by D J Harrison
‘Hello Yvonne, it’s Jenny. I’m at your site and I need to talk to you urgently.’
‘I told you to put your offer in writing to my accountant. There’s a few people interested like I told you. I’ve been advised that any approaches have to be done through them.’
‘Look Yvonne, I need to discuss a few options before I write to you, can you come to the site now? I’ll only need you for half an hour at most.’
‘Well, I’m not sure,’ she says. ‘I shouldn’t be speaking to you direct.’
‘Are you coming here today?’ I say.
‘Yes, I’m coming, but I can’t promise anything.’
‘Just listen to what I have to say, that’s all I ask.’
She arrives just after the torrential rain starts and runs from her car into the gatehouse. I follow, splashing through the puddles, my flimsy shoes no protection. It’s as if I took a shower fully clothed – when I plunge breathlessly into the building the only part of me that isn’t soaked is the small of my back. I only realise this because I can feel the cold dribbles slowly bringing it to the same damp state as the rest of me.
Yvonne greets me with a look of displeasure. She takes a thick brown envelope from the weighbridge operator and stows it inside her glistening yellow waterproofs. The windows in the gatehouse are steamed up; the moisture I’ve imported is probably culpable. I stand hopefully next to a tiny radiator, press my backside to it, and feel a small warm patch beginning to grow.
‘I’m wet,’ I grin through the raindrops falling off my hair. Yvonne seems neither amused nor sympathetic. ‘We need to talk,’ I add.
‘Not here.’ She looks briefly at her employee then back to me. ‘It’s a bit difficult today, can we do this another time?’
‘Not really. It’ll take hardly any time at all. I’m here now, you’re here, can’t we go somewhere?’
In my bedraggled state I don’t have any enthusiasm for this but it’s got to be done. All the work I put in on Lafferty will come to nothing if I can’t persuade this woman to sell her business to me. One chance is all I have: this one. If it doesn’t come off I’ll never get Lafferty on board for a second time. He’s only going along with this deal to save himself a nagging from Doreen.
Without another word Yvonne takes a key from a hook on the wall and walks out. I follow her to another building, ducking my head as the wet blast hits me in the face. A strong wind is blowing and the rain is cold and wet and painful in its intensity. Yvonne fumbles, scrapes the key in the lock and heaves open a door, holding it against the wind to allow me entry. As she follows it clangs shut behind her.
We are in a portacabin. Its windows are covered by external shutters and the only light comes from a dim fluorescent strip on the ceiling. There are chairs, a couple of desks and a row of battered metal cabinets. Yvonne ignores the opportunity to sit down, even though she looks very weary to me. She’s making a point of her reluctance to hear what I have to say and trying to keep our conversation as short as possible.
My excursions into the rain have left me cold and shivery. There’s no heat in here; it’s implacably cold. The air smells of rotting documents. The cabin floor is streaked with dried mud.
‘I thought we had a deal,’ I begin, trying to make eye contact, but finding her unresponsive.
‘I told you I need to move more quickly,’ she says.
‘We agreed that you’d have the next two years to run the waste business and keep the profits. Then we’ll have the land and do the restoration. I don’t understand what’s changed.’
‘It’s no good any more.’ She looks up at me and I feel a wave of sadness and desperation. ‘I’ll not be here in two years.’ Her eyes fill with tears and I suddenly realise how thin and frail she is. Her cheekbones cast shadows on her pinched face; her wrists are skeletal thin. I wait in silence, standing in front of her, and wondering if I should leave her to her obvious misery. Her sadness overwhelms me. I can feel my own plight in hers – there’s no question of ignoring her distress and going on my way. The woman needs help and it’s obvious she’s not getting any.
Conscious of my numbness from the cold I reach out and draw her to me, clasp her against my sodden coat, feel her relax into shuddering grief. We stand together, me holding gently, she allowing my support. Gradually I begin to feel a change in her energy, it settles down into smooth acceptance, a spark of life returns. I move her over to a chair, release her into it and then sit beside her.
