‘Renewable energy is a vital emerging industry,’ said Sam, ignoring his uncle’s empty glass. ‘They’re sending me to Egypt next month on a fact-finding mission. Now if you don’t mind, I must move on.’
‘Fine,’ said the Yorkshireman, still glaring at his empty glass. ‘I were about to tell thi’ about yer great grandad, Stephen Jardine, who discovered oil in Egypt in t’ First World War. But if tha’s too busy to listen, I’ll buy me pint mi’sen.’
* * *
Derek Lees snaked out a grizzled hand to grasp the giant pitcher of Cotleigh Brewery Barn Owl and let out a soft burp. He filled his glass and gulped it down before wiping the foam moustache from his upper lip with his sleeve. ‘Lovely pint!’ he exclaimed, before looking at Sam’s half-pint glass. ‘What’s up with thi’, lad?’ he boomed. ‘Is tha’ badly or summut?’
‘I have to drive to London first thing in the morning. Uncle Derek, you were saying my great grandfather Stephen Jardine was Anglo Persian Oil’s chief geologist before the First World War.’
‘Oh aye. Me gran, who were his little sister, told me he were a right ’andsome man before t’ Great War. I only knew ’im many years later, like. But ye gods, he looked like a bag of ferrets after t’ accident blew ’alf his face off.’
‘Accident? What happened?’
‘By hekkers, this pint goes down well. Is there any more in t’ jug?’
‘I believe they’ve closed the bar,’ Sam lied.
‘Miserable bloody Scottish pubs. Any road, according to me gran, he were a bit daft like, coming from t’ Jardine side of the family an’ all.’
‘What are you insinuating?’ snapped Sam. He was sensitive about his family’s history of mental illness.
‘What were I saying? Oh aye, tha’ great granddad Stephen. Well t’ daft bugger threw a bloody hand grenade down t’ test well. T’ whole thing exploded, like.’
‘My God!’ exclaimed Sam. ‘He was attempting to frack the well. It was a crude but well-known technique at the time.’
‘Nay lad! He weren’t doing owt mucky like that.’
‘What was he doing in Egypt, Uncle Derek?’
‘He were wi’ Lawrence of Arabia for t’ most part. But he were more interested in finding oil than fighting Johnny Turk.’
‘But there were no known oil deposits of any significance in Egypt at that time.’
‘Me gran tried to tell ’im there weren’t none. But ’e wouldn’t be told.’
‘Uncle Derek,’ Sam leaned forward in his seat. ‘Now this is important. Did Stephen Jardine ever say where his test well was located?’
‘’Ow would I know? All them Arab place names sounded t’ same to me.’
‘Did he keep any notes?’
‘Oh aye, tha’s looking for Stephen Jardine’s satchel. But there’s nowt in it apart from a few old scribblings. I’ve already ’ad a good mooch.’
‘There’s a satchel with drawings?’
‘Aye. It’s been passed down through t’ family, like. From Stephen Jardine, to tha’ granddad and then to me.’
‘Why you? Why didn’t the satchel pass to my father?’
Well, y’ know,’ Lees said, shifting in his seat. ‘Tha’ grandad would’ve reckoned yer dad were too daft to look after his best clobber.’
‘Grandad George disinherited my father?’ Sam said, shocked at the revelation.
‘Not exactly. I went around to yer granddad’s house. You see, I needed to get in there sharpish wi’ t’ spare key.’
‘Why?’
‘Before all t’ thieving Jardines got their grubby hands on t’ good stuff.’
‘You did what?’ Sam glared at his uncle.
‘I were only looking after it, tha’ knows. And there’s no need to look at me like that.’
‘You went around to my grandad’s place and took his best things?’ Sam said in disbelief. He grabbed a beer coaster and tore it to shreds in frustration. Sam’s father had always believed a minor treasure trove of share certificates and premium bonds had gone missing from the family home after Sam’s grandfather’s death. ‘So what else did you take?’
‘Nowt but bits and pieces.’
‘Okay, so where’s the satchel now?’
‘In me cupboard. But there’s nowt in it worth looking at.’
‘Uncle Derek. I’m driving you back to Barnsley first thing in the morning and you’re going to give me my great grandfather’s satchel. Is that clear?’
