Troubled Waters (4 page)

I know Thursday and Friday are going to be quiet, which will give me time to finalise my report for Jamie Cropper on the fracking project. Whatever my own thoughts on the potential damage to the water table and other
green
issues, it is still a no-brainer for Jamie on all fronts. He is basically going down the tubes if the project doesn’t go ahead. Having done the calculations every which way, whatever he might do farming-wise isn’t going to make up for the deficit caused by the losses on milk production compounded by the delay as a result of the protest. He needs a cash injection big-time, and soon.

I email him the report at lunchtime on Thursday and expect a call back the next day. It comes back within two hours.

‘Read all that,’ he says. ‘Could do with a larger deposit and a faster bonus when they begin production if you think that’s a goer.’

‘We’ll go in all gung-ho,’ I answer.

‘Can’t afford to wait, can I?’ he states realistically.

‘Nope, no disagreement there.’

‘Can you arrange for us to meet FrackUK quickly?’

‘I’ll get right onto it, and let you know straightaway.’

‘Brilliant.’ With that, he hangs up.

I consider strategy for a few moments, but conclude there is no point: we need to meet FrackUK, and soon.

Hans Johansen takes my call.

I try not to sound too desperate. ‘Good afternoon, Hans. I hope you are well and the weather is not too wet for you.’

‘It’s not exactly LA, California, but I’m coping. How can I help you? ‘My client has accepted my report on your offer and would like to meet with you to discuss a few details,’ I waffle.

‘Excellent news!’ he enthuses. ‘It would be good to get a deal fixed, as the protesters would have nowhere to go then – a
fait accompli
, shall we say.’

‘Indeed. When can you make it?’

‘Next Wednesday, in the afternoon, three o’clock.’ he states.

‘Fine. I’ll call you back to confirm.’

Jamie is over the moon at such a speedy response, and I confirm the meeting with Hans for the following Wednesday.

‘You look pretty pleased with yourself,’ Amelia observes as she pops in with the last coffee of the day.

‘Yes, Jamie approved my report immediately and I’ve already managed to arrange a meeting with FrackUK for next Wednesday. A good result for the day, so I might just celebrate with an early drink, if you fancy one?’

‘Sod the coffee!’ she replies, marching swiftly out to finish up for the day.

We close up the Enodo office and meander up St Petersgate towards the centre of Stockport, where a new bar/restaurant has recently opened. The owners are trying to cash in on the current popularity of gin and are building up their stocks.

Johnny, the younger of the partners and straight out of charm school, greets us as though we are long-lost relatives from Australia, which beats the laidback, slovenly approach any day.

‘Hi, you guys. What can I get for you early birds? We have two new gins for you to try: a Hendricks, and an Old Tom – one of my favourites.’ He conveniently omits the price tag on the specialised gins.

‘Oh, can I have an Old Tom, please?’ Amelia smiles.

‘Coming right up, madam,’ he says smoothly, with no sarcasm. ‘And the same for the gentleman?’

I feel he’s laying it on a bit thick now. ‘I’ll just stick with my normal Bombay Sapphire with lime, please,’ I reply.

‘We have Fever Tree tonic?’ he suggests.

‘Wonderful,’ I reply.

Still leaning on the bar waiting for my change, the other partner arrives and I make a schoolboy error.

‘What’s your stock of gin up to now?’ I’m only making conversation, but realise as soon as I’ve opened my mouth that I might regret it, as he launches into a lecture.

‘We are now up to ninety,’ he replies. ‘Not as many as the Cholmondeley Arms near Malpas in Cheshire, who now have two hundred, and my brother tells me his local in Pewsey down in Wiltshire has one hundred, so we still have some way to go yet.’

Fortunately, before being subjected to the whole of the lecture, an acquaintance waves us over to a table.

‘Hope I rescued you in time. I could see he was in full flow.’

‘Whew! Thanks for that,’ I say, clinking glasses.

Our rescuer, Derek, is a bit of a computer geek, although his latest venture is acoustics, which he now goes on to explain in some detail. I feel like I have jumped from the frying pan into the fire.

‘The thing is, there are a number of problems that can ensue if appropriate acoustic measures are not in place, particularly in the workplace. Health and safety for one. Not many people are aware that even if the noise level is below the level proscribed by law, continued exposure to machine noise at a lower level for a longer period of time can be damaging. Then there can be productivity issues, such as in open offices and call centres where space dividers need to nullify noise, allowing workers to concentrate properly. Privacy is obviously important where confidential meetings are taking place, and appropriate soundproofing of walls and ceilings would feature highly in many situations such as these.’

We continue in general chit-chat, staying only for half an hour as Amelia has a gym class, before we take our leave and make our way to Stockport railway station and the journey home.