‘I had breast cancer four years ago. They operated and said it was successful.’ Her hand moves involuntarily to cover her left breast. ‘Everything seemed okay until a few weeks ago. Then they told me it was back, even though I felt fine. Now I’ve been put on chemo again. They’ve told me the cancer has spread and that there’s not much they can do except try to keep it at bay for a few months. So you see, Jenny, everything has changed. I have my boys to think about.’
‘How old are they?’ I ask.
‘Seven and twelve,’ she smiles.
‘What about their father, are you still together?’
‘He died five years ago. Heart attack, it was all very sudden. This was his business. I carry on the best I can. Now I can’t cope any more, I need to get out now with the best offer I can take, but there’s no more energy left in me, Jenny, I’m knackered. The treatment they’re giving me is so hard to bear and all the time my children are watching me deteriorate. That’s even harder to take.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, thinking of Toby and how he might cope with my death. It’s a kind of relief but a sad one to realise how little he would be affected. My visits would stop, that’s all. He’d still have his home, his family, his little sister. Let’s face it, I hardly matter at all to him. Maybe he thinks of me as an occasional interruption to his normal life, someone he has to be nice to and pretend to love, when really he’d be better off without the distraction.
Yvonne’s state has communicated itself to me. I feel the desolation she must be feeling at the prospect of abandoning her children. If anyone knows about that, I do. If I were in her position, I’d do everything in my power to last as long as possible for their sake.
18
‘Can I speak to Kayleigh please?’ I’ve been on hold for ten minutes and now I finally get to talk to a human being. The few bars of Mozart repeated again and again are bad enough, but the interspersed dispassionate voice, assuring me my call is valuable, really drives me mad.
‘She’s on her lunch, can you ring back at two?’
‘Maybe you can help,’ I say, feeling my will to live is exhausted enough already. I give her the address of the property.
‘Wait a moment, let me get the details on the screen. Ah yes, are you the vendor?’
‘No, I’m Mrs Parker, I’m the purchaser.’
‘Ah yes, how can I help you, Mrs Parker?’
‘It’s been a month since my offer was accepted. Since then there’s been nothing. I told you the name and address of my solicitor, but he’s not been contacted. What’s going on?’
‘Everything seems to be going through, Mrs Parker. I’m sure they will be sending contracts out very soon.’
‘Can you give me the vendor’s phone number? I need to talk to them.’
‘No, I’m sorry that’s not possible.’
‘What about their solicitors, who are they?’
She gives me the firm’s details but is unable or unwilling to tell me who is dealing with the conveyance. I hang up and ring my own solicitor, Stephen Bailey.
‘I’m desperate to move. The house I’m buying is empty, I don’t see what’s holding things up.’
‘Let me ring the vendor’s solicitors and get back to you.’
‘Okay.’
‘While you’re on, I got a call from Edward Knott.’
My heart sinks as I recall the threat of police action hanging over me that Edward is dealing with.
‘He’s not certain, but from what he can gather the incident at the brothel you were involved in ha
s been allocated a trial date and it’s unlikely that you’ll be called. Apparently there have been guilty pleas all round, so that’s a relief.’
‘What about my Proceeds of Crime investigation? Did he mention that?’
‘Edward thinks they’ve lost interest in you, at least for the time being, maybe for good.’
‘Can’t he be sure? I’m fed up of having the threat of prison hanging over me.’
‘He doesn’t want to force the issue, it might resurrect your case unnecessarily. It’s not as if you’re still on bail, that was resolved weeks ago. You did get your passport back didn’t you?’
‘Yes, but I’ve no time for a holiday. I need to get into my new house, get out of my bullet-ridden flat. See what you can do, please.’
I put down the phone and breathe deeply. Maybe Charles is telling the truth. Maybe he has managed to get the police to drop my case, or maybe it’s all a convenient coincidence that keeps me tied to their machinations. My phone buzzes, I pick it up.
‘That was quick,’ I say.
‘Is that Jenny?’ a vaguely familiar voice asks.
‘Oh sorry, yes it is, I thought you were someone else.’
