Troubled Waters (7 page)

Because of our lunch appointment I drive to Crewe station on Tuesday morning. After spending fifteen minutes driving round and round the official car park, I can find not a single space. For one whole second I consider abandoning my prize mint-condition Saab 900, but decide I have to find another car park. Buying my ticket, I complain to the clerk about the car park.

‘You’re not the first one today, sir. I don’t know what’s going on, she says in a patronising tone. It makes me angry, but I’m late now.

Still fuming, I sprint down the steps and along the platform. I jump onto the train, the sound of the whistle in my ears, with not a whisker to spare. My effort over, I reflect on the night before and my mental note to upscale my fitness regime. As I take my seat, an attractive middle-aged lady smiles and quips, ‘Nice legs!’ It makes me smile.

‘Thank you,’ I reply. I don’t mention my back, but I feel it nonetheless, making a mental note to ring the physio.

I thought I might catch up with Amelia on the platform or walking from the station, but she is already in the office, having caught an earlier train that was running late. This turns out to be fortunate, because she is running around replying to overnight e-mail enquiries and following up tentative phone calls from the last week. Two buses always come at once, so they say. This rush of correspondence is unusual for us. There are four emails, three of which are from farmers who appear to be in the same plight as Jamie Cropper – that is, they are in the process of negotiating prospecting contracts with fracking organisations. All three are dairy farmers under the hammer financially, but only one currently has a problem with protesters. Word has obviously spread on the grapevine that Enodo is helping Jamie. The fourth email is not from a dairy farmer but from someone who wants to know how to go about building a safari park.

Amelia comes in with coffee to discuss the potential opportunities. ‘You look a bit dishevelled,’ she observes, and laughs when I explain my earlier dash for the train. ‘These enquiries… how do you want to proceed?’

‘The dairy farmers first. Can you prepare a quote similar to the one we did for Jamie?’

‘And the lions of Cheshire?’ she jokes.

I laugh. ‘It does sound like a wind-up,’ I agree. ‘File it in the too-hard basket for now. It could be Gerry, my accountant, messing about; you know he thinks he should really have been a stand-up comic, only he doesn’t realise it’s only his bills that are a laugh.’

Fun time over, we get down to serious business. We decide that we will go into town early and have a wander around Piccadilly Tower complex before lunch to get more of a feel of the place, ahead of my meeting at FrackUK, with Jamie on Wednesday.

‘What about the murdered girl? Do we steer clear of any conversation on that?’ Amelia asks.

I pause before answering. ‘My initial thoughts are, yes, we steer very clear. It is not part of our remit, but it is intrinsically part of Sophia’s situation because of the fraud aspect, and Bill Lambert has not confirmed his opinion of the motive.’

The phone rings, and Amelia answers. ‘It must be telepathy,’ she whispers
.
‘
It’s him
!’ she mouths, passing over the phone.

‘Hi, good morning,’ I greet him in surprise.

‘Apologies for being a bit short last night. I had to rush to the doctor’s; the wife had rung me about a call from the nurse, saying my cholesterol was seven-point-something, going through the roof. I think she was dusting off the life insurance policy. Turned out the nurse, dozy bugger, had read the total cholesterol level, good and bad. When I got there she explained that when they deduct the good level and bring it to a net figure, I’m perfectly fine. I was too relieved to shout at her.’

‘That is a relief,’ I offer, now understanding knowing why he’d been so grumpy, but why was he really calling?

‘I’ve been thinking. Well, it was Evans actually… in your dealings with Sophia Peroni, you might be party to information that could be of use to us.’

‘That could well be,’ I confirm.

‘I don’t think it would be wise to muscle in, like, but perhaps we could be in the area and call in at the Lowry shortly after your lunch. At, say, three o’clock.’

Amelia, listening to the conversation, throws her head back and smirks conspiratorially.

‘No problem,’ I acknowledge, smiling back at Amelia. ‘See you later.’

‘How polite people can be when they want to! Is he up something?

‘Undoubtedly. But it won’t do any harm and he could help us too.’

It’s now 10:45am. ‘What time are we due for lunch?’ I ask Amelia.