I am first in on Friday morning, and am catching up on a few jobs that have kept slipping down the list. Some others I am able to discard altogether as no longer important. Amelia arrives in a sombre mood, and I am left wondering why as she goes off to make coffee.

She brings in the coffee, and immediately leaves my office without a word, leaving me no wiser. I leave her to it. All in good time, I hope.

An hour later her head pops round the door. ‘Can I have a word?’

‘Of course,’ I answer, quite concerned.

‘You know this murder that’s been all over the newspapers this week? A girl drowned in the river...
Body in the Irwell
was the headline.’

‘Yes, I did read the reports, but the receptionist downstairs said this morning when I came in that she thought there were two murders, because the headline in the local free paper, which she had on her desk, read
Lowry Hotel Murder.
She also said she’d heard about it on the local radio earlier in the week, and they called it
Lowry Hotel Murder
too.’

‘Oh!’ Amelia exclaims. ‘I’m sure I know the bloke who runs the radio station – Paul something – he’s a bit of an entrepreneur and impresario. Does a lot for Stockport, puts on shows with ageing pop stars, and events in local shopping centres and stuff. That old DJ Terry Christian who used to present
The Word
on TV years ago, has a morning show. I think they’re based in the old Strawberry Studios off Hillgate in Waterloo Road.’

‘Is that what you wanted to have a word with me about?’

‘Well, not exactly,’ Amelia explains. ‘You see, my friend Sophia from the gym class was telling me all about it last night.’

‘The one you chat about art stuff with?’

‘Yes. Her father has a small art gallery in Prestbury and the family have an Italian restaurant off Albert Square in Manchester. He used to be a footballer, Carlo Peroni.’

‘I do remember you mentioning her, and I think I also remember the father, but I’m not sure who he played for.’

‘Who he played for is irrelevant,’ Amelia chides, before continuing. ‘You see, the murdered girl works – or rather did work – at the same place as Sophia: a recruitment and training company called Salford into Work.’

‘Right,’ I say, trying to keep up. ‘And?’

‘Sophia thinks the girl – Marian Clowes – was killed before she could blow the whistle on what was going on, and she herself is now frightened of being involved.’

‘How could she be involved?’ I ask, somewhat confused.

‘They were talking amongst themselves about the fraudulent activity last Friday night in the Lowry Hotel. Marian, the girl who was murdered, it was her thirtieth birthday. Sophia thinks someone must have overheard them talking.’

‘Ah!’ I exclaim, as the penny drops. ‘Would it be enough to murder someone for?’

‘Yes, it certainly would,’ she avers.

Amelia goes on to explain the ins and outs of the fraudulent activity that has been going on at the recruiting company, and that it could add up to an awful lot of money, not to mention a jail term.

‘I get the picture now,’ I say.

‘Sophia is wondering if maybe we could help her out, give her some advice, like.’

‘It wouldn’t do any harm to meet her,’ I agree. ‘But she has already confessed to the police, you say?’

‘She hasn’t done anything herself; she has only admitted to the police that she is aware of things going on.’

‘Oh, right,’ I acknowledge, unsure where this is all going. I agree for Amelia to arrange a meeting anyway.

‘I told her you would! I’ll call her right now.’

‘Where do you think we should meet her?’

The smirk says it all; I’ve fallen for it.

‘I’m sure she knows a nice Italian restaurant,’ she smiles.

I hold my hands up as Amelia waltzes out to make arrangements. She’s back in no time, having arranged the meeting for today after work. I think about saying its a bit short notice, but I’d only be kidding myself. Amelia knows only too well my social life is hardly exciting. Since being divorced eighteen months ago, my social skills have not been improved by internet dating sites. Golfing ladies tend to be of a particular type. Most success has been with a Cheshire dining group, so I occasionally eat well and live in hope.

For the second evening in a row we stroll up St Petersgate together to Stockport station. We could appear to be an item (but only if people didn’t know that Amelia doesn’t go for men). The train is a stopper, but is half empty going back into the city. I spend most of the journey wondering what revelations are in store for us.

We alight at Manchester Piccadilly station, where we are to meet Sophia, who had phoned to advise that she had been shopping and was close by. The three of us struggle through the cosmopolitan maelstrom of commuters, most of them heading for home in the opposite direction. The city is now busy as we traverse Piccadilly, turning left down Mosley Street and then through side streets to Albert Square. All conversation is about shopping. The Carlo Peroni restaurant is located in a prime spot just off the square.

We are about to enter when two men burst out, almost crashing into us. I feel sure I should know the larger one. Seeing us, he pauses, his face in a frightening grimace. He snarls and shouts out.

‘Stupid bitch! Why did you have to split on us and tell the fuzz? You’ve ruined things now, Sophia.’

