Jenny Parker Investigates

by D J Harrison

  The small Toyota contains a weary-looking man with sandy hair, whom I greet as I pull alongside.

  ‘Have you left a space?’ I smile my most friendly smile as I lean out of my window. As he stops to answer, I read the badge on his green fleece: “John Johnson”.

  ‘At the back, over there,’ he indicates with his thumb.

  ‘Thanks, how long will you be?’

  He looks puzzled but answers nevertheless. ‘Only an hour; this place is a nightmare for parking.’

  I squeeze into the Yaris-sized space with some careful to-ing and fro-ing.

  Inside, the reception area is cramped and already has five out of six visitors’ chairs occupied. This is where I must prepare to play it by ear, but my car park encounter has given me an idea.

  ‘I’m here to see John Johnson,’ I announce. After two telephone calls and a lengthy consultation with her computer she replies, ‘He’s not in, can anyone else help?’

  I look her in the eye and whisper softly, ‘No, it’s personal, I need to see John. He said he’d be here this afternoon. I might be a bit early.’

  The receptionist softens slightly at this and invites me to take the remaining seat. From its relative comfort I watch her struggle to cope with the rising levels of exasperation around her. She looks experienced and her manner remains friendly, caring and anxious, a vestige perhaps from a previous profession where people actually mattered.

  Taking my cue from the angry man on my right who seems about to explode into violence, I gently approach the poor, besieged, possible ex-nurse and ask for the toilet. She points to the door on her right and has to press a release under her desk to admit my entry. Once inside, I have access to the staircase as well as the Ladies. As I climb the stairs, glancing quickly to make sure the kind receptionist is not watching me, I am propelled by desperation. It would be nice to have a clear idea of what I should do now, a plan, something to work to, but desperation is all I have.

  Gary’s new legitimate business is now set up and trading nicely. Although I’m doing what’s best for him and what he says he wants me to do I still feel very insecure. The first VAT bill is due and it’s a hefty amount. Added to this, Gary has to fund much increased PAYE and National Insurance costs. He may just decide I’m not worth keeping on. The cost of legitimising his business is high and hard to justify without any threat of enforcement action from Her Majesty’s Revenue & Customs. One or two of his mates have been in trouble but this might not be enough incentive for Gary to continue with the expensive option I represent.

  All I can do is try to sort out the O’Shaughnessy problem and fulfil Gary’s promises. Unfortunately this is not going well. If truth be told, it is not going at all. Every enquiry, every stratagem, has met with a blank. This is my one remaining ploy and I don’t actually understand how it might work. All I know is that O’Shaughnessy’s money might be the thing that keeps me in a job and a home.

  Toby is as unimpressed by the new flat as I am. Given the choice, I would have stayed in Salford. There is no choice though, considering that whatever arrangement Gary has for my apartment is likely to be as informal as the other deals he does. There’s some doubt in my mind as to whether the actual owner knew I was living in the previous flat. My best guess is that Gary provides security for it while the owner is away and would call me the night watchman if ever questioned. The flat on the docks is new, never been occupied and consequently unfurnished apart from poor quality grey carpets which don’t allow Toby’s cars to run freely. He gets so frustrated as they pile up in a heap at the foot of his garage ramp. The old flat had smooth wooden floors on which every car was a racer, running fast and free until it crashed into a wall or table leg with a satisfying smack.

  I spent the first two weeks assembling Ikea furniture to provide some sparse comfort. Although Gary lent me Ian and the van to visit the shop, he assumes I’m capable of putting it together myself. Still, beggars can’t be choosers; I haven’t enough money to rent somewhere even this nice.

  At the top of the stairs my progress is halted by a closed door with a keypad, presumably to keep out people who can’t find the toilet. Two men in deep conversation start to climb the stairs behind me. I scamper down towards them and smile as I pass. I shout ‘bugger’ as I reach the bottom, trying to appear as if I forgot something important, and turn around. Adjusting my speed carefully I run back up the stairs in time to catch the door before it closes, smiling at the men as I push past them into a large, open-plan office.

