Where There’s A Will

by Coles, Linda

  “We should have booked a private room,” Rodney said, standing as if to leave. He must have read Colin’s mind. “Follow me, I know somewhere.” He led the way down a carpeted corridor and through doors that said ‘staff only’. On they walked until they came to a staircase that carried on down and which Colin suspected led towards the cellar. He’d never been in this part of the club and wondered how Walsh knew about it since it was behind the scenes, an area the average customer would not be privy to.

  Colin could feel the temperature dip the further down they went. At some point, the fabric underfoot changed to cold flags, or perhaps stone, it was difficult to see in the light. At the bottom was a huge wooden door that opened easily and without a sound and looked as old as the town itself. Rodney reached around the corner of the decrepit frame for a switch and the room exploded with light. Colin took a moment to steady himself and figure out where he was. It didn’t look like a typical, white-washed, damp cellar with beer barrels and defunct equipment stored nearby, though it did smell like one. It looked as if he were inside some sort of crypt. The ceiling resembled that of a tiny church, and the stone-flagged floor, together with the cold steps they’d just ventured down, made him feel as if he was in some sort of chamber, deep underneath the town above. He tried not to shiver. Colin noticed another door, at the far end of the room, and wondered where it led to. The rest of the space held an old wooden table and four nondescript metal chairs you’d find in any office across town. A single light fitting with a high-wattage bulb hung from the ceiling.

  “What is this place?”

  “It’s on a need-to-know basis, and you don’t need to know,” Rodney said. “Now take a seat.”

  Forty-Two

  Colin could barely contain his nerves as he sat at the table with the other two men. It looked like they were expecting someone else – the one empty seat opposite looked at him almost accusingly, as if he’d missed someone out of the equation with his invites.

  “So,” said Rodney Walsh, “what’s so urgent, what’s upsetting you? Because quite clearly something is. I’ve never seen you so agitated, you’re normally so calm.”

  Colin wasn’t sure where to begin even though he’d spent the previous couple of hours or so rehearsing, thinking through everything he was going to say and what he wasn’t.

  “I’m not entirely sure where to begin,” he said, mustering some energy from somewhere. He was pleased with his delivery, which settled his nerves – if only for a moment.

  “Then why don’t you start at the beginning,” said Brian.

  Colin was well aware of Brian’s background. As an accountant at a high-powered local firm, the man was very clever, he just looked meek. His hairline had receded somewhat to the back of his head and his dome, which looked like it had been polished only this morning, had fair hair cropped short around its edges. At least he hadn’t got a comb-over. Why Colin was even thinking about the man’s hairstyle at such a moment he had no idea and put it down to nerves.

  “I might as well start in the middle since that’s the bit that’s caused me so much aggravation,” said Colin, once again pleased with the energy that he’d managed to put into his words, so he didn’t show his true emotions.

  “Go on then,” said Rodney, prompting. “Time’s marching on.”

  He took a deep breath and said, “I’m being blackmailed.” He let it sit for a moment or two to watch their reaction and was surprised that all he got from Brian was a lifting of his brows and there wasn’t much more from Rodney.

  “Go on,” Rodney urged. “Blackmailed about what exactly?”

  That particular part Colin wasn’t about to tell. He wasn’t sure how much the other two in this joint business project knew about where he got his funds from, the fictitious invoices he submitted, and he needed to hedge his bets somewhat. Instead, he tried a lie. “I’m being blackmailed about the development. Obviously, somebody doesn’t want it to go ahead.”

  “Bit late for that,” said Brian, “it’s halfway through. What do they expect to achieve from blackmailing you when it’s already half-built?”

  He had a point. Colin knew that but figured those that sent the ransom texts were not necessarily that bright anyway. “I don’t know the reasons why,” he said somewhat sarcastically, “but the truth is I am being blackmailed, and they want five hundred thousand pounds. I haven’t got it and it’s causing me grief!”

  “Why don’t you go to the police?” said Brian.

  “I’m not likely to bring the police into anything around this, now am I? This development is already behind schedule, and in case you’ve forgotten, we don’t want them sticking their noses in and uncovering the loan that I organised via the council,” he said, pointing his finger at Rodney. “Not many folks know about that aspect, it’s certainly not public record. If I go to the police and tell them I’m being blackmailed because of the development, they are going to ask all sorts of questions. So that means we all get investigated. Do you want that? I don’t think any of us fancy corruption tagged on to our names.”

  Colin let that settle for a moment while the other two men thought about their responses. It was like passing a tennis ball back over the net and waiting for someone to serve back at you.

  “That loan is all above board and you know it,” Rodney said.

  “It’s above board and has a legitimate contract,” said Colin. “But when people get wind that their local government is handing out loans of ten million to private companies, they are not necessarily going to respond favourably, because they don’t understand the mechanics of it.” Colin was very careful with his words, speaking slowly, making sure each one sunk in. “You and I know that our venture is paying the interest so the council get an income, but questions will be raised as to why our development is seen favourably to get the loan in the first place. Mates’ rates and all that.”

