Blind Needle (13 page)

Somebody coughed. There was a shuffling of papers.

‘Has everyone received a copy of the agenda, Mr Deputy Town Clerk?'

‘Yes, Mr Chairman.'

‘And the Press?'

Two rows of heads turned to look down the long baize-covered table, and I hunched forward as if scribbling.

‘Yes, Mr Chairman.'

‘Thank you, Mr Deputy Town Clerk. I refer you to item one of the agenda: “Funding and development of Brickton Harbour and adjacent facilities as a marine leisure environment, to include maritime museum, visitors' centre and yacht moorage.” You will note that appendix 1:1, herewith attached, contains a cost breakdown compiled by the borough treasurer's department, as requested by this subcommittee. I hope you've all had sufficient time to peruse and digest the figures – yes, Councillor Holroyd?'

‘I never can read these damn things. How much do we have to fork out, the borough that is? Which figure is it?'

‘Bottom right-hand corner,' said a new voice. ‘Underlined in red.'

The chairman said, ‘Thank you, Councillor Benson. As you will note, gentlemen, this amount is but a fraction of the total cost. The EC contribution, I think I'm right in saying, is twenty-two million as against …'

It was curious. I think I knew what I was supposed to feel but nothing happened. Benson looked too much as I had pictured he would:
secure, prosperous, overweight, complacent. He was leaning forward, hands clasped, elbows on the table. He wore a dark-blue pin-stripe suit, expensively cut, and a silk tie with a fat Windsor knot. In profile he was heavily handsome, with an elegant bow wave of silver-grey hair that curved back over his ears and grew thick on his neck. When you looked closer you saw that his face was flaccid and open-pored, the kind of face formed by over-indulgence, and which expects, as of immutable divine right, to be indulged.

I watched him, only half-listening as such phrases as ‘fiscal benefits' and ‘resource management structure' and ‘EC grant-aid' eddied to and fro. The man who couldn't read figures looked bored to distraction. The man in front of me, behind whom I was sheltering – bald head fringed in grey hair, leather patches on the elbows of his crumpled corduroy jacket – seemed to be furiously writing it all down, even the coughs and grunts. To his left, slumped down with his chin on his chest, arms folded, sat a sharp-featured dark-haired young man in a grimy creased raincoat, staring with brooding, unimpressed eyes at the proceedings. I wondered if it was an occupational necessity for all reporters on local papers to dress so shabbily. Were they underpaid or had they all seen the same movie?

The chairman was saying, ‘Come, come, let's not quibble over details. We want to present a united front to the gentlemen of the Press. Ha-ha.' He forced a laugh and clamped a curly briar pipe between large yellow teeth.

‘I couldn't agree more, but this is far from being a mere detail.' An elderly man with a hearing-aid was staring at Benson with sharp, watery eyes. ‘I simply would like Neville to tell me if—'

‘Who?' the chairman interrupted brusquely.

The elderly man tried again. ‘Can Councillor Benson give me a categorical assurance on this point? A simple yes or no will do.'

‘The point being … ?' the chairman said.

‘Does he expect his company to receive the bulk of the development grant or not?' the elderly man with the hearing-aid said, his thin voice rising almost to a squeak. ‘Isn't there a conflict of interest here, in that—'

It seemed he was always being interrupted. This time by Benson, raising a fleshy hand with a diamond ring trapped in the folds of his
little finger. ‘I can assure you, Donald – Councillor Potter – that every procedure has been followed scrupulously to the letter. There is absolutely no question of a conflict of interest.'

‘No?' Councillor Potter said, blinking his watery eyes. ‘How do you explain that, when your company has already taken an option on the proposed site?'

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen …'

Benson glanced down the table to where we were sitting. No doubt all he saw were three shabby and rather bored journalists, because his gaze didn't linger. He said shortly, ‘Let's discuss it afterwards, Donald. This isn't for the public record.'

‘What?' Councillor Potter cupped his ear. ‘Why not?'

‘Not at this moment in time. It wouldn't be – ethical.'

‘What wouldn't?'

‘Listen – Donald,' Benson said grimly and heavily. ‘Will you take my word? I don't want to repeat myself. There is no problem, believe me.'

