Scratch Deeper (5 page)

There was a stool free at the end of the bar, so she moved it to the corner and climbed on. Her toes barely reached its foot rail. As she waited for Toby to appear, she ran her eyes over the tables of people once again. None seemed to be the least bit perturbed about spending God-knew-how-much on bottles of wine and fancy little plates of nibbles. She wondered what they all did for a living: whatever it was, it obviously paid far better than the police.

Her gaze caught on a guy with neatly combed hair and a North Face gilet looking about for his friends. A young woman with bright scarlet hair burst out laughing at a nearby table. ‘No way, that is outrageous!' she exclaimed. ‘What are you like!'

Iona sipped her drink and saw the guy in the North Face gilet was now standing near a rack of leaflets detailing forthcoming films. No drink. He was pretending to study a flyer. Their eyes met for an instant. It's you, Iona realized. You're Toby. Either that, or you're about to come over and try to chat me up. She studied her glass, wondering how long it would be before he made his approach.

A minute later, the man came across. ‘Is your name Khan?'

She looked at him, feigning confusion. ‘Yes.'

‘I'm Toby.' He dropped his voice. ‘You know. Doc-P?'

‘Really? You had me looking for someone with blonde dreadlocks.' She raised her glass. ‘Well done.'

The young man smiled. ‘Yeah, well, I wanted to make sure you were on your own.'

Iona made sure her amusement didn't show. ‘I hope you can see I am.'

‘Yup.' He glanced at her drink. ‘They're waiting for us at a place not far from here.'

‘OK. Hang on.' Iona drained the tonic in one, catching his look of surprise as she placed the empty glass back down. ‘Cost three quid fifty, that did.'

Toby led the way down the stairs, out the door and on to Oxford Street, where he started heading towards the library. Following behind, Iona thought about the security surrounding the site of the Labour Party conference just a short walk away. A ring of steel, as her colleagues in the CTU referred to it. The phrase had also found its way into the papers.

She'd taken a detour on the way home from work a couple of times to surreptitiously survey the oval-shaped anti-ram bollards linked by thick metal bars that closed off the roads. The double fence that formed the perimeter of the secure zone had now been in place for over a week. Access was only possible through the temporary buildings that had been erected at designated points and only to members of the public carrying special passes. Once the event started, the same conditions would apply to police officers. From reports she'd scanned in the office, she also knew mobile CCTV units and dozens of extra officers were set to be stationed around the perimeter – the rooftops of several tall buildings in the vicinity had also been requisitioned as sniper points.

They reached the mouth of a side road and Toby altered direction to a set of steps vanishing beneath ground level. As Iona registered the name on the awning above the entrance, she felt her heart sink. The Temple of Convenience, once a public toilet, now a subterranean bar – and a very small one at that.

Come on, she told herself. It's only a few steps down: nothing you can't handle. It might be cramped down there, but it's not a problem.

‘You all right?' Toby had descended three steps and was looking back at her with a quizzical expression.

Iona nodded. ‘Absolutely. Lead the way.'

She followed him to the bottom of the stairs and into a poorly lit and narrow space with a tiny counter at the far end. Small square tables lined each side of the room. Lou Reed was playing on a vintage Wurlitzer jukebox and the place was half-f of drinkers.

Toby had approached a corner table where two men also of about twenty were eagerly finishing off a packet of crisps that had been opened out on the table. They had a slightly geeky air about them. Like the sort, Iona thought, you see in Forbidden Planet, sitting around painting their latest
Lord of the Rings
figurines.

‘This is her,' Toby announced, sitting down and looking up at Iona.

Seeing both had almost finished their bottles of Budvar, Iona circled a finger. ‘Can I get you another?'

The one with the cropped hair fended her offer away with a raised hand.

OK, Iona said to herself. So you're in charge. She took the fourth seat at the table and, trying not to dwell on how low the ceiling was, took out a notebook and pen. ‘My name's Iona Khan.'

Both nodded, saying nothing.

‘What should I call you two?'

‘I'm Hidden Shadow,' the one in a checked shirt answered.