‘Aye, I suppose. But I’ll be wanting ’alf if tha’ finds owt. It’s family brass, tha’ knows.’
‘You’ve already told me there’s no oil in Egypt so there’s no need to worry about it, Uncle Derek.’
‘Oh aye. In that case, I’ll have two packets of salt ’n’ vinegar crisps. And see if you can get a fresh jug of Cotleigh Barn Owl from t’ miserable barman while yer at it. And make it quick. A man could die of thirst round ’ere.’
* * *
Sam turned up the collar of his thick coat and stepped outside into the bracing Fort William air. He had a short walk along Middle Street to the majestic Imperial Hotel, where he was booked in for the night. To his left was the beautiful Loch Linnhe in the heart of the Scottish Highlands. To his right, hidden by the night sky, the imposing bulk of Ben Nevis. Sam had always enjoyed coming to Fort William to visit his Great Uncle Roy and was saddened he would no longer need to come to this beautiful corner of the world.
Uncle Roy had been a rock in his life, who had compensated for the bizarre behaviour of his own dysfunctional parents. Sam’s late mother had been religious to the point of zealotry. She had threatened to send her son to a church-run psychiatric hospital for talking to imaginary friends as a child. Sam suspected she had suffered from schizophrenia, which infested his family tree like a dark shadow.
Sam’s father was a man of considerable energy and intellect, despite Derek Lees’ jaundiced opinions, but he was cold and anti-social to those close to him. He had developed early onset Alzheimer’s and had succumbed to the dreadful disease after a decade-long struggle.
Sam heard footsteps behind him and smelled the acrid smoke of a cigarette. He turned around to see who was following him.
‘Hey, Sam.’
Sam stopped to allow his seventeen-year-old half-brother, Jack Jardine, to catch up with him. Sam felt a rush of mixed emotions as he embraced the teenager. Jack had been the by-product of his mother’s brief affair with a much younger man. His mother had died by her own hand shortly after Jack’s birth and Sam’s cold and distracted father had been unable to cope with the unruly reminder of his wife’s betrayal. Jack had been farmed out to a litany of unwilling and unsuitable relatives until Uncle Roy had given the young boy the security he had craved.
‘Hi, how’re you doing, Jack?’ His half-brother had inherited most of their mother’s psychotic tendencies and was often in trouble with the authorities.
Sam felt the crushing guilt of his own rejection of his errant half-brother. Sam had been a difficult teenager himself when Jack had entered his life. Disturbed by his parent’s bizarre behaviour, Sam had been one or two bad decisions away from drifting into a life of chaos and rebellion. He admitted he had been over-judgemental about his half-brother’s behaviour and under different circumstances, it could have been Sam himself who had ended up as the black sheep of the family.
‘Not too good, Sam.’ Jack’s eyes were red, Sam presumed from crying at the loss of his favourite uncle, Roy Jardine.
‘Are you missing Uncle Roy?’
‘Aye.’
‘He cared about you, Jack, even though he might have been a bit strict with you at times.’
Jack nodded. ‘Uncle Roy were always me favourite. He were able to stop me getting into trouble. He said there’s a time for sticking up for meself and a time for walking away. He said I had to learn to pick my battles.’
‘And you always followed his advice?’
‘Not at first, but then I realised he were right.’
Sam changed the
topic. ‘Are you still shooting rabbits?’ He knew Jack loved the countryside and the one thing that kept him out of mischief was his natural talent with the shotgun and the fishing rod. Uncle Roy had set him up with several local farmers who appreciated Jack’s ability to cull the rabbit population during the spring and summer months.
‘Stopped doing it. Farmers wouldn’t take me no more.’
‘Pity.’
‘Yeah.’
‘You still seeing Helen?’ Jack had also inherited their mother’s stunning looks. He was almost beautiful with bright blue eyes and blond hair, which belied the multitude of demons and untameable character flaws that existed within his slight body.
‘Nope.’
‘Where’re you staying?’ Sam asked.
‘Uncle Roy’s house. They’re letting me sleep on t’ floor.’
‘Are you working?
‘Got let go from t’ bowling alley job.’
‘Uncle Roy would have been upset.’
