Concealment

by Rose Edmunds

  ‘I’ve seen worse,’ came his verdict. ‘Two days’ work for a team of five—four large skips—assuming you’re keeping the furniture.’

  Although it was mainly obscured by junk, I guessed the furniture was worn and tatty but still functional. I could easily afford it, but buying new stuff for her was far above and beyond the call of duty. Let her buy her own if she wanted—she hadn’t ended up in this hole through poverty.

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘And anything else goes?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Just to be clear, if we find any valuables we’ll put them aside.’

  They wouldn’t. Despite the apparent impossibility of the task, I was positive I’d locate every item of importance before they started work.

  ‘OK. So how much?’

  His eyes lighted on my gold watch and diamond earrings.

  ‘Five thousand plus skip hire. Half in advance. Card payment or bank transfer.’

  ‘Can you work at the weekend? I need it done while my mother’s away.’

  ‘Ten grand,’ he said without hesitation. ‘We don’t normally do weekends.’

  I produced my premier Mastercard. It was a rip off but the price was irrelevant.

  ‘Will you be able to supervise the clearance?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And will your mother sign a consent? We’ve had some tricky situations in the past, you see, with hoarders claiming they never authorised the clean-out.’

  I wavered. Obviously my mother couldn’t provide a signature without becoming aware of the plan. And once aware, she wouldn’t sign anyway.

  ‘Send me the paperwork and I’ll sort it out,’ I said with confidence. Forging a signature offended my ethical senses, but needs must.

  ‘I knew you’d do it in the end,’ said Little Amy after he’d gone.

  ‘I do wish you’d go away,’ I snapped. ‘You make me worry that something’s wrong with me.’

  ‘Well, something is wrong with you,’ she retorted, and promptly disappeared.

  I stared at the empty chair in disbelief. I’d have gladly paid ten grand to clear out the junk in my head.

  ***

  Later that evening, my phone showed “number withheld” as it rang.

  There was no reason not to answer.

  ‘Hi—Amy.’

  A male voice, which I didn’t immediately recognise.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Dave Carmody.’

  Unbelievable.

  ‘Oh—not DCI Carmody today then.’

  ‘No—not today.’

  ‘Why are you calling?’

  ‘To find out how you’re doing.’

  ‘You think I want to tell you?’

  ‘I owe you an apology.’

  ‘Too right.’

  ‘And I totally get how angry you must be—looking back, we may have handled things a tad insensitively.’

  ‘A tad insensitively—he must be joking.’

  ‘If that’s your idea of an apology, it doesn’t cut it.’

  ‘OK, I apologise unreservedly and I’m asking you out for dinner.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re an interesting, attractive woman.’

  ‘Believe me, you’re not.’

  I sort of agreed with Little Amy. What was interesting or attractive about a drunken slut who could be easily intimidated? Unless he was one of those weird guys who got off on weak women. Or maybe he wanted something else from me, under the pretence of asking me for a date. Two weeks ago I might have been tempted to give him the benefit of the doubt, but the new Amy didn’t take any crap from anyone.

  And Little Amy certainly didn’t.

  ‘The answer’s no.’

  ‘I guess I’m not surprised. Anyway, it was worth a try.’

  He sounded genuinely downcast and I vacillated for a few seconds, but held firm. My guts told me DCI Carmody would be a disastrous influence on my life.

  ‘Well, I don’t suppose our paths will cross again, so all the best for the future.’

  I couldn’t bring myself to reciprocate the good wishes.

  ‘OK, bye,’ I said, and hung up.

  ‘And good riddance!’

  23

  I would have gladly ducked out of the trip to JJ Slate, but felt it unfair to dump the assignment on anybody else at such short notice. Although Lisa had suggested a Friday meeting, Isabelle had insisted Thursday would be better, to allow her a long weekend at home.

