Losing Ground (3 page)

Auriole Allen stirred uneasily and said, ‘Derek, as the person in charge of press and public relations in this firm, might I point out that it would be as well if we avoided referring to Tolmie Park…’

‘What’s left of it,’ interrupted Derek Hitchin, quite unrepentant.

‘What’s left of it, then,’ conceded Auriole Allen, ‘as an old heap.’

It was house policy to keep the belligerent Derek Hitchin, their very able but distinctly short-fused project manager, away from as many outside contacts as possible. His abrasive manner worked very well with sub-contractors and suppliers; it went down less well with officials and local councillors.

And the press. Especially the press.

Auriole Allen turned on a winning professional smile and went on, ‘The local papers might get to hear of it and you know what they’re like when they sense a row. And then before you can say knife, it’s in all the nationals.’

‘Auriole’s right, of course,’ said Lionel Perry peaceably, well aware that there was nothing the combative Hitchin liked better than a row.

With anyone. With everyone.

‘Not a good idea, Derek,’ he went on easily. Lionel Perry was the very embodiment of a company chairman. Silver-haired and silver-tongued, and of a notably benevolent mien, he photographed well and knew it. It was Lionel Perry’s face that figured on the firm’s advertisements and promotional brochures. It was an image that was worth a lot.

‘Don’t forget, Derek, that the history of the bank’s involvement in Tolmie Park has been kept out of the papers.’

‘So far,’ Auriole Allen reminded them tautly. ‘Only so far. Don’t forget that you can never be quite sure what the press know but aren’t going to print until the time’s ripe. They’re very good at that.’

‘The Calleshire and Counties Bank won’t thank us for making it public anyway,’ said the chairman.

Robert Selby sniffed. ‘Too right, they won’t. Their Douglas Anderson has always been a bit tight-lipped about what happened there.’

Lionel Perry added lightly, ‘And you never know when we’re going to need some extra finance from them ourselves.’

‘Worse than the press,’ Robert Selby came back smartly in his customary role as Cassandra, ‘is that the Berebury Council’s conservation people might get to hear that Derek here thinks the house an old heap. You know what they’re like with their precious listed buildings.’

‘You don’t have to tell me,’ grumbled Randolph Mansfield. ‘They behave as if every single old building in the county of Calleshire belonged to them.’ Even though strictly speaking he was the firm’s architect, Mansfield was still a man with his own ideas about what should be done with all buildings – old and new.

‘But they talk about them as if they’re ours all right whenever hard cash comes into it,’ snapped the finance director. ‘They’re not theirs then. Oh, dear me, no. When it comes to paying anything out, then they’re ours.’

‘Ours? I ask you!’ spluttered Derek Hitchin, ‘when they won’t let you lay a single finger on them without their permission. Ours, indeed!’

‘Which in the broadest sense,’ said the chairman calmly, ‘I suppose they are, since we all live in Calleshire and enjoy them.’

Of all those present only Auriole Allen appreciated the public relations value of this anodyne statement. The others ignored it for the guff it was.

Lionel Perry stroked his chin and said sagely, ‘This Muster Green you’re talking about – I suppose if the worst comes to the worst and we can’t get planning permission for it included with the rest of the land we could always deal with it separately as an ALMO.’

Auriole Allen sat up smartly and said, ‘I may have the body of a weak and feeble woman but I do have the heart and stomach of a public relations consultant. What in the name of goodness is an ALMO?’

‘Arm’s Length Management Operation,’ explained Robert Selby.

‘Modus Operandi,’ put in Randolph Mansfield in a long-suffering voice.

Selby ignored him. ‘And let me tell you, Auriole, an ALMO’s nothing like as profitable as a hands-on one.’

‘Easier to manage, though,’ said Derek Hitchin comfortably.

‘Less work for you, you mean,’ said Selby uncharitably.

‘Less hassle for everybody,’ retorted Hitchin, ‘except that in this case it won’t wash. Our access road goes bang through the middle of it.’

‘Now then, guys, ease up,’ said Lionel Perry, very much the chairman. ‘It’s early days and nothing’s settled yet.’

Before anyone could react to this, there was a tap on the door and a ginger-haired young man appeared, bearing a folder.

‘Come in, er…’ said the chairman, who had forgotten the employee’s name. He deliberately avoided catching Auriole Allen’s eye as he said it. He knew without being reminded that he wasn’t any longer allowed to address the young women in the firm as ‘my dear’; he wasn’t even sure now whether ‘my
boy’ had actionable overtones too. He decided against saying anything.