‘Aye, I know. But it weren’t my fault. I didn’t do owt.’ Jack took a long drag from his cigarette. ‘Sam...’ he said.
‘Yes, Jack.’ Sam’s stomach dropped. He knew what was coming next.
‘I were wondering if I could stay wi’ you for a while? Just till I get meself sorted.’
A multitude of conflicting emotions washed through Sam. He had looked after Jack on half a dozen occasions in the past, but each time he had ended up pleading with his Uncle Roy to take him back. He had dreaded the constant visits from the police who threatened to arrest Jack for his multitude of misdemeanours. It had got to the point where Sam’s career began to suffer as he vainly attempted to straighten out his half-brother. And yet with Uncle Roy gone, Jack had no-one else to turn to. Sam considered what he should do with the vulnerable seventeen-year-old.
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jack. We didn’t really get on last time, did we? You trashed my house when you were in one of your moods and picked a fight with the neighbours. And besides, I’m going to live in Egypt for a few months.’
Jack’s eyes filled with tears and his head dropped. ‘Oh… okay then. I’ll stay with Aunty Edith.’ Edith was Uncle Derek’s senile elder sister.
‘Have you got enough money to get back to Barnsley?’
Jack looked sheepish. ‘I were going to hitch a lift.’
‘Look, I’ll pick you up at eight in the morning. I’ve got to drive into Barnsley tomorrow anyway. Don’t be late.’
CHAPTER 7
Sam gripped his great grandfather’s battered satchel to his chest as he strode along Fleet Street towards Daingerfield Oil’s London office. The wind howled around him and sheets of rain lashed the street that was once the capital of Britain’s newspaper industry, soaking his shoes and the bottoms of his trouser legs. With his other hand, he wrestled with a large corporate umbrella that was threatening to turn itself inside out. Sam had a busy schedule of interviews ahead of him, to fill positions in his new renewables division he had named Sirius Solar Power. A handful of managers had approached Sam, hoping to offload dysfunctional employees on the new division, while a small number of thrill seekers were intrigued at the idea of spending time in the Egyptian desert. More concerning was that all the senior executives in London had scoffed at Sam’s attempts to borrow from their budget. Some even cast doubt on Sienna’s mental stability, suggesting that Rex Daingerfield was indulging his daughter’s misguided environmental ideology at the company’s expense. They had commiserated with Sam for landing a role that could only end in tears.
A flapping sound distracted Sam’s thoughts. He squinted through the pouring rain and saw a yellow Ford Fiesta with a flat tyre heading up Fleet Street towards him. He could just make out the driver as a middle-aged female, seemingly unaware of her predicament. Sam waved at her and pointed to a vacant spot along the kerb. The woman braked hard and pulled over. Sam rushed towards the vehicle and stood by the driver’s door, waiting for her to wind down the window. The heavy-set woman in her early fifties eyed him suspiciously.
‘Excuse me, you appear to have a flat tyre,’ said Sam.
‘But I have a meeting in half an hour.’
Sam noticed a coffee shop conveniently located nearby. ‘Look, I could change your tyre for you in ten minutes, so why don’t you grab a coffee?’ He indicated the coffee shop at the side of the road. The woman sighed as she climbed from her car. Sam held his umbrella over her head and escorted her to the coffee shop.
‘Would you mind looking after my umbrella and satchel while I change your tyre?’ he asked. The woman nodded and looked at her watch.
Sam walked back into the streaming rain and got to work on the woman’s Fiesta.
‘Bugger it,’ he said, as mud from the flat tyre smeared his trousers. He picked up the spare tyre and positioned it onto the exposed nuts. Five minutes later, he put the damaged wheel and the jack back into the boot and slammed the hatch closed. Drenched, Sam headed back towards the café and stood to one side as a bearded man wearing a 1990’s green parka made his way out. The man was stuffing a sheaf of papers inside his voluminous jacket and he glanced at Sam as he raised his hood and stepped out into the rain.
Sam entered the café and stood opposite the lady, who was sipping her coffee and reading the Daily Mail.
‘Eight minutes and thirty seconds,’ Sam said with a satisfied expression. ‘There’s a job for me in the Formula One pits if my new venture doesn’t work out. If you hurry, you will still make your meeting.’
