Jenny Parker Investigates

by D J Harrison

  O’Brian smiled sadly. ‘I’m well aware of the problems, Jenny. My own accountants are well versed in all these things. It’s just that Gary told me he needed some cash, some investment money and that you were able to sort it without any comeback to myself.’

  ‘Why don’t you put it in your own business?’ After what seems an age of silence I find myself answering my own question. ‘I suppose that wouldn’t make any difference – the source of the cash would still have to be identified.’

  A phone rings distantly for a while then stops. Mrs O’Brian materialises at the top of the steps and speaks softly.

  ‘It’s Irene.’

  O’Brian clambers out of his chair and sets off in search of the telephone. Mrs O’Brian dematerialises as quickly as she appeared and leaves me alone. I try to pour more tea from the pot but only get a sludgy trickle of tea leaves. A peacock wanders into view, dragging its tail as if intent on sweeping the grass. The vision of a many-eyed semi-circle that impressed my childhood self brings back longings for the time I felt safe and cared for. It seems so long ago and gives such a false impression. My father mocked me even then, saying the bird had taken a fancy to me and that’s why he was aroused. The significance of that word has been lost until now. The deep anxiety returns, pressing me into the chair. The brief excitement at seeing the magnificent bird is gone.

  There are forty-eight panels of glass in the conservatory roof, twelve paintings hanging on the walls, ninety-six tiles on the wall behind the sink. I’m trying not to think about my father and what he did to me. It’s the betrayal that cuts deeply into my heart and that is placed firmly with my mother. How could she let that happen to her child? Why didn’t she protect me?

  The peacock has waddled away now, relieving me of the desire for it to flaunt its magnificence and for me to return my thoughts to O’Brian and his money. He is not a stupid man; on the contrary he must be remarkably clever. Nothing I came here to explain is news to him. He knows the score as well as I do, maybe even better. My mind is going round in circles. If I put the cash in the bank I will have to reveal its origin. ‘A man gave it me to look after’ is not a valid reason for having money. It was less than twenty thousand pounds that got me locked up. Half a million would tempt them to throw away the key. Proceeds of a sale would be a better line, but then what has been sold and to whom? Why was I given cash? More questions that can’t be answered. The best way would be to sell lots of things for small amounts, real items so they could be identified and accounted for but products with a big mark up. Nothing that Gary does even comes close to helping here. The way the rules are now, it’s almost impossible to create legitimate earnings out of illicit cash. If you’re caught with a bag of bank notes you’re guilty unless you can prove your innocence. I should know.

  O’Brian is taking his time, I wonder if he’s forgotten me and consider leaving my seat to go and look for him. At least I can make myself a cup of tea; after all I am practically sitting in the kitchen. There are three steps up to the kitchen. As I put my foot on the first one there is no-one to be seen, the place remains deserted. As I reach the third step Mrs O’Brian is standing in the doorway.

  ‘The toilet is through here,’ she points helpfully. ‘I’ll make us some more tea. Peter is still on the phone.’

  The toilet is the size of a decent lounge, festooned with flowers and trailing greenery. The long window is frosted in a diamond pattern which dissects the light into a hundred tiny rainbows. I feel like sitting here in peace until they forget about me then slipping quietly away. This prospect, remote as it might be, is rendered impossible by the inevitability of that dog sitting next to my car. I need safe passage out of here and only O’Brian can provide that. The conundrum in my head stops turning round and round and settles on a vision of Emma, my young colleague from Landers Hoffman. I see her sitting in Martin’s office explaining to me how she had got on at Allied Composites. It didn’t strike me at the time but she could have been describing the perfect money laundering set-up. It doesn’t help me with O’Brian but at least it makes me realise what a huge issue this has become.

  Back in my seat, the conservatory windows are beginning to reflect more as the light fades outside. He makes no apology on his return, murmurs, ‘Where were we?’ and expects me to answer.

  ‘Cash is a big problem to us all, Mr O’Brian,’ I begin. ‘The penalties for undeclared earnings are bad enough, but the possession of large amounts of money without a documented reason leads to severe legal penalties. I should know.’