  As I set off in the car, it struck me how death is always lurking round the corner, even when we least expect it. The last time Isabelle drove this same route she would quite reasonably have expected to be making the journey many times in the future. Ryan must also have anticipated a long and healthy life ahead. And in a few years I would be older than my own father, dropped down dead at forty-two, always assuming I didn’t succumb to the same fate before then.

  Despite these gloomy thoughts, my spirits grew lighter as the suburbs gave way to the motorway, and then to the leafy winding roads of Wales. I’d left my problems far behind in London.

  According to Wikipedia, the JJ Slate mine’s history extended back far beyond its current ownership. It had first been developed towards the end of the eighteenth century and a hundred years later had grown to one of the world’s largest, employing over three thousand men. To call it a mine was, I discovered, something of a misnomer, since the majority of its grey slate was excavated by quarrying. However, a vein of highly prized and more exotic green slate lay beneath a heritage site of outstanding natural beauty. It therefore had to be extracted via underground workings—the last working slate mine in Wales. As a result of technological advances, the workforce now stood at a mere two hundred.

  A fine drizzle fell as I drew up at the security barrier, and with dismay I noticed the muddy ground. How stupid of me to have worn my black patent stilettos. Every time I thought I’d regained control, I did something utterly dumb as if to prove what an idiot I was. I could only hope that alternative footwear would be provided for the site tour.

  A red Porsche 911 with a personalized JJ registration plate took pride of place in the car park. Surely we weren’t to be graced by the presence of Jupp himself? I pulled up alongside it and tried to navigate a path to reception through the murky puddles.

  Neil Waterhouse, the managing director of the slate operation, was a pompous little nerd, with a sweaty handshake and a fancy job title that meant bugger all. A visit from the Pearson Malone tax partner had swelled his ego and he swaggered around, puffed up by his perceived importance. Just the type to be on the fiddle, I reckoned—arrogant enough to assume he wouldn’t be discovered, and stupid enough not to cover his tracks properly.

  Not that any of that mattered now.

  ‘I’ve been reading up on the history of the mine,’ I said, to make polite conversation as we waited for Rob, the capital allowances specialist. ‘Incredible how few workers there are here compared to a hundred or so years ago, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not really—times move on,’ he said, leaving me in no doubt as to the futility of continued attempts at communication.

  ‘Does JJ come out here often?’ I asked.

  ‘No, very seldom,’ said Neil quickly.

  I detected a trace of nervousness in his response, which deterred me from asking if he was here today. I remembered JJ demurring when I’d proposed the tour, and wondered if he might be on site to ensure no one inadvertently gave anything away. But how could a mine tour reveal a white-collar crime? Quickly, I reined in my imagination—I’d resolved not to think about it anymore.

  JJ didn’t show and Rob arrived a couple of minutes later, saving me from any further exchange of pleasantries with Waterhouse. Rob was based in our Manchester office—a balding guy with sandy coloured hair and gold-rimmed glasses. I recognised him straight away—he’d been another of Greg’s cohort who’d been a guest our wedding. From memory, most of the guests had been connected with Greg. Rob gave no acknowledgement of th
is tenuous connection—most likely he’d forgotten.

  The quarry foreman kitted us out with ruthless efficiency—hard hats, boots and waterproof outer clothing.

  ‘What shoe size do you take?’ he asked.

  ‘Three and a half.’

  ‘We don’t have any quite as small as that,’ he said, exchanging a condescending smirk with the other men. ‘Still you can’t wear those, can you?’ He observed my mud-splattered Jimmy Choos with disdain. ‘Here’s a six. If you put on a few pairs of these thick socks they shouldn’t be so big on you.’

  I resembled Charlie Chaplin as I trotted out to the waiting buggy. First stop would be the quarry, then the slate crushing plant, and lastly the mine itself.

  All went smoothly to begin with. I stayed in the background as Rob asked technical questions on quarrying methods and equipment used, interjecting only to demonstrate that I was adding value. I inferred from Rob’s copious note-taking that there was plenty of scope for tax claims, especially in the crushing plant.