  “But again, I say, it’s all approved and above board,” said Rodney.

  “Come on,” said Colin, “you know as well as I do it’s creative accounting at best. There’s deliberate favouritism and the company that got the loan, our company, wouldn’t have without my help, my direct involvement from the council. We absolutely would not be getting the money at all, not to mention the miniscule interest repayment rate. I don’t need to tell you we need that money to finish things off. So no, I don’t want the police looking into why I’m being blackmailed!”

  “What did you call this meeting for, then?” Rodney asked.

  “I want to know what you think I should do about it, but if going to the police is the only thing you can think of, I might as well not have bothered.”

  “Okay, they want five hundred thousand pounds, half a mil,” said Rodney, “or else what? What will they do?”

  Colin had wondered about that question himself while he’d been tossing and turning earlier. He didn’t want it to be about the two bodies that had been found at Hunsbury Hill.

  “They say they will go to the press with knowledge of our deal and leak about the loan and the fact that I’m part of this business, that there is a conflict of interest, which of course we know is true.”

  “Then we should call their bluff,” said Brian, pushing his chair back, preparing to stand up. Colin looked up at him from his seat. The contrast between Brian and Rodney was extreme, they were poles apart.

  Rodney stood too and said, “I suggest the same, leave them be. I don’t think we’ve got anything to worry about. Let them go to the press, and when it comes out, we just need to figure out what our response will be before then. We all know our names are not on the shell companies building this development, so we have nothing to trace directly back to us. Unless of course they get too close and see our spouses are named, but even that’s doubtful on such a cleverly constructed shell.”

  Rodney and Brian were both standing. It was time to leave.

  “Though it does concern me how someone can possibly know that you’re involved to blackmail you in the first place,” Bri
an finished.

  This wasn’t going as Colin had planned – what was he to say next?

  “It has to be internal,” said Brian. “It can only be internal; you’ve got a mole and you’d better find it quick.”

  Colin pushed his own chair away from the table and stood, he certainly didn’t want to be left in the cold room on his own. They were ready to leave, the meeting over. He didn’t feel any better than when he’d first walked in. It had been a complete waste of time.

  Forty-Three

  With the new information George had supplied Will about where Jonesy had been dossing down, and indeed where other people regularly slept, it was worth investigating and taking a look. Before he left the centre, he went in search of two torches and handed one to George. It was only a short walk for the two men, Bridge Street was in the middle of town, and on a clear night with plenty of street lights it was an easy journey there. Will and George chatted about life on the street in general conversation and soon enough they could see the entrance straight ahead. It had been boarded up at one stage, but the signs of tampering were obvious.

  “I’ll show you how to get in,” said George and made adjustments to a couple of the planks so the two could enter easily. Once on the other side, he put the planks back in place and Will marvelled at how easy it had been. The first thing that hit him was the smell, like a damp cellar. The second thing was the cool air. He’d expected it to be warmer than it was, though didn’t know why, but like George had said earlier, being inside at least they were away from the elements and away from those that wish to pee on people for the fun of it. Will let his eyes adjust to the semi darkness and the two set off further into the tunnel. They hadn’t gone far when they could see the dim lights and makeshift homes of those that lived there. For Will, it brought back memories that he didn’t want to revisit.

  “Which one’s Jonesy’s place?”

  “Here,” said George, pointing to a corner that looked like any other homeless area, with the usual paraphernalia all present: shopping trolley, tarpaulin, cardboard, sleeping bag and a few clothes. Those that lived on the streets didn’t own much and certainly nothing of any value, and what little cash they had, they kept hidden on themselves. There was nobody there. Will bent down to look through the lad’s belongings, trying not to disturb them. There was very little to see. A voice called out to him, “What you doin’?”

  Will didn’t recognise it, but George did.

  “It’s okay,” George called. “It’s Will from the Refresh Centre.”

  “What you doin’?” the voice asked again.

  Will stood up from his cramped position, walked over to the voice and asked, “Do you remember when Jonesy disappeared? We’re just trying to help figure out what happened to him that day. Do you know anything about it?”

  “Are you a pig?”

  George stepped in. “I just told you, Hoppy, it’s Will from Refresh.”

  “So,” Will tried again. “Do you know anything about his disappearance?”

  “He’s back.”

  “I know he’s back, which is great news, but do you know anything about when he went missing, were you there, did you see anything when he got attacked?”

  “He was attacked, was he?”

  Will was beginning to feel exasperation build up in his chest. He was getting nowhere with this particular person, who was likely high on something, alcoholic or chemical, perhaps another on Ketamine. Will tried one more time.

  “Look, I used to live on the streets too some years ago,” he said, hoping it would give him some empathy. “It can be hard, I know, but I also know that you see things, hear things. Two people have been killed now and we’re trying to help find out what happened. We’re not the police and we mean no harm to you, but since Jonesy is the only one that’s come back safely, we need to find out as much as we can, stop anyone else getting hurt. Do you understand?”

