Scratch Deeper by Chris Simms

Author:Chris Simms [Chris Simms]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Severn House Publishers Ltd
Published: 2012-10-03T04:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-SIX

Jamia Masjd mosque was on a narrow street – mainly residential properties with a few small shops. Most, including a halal butcher’s, were closed for the day. She saw a convenience store had its lights on, as did a tiny newsagent’s.

The mosque formed one half of a large semi-detached house that stood out from the smaller, terraced houses on each side. The front of the white building had obviously been modified – a very sturdy-looking double door was flanked either side by narrow windows, each rising to a point. The clouded glass filling the frames was engraved with Arabic calligraphy. Every window was protected by a metal grill. Positioned directly above the doors was a sign, the top of which consisted of tiny Arabic letters. The bottom read, Jamia Masjd. Iona parked further down the road from it and pretended to take a call on her mobile, eyes on the rear-view mirror.

It was hard to tell if the place was locked or not; no one seemed to be going in or out. After a few minutes, two people appeared from the rear of the building. Females, Iona realized, both wearing headscarves and loose clothing that went down to their ankles and wrists. A separate entrance for women, Iona thought, remembering Wallace’s words about how the mosque permitted their presence. Talking very quietly, they walked past her car and round the corner. Iona was debating whether to take a look round the back of the building when three Asian youths, seventeen at most, emerged from the convenience store.

Leaning against the railings outside the entrance, they began to open cans of soft drinks while continuing their conversation. All were wearing jeans, trainers and casual tops. One had a zigzag pattern etched into his short black hair. Their speech was fast, accompanied by jabbing hand movements and bursts of laughter. They were barely ten feet in front of her vehicle and, Iona realized, now aware of her presence.

Time, she thought, to go. She brought her imaginary call to a close and began to pull out. They all stopped talking as she passed, one ducking low for a better look at her.

At the end of the road, she turned right and, checking to see no vehicle had trailed her from the direction of the mosque, followed the road back to the big roundabout. She took the exit leading to the police station, following the approach road to a sign that read: Police Vehicles Only.

At the rear entrance a civilian worker buzzed her through then directed her to an office further into the building, saying that’s where the duty sergeant could be found.

As Iona walked along the corridor, she conjectured on how much it would be safe for her to divulge. The fact she was CTU was bound to raise the officer’s eyebrows and – she had to assume – quickly become a source of conversation in the empty corridors of the newly built station.

The duty sergeant was a large man in his late thirties, with blotchy red cheeks and a sparse covering of grey hair clinging to the sides of his head.

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