The woman made no move to return to her car. Instead, she peered over her spectacles at Sam. ‘Do you actually work for that fracking company?’ She pointed to Sam’s Daingerfield Oil golf umbrella still dripping at the side of the table.
Sam nodded. ‘That’s right.’ He changed the topic. ‘I would recommend you replace your damaged tyre as soon as possible. And get them to check out the wheel rims.’
‘And are you aware Daingerfield Oil is proposing to frack in Arundel? I’ll have you know my husband has a position on the council. He will never allow your grubby little company anywhere near our beautiful town.’
Sam sighed noisily but did not respond to her question. He was used to members of the public subjecting him to a verbal tongue lashing when they found out he worked for the fracking industry. Sam looked around the café and noticed people looking at him with hostility. He picked up his umbrella and satchel from the seat opposite the woman. Something about his satchel felt odd. One of the buckles was undone and it seemed lighter than it should. He opened the second buckle and peered inside. His great grandfather’s notes had been replaced by a shabby paperback novel. Sam pulled out a dog-eared copy of Fifty Shades of Grey and slammed it down in front of the woman.
‘Where are my notes?’ Sam demanded.
The woman could not meet Sam’s gaze. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Is this man bothering you?’ said a tattooed building worker with a menacing demeanour. The worker was as tall as Sam but his biceps and forearms were the size of Sam’s thighs.
‘I think that man from Greenpeace took your notes,’ said a young woman wearing a woollen hat seated in the corner of the café. ‘He said he was going to take them to his head office in Islington to find out where you’ll be fracking next.’
‘The guy with the beard?’
The young woman nodded.
‘Thank you,’ replied Sam. He could equally be a competitor – or a random opportunist, Sam thought.
Sam abandoned his umbrella and ran for the door as if his life depended on it. He remembered the man in the parka had turned left along Fleet Street when he exited the café. Sam sprinted along Fleet Street and pushed his way through the sea of umbrellas, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man who had stolen his great grandfather’s precious notes. The number fifteen bus thundered past Sam and sent a bow wave of dirty water cascading over his new tailored suit. The bus indicated left and pulled towards a bus stop one hundred metres ahead. Sam noticed that thi
rd in the bus queue was the man in the green parka. Sam increased his pace, but realised he was not going to make it.
As the bus stopped, an elderly couple at the front of the queue stepped unsteadily forward and into the doorway of the red bus. The old woman looked at the Oyster card reader and began rummaging for her card in her large shopping bag. The bearded man tried to bypass the elderly couple but the old woman’s husband was having none of it and blocked his way.
‘Oi! My notes!’ Sam yelled out from twenty metres away.
The bearded man looked shocked as Sam sprinted towards him. The elderly lady was still searching through the side pockets of her bag for her Oyster card. A dozen impatient, rain-soaked commuters grumbled at the elderly couple. Just as Sam approached the commuters, the bearded man pulled Sam’s great grandfather’s notes from his green parka and scattered them onto the wet pavement. As Sam scrambled to pick them up and stuff them into his satchel, the bearded man yelled out from the closing door of the departing bus.
‘Pick up your thirty pieces of silver, mate! I hope it’s worth the destruction of everything we hold dear in this country.’
Sam watched the bus struggle towards Ludgate Hill as he rescued the last of the precious notes. Maybe he has a point? Sam wondered.
* * *
Jack Jardine perched on a bar stool in the corner of the Queen’s Road Youth Centre in Barnsley and sipped his ginger beer in silence. His Aunty Edith had been drinking again and had locked him out of the house while she slept off the effects of a bottle of gin.
Jack had taken his Uncle Roy’s death hard and was still shattered by his half-brother’s refusal to offer him shelter. He had idolised Sam all his life. Unlike the rest of his extended family, Sam was kind and smart. He had made something of his life, and Jack resolved to model himself on his elder brother once he managed to get rid of the voices in his head. He decided he would call Sam from a phone box later that day and promise to stay out of trouble if Sam gave him one more chance.
The Last Oracle: A Climate Fiction Thriller (Sam Jardine Crime Thrillers Book 3) Page 5