‘Do you know who I am?’ he asks.
I wrack my brains; I know, but I can’t place him. ‘Err no, sorry,’ I say.
‘It’s Fergus, Fergus Lafferty.’
‘Of course.’ I’m consumed with embarrassment. My stomach is sick with shame. ‘Sorry, it’s a bad line,’ I say, realising exactly how lame I must sound.
‘Have you sorted out that brickworks acquisition?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ I lie. ‘I saw the owner only yesterday, everything’s fine, it’s all proceeding quickly, any day now.’ I’m digging a hole from which I can’t escape, yet I keep on digging deeper. All I have to say is something like I’m still waiting for the other side to send the contract and it would be fine. Instead I find myself lost in gratuitous platitudes, pretending I can deliver something I know I can’t.
‘Good, you’ll be needing the funds then. I’ve got them for you. There’s quite a lot more than you originally asked for, but I know you will find a good use for them.’
‘Of course, when will they be available?’
‘Now. I have them here at Doreen’s house.’
‘Oh, do you want me to collect them?’
‘Yes, that will be best. Can you come as soon as possible? I don’t want this much cash on the premises.’
‘I’ll come now if you like, be there in half an hour,’ I say, still wondering what I’m doing in thrall to this man. If I go, I’ll be setting in motion another money-laundering scheme. It’s what Hector wants me to do and it could be a lifesaver for Yvonne and her family. I’m doing this to keep out of jail and from being killed. So everyone’s a winner, it would seem. But I feel like I’m making the biggest mistake of my life.
My next call is to Tim, to explain that I’ll be late to pick up Toby. He’s not happy; apparently my punctuality is a major concern in his household. He threatens withdrawal of visitation rights as usual. Instead of saying what I really want to say I continue to apologise and try to pacify him. This way of dealing with Tim is a pattern I need to break before it causes me lasting damage.
Fergus is waiting at Doreen’s house, standing next to a black Aston Martin parked next to the kitchen door. As I pull up in my Range Rover he opens the boot and reveals a row of sports bags.
‘Here it is,’ he says. ‘Before you take it, be so good as to explain once more how I’m going to get it back.’
‘Fair enough.’ I smile, hopefully a reassuring smile. ‘I put your money into the caravan business and use it to buy the waste business. The waste business then uses more cash to pay O’Brian for restoration work on the site. He gets his return that way. When the restoration is complete, we transfer the land to you for development. You get the enhanced value of the land, that’s how your money is made. When you sell the development on, the transaction is a perfectly normal one and the money you invested comes back as legitimate funds.’
I feel a little breathless but see the approval written on Lafferty’s face. His look frightens me; it’s as if I’ve been too convincing and given up my last chance of redemption.
‘Nice,’ he says, ‘very nice. If this works, we may be able to do some more business together. I like your ideas, very innovative. Not your run of the mill operation that stands out like a sore thumb. More subtle.’ He grins and begins to pull the bags out of his car and put them in mine. He slams down my tailgate and pats it for good measure.
‘Take care of it.’ His eyes narrow. ‘Don’t be running off with any.’ His thin smile now lacks any humour.
‘Don’t worry. How much is there?’
‘Here.’ He fishes out a piece of paper. ‘I’ve written down the contents of each bag, you might want to check I’ve counted properly.’
I look down at the numbers. Each bag has about two hundred thousand pounds in it. There are nine bags. No wonder he doesn’t want to leave it at Doreen’s house. Now it’s my responsibility, and I’m under no illusions as to what will happen to me if I don’t deliver on my promises and legitimise his money.
That evening Toby and I take a run out to McDonald’s for our tea. I choose a table where I can keep an eye on my car and the thick end of two million pounds in the boot.
19
It’s 5.40 a.m. Someone is ringing my doorbell and knocking heavily alternately. My blood freezes at the implications. The previous visitor who acted similarly was carrying an AK47.