  O’Brian looks straight at me, meets my eyes and remains silent.

  ‘Gary has promised to help, though to be fair he doesn’t understand the implications of his promise. My job is to honour that commitment without putting us all in jail.’

  O’Brian smiles gently. He likes what he is hearing now.

  ‘So this is what I propose. You keep the money, apart from fifty thousand which I’ll take with me. When I’ve invested that I’ll come here and collect some more. It will take time but I’ll be building up assets in a business that you and Gary can then argue over. As I say, it’ll take some time and until then, you must keep the cash.’

  ‘Okay.’ O’Brian nods. ‘What about you, what do you see yourself wanting out of this?’

  His gaze is unrelenting and I feel myself wilting slightly and colouring up. What do I want? I want nothing to do with his dirty money. I want Toby. I want a nice place to live, an honest job, an honest, kind man. That about covers it.

  Instead I say, ‘Ten per cent.’

  O’Brian nods. ‘Ten per cent it is. You need to be motivated and rewarded. Ten per cent of what I get back, that’s the deal.’

  I had in mind ten per cent of the capital – £50,000 – but I can see his point, and nod my acquiescence. He pushes the bag towards me with his foot.

  ‘And you take the bag with you – that’s the deal – I don’t want it here. You take it, I trust you.

  49

  Gary is still grinning. I’m not sure if it’s the return of the money or the story of the dog and my embarrassment that he’s enjoying most.

  ‘He’s a big softy,’ he says unhelpfully. ‘He wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

  It was so late by the time I left O’Brian’s house I was able to wear my own clothes which had been washed, dried and ironed to look better than they ever had, even when new. Too late to meet Gary, I spent an uncomfortable night semi-sleeping with half a million pounds under my bed. Every creak was an armed robber; every car was a police van coming to take me away.

  ‘He’s a persuasive man is O’Brian.’ Gary likes stating the obvious. He is happy to do it all day.

  ‘We need a business that takes cash to run this through.’ I pat the travel-weary bag.

  Gary nods. ‘What do you have in mind?’ He’s positively gleeful at my entrapment in O’Brian’s steely web.

  ‘It was your idea, you promised O’Brian in the first place. What do you think we should do?’

  ‘We can use the cash to pay the lads,’ Gary suggests.

  ‘Not a good idea. I’ve only recently stopped the cash payments, the risk is too great.’

  Gary is still grinning though. He knows I have a plan. He’s relying on it.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I have an idea. It came to me while sitting on O’Brian’s toilet.’ This is making me feel superior for a change. Gary really needs reminding just how bloody good I am. Maybe he’ll stop whingeing about tax and VAT long enough to be grateful he’s still in business.

  ‘Caravans …’ I am almost bursting with excitement at my own cleverness, ‘… we are buying a caravan park.’

  ‘How does that help?’ Gary asked.

  I spread out the full colour prospectus I obtained from the agents. ‘Look.’ I point to serried ranks of neat shacks all bathed in sunshine. ‘These are residential caravans. They rent for £500 a month. If they were holiday lets they earn that much a week.’

  ‘How does that help with O’Brian
’s cash?’

  ‘We buy the place then we convert it to a holiday let. We use O’Brian’s money as if it came from the holidaymakers.’

  ‘What about the residents, do we chuck them out?’

  ‘No need, they stay put. I’ll just account for the place differently. It only needs to be a paper exercise.’ I put the figures down on the table.

  Gary’s grin gets wider.

  ‘How many can we buy?’ he asks.

  50

  I can’t look Tim in the eye. My defiance is spent, dissolved, evaporated in the glare of those photographs. She is standing by his side oozing malice, resentful of every moment I spend in his presence. Toby is bouncing with excitement, grinning with mischief as he flings himself at me. A nugget of satisfaction glows inside me at his display before the desolation bites as I release him back into her influence. I miss him already, even before I leave.

