Troubled Waters (2 page)

The next morning I’m busy reviewing the draft report on fracking that Amelia has now completed and left on my desk. Cyril, a farmer and my landlord of the converted barn where I live in South Cheshire, reminded me last night that his friend Jamie was expecting the report. He had originally put the client, Jamie Cropper, in touch with me. He knows Jamie from attending farmers’ union meetings. Jamie has a farm in south Lancashire, where a lot of the fracking prospecting action is taking place, and has mentioned that he was waiting for the report. I duly promised I would have it finished and out by the end of the day.

As Murphy’s Law dictates, or was it really only coincidence, the phone rings. I pick up, as Amelia has not yet arrived. It is Jamie, in a bit of a state.

‘I’m in a bit of a tight spot!’ he exclaims. ‘They’re blocking me in.’

‘Who is?’ I ask.

‘Bloody fracking protesters!’ he shouts. ‘I can’t get down the lane.’

‘How do you know they’re fracking protesters?’

‘’Cos they’ve got bloody big banners with
stop fracking now
written on them, you idiot,’ he lashes out in his panic.

Feeling more stupid than annoyed, I ask, ‘Ah! I see. Have you contacted the police?’

‘Yes, of course, but they just say if it’s a peaceful protest there may not be much they can do. They wouldn’t say that if my cattle trampled a few protesters, though, would they?’

‘Don’t do anything foolish,’ I counsel.

‘What about both barrels from my shotgun?’ he asks bleakly.

I struggle for an answer to that. ‘The farmers’ union… can they help?’

‘There’s a rep on the way. I just thought I’d let you know, in case it affected your report. Can you think of anything?’

‘Well, it doesn’t really affect the report. I’ll give it some thought and get back to you.’

‘OK, thanks,’ he replies, clearly dispirited.

As I put the phone down I wonder if he’s going to back off the whole idea of a contract to allow fracking prospecting on his land, and start thinking about what effect the protest could have on the fracking prospector FrackUK. I quickly decide that while they are probably old hands and used to a bit of controversy, my fee could be in jeopardy.

The door opens and in walks Amelia. ‘It’s only me,’ she announces needlessly, in a tone that suggests we actually get visitors sometimes – well, we do, but not that many. ‘Sorry I’m late, but there was standing traffic on the M6.’

Before I can ask why she hasn’t taken the train today, she beats me to the punch, using that superior tone that only females seem able to muster. ‘You haven’t forgotten I need to go early today? Going to visit my parents.’
  

‘No, of course not. I’ve nearly finished the report for Jamie Cropper that you left last night, thanks, but there could be problems.’ I go on to summarise my conversation with Jamie Cropper.

‘Sounds exciting. What are you going to do?’

‘No idea yet. It was only a few minutes ago, so I’m still thinking.’

‘Right, well, I’ll crack on with other stuff, then.’

***

A meeting was being held at the Greater Manchester Police headquarters, two miles north of the city. The case was initially headlined by the press as
Body in the Irwell
, according to information gleaned by journalists from missing person reports linked with the initial telephone call from the dog-walker who had first spotted the body. However, local radio station Imagine FM, operating out of Stockport, claimed a scoop on the Monday evening, naming the incident
The Lowry Hotel Murder
, so both versions were circulating together, confusing the public, who could only conclude that two murders had been committed.

Inspector Bill Lambert looked up from his briefing notes, leaned back in his chair with hands behind his head, and regarded Detective Maurice Evans, who was seated opposite. ‘How on earth did this radio station get to know before any of the journalists?’

‘Ah! Well, you see, sir, it turns out that one of the girls at the drinks party has a boyfriend who works for the radio station, and she told him about the girl not turning up for work on the Monday. Rumours flew round the office about her being murdered – although not actually where, you see – and they knew of course that she’d been at the drinks do at the Lowry on the Friday evening.’

‘Two and two equals five, or a little knowledge is dangerous, eh, Evans?’

‘Quite so, sir. Quite so.’

‘What do forensics say?’

‘Back of your notes there, sir. Basically it confirms she was smothered with her own scarf, but the actual cause of death was drowning.’

‘Poor girl,’ Lambert muttered. ‘Husband and two kids, I understand?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Evans confirmed.

‘And what have we got so far?’

‘Not a sausage. We’re still collecting statements from the people at the drinks soirée, and of course from the staff themselves. Do you want me to arrange for an appeal to the public for information?’

‘No, not at this stage. Let’s wait to see what the people at the party have to say.’

The team undertaking initial interviews with the staff of Salford into Work was carefully chosen. Detective Sergeant Evans had been born in Cardiff, and before joining the police force went to Cardiff University to major in Law, followed by two years articled to a chartered accountant. In view of this background, he would lead the team in the fraud investigation.

The first interviews were with the management of Salford into Work, to ascertain those employees who were a) in a position to actually commit fraud, and b) would benefit personally by doing so. This immediately ruled out a large number of staff, leaving ten people – mostly recruiters – who were directly involved in the mentoring of clients and marketing them to potential employers. Two other members of staff, who were responsible for online training and the input of data onto the government training website, were also in the frame.