  There was a silence that lasted for several beats, but Will could see in the half-light that something registered with the man and he was thinking. He didn’t want to be the one to speak first or walk away in case he missed something vital and so he waited.

  Finally, the man said, “I’ve seen people, in another tunnel.”

  “Go on,” encouraged Will. “Which tunnel?”

  “Under the church in the town centre,” said the man. “All Saints. I go in there occasionally for a cuppa. I know there’s tunnels underneath and I went down once but got caught. Thought it was interesting, but they kicked me out.”

  “What did you see down there?”

  “Two men was all I saw, don’t know what they were doing.”

  “Maybe they were just looking like you were,” said George.

  “No, they weren’t looking, not like I was.” He sounded sure of himself.

  “Can you describe the two men?” Will asked.

  “Nah, just two men. Didn’t really see much, but soon as they saw me, they made their excuses and left. Like they weren’t supposed to be there either.”

  “When was this?” asked Will.

  “Couple of weeks ago. I’ve not been back since.”

  “Would you recognise them again, have you seen them since, perhaps the night that Jonesy got attacked?”

  “Doubt it, and no, not seen them.”

  “Well, if you think of anything, tell George here or Jonesy, they know how to reach me at the Refresh Centre, okay? Or you can call at the centre yourself. If I’m not there, ask for Hazel.”

  “Okay,” said the man, but he’d lost interest. Will felt in his pocket for a couple of £2 coins and handed them over.

  “Get yourself a hot drink or something to eat,” he said, “and thanks for letting us know what you’ve seen. There’s more if you can tell me anything else.”

  Will watched as the man pocketed the money and hoped it went on food. As they ventured further along, Will finally placed the odour he’d detected on Bowie’s body.

  Forty-Four

  Will and George spent a few minutes chatting to the remaining inhabitants, but nobody had seen or heard anything of relevance. It seemed there was nothing to add to the man’s story. Will was intrigued about the tunnels that ran under All Saints’ Church and part of him couldn’t wait to get back home so he could research online and find out more, particularly since he thought he’d matched the odour he’d picked up on Bowie. He wasn’t aware of such tunnels underneath the town and what George had shown him at the bottom of Bridge Street had opened his eyes somewhat.

  “Do you fancy a detour?” Will asked as they left the Bridge Street entrance, heading back towards the centre.

  “I wondered when you would ask,” said George with a slight smile. Even in the half-light George’s teeth were quite brilliant white, unusual for somebody that lived as he did. Will guessed he cared about his own dental hygiene, either that or he was naturally blessed with excellent teeth. Will was conscious of the time; it was coming up to 9 pm and he’d told Louise he wouldn’t be late back. He needed his own sleep; he’d missed enough this week and it was beginning to catch up with him. But this was important, and with a new piece of information he needed to find out more, see if it was connected somehow. It could of course, like the blue pen he’d found, be just a random coincidence, people in the tunnel quite legitimately.

  All Saints’ Church stood proudly in front of them, and Will wondered if the door would even be unlocked at this hour, so many now closed at night because of thieves. While he wasn’t an atheist, he couldn’t think of the last time he’d been inside a church. The two men entered and Will glanced around at the handful of heads bowed, deep in their own prayer or thoughts and in silence.

  “How can we find the entrance to the tunnel?” George whispered.

  “I have no clue. Maybe there’ll be somebody out back that we can ask?”

  “Do you think they will tell you, let you go down there?”

  “I don’t know, but we’ve got to try.” Just at that moment a man dressed in black entered
through the side door. Will was momentarily frozen to the spot and wondered what to do next. It was obvious since they were right up front, and with George’s dishevelled state, what the man would be thinking. Thieves.

  Will walked forward, hand outstretched to introduce himself. “Hello father, it’s not what you think,” he said quickly. “I am Will Peters from the Refresh Centre and this is my friend George.”

  “What can I do for you?” he asked. While there was a smile on his face, there was concern in his eyes.

  “We have just come from the tunnel at the bottom of Bridge Street, and I’m intrigued to know more about the ones that run underneath this church. Is there anything you can tell me about them, perhaps where the entrance is?” Will asked.

  “There are tunnels, yes. What is it you would like to know of them?” He avoided the entrance question – was that deliberate?

  “I’d like to know where they go, but what I’d really like is to have a look if I may.”

  “What’s your business?”

  Will took a moment to think about how he would answer, how much he would tell the father; he didn’t want to frighten him off.

  “I’m investigating what happened to the two bodies found at Hunsbury Hill Park. A friend of George’s was abducted recently and he managed to escape, and we think that the tunnels may have some connection to the case.”

  “So, you’re with the police?”

  He couldn’t lie. “No, not exactly, more a private investigation.”

  “Ah, in that case, I can’t help you tonight,” he said. “The tunnels below the church don’t go far, and yes, there was a maze of them originally, but most of them have either since collapsed or been boarded up. I can’t show them to you, sorry.”