  Our final destination was the underground workings. We boarded a narrow gauge train which sped back through the quarry before beginning its dizzying descent to the mine. I thought of Isabelle’s grandfather, making this trip daily and not seeing sunlight all day. Even at its worst, Pearson Malone couldn’t top that for unpleasantness.

  According to my online research, only one of three mineshafts was currently being mined. The small train whizzed over the points past a short branch line to shaft number one en route to shaft three. A heavy metal door, which looked as though it hadn’t been opened for years, sealed off the disused area. And yet the railway tracks leading to it were gleaming. Without fully registering the thought, I questioned why.

  I’d expected freezing temperatures down the mine, but according to the foreman they maintained the temperature at a constant fifty-four degrees Fahrenheit, or twelve degrees Centigrade. I learned that a significant amount of energy was used to extract the heat generated by all the machinery. In addition, pumping out the water that threatened to engulf the mine periodically required considerable effort. Which explained the humongous electricity bill I’d seen when I’d checked the accounts. We stood around admiring the mechanical diggers and ventilation units, and Rob rattled off another series of technical questions, many of which sailed over my head.

  In the gloom, there was something about the looming heaps of scrap slate awaiting removal which reminded me of the hoard house. The miners lived my childhood life in reverse—working in horrible conditions and returning to clean homes. But they didn’t have to lie, or pretend their workplace was pristine, because everyone expected mines to be dirty. I saw now that the deceit had harmed me more than the mess, together with the shame and the guilt my mother laid on me.

  As I focussed in the gloom, I picked out more detail in the piles. I peered more closely, and wished I hadn’t.

  Because these weren’t piles of slate at all, but towering heaps of junk, piled up to the roof.

  No—they couldn’t be, surely… Wouldn’t somebody have noticed? I watched, transfixed, as the others chatted away, oblivious to the unfolding apparition. The piles shifted, closing in on me—menacing and predatory. My dream had come to life.

  An unfamiliar tightness gripped my chest and squeezed the breath from my lungs. My head spun—my hands tingled. Surely they had lured me here and poisoned me with some hallucinogenic drug. Seized by a force more powerful than my own free will, I coughed and spluttered as the tsunami of dread swept to a crescendo.

  ‘Run, run, or they’ll kill you.’

  But if I ran, they would surely catch me—I could have moved faster in my stilettos than those damned stupid clown’s boots. I fought the impulse to bolt, took one step away, and then another, and another, slowly and steadily. Before anyone noticed, I’d slipped away.

  Once out of sight, I broke into a trot, back along the railway track, my lungs and limbs screaming for air. Finally my legs buckled and I slumped, opposite the door to Shaft 1—a gasping, shivering wreck drenched in cold sweat, like an addict in withdrawal.

  Then the door slid open and as my eyes adjusted to the dazzling white light I understood everything.

  ***

  Through the door, I saw row after row of plants under powerful lights. An overwhelming musky sweetness transported me back to my university days.

  Cannabis—they were growing dope—here in the slate mine.

  ‘Get moving—you can’t be found here,’ Little Amy exhorted.

  Quite right. Whatever else happened—they mustn’t discover I’d seen the plants. With the last dregs of strength, I dragged myself around the corner, where the foreman discovered me seconds later.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he asked. ‘You can’t go wandering off—health and safety.’

  ‘I’m ill,’ I gasped and promptly vomited, involuntarily adding a touch of authenticity to the story.

  Puking had triggered a miraculous recovery, at least physically. My poisoning panic had proved baseless, but anxiety still gnawed at me. Why did I keep hallucinating? What was real and what was not?

  As the little train chugged back to the surface, my repetitious apologies were met with half-hearted reassurances. Everyone appeared to accept my claustrophobia at face value. Who knew—it might even be true. I fielded their asinine questions about whether I’d ever had anything similar happen before, and swore to them I was OK.

