by D J Harrison
I wonder about the outcome of this hearing, what the judge might be saying. How it might affect me. What Lafferty might be thinking. If it goes well for him, will it be despite me and if it goes badly, will it be because of me? The words that Monty used are still haunting me. ‘Even Popov’s nervous,’ he said. ‘He says the people with the money are dangerous. The very worst.’ He had to mean Lafferty. He’s the one with the money; just how dangerous might he be?
56
They all pile out of the court at one o’clock on the dot. Justice seems to come a distant second to lunch. As the lawyers pass I stand up and confront the man I presume to be the prosecution barrister.
‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘I’m Jenny Parker, I’m wondering if I’ll be needed to give evidence today. I really need to be getting back to work.’
He’s an elderly man with kind eyes and a prominent nose that he points at the top of my head as he looks down at me.
‘Mrs Parker, ah yes. I remember your statement. Did someone tell you to be here?’
‘Yes, it was Sandy Slater over there.’ I point at Sandy’s back as he heads for the cafeteria.
‘I’m afraid you’ve been wasting your time, there’s never been a need for you to attend today. There’s no evidence being given. I didn’t request your presence. If I might say so your statement is of very limited value, bordering on the unhelpful.’ The kind eyes narrow, look threatening for an instant and then relax again.
‘So I can go?’ I ask.
‘By all means.’ He turns to walk away.
‘How’s it going?’ I ask.
He turns and looks at me, hesitates, says, ‘That, my dear, depends on whose side you are on,’ and walks away.
I hurry outside holding my phone in my outstretched hand, as if trying to gather electromagnetic waves to feed my signal. At last it pings into action. Three missed calls, all from the site and one voice mail.
‘You need to get back here,’ she says, ‘nobody’s stopping to be weighed. They’re being rude and threatening and won’t take any notice of what I say.’
I ring back. Tina answers. ‘What’s going on?’ I ask.
‘There’s a man here who says he runs the business, the drivers are all being nice now he’s here. Everything’s okay. The big blue trucks have come to take the waste away. Sorry if I alarmed you, but I didn’t know what to do.’
‘Who’s the man, what’s his name?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know his name, he didn’t say, I’m just glad he turned up.’
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I’m on my way.’ Stefan, it has to be him, there’s nobody else it could be, but what’s he doing there? Why has he come back? I’m afraid of what I’m going to find when I arrive at Midgeland. If Stefan’s somehow resumed control there may be nothing I can do about it. If the workforce decides to go along with him I may not have much of a business left. The last time I saw Stefan he was issuing threats wearing a woman’s dressing gown, and was hard to take seriously. Today he might be an altogether different proposition.
I think about ringing Mick, asking him to come to my assistance. It’s very tempting but I have to be honest and admit that he’s not going to be much use to me in the state he’s in. Having him roll up might easily give the impression I’m not able to manage on my own. The drivers have to be shown who is boss and it isn’t going to Mick, it has to be me.
57
I’m carrying my nervousness back from the court and it’s intensifying as I approach the site entrance. The recent dry spell has frozen the muddy ruts into flaking dust. There’s a brown haze hanging in the still air. An enormous blue articulated truck thunders past and through the gate, ignoring me and the site speed limit of five miles per hour. I read the white letters through the grime. Johnstone. This is the contractor Dan Henderson sorted out to move the pile. With vehicles of this prodigious size it shouldn’t take too many loads. A nagging thought that I’ve not fully got to grips with exactly how much all this is going to cost prods me painfully in my solar plexus. If all I’m doing is making room so that my skip drivers can bring in more waste and keep the proceeds themselves, then I’m a fool and that hurts.
Tina is sitting in the cabin. As I walk in she’s handing a ticket to a Johnson’s wagon driver who is leering at her in a way that makes me feel very uncomfortable – and I’m not even included in the leer.
‘What’s happening?’ I ask. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes fine, it all got a bit heavy for a while. One of the drivers, Greg, took it on himself to dish out the work. I told him that I kept the diary and that you’d told me to allocate the jobs. He took exception to that, said I wasn’t Colin and that they did things differently. I tried to ring you, but you weren’t answering.’
‘I’m sorry you were treated that way. Where’s Greg now, I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.’
‘He’s parked over there,’ Tina answers. ‘I think he’s gone into the big shed.’
‘What about the man who took control, where’s he?’
‘Probably in the office, I’m not sure.’
I crunch my way over to the recycling building where a big machine is shovelling rubbish into one of the huge blue trucks. The air is heavy with white dust. The noise it’s making sounds like a building collapsing; it makes me cringe with discomfort. Through the haze I see two men in conversation, Greg and Stefan. There has to be a confrontation, it has to be done now, but it’s the last thing I feel capable of. I’m completely drained of energy, and just looking at Stefan makes me want to run and hide.
I gather what meagre reserves I have left and approach him. Both turn, give me a passing glance and then continue their conversation, ignoring me completely.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask. Stefan’s face is constricted into a snarl. He’s prodding Greg’s chest with his finger saying, ‘Don’t you forget it.’ He turns his anger at me. The intensity of his rage gives me a physical shock, and as he confronts me I’m suddenly aware of how big he is and how very powerful. The off centre, semi-embarrassed anger I saw in Yvonne’s house is replaced by something much more focused.