Accounts staff had a significant part to play in producing invoices and other records going back for the prior two years, which the police fraud team would audit. This activity was undertaken simultaneously, as the funding body’s inspectors were conducting their own thorough investigation.

***

Amelia strolls into my office, signalling that it’s lunch time. I’m multitasking, still wading through the fracking report and wondering what advice I could give to Jamie Cropper regarding the fracking protesters. A double barrel from his shotgun sounds good, but perhaps inadvisable.

‘Have you decided a) what you want for lunch, and more importantly b), what you are going to do about your client’s predicament?’ she asks.

‘Cheese and ham panini, hot!’ I answer. ‘As for the protesters… well?’

‘Why don’t you give your mate Bill the police inspector a ring? Can’t do any harm. Must be happening a lot now, in that neck of the woods.’

I look up over the top of my reading glasses ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ I answer. ‘I’ll ring him while you get lunch.’

‘You know I’m always right,’ she smirks, sauntering out of the door, leaving me smiling.

I finish the page and gather my thoughts before ringing Inspector Bill Lambert of Greater Manchester Police, an old friend and golfer from Forest View Golf Club. We were initially at Sandhurst together, after which Bill joined the police, firstly in the Met and finally transferring to GMP in Manchester. I ultimately landed at the Foreign Office and was posted to a number of overseas assignments. I was shot and captured and kept in
that place
, for a time. After returning to the UK, I still have flashbacks and occasionally suffer bouts of severe abdominal pain, owing to bits of shrapnel left floating around.

‘Morning!’ Bill greets me as though we haven’t met for some time, which is true. ‘Not seen you up at the club recently. You injured or something?’

‘No, it’s just not that much fun at this time of year. Too cold and wet.’

‘You must be getting old,’ he admonishes. ‘Got a problem?’

‘Kind of,’ I answer, feeling that I might be wasting police time. ‘I’ve got this client, a farmer in south Lancashire who I am advising about an offer he has received from a fracking company to carry out prospecting on his land.’

‘Sounds like big money to me.’

‘Could be I say, thing is he’s currently blockaded in by protesters, had to send his wife off to her mother’s for a few days. Now he’s getting a bit fractious, if you pardon the pun, and he owns a shotgun. He says the local police are on the way but a bit on the slow side, no offence committed yet, free country and all that.’

‘Ah! Yes, I get the drift. Sometimes a uniformed presence can be counter-productive, giving some of these green types celebrity status well above and beyond their due. You’re probably too young to remember a bloke by the name of Swampy, who used to camp up a tree at Manchester airport protesting about a new runway or terminal or something. Went ahead anyway, and then he disappeared.’

I feel that any more of Bill’s
when I were a lad
stuff would be unproductive, so I interject quickly with, ‘Can you suggest anything?’

‘Leave it with me. I’ve got an idea, but I need to make a call first. Don’t worry, it won’t take long. I’ll call you back later.’

‘OK, thanks. I’m in all day,’ I reply. When I replace the handset, I feel that slight niggle that you get when someone says
don’t worry
.

Ten minutes later Amelia bounces in with the paninis along, with a copy of the Manchester Evening News.

‘Be careful. It’s very hot,’ she warns. ‘I’ll be back with coffee.’

I pick up the panini. The cheese burns my mouth as I take a bite. ‘Bugger,’ I mutter as Amelia waltzes back in.

Placing the coffee on the table
,
she says, ‘I don’t know why they call it the Manchester
Evening
News when it comes on sale in the morning, but I thought you might like the headline story.’

I had been skimming the back-page football news, and now turning over to the front page I am amazed to read, ‘South Lancashire farmer under siege.’

‘Wow that is
Deja vu
!’ I exclaim.

‘Thought you’d say that,’ she nods. ‘What did your inspector friend have to say?’

I hold my hands up and shrug. ‘Said he had an idea but needed to call someone and would get back to me later in the day.’

‘That sounds...
ahem...
constructive,’ she replies.

‘Yes, it does,’ I confirm.

I wonder whether to call Jamie but decide its better left until Bill Lambert has called.

At the farm in South Lancashire, there was a stand-off as a red-faced Jamie Cropper remonstrated with a leading protester while a uniformed police sergeant attempted to calm the situation.

‘If you don’t get a move on away from the gate, you’ll be run over by my bloody tractor! And later this afternoon the cows have to be brought in for milking, and I’m sure you don’t want to be trampled underfoot!’ Jamie shouted over chants of
‘Down with fracking! Don’t kill the land!’
from the assembled horde of protesters a few yards further down the lane.

The police sergeant’s diplomacy was rewarded as the protesters agreed to retreat sufficiently further back behind a makeshift barrier of plastic washing line to allow the passage of outgoing tractor and the later incoming milk herd. Jamie sighed and thanked the policeman for his efforts, whilst the lead protester gave thumbs-up signs of mock victory to the mass of protesters.

