by Alex Walters
Michelle had simply wanted them out, and this contract had been typical of her approach. She’d refused to talk to the union, made it clear that the company had no intention of recognising it, and had behaved with her typical ruthlessness towards the workforce.
She’d used every legal means at her disposal to block the union. The union’s own legal team had, as far as Pallance could judge, been smart in countering her and had finally succeeded in calling the strike. That was what Michelle had wanted all along. She wanted to wear the union down, deplete its resources, and then allow the strike to happen at her preferred time and location. The strikers were picketing this site as their existing place of work, but the bulk of the operation had already moved elsewhere.
The lift reached the ground floor and he stepped outside into the reception area. The clock over the desk told him it was nearly 7:30 p.m. The main doors of the building were locked and the picket line had dispersed for the night. As usual, Pallance was the last to be leaving the building. He found his keys, unlocked one of the doors and stepped outside into the warm evening air, turning to lock the door behind him.
After the relative gloom indoors, the early-evening sun was dazzling. It was only just above the surrounding hills, filling the valley with dappled golden light. Pallance reached into his pocket for his sunglasses and slipped them on to his nose. He took a few steps towards his parked car, then stopped. ‘Shit.’
It took him a moment to process what he was seeing. First, he registered the flat tyres. The two on the near side of the car had been slit, and the angle of the car suggested that the two on the far side had been subject to the same treatment.
That was only the beginning of the damage. The near side of the car had been decorated with a variety of abusive graffiti, the most prominent of which was the word ‘SCAB’ painted in white spray-paint. As Pallance drew closer he saw that this was not the end of the damage. The car windows had been shattered, and the possessions that Pallance had left on the seats – some CDs, an umbrella, a bottle of water – thrown out on to the car park.
It was a company car, so the loss would be to the company rather than to Pallance himself. Michelle couldn’t complain too much given that she was the one who’d forced him to stay here.
Even so, he was furious. Apart from anything else, he was an hour’s drive from home with no immediate means of getting there. His wife wasn’t going to be keen on driving all the way over here with two kids who’d be well past their bedtime. He was also reluctant to leave the car here in this condition, though there was little chance of getting it transported anywhere else before the morning.
He walked round the car, still cursing under his breath. He needed to call the police, too, he realised. This was major criminal damage. He’d felt slightly embarrassed in retrospect about his decision to call the police earlier. He’d done it in it the heat of the moment, still angry that those cheeky young bastards had had the nerve to throw a bottle at him. It had hurt his pride – much more than it had hurt his head – and he’d wanted revenge.
But it had been evident from the moment the two police officers had arrived in his office that they were simply humouring him. They were polite enough, and they’d gone through the motions of noting down all the details. But he’d known they weren’t going to take any action beyond having a quiet word with the union guy downstairs. They’d probably only turned up in the first place because the dispute had received some coverage in the local media and they’d got wind of the fact that that self-righteous MP was here too.
His first thought was to dial Michelle’s number and let her know about the vandalism, but he prided himself on being able to handle anything. That was one of the qualities that Michelle most valued in him. She could throw him into a situation and let him get on with it. Some of his colleagues, even some of the more experienced ones, were wary about taking decisions without consulting Michelle. She found that infuriating. ‘If I wanted a performing monkey,’ she said, ‘I’d pay you fucking peanuts. For what I pay you, I expect you to make a fucking decision. And I expect you to make the right one.’
Roger knew he had to deal with the car. Do what Michelle would want him to do, then bring her up to speed later. He took another deep breath and forced himself to think. His initial shock was subsiding, and he was able to think more rationally. Inconvenient as this was, it played in Michelle’s favour. It was a more extreme outcome than they’d expected or intended, but the whole point was to discredit the union, and get public opinion on their side. They could milk this incident for all it was worth. It was probably worth whatever extortionate sum the car repairs would cost.
Okay, he thought, you buggers wanted a fight. Now you’re going to get one. He’d worry later about how he was going to get home. For the moment, he had a couple of calls to make. First, to the police, to report this incident of appalling criminal damage, even more unnerving following so soon after the morning’s physical assault.
After that, a second call, this time to a mate who worked as a freelance journalist. The guy did sports stuff mainly these days, but he had the contacts Pallance needed.
He smiled as he thought of the headline on the front-page story in tomorrow’s Evening Telegraph.
Chapter Nine
‘Not exactly what I expected,’ Zoe Everett said.
‘What were you expecting?’ DC Martin Yardley was a relatively new member of the team, who’d joined after a couple of years as a beat copper in Derby. He was a graduate, clearly bright, who treated every day as a school day. That was a positive trait, Zoe supposed, though there were times when his eager curiosity could become wearing. She could imagine him as the overenthusiastic student in the front row waving his hand around to ask a question even before the lecture had concluded.
‘I was just stereotyping, I guess. From the way he was described to us I was expecting – I don’t know, some run-down tower block flat, I suppose.’
‘This isn’t that,’ Yardley said unnecessarily.