‘One o’clock,’ she answers. ‘We had better be going if we are going to have a wander around.’

‘Yes, especially if it’s a stopping train. I wonder if the metro link will ever be continued into the centre of Stockport.’

Amelia frowns. ‘There’s flying pigs for you, but who knows.’

It is indeed a stopping train, and we are soon bored stiff by the constant inane chatter of a marketing executive on his iPhone. Slowing down into Piccadilly station at platform fourteen, the furthest away from the exit, the announcer tells passengers for Manchester to disembark as the train will continue onwards to Preston without going into the station proper.

‘Bloody hell! Might have known, just because we’re in a hurry,’ Amelia curses.

‘Best foot forward,’ I reply, striding out towards the steel bridge giving access to other platforms and the exit.

We debate whether to take the metro, but as there is no departure for fifteen minutes and not wanting to wait, we consider taking the free bus.

‘Let’s walk,’ I decide. Walking will allow us to traverse Piccadilly Gardens and go through the Plaza, the venue of tomorrow’s meeting with Jamie and FrackUK. I scan around as we approach, noting the number of towers in the complex, one being a hotel.

We exit the plaza and turn right, crossing Mosley Street and making our way through the old financial district. We make a turn to the right and northwards along Deansgate.

‘Is this not the wrong way?’ Amelia asks. ‘It’s more direct through Spinningfields, surely?’

‘You’re correct,’ I confirm, ‘it’s not the most direct way but going through Spinningfields would take us over the new bridge to the rear of the Lowry Hotel. I want to go along Deansgate and then turn left over Blackfriars Bridge to Chapel Street, Salford. We will then approach the Hotel from the front entrance as the girls would have done on that Friday evening.’

‘Ah! Now I see the light,’ she says, mockingly.

As we walk over Blackfriars Bridge and look left, the Irwell makes its way downstream. From here we can see the new bridge crossing over from Spinningfields, and where it descends onto a piazza at the back of the hotel. The road entrance off Chapel Street is not impressive, but the hotel is much the same as many other high-rise hotel new-build.

A church clock somewhere close by chimes one o’clock as we enter the foyer. Sophia is waiting.

‘Hello! Right on time. We have just arrived ourselves,’ she says, introducing us to Suzy, a chubby, mousey-haired girl – exactly what I’d envisaged from Amelia’s description.

We follow the two girls into the restaurant and are seated immediately. The waiter asks for our drinks order. I offer alcohol to them, but am not surprised when they opt for soft drinks, given the circumstances.

‘Apple juice for me,’ Amelia states.

‘Tonic, ice and lime, please,’ I order.

The drinks arrive quickly, along with all-day menus and lunch-time lighter options. We concentrate on the menus for five minutes, before the two girls order Thai chicken wraps with salad and Amelia and I share a ploughman’s lunch.

I’m surprised when it is Suzy who speaks first.

‘I’m so glad you’re going to help us. It has been going on far too long, and the bubble was bound to burst sooner or later.’

I try to take a step backward to get a hang on things. ‘Can I ask how long you have both been working for Salford into Work?’

Suzy answers first. ‘Five years.’

‘I started two years ago,’ Sophia says.

I am wondering where they might have worked before when Amelia breaks in. ‘And has the fraud been going on all this time?’

Sophia looks as though she is about to answer, but Suzy is quicker. ‘It started shortly after Sophia started.’

‘Hey, what do you mean?’ Sophia splutters.

Suzy is mortified. ‘Oh! No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… I think it all began with Barry. He became our new section leader about three months before Sophia joined the company,’ she says, looking at Amelia and me while touching Sophia’s hand in apology.

I feel that it needs to be spelt out. ‘What exactly do you mean by ‘it’?’

Sophia looks at Suzy, who then speaks. ‘The false claiming of jobs,’ she states.

‘Were either of you involved?’ I ask.

Suzy is adamant, but Sophia is more sheepish.

‘I only did it once,’ Suzy says. ‘I hadn’t got a job in two months, so Barry said to claim for somebody I was sure about who hadn’t yet got a job, and not claim for that one next month. He said he would sort out the paperwork for me.’