Councillor Potter said stolidly, ‘I'd like it in writing. I'd like to see if for myself, if you don't mind. Oh, and another thing—'

‘Come now, do we really have to go on with this?' The chairman rattled the agenda, puffing smoke vigorously.

‘Are you ruling on this?' Councillor Potter challenged him. ‘Because if so I want it minuted. You're such a bloody stickler for procedure …'

The chairman waved his pipe irritably. ‘Oh, get on with it then. Make your point.'

Benson breathed audibly through his nose and swivelled his wrist to check the time.

‘I don't have a point to make,' Councillor Potter said. ‘I have a question. I
can
ask questions, can't I?' He was nearer seventy than sixty but his tenacity was that of a young bull-terrier. They had him cast as a deaf old fool, except he refused to play the part.

‘Yes, yes.' The chairman sighed, leaning back wearily.

‘Ask it,' Benson said between his teeth, ‘and let's get on.' He took a cigarette from a gold case, flicked a gold lighter, inhaled hungrily.

‘What's this five thousand pounds?'

‘What—? Where?' asked Councillor Holroyd, the man all at sea with figures.

Benson said calmly and very reasonably, ‘We're about to receive a grant-aid package of twenty-two million sterling, Donald, and you're bleating on about five thousand pounds. For God's sake, where's your sense of proportion?'

‘Five thousand pounds is still a large proportion to me. I started work on the boats at thirty-five shillings a week—'

‘We know,' Benson muttered tiredly, ‘and beer was tuppence a gallon.'

Someone said, ‘No call for sarcasm, Neville. Councillor Potter has a point.'

‘I wish he'd bloody get to it then,' Benson said, flicking ash. ‘Do we want the new marine development or don't we? This town is crying out for enterprise and initiative, and when it's there, in front of you, on a plate, all you can do is prattle on about petty cash. Fine. All right. Let's tear up the plans, refuse the grant, sink back into the mire. Let's see how you like that.' His face was turning a mottled red.

‘Now, now.' The chairman frowned a warning at him, nodding towards the gentlemen of the Press.

‘You haven't answered my question,' the old man said, the bull-terrier with the trouser leg between his teeth. ‘Does it or does it not say “Consultancy Fee”? Payable to whom?'

‘He's right,' said Councillor Holroyd brightly. ‘It does, yes. I've found it. Look—'

Benson was doing his best to stay calm, but it violated his nature. He wasn't used to having his actions balked or brought into question, least of all by doddering old fools.

The reporter in front of me was leaning forward, rapt, pad on his knee, ballpoint poised. From the corner of his eye Benson saw this and his jaw tightened. The doddering old fool and his bloody ferreting: you could almost see his mind working, seeking the best strategy for damage limitation.

He said formally, ‘Mr Chairman, I move that we adjourn this meeting and reconvene at another time. I'd like to ask for a ruling.'

‘It will have to be put to the vote,' the chairman said, and looked towards the deputy town clerk, who nodded, the globed lights flashing on his steel spectacles.

Councillor Holroyd inquired vaguely of no one in particular, ‘Who
was it paid to, this money? Where does it say?'

I pressed my elbow against my side to assure myself it was still there, safe and solid in my inside pocket. I had to smile. The money Benson was in trouble over hadn't even reached the person he was paying off. He said angrily, ‘Are we taking a vote or aren't we?'

‘I don't see why,' one of the others said. ‘Can't we resolve this here and now? Surely, Neville—'

‘This ought to be discussed in closed session, not in front of the Press.' Benson brutally stubbed out his cigarette in the glass ashtray. ‘I'd like a ruling, Mr Chairman. Now.'

He was angry all right, but not simply about the money; there was something else. There were other secrets Benson was anxious to keep hidden – whoever had taken the money had taken the notebooks and micro-cassette tapes too. Evidence that would implicate him in – what? I still wasn't sure. Some sleazy scheme or other. I began to sense his vulnerability. And I hadn't even started on his wife and daughter yet.

‘MONEY!' screamed the pale young man in the front row, lurching suddenly to his feet. ‘That's all you fuckers understand!'