  Some people look up as I walk past but none of them are at all interested in me. A thick-set woman with curly grey hair comes out of an office in the far corner and walks towards me. As we pass I detect the stench of tobacco and guess that she might be heading outside for a smoke. I watch her exit the way I came in then walk quickly into her office and close the door behind me.

  In front of the small beech veneer desk is a round table with four chairs. Next to the table four coat hooks are fixed to the wall. Hanging from these are a brown corduroy coat, a high visibility jacket of the type used by Gary’s parking team, and a green fleece with an Environment Agency logo on the breast. The fleece fits me, it would fit perfectly if I was taller and fatter, but it will do. Leaving it on, I open the top right-hand desk drawer. Here I find, among a collection of pens and salary slips, three boxes of business cards from which I extract a few. I also take a badge bearing the name Annie Osborne and the now familiar Environment Agency logo.

  A sudden panic grips me as I leave with the stolen items. I feel sure I will be apprehended, that the police will be called and that they will put me back in prison to be beaten and strangled by psychopaths. My legs become weak; my knees are buckling under the strain of keeping me upright.

  Pausing at the office door, I suddenly become aware of the baleful glare of a dozen pairs of unfriendly eyes. The temptation to drop everything and run, to try to reach the exit before they catch me, is hard to resist. The prospect of doing anything other than run is daunting. I need something to help dispel my air of panic and guilt. I need to look like I have a purpose other than robbery.

  The door leading to the stairwell is the whole length of the building away. Half way stands a large photocopier. Quickly I grab a sheaf of papers from Annie’s desk and brandish these protectively as I walk steadily towards the exit. At the photocopier I load the paperwork and press the buttons which give me the most satisfaction. Twenty copies of each on A3 paper feel good. The big green start button begins the noisy process but this ends almost as soon as it begins. The feeding mechanism does not handle stapled items well at all. The whole sheaf bunches up and crinkles to a messy halt. I let out a genuine moan of frustration and disappointment as I stand transfixed, unable to move, consumed by a certainty that now I’m bound to be caught. My thoughts turn to the disappointment that Toby will feel and that stinging loss bites through my stomach. My bladder tightens and drills pain into my lower body making me double up and whimper.

  A male hand steadies me. I turn to look into his eyes. They are sunk deep into a round, hairless head that merges into a ridiculously rotund body by way of a thick neck wrinkled by fatty waves. There is no malice in his gaze, only mild concern and a hint of amusement. He begins to pull shards of paper from the feed mechanism. His only introductory words are ‘Bloody useless.’ I have no idea if he means me or the machine.

  ‘I need the loo.’ My reply is entirely truthful and I stagger off leaving him with the paper jam.

  Downstairs the urge is so insistent that I almost take refuge in the toilet I’m supposed to have been in all along. The prospect of sitting there in jeopardy, waiting for the bogus photocopying to give me away, anticipating the security guards outside the door, is not one I can entertain. Given the choice I would rather pee in my pants while fleeing. In the event it doesn’t come to that. I manage to hold it in as I move briskly past the besieged receptionist and into the car park. Once in my car, engine running, gear engaged, the urgent feeling subsides and I make my
escape.

  41

  The road through the half-built housing estate is slicked with brown mud which is resisting removal by the persistent rain. As I approach the site office, the terrain changes from muddy road to a road of mud. My car skitters and slides as I bump it through the giant puddles. Gary offered me a giant four-wheel drive vehicle for today’s visit, even brought it round to the offices. The mission I’m on is stressful and dangerous enough without the added prospect of having to blunder my way around in an enormous pick-up truck that is almost certainly stolen, despite Gary’s protestation to the contrary.

  ‘I’m supposed to be an Environment Agency officer; my car is much more in keeping.’

  ‘It might be a bit muddy. I thought this would be better,’ was all Gary could reply as we stood dwarfed by the enormous beast.