Amelia chimes in. ‘So you were left playing kind of catch up?’

‘Yes,’ Suzy confirms.

‘What about other staff?’

‘He usually leaned on a couple of lads he had brought into the company,’ Suzy replies.

There was a pause, and Amelia shoots a glance at me before asking, ‘And that’s the extent of it all?’

There are nervous glances between the girls.

‘And?’ I persist.

‘There was the training stuff, I suppose,’ Sophia says with reluctance. ‘But I don’t know one hundred per cent that it was fraud.’ She looks at Suzy for help.

Suzy duly obliges. ‘We had this government type of online training contract, upgrading IT skills, you know.’

Amelia and I both nod.

‘So how was the fraud perpetrated?’ I press.

It’s Suzy who answers. ‘Barry would give us enrolment forms and get us to enter them into the online computer, and later after a few weeks, enter data again that the course had been completed.’

I feel I am being a bit slow, and check over at Amelia, who is brave enough to admit it. ‘I think I’m being a trifle thick here, but… what do you mean?’

It’s Sophia’s turn this time. ‘Well, we don’t think the people ever turned up for any training.’

‘How could the company claim be made, then?’ I ask.

‘You only needed a valid NI number and a signature on the enrolment form to enter the data,’ Suzy explains.

‘Bloody hell!’ I exclaim, then apologise.

‘But how did they do it?’ Amelia asks.

‘We overheard some of the lads talking one day,’ Suzy goes on. ‘Barry used to pay people in the pub a tenner for their NI number and signature on the enrolment form, and hey presto.’

‘And nobody checked up?’ Amelia says, incredulously.

‘Not for months down the track anyhow,’ I add. ‘By which time Barry would probably be on extended holiday in Spain. Before you go,’ I add hesitantly. ‘Could you tell us a little bit more about Marian Clowes?’

The girls share a look, and it is Suzy who speaks first. ‘I know she was involved to a degree, but how much I couldn’t say. She was quite close to Barry, and was always spouting on about the Green Party and saving the countryside.’

Sophia takes up the story. ‘‘Yes, Marian could be a bit gobby at times, and she once told me that she had joined a protest group – against digging for gas onshore or something.’

‘Do you mean fracking?’ I am quick to ask.

‘That’s it,’ Sophia replies.

‘You two left before Marian on that night, I understand,’ Amelia prompts.

Sophia nods and gives an involuntary shiver. Suzy also nods her agreement.

‘I think she left at about nine o’clock,’ I say. ‘Which direction would she take?’

‘She lived in Whitefield,’ says Suzy. ‘So her train would go from Victoria Station. Her quickest way would be out the back and along the riverbank to Blackfriars Bridge and on from there.’

A pause ensues as this information is digested, then Sophia looks at her watch and gasps. ‘It’s 2:30! We need to be going, as we’re only supposed to take an hour for lunch.’

‘Oh! I am sorry,’ I apologise. ‘We have taken up so much of your time, thank you both. We will have to meet up again soon.’ They gather belongings before scurrying away.

‘What do you make of that, then?’ Amelia poses.

‘It explains an awful lot, and shows how easy it can be when you know how it’s done. Where we go with it, though, I’m not sure about.’

‘Right, I can’t disagree. I’ve no idea,’ Amelia says.

‘OK. Let’s get the bill and have a walk around the back before the other bill – Lambert, that is – turns up.’

‘Very droll,’ Amelia smiles as we walk over to the bar to pay.

Remembering Bill’s strict orders not to ask any questions, I take that to mean any
awkward
questions. Feigning ignorance of any detail, I engage the barman in touristy conversation.

‘Great place, this!’ I enthuse. ‘Named after the famous artist L.S. Lowry, matchstick men and all that.’

‘Yes,’ he agrees. ‘The tourists love it. Americans can’t get enough; they’re always asking is there a Lowry tour.’

‘And is there?’ I beam.

‘No. Not that I know of, anyway.’

‘Bad situation, about that girl murdered and dumped in the river last week,’ I observe nonchalantly.

‘You can say that again. All the girls were scared to go out on their own for a few days, I can tell you, and the black cabs made a killing, for sure. It’s all back to normal now, though.’ He was still eyeing the fiver I’d not yet picked up.