My body lights up with danger signals. Already I’m physically preparing for flight. There’s little prospect of me winning this fight.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask. Now I’m almost within arm’s length, so I stop and wait. Greg scurries off as Stefan towers above me, glowering, fists clenched.
‘This is my business, I run this place,’ he says.
‘No you don’t, I own it and I decide who works here. If you want your old job back then tell me what’s changed. Calm down, take a deep breath and tell me why I should take you back.’
There’s a weird look in his eyes, as if he’s not entirely here. Maybe he’s been taking something. He looks almost deranged and I’m getting more fearful by the moment. Surely, he can’t expect to attack me here and get away with it? My breath is coming in gasps and my skin is crawling with the dust and the heat.
I hear the roar of Greg’s wagon as he drives away, and the crunching and clattering of the waste as it’s shovelled into the waiting truck on the far side of the pile. I’m safely out of danger of any cascading refuse, but probably out of sight of anyone, apart from Stefan. The realisation that I’m in a very vulnerable situation calms my mind. I present a relaxed and conciliatory face to Stefan, try to diffuse his rage.
‘Come back tomorrow, Stefan, we’ll talk then, see if we can agree a way forward. I’m willing to listen to what you have to say.’
‘Stupid bitch,’ he says, spittle flecking the corner of his mouth. ‘It’s you who needs to fuck off and never come back.’ As he speaks he suddenly swings his right arm at my head. I step back, avoid the flaying fist, and then as he lurches forward, unbalanced by the missed strike, I kick his left leg and push his right shoulder. He overbalances and falls in a heap. I back away quickly. He rises slowly to his feet, brushing a thick layer of dust from his clothes. The fall hasn’t improved his temper; his face is contorted wi
th anger. I have to get out of here, escape from this madness. As I watch him carefully, I feel my feet snagged, look down to see where I’m treading and try to prevent myself from tripping over. I’ve trodden in a nest of bundled wire. One foot is trapped in it, the other is unstable, precariously balanced on a slab of plasterboard. Stefan picks up a lump of wood and hits me hard on my left shoulder. My tangled feet tumble me to the ground on my back where I can only hold up my arm to protect my head as the blows come down.
I’m struck so hard I feel the bone give way and break with a violent shock of pain. My arm drops uselessly to my side. Stefan raises the wood to bring it down on my head. I can see in his blank eyes that he’s going to keep hitting me until I’m dead.
I twist onto my side, feel jagged shards of glass in my cheek, draw up my legs, try to protect my injured arm. The next blow smashes into my back. All I can do is to lie still and wait for the inevitable. I close my eyes and tense every muscle in my body.
58
There’s a man standing over me calling my name. I’m still braced to receive blows but no more arrive. My mouth is dry, my teeth feel like sandpaper when I touch them with my tongue. Hands touch my injured shoulder and a jagged pain runs down my arm as I’m helped into a sitting position.
Stefan is slumped opposite me, his eyes no longer wild, his face passive. I look at the man helping me and my pain recedes.
‘Monty,’ I say.
‘Take it easy, Jenny,’ he replies, ‘I’ll get you an ambulance.’
‘No.’ My reaction is immediate and instinctive. ‘Not here, take me to hospital, don’t call anyone. I can’t have them here.’
He nods. ‘What about my laddo over there?’
I want to have Stefan feel how I am, beaten and broken. I want to hear his screams for mercy, watch him suffer.
‘Let him go,’ I say. I fish about in my pocket, pull out the key to the Range Rover. ‘Here, fetch the car, I need to get this arm fixed.’
Despite every pothole in the road jarring my broken arm, I’m feeling excited to have Monty driving me again. ‘Does this mean you’re back?’ I ask.
‘If the job’s still open I’ll take it,’ he says.
Despite the pain I can’t help grinning inside and out. ‘It’s between you and Stefan and I think you’ve probably managed to swing it.’
‘Stefan?’
‘The bastard who hit me with the plank.’
‘Oh.’ Monty begins to chuckle. ‘You’re desperate then, maybe I’ll negotiate a better rate.’
‘Don’t push your luck. Turning up out of the blue like this, why didn’t you ring me?’
‘I tried. There was no reply, your phone was switched off.’
‘Oh yes, I was in court. I didn’t recognise your number, the new one you refused to give me, remember?’
‘Better I came in person anyway, considering. What’s going on in court? Anything serious?’
‘The police had me standing around all day in case they needed me to give evidence against Lafferty. It was all a complete waste of time.’
‘Isn’t Lafferty the man who gave you the money that Popov’s been looking after?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you were going to give evidence in court about that?’
‘No, don’t be silly, they’d lock me up and throw away the key.’
‘That might be the least of your worries.’ Monty drives into the ambulance bay. ‘Wait there,’ he says, ‘I’ll get you a chair.’
He disappears into the building and I wait, uncomfortable, conscious I’m in the ambulance parking area. There’s yellow hatchings and big signs everywhere trying to keep people like me out. Monty emerges pushing a wheelchair. ‘Hop in,’ he says.
