by Rose Edmunds
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Just being nosy.’
I reckoned the police weren’t aware of the link between Evans Haulage and JJ. And even if they were, Carmody and co had been focussed single-mindedly on their prime suspect Ryan Kelly.
‘So will you donate to the fund?’ I asked him, deftly reverting to the lie I’d spun.
‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘Put me down for fifty pounds and text me where to send it. You sure you didn’t want anything else?’
His tone of voice suggested he’d twigged that the memorial fund story was a complete fiction.
‘Quite sure—thanks so much.’
Without thinking too hard, I dialled the number on the Evans Haulage invoices.
‘Good morning,’ I said smoothly, ‘Please may I speak to your accounts department.’
‘The bookkeeper, you mean?’
‘I guess so,’ I replied and with a click, the receptionist put me through.
‘Hi there—I’m the temp up at JJ Slate and I have a query on some invoices,’ I began. If they were involved in the scam, this would undoubtedly rattle them, but it was a risk worth taking.
‘I usually deal with Trevor.’
No alarm, just natural caution.
‘Yes I know. I’m calling on his behalf.’
He appeared to accept this without question.
‘If I give you invoice numbers can you check them back to your records?’
‘Sure I can.’
I read out the numbers of the suspected counterfeits.
‘They’re ancient,’ he said. ‘Two years at least.’
He gave me the dates from his files, which were markedly different from those on the invoices, as was the customer name, delivery address and invoice amount. As I’d thought, someone had photocopied old invoices and changed the details, but forgot about the serial number. Careless.
‘Ask him if they ever deliver to the East Grinstead address?’ urged Little Amy.
They did.
‘From the slate mine?’
‘Why yes—but that’s on a different arrangement—we bill a company called Parallax Projects.’
‘Ah,’ I said, ‘maybe that’s where the confusion’s come.’
‘No confusion here,’ he replied defensively.
‘I realise that—I’m checking from our end.’
‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘we’ve got another load going out there on Wednesday.’
Five days’ time.
‘What of?’ I couldn’t resist asking.
‘Empty crates, of course. Parallax is the company that repairs the crates.’
‘Cannabis leaves. The crates would be too light to pretend they were full of slate, so instead they pretend they’re empty.’
As if she feared she wasn’t making her points forcefully enough, Little Amy had put in an appearance. She sat perched on the table in the corner of my office, in a hideous yellow jumpsuit I didn’t remember at all. The kid might be correct about this, even if her fashion sense hadn’t fully evolved yet. Crate repair using the usual haulage company would be a great cover for transporting drugs.
I took stock.
There was likely a counterfeit haulage invoice to correspond with each fictitious slate sale to Parallax, and probably forged delivery notes and other documentation too. Meanwhile, genuine invoices had been raised to Parallax, allegedly for transporting empty crates.
But I kept revisiting the same uncertainties. If the slate sales were non-existent, why had the invoices been paid? And how were Jason Jupp and Parallax connected?
As ever, I had more questions than answers but I’d gleaned some useful information—a load of something en route to East Grinstead on Wednesday evening.
‘Why don’t you find out what?’ said my gutsy alter ego.
32
It was a lunatic idea, dreamt up by a fourteen-year-old.
Although in her defence, it didn’t seem lunatic at the time—more like the next logical step in a voyage of discovery. I’d found a link between Jason Jupp and drugs, but had failed to establish a connection between Jason and Parallax. If I could tie in Parallax to the drugs this would scarcely matter. I’d have enough evidence to move forward.
Common sense should have suggested that whatever evidence I obtained during this ill-judged expedition might be of limited use. Strictly, I’d still be obliged to report to Smithies’ chum the MLRO. And I’d have the additional challenge of inventing a rationale for my unorthodox initiative.
But common sense lay dormant as I changed into jeans and drove down straight to East Grinstead from work the next Wednesday. The merits of action versus inertia outweighed all other considerations at this point.
On the way I called Lisa. The assessment centre normally wrapped up Wednesday lunchtime, but I’d heard nothing from her. We would go together to learn her results tomorrow morning, but I’d hoped for a debrief before then. Her phone rang twice before switching to voicemail. I left an upbeat message, hoping that all had gone smoothly and she was out enjoying herself. Once she would have called me the minute she’d left the centre, I reflected bitterly. Once she would have been out enjoying herself with me.
A quick recce confirmed that my Merc was far too conspicuous to be left anywhere near the industrial estate. I parked discreetly in a residential road half a mile away, and made my way on foot.
Unit 29 was a warehouse with a deserted air, no name above the entrance, nor any evidence of any manufacturing or processing activity. Nervousness inhibited me from trying the handle of the roll-top door or ringing the bell. Anyway—it was too early. By calling Evans Haulage and pretending to be from Parallax, I’d found out that the delivery wasn’t due for another half an hour.
I waited in the bushes at the edge of the business park, racking my brains for a reason to justify my presence if someone challenged me. I would have asked Little Amy, but she’d gone silent on me, as though having spurred me on she now wished to distance herself from the project. Typical.
