“The big rent demands did, yes.”
“About the time when the government made a definite commitment to support the Delford Mills Project.”
“Delford Mills?”
“Yes. Think about it, Declan. There’s a huge amount of money, public and private, being poured into that. And it’s lifting property prices all across town. Here you’ve got a significant chunk of prime real estate, most of it not built on. Imagine what that’s going to be worth to a developer. Especially if they can get it for a song.”
“It’s Adi’s land…”
“And someone pretending to be Adi is behind this whole thing. All they need to do is get the charity out, take full control of all the assets – and they’ve got a fortune just waiting to be made.”
CHAPTER 5
“Adi will always follow a plan to the letter – right up to the moment when he thinks of a better one!”
Graham Deeson, in a discussion on Match of the Day
Cornhall Lonza Hickon International had offices in the centre of town. What a big international firm was doing in our little backwater would have been a puzzling question, if we hadn’t already come up with an answer. I found some parking on a side street a block away and checked the time.
“Nearly two,” I said. “And we haven’t had lunch yet. No wonder I’m hungry. Ready for a bite to eat, Sam?”
“Do we have time?”
“Should have. Declan’s meeting wasn’t scheduled till three-thirty, and he’s got to talk to the trustees first.”
“How do you think they’ll take the news?”
“With shock, disbelief, and anger. Just like Declan.”
It had been all I could do to persuade him not to storm down to the lawyers’ offices and have it out with them immediately. Or possibly put a brick through their window. Normally a gentle and God-fearing man, Declan had a temper when aroused, and it had become very aroused indeed after our conversation. But we’d managed to get him to agree to a more moderate plan.
He was going to talk to the trustees, and then we’d all meet in town to go over the situation. My suggestion was that they should wait until the lawyers brought out the fake Adi, and then confront them with their deception. There wasn’t time to get proper legal advice, but I was pretty certain that they could threaten them with charges of fraud, or something like that. Enough to stop any evictions, at any rate. Sam and I would be in the vicinity, ready to come in and back them up when we got the call.
“If I’d known how exciting your life was, Dad, I’d have come home years ago! You’re right, we’d better eat – can’t fight crime on an empty stomach. Where do you usually go for lunch?”
“Let’s walk down to the Victorian Market. Not the fanciest of places, but there’s a little café there which does the best steak sandwich you can get in this town. The Dreadnought. And we can go past those offices on the way, have a look at the place.”
“The Dreadnought? Like the battleship?”
“That’s it. More recently, there was a nuclear submarine of that name. There is a connection – the owner is ex-Royal Navy. Gary Ward, known as ‘Sharkey’ for some obscure naval reason.”
“And he was on the Dreadnought?”
“Well, no. But he was in Malta a lot, and in Malta there was a bar named ‘The Dreadnought’ – after the battleship, not the sub – and that’s where Sharkey got the name for his establishment. Happy memories, apparently.”
I’m fascinated by the history behind things, but Sam has a more pragmatic approach to life. “Should you be eating steak sandwiches?”
“Well, it might not be on the normal dietary list, but these are exceptional circumstances. So one won’t do any harm – as long as you don’t mention it at home, that is.”
“You’re paying, then!”
“Now I understand how you managed to go round the world without any money.”
We walked out of the side street, and turned right onto Maiden Road, which passed for the business district locally. In architectural terms it was a bit of a nightmare – Victorian town houses repurposed as offices rubbed shoulders with gleaming modern steel and glass skyscrapers; monolithic piles of fifties brickwork overshadowed discreet little Georgian frontages. The rumour was that an entire new area of the Delford Mills development would be set aside for high-rise offices, leaving Maiden Road to find a new life for itself, perhaps as city housing.
Cornhall Lonza Hickon International had premises in one of the skyscrapers – an entire floor, it seemed. We stood outside and looked at the electronic display which listed all the occupants, complete with animated logos in many cases. Not Cornhall Lonza Hickon, though, which satisfied itself with just the name in a sober white font on a black background.
“Doesn’t have a very high profile for such a big firm,” Sam observed.
“No. Very discreet. Almost like they don’t want to be noticed.”
We peered through the glass front. A few people were moving about inside, doing whatever it was they were paid to do, and taking no notice of us. Apart from the uniformed security guard hanging about near the door, who was watching us watching. He met our gaze with a suspicious look, and fingered the radio on his belt.
“Let’s move on; we’re upsetting the locals.”
We wandered on down the street.
Traffic here wasn’t heavy, but parking spaces were at a premium. Just ahead of us a big limo was making hard work of squeezing into a gap behind a workman’s Transit.
“He’s not going to make it,” said Sam, and sure enough there was a crash and a tinkle as the Transit lost a rear light cluster.
The workman appeared from nowhere, running out of a nearby building with a stream of colourful language floating in the air behind him. As we came up to the scene, he was hammering on the front passenger window and shouting threats.
The rear door opened, and out got Adi.
I stopped dead, staring.