I stumble to the CCTV monitor. There’s a lone man, clean shaven, dressed in a dark grey business suit, white shirt and yellow tie. I don’t recognise him. He doesn’t seem impatient or aggressive, only persistent. There’s two choices open to me; call the police or talk to him and find out what he wants. My curiosity gets the better of me and I decide on the latter. He’ll be long gone before the police arrive anyway, unlike the last ones who managed to shoot each other and lie around until they got here.
‘Who is it?’ I shout through the locked door.
‘Mrs Parker?’ he asks. ‘Popov sent me.’
‘Push hard,’ I say, ‘the door’s very stiff.’
He looks mid forties and has a bright smile on his round face. ‘You should get that replaced.’ He points to my door, which is still twisted. ‘Don’t want to start giving people ideas.’
‘It’s not even six o’clock. I take it you’re not a door salesman, so what do you want?’
‘Like I said, Popov sent me. I’m here to look after you for a while.’
I detect more than a trace of Scottish accent, which confuses me.
‘I thought Popov’s men were all tough Serbs or Kosovans.’
‘Some of us are more local.’ He stretches out his right hand. ‘Kelvin Montgomery. Friends and customers call me Monty.’
I usher him into the kitchen. ‘Now what?’ I ask.
‘Now you give me any items you want kept safe and go back to bed. When I get back you can make me a nice cup of tea.’
By the time he gets back, I’m ready to set off to meet Yvonne. Monty insists on driving my Range Rover despite my reservations. ‘I’m perfectly capable. I know where we’re going and anyway, shouldn’t you be free to watch out for danger?’
‘Better if I drive,’ he insists. ‘You can navigate.’
I have to admit his driving style is better than mine. He’s so much smoother, more patient. There’s none of those sudden bursts of violent acceleration I like to vent my frustration with and no heavy braking. By the time we get on to the M55 I’m feeling very relaxed about the whole situation. Monty exudes a quiet strength, and seems to know exactly what he’s doing at all times.
‘How did you get to work for Popov?’ I ask.
‘I was doing similar work abroad. I wanted to come home.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Oh, various places.’
‘Like where?’
‘Places where there
’s trouble mostly.’
‘How did you get into this kind of work?’
‘British Army, I did twenty years. Towards the end I mainly did protection work.’
‘Who were you protecting?’
‘Oh the usual kinds.’
‘Politicians?’
‘Yes, politicians sometimes.’
‘Royal Family?’
‘Now and then.’
‘Who in the Royal Family?’
‘Whoever needed it, whoever came to visit.’
By the time we roll to a halt at Midgeland Brickworks I have given up trying to get blood from the stony-faced Monty. It’s a comfort I suppose that if I can’t get him to talk about what he’s been doing, he’s not likely to be spreading around lurid descriptions of my tatty sleepwear.
Yvonne’s car is here. I breathe a sigh of relief. Now I’ve promised Lafferty I’m buying the brickworks I really do have to deliver. The sooner I get his cash invested, the happier I’ll be. The problem is the quantity. I can’t stick such a big lump through the caravan site bank account all at once. The only way is to trickle it gently. Lafferty has given me an almost impossible job and is perfectly well aware of it. He’s dumped the cash on me, so he’s well clear of any risk and the unwelcome police visits.
Monty delivers me to the door of the office where the metal shutters have been peeled back and a glow of light indicates the possibility of occupation. I step daintily onto an almost solid piece of ground, avoiding the clawing attention of the mud all around.
Yvonne is seated at one of the grimy desks, staring at a computer monitor. She looks up, sees me and stands up wearily to greet me. The other occupant is a tall man, clad in high visibility yellow clothing that glows brightly under the lights in the cabin. He looks at Yvonne for instructions and then leaves us alone.
‘I’ve not got long,’ she says. ‘I have a hospital appointment at ten.’
‘Don’t you have private medical insurance?’ I ask.
‘No. When Pete died the insurance lapsed. And they insisted that my cancer was a pre-existing condition and any new policy wouldn’t cover it. We’d been paying into it for years, never claimed, thought it was worth it in case the worst happened. When it did, the insurance company wriggled out of it.’