It certainly wasn’t. It was a small, well maintained cottage in a picturesque Peak District village. The cottage itself was tiny, but Zoe guessed that its location and condition would add a tidy sum to its value. Which raised the interesting question of how Ronnie Donahue could afford the place.
In fairness, her only guide to Donahue’s character and circumstances was the assessment provided by Peter Hardy. What was the description he’d given to Annie? A lazy, self-pitying bugger who’s never done a proper day’s work in his life. Something like that. But she guessed that Hardy wasn’t exactly an impartial witness.
The cottage was just off the main road and there was nowhere to park outside. Yardley continued past it and turned into the village’s small public car park. It was still relatively early on a weekday, but the fine weather had already brought out the first of the tourists and day trippers and the car park was rapidly filling up. Yardley found one of the last available spaces and pulled in. ‘Busy place.’
‘Peak District, innit?’ Zoe said. ‘One hot day and you can’t move for tourists.’
They made their way back to Ronnie Donahue’s cottage. It was one of several near-identical stone-built homes on a narrow street leading off the main road through the village. Zoe was no expert, but they looked to pre-date the bulk of the surrounding buildings by a century or so. She could envisage them standing initially by themselves at this junction, gradually becoming encircled by other residences as the decades had passed.
There was a small garden at the front of each of the cottages, all immaculately maintained, each replete with stone pots of blooming flowers as if part of some organised display. A middle-aged man was standing outside Donahue’s address watering the plants.
‘Mr Donahue?’
The man looked up, squinting in the sunlight. ‘Who’s asking?’
‘Police, Mr Donahue. Do you mind if we have a word?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘We just want to talk to you. I’m afraid we have some
bad news.’
Donahue stared at her for a moment, then said, ‘You’d better come in, then.’
They followed him through the front door, Yardley having to duck his slightly gangling body to pass under the lintel. The interior was dark and cool after the morning sun. There was a faint scent of rosemary in the air, mixed with the smell of freshly baked bread. None of this was what Zoe would have expected.
The cottage itself was as small as its exterior suggested. The front door opened directly on to the living room, a kitchen area visible through an archway at the rear. A flight of stairs led up from the left-hand side of the living room, presumably to bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. Zoe could see double glass doors at the rear of the kitchen leading out to a back garden. Donahue said, ‘I’ll make us a brew. I’m parched.’ He had a strong local accent.
Zoe seated herself gingerly on the edge of the bulky-looking sofa, and Yardley took a seat beside her. The living room was as tidy as the front garden, its whitewashed stone walls and sturdy oak furniture creating a cosy environment. There was a small television, with a games console beneath it, a bookshelf containing a scattering of paperbacks, and a couple of pictures depicting local landscapes on the walls.
After a few minutes, Donahue re-emerged from the kitchen bearing a tray containing three steaming mugs. Zoe briefly introduced herself and Yardley as Donahue passed round the drinks and took a seat. ‘So what’s this all about? What’s this bad news?’ He spoke the last two words as though the concept was unknown in his life.
‘I’m afraid it’s about your son.’
‘My son?’ He shrugged. ‘I’d almost forgotten I had one, to be honest. What’s the little bugger done? Got sent down from Oxford? I assume that’s where he ended up, given all the money his mother spent on his education.’
‘I’m afraid he’s dead.’
Donahue looked up at Zoe, his expression suggesting that he was interested but not particularly concerned. ‘That right? Poor bastard. What happened to him?’
‘We believe he was murdered, Mr Donahue,’ Zoe said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t waste your sympathy on me. I haven’t seen him for the best part of eighteen years. Still, I wouldn’t wish murder on anyone. What happened?’
‘We can’t reveal any detailed information while the investigation’s still proceeding. But he was the victim of a violent attack and as yet we aren’t clear about the motive.’
‘I’m guessing the motive will be his mother.’
Zoe tried not to overreact, but her interest was piqued. ‘Why do you say that, Mr Donahue?’
‘Because she’s universally detested.’
‘That’s a rather extreme statement.’
‘It’s true, though. Or as good as true. She’s a ruthless bitch. She doesn’t care who she treads on, who she hurts, as long as she gets what she wants. I always thought that one day it would come back to bite her. Although it’s typical that she walks away scot-free and some other poor sod takes the rap.’ He stopped, as if suddenly conscious how vituperative his words had sounded.
‘I take it your divorce from Mrs Wentworth wasn’t an amicable one,’ Zoe said.
Donahue laughed. ‘I can see you’re a detective. Well spotted. Yup, far from amicable. She accused me of unreasonable behaviour, claimed I’d been violent towards her.’
‘And that wasn’t true?’
Donahue took a large swallow of his tea. ‘I’m no angel. I’ve been known to lose my temper. In those days, I drank too much. But I’m not a violent man. That was just an image she was keen to establish for her own ends. I should have realised what was happening earlier. Whenever we had any kind of big argument, she’d end up calling the police. Claiming I’d attacked her.’
‘And you hadn’t?’
Donahue was silent for a moment. ‘Once or twice I might have pushed her a bit. Just in the heat of the moment. But I never did anything to hurt her. Nothing like she claimed I’d done.’