After nearly an hour, my feet had numbed from inactivity, and still there’d been no delivery. How silly—I couldn’t wait all night—five more minutes, and I’d abort the mission.
I was on the verge of leaving when the Evans truck turned in and stopped outside unit 29. The driver climbed out and rang the bell I’d declined to press when I’d arrived. Up went the roller door. I moved in closer, hidden by the shadow of an adjoining building. Shaking with fear, I slipped unnoticed inside while the truck driver talked to the man helping to unload the crates. I hid in the corner, my heart thumping.
They finished the job quickly. I stayed in place, listening for any clue as to the contents of the boxes. But all I heard was some banter between the men, and a discussion about what they should watch on TV later.
Ultimately, the roller door went down and the truck departed.
And then silence.
I waited, unsure if I was alone, far longer than necessary. Then I moved towards the stack of crates.
A hideous wailing began. I cursed myself—how could I have been dumb enough not to foresee that the warehouse might be alarmed?
I thought fast. How long before someone came? Without question, the system would be wired to a security company. They would notify the key-holders, possibly the guys who’d just left. That gave a matter of minutes to achieve my goal. But I only needed minutes. Using a screwdriver as leverage I prised open the top of a crate.
Empty.
Another one.
Empty.
I couldn’t check them all—I had to leave.
But there was one small difficulty—I was locked in.
What an idiot. I’d embarked on this wild goose chase for nothing. The goods being delivered appeared to be exactly as claimed and I was about to be discovered somewhere I had no business to be. Either my judgment had deserted me or I truly had lost my mind.
I heard voices, which I recognised as belonging to the men from before. I scurried back to my original hiding place and hel
d my breath.
I was far from ideally positioned, but I couldn’t change that now. I waited until they were at the opposite end of the warehouse and sprang out from my lair.
For an instant I believed I’d got away with it—but no.
‘Oi, you—what are you doing here?’
As if propelled by a powerful force, I bolted.
A shot rang out. I figured it must be simple to hit a target at this range, and they were gaining on me. I tripped, skidding along the tarmac and skinning my knees through my jeans. Without checking for damage, I pulled myself upright. A bullet whistled past me—they were closing fast.
I charged out of the estate into the road and narrowly avoided being knocked over by a white van. The driver opened the window.
‘Alright, love?’
‘Those men are after me,’ I said, gesticulating wildly before pulling open the door and leaping into the passenger seat. I had no clue who this guy was—he might even be a member of the gang, or a random serial killer. But for the moment he represented my best means of escape.
The driver didn’t wait for any further explanation but floored the accelerator and squealed off into the darkness.
My heart pounded like a sledgehammer.
‘Police station for you,’ he pronounced, taking in my dishevelled state.
‘No—it’s a private matter. My car’s down the road, can you drop me there?’
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘Certain,’ I said, endeavouring to sound normal. ‘And thanks.’
My Good Samaritan wished me all the best. Who was he and what must he be thinking? Certainly, he’d asked fewer questions than I’d expected. But what did it matter? I was safe.
‘That went well, didn’t it?’
Typical—now the danger was past, Little Amy had chosen to reappear.
‘Hoped you’d gone for ever.’
‘Oh no—I’m always here, whether you realise it or not.’
And whether I liked or not, it seemed.
Weary with relief, I started the ignition.
33
The physical aftermath was bad enough. Embryonic scabs on my knees cracked open with every step and discharged a clear liquid that soaked straight through the dressings I’d applied. My shins throbbed insanely.
Worse was the self-loathing and disgust at my own stupidity. Last night the relief at having escaped in one piece had trumped every other emotion. Now, I realised the ordeal was far from over. If the delivery was innocuous, they’d report the incident to the police. It wouldn’t take much to track me down—my car registration would have been caught on CCTV somewhere. But if the crates I hadn’t opened contained drugs, those bad guys would pursue me, perhaps with greater zeal than the Sussex police. And thinking about it, why would they have shot at me if they had nothing to hide?
I would have rung in sick, but as Lisa’s sponsoring partner I was supposed to collect the result of her assessment with her. She’d think even worse of me if let her down.
As she bounded into my office I didn’t need to ask how it had gone—she radiated optimism.
‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Tried to call you yesterday.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Sorry. Went out and got blind drunk.’
Who with, I asked myself.
‘Oh, that’s good.’
‘Amy, you look awful,’ she said with warm-hearted malice as I hobbled along beside her en route to the meeting. ‘What the hell happened?’
‘I hurt my knee,’ I replied, in a statement as true as it was incomplete.
‘Fell down pissed somewhere, eh?’
Even a month ago, I would have taken this remark as friendly teasing and given a flip response back. Now I suspected this was no joke. The balance of power in our relationship had shifted.
‘No, actually. Anyway, you’re in fine shape after your big night out, and I’m assuming you’re quietly confident?’
‘Yep,’ she said. ‘Went amazingly.’
Instead of expanding on this she remained silent as we walked to the meeting room.
On entering, I drew back as I spotted Greg sitting at the other side of the table.
‘Uh—uh—wrong meeting.’
‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Didn’t Lisa tell you I was her lead assessing partner at the centre?’
