Lost Hours

by Alex Walters

  ‘You want another?’ Sheena said. Chalmers had insisted on buying the first drinks.

  Chalmers shook his head. ‘Pains me to say it, but best not. I need to be somewhere else later.’

  ‘Next time then,’ Sheena said. ‘You’re probably right. I’ve still got work to do tonight. Ought to keep a clear head.’ Sheena wanted to catch up with some constituency work, but wasn’t in any rush. Just before she’d come out to meet Chalmers, Annie had phoned her to say she’d be late home, which was par for the course at this stage in a major investigation.

  Chalmers was gazing wistfully into his empty glass. ‘No, you’re right. I’ll leave it at that. What I was going to say, though, is that I hear Michelle Wentworth’s at a bit of a crossroads, business-wise.’

  ‘What sort of a crossroads?’

  ‘She’s looking to move more into the big league. Up to now, she’s built up the business relatively slowly. Started off with the transport and courier stuff. Then she took on transport contracts for bigger firms and generally proved she could manage them – well, she’d say more efficiently, I’d say more cheaply than before. Mainly by finding ways of screwing down the pay and other conditions of the staff, which is why they’ve tended to run up against opposition when they’ve taken on unionised environments.’

  Sheena wasn’t sure where this was going, but she had a feeling they were finally getting to the subject that Chalmers really wanted to talk about. Maybe she should have accepted that second drink after all. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The point is she’s realised that as a business their real skill lies simply in running things cheaply. They started out in some specific sectors because that was what they knew, but what they do can be extended to almost any type of service, whether it’s public or private sector.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m following.’

  ‘What they’re good at is running services cheaply. They don’t necessarily run them well or even in the best long-term interests of their clients. And they certainly don’t run them in the best interests of their employees. But they save their clients significant money, which is all most CEOs care about in the short term. It doesn’t really matter if it’s transport or maintenance or even back office processes like IT or finance. It gets outsourced, they take over the contract, they cut out the “fat”, as they’d describe it, and run it on the cheap.’

  ‘Do they have the expertise to operate across all those different fields? I mean, call me picky but wouldn’t you need IT expertise to run an IT team or finance expertise to run a finance team?’

  ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? And of course to some extent you do. But that functional expertise will either already be there in the team you take over or if it isn’t – or if the knowledgeable individuals move on because they’re not prepared to try to run the service for peanuts – you just buy it in. That’s not really the point. The point is that you cut staffing, you reduce pay, you make the contracts more flexible, and you cut costs. Yes, the service may well be crap, the staff may be exploited, but the company bosses are happy because they increase their profits. And Michelle Wentworth’s happy because she rakes in the loot. Even if the service all goes pear-shaped, she’s usually got the client over a barrel because she’s taken over all the expertise and it’s too late to take it back in-house, so they end up giving her more money to put things right.’

  ‘You’re painting a pretty depressing picture.’

  ‘It’s modern business. She’s not the only one doing it. There are plenty of big supposedly reputable firms doing more respectable versions of the same thing. Wentworth’s a bit different because she’s basically an old-fashioned wheeler-dealer. A spiv, if you like. She’s ruthless and she’ll use any trick in the book to get what she wants. I thought at first she might flounder because she’s not part of the old boys’ club. But the old boys don’t know what’s hit them. They’re not used to dealing with someone who doesn’t give a flying one about the business niceties. That’s why she’s been so successful.’

  ‘So what’s the crossroads?’

  ‘This is really just hearsay, you understand. But I keep my ear close to the ground with this kind of stuff, as do my colleagues. We like to have an idea what’s going on before it hits our members, not that that’s always easy in Wentworth’s case. My understanding is that she’s pitching for even more sizeable contracts than ever before. She’s looking to expand various parts of the business – security, transport, back office stuff, you name it. That carries two risks.’