***

True to his word, Bill Lambert phones me at 2:30.

‘Hello! What magical advice do you have for me?’ I greet him in anticipation.

‘You’re in luck. I wasn’t sure before – it was only an inkling – but whenever these protests occur, and certainly when they are big enough, we can draw on undercover officers who have infiltrated the protest group. I was right, I obviously can’t give you a name
,
but can confirm that we have someone inside the group that is currently at your client’s place.’

‘Wow!’ I reply in admiration. ‘That is good news, but what exactly will they do?’

‘Don’t worry,’ he answers.
That phrase again.
‘They won’t be getting physical. It’s more gathering evidence, finding out about people, especially those who seem to be pulling strings. It’s quite likely that some may already have records and be known to us or other forces.’

‘Oh! Right, excellent,’ I say. ‘That should reassure him. I’m due to meet him anyway.’

‘Good. Don’t do anything daft yourself, but I’d be interested on your take on the situation.’

‘Appreciate your confidence. I’ll call you tomorrow in the afternoon.’

‘OK, speak to you then,’ Bill says as the phone goes down.

I hadn’t said anything to Jamie Cropper about visiting, but Bill’s remark about being interested in my thoughts convinced me that I should. Jamie answers his mobile on the first ring. The chanting I hear in the background sounds feeble, as if the protesters are tired of listening to the sound of their own voices.

One hour later I am at the site. It’s a typical grey Lancashire day, with a cold drizzle blowing sideways on the wind coming in from the north-west. The assembled protesters look miserable and are getting ready to leave for the day. A uniformed Greater Manchester Police constable steps out from under the protective dangling branches of a large horse chestnut tree.

‘Can I help you sir? He asks in a tone that brooks no questioning but gives an assurance this is definitely his full-time job. I convince him I am expected and he allows me through the gate and into the farm yard, where I can see the door opening into the farmhouse.

There is a welcoming log fire in the old stone fireplace. There is no sign of wife or family, and I remember they are staying elsewhere for the time being.

‘Tea?’ Jamie offers. ‘Or would you prefer something stronger?’

‘I’ll stick with tea, thanks,’ I answer, sitting at the large kitchen table.

Sitting with steaming mugs of strong tea, we stare at each other for a while.

‘I got a good look at most of those remaining,’ I say finally. ‘But can’t say I could spot any obvious ringleaders. A lot of them look like disgruntled students who will soon get fed up and fade away.’

‘You’re dead right there,’ he confirms. ‘The bad guys are bussed in early in the morning and finished about an hour ago along with the media. The main danger time is in the morning, when the media arrive. That’s when they put on a show for the cameras. I’ve got some video footage of this morning, courtesy of a BBC friend.’

He walks over to a table in the corner that is already set up for the purpose. The scene on the screen is still in the semi-darkness of early morning, and opens with a shot of the hard-core protesters getting out of a couple of people-carriers. Many look like rabble-rousers, and that includes the women. One huge lady in dungarees and boots is marshalling the rest into some kind of order. Half a dozen student types carry banners and placards supporting the
Harmony Earth
party. Two other obvious leaders wear wearing jackets and jeans, with country-style tweed flat caps, look by their hand signals to be discussing strategy as to where best to place their forces. The muscle of the outfit are stood in a circle, some smoking. All have militia-style trousers and boots, and cropped hair or Mohican cuts. My immediate conclusion is that there is organisation here.

‘They’re certainly a motley crew,’ I say, finishing my tea. ‘Have you been able to find out anything about them?’

‘Not really,’ he answers. ‘Although there is one bloke who only turns up for a short time, usually early afternoon, as though it’s his lunch break.’

‘That’s interesting,’ I agree. ‘By the way, my contact in GMP has told me that an undercover man has infiltrated the group, but has yet to confirm any names that can be checked out. He says no crime has yet been committed, so the key question is what are they planning, other than disrupting your life?’

‘Well, I’ll be ruined if the FrackUK organisation backs out now! I’ve held off other projects in the meantime, and as you know, like most dairy farmers I’m losing money on the milk business.’

I nod in sympathy, but can find nothing positive to say in return. ‘I could turn up first thing in the morning, if you think it would be useful?’

‘Yeah, someone on my side, at least, so to speak,’ he answers.

‘OK, see you first thing.’

Jamie frowns and waves as I leave and stroll back to my beloved classic Saab, only to find graffiti daubed in cow dung on my windscreen.

Keep your nose out, tosser
, it reads.

As a man devoted to his car, I find this upsetting and I immediately look around for someone to take my rage out on, but there is no one nearby. I consider going back to alert Jamie, but it’s only cow dung this time, I think, and will easily wash off. Calming down, I use up a good deal of screen wash on the way back down the farm track. Passing the remaining protesters, I can see some of them smirking. On the way back I wonder how they knew what my business was and whether I am so obvious-looking, or whether it was merely a random act. Was the under-cover detective there, I also wonder? An hour later, after travelling south down the M6 motorway to Cheshire, I’m still wondering as I travel down another farm track to my home.