Troubled Waters (3 page)

Wednesday 19
th
November

Sophia Peroni was at her desk at Salford into Work. She was terrified after the confirmation that her colleague and good friend Marian Clowes had indeed been violently attacked and thrown into the River Irwell, where she subsequently drowned. The police had interviewed Sophia along with other staff. Those who had attended the soirée the Friday before at the Lowry Hotel were subjected to a more rigorous process, with the police wanting to know about the revelation of fraud. Sophia had been so frightened that she’d confessed her knowledge of fraudulent activity, but insisted that she had not been involved herself. She now regretted revealing it, and feared for her job once the news got out to her bosses.

***

At GMP headquarters, early thoughts of Friday night binge-drinking gone wrong had been dispelled, and accidental drowning completely ruled out. Forensic reports had confirmed that an attempted strangulation had taken place before Marian had been unceremoniously dumped in the river Irwell.

Inspector Bill Lambert was in his office studying the forensic report along with Detective Maurice Evans.

‘Well, that seems clear enough anyway,’ Lambert said.

‘Yes, sir. No doubts there. Do you think it’s an inside job?’

‘Looks that way, what with suggestions of fraudulent paperwork. Have we had all the reports processed yet from the employee statements?’

‘Not all of them quite yet, sir. Two of our civvies’ data input girls are off sick at the moment with this flu bug that’s going about, and we’re not allowed any temporary workers.’

‘Bloody budget cuts,’ Lambert muttered. ‘The statement from the Italian girl was quite detailed… do you think she knows more?’

‘Sophia Peroni,’ Evans confirmed. ‘Maybe she does. I’ll have another chat when all the other reports are finished.’

‘Peroni… wasn’t he a footballer? Bloody good, as I recall?’

‘Yes, sir. The family have a restaurant just off Albert square, and he’s gone all arty-farty with a small art gallery in Prestbury.’

Lambert was unimpressed. ‘I’m sure he can afford to indulge. Have we resolved with the press yet that it was only one death and not two as was reported on Monday?’

‘Yes,’ Evans replied. ‘I gave a short press conference on Monday, though it took a bit of explaining, as although the deceased had been in the Lowry Hotel on Friday night, it was not actually a
murder in the Lowry Hotel
because she left unharmed, ending up as a
body in the Irwell.’

‘Yes, I get the drift, thank you, Evans.’

Evans decided to cut his losses and backed out of the room, leaving the inspector with his thoughts.

***

As promised, I’m up at the crack of dawn for the journey to Jamie Cropper’s farm. Discarding my normal Ted Baker midnight-blue two-piece suit in favour of jeans and a green wax jacket with a checked tweed flat cap, I hope to blend in a bit more with the green contingent of the fracking protesters. The last piece of toast is washed down with the still scalding remains of a cup of tea. I back my pride and joy, my classic Saab 900, out of the garage, now relieved of its cow dung adornments and restored to its shiny glory.

It’s a freezing November morning, still dark, and the lanes are icy as I drive carefully to the M6 motorway for the journey to Lancashire. Although still early, there are already four lanes of standing traffic on the Thelwall viaduct over the Manchester Ship Canal and the river Mersey at Warrington.

Having primed Jamie about my ruse of being a reporter, I arrive at the farm to find the first bus-load of protesters in situ. Parking well out of dung shot, I approach cautiously, remembering that I am supposed to be an independent reporter doing a spot for a small newspaper group. Clutching a pencil and a shorthand notepad, I try to make light conversation with some of the more serious-looking folk. Speaking with a West Country accent and wearing a
Free Cornwall
badge on his parka, one says he is a lecturer at Manchester University.

‘If this goes ahead, there’s no knowing where it’ll all end,’ he fumes. ‘We still have explosions in the tin mines where I come from.’ I’m not sure whether this revelation is true or even relevant, but he continues his rant. ‘If this project goes through and they carry on far enough, they could be under those oil terminals at Ellesmere Port, and what’ll happen then?’

‘Beats me,’ I empathise, seriously doubting his credentials as a lecturer. Ellesmere Port is miles away and on the other side of the Mersey estuary.

Another more convincing man named Henry chips in, ‘The main issue is the water supply. It has not been proven yet that toxic substances can be kept out of the supply for domestic use.’