  There was a touch of the theatricals about Keith Chalmers, Sheena thought. Probably one of the qualities that made him effective as a public speaker. He wasn’t a rabble-rouser, but he knew how to tell a story, how to play an audience. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The first is that by trying to muscle in on this territory she treads on the wrong toes. She’s going to come up against some big players. She’s far from a pushover, but neither are her competition. They’re more genteel and she’s probably had them on the back foot, but if it comes to it I reckon they’re likely to be as ruthless as she is, if not more.’

  Sheena was silent for a moment. ‘Ruthless enough to kill her son?’

  Chalmers held up his hands. ‘I’ve no idea. I mean, that’s not the kind of behaviour I’ve ever come across in the business world. And I’ve dealt with some undoubted bastards. But maybe I don’t deal with the kinds of people Wentworth does.’

  ‘What sort of people?’

  ‘You tell me. But that brings me to the second risk. To do what she’s doing, she needs money. Potentially big money. She can go to the banks, and they’d support her up to a point, but I suspect they’d be reluctant to stump up the kind of funding she’d be looking for without some substantial security. She could look at floating the company, but I reckon that would be the last resort for her. The whole thing’s very much her baby, and she doesn’t want to relinquish any control. So I’m asking myself where the money’s coming from.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I don’t really have an answer. But the rumour is that there could be fair bit of it sloshing about, and its provenance is – well, let’s say uncertain.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this, Keith?’

  ‘I’m not even sure myself, Sheena. Maybe just to get it off my chest. If I go talking to my union colleagues they’ll just think it’s old Keith chasing shadows again. I’m the old guard now, you know. The younger kids are all graduates with their laptops and iPads.’

  ‘You’re not that much older than I am, Keith. You can’t get away with the grandad stuff just yet. You’ve a reason for raising this with me, haven’t you?’

  ‘The whole thing’s making me feel uncomfortable. I was expecting Michelle Wentworth to try to screw us over. That’s the way she works. Not fun, but at least I have an idea of how to deal with her. It’s just that I’m getting a sense she’s maybe less in control of things than she thinks.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why you’re sharing this with me, Keith. And don’t give me that getting-it-off-your-chest guff. You’re not the type to start writing to agony aunts.’

  ‘I just wanted to share. Get it out there. I’m becoming the nervous type in my old age.’

  She gazed at him for a moment. He looked more troubled than she’d ever seen him. ‘Nervous about what?’

  ‘Nervous about being collateral damage in whatever battle Michelle Wentworth’s involved in.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’d best be off. All the best to Annie.’

  Before she could offer any response, he had risen and was on his way out of the bar. She watched him with a mix of concern and mild amusement. So that was it, she thought. That was what this had all been about. It wasn’t that Chalmers had been trying to pick her brains about what was going in the Wentworth investigation – though no doubt he’d have been only too happy to accept any crumbs of information she might have offered him. Instead, it looked as if Chalmers, in his usual slightly oblique manner, was giving her some intelligence he cl
early thought might be of use to Annie.

  Well, fair enough. In her experience, Chalmers usually talked sense, even if it was occasionally a struggle to understand quite what he was getting at. If he thought there was something in this, there probably was. Annie was no doubt pursuing these kinds of leads already, but it wouldn’t do any harm to share what Chalmers had said.

  She pushed herself to her feet and picked up the empty glasses to take them back to the bar. Trev was busy polishing glasses and nodded to her as she approached.

  ‘Thanks, Trev.’

  ‘No worries. Always good to have the local MP in here. Raises the tone.’

  ‘Blimey.’ Sheena grinned. ‘How low is it normally?’

  ‘Well, you’ve got me behind the bar for a start.’ Trev gestured towards the door. ‘Your mate there. All right, was he?’

  ‘Think so. Why’d you ask?’

  ‘Dunno.’ Trev gave the glass he was working on a final burnish. ‘Just thought he looked a bit worried. Was watching him through the window and he scurried across the car park like he had a rocket up his arse. Pardon my French.’