‘Edward – well, Ned, actually,’ said the young man helpfully, handing over the folder to the Finance Controller. ‘Ned Phillips. I’m new here.’

‘Ah, thank you, Ned,’ said Robert Selby, taking the folder from the man and flipping it open. ‘I’ll need these figures presently.’

‘You’re settling in well, I hope,’ said the chairman beaming benevolently at the newcomer. ‘Liking it at Berebury Homes and all that?’

Ned Phillips said politely that he was finding life at Berebury Homes very interesting, thank you. He had a pleasant, unaffected voice and held himself well. He seemed notably unfazed by being in the presence of the firm’s top brass.

‘Good, good,’ said Lionel Perry automatically.

‘That’s all, Ned, thanks,’ began Robert Selby, looking over the documents and getting ready to resume his dire warnings.

‘Just a minute, er – Ned, did you say?’ The chairman began fumbling in his pocket and brought out a bunch of keys. ‘You might just run my car down to Berebury Motors – that’s the garage in the High Street, if you don’t know it – and get them to mend the puncture in my spare wheel. I had a flat on the way in this morning.’

‘No problem,’ said Phillips, picking up the keys. ‘It’s the Jaguar in the chairman’s parking bay, isn’t it?’

Perry nodded. ‘Tell them I need it done pronto. I’ve got another engagement quite soon after this.’

‘If you ask me, Randolph,’ said Derek Hitchin, deliberately provocative, as Ned Phillips withdrew, jangling the car keys in
his hand, ‘these old buildings are mostly white elephants.’

‘Even white elephants have ivory tusks,’ murmured Lionel Perry, almost to himself.

Hitchin gave another snort and turned back to Robert Selby. ‘Now, a minute or two ago our financial controller was going to tell us something which began with “otherwise”, remember? What was it, Robert? Tell us.’

‘Otherwise,’ replied Robert Selby flatly, ‘if we don’t get all the planning permissions we need, not only will we be unable to go ahead with any development at all but we’ll be lumbered with repairing a grade two starred listed building to the local Council’s standards and left in no condition to fight off Calleshire Construction’s hostile approaches or those of anyone else who takes it into their head that we’re ripe for development. That’s right, Randolph, isn’t it?’

Nobody, but nobody, called the architect “Randy”.

‘Not just repairing it,’ Randolph Mansfield, the architect, came back in on the instant. ‘Restoring it, which is very different. And worse. Much worse.’

‘Then I’m afraid you’d be talking big money,’ said Robert Selby. ‘Really big.’

‘There’s just one other thing,’ Lionel Perry picked up a piece of paper on the table in front of him, ‘which I think I should bring to your attention. Someone called Stuart Bellamy…’ he paused, looked round the table and asked, ‘Does that name ring any bells with anyone?’

There was a concerted shaking of heads.

‘Anyway, this Stuart Bellamy, whoever he is, wants to buy Tolmie Park and all the accompanying land.’

‘Just like that?’ said Derek Hitchin.

‘Just like that,’ said Lionel Perry richly. ‘He says that if we would be kind enough to refer him to whoever it is who handles our legal matters, he will supply the appropriate references and so forth and then make us an offer.’

‘He does, does he?’ said Derek Hitchin.

Robert Selby, ever the finance man, frowned. ‘He could be a straw man for Calleford Construction. I wouldn’t put anything past them.’

This brought all the others up with a jerk. Calleford Construction Ltd had been jockeying for some time to be in a position from which to execute a takeover of Berebury Homes.

‘That’s a thought, Robert,’ frowned Lionel Perry. ‘Although I must say this approach doesn’t look – well, big enough for that. It could just be some nutter trying to have us on.’

‘Or it could be a bit of cloak and dagger stuff from Calleshire Construction,’ persisted Selby.

Lionel Perry handed the letter over. ‘Look into it anyway, will you, Robert, and find out what he’s up to?’ One eye on the clock, he gathered up his papers and closed the meeting. He forbore to remind them that on the other hand they were talking very big money indeed if Berebury Homes’ development plans were to get the go-ahead without let or hindrance – with or without their rivals Calleford Construction muscling in.

Nobody could guess quite how big.

