The girls choose a fish dish, and I go for saltimbocca – veal pan-fried with Marsala and sage, a favourite of mine that you don’t find very often any more. As we wait for our food to be served and the conversation meanders onto other less serious topics, Amelia speaks, addressing me directly.
‘We are going to do something to help Sophia, then, aren’t we?’
‘Absolutely,’ I confirm emphatically. ‘How could we not? There is definitely more to this affair than first appears.’
‘Oh, thank you both,’ Sophia smiles meekly.
‘We will begin first thing on Monday,’ I announce. ‘And we will probably be thinking about it over the weekend.’
‘That is a weight off my mind,’ Sophia adds. ‘I can’t really believe it only happened one week ago.’
After an excellent meal, we offer to escort Sophia home to Prestbury, but she declines in favour of waiting to go with her father. I tap my watch to let Amelia know we should leave, and then after a quick wave of the hand to an embattled Carlo, we rush off to Piccadilly station to catch the last train home.
***
Late Friday afternoon, Hans Johansen was finishing up for the weekend. The process takes longer than usual, for he has a number of tasks that cannot be left over the next week and need to be performed that day if plans are to come to fruition. Rifling through drawers, he selects half a dozen files and shreds the contents. Going online, he checks the company’s bank account and makes several transfers. A nice tidying-up process, he muses, before deleting his password.
He checks his diary for the following week, noting that he is scheduled to meet with a farmer, Jamie Cropper, and his consultant on Wednesday. He smiles ruefully, for he has no intention of keeping that appointment. A further look around confirms that his desk is clear and the office is tidy, as one would expect from a true Scandinavian professional. It’s seven o’clock on Friday evening, and he is last to leave for the weekend. He turns off the lights and locks the door. Taking the lift down to ground level, he smiles at his image in the polished side of the lift. Waving to the man on the security desk, he exits the building and walks casually through the mall area. Emerging onto the street, he turns right and disappears into the crowd of homebound commuters heading towards Piccadilly station.
Boarding a Virgin Pendolino train to London Euston, he chooses a seat as far away as possible from other travellers. Travelling first-class on a FrackUK credit card, this does not prove difficult at this time on a Friday evening going down to London. He uses his mobile phone to make several calls, including one to the Chairman of Harmony Earth. After fifteen minutes of discussion, a meeting is arranged for the next day, Saturday, at noon. He finishes the remains of his evening meal – a sandwich and coffee – and satisfied with the day’s endeavours, he settles down to sleep.
At noon the next day, Hans meets with the chairman in a nondescript hotel in Lambeth for the next stage of the plan: the further disruption of the FrackUK business in the north-west, particularly in Manchester. Hans outlines his plans, which meet the approval of the chairman.
‘I will notify the armourer that you will be making contact with him,’ the chairman states, giving Hans a slip of paper with a mobile number written on it. ‘What else do you need?’
‘I only need one other thing: who will I will be able to recruit easily from local protesters in Manchester?’
‘I will advise you by text. When will the action take place?’ the chairman asks.
Hans considers for a moment. ‘Two weeks from now, maybe longer. It will be on a Saturday.’
‘Can you not make it sooner?’
‘First we need to get maximum exposure from the protest site at the farm in Lancashire. We will have been there long enough by then, and the police are getting tougher so it will soon be time to quit. Then I will move the protesters into the centre of Manchester and begin again.’
‘It is a good plan,’ the chairman congratulates Hans. ‘Good luck,’ he finishes, as they part company.
Chapter 9
I’m up early this morning, Saturday. Surprisingly enough, I’ve no headache, but I do have a large tender bruise on my left temple to show from the encounter with Barry Milton last night. It will take some explaining later in the day when I’m due to play in a golf competition at Forest View golf club. However, worst of all is my back: the fracas has aggravated the golf injury from a few weeks before, so golf is definitely out. I’ll leave it for today, and if there’s no improvement I’ll have to book an appointment with the physio.