‘Is that why there are delays in confirming licences?’ I ask, hoping I am on firmer ground (no pun intended).

‘Yes, indeed,’ he affirms.

At this point I hope I have said enough to establish myself as potentially on the side of the protesters. I move off to see what Jamie’s view of the day ahead is.

Poking my head around the door to the farmhouse, I holler ‘Good morning!’ as cheerfully as possible, seeing Jamie dolefully washing up at the kitchen sink.

‘Tea?’ he invites. ‘Had breakfast?’

‘Yes to both,’ I answer. ‘Just had a word with a couple of the early birds… they don’t seem too ghastly.’

‘At the moment, maybe, but reserve judgement until after the press arrive and the ringmasters start cracking the whips. Then you could see some animal action.’

Struggling for a meaningful comment, I shrug my shoulders and nod. The next hour passes slowly, until several pressmen assemble with paparazzi in tow, followed five minutes later by more protesters. One large Mercedes is given special reverence by the protesters; a tall well-built man in a black suit steps out from the rear. It becomes obvious that he is a ringleader. By now an outside broadcast TV has arrived.

‘Looks like things are stepping up,’ I remark.

‘Could be right. Just keeping watching,’ he instructs.

‘Who’s the big guy in the black suit?’ I ask.

‘Barry Milton,’ he answers, keeping his eyes on the window. ‘Not here all the time, so I think he has other interests.’

‘What could that be?’ I wonder.

‘No idea, but he seems to command quite a few of them.’

We stand and stare out of the window for what feels like ages, but has in reality only been a few minutes until the film crews get set up. A reporter makes his way towards the farmhouse kitchen door, and as if choreographed the banners go up and the chanting begins.

'Tory scum, Tory scum! Selling out to Tory scum!’

This reminds me of the miners’ strikes of the Thatcher era. I suddenly realise, to my horror, that standing next to Jamie I am going to branded as coming from the same mould.

The knock arrives on the door.

‘Any chance of a quick word, fellas?’ the reporter asks, flashing a card. I recognise the face but don’t make out the name before eggs and tomatoes splatter us, lobbed over the head of the reporter.

Jamie is livid. ‘Gonna get my shotgun!’ he shouts, as I grab his arm in restraint.

The eruption fortunately calms as quickly as it had arisen, and he collapses head in hands onto the sofa. The eggs and tomatoes are more embarrassing than injurious. The hack has taken the opportunity to enter the kitchen, closing the door behind him, and made himself useful by putting the kettle on. We stare out of the window for a minute as half a dozen protesters are loaded into a police van.

Cleaned up and nursing tea, our dignity is restored. The hack tries again.

‘Any chance of a comment?’ he asks wryly.

‘I’m merely a business associate,’ I answer, feigning ignorance.

‘Bastards want locking up,’ Jamie stammers. ‘This is my livelihood. I’ll be out of business in a month if FrackUK pulls out now. I’ve been dependent on milk production and the supermarkets have put paid to that: we get paid less for a pint these days than it takes to produce.’

The hack looks up in sympathy as he makes a few notes.

‘Do you know this Barry Milton?’ I ask.

‘I’ve come across him before,’ he answers, finishing his notes. ‘Milton was involved in some kind of recruitment business the last time I ran into him, but I don’t know any more than that, I’m afraid. I’ve got enough notes here… don’t suppose you’d want your faces in the news, would you?’ he asks tentatively.

‘Fuck off!’ Jamie fires back.

Standing up, the reporter offers his hand. ‘I’ll be off, then.’

I reciprocate, but Jamie’s face is thunderous. Whilst most sympathetic, I have nothing else to offer my client and leave him stewing on the situation, promising to let him know if the police can do anything more, and what view FrackUK may be taking.

Wednesday 19
th
November

At five minutes to one, lunch time, twenty-year-old Sophia Peroni left Salford into Work. She was a classic Italian beauty, and indeed a lookalike for the Hollywood film star Sophia Loren. Her dark hair flowing, she walked down the street with a slight sashay on not-too-high heels. She walked along Chapel Street and turned right into Bridge Street. Past Salford Central Station, she continued up the slight incline, past the Mark Addy pub, and crossed the bridge over the troubled waters of the River Irwell. To the right was the Manchester Civil Justice Centre, sometimes referred to as the filing cabinet due to its unique design. As she glanced left across the street on the Salford bank of the river, it was impossible not to notice the statue of Joseph Brotherton, the first mayor of Salford. A hundred yards beyond it was the Lowry Hotel, scene of the fateful incident on the Friday night five days before.

