by D J Harrison
‘Get Eric off my back. All I want is to be left in peace. We have a common objective, you and I – to stop Eric Knowles.’
Casagrande smiles at me but I detect no warmth or humour.
‘Wait here, please.’
Before I can say anything more he leaves, taking my documents with him. Despite the cooling atmosphere, I am beginning to swelter in my own anxiety. Did I really expect Casagrande to take me at face value and deal with Eric? The chilling realisation that I’m acting in ignorance overwhelms me. Panic begins to take hold. I have to get out of here, away from the racing circuit, back to the relative safety of Manchester.
The two men who meet me by the door are obviously under instructions to detain me.
‘This way, please,’ sounds polite enough, but loses its gentle invitation when the double grip under each shoulder is added. I am half guided, half propelled out of the hospitality area and through the crowd of race-goers. When we reach a silver Mercedes people-carrier they thrust me inside and it begins to push its way slowly through the human tide.
It’s possible that I’m being taken to comfort and safety, but my escorts are unwilling to discuss this in any detail.
‘Signor Casagrande asks that you kindly come with us. It’s for the best. Signor Casagrande, he a very busy man … will join us very soon.’
This is all the information I can elicit. Asking ‘Where are we going?’ meets only with shrugs.
It’s also possible that these two men are taking me somewhere quiet where they will kill me. A man in Casagrande’s position would certainly give serious consideration to this option, if only to be on the safe side.
Then there’s Eric. What if Casagrande actually works for Eric rather than the other way round? I haven’t given this possibility any thought until now. I hope this isn’t a fatal error. If it’s true, I’m in deep trouble.
I wonder if the van doors are locked. If I grab the handle and try to escape it will give a bad impression. Gaining Casagrande’s trust is my only real hope. If I attempt to escape, even if I succeed, any chance of that may be lost completely. It’s me who has taken all this trouble to see him, not the other way round. Toby has made me aware of the effectiveness of child locks in vehicles. The driver will have deployed them if he wants to make sure I don’t escape. If this is an innocent journey, he may have left the doors unlocked, in which case escaping is the last thing I need to do.
By the time I make up my mind to stay put, the van has cleared the crowd and is moving too quickly for me to get out even if I wanted to.
Our destination is so unsurprising I feel almost disappointed. We turn into the industrial estate and park in front of the Associated Composites offices. They take me to a large room on the ground floor and leave me with the promise: ‘He says he won’t be long. Please stay here.’ I hear the lock turn as the man closes the door. Perhaps he’s worried that someone might steal all these plastic chairs and formica tables.
I’m in the canteen. There’s a serving hatch that opens to a small kitchen where I find a kettle, tea and a fridge full of milk and other edible perishables. After a nice cup of tea and a toasted cheese sandwich, I feel stronger but no less anxious.
Once again, I examine the possibilities in my mind. Casagrande believes me, has sent a hit squad after Eric and is keeping me safe until any danger has passed. I like this version; I only wish I believed it. Casagrande doesn’t believe me, doesn’t trust me, has sent for Eric and is waiting for his arrival. This one chills me to the core and has me trying window locks to see if anyone has been lax enough to leave one undone and put the entire contents of the canteen at risk. They haven’t. Casagrande doesn’t know what to make of what I’ve told him, is checking through the documentation, is seeking corroborative evidence, is communicating with his superiors. Most likely it’s this one. But this one leaves me in no man’s land, neither dead nor alive, neither damned nor saved.
All I can do is to wait.
65
I take some consolation from the fact they’ve left me with my phone. Some of the gloss is taken away by the discovery that I can’t get a signal. Letting Mick know where I am would have been a big comfort. I doubt I could have prevented him from turning up mob-handed, I’m not sure I would have even tried.
Plastic chairs are bad enough to sit on long enough to eat lunch. Now that night has fallen I’m faced with the prospect of trying to sleep on them. I line up three and try to lie across them, but either they’re too narrow or I’m too wide. When I put another row opposite, the width problem is solved but when I lie down they move apart and I drop down the hole in the middle. A table is harder, less flexible but much more stable. I use my handbag as a lumpen pillow and try to sleep.