He jumps forward, making a grab for her. She jumps back and I stand in the way of a further attack, holding my hands up trying to signal
let’s talk
. He’s having none of it, grabs my wrists, and in true back-street fashion head-butts me. Luckily, I’m fast enough to turn my head to one side, but it still feels like I’ve been whacked by a brick on my left temple. I crash backwards off the kerb into the street, and my assailant, still holding my wrists, is dragged down with me. Fortunately, turning my head has put him completely off-balance, and he crashes face-down onto the tarmac next to me. Meanwhile, Amelia is wrestling with the other thug. Although groggy, I’m up first. My combatant turns and jumps up, blood streaming from his nose, and makes ready to advance on me once again. Pumped up and with adrenalin at full flow, a well-aimed kick in the groin puts him down instantly, groaning in agony. I take a quick look over to check on Amelia, and see her martial arts expertise has won out: the other man is also looking the worse for wear as he staggers over to my assailant and hoists him up sharply. Cursing and swearing, the two move off as quickly as they are able, cursing, swearing and making threats.

‘We’ll be on the lookout for you, Sophia,’ the larger one spits out.

I’m still pumped up and looking for more when a loud voice stops me in my tracks.

‘That’s enough! I know who they are.’

The two attackers limp off down the street.

‘Dad!’ a startled Sophia shouts. ‘Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine,’ Carlo answers. ‘But how are you? And what about your two friends here?’

In shock, Sophia mouths weakly, ‘I’m OK.’ She turns to us. ‘And you?’

I look at Amelia, who smiles and winks back at me, as bright as a daisy.

‘We’ll be OK,’ we reply, nodding in unison.

‘Please come inside and get cleaned up and I’ll get you some refreshments,’ Carlo invites.

We don’t need to be asked twice, and Sophia, the colour now back in her face, leads the way as we follow Carlo into the restaurant.

Carlo nods to an expectant waiter, who slips behind the bar.

‘Anything you fancy,’ Carlo says. ‘I’ll have my usual.’

Sophia opts for a glass of red wine.

I look questioningly at Amelia, and her nod is telepathic. ‘May we have two Bombay Sapphire gin and tonics with lime, please?’

‘Any preference for the tonic?’

‘Fever Tree,’ Amelia says decisively, and I nod to confirm.

We settle down at a table, and there is a period of silence. No one wants to be the first to speak. Carlo breaks the deadlock.

‘Does anybody know exactly what is going on here?’

‘What did those two men want in here?’ I ask Carlo. ‘Did they attack you?’

‘You haven’t met some of my kitchen staff, have you?’ he says wryly.

As if on cue, two of the tallest men I have ever seen come out of the kitchen. They must be pushing seven feet tall.

In what sounds to me like an East European accent, but could be Italian, the smaller man says, ‘Everything OK now, boss?’

‘Meet Luigi and Paulo,’ Carlo announces. ‘From Croatia. They are brothers; they come from a big family,’ he chuckles, then pauses for effect. ‘Everything is fine now, thank you.’

The brothers retreat back into the kitchen, and Carlo continues. ‘They were actually looking for Sophia. It’s a good job she was late getting here.’

Sophia wipes away tears. ‘I didn’t come straight here; I did some shopping first before meeting my friends at the train station. It’s all my fault!’ she wails. ‘I should never have told the police anything. They would never have found out, if I had kept my big mouth shut. Barry’s right about that.’

I instantly remember the face of my attacker, and now know his name. ‘That was Barry Milton?’ I stammer, immediately realising Sophia didn’t use his surname.

‘Yes, he’s the boss of my section at work.’

In bewilderment I recall the face of one the leaders of the fracking protesters at the farm days earlier. ‘Wait… I…’ I’m about to admit that I have seen him before, but have second thoughts and stop myself in time. First I need to know more about Barry, as Sophia’s boss. No one seems to have noticed my hesitancy in the excitement. Amelia steps in and saves me from embarrassment.

‘Why would he follow you here with a henchman?’ she enquires.

‘He has been looking at me strangely all day,’ explains Sophia. ‘As though he wants to warn me, but I’ve not been on my own all day. I don’t know how he knew I would be coming here after work, but he couldn’t have known I would take a different route and do a bit of shopping on the way.’

‘That makes sense,’ Carlo agrees.

I breathe a sigh of relief and move on swiftly before anyone notices my gaffe. ‘What exactly is he warning you about?’

‘There are a few of them making fraudulent claims on our government contracts when we place someone into employment.’

‘How is that done?’ I enquire.

‘It’s quite simple if the intention is to commit fraud and you know what to do. We have to get a signed declaration on an employer’s letterhead that the person noted in the letter has been employed from a certain date. The person has already left us and doesn’t know anything about it.’