  ‘I hear you’ve been to see Peter O’Brian at his house?’ Tim’s words betray his insecurity rather than revealing superior knowledge. If O’Brian told him he saw me, there is no doubt in my mind that the reason for our meeting was kept firmly under wraps. For Tim, knowing that his ex-wife is having meetings with his employer is bad enough; not knowing why is another reason for him to worry. The advantage I might gain from having O’Brian’s ear is not something I appreciated until Tim spoke. Our dealings over Toby may take a more even aspect in the future.

  ‘Don’t forget I’m taking Toby on holiday with me next week.’

  ‘I hadn’t forgotten.’ Tim looks sideways for approval. ‘Hope the weather turns out nice for you.’

  She gives him a look that says being pleasant to his ex-wife will bring punishment and I take some consolation from her display of irritation. As I look away I retain the image of her hands positioned protectively over a slightly swollen belly. A jolt of excitement flares inside me. If she is pregnant that can only help me with Toby. It will be a consolation for Tim when he loses custody.

  The short trip down the M61 is filled with alternating hope and fear: hope that I will soon have a place for me and Toby; fear that it will all be made impossible by my failure to deliver what Gary expects; hope that I stay feeling strong and healthy; fear that tomorrow will bring news of terminal disease and contamination.

  ****

  The hospital waiting rooms are filled to overflowing. Everybody is here to see the same consultant; everyone has the same appointment time. Everyone is told to turn up at 10 a.m. and wait. Although I insisted on being referred to a female gynaecologist, I have been leered at, prodded and poked by a succession of sausage-fingered men. Today, for a change, I am assured I will actually meet the woman herself; today is the day I get my results.

  At 1.48 p.m. my name is called by a nurse who ushers me into a tiny room dominated by a complex metal bed with long protuberances, designed to spread your legs the required amount and hold them open while you are tinkered with. Mercifully the small Indian lady points to the grey plastic chair in front of her. She squints at ragged sheets of paper hanging out of a manila folder. She looks up at me then back at this file. I begin to fear the worst. How many of the diseases do I have? Are any of them curable? How long can I expect to live with HIV?

  She leafs through a few more pages, from my vantage point I can see a few lines of typescript in each but not decipher any of it.

  ‘You have been screened for the common STDs.’ She looks up. ‘All the tests are negative.’

  My brain fails to understand and my body goes into panic mode.

  ‘You are clear.’ She explains and I begin to recover. ‘There are no infections identified.’

  ‘What about AIDS?’ I ask.

  ‘You are HIV negative. You need not be concerned about AIDS.’

  ‘What about the pain? I can’t have intercourse, it’s too painful.’ I feel unworthy sitting here, taking up this important doctor’s time. It’s only about my pleasure or lack of it now. It’s cosmetic, unimportant. I can manage without.

  ‘There are a variety of conditions that cause discomfort. Dryness can be helped by using plenty of lubricant. Let me have a look.’

  The bed with the leg irons and stirrups beckons to me and I have been through this often enough to remove the appropriate clothing and assume the position. She is gentle and respectful, her touch warm and soft in contrast to previous rough manipulation. When she is finished delving around inside me she waits for me to dress and resume my seat.

  ‘There are signs of some damage, a little scarring, but this does not look recent and should not be causing any problems. As I said before, dryness is the probable cause of your discomfort. It is very common, more so as you get older. There are proprietary lubricants you can use. I could prescribe one for you but I think it is cheaper for you to buy them yourself.’

  Nothing wrong with my body, nothing to stop me having a life, a relationship, love, passion, joy – all I need is a bottle of lube. I should be happy, ecstatic at the relief, but I’m not feeling anything other than sadness and rage. I’ve not been infected, I’m not contaminated, but I have been horribly abused. All this doctor can offer is a physical solution, a slap of ointment, a squirt of grease.

  The injustice of it all overwhelms me, my sadness wells up and overflows. My arms and legs are shaking. Gripping the chair hard I try to control it but can’t prevent the scream. It is a low guttural sound, frightening in its intensity. The doctor’s face contorts with shock and fear – it has to come out, it can’t be held back any longer.

  Two men burst in and stare uncomprehendingly at me. I scream back at them louder, more powerfully than ever. Before they can touch me I am suddenly spent. All the air is gone, all my energy expended. Their hands manage to prevent me from slipping to the floor then place me on the examination couch and hold me there. Two female nurses enter; the room has become overcrowded, they can barely push their way inside.