‘What about the car?’
‘Don’t worry, it’ll not harm here for a bit. I’ll come and move it when I’ve got you sorted out in there.’
He pushes me through the double doors, using the footrests on the wheelchair to bash them open. ‘Are you going to explain about giving evidence against Lafferty?’ He asks.
‘It’s nothing to do with the cash I gave to Popov. This is all about ten grand in cash that he gave me while the police were watching. My evidence is simply that I received the money from him. What Sandy Slater and his crew don’t know is that Lafferty was well aware of what the police were up to. There’s a legitimate paper trail for the money, starting with a written request from my company, an agreement regarding repayment of the loan and receipts and invoices for what I used it for. Lafferty’s £10,000 was drawn out of a UK bank and carefully accounted for. The police were presumably finding that out in front of a judge this morning. That’s why they were all looking very unhappy.’
‘Suspected fractured ulna on left arm,’ he tells the nurse sitting in the small office. She smiles at him in a way that I resent, and then she begins to write down my personal details.
After we’re directed to the X-ray waiting area, Monty leaves me kicking my heels in the company of several sad-looking people. I try not to make eye contact with any of them, in case their painful conditions are communicable. In their midst, despite the pain, I feel relatively joyous. Monty is back. Things are looking so much better than they did this morning.
59
It’s barely twenty-four hours since my arm was broken and I’m already becoming adapted to having a useless counterweight on my left side. The pain is all but gone, surfacing only to remind me to be more careful if I make a sudden un-coordinated movement. I can even drive, despite Monty’s protests to the contrary.
I insisted on driving myself here, I need Monty up at the site making sure the workforce understand that Stefan’s regime is over. There’s another reason, I don’t want to run the risk of him being caught up in the inevitable retaliation from Slater and his colleagues.
I refuse to meet him anywhere other than Hector’s office. As long as we are here I maintain my position as an MI5 operative assisting in their bungling attempts to get Lafferty. Once they get me down to the police station I’ll turn into an accessory at least and a major criminal most likely. Also Hector is up to something. I can feel it when he talks to Sandy Slater. There’s little of the cooperative camaraderie that there should be. It’s as if they’re on different sides or at least have completely different agendas. He may be adept at giving the appearance of a portly buffoon, a posh guy who’s simple and straightforward, but he’s not fooling me; only Sandy Slater.
It’s where I fit in that matters. I must figure in Hector’s plans otherwise I wouldn’t be here. I’ve a feeling I’d be locked up somewhere if it weren’t for Hector. I was hoping for a chance to get Hector alone and try to find out more, but Sandy and another man are already sitting around the table, china cups clasped awkwardly by chubby fingers. The other face looks vaguely familiar, like I should recognise it.
‘This is Mark Walters QC,’ Slater says. The way he adds QC on the name betrays the pathetic regard he has for the legal profession. Now I know where I’ve seen him; at court. He looks very different without his wig; much younger, more human, less fearsome.
‘What happened to your arm?’ Slater asks, his squeak lacking any trace of concern.
‘I was attacked by two men when I left court, they told me what would happen to me if I gave evidence against Lafferty.’
Slater’s face lights up and he tries to hide the grin that he suddenly develops.
‘That’s great,’ he turns to the barrister, ‘we can get him for witness intimidation.’
‘I’m kidding,’ I say, ‘I fell over and landed awkwardly. That’s all.’
Slater’s face creases into a puzzled look. ‘You were winding me up? That’s not funny.’
‘Would you really have expected me to give evidence if I were under threat?’
‘You’d have to,’ Slater says.
‘Really?’
‘I’m afraid the case has rather fallen apart,’ Walters says, ‘that’s why we’re here. We need something much better from you in t
erms of evidence.’
‘How do you mean, fallen apart?’ I ask.
‘Lafferty appears to have seen us coming. In court his lawyer produced a complete audit trail for the cash he gave you. All Mr Slater’s colleagues can do is confirm these details are correct. As there was no way of him covering his tracks after the raid and his arrest, all this had to be prepared well in advance. He knew all along what the police were up to. What we don’t know is who told him.’
‘We think it was you,’ Slater adds. ‘It has to be you, no one else could have done it.’
‘Well you’re wrong.’ I’m not in the least surprised at the accusation or its timing, what I don’t understand is why the Crown Prosecution Service’s barrister is here. ‘Someone in the National Crime Agency told him, not me. Your organisation is as leaky as a sieve. I’m not the one who tipped him off, I’m the one giving evidence against him.’
‘As for your evidence,’ Walters says, ‘all you say is that you asked for cash and received it from him, nothing more. Because he can account for it, there was no offence committed, at least not by him.’
Now we’re getting to it, I think, they’ve chased the cash up the line to Lafferty and found nothing to prosecute. Now they want to see if they can catch me and anyone I gave the money to.
‘Mr Slater tells me you no longer have the money.’
‘No, I spent it.’
‘Ten thousand pounds in cash? What did you do with it?’
‘I gave it to a waste consultant, Dan Henderson. He’s doing some work for one of my businesses.’