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but the events of that day were among her strongest childhood memories. Shopping with her mum in the maze of little streets that used to sit alongside the Arndale. Uniformed officers suddenly appearing, arms out, voices raised, alarm showing in their eyes.
    It was the first time she’d properly appreciated what power the job conferred. The reassuring way a female officer had addressed her mum. Come on, let’s get you both clear of this area. Iona had stared up at her, in awe of the officer’s businesslike desire to protect. Right then she’d decided that’s what she wanted to do in life.
    They’d been herded up to the far end of Market Street. Bewildered and mildly scared, they were trapped in the crowd by the side of Debenhams when the thing had gone off. She still remembered the tremor beneath her feet, like an invisible tram was rumbling by. Then the billow of smoke rolling up from the direction of the Arndale, the echoing boom replaced by a chorus of shrill alarms, fine shards of glass tinkling down from the sky, shortly followed by scraps of paper. ‘Still seems incredible no one died.’
    â€˜Doesn’t it?’ The man gestured to an open doorway. ‘Right. What I’ve got for you – it’s an odd one, really.’
    She stepped through. There seemed to be even less space in the ground-floor rooms than she remembered.
    â€˜I’m over here.’ The sergeant made his way to a desk in the corner. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of a group called the Sub-Urban Explorers?’
    Iona dragged a spare chair over from the next workstation, sat down and raised an eyebrow. ‘No.’
    â€˜Didn’t think you would have. Bunch of student types and general misfits from what I can make out. They grub around, finding ways into the various passages which run under Manchester.’
    Iona had heard rumours of the many secret tunnels which were believed to lie beneath the city’s streets. Her mind went back to the hole in the road outside the station. The pool of water at the bottom. You never really consider what’s under your feet, she thought, as Ritter opened a file. ‘This lot like to creep along them, taking photos and posting reports. It’s all on their website.’
    Iona sat forward to examine the printout. A standard forum-style page, with a list of titles and dates.
    Medlock Culvert, June.
    Bunker storm drain, June.
    The Works drain, August.
    Lumb Clough Brook, sewer overflow, August.
    Cathedral steps, September.
    â€˜Each to their own,’ she murmured.
    â€˜True,’ Ritter responded. ‘If you overlook the fact half these places are out-of-bounds to the public, private property and general deathtraps.’
    â€˜And crawling with rats, I should think,’ Iona added.
    Ritter shuddered. ‘Which is why I’m only too happy to be passing this on to you.’
    â€˜Yeah, thanks for that.’ Iona gave a quick grin. ‘So, where does this false identity come into it?’
    Ritter flicked over a couple of sheets. ‘OK. This is from someone referring to himself as an intermediary for the Sub-Urban Explorers, or SUEs. The actual members of the group are wary about meeting – in case we try to arrest them.’
    â€˜They don’t think we’ve got better things to do?’
    â€˜This lot? They’re nothing if not paranoid. You can guess the type – we’re agents of a fascist state, they’re fighting for freedom.’
    Iona nodded wearily. ‘We’re out to get them and harvest their DNA. Feed their data into our evil state computers . . .’
    â€˜You’ve got it,’ Ritter smirked. ‘Until someone mugs them and runs off with their laptop, then they’re suddenly very keen to get in touch.’
    They shared a smile.
    â€˜According to this intermediary, the group were approached a while back by a newcomer who wanted to become a member. He was a . .