How foolish. She could so easily have chosen a different route. Tears began to flow as the memories returned. Passers-by stared, but she was quite used to being conspicuous because of her beauty. Pulling herself together, she continued walking, her destination the family restaurant off Albert Square to meet her father Carlo for lunch. Wiping away the last of the tears, she stopped and turned to check her face in a shop window. The movement was mirrored in a window across the street, where a man was gazing with undue interest at a display of curtain fabrics. She carried on oblivious.

At ten minutes past one, her father was waiting expectantly and greeted her in traditional Italian fashion: arms outstretched and a big hug. For privacy, he guided Sophia to a table in an alcove and gestured for menus. When she arrived, remembering her revelation at dinner on the Monday evening and aware of her interview with the police that morning, he began cautiously.

‘You know, I hope it wasn’t too difficult this morning?’

Sophia was reluctant to talk. ‘Do I have to?’ she pouted.

‘Only when you’re ready,’ he coaxed.

‘Can I have a glass of wine first?’ she asked with a practised flutter of her gorgeous eyes.

‘Yes, of course, my child,’ Carlo said sweetly, snapping his fingers at an embarrassed waiter.

The wine duly delivered, he ordered salmon fusilli with asparagus for them both.
The wine worked
,
and ten minutes later Sophia was ready to unload.

‘Marian was my friend and mentor. She was the only one who helped me when I first started. Some of the others can be horrible, especially at the end of the month if they have not reached their targets. That’s when they cheat and falsify the claims.’

‘Does this happen a lot?’ Carlo asked.

‘It doesn’t need to happen a lot; it can be £1000 a claim,’ Sophia explained.

‘Yes, I see how it could mount up. Some of these government departments can be a bit lax on their auditing, I’ve heard, by which time it is too late.’

‘That’s right,’ she continued, ‘and from what I understand, some of the best fraudsters don’t stay around long enough to be found out, or at least not to be charged, because of bad publicity. But the company still loses out and can go bust as a result, because the government claws the money back and sometimes ends the contract.’

‘It’s a very messy situation, then,’ Carlo empathised. ‘Tell me about the police interview.’

Sophia took a deep breath and another slug of wine. ‘It wasn’t pleasant, certainly not to begin with. They had obviously assumed at first that Marian had been binge-drinking and had somehow fallen into the river; the railings are not very high at that point. Then they kept on and on about was she going to meet a man or was she coming onto anybody in the bar – footballers, etc. I’m sure it happened in your day, Dad!’

Carlo was a little embarrassed, but recovered well. ‘And was she?’ he probed.

‘Definitely not!’ his daughter snapped.

‘And that was it?’

‘No, they kept asking about work and what we talked about and was she worried about anything. I just caved in and confessed to knowing about the fraud and about Marian and Suzy being frightened about being whistle-blowers.’

‘Oh my!’ Carlo exclaimed. ‘Dangerous ground. Let’s change the subject and finish our lunch.’

***

I drive back from Lancashire to the Enodo offices in Stockport, arriving in time for lunch. Amelia immediately asks about the stains on my clothing, and what the situation at Jamie’s farm is. I decline to answer, requesting lunch first, to give me time to get my thoughts in order. I had promised to call Bill Lambert in the afternoon, but feel I should first of all get the view of FrackUK.

I make the call and am put through to my normal contact Hans Johansen, contract manager, a Norwegian with a previous career in the offshore oil industry. He assures me that they have no intention of backing out of their agreement with Jamie, and that they have been through this kind of stuff many times before. He is of the opinion that the protesters will soon get fed up and that UK politicians really have no choice but to allow fracking in order to maintain an affordable supply of energy. I’m not totally convinced – it sounds like the party line – but there’s no alternative but to believe him at this point in time.

Amelia brings in lunch, and amazes me once again. No sandwiches today: a fresh prawn quiche with salad on the side.

‘Birthday?’ I enquire, knowing full well it is not.

‘You know it isn’t,’ she quips. ‘I felt like something different, that’s all.’