Headlights and voices rouse me. I clamber stiffly off the table and move over to the door.
‘Leave her to me. I’ll take care of her.’
Eric Knowles’s voice leaves me quivering with alarm.
‘What are you proposing, Eric?’ It’s Casagrande. ‘You are going to beat her to death with a chair or maybe stab her to death with a kitchen knife? What do you mean you’ll take care of her?’
‘She’s caused me a lot of trouble believe me – a lot of trouble. All I want is her out of the way – permanently; if you’ll help then fine, help.’
‘Maybe we shouldn’t be so hasty, Eric. First we should speak to her. Then we should consider carefully our next course of action.’
The door opens, I step back quickly. The two men who brought me here walk in, followed closely by Casagrande and Eric.
‘Sit down, please.’ Casagrande looks sternly at Eric. I sit down at my sleeping table, they sit opposite.
Eric looks at me as if I were a piece of excrement stuck to his expensive shoe. He doesn’t look at all happy. He does look angry but he doesn’t look confident. Maybe he isn’t in control here. I decide that accusing him of my rape might shake him – it will at least be an unwelcome surprise.
‘You bastard!’ I turn to Casagrande. ‘He had me raped and photographed. He sent pictures to my husband.’
Eric laughs. ‘Why would I bother?’
‘Why? So that you could control me, that’s why. So you could blackmail me, make me do what you wanted, approve the WOS audit, turn a blind eye to all the criminal goings on.’
‘Absurd!’ Eric turns to Casagrande. ‘She’s making all this up. We already had her exactly where we wanted.’
I feel myself colouring up, I am losing my belligerence. Of course he had me where he wanted me – he was my boss, he paid me well to do everything he told me, he knew I had accepted a substantial bribe. It’s the wrong thing to accuse him of, an error that might prove fatal.
‘You had me drugged, raped and filmed,’ I insist, ‘because you’re a sick bastard and you like to see women suffering degrading abuse. It was the same when he had me kidnapped. They were hired to make me suffer horribly and film it all for him.’ I stab a finger at Eric.
‘She’s deluded,’ Eric says. I haven’t actually convinced myself but the look on Casagrande’s face indicates he isn’t altogether sure about Eric now.
I try to use what little advantage I may have earned. ‘No, it’s not me that’s deluded. It’s all on your personal computer at Landers Hoffman. I had the hard drive ghosted; I’ve got everything, even the stuff you thought you’d deleted. How do you think I got all the information I came here with? How many other poor women have you been preying on, Eric? What kind of sick demented psychopath are you?’
Eric’s gaze is like steel. Either he’s innocent of everything I’m accusing him of or he is completely devoid of remorse. Either way, he’s not helping my cause one bit. Casagrande shifts slightly in his plastic seat. Perhaps I’ve touched something in him. Not enough to save me but a small crack in Eric’s armour that I can work on. If Eric’s predilection for cruelty is insufficient concern for Casagrande then I have to find something that is.
‘You’re not the only ones he’s laundering money for,’ I
address Casagrande. ‘He’s got bigger fish to fry than you. If he drops you in it he stands to make more money than you could ever pay.’
Casagrande looks puzzled for a moment, as if confused by my clumsy English idiom.
‘Tell him, Eric,’ I continue, ‘tell him all about your Chinese friends.’
Eric slaps his hands on the table and stands up. His chair makes a girlish squeal as it slides backwards.
‘Enough!’ Eric shouts, ‘enough is enough. There’s no point to this. Either you sort her out or I will. Just get on with it. I’ve got better things to do than listen to this lying bitch.’
Casagrande remains seated, hands together in front of him as if in prayer. ‘Enough of what?’ he asks quietly. ‘Tell me, Eric, about your Chinese dealings. I am interested.’ He motions to the empty seat but Eric stands his ground.
