Scratch Deeper by Chris Simms

about one point two million, that’s a couple of hundred thousand of them.’
    Not liking how Wallace had phrased the comment, Iona reached for her pad. Wallace stopped her with a shake of the sheets. ‘You can have these. Looking more closely at the numbers, approximately ninety-five per cent are Sunni. Need I say who’s behind most of the mayhem out in Iraq and the Middle East? Port Louis, the Mauritian capital, has the highest concentration. That’s where there are loads of mosques.’ He lowered the sheets and, as he glanced at Vassen’s photo on her screen, she caught the look of distaste in his eyes. ‘I think it merits further investigation.’
    Iona turned briefly to the young man’s photo. ‘I’d say he’s of Indian descent, sir. The name sounds South Asian to me, too.’
    â€˜Your point being?’
    â€˜That would make it more likely he’s Hindu. What are the stats on that part of the population?’
    Wallace didn’t look down fast enough to hide the irritation on his face. ‘Hindu? Let’s see . . . says here, like the Muslims, brought in as indentured labour by the British in the 1800s.’ He looked up. ‘That means slaves?’
    â€˜Bound to a specific employer, I think.’
    â€˜Right. Thousands were shipped over to work the sugar plantations, core of the island’s economy—’
    â€˜That’s what Bhujun’s tutor –’ She stopped speaking. Shit! A glance at Wallace. His eyes were fixed on her. ‘When I spoke to him just earlier . . .’ She waved in the direction of her phone. ‘He said Bhujun’s thesis was about making cheap chocolate; the sugar for it being locally produced.’
    Wallace eyed her for a moment longer. ‘Well, this is your shout, DC Khan. We need to know exactly what our boy here – and his little sidekick from outside the library – are all about.’ He dropped the printouts on her desk as he stood. ‘Don’t need any more help, do you?’
    Iona looked up at him hopefully. ‘What are you offering?’
    â€˜Fuck all,’ he laughed then pointed at the screensaver on an adjacent desk. ‘Not with Operation Protector going live in less than twelve hours’ time.’

TWELVE
    I ona immediately reached for the sheets of paper Wallace had left. As she looked them over, she couldn’t help frowning. A yellow pen had been used to highlight every mention of the word Muslim, Islam or mosque. Where the figure stated the size of the Muslim population, exclamation marks had been added. Nothing else on the printout seemed to have interested the man.
    A sense of uneasiness was nagging at her as she looked around the room full of empty desks, picturing the person who normally sat at each one. I’m one of three female officers, and the only one – male or female – who isn’t white. Maybe Jim did have a point when he said . . . no, she told herself. Don’t start thinking like him.
    She’d finished off her tuna and sweetcorn sandwich and was screwing up the wrapper when the phone on her desk started to ring. Focusing on a waste-paper basket three desks away, she lobbed the ball of paper into the air. It hit the bottom of the bin without touching the sides.
    â€˜Get in!’ Euan called over from his corner desk.
    She flashed him a smile as she picked up the receiver. ‘Iona Khan speaking.’
    â€˜Detective Constable Khan?’
    Male voice with a vaguely continental accent. She guessed belonging to someone well into their forties. ‘That’s correct.’
    â€˜This is Superintendent Veerapen, Major Crimes Investigation Unit, Mauritius Police Force.’
    She sat up. ‘Hello . . . Sorry, I wasn’t expecting your call.’ She frowned. ‘And I didn’t quite catch your name.’
    â€˜Superintendent Harish Veerapen. Harish is fine.’
    Similar accent, Iona thought, to the