‘What do you think happened, then?’ I probe.

‘Well, if you ask me it was a jealous boyfriend come to pick her up. He’d have seen her in here with all the celebs and footballers and the like, and waited outside. They have a row, and he loses it, and in a moment of madness he tops her, then throws her into the river.’

‘Wow, makes sense,’ I say, leaving the fiver on the plate and walking off.

‘Ta mate, see you next time,’ he replies, waving.

‘Smoothie,’ Amelia says as we walk out the back and pause to survey the scene. There are steps down to the piazza from which a new steel pedestrian bridge takes you over to Spinningfields. To the right is downstream toward the Bridge Street Bridge, and to the left is upstream towards Blackfriars Bridge – the way Suzy had suggested Marian would have chosen to get to Victoria station.

‘She would have gone this way,’ I say, going down the steps and to the left. ‘Let’s walk to Blackfriars Bridge and then trace our way back.’

Amelia nods and off we go. The river pathway is much narrower as we pass construction boards hiding a temporary car park. It feels threatening, even in daylight. There is a narrow passageway between the car park and the next building, which leads up to Chapel Street. At the end of this building are steps that take you up to Blackfriars Bridge, which we crossed earlier.

Turning completely around, we reverse our steps, passing the Lowry Hotel, now on our right, and proceed further to Bridge Street, where we stop. After taking in the scene, we return to the hotel to meet Inspector Lambert.

‘I think the narrow bit is the place where it happened, where the construction boards are,’ Amelia says. ‘I wouldn’t like to go that way in the dark.’

‘No contest from me,’ I agree. ‘No word to Lambert, though.’

‘Absolutely not,’ she confirms.

The waiter looks at me strangely as we re-enter the hotel.

‘Just had a text message,’ I say by way of explanation. ‘Friend wants to join us. I’ll order when he arrives.’ The waiter seems happy enough.

Inspector Lambert duly turns up, accompanied by Detective Sergeant Evans.

‘Glad you waited for us,’ the inspector announces. ‘We’ll save the real business until after we’ve ordered.’ The waiter arrives on cue, and seems nonplussed at serving only coffee to all four of us.

Lambert continues. ‘Hope you’re restricting your endeavours only to the fraud enquiries and not to the murder.’

‘Of course,’ I confirm automatically. ‘But there is also the fracking scenario, and we may have some information to share with you in that respect.’ I gesture to Amelia to contribute.

Evans obviously doesn’t want to feel left out. ‘We’d certainly like to hear all about that.’

Amelia summarises our discussion with Sophia and Suzy, emphasising the bit about fracking. ‘When we probed a bit, it seems that Marian had known Barry Milton for some time and that she belonged to a group that was involved in protesting against fracking operations.’

‘Now that is something we were not aware of, eh, Evans!’

‘Yes, indeed. Was she murdered for being a whistle-blower, and was it for the fraud or the fracking?’ Evans ponders.

‘Better get onto that one, Evans,’ Lambert ordered, before continuing. ‘We found something that might be of interest to you – or rather, Tim Sheldon, our undercover man did, although he doesn’t know what it means. Frankly, neither do we as yet, but we are hoping you might be able to throw a light on the subject. It turns out that Barry Milton was keeping in touch with a mate who is still serving time in Strangeways. This mate from time to time provides a list of names and national insurances numbers to Milton. Any ideas how this could be useful?’

‘Very useful,’ I answered. ‘One of the frauds he was up to was to enrol people onto online government-funded training courses. In order to do so, the main thing he needed was to get hold of a valid NI number. All for a few cigarettes, I would guess.’

Evans shook his head. ‘Well I never. I’ve been racking my brain all day about it. So they get them enrolled, but what happens next? ‘Cos they are in prison, aren’t they?’

Amelia explains. ‘Yes, but the course is online, which theoretically they could manage. Some prisons have the system, but it wouldn’t matter, however, if they never did anything. After a few weeks they are just completed and the cash is claimed. If checks are made, it would be much later when the birds have flown, no pun intended.’ She manages to keep a straight face.