I look in on my dozen chickens and two pigs, all well looked after by Lily, the farmer’s daughter. I’m crossing the farmyard to explain to Cyril, the farmer and my landlord, that if he has any chores for me in return for his daughter’s efforts in looking after my animals, then I will be unable to manage them today. Before I can speak, he sees my black eye.
‘What happened? Looks like you got kicked by a horse!’
I explain last night’s goings-on without going into too much detail. He is very understanding, and I am excused any duties for this weekend.
‘By the way,’ he enquires. ‘How are your negotiations going on with that fracking outfit? Is Jamie going to be millionaire, or what?’
‘Well, we’ve not had the meeting yet – going to see them next Wednesday – but indications are that it should be a tidy sum. It will sort out Jamie’s financial problems for a while, but he definitely won’t be a millionaire.’
‘What about this neck of the woods? Any chance of them prospecting around here? I could do with a bit of a windfall myself,’ Cyril adds.
‘There are certainly possibilities,’ I answer. ‘There was a feature on the BBC news back in February, in which the chief executive of the company with shale gas test drilling rights for Cheshire said he can't wait to drill in Wayne Rooney's backyard.’
‘Wow!’ Cyril exclaims. ‘I wouldn’t mind some of that! What do you think I should do?’
‘Well, I could do a bit of research if you like. I’m not sure if it stretches as far as here or when licences would be granted, but I’ll see what I can find out and let you know before I would have to start charging, if you know what I mean.’
‘Oh! Yes, of course. Wasn’t trying to be cheeky or anything, and thanks, it would be nice to know.’ With that he strides off towards the farmhouse.
Going back inside, I try to remember whether Bill Lambert was to call me back before the weekend, at the weekend or after the weekend, Maybe the head-butt did more damage than I realised. I definitely won’t bother with golf today. I hate weekend competitions anyway: you often get young business types who are too busy on weekdays and think they know all the rules, and spout constantly about etiquette. I mean, if you lose a ball – which I often do – and have to take a drop with a new ball, does it matter if it moves an inch too far when you’ve still got three hundred yards to play? I chicken out and pick up the phone to let them know… etiquette, you see.
I’m doodling and realise I’ve drawn a matchstick man being beaten. It must be Barry Milton, along with an influence from L. S. Lowry, the artist famous for painting matchstick men. Lambert often works at the weekend, so I make the call. He is in.
‘Thought you were in the competition today,’ he answers by way of greeting.
‘Likewise,’ I reply, and relate the events of the evening before and the reasons for crying off the competition.
‘Very interesting,’ he comments. ‘Probably wise with a blow to the head. Could be mild concussion.’
‘Yeah, I felt fine first thing, but I am bit groggy now. The run-in last night with Barry Milton aggravated my back as well.’
‘Not your day, really, was it?’ Lambert commiserated.
‘No, it was not,’ I agree. ‘I thought it was worth seeing if you were in. Did you find out any more about this Barry Milton?’
‘Indeed I did,’ he confirms. ‘And after what you’ve just told me, methinks he won’t be showing up for his day job. How bad are you
? Any chance of you getting into town? Better not to drive, though; my inside man in the fracking protester group is coming in later, so it might be useful to swap information.’
‘Count me in,’ I answer. ‘What time?’
‘After lunch. Say 2:30?’
‘OK, see you later.’
Despite Bill’s warning, I feel I’m OK to drive as far as Altrincham, where I can take the metro all the way to Greater Manchester Police HQ at Newton Heath. I back out the Saab, and foregoing the M6 motorway take a slower-paced relaxing route through the lanes to Altrincham.
I walk gingerly to the station, trying not to jar my back, picking up The Times newspaper from the kiosk on the way. I board the tram and am quickly immersed in headline stories of the day: political crises in the Middle East, Ukrainian separatism, and the rest. Halfway through the crossword, I’m at the St Peter’s square metro interchange. A change of tram onto the Rochdale line and I’m at Central Park, the nearest metro station for GMP HQ. There are a number of other passengers who alighted at this stop and are going in the same direction. I am the slowest walker, and I imagine one of the people in front is Bill’s undercover man. Silly really; he could already be there: he could have come by taxi or car.