‘It’s all nonsense. She’s making it all up. She’s a poisonous scheming little bitch and she’s costing us time and money.’
‘You could start with the boy in the Hilton …’ I prompt, ‘… the Chinese student living in a suite at Manchester’s most expensive hotel.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ Eric’s face tells me he does. The bluster has gone; he looks tense as if bracing himself for what I’ll reveal next. Truth is, I can only guess but it’s got me this far and I have to go for it.
‘If you won’t tell Signor Casagrande about your Chinese dealings, then I’ll have to,’ I taunt him, hoping for some reaction. I’m rewarded by a spike of alarm in his eyes. I hope that Casagrande caught it.
‘There’s no such thing,’ Eric says. ‘Landers Hoffman have a couple of Chinese restaurants in Manchester as clients, other than that, nothing. She’s making it all up.’
‘Chengdu Industries,’ I say, ‘you put the owner’s son in the Hilton. You covered it with your footballer accounts. Chengdu are your real paymasters. It was them who told you to pull the plug on Signor Casagrande and World Ordnance Systems. Chengdu are ten times the size of WOS, they’re the big payers now.’
I take a breath, swallow. Is this the right direction? It has to be.
‘Associated Composites showed you how it all worked; you took that knowledge to Chengdu where you can make much more money. Now you’re getting rid of your old friends, concentrating on your new ones.’
Eric leans across and slaps me hard across my head. I flinch with the blow and this puts me off balance. Eric is on me before I can rise from my seat, dragging me to the floor. His hands circle my neck, I manage a weak punch to his nose but he pins me down and is throttling the life out of me. I manage to slide a hand down the front of his trousers, underneath his shorts, grope among the disgusting warm hairiness until I reach his scrotum. I squeeze a testicle between thumb and forefingers as hard as I can. This gets his attention, slackens his hands, makes him try to pull away. The gap between us becomes sufficient to allow my legs to move. I knee him between his legs and bring my arms up to break his grip. Twisting, I slide my body out from underneath his moaning bulk, get to my feet and begin kicking him around his unprotected head. Before I can inflict any serious damage, strong arms restrain me and pull me away.
Eric is pulled roughly to his feet by the bigger of the two bodyguards. Casagrande nods towards me and I am released.
‘Come on, Eric,’ Casagrande’s voice is calm. ‘I see what you mean. Accusations mean nothing. Don’t worry. Luigi here will drive you home.’
‘No, that’s not necessary. I have my own car here.’ Eric looks terrified, tries to shake himself free.
Luigi reaches inside his jacket and brings out a large revolver which he points at Eric’s head.
‘What about her?’ Eric’s face oozes blood and hatred as he is manhandled through the door.
I am alone with Casagrande who rises gracefully and offers me a white handkerchief.
‘What about me?’ I ask.
Those eyes bore into me and for a moment I’m very afraid. When I see that faint smile, I breathe out my relief and I know that we have an understanding.
66
It is a bright August afternoon. The cars are queuing up to pay their money and be shown where to park. As they spill their beer-filled cargoes clad in red shirts with misleading names on the back, I walk about chivvying the lads, getting them to move more quickly, to form two lanes, to get the money in quicker. Some of the punters are new; it’s the first match of the season and they baulk at the £10 charge. If they do I am summoned over to deal with them.
‘You can get cheaper, mate,’ I smile, ‘but you’ll be blocked in. If you want to wait half an hour to get out after the match, be my guest.’
Most of them stump up. In any case, the place will be full in less than half an hour and then we can go, taking the “Supervised Parking” signs with us. In this weather I can see why Gary used to be so keen on the job: 250 cars – money worth having for a couple of hours’ work.
I promised Doreen a visit after I’ve finished here in Trafford Park. It’s been hectic recently and I’ve been neglecting her. She’s in the stables, standing between two horses, her arms resting gently on one of them. Even when I stand quietly beside her, feeling the manure sticking to the bottom of my shoes and smelling the earthiness of still-sweating horses, she remains transfixed, staring into space.