It wasn’t the real Adi, of course. He had Adi’s jacket – I could see the odd button – and he was carrying Adi’s stick, polished black wood with a brass dog’s head for a handle. But he wasn’t using it. No sign of a limp as he walked over to the pavement, looking nervously at the workman.
The front passenger was also getting out, and I recognized him as well. It was the big bloke I’d also seen in the bar, still wearing the leather jacket. He was squaring up to the workman, meeting aggression with aggression. The workman stepped back, but another man joined him and with that back-up, the verbal assault continued.
Fake Adi stepped away, up onto the pavement, making room for a third person to leave the car. Tall, thin, wearing a suit. I’d seen him in the bar at the Stag, so if the barman hadn’t been mistaken, this had to be Lonza.
Both of them had their attention on the developing situation in front of them. Neither of them saw me approaching. Not until I was right in front of them.
I could have just walked by. I should have. We had our plan – there was no reason to change it, there was no value to letting them know we were on to them.
I didn’t even think of it. I just walked up to the fake Adi. “Excuse me? I’d just like a word.”
His eyes widened. This time he recognized me. He stepped back, glancing frantically at the car, at Lonza.
A third workman had arrived, and the security guard from the office block. Things were getting crowded, and a bit ugly. Lonza was getting involved in the argument, or trying to. With reinforcements at hand, the first workman was back on the offensive.
“I don’t f… care who you are. You f… can’t just f… smash my van and f…” He was making his point loud and clear, with generous use of profanity, and was about to lose his teeth if Leather Jacket had his way. But the security guard was also sticking his oar in.
Nobody was looking at us.
“I just need to ask you something. About Adi. My friend Adi.”
Fake Adi stepped back from me again. A tactical error, as it took him further away from the car and
his companions. I followed him.
“Please, I just want to talk to you for a moment.” I stepped forward.
He turned and ran.
I followed.
Behind me the commotion increased, but I ignored it and concentrated on the figure ahead of me.
The receding figure. I was never very athletic, though being around sportspeople had encouraged me to stay in reasonable shape most of my life. But recently I’d let myself go a little, and the fake Adi was in better condition, with both legs in good working order. He was already a long way ahead as I lumbered in pursuit, and it became obvious that I wasn’t going to catch up.
I glanced over my shoulder, looking for Sam, but he was still somewhere back in the small crowd that had developed round the van.
Ahead, the Victorian Market marked the place where Maiden Street joined the High Street. A round, four-storey edifice of red brick, it had been impressive in its day with elaborate stone decorations and six copper cupolas set around the roof.
But as you got closer you could see that the brickwork was crumbling, the stone had worn smooth, and the cupolas were long gone, with sheets of plastic draped over the stumps. It had been on the brink of being condemned for years.
Yet somehow it remained open. I could see Fake Adi passing the entrance, then coming up short at the end of the road. Ahead of him was the High Street, a dual carriageway with no pedestrian crossing at this point. To his left, there was a crossing over Maiden Street, but the lights had just changed, traffic was flowing out into the High Street, and I was still coming after him, however slowly.
He could go down the pavement alongside the High Street, but that was a long stretch of empty pavement, going nowhere he knew in a strange town. He needed to get back to his companions, back past me, and looking up he saw me, a bit closer now, and made his decision.
He ran into the Victorian Market.
If I’d been able to manage it, I would have laughed. He’d trapped himself.
The main entrance led through a dingy tunnel – once lined with market stalls, but now only with graffiti – into the open space at the centre of the building. There had been a fountain there once, but now it was just an expanse of grimy old cobblestones, surrounded by boarded-up shop fronts and topped only by torn netting that was supposed to keep birds out, but didn’t. The few small businesses that still hung on were mostly huddled round the Maiden Street entrance, and all on the ground floor. The upper floors, ringed with wide internal balconies, had been closed off for years (though the flimsy barriers didn’t keep out the druggies and tramps who often camped out there). Perhaps the fake Adi thought he could get out the other side, but there was no other exit – not open to the public, anyway.
There was, however, a closer entrance.
Between the back end of the Market and the next building ran an alleyway – wide at the ends, narrow in the middle due to the curving walls. Halfway down was the back way into the Dreadnought.
I turned down the alleyway and found the door already open, clipped back against the wall. I staggered through, gasping for breath. Inside, two or three blokes were sitting round chipped Formica tabletops eating unhealthy fry-ups. They looked up in surprise as I lumbered past and half collapsed against the counter. Sharkey Ward came in from the Market entrance and stared at me with alarm.
“Graham, mate – you OK?”
I managed a nod. Sharkey was unconvinced.
“Are you sure, because you look like…”
“Yes, I’m…” (gasp) “I’m fine,” I managed to get out. “Just – out of – breath.”
“You’d better sit down then, till you’ve got it back.”
“No. Can’t stop. Did you see someone run into the Market just now? From the Maiden Street entrance?” I was still wheezing like an ancient steam engine, but could at least form sentences now.
“Well, yes, actually. Ran right by here and up the stairs to the first floor. I would have stopped him – it’s not safe up there – but he shot up them like a rabbit. Gone before I could get out.”
“Right. OK. Is there any other way up? Or down?”