  ‘Maybe just in a hurry,’ Sheena said.

  ‘Aye, no doubt.’

  She stepped back out into the waning daylight. The shadows of the surrounding trees were lengthening. It was only a short walk back home, but suddenly it felt like a very long way.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Annie glanced at the car display screen to see who was calling, assuming it would be either Zoe calling to update her or Stuart Jennings wanting his usual evening catch-up. He’d been tied up in a meeting when she’d been called out, so she hadn’t had a chance to speak with him before leaving headquarters.

  Instead, the name on the display was the last one she wanted to see. She contemplated ignoring the call, but knew that would only be deferring the moment. At least this way, she could make good use of her drive over to Michelle Wentworth’s rather than interrupting her evening later. She pressed the button on the steering wheel and took the call on hands-free.

  ‘Evening, Mum. How are you doing?’

  ‘If you called me more often you’d know how I was doing.’

  ‘I’ve been busy, Mum. You remember that experience?’

  ‘You don’t know what busy means. If you ever make it into a really senior job, you’ll know how it really feels.’

  Touché, Mum, Annie thought. An effective double put-down. Annie’s mother, Margaret, had been an Assistant Chief in the force until her retirement a few years earlier. She had strong views on most subjects, but in particular could offer unlimited insights into how and why policing had been much tougher in her day. ‘What can I do for you, Mum?’

  ‘Are you in the car?’

  ‘Yes, I’m in the car. Not finished work yet.’

  ‘You need to learn to work smarter rather than harder.’ Margaret spoke as if offering some invaluable wisdom.

  ‘I’ll remember that.’

  ‘I thought you’d want to know that I’ve done an interview for one of the national newspapers today.’

  Annie’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. Since her retirement, Margaret Delamere had developed a reputation for herself as a media pundit. A gob on a stick, as Sheena called her. It had initially happened accidentally, with the local media seeking her views as a former senior officer on criminal justice issues. The journalists and reporters who consulted her had quickly realised that her outspoken views were popular with readers and viewers, who saw her as a breath of fresh air compared with the usual cautious police spokesperson. For her part, Margaret had soon twigged that it didn’t much matter what she said, as long as she said it in a forthright, no-nonsense manner. She was rarely asked to give evidence for any of her more controversial assertions, and she expressed them with absolute confidence.

  ‘That’s great, Mum,’ Annie said wearily. ‘What were you talking about this time? How policing’s now a pushover compared to your day? Why the force is full of dead wood that just needs cutting out? Why police officers are overpaid? Am I getting close?’

  ‘You think you’re so funny, Annie Delamere. No, I was talking about all this trade union thuggery.’

  Annie felt her heart sink even further. ‘What trade union thuggery?’

  ‘Look, Annie, I know you have a sentimental view of these left-wing groups, but even you can’t excuse criminal damage. Serious criminal damage like that.’

  ‘Like what?’ Annie knew exactly what her mother was talking about, but she wanted to hear her actually say the absurd words.

  ‘That place near Matlock. Smashing up a car. They’re just taking the law into their own hands. They think they can get away with doing whatever they like.’

  ‘We don’t even know who did it yet, Mum.’

  ‘Those union thugs. Who else?’

  ‘We don’t know that, Mum. Not yet. And whoever it was, you’ll be astonished to learn that it wasn’t officially sanctioned by the union. This was just some nasty piece of work deciding to smash up a car.’

  Margaret offered a derisive snort in return. ‘Of course it wasn’t officially sanctioned by the union. That doesn’t mean they weren’t behind it. It’s nod and a wink stuff, isn’t it? That’s how it works.’

  ‘Is this how you approached investigations?’ That was arguably a slightly low blow. Margaret had spent most of her career in operational roles and had transferred to CID only for a relatively brief period. Margaret had never explicitly said so, but Annie suspected her mother hadn’t enjoyed detective work and probably hadn’t been particularly good at it, which is why she’d moved on as soon as she had the relevant experience under her belt. Whatever her other talents, Margaret had always been very skilled at looking after her own career prospects.