‘Ah, there you are, Inspector,’ the fire officer picked his way hurriedly over an intricate cobweb of hoses lying on the ground to greet the two policemen. ‘Burton’s the name, Charlie Burton.’ He waved an arm in the direction of clouds
of black smoke billowing up from behind the house, adding unnecessarily, ‘And that’s where our fire was.’

‘At the back,’ agreed Sloan, scanning the big old house, neglected but standing nevertheless. ‘Still at the back, too,’ he said.

Burton pushed his helmet back and grimaced. ‘Contained so far. Not that you can ever be sure. Not with fire.’

‘You never can tell with bees, either,’ murmured Detective Constable Crosby at Sloan’s elbow.

‘Can’t make any promises at all at this stage about when you’ll be able to go in either,’ said the fire officer. ‘All I can say is that it hasn’t spread into the really old part of the house.’ He turned and pointed in the direction of a stand of trees beyond the side of the house. ‘Luckily there’s still plenty of water in the old lake over there otherwise I don’t know what we’d have done out here in the back of nowhere.’

Detective Inspector Sloan followed his gaze over what had once been lawn and was now field in the direction of what had probably been designed as ornamental water.

‘We haven’t half upset the water lilies,’ said Burton. ‘But this is the way to go. Follow me.’

Sloan said, a little puzzled, ‘I thought the place was supposed to be empty.’

‘It was,’ said the man drily. ‘There was some printing business in here at one time but that took itself off when we got round to doing a fire check for their Safety at Work Certificate.’

‘Not safe?’ said Crosby.

‘Electrical wiring out of the Ark,’ said Charlie Burton. ‘And the insulation was as rotten as it could get.’

‘Perhaps that’s what went wrong today,’ suggested Detective Inspector Sloan.

‘No, no, it’s not an electrical fire,’ said Burton, his professional expertise aroused. ‘There’s a bit more to it than that. If you ask me, ten to one it’s arson. You’ll see why in a tick. Our expert’s on her way over as we speak but whatever you say, Inspector, nobody’ll be able to do anything until the site’s cooled down a bit.’

Detective Inspector Sloan nodded his understanding that there were would be forensic experts in the fire service, too.

‘Nobody,’ repeated Burton, tilting his helmet back.

‘This fire…’ began Detective Inspector Sloan, on duty and busy.

‘We reckon we doused it before it got a hold on the main building,’ said the fire officer. ‘Easily. The billiard room was only added on, not integral.’

‘Lucky you got here in time, though,’ said Sloan.

Burton looked unhappy. ‘I’m not so sure that we did.’

Sloan looked round the deserted garden and then at the remains of the parkland. ‘You can’t see anything of the place from the road so it was lucky that you got here at all.’

‘Lucky, nothing,’ said the fireman pithily. ‘We had a call – an anonymous call from a public telephone kiosk.’

‘You’ll have it recorded, though,’ murmured Sloan. All the services recorded everything these days: too much for the liking of some.

‘Switchboard said it sounded as if it was spoken through a handkerchief or something,’ said the fire officer.

‘Disguised,’ deduced Detective Constable Crosby from the sidelines.

‘A man’s voice, that’s all they can say,’ said the fireman.

Detective Inspector Sloan was not surprised. Most of the fire-setters he had encountered had been male – and young.

‘We’ve traced it to a call box out on the road towards Almstone,’ said Burton.

‘Not the one in the village, then.’ At the back of his mind Sloan had the thought that the other public telephone booth in Tolmie was next to the post office bang in the middle of the village High Street. Someone else must have known that too, then. He looked quizzically at the fire officer. ‘If you know all that, why did you want us out here?’

‘You’ll see.’ Charlie Burton’s expression changed and he suddenly became very businesslike. ‘Come this way, Inspector.’ He led the way round the side of the house, picking his way round the snaking hoses once more. ‘Just follow me, both of you, but mind how you go. We don’t want any more accidents.’

‘
More
accidents?’ said Detective Constable Crosby, perking up.

‘That’s what I said.’ He pursed his lips and said ‘At least, I hope it was an accident.’

The two policemen followed the fire officer in single file, one behind the other, each following in the footsteps of the one ahead, none willing to step on any of the full hosepipes. As they got nearer to the back of the house they could hear the hissing of cold water on hot wood above the steady throb of the water pump.

There were firemen and a-plenty in action, tackling the site of the fire with practiced efficiency. The fire officer advanced to the side of the single-storey building least damaged by the flames.