't been given a part to play in the operation. Her finger searched out the groove in the edge of the table that she had carved with a craft knife almost two decades before. How many hours, it occurred to her, did I sit here doing my homework?

‘According to this,' her father announced before she could reply, ‘the event might be blessed with a visit from Blair himself, along with a few other New Labour cronies – I mean architects.'

‘Blair? Surprised the party can afford him,' Iona smirked. ‘What does he charge for an appearance, nowadays?'

‘Don't get me bloody started,' Wasim muttered. ‘And that bloody ridiculous perma-tan he now sports? It certainly isn't from time he's spent out and about as the Middle East peace envoy.'

Moira was straightening up from before the oven door. ‘Come on, you still haven't said what you're up to,' she said, placing a metal baking tray on the table. Inside it was a layer of roasted vegetables.

‘That really smells delicious,' Iona said, avoiding the question by leaning forward to see the food. ‘What is it?'

‘From my new cookbook,' Wasim announced proudly. ‘Baked artichokes, broad beans and parsley.'

‘He's going all Mediterranean on us,' Moira said, putting on a posh voice, as she placed a bowl of chopped-up pitta breads beside it. ‘Ever since the doctor said his curries are pushing his cholesterol up. Now, for the third bloody time, what are you up to at work? Are you in the security area? Will we see you on the telly, hovering about in the background, looking all official?'

Iona tried to sound nonchalant as she watched Wasim spoon food on to their plates. ‘I doubt it. I'm looking into a case of false-identity use. Someone claiming to be a Sri Lankan student who was showing a keen interest in the tunnels beneath the city.'

‘Oh,' Moira said, ‘that is spooky.'

Wasim passed her a plate. ‘Dig in. This fellow was showing a considerable interest to whom?'

Iona savoured the aromas drifting up. ‘A group who like to sneak about exploring them.'

‘I recall Granada did a documentary about the tunnels years ago. Do you remember it, Moira?'

‘Vaguely,' she said, surveying the plate he'd just handed her. ‘There's an entire network of them, isn't there?'

‘Mostly uncharted,' Wasim concurred. ‘Old mine-workings, passageways, corridors. Even catacombs; it was fascinating.'

Moira clicked her fingers. ‘What was that special word? For underground streams and rivers – the ones they built over.'

‘Culverts,' Wasim answered. ‘A few of those, too.'

‘Well,' Iona said, ‘this person was very interested to learn about any in the vicinity of the convention centre.'

‘Couldn't you have said something?' Moira asked disapprovingly.

Iona turned to her, feeling defensive. ‘Mum – just because I'm not working on the actual security operation for the convention centre . . .' She could hear the tetchiness in her reply and softened her tone. ‘It doesn't mean this incident isn't potentially important.'

Moira's eyebrows were raised. ‘I wasn't meaning that, hen. I meant getting you to investigate anything to do with tunnels. Hardly a strong point, is it? Given your thing with small spaces.'

‘Oh that,' Iona breathed as she sat back. ‘Well, I doubt I'll end up having to actually go down any.'

‘Touch wood,' Moira responded, pressing her fingertips against the table.

I
ona climbed the stairs of the Cornerhouse to the first-floor bar. It had been done out in a rustic style, all chunky wood and natural stone. She scanned the tables of drinkers: most seemed of a similarish age to her. There were lots of trendy glasses and shaved heads, but no blonde dreadlocks to be seen.

Stepping round a few people at the top of the stairs, she approached the bar and started trying to catch the eye of the bloke behind it. He wandered over with a sceptical look on his face.

Do not ask me for proof of age, she thought. I'll curl up and die if you do. ‘Hi, there,' she said brightly. ‘A slim-line tonic, please.'

His face relaxed as he nodded. You were, Iona thought. How embarrassing.

He prepared the drink and placed it on the slate counter. ‘That's three pounds fifty.'

Iona almost coughed. Three quid fifty? For a tiny bottle of tonic? Worrying how that would look on her expenses form, she fished a fiver out of her pocket. ‘I'll need a receipt, thanks.'