‘No,’ I said with barely suppressed umbrage. ‘She didn’t.’
Despite Lisa’s recent coolness towards me, I hoped she’d pass, but Greg’s involvement surely didn’t help her chances. Smithies had to have nobbled him beforehand.
‘Your secretary told me you were on holiday.’
‘I was until Monday, but I came back to sit on the assessment panel. Why did you want me?’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Only checking how you were after the funeral.’
There was no point in discussing JJ with Greg now, useless to take any action. I’d swung back from a determination to sort things out to a weary apathy. From the moment I’d become involved in JJ, my life had fallen apart. It had to stop.
‘That was thoughtful. I’m OK, I think. Nothing beats work for taking your mind off your problems.’
Except when your problems began and ended at work.
‘You’re not in great shape,’ he observed, eyeing me with sympathy as I winced from the pain when I bent my knees to sit down.
‘Minor knee injury.’
And I could somehow tell he thought I’d fallen down drunk too.
Undeniably, Greg possessed all the gravitas needed in an assessing partner. His face gave nothing away, as he went through the exercises one by one, picking holes. By contrast, Lisa’s crestfallen expression suggested she’d been blithely unaware of these perceived weaknesses. Her interaction with the others in the team exercise had been “borderline acceptable”. Why? Because she hadn’t attempted to conceal her impatience with the other candidates. Greg didn’t reveal which side of the border she’d fallen—he seemed to relish putting her through the wringer, and continued with his litany of complaint. On finding out in the in-tray assignment that that her secretary planned to be on holiday the next week, she’d responded with a pithy ‘bloody typical’. This had not met with the assessors’ approval. I thought of the ice melting in the champagne bucket back in my office. By the sound of it, we wouldn’t have anything to celebrate today after all. I glanced at Lisa, still able to empathise with her even though she’d cast me aside—why didn’t Greg just put her out of her misery?
But unexpectedly the tenor of his comments changed. Lisa had demonstrated a formidable intellect, with incisive analysis of the hypothetical client situation and she’d handled the role-play meeting with poise. There’d been some doubts about her judgement on the risk management exercise but unlike some of the other candidates, at least she’d reached a decision.
All in all, he said, it had been a tough call, but they’d passed Lisa, subject to her having individual coaching in the weaker areas after appointment. And, as with everyone else, provided she passed the final interview with Pearson Malone’s Executive Board.
‘Well whoop de doo!’ said Lisa as we emerged from the meeting, but with a strange note of sarcasm in her voice.
‘I’ve got some champagne in my office for you.’
She shook her head.
‘Nah—not right now. Got stuff to do, but cheers anyway.’
She walked off purposefully, as though in a hurry to get somewhere else. How on earth had our friendship deteriorated so fast?
***
Smithies did one aspect of his job magnificently—he sure as hell knew how to celebrate a success. As soon as he’d heard Lisa’s news, he’d thrown himself enthusiastically into organising an impromptu champagne knees-up downstairs in Daly’s. I’d seldom been in a less celebratory mood, but to duck out would be unsupportive of Lisa. Although she had a down on me, or even especially if she had a down on me, I didn’t want people thinking I resented her achievements.
A champagne drunk is a happy drunk. After I’d d
owned the first two glasses, I felt appreciably better. I decided I should drink it more often, instead of the gin that stoked my paranoia and deepened my depression.
I’d been watching Smithies carefully as he’d worked the room, full of sham bonhomie and sipping daintily at his glass. The man was a chameleon, charming one moment, venomous the next, and someone so duplicitous could easily be a killer.
But I’d resolved not to involve myself with any of this. Sure, one of my clients might be running a cannabis farm on the side, which might be connected with a colleague’s death, but how was that my business? Let some other bugger sort it out. I’d gone way beyond the call of duty already.
Little Amy was disappointed by my devil-may-care attitude.
‘You’re drunk again,’ she told me severely as I paid a visit to the Ladies.
‘Since when were you such a Puritan?’ I hissed. ‘What about the time you drank five pints of cider and puked all over Miss Hope’s doorstep?’
‘That was you, not me.’
I despaired of the kid—she attributed all her mistakes to me, and took no responsibility for mine. I so wished she’d piss off back to the hoard house—it was all she deserved.
Champagne happiness comes at the price of suspending judgement. Consequently, I left Daly’s with no sense of danger, even when my phone rang and JJ’s personal number showed up.
‘Go on then—answer it.’
You should never speak to a client when drunk, unless he’s drunk too, but I kidded myself I could handle it. I wasn’t a lightweight like Little Amy, vomiting after a few pints of cider. I was a mature woman who invariably remained firmly in control—especially after champagne.
‘Amy?’ said JJ. I wondered who else he might be expecting to answer my phone.
‘JJ, how are you?’ I tried hard not to slur my words.
‘Fine,’ he replied, sounding doubtful. ‘And you?’
‘Great, thanks.’
That was the champagne talking.
‘Can you come over tomorrow afternoon? Something’s cropped up that I want to run by you.’
His casual tone suggested it was nothing important. And at least he’d not sprung some technical question on me without warning, as he was prone to.