  But was I?

  I shunned their offer to put me on a train from Llandudno. The prospect of other passengers eying and judging alarmed me far more than concentrating on a lengthy drive. Besides, I’d have to work out how to retrieve the car if I left it at the mine.

  As I reversed the journey I’d made in such a spirit of optimism that morning, there was plenty of time for reflection. If perception was reality, then everything was real, which was palpably false. That gave the lie to Smithies’ favourite mantra, unless I truly was insane and my perception counted for nothing. Common sense told me neither the hoard in the mine nor Little Amy existed. But the rest? I’d not seen a cannabis farm before—how could my imagination conjure one up in such plausible detail? Other evidence pointed to the existence of the drugs. For one thing, the slate mine was an ideal location for growing dope. It must be immune from heat-detecting helicopters and used so much energy already that the powerful lights might not add significantly to the cost.

  Suppose the drug farm existed. The local JJ team must be in on it, fraudulently boosting profits to keep head office happy while they all got on with the real, far more lucrative, business. An apparently pointless deception now had a purpose. JJ must be involved too, otherwise why would his car be parked there? But if JJ was implicated, why the cover-up? So maybe I’d imagined the cannabis farm too.

  There’s a limit to how long you can swirl around the same unanswerable questions. Once home, and anaesthetised by several large gin and tonics, my brain obligingly shut down for the night.

  24

  The next morning found me slightly shaky from lack of food, but otherwise unscathed.

  There was no logical reason for the events of the previous day to affect my decision not to pursue my investigations, especially given my unreliable perception. And yet this rational analysis didn’t sit comfortably on an emotional level—I felt a tremendous urge to validate my discovery.

  I parked the urge somewhere in my subconscious, lest it should distract me from the busy day I had planned. I’d booked a day’s leave to pick through that gargantuan storage unit—my mother’s house—before the Clearall team came at the weekend. Fortified by a McDonald’s sausage and egg McMuffin, I set off in a determined frame of mind to Croydon.

  As I shoved open the door, the foetid odour hit me afresh. For a moment I tensed, preparing myself for another attack of the vapours. But it never came. I breathed deeply and took in the squalor, as a sense of calm washed over me. I was back to normal, or rather normal for me.

  By Monday, the rubbish would be noth
ing more than an unhappy memory. Three decades to create a monster hoard—three days to clear—it seemed impossible. But Clearall had signed up to that challenge.

  Despite everything, the corner of my soul belonging to Little Amy still hoped a fresh start would cure my mother. But hope only set me up for disappointment. I would never have the mother I wanted—she didn’t exist anymore. Just as the house had been buried under piles of debris, so any goodness in her was trapped within the bubble of denial and delusion she inhabited.

  Before starting, I took pictures—the first interior photographs of the house for more than thirty years. I needed to capture the level of squalor forever, both to prevent me kidding myself it hadn’t been so terrible, and to document my efforts.

  Now for the tricky part. My mother had always claimed to keep her valuables in a bureau in the lounge, but I was sceptical. As I unlocked it, a welter of old, mainly junk mail fell out.

  If my mother opened letters at all, she invariably replaced them in their envelopes and then noted the contents on the envelope. I’d always found this practice absurd—after all, if you throw away the envelope you can see what the letter is. Amid all the crap, two communications from HMRC remained firmly sealed—her phobia of tax demands second only to her phobia of throwing anything out. I ripped them open and laughed—each contained a repayment cheque for several hundred pounds, long out of date.

  The valuable stuff was, as I’d suspected, scattered randomly around the house—but that didn’t worry me too much. There’s an instinct to finding items in a hoard. Strictly, locating a particular object might seem impossible given the volume of stuff, but rarely did anything become irretrievably subsumed in the trash heap. Sometimes belongings were damaged beyond repair, but they seldom sank without a trace. That didn’t mean the search would be easy, though.