The one with the cropped hair just glared at her, seemingly reluctant to say anything.

Iona nodded. ‘I really appreciate you agreeing to see me. As I've said to Toby, what you tell me will not have any repercussions for yourselves.'

‘There was a lot of debate about whether to report this or not,' the one with cropped hair announced moodily. ‘What we do, it's not the sort of thing you lot exactly approve of. Or the council, or site security.'

‘I can imagine,' Iona responded, beginning to wonder what else they might be into. G20 protests? Breaking through to the runway at Manchester airport to stage sit-ins? Harassing scientists linked to animal experiments? Activist types rarely confined their activities to just one issue. ‘What you do doesn't bother me. In fact, I'm very interested by it – from a personal point of view. I didn't know there were that many tunnels beneath the city.'

‘Miles of them.' This from Hidden Shadow as he swept hair back over the collar of his checked shirt.

Iona wondered if she could get through the entire interview without having to use the name Hidden Shadow. ‘Forgive my ignorance, but why are there so many? Do most cities have them?'

Hidden Shadow's nostrils widened as he drew in air. ‘Not as many as Manchester,' he announced on the outward breath. ‘Thing to remember about Manchester is the whole place sits on a bed of sandstone. Dead easy to dig into. That and the way the city evolved so quickly, layers built on layers in such a rush; no one stopping to record what they were covering over.'

He's right, Iona realized, memories of a history lesson activated by his comment. Manchester hadn't been planned. Like an unexpected baby, the teacher had described it. Dragged kicking and screaming into the world. From minor rural town to the world's first industrial powerhouse in a few short decades. She remembered reading about the breathtaking speed of its expansion – how the population mushroomed in the early 1800s to quadruple its original size in just fifty years. The frenzied building of mills, warehouses, factories, railways and canals. An industrial vortex, sucking in people from all around, workers crammed into terraced houses, one outside lavatory for hundreds. The smell of poverty amid the swirl of chimney smoke.

‘And you explore them, when? At weekends? I presume at night.'

‘Mostly,' he replied. ‘But not exclusively. Sometimes an opening's exposed on a building site and our window of opportunity is only small. I've slipped past security and gone down during my lunch hour. Knackered my suit and everything.'

‘Where do you work?' Iona immediately saw the question was the wrong one. ‘Sorry. What do you do in these tunnels?'

‘Just document them,' Cropped-hair replied while looking off to the side. ‘Leave nothing behind but footprints: that's our motto.'

Iona dipped her head in understanding. It was the sort of philosophy the world could do with more of.

‘We take photos, video footage,' he continued, still not making eye contact. ‘Try and see where they lead . . .'

‘And where do they lead?' Iona asked, her own eyes wide to create an air of innocent curiosity.

‘Depends which tunnel,' he muttered.

‘Some stretch for hundreds of metres,' Hidden Shadow cut in. ‘Especially the ones below the cathedral. One time, we followed—'

Cropped-hair clicked his tongue. ‘Stick to what we agreed.'

His partner closed his mouth and crossed his arms.

Iona twiddled her pen. Hidden Shadow seems very eager to impress, she thought, targeting him with her next question. ‘Can I ask why you go down them?'

The three men exchanged glances before he spoke again. ‘You heard of the mountaineer, George Mallory?'

‘Don't think so,' Iona responded.

‘He died while trying to make the first ascent of Everest. Before he set off, a journalist asked him why he wanted to climb it. His reply?'

Iona shook her head.

‘“Because it's there”.' He sat back.

‘Plus,' Cropped-hair added, ‘it's our heritage; the city's. The council's attitude is totally out of order. Not only do they deny access, they deny many of the tunnels even exist. Including ones we've been down. There are records of some of them – why they were built. But they're kept under lock and key. Bastards. They didn't dig them, they don't own them.'

Actually, Iona thought, if they're on city council land, they do. ‘Probably just Health and Safety concerns,' she said. ‘Usual sort of rubbish.'

Hidden Shadow shook his head. ‘Fuck that. They're just pen-pushing, faceless officials. Servants of the state.'