  The kindly Indian doctor asks them to help me over to the Psychiatric ward and tells me I will be taken care of there.

  51

  Coincidentally it’s the same court where I was convicted, in the same cavernous unfriendly building. My knees turn to jelly as I mount the steps and submit to the airport-style search and metal detector.

  ‘It’s going to be fine,’ Maurice, my solicitor, soothes. ‘Just routine; these things have to be ratified in front of a judge. Procedure, you understand.’

  Maurice is reputed to be the best family solicitor in Manchester. The ridiculous amount he charges is testament to his high regard but my previous experiences still weigh against trusting any lawyer. The last time I walked into this building I was full of hopes that were dashed. This time I don’t dare to be so presumptuous.

  Since I filed for joint custody, Tim has been frosty and uncooperative. Picking up Toby for weekends suddenly became an issue. Nothing was ever convenient. Now all that awkwardness should be at an end, at least according to Maurice.

  ‘You’re his mother and you have a perfectly good home for him. He can stay at the same school. It’s not going to be a problem for the court.’

  Maurice’s slicked-back, receding hair gives him the look of a portly vampire. There is an air of authority about him, though, and I cling onto this with both hands. As we wait outside the courtroom, Tim and that woman, Alison, wander in and sit opposite. These pre-hearing seating arrangements are disconcerting. I wonder how many fights have to be broken up and whether I should start one just to wipe that nervous smirk off her face.

  Tim refused my request to share Toby equally, an unreasonable act which he compounded by contesting my legal application. They have their own daughter now, so Toby is bound to be neglected. She will favour her little princess in every way she can. Sole custody is what I really want, it’s what we both need, but Maurice dismissed this as going too far for the courts to agree.

  ‘Take this big step forward first,’ he counsels. ‘Get this under your belt, ratify your position, then we’ll see what can be done next.’

&nb
sp; When I think of Toby with me every day my heart leaps with joy before descending into a morass of fear and doubt. Today is the day the doubts are going to be settled.

  ****

  Tim’s lawyer is a fat, balding man with an air of indifference; he is asking me about my past, my conviction, my prison sentence. Maurice’s preparation helps me to remain calm and truthful, exactly as he advised. There are no nasty surprises, I have the feeling that everyone is just going through the motions. The three magistrates – two women and one man – sit stony-faced and watch. Even though it goes as well as can be expected, my legs are weak and unsteady as I resume my place next to Maurice.

  A young man with red hair and a freckled face replaces me in the witness box. This is the Family Court Advisor, Graham Watts, who visited me at home to look at where Toby would be living. We got on very well then. I’m certain he’s happy with the arrangements and expect him to tell that to the court. Instead, he is spouting a poisonous litany of speculation and scandal about me. I told him about my conviction and time in prison, now he’s making out I’m a violent criminal. The shock of hearing him distorting the truth stuns me at first but I recover quickly and begin to try to defend myself.

  ‘That’s not right,’ I shout.

  Maurice leans over and places a restraining hand on my shoulder, trying to make me sit down again.

  ‘It’s all lies, I’m not like that,’ I insist. People are telling me to sit down and be quiet. I have to put them right, make sure they hear the truth, not some distortion made by a spiteful youth. The catalogue of misdemeanours continues. I can hardly believe my ears when he says, ‘The most recent episode of violent behaviour occurred only two months ago when Mrs Parker assaulted a female doctor at Hope Hospital. She had to be restrained and committed to the Psychiatric ward for sedation.’

  I am pleading with him for the truth.

  ‘I only screamed, I only screamed once, I was upset. It was only a scream. I didn’t touch her …’ but strong hands are pressing me down, holding me. The man on my left arm smells disgusting; his body odour engulfs me and I need him to move away. My arm shakes free and I use my elbow to push him aside. He stumbles and hits his head on the corner of the bench. More hands, more smelly men. I need to get out into the fresh air. My screaming is having no effect on them, nobody believes me … nobody cares …