I begin to eat, but Amelia is keen to know about my morning adventures. ‘So how did it go, then? Seeing the state of your clothes, you look like you’ve been to a chimpanzee’s tea party.’

I go through the detail of the morning, including the embarrassment of the egg and tomato throwing incident, bringing smirks of amusement to Amelia’s face.

‘What did the FrackUK people have to say?’

‘Basically all in a day’s work for them, and the status quo remains for now,’ I answer, munching on my slice of quiche.

‘You wouldn’t really expect them to say anything else, would you?’

‘No,’ I agree.

I make Lambert the first call of the afternoon, in case he has any information I can also pass on to Jamie. I make the call and he answers after a few moments, clearly still involved in another conversation, and says he will call back. ‘I’m disappointed but intrigued. He could easily have refused the call or just said he was busy.

Ten minutes later I’m still waiting. When my mobile rings, it’s Bill, wondering whether I am out and about or not.

‘In the office,’ I confirm.

‘OK. Sorry I cut you off before, but as luck has it, the inside man on the fracking protest I told you about had reported in personally. It’s not often they visit police headquarters, for obvious reasons. He was just finishing as you rang, and I didn’t want to stop him in full flow. They’re definitely up to something, but he doesn’t know what as yet. They’re currently just making a nuisance of themselves.’

‘You can say
that
again,’ I reply. ‘I and my client the farmer got a shower of eggs and tomatoes this morning. I wasn’t happy, but he was mad as a bull, nearly going for his shotgun.’

‘Yes, I’ve not seen the report yet, but I believe some were arrested for disturbing the peace.’

I need more detail. ‘When you say up to something, what could that mean? How serious?’

‘They’re not messing about. The word was that it could be a bomb somewhere, so you’d better be careful.’

‘Oh, I forgot to say. I also got a warning yesterday, written in cow dung on my windscreen.’

‘Unpleasant,’ he agrees.

‘Did your man come up with any names yet?’

‘No, not yet. He’s going through mugshots as we speak.’

‘Might be able to help, then,’ I offer. ‘Try one Barry Milton for starters. I got the nod from a reporter that he was a bit of a dodgy character.’

‘OK, thanks for that. I’ll check him out. Tell your farmer client that we’re putting more uniform on the job, so they should back off a bit as we’ll be stopping them first a mile or so away from the farm. Can we have a catch-up at the end of the week? I’ll call you, unless there’s anything urgent.’

‘Excellent,’ I confirm, pressing the off button.

‘Long conversation,’ Amelia observes, placing a coffee on my desk.

‘Yes, gives me something positive to tell Jamie,’ I answer as I tap out his number on the land line, signalling to Amelia that she is welcome to listen in. She leans on the door jamb in anticipation.

Jamie answers the phone disconsolately
.

I try to sound upbeat. ‘Got some good news,’ and I update him on my conversation with Inspector Bill Lambert.

It seems to work. ‘Great. At least I’ll be able to get out of the lane to do some work without being harassed by those clowns. Do you think the inside man knows of any other villains besides that Milton bloke?’

‘I don’t know for sure, but Bill says he will call me to update at the end of the week.’

Now in a much brighter mood, Jamie thanks me profusely and hangs up the phone. I also feel that progress has been made, although I am concerned about the news from Bill Lambert that the fracking protesters could be planning a bomb attack.

Amelia is still lounging against the door. ‘That sounded like a very positive conversation. Jamie certainly went off much happier.’

‘Yes,’ I confirm. ‘Didn’t have the heart tell him about the possible bomb attack that Bill Lambert mentioned, though.’

‘Bloody hell! Probably best you didn’t, and he didn’t know where anyway. The farm would be a stupid target, though, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘No mileage in that, surely.’

‘What about the fracking company, though?’ Amelia asks. ‘Where are they based?’

‘They’re American-owned but have an office in the Piccadilly Plaza Tower building in the centre of Manchester.’

‘Wow! That would be some target,’ she breathes.

She moves out to answer the door. It’s the receptionist from our landlord downstairs.
Vic the Liq
. Vic is short for Victor, and he’s into corporate rescue, which often results not in rescue but in liquidation, hence
Vic the Liq.
She heaves a package onto the table: discount stationery purchased online through Amazon. We settle down to mundane matters.