‘Going back to the fracking,’ I interrupt. ‘Jamie Cropper, the farmer I was telling you about last week… we’re having a meeting with the fracking company next Wednesday. Is there any more info from Tim Sheldon on that score?’

‘None yet that we haven’t mentioned, but be sure we’ll let you know. And likewise after your meeting,’ Lambert says. ‘There have been no more egg and tomato incidents, I hope?’

‘Fortunately not,’ I confirm.

The meeting was all but over.

‘Can’t see any footballers in here at the moment,’ Evans observes. ‘Wonder what the food is like.’

‘You’re unlikely to find out on your salary, Evans,’ Lambert quips.

Evans rolls his eyes as they rise to leave, while I commit to calling Lambert after the meeting with FrackUK.

We give a wave as they exit by the front of the hotel. We leave by the rear again, with another wave from the waiter. I’m beginning to feel I know the area better now, as I turn right, much to the surprise of Amelia.

‘Why can’t we go the quickest way over the pedestrian bridge and through Spinningfields to get back to Piccadilly?’ she enquires, with logic on her side.

‘Ah! Because I need to check for myself the salient facts that we know about the murder of Marian Clowes,’ I answer.

‘Some would call that gruesome,’ she observes.

‘Bear with me,’ I say as we negotiate the steps from the piazza onto the river bank and peer over the rail into the river.

The river is quite fast flowing, and there are no bends at this point. I am curious as to whether a body would have remained close to the bank, or would have been carried into the centre of the river on its tragic final journey.

We continue our way to Bridge Street, pausing twice to again peer over the rail into the river. Crossing the bridge, we go down the steps on to the river bank on the Manchester side of the river.

Amelia, in mild frustration asks, ‘What are we supposed to be doing?’

‘Look.’ I point over at the other side of the river. ‘On the downstream side of the bridge, the bank is further back, making it wider and creating a natural current that would drag the body in against the bank and onto the flagged jetty below the Mark Addy pub. I have been wondering why it had not been swept much further downstream.’

‘My, you are a genius!’ she beams.

‘No, think about it,’ I stress. ‘I am no expert in water flows and currents, but it does seem logical and explain why the body only came to rest a matter of yards from where it entered the water.’

I totally agree. It makes sense to me.’

With that consensus, we make our way back to Enodo offices in Stockport.

***

It was Tuesday evening, and Sophia and Suzy were walking to Piccadilly station to catch the Macclesfield train home. They were chatting away and call in at a few shops on the way. They were on their way out of Debenhams department store, at the southern end of Market Street where it enters Piccadilly, when a startled Sophia grabbed Suzy’s arm.

‘Look! See that man there,’ she discreetly nodded, apparently in the direction of across the street.

‘Which man? Where? You mean that one across the street?’

‘No, I mean he’s on the metro platform in the middle of the street, with an old Burberry-type coat on and a baseball cap.’

‘Oh! Yes, I can see him.’

The man became agitated as he realised the girls had clocked him. The platform was in the middle of the road. He looked around for an escape, but with trams approaching both ways, it could be suicidal. The trams came to a stop, and for two minutes there was mass of passengers entering and leaving the vehicles. The girls continued to stare, hoping for another glimpse of the man. The trams lumbered away in opposite directions, revealing the platform to be empty.

‘He must have escaped on a tram!’ Sophia exclaimed.

‘Who is he? What’s the problem?’ Suzy urged.

‘I’m sure I’ve seen him before. I think he’s stalking me,’ Sophia tearfully admitted.

‘Why would he be stalking you? Do you know who he is?’

‘Without seeing his face or getting closer, I suppose he could be anyone?’

‘Not exactly grounds for a manhunt,’

‘No. Perhaps I’m imagining it.’

‘It’s probably all the stress of this fraud, and the murder,’ Suzy counselled.

The girls carried on to Piccadilly station. Scanning the departure board, they saw that the next train to Macclesfield was departing in five minutes from platform eight. Finding the last two remaining seats together in the crowded carriage, they sat down and discussed the previous evening’s
Coronation Street
episode until Sophia got off at Prestbury, leaving Suzy to carry on to Macclesfield.