Amelia innocently asks. ‘How does it get through the government systems?’

‘Having had one or two genuine claims, all you need is to steal some letterheads or fudge them through a photocopier and then forge the signature, and bingo!’

We all stare at Sophia. It does appear too easy.

‘Aren’t there any checks and audits performed?’ Amelia enquires.

‘Yes, but that could be months later, and they wouldn’t have time to check every one. Once the perpetrators get wind of an audit, they move on, and the company is often too embarrassed to go after them.’

There is a stunned silence as we assimilate our newfound knowledge. Something is puzzling me, though, and I cautiously voice my concern to Sophia. ‘Why would Barry be so angry with you?’

‘It’s not necessarily just me. He is the boss of our section, and not only does he profit from his own fraudulent activities, he gets a bonus on the results of the section as a whole as well.’

‘Ah! That would make it worth a bit of aggro,’ I agree.

We’ve been talking for what seems like ages and the place is filling up with more diners. Carlo is having to pay attention to his duties, and rising from his chair he calls for menus, announcing that dinner is on the house. This brings smiles all round after what has been a tense atmosphere.

A bottle of wine appears as if by magic, and Carlo smiles over at us whilst playing the Italian host to a celebrity whose face I know but can’t put a name to.

The girls choose a fish dish, and I go for
saltimbocca –
veal pan-fried with Marsala and sage, a favourite of mine that you don’t find very often any more. As we wait for our food to be served and the conversation meanders onto other less serious topics, Amelia speaks, addressing me directly.

‘We are going to do something to help Sophia, then, aren’t we?’

‘Absolutely,’ I confirm emphatically. ‘How could we not? There is definitely more to this affair than first appears.’

‘Oh, thank you both,’ Sophia smiles meekly.

‘We will begin first thing on Monday,’ I announce. ‘And we will probably be thinking about it over the weekend.’

‘That is a weight off my mind,’ Sophia adds. ‘I can’t really believe it only happened one week ago.’

After an excellent meal, we offer to escort Sophia home to Prestbury, but she declines in favour of waiting to go with her father. I tap my watch to let Amelia know we should leave, and then after a quick wave of the hand to an embattled Carlo, we rush off to Piccadilly station to catch the last train home.

***

Late Friday afternoon, Hans Johansen was finishing up for the weekend. The process takes longer than usual, for he has a number of tasks that cannot be left over the next week and need to be performed that day if plans are to come to fruition. Rifling through drawers, he selects half a dozen files and shreds the contents. Going online, he checks the company’s bank account and makes several transfers. A nice tidying-up process, he muses, before deleting his password.

He checks his diary for the following week, noting that he is scheduled to meet with a farmer, Jamie Cropper, and his consultant on Wednesday. He smiles ruefully, for he has no intention of keeping that appointment. A further look around confirms that his desk is clear and the office is tidy, as one would expect from a true Scandinavian professional. It’s seven o’clock on Friday evening, and he is last to leave for the weekend. He turns off the lights and locks the door. Taking the lift down to ground level, he smiles at his image in the polished side of the lift. Waving to the man on the security desk, he exits the building and walks casually through the mall area. Emerging onto the street, he turns right and disappears into the crowd of homebound commuters heading towards Piccadilly station.

Boarding a Virgin Pendolino train to London Euston, he chooses a seat as far away as possible from other travellers. Travelling first-class on a FrackUK credit card, this does not prove difficult at this time on a Friday evening going down to London. He uses his mobile phone to make several calls, including one to the Chairman of
Harmony Earth.
After fifteen minutes of discussion, a meeting is arranged for the next day, Saturday, at noon. He finishes the remains of his evening meal – a sandwich and coffee – and satisfied with the day’s endeavours, he settles down to sleep.

At noon the next day, Hans meets with the chairman in a nondescript hotel in Lambeth for the next stage of the plan: the further disruption of the FrackUK business in the north-west, particularly in Manchester. Hans outlines his plans, which meet the approval of the chairman.

‘I will notify the armourer that you will be making contact with him,’ the chairman states, giving Hans a slip of paper with a mobile number written on it. ‘What else do you need?’

‘I only need one other thing: who will I will be able to recruit easily from local protesters in Manchester?’

‘I will advise you by text. When will the action take place?’ the chairman asks.

Hans considers for a moment. ‘Two weeks from now, maybe longer. It will be on a Saturday.’

‘Can you not make it sooner?’

‘First we need to get maximum exposure from the protest site at the farm in Lancashire. We will have been there long enough by then, and the police are getting tougher so it will soon be time to quit. Then I will move the protesters into the centre of Manchester and begin again.’

‘It is a good plan,’ the chairman congratulates Hans. ‘Good luck,’ he finishes, as they part company.