As I enter the police station there is only one fellow passenger left: a mature lady, who can’t be attending my meeting. I announce my presence and am pointed to a waiting area. The mature lady is also waiting, along with a smattering of males, one of whom resembles Al Pacino. A civilian admin person arrives to escort me to Bill’s office. There is no one else present; I assume Tim Sheldon has been delayed.
‘He won’t be long,’ Bill advises. ‘How’s your head?’
‘It’s not banging, but a bit muzzy. I can’t think straight and am feeling tired. I dozed off on the tram.’
Bill laughs. ‘You would have had a great excuse for a nil return card, had you played golf today, eh!’
Our visitor soon arrives, and I am surprised. He is nothing like I imagined: average height and build, with longish fair hair and glasses – more John Denver than Al Pacino. He appears quite unassuming.
Bill makes the introduction. ‘Meet Tim Sheldon,’ he announces. Tim has confirmed from mugshots that the man in question is Barry Milton. ‘Tell us what you have, Tim.’
Quietly and confidently, Tim summarises his findings so far. ‘There is currently a plan to disrupt the introduction of prospecting by FrackUK, whether at the site or the offices is not yet clear. There is clearly animosity between some of the leaders and FrackUK, but why is not known at the moment.’ Looking at Bill, he carries on. ‘The man you asked me to pay particular attention to – Barry Milton – has clearly been a member of the protest group from the beginning. His closeness to those who are also members of the Harmony Earth party suggests he could also be a member, but I have not seen him wearing anything to confirm his allegiance to either.’
‘Could he just be a rent-a-thug?’ I offer.
‘It could be as simple as that,’ Tim Sheldon nods.
Inspector Lambert now digs through a stack of papers on his desk. ‘Our trawl of police records reveals that he has some history: some petty vandalism in his teens, progressing to assault, actually serving time in Strangeways prison for grievous bodily harm when he was a nightclub doorman. Curiously enough, he’s not your average layabout. His day jobs have mostly been in slightly dodgy hard-sell environments including the recruitment industry, where he has been intimated in a number of fraud situations, but was always long gone before it was discovered. In many cases the company decided not to prosecute.’
At this point I have not disclosed to Bill my arrangement with Sophia Peroni, begun only hours ago, and therefore that I am already aware of Milton’s involvement in both the anti-fracking protest and the fraud at Salford into Work. Considering that Tim Sheldon is only concerned with fracking, I think it best not to muddy the waters, and keep shtum.
Bill is about to end the meeting when I remember, and instinctively rub the bump on my head. ‘I forgot to mention that I and my farmer client, Jamie Cropper, are meeting with FrackUK next Wednesday, to try and progress the agreement. I don’t know if there will be any information relevant to today’s discussion, but I’ll let you know anyway.’
With nothing more to say, we break up. I walk to the metro station, while Tim Sheldon climbs aboard a retro-style Italian scooter and zooms off with a brief wave.
With some serious shopping to do, I leave the tram at Victoria and it’s only a short walk to the Old Shambles area where I have a choice of Selfridges, Harvey Nichols and M&S, to name but a few. I need a new suit, but neither Harvey Nichols nor M&S have anything to my taste, although I do pick up a beef in red wine dinner for one, complete with a bottle of wine. I end up in Selfridges, where true to form I choose Ted Baker, in a slate-grey colour. A couple of shirts and I’m on way – man shopping. I hadn’t noticed, as I was focused on my own shopping, but as I walk back to St Peter’s Square, I can’t help but see that the shops have set their stalls fully out for Christmas and it is only the 22nd November.
I have plenty to think about on the journey back to Altrincham. I certainly feel that Tim Sheldon will find out more, but I keep coming back to Sophia Peroni and Salford into Work, and I also have an ominous feeling that there are more revelations to come from that source.
Dining alone is no fun. I open the wine, and as I switch on the oven, the landline rings.
‘Hello.’ The voice from the past is music to my ears. ‘It’s Wendy, Wendy Davenport. How are you? I’m up in Manchester, visiting my daughter, and wondered if you would like to have lunch tomorrow.’