“Not any more. The other stairways are locked off. What’s going on?”
I shook my head and forced myself upright again. “Later. If my lad Sam comes looking for me – twenties, blond – point him right, will you?”
I made my way out into the Market area, no longer attempting to run.
A third of the way round, stairs led up between two defunct establishments. I took them slowly. I had no choice in that; my legs were as wobbly as a trifle.
Halfway up the first flight, a flimsy wooden gate hung broken and useless. I pushed through it and carried on up. The first floor was blocked off with wire mesh fencing, recently repaired and still intact, so I went on up to the top. Here, the fencing was in a poorer state, pulled open and never restored. I stepped gingerly out onto the upper balcony. The ancient planks groaned alarmingly, but seemed sound enough despite Sharkey’s warnings.
In its heyday, the Market had been the place to come and shop. Ladies and Gentlemen of Quality took tea around the fountain in the courtyard below, or browsed the shop fronts. Some of the faded signs still visible might have dated from those times.
“Le Mouen and James Ltd, Haberdashers.”
“Grey and Sons, Silversmiths.”
“A. J. Feynton, Confectioner and Chocolatier.”
Long-forgotten names. The Market’s decline had probably begun at the same time as The Vale’s, and for the same reason. The “Great War” had taken both men and money, and the hard years of the twenties and thirties had not helped matters.
A few new businesses had moved in, now and then. The next store front was marked “Atomic Video – VHS Rental”.
I could remember it being open. New and cool. Now as dead and forgotten as its Victorian neighbours.
Between Atomic Video and Feynton’s a narrow passageway disappeared into the shadows. Out of the wind that swirled in from the open roof, the dust had collected there, undisturbed. Until very recently. There were scuff marks, the outline of a shoe print.
I glanced back down at the courtyard, hoping Sam had caught up with me, but there was no sign of him. Listening carefully, I stepped into the passage.
I took out my mobile and switched on the torch app, which illuminated more shoe marks and a rough wooden door at the end of the passage. It had once been locked, but both door and frame were badly splintered where someone had forced it open.
Burglars, perhaps – but it was a long time since there had been anything worth stealing up here. More likely some down-and-out looking for a place to kip.
I eased the door open. Stairs ran up to the left, faint daylight filtered down. And a sound. Footsteps? Then a mobile phone rang.
I tried the steps. They creaked, but seemed to be holding, so I crept up.
Above me, the phone was answered.
“Yeah, I know. Look, I had to get outta there, OK?” A US accent. “No, of course I didn’t talk to him! The guy never caught up to me. I ducked into this old building at the end of the street.”
While he was talking I was climbing.
There were all sorts of rumours about the top floor. Local legend held that it had been a high-class brothel, an opium den, a gambling club – any and every form of Victorian vice had allegedly taken place above the shops. The truth was it had never been anything other than office and storage space.
Peering over the top of the steps I saw a curving corridor with closed doors along the inner side, and windows – mostly boarded up – opposite. Several boards had fallen or been pulled down, allowing enough light in to see Fake Adi about ten feet away, standing with his back to me as he continued his phone conversation.
“No. I’m up on the top floor. It’s like, abandoned or something. I don’t think anyone saw me come up.”
There was a long pause, while he listened.
“Yeah, yeah sure. I’ll do that. Look, perhaps I can find a fire escap
e or something? If I come down that way no one will know I was even here. You can tell Mr Lonza that we can go ahead, OK?”
As he spoke, Fake Adi was pushing at a window, one of the unboarded ones. It opened slowly, with great protest.
I finished climbing the stairs.
Fake Adi looked out of the window. “There’s a sort of walkway here. I guess it’s a fire escape. There’s an alleyway below. You let me know when we’re clear and I’ll come down, OK? Yeah, yeah, sure.”
He hung up, slipped his phone back into his pocket, picked up his stick which had been leaning against the wall, and swung his leg out over the windowsill.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I said.
The reaction was comical. Still halfway through the window he jerked round to stare back at me, open-mouthed, and nearly fell back inside. Instead he managed to grab hold of the window frame.
“Look, I just want to talk.” I kept my tone low, reasonable. “That’s all. Just for a moment.”
He swore. Several times. “Get away from me!”
“Just come inside. I’m not going to do anything. I just need to ask you some questions.”
Instead, he pulled himself all the way through the window.
“No – don’t! It’s not safe out there! I only want to ask you about Adi. Adi Varney – he was my friend. I just need to know what’s happened to him.”
I’d reached the window now. Fake Adi was barely two feet away, staring back at me.
The iron walkway had been a fire escape once. Not part of the original building, it had been added years later, when building regulations had finally caught up. But years later was still a long time ago, and it was in the same state as the rest of the Market. Actually, worse than most of the other parts. It was more rust than iron, and in some places not even that – there were holes the size of a fist where it had been eaten away completely.
“It’s not safe,” I repeated. “Look at it. I don’t even know if there’s still a ladder down. That might have gone years ago. Even if there is, you can’t trust it. Just come back in and talk to me, all right? I just want to know about my friend.”
Local Legend Page 6