There was a moment of total, shocked silence. Nobody moved.

‘Money!' he screamed again, flecks of white spittle on his lips. I thought he must be drunk or drugged, but then his voice became low and flat, without a tremor, as he went on: ‘Keep in profit and to hell with the next generation. Closing down the Station, that's what you should be debating. Not bloody council funds and whether somebody's embezzled a few thousand measly quid from the tea money.'

The chairman hammered for silence. ‘This is not a public meeting. Be quiet or I'll have the committee chamber cleared!'

‘Here's something to print in your paper.' The young man jabbed his finger at the reporter, who far from brightening at the prospect of a juicy headline was looking lost and bewildered. ‘Leukemia rates in this area among children are ten times the national average. But these people don't give a shit. The Station lines their pockets and they're
happy to sit tight and do nothing and let our environment be polluted and see our children die. But you won't print that in your rag of a paper, will you?
Will you?'

Benson was on his feet, looking murderous. Then I saw that his attention wasn't on the young man at all. It was on me. Other people were standing. The chairman was banging his gavel. I saw a cloudy expression in Benson's eyes, as if he was trying to remember where he might have seen me before. Or perhaps I was too close a fit to the description Mrs Crompton and his daughter had given of the man who wandered into B-H Haulage seeking work. I must have been mad to think spectacle frames and cheap hair dye would be an effective disguise.

He came striding towards me, pushing some of his colleagues aside. He stopped in front of the row of chairs and squinted hard at me. ‘You. Who are you?' he asked suspiciously. ‘You're not a reporter.'

I stood up.

‘Not been looking for a job round here, by any chance, have we?'

I shook my head.

‘And being light-fingered into the bargain,' he added very softly, almost mouthing it, so that no one else heard.

I shook my head again.

It was at that moment the pale young man tried to grab at him and Benson thrust him away with the flat of his hand. Somebody said loudly, ‘This is disgraceful, completely out of order …'

I moved between the rows of chairs towards the door. Benson said over his shoulder, ‘Somebody call the police. And stop these two getting out.' Then to me, growling it deep in his throat, ‘Just who the bloodyhell are you?' He came forward, reaching out, his ring flashing, and I swayed back to evade him.

The pale young man was involved in a struggle with the deputy town clerk. He was panting and squirming. ‘It's you who should be locked up – you're criminals, the lot of you, profiting from misery. But you won't print that, will you?' he shouted at the balding, timid reporter. ‘You print what they tell you to print!'

A chair was knocked over and somebody went staggering. I was near the door and Benson was manoeuvring round to block my escape. He was overweight, and probably out of condition, but in a
tussle I didn't fancy my chances. If he got to me and handed me over to the police they would find the money and that would be the end.

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen—' the chairman was crying forlornly.

Benson made a swift grab and I dodged. I felt the edge of the chair strike the backs of my knees and went over backwards in a heap. Benson sprang forward. His florid colour had broken up into mottled patches of tiny fractured blood-vessels. He reached out, baring his teeth, gave a gasp of triumph. There was some sort of commotion outside, and at once the double doors burst open and the protesters spilled in like a mob of unruly children at a posh tea party. There were chants of ‘Save our children.' One of the women grabbed hold of Councillor Potter by his shiny lapels and shook him. A young man with dreadlocks was backing Councillor Holroyd against the wall.

I felt myself being hoisted up. Through the bodies I glimpsed Benson's glossy sweep of hair between a woolly bobble-hat and a woman's clenched fist. ‘Come on—' the pale young man in the grimy raincoat was pulling me by the arm.

‘I'm not a protester,' I said, as if it made any difference. ‘I'm not one of you.'

He laughed, a little hysterically. His eyes were bloodshot in the inner corners. There was a strain of manic fervour about him, held insecurely in check. Had his campaigning zeal brought this about, I wondered, or did you have to have that knife-edge personality to begin with to become a protester?

There was a crowd of people in the corridor, councillors from other sub-committees, the white-haired mayor, and fretful council officials. One of them tried to bar our way. ‘Just a minute. What's going on in there? Who are you?'