  My Corsa is old, battered and not as red as it ought to be. The paintwork might have lost what little shine it had, but it is mine, paid for by me, taxed and insured by me and with a valid MOT certificate. Gary’s discomfiture at all this unnecessary paperwork is nothing compared with his shocked disposition when I refuse any more of his airport cars on the basis that they are stolen. “Borrowed” is the word he prefers, but stolen is how their owners would see it. My newly acquired moral stance only serves to put even more pressure on me to keep delivering what Gary wants.

  My doughty car brings me safely to an island of rough stone where a dozen vehicles are parked above the sea of mud. Two grey Portakabins sit proudly in supervision of the brown morass all around them. Hopping out of my seat, trying to avoid wetting my feet in a puddle, I’m startled by a huge yellow dump truck, even taller than the portable offices I am cowering by. My discomposure is multiplied by the name on its side. A brief glimpse of the name is all I need for my legs to turn to jelly and be gripped by an almost irresistible desire to flee. “O’Brian” is written in big brown lettering underneath the familiar OB logo. Raising my eyes to rediscover the landscape beyond the cabins I recognise three large bulldozers, all liveried with the OB sign.

  It’s not fair; I have enough on my plate without being surrounded by Tim’s workforce. I am pretending to be an Environment Agency officer but now have the prospect of someone recognising me as Tim’s ex-wife, or ex-convict ex-wife to be exact.

  It was a long and difficult job to obtain an audience with the busy and self-important Mr Jackson and I’m reluctant to cut and run, especially with so much at stake. Even the sight of Tim’s battered Ford Mondeo parked two spaces away from my Corsa fails to deter me. It does nothing to improve my nerves though.

  ‘Hello, I’m Annie Osborne.’ I press the business card into Jackson’s hand and sit opposite him. He is a short man, hardly taller than me, and exhibits a sallow, unhealthy complexion. His mouth curls in a permanent sarcastic smile. There is nothing about him to like; this suits me fine.

  My nervousness threatens to betray me. It’s hard to think clearly, to adopt the Annie persona, to act as if I don’t care. It’s only a job, it’s only a job. This mantra has a grain of truth, enough to stop most of the trembling. Wriggling my toes seems to help, even if it fails to ease the discomfort of my tight shoes.

  Despite the hours I’ve spent in preparation, the legislation I’m supposed to be using remains largely impenetrable. There seems to be an awful lot of rules and regulations, advice, best practice notes and statutory guidance involved when dealing with waste of any description. The man sitting sneering at me is experienced in the practicalities of it all, deals with the Environment Agency on a regular basis and might even have come across the real Annie Osborne.

  At this thought, my blood runs a little cooler despite the intense heat inside the protective green fleece I stole from Annie. It’s my main weapon, my camouflage, my impenetrable armour. It makes me who I say I am. I can’t afford to remove it, however hot it gets in here.

  O’Shaughnessy has been next to useless. He did make great play out of having all the paperwork as he called it. “Transfer notes” was another epithet he applied and his assurances about his possession of these gave me the idea that set me on the path to becoming an Environment Agency employee.

  I explain in what I fear are quivering, nervous shrieks how the Agency is concerned regarding the whereabouts of dangerous polluting and poisonous soils that were removed from his Oldham site by O’Shaughnessy. The look on Jackson’s face tells me that it’s not going well. I can hear myself gabbling too many words. I am trying to be convincing but failing even to convince myself. He isn’t taking any of this with the seriousness I need. The growing compulsion to leave, to get the hell out before I’m completely unmasked, becomes almost irresistible.

  My mouth closes at last. The gibbering ceases and I allow the silence to build. His eyes dart around the office, shifting and dancing, staying loose and refusing to be transfixed by my stare. It is my best stare, my strongest, most powerful one and eventually pins him to me. He has to look back at me and I have to show him I am real.

  ‘What has this got to do with us?’ He eventually breaks the silence and looks away. My silence continues. ‘Everything we do is documented, the Agency already has all the reports,’ he tries again but I am steadfast. ‘Look, the consultants have signed off the site, it’s clear, all the contamination has been removed in accordance with the method statement. You have all the reports already.’