Here we go, thought Iona. Have a rage against the machine. Still, at least they weren't causing trouble during their explorations. Spraying graffiti or stuff like that. She glanced about, remembered her surroundings and tried not to think about when she could head up the stairs and back out into the open. There was the interview to get through first. ‘Listen, you sure you don't want a drink? I wouldn't mind one.'

The same shifty looks bounced round the group again. Like, she thought, to say yes would be to somehow incriminate themselves. She pointed to the empty packet of crisps. ‘I wouldn't worry. If I want your DNA, I'll just take that. You were both licking your fingers then dabbing the last little bits out.'

Their eyes widened in alarm.

‘I'm joking.' Iona sighed, getting to her feet. ‘Three Budvars, yeah?'

They all nodded.

As Iona returned, one hand grasping the necks of three bottles, a gin and tonic in her other, she could see the three of them in whispered conversation. ‘Here you go,' she said, plonking the drinks down. ‘So, this newcomer to the group. Can you take me through it?'

‘Right,' Cropped-hair said. ‘We're really careful about taking on new members. Unless it's someone we already know, initial contact usually comes through the forum. I keep a Gmail address up there and he started PMing me about two months ago.'

Private message, Iona thought, scribbling away.

‘Stuff about wanting to join, how into what we were doing he was. I ignored him, waited for him to actually read the process of getting in.'

‘Which is?' Iona asked, glancing up.

‘Posting a few explorations of your own.'

‘People can do that – put details of their own trips straight on to your site?'

‘'Course. Anyone can join the forum. Loads do just to read and comment on what we do. Doesn't mean you're an actual member of the Sub-Urban Explorers. Post reports of your own trips – preferably ones not been done before – and we'll consider letting you in.'

‘OK – so this newcomer. He had an email address for you to reply to?' Iona's pen was ready.

‘Did,' Cropped-hair stated. ‘It's no longer active.'

Doesn't matter, Iona thought. I'm sure our tech guys can still trace it. ‘What was it, anyway?'

‘A darkmail address. You won't get anywhere with it.'

A good part of her CTU training had covered the use of the Internet for covert communication. Still, she thought, no harm making out I don't know what on earth they're on about. ‘Darkmail?'

‘You do much on the Net?' This from Toby, now sitting forward.

‘Of course. Google, mainly. BBC News. Facebook and Twitter, when I get a chance. Plus,' she gave a wink, ‘Streetmap is good for when we need to raid an address. Have a good look from all angles online first, far more subtle.'

Toby sighed like that was so yesterday. ‘You and half the burglars in this city. OK, when you do one of your Google searches, think of it like dragging a net across the surface of a very deep lake. What you catch is the stuff designed to float – to get caught. There's so much more deep down that doesn't come up. That's the darknet, including email addresses that will lead you absolutely nowhere.'

Iona raised her eyebrows, feigning surprise. ‘Do you have it anyway? I know my boss will only ask.'

With a sigh, Cropped-hair took out an iPhone and brushed his way through a few screens. ‘Ready?'

Iona nodded and copied down what seemed to be just a random sequence of numbers and letters. She searched in vain for anything that might even indicate which country the address belonged to. Nothing.

‘Good luck with it,' Cropped-hair said, putting the device away.

‘Cheers,' Iona replied. ‘So, what can you tell me about this guy?'

I
ona took another sip of her gin and tonic. The alcohol was definitely hitting home, countering the feelings of discomfort caused by the confines of the bar.

‘What can we tell you about this guy?' Hidden Shadow repeated, as he thought for a moment. ‘Well, he then posts a couple of trips he's done on his own. Nothing impressive – just a couple of the better-known sewerage tunnels, like the Amory Street storm drain.'

‘Yeah,' Cropped-hair interjected. ‘Like that's a big deal. Not.'

They're loosening up, too, Iona thought. Amazing what a bit of booze can do. ‘Why didn't that impress you?' she asked.

Hidden Shadow looked at her like she was an alien. ‘Been done to death. That's why. Anyone can get in.' He put on an American accent. ‘It ain't no thing.'