  ‘It doesn’t sound as if the police made much progress with this one,’ Margaret parried. ‘If you still don’t know who did it.’

  ‘It’s not my case, Mum, so I can’t comment. Is that all you called me about? Just to let me know that you’re the toast of Fleet Street?’

  ‘You can laugh all you like. But my opinions are listened to.’

  More’s the pity, Annie thought. Margaret was entitled to her opinions, but she’d learned to play to the crowd. Her populist views went down all too well with a certain kind of voter – small ‘c’ conservatives who longed for some imaginary past when there were always bobbies on the beat, crime was non-existent, and the country hadn’t gone to the dogs. Margaret did genuinely sympathise with some of those views, but she was an experienced enough copper to know it was mostly nonsense. The world had changed and the world of crime and policing had changed with it. The police were, by and large, doing a decent job in dealing with often unprecedented challenges with ever more limited resources. It was bad enough listening to ill-informed politicians and commentators banging on about the force’s supposed failings. It was another thing to hear those views endorsed by someone who really knew better.

  ‘You do realise this isn’t going to make my life any easier, Mum?’

  ‘I don’t see how this affects you.’ Margaret’s tone implied that Annie’s well-being was, in any case, no concern of hers.

  ‘Because the company in question happens to be owned by Michelle Wentworth. And I’m running the investigation into her son’s death.’

  There was a moment’s silence, suggesting that for once Margaret had been taken by surprise. ‘If you phoned me more often, I’d have known that.’

  Well recovered, Annie thought. Out loud, she said, ‘It’s a high-profile enough case as it is. If people realise my own mother is shooting her mouth off about it in the tabloids, what do you think’s going to happen?’

  ‘I was hardly shooting my mouth off.’ For once, Margaret sounded almost defensive. ‘I was giving them the benefit of my experience and expertise.’

  Which is bugger all in relation to a case like this, Annie thought.

  ‘Anyway,’ Margaret went on, ‘it wasn’t one of the tabloids. It was one of the s
o-called broadsheets. Though most of them are tabloids too these days, I suppose.’ She made it sound as if even this was somehow Annie’s fault.

  Annie supposed that was some small consolation. At least her mother’s contribution wasn’t going to be plastered luridly on the front page of some red-top. But she imagined it would still be given unwarranted prominence, wherever it appeared. She could already envisage the conversation she’d be having with Stuart Jennings the next morning.

  ‘Stuart will probably take me off the case because of this.’ Annie was conscious her tone sounded more self-pitying than she’d intended. It never paid to show any weakness in her mother’s presence.

  ‘I don’t see why he’d do that. Assuming you’re up the job in the first place, that is.’ The implication was unmistakeable.

  Annie took a breath. ‘That’s not the point, Mum, as you well know. Stuart can’t afford any suggestion of a conflict of interest. So with me and Sheena—’

  She realised straight away she’d made a tactical error. ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ Margaret interrupted. ‘I’d forgotten about Sheena.’

  ‘I just meant—’

  ‘I know exactly what you meant. She’s obviously going to be in the pocket of the trade unions, isn’t she? So there must be a suspicion you’d soft-pedal any accusations against them. However unjustified.’ The last two words were thrown in apparently as an afterthought.

  Annie could feel her anger rising. She was never sure if her mother behaved like this on purpose or if she just couldn’t help herself. Either way, their conversations too often ended up with Annie losing her temper. ‘I’ve got to go now, Mum,’ she said, biting back the response she really wanted to give. ‘I’ve just reached my destination. Speak soon.’ She ended the call before her mother could reply.

  That wasn’t quite true. She was still a mile or so from Michelle Wentworth’s house. She wasn’t even sure whether she really ought to be here. Perhaps it would have been better to have left this to Zoe. She wanted to give Zoe as much opportunity as possible to build up a relationship with Wentworth.