Zoe had heard enough of these kinds of stories over the years to take this one with a shovelful of salt. Violent men often seemed incapable of acknowledging – sometimes even of recognising – their own violence. ‘So what happened?’
‘First couple of times it came to nothing. Police turned up, but it was clear nobody had been hurt and they just gave me a warning. Third time, I was pissed and made the mistake of getting a bit stroppy. They took me in. I was bound over, given a caution and all that, though thank Christ it didn’t go any further. But I learned my lesson. I got out before things got worse. I’m convinced that if I’d stayed, she’d have had me set up on some serious charge. At the time, I thought it was because she was a vindictive cow, but I realised later she was setting everything up for the divorce she wanted. She made sure I was the one who walked out on her, and she came up with some cock and bull story about me leaving for another woman.’
‘You hadn’t?’ Zoe asked.
‘If anyone was playing away, it was her. I had my suspicions. But she twisted the truth, the way she always did. And she could point to my supposed history of domestic violence. I was denied access to my boy. I was ousted from the business I’d helped her to build, and she lied about my contribution to that. I walked away from the split with a few bob, which is how I was able to buy this place. But basically she ripped me off good and proper.’ He stopped, as if aware how far the conversation had drifted. ‘Sorry. You can see how much she still winds me up, even now. But she’s a nasty conniving bitch, so there’ll be plenty of people out there with good reason to wish her ill.’
‘Including you,’ Zoe pointed out. ‘From what you’ve just been saying.’
Donahue blinked, clearly registering the implications of Zoe’s words. ‘I’ve plenty of reasons to wish her ill, sure. I’ve no reason to wish harm on my own son.’
‘You said you hadn’t seen him for eighteen years.’
‘That’s right. I’d no relationship with him. Occasionally, I heard things about him through friends of friends, but I made a point of not enquiring further. There was no reason to. Michelle would never have allowed me back into his life, so there was nothing to gain from thinking about it.’ He said nothing more for a moment. ‘But, like I say, I’d no reason to have any ill-will towards him.’
‘When did you last see Mrs Wentworth?’
Donahue’s demeanour changed as he realised the reason for sending a detective to notify him of the death. ‘What is this? An interrogation? I thought you just came here to break the tragic news that my son had been murdered. Now you’re treating me like a bloody suspect.’
‘We’re just trying to obtain as full an understanding of the background as we can, Mr Donahue.’
‘Of course I’m a suspect. Why the hell wouldn’t I be? This’ll be her doing, won’t it? Her son isn’t even cold before she starts trying to shift the blame in my direction. Mark my words, Justin’s death will somehow be linked to whatever she’s up to. It’ll be some dodgy deal gone wrong, some nasty bastard she’s got on the wrong side of. But she won’t want you poking around in her grubby business dealings so she’s going to deflect your attention by pushing you in my direction. After all, I’ve a history of violence, haven’t I? She’s putting me in the frame in the hope that nobody looks too closely into her affairs.’
‘Nobody’s putting you in the frame, Mr Donahue. We just wanted to be clear about the nature of your relationship with Mrs Wentworth and with Justin.’
‘Well, I hope I’ve made it very clear.’
‘I think you have, Mr Donahue. Thank you for that.’ Zoe allowed Donahue a moment to calm down. ‘You say you think this is linked to Mrs Wentworth’s business dealings. Do you have any particular reason to believe that?’
She thought she detected a momentary hesitation before Donahue said, ‘Only my own experience of dealing with her. And my experience of trying to run a company alongside her.’
‘You ran the business together initially?’
‘It was my firm. I started it. In
those days, we were doing delivery stuff. I started as a man and a van, but we gradually built it up and started doing local deliveries for various small businesses. By the time Michelle and I split up we had half a dozen vehicles and were making a tidy profit. That gave her the foundation for what she’s built since. I mean, credit to her, she’s turbocharged it all. But that’s Michelle. Thinks big and doesn’t care who or what gets in her way. She got rid of me partly because I didn’t share her ambitions. My guess is that she’s come up against someone as ruthless as she is. From what I hear, she’s fishing in some pretty big waters these days, so who knows what kind of sharks might be lurking in the depths.’
‘You keep tabs on what she’s up to, then, Mr Donahue?’ Zoe asked.
For a moment, Donahue looked uncomfortable, as if he’d been caught out in some misdemeanour. ‘I hear stuff on the grapevine, you know. I wouldn’t say we’ve exactly got mutual friends these days – she’s left all of my crowd well behind – but I know people who know people, let’s put it that way. Stuff gets back to me.’
Zoe glanced over at Martin Yardley, who’d been dutifully scribbling down notes of the discussion. ‘I think we’re about done, then. Do you have any last questions, Martin?’
She’d asked mainly because she was conscious she hadn’t given Yardley any chance to participate in the interview. He was inexperienced, but she should have set him up with a couple of questions in advance. Give him a chance to learn the ropes. She wanted at least to show she hadn’t excluded him.