I’m ecstatic; Wendy is extremely attractive. I suppose I should ask my social secretary (Amelia) to check the diary, but two and a half seconds later the left side of my brain has discussed it with the right side of my brain and we have been able to reschedule.
‘Of course, I would be delighted. Where are you staying? I’ll pick you up at, say, one o’clock.’
‘The Renaissance Hotel, on Blackfriars Street,’ she replies.
‘That’s wonderful! See you tomorrow. Oh! And don’t worry, I’ve no problems for you to help me with this time.’
Placing the phone down, I know I don’t care either way. I rather like Wendy.
The evening has now miraculously become quite pleasant, the dinner for one a gourmet event.
***
I have a good night’s sleep and spend the morning on basic chores for Cyril the farmer. As befits a special lady the Saab gets a wash and valet. I give myself an hour for the drive into Manchester, and the traffic is light, even though the man on the radio traffic report keeps telling me the M6 is busy with football supporters travelling north – maybe a late afternoon kick-off. I should turn it off, but I’d probably miss an important announcement. I arrive early at Wendy’s hotel, the Renaissance on Blackfriars Street, and park on a street meter close by. Entering, I’m walking to the desk to call her room when a vision comes into view: she’s already there and waiting. I feel honoured. We hug and do the French double-kiss on both cheeks routine… and it is lingering.
‘It’s been a while,’ I eventually manage.
‘Yes, I know,’ she breathes, eyes sparkling. ‘Since you helped research my family history I’ve been heavily engaged catching up.’
‘Any surprises?’ I ask.
‘Some good, some bad.’ The sparkle in her eyes is replaced by a cloud for a brief moment. ‘We can talk over lunch,’ she adds, the sparkle returning.
I’m reassured as we stroll arm in arm out of the hotel.
I briefly considered Italian at the Peroni restaurant, but immediately ruled it out as stupid. Instead I’ve booked a table not that far away, at Piccolino on John Dalton Street. I know it still sounds Italian, but it’s November, cold and they have a reputation as doing the best Sunday roast in town.
We are in the main restaurant, and it is full. When the waiter asks about drinks, Wendy goes for vodka and tonic, while I h
ave my usual Bombay Sapphire tonic with lime. Back with the drinks and a bowl of olives, the waiter is handing out menus. I wave them away, and we go straight for their special roast beef for two at £25 for two to share, carved at the table. I also order a bottle of red wine. Yes, I know, but I’m kind of hoping it might be a few hours before I need to get behind the wheel!
The beef, prepared by the restaurant’s in-house butcher in Cheshire, is done to perfection, complete with Yorkshire pudding, horseradish sauce, and all the trimmings. We discuss the latest world news events, before Wendy opens up a little about her family discoveries.
‘I found out I have relatives in Australia : , one is an Artist, Irene, living in a place called Woollahra, near Sydney, New South Wales, another also in Sydney , with the surname of Goodchild. When they first emigrated they had a milk delivery business with the slogan a good child drinks Goodchild’s milk. A bit corny, I know.’
I don’t want to ask about the bad discoveries for fear of upsetting the cosy atmosphere we are enjoying, and fortunately the waiter arrives with the dessert menu. We only go for coffee.
‘Would you like to see the Bavarian markets?’ I enquire.
‘Oh yes, I’ve heard about them. Are they here all year round?’
‘I’m struggling there,’ I say. ‘I used to think they were only around at Christmastime, but thinking about it they seem to be here every time I come into the city.’
I pay the bill, and we stroll around stalls selling all kinds of goods. There is such a preponderance of candle stalls that it’s hard to see how they can all make money.
We wander around the city for an hour, ending back at Wendy’s hotel.
‘Would you like another coffee before you drive?’ she invites, the sparkle evident in her eyes.
We take a table in a quiet corner of the lounge. I order and excuse myself to the bathroom. When I return, the coffee is poured but I’m devastated to find Wendy on her mobile with tears streaming down her face.
‘Oh, my God, when?’ she is saying. ‘Yes, I’ll be here.’ She taps the off button.
Troubled Waters Page 5