I’m close enough to see the tears welling in her eyes and to understand that here is the only place her grief can be allowed to manifest. The knife in my stomach reminds me that it’s my fault she’s grieving. Gary died trying to protect me, when he should be alive to look after his wife and children. And me.
Eventually she speaks.
‘Gary loved his horses.’ My own tears join hers, dripping softly onto the hay-strewn floor.
‘I am sorry,’ is all I can manage.
She turns to look at me and reaches out to pull me into a warm hug.
‘It’s not your doing, don’t feel so responsible. It was those men with guns who killed him, not you. I only want you to know how much I appreciate you looking after the business. God knows what I’d do without you. Me and the kids are so grateful, Jenny.’
I can’t hold back. All the pent-up feelings pour out of me and onto this good woman’s shoulder. It’s a long time since someone held me like this.
Back in the house, brave cheerfulness reinstated for the children’s benefit, we sit, Doreen and me, nursing cups of tea and listening to the subdued chatter amidst the televisual babble.
‘I never understood why those men were trying to kill you, Jenny. Gary never told me anything about work, well hardly anything.’
‘They were hired by a man called Eric Knowles. He used to be my boss at Landers Hoffman. He made an arrangement with some very serious criminals who needed to launder huge amounts of illegal cash. You know, legitimise it, make it look like it came from a normal business.’
‘Like a caravan park?’ Doreen’s eyes twinkle as she asks.
‘Exactly like a caravan park, but much, much bigger,’ I continue, smiling. ‘Eric arranged for WOS, a large multinational company, to buy the small business they were using to take the proceeds of crime and trickle them into UK bank accounts. As part of WOS they could increase the volume of their activity and stand less chance of being caught. The clever part was arranging for Landers Hoffman to be appointed auditors for WOS, that way Eric could make certain the illegal payments remained hidden.’
‘But what did all this have to do with you?’
‘Eric made me responsible for the auditing. He thought I’d be too weak and inexperienced to see anything untoward. And anyway he knew I’d taken a bribe and he thought he had complete control over me. When he found out I was prepared to stand my ground he told the police about the money I took and had me arrested.’
‘But why does he want you dead?’
‘I started to make waves with WOS, the big company involved. He must have felt I was getting too close to finding out about him.’
‘So it was this Eric Knowles
who killed Gary then?’ Her lips are thin and clamped tightly. ‘What do we do about him?’
‘Nothing,’ I say, smiling wider, ‘nothing at all. His business partners found out he was about to betray them. There was an unfortunate road accident. Eric’s car was found burnt out in a ditch with him inside.’
67
O’Brian is sitting on the corner of my desk, exactly as Gary used to do. He is detailing all the ways in which business is bad. I am half listening and less than half concerned.
‘We’ve got machines standing in the yard,’ he continues, ‘nobody needs to hire them any more. There’s fuck-all happening out there, the construction industry is on its arse. As for sales, I bought a dozen small excavators six months ago at what I thought was a good price. I’ve sold one. One! The rest are standing idle, going nowhere, the manufacturer is giving such a big discount now there’s no prospect of offloading them except at a massive loss.’
Mick blocks up the doorway and allows me to interrupt.
‘Excuse me,’ I say to O’Brian. ‘What is it, Mick?’
Mick looks towards O’Brian and then back to me.
‘Please would you wait a moment?’
I walk out of the office and see that Mick’s face is even redder than usual.
‘It’s all going to kick off this evening,’ he says.
‘What? Riots? Here in Manchester?’
‘Yes, for definite; the police are sure of it. They’ve cancelled all leave and rest days, they’re issuing riot gear to everyone, even my mate who does pub licensing is expecting to be out there with a baton and shield. All he’s done for the past five years is fill out forms and talk to landlords. He’s not a happy bunny, I’ll tell you.’
‘Don’t you think the police will cope?’
‘You saw what’s been happening in London. Complete anarchy – fires, looting, mobs with firebombs. It’s spreading. All hell is breaking loose. Anyway, half our bobbies are down in London helping them out.’