  Much of what he’s saying is meaningless but the way he’s speaking is changing. The cockiness is disappearing. He’s getting increasingly agitated now that I have shut my mouth.

  I wait until his protestations diminish and then, mindful that Tim could make an appearance at any moment, try to press home my attack while I still have the courage. All I have to arm me are a few bits of information gleaned over hours of talking to O’Shaughnessy.

  ‘Let me get this straight.’ I have to get this right otherwise I’m in danger of revealing the ignorant impostor I am. ‘Monton Homes own the site where the soil was dug up and taken to Eccles where you were building houses?’

  ‘Yes, we’re a major land owner and have an exemplary track record in cleaning up contaminated sites.’

  ‘So the site was contaminated?’

  ‘Yes. It used to be a factory. Our consultants wrote procedures for the clean-up. You agreed to them, everything was agreed by the Environment Agency, by Darren Gilbert.’ Jackson looks at me as if I should be familiar with the name. I feel myself floundering again but before I can speak and reveal my ignorance he helps me out.

  ‘Your boss.’

  His pomposity sends me a lifeline and I breathe deeply with relief.

  ‘Everything went through Darren. He’s happy, he’s got no problems with any issues at all,’ Jackson continues.

  At least I now know who he’s talking about but I’ve no inkling of how significant this information might be.

  ‘In fact, I rang him earlier. He was surprised to hear you were coming to see me, very surprised.’

  My blood freezes in my veins: this is bad. Just how bad remains to be seen. All I need now is for Tim to poke his head around the door. It feels like my chair is absorbing my body, I’m slipping into oblivion. My thoughts veer wildly towards the possibility that my cover is already in shreds. Even if I get out of here without being arrested, it’s all too clear that nothing I say is going to help matters. Jackson is not going to take seriously any threats I make on behalf of the Environment Agency. All he has to do is ring up his pal Darren and his mind will be put at rest.

  ‘Of course he didn’t know I was coming.’ I listen to myself speaking clearly and authoritatively. ‘Mr Gilbert is under investigation himself. These are serious allegations, very serious. Contaminated soils were taken from your site to a housing development. People could have been poisoned. I had hoped you might have been more cooperative today but under the circumstances I’ve no alternative but to arrange for a formal PACE interview.’ I stand up and before I turn to leave have the satisfaction of seeing Jackson’s worried look. All his coc
kiness has evaporated.

  Outside my close calls continue when I see that Tim’s car has gone. A few moments earlier and we might have met and he would have discovered his former wife had not only joined the Environment Agency but also changed her name to Annie Osborne.

  42

  ‘Listen carefully. I’ve been to a lot of trouble to get this far, a lot of trouble. I’ve put in a lot of hard work and plenty of personal risk.’

  I’m looking at O’Shaughnessy and O’Shaughnessy’s son whose name astonishingly is Sean. Gary is sitting beside me, all beaming pride at what I am about to say.

  ‘I’ve just left Jackson and I think he’ll call you very soon. As far as I’m aware the Environment Agency has no interest in the job you did for Monton Homes. They’ve raised no concerns. All the reports were accepted and both sites were given a clean bill of health. I am hoping, though, that Jackson thinks he’s in trouble. I may have convinced him that he is going to end up in court and that the Monton Homes name will be dragged through the mud unless he can come up with some documentation that gets him off the hook. That’s the documentation that you have – the transfer notes.’

  Gary smirks a little more but I remain unconvinced by the blank faces in front of me. I need them to understand what’s going on if they’re to have a chance of getting their money back. Even the slightest confusion on their part might give the game away. Unhappily, the men sitting opposite seem more than slightly confused already.

  ‘Jackson will need the transfer notes to show the contaminated soil went safely to the landfill site, that’s the only thing that will get the Agency off his back, or so he believes.’

  ‘I thought the Agency were happy.’ O’Shaughnessy senior confirms my worst fears.