by Marcus Alden
‘Well, while I’m getting stuck into this could you get us some food?’
‘You want me to cook while you work? What is this 1950? Shall I polish your shoes and light the fire while I’m at it too darling?’ Sarah said.
‘See, I knew you’d react. But actually, come to think of it, my shoes do need a good clean,’ Dan said trying to wind her up.
‘That’s so rude! I was thinking to make something nice for both of us, but since you enjoy being so condescending I think I’ll forfeit your portion,’ Sarah said teasing him.
‘Oh really, so what do I get then?’ Dan said.
‘Let me think––. Nothing seems fair.’
‘Does it now? I’ll have beans on toast and make sure the chef uses real butter, not that margarine stuff. But if chef can’t handle making it––.’
‘Ha, the insults are getting worse. You really will have nothing soon,’ Sarah said.
‘Make it four slices, with melted cheese on the top,’ Dan said. Sarah gave him a playful slap on his shoulder.
‘I’ll see what the chef can do.’ Sarah walked away into the kitchen and started rummaging in the cupboards to find what was there.
The larder, which had been so full of goodies when she was growing up, was empty. The only food Sarah found was an out of date jar of mincemeat, and a pack of cream crackers. Both were expired by several years so she didn’t pursue the idea that edible food was to be found there. She looked out of the small window at the weather she would need to embrace. Having just got warm and dry she would have preferred to keep it that way, but that wasn’t an option.
Sarah’s love of the quaint and slow paced coastal village was because of its impermeable barrier against all the things of modern towns. The lack of 24-hour supermarkets and coffee shop chains meant that it remained quiet. The downside, as she could now see with her adult eyes, was that convenience was the sacrifice. Her idealised childhood memory of the sun shining and the bountiful corner shop was not reality. She would need to leave now or the only food shop within miles would be shut.
Sarah opened the umbrella outwards against the rain and shut the front door behind her. She had layered up with clothes from the wardrobe, most of which her mother had left for when they stayed. Sarah put a long rain mac over the top. She felt confident she would stay dry and even more certain that she would not look attractive, but for once she didn’t care.
Chapter 12
The rustle of the red and white striped carrier bags were the only audible noise in the lane. The rain had slowed to a spit and no cars moved; even the birds were silent. Sarah walked back down the lane holding the umbrella and bags of supplies. The light was dropping like a torch running out of batteries, getting weaker against the evening. The shapes of trees morphed into shadows and the air felt cold and heavy.
Sarah was not used to the quietness; her home town of Luton was always busy. Her parents’ house was under the flight path to the airport, so she had learned the ability to muffle out background noise, the absence of which was refreshing. Winchester had a charm about it too, but the chaos of life didn’t stop like it did when she came to Robin Hood’s Bay. The rugged, rough beauty of the north coast had an ethereal quality that drew her back, and the quietness was what she admired most.
Light from the cottage glowed onto the wet flagstones below the window. Standing at the gate, Sarah could see through to the lounge; the rippled glass distorted the image into nondescript brown and orange shapes. It reminded her of the days her Nana would allow her to buy sweets from the shop while the food was cooking. How she had felt so grown up going by herself and returning with a paper bag with what was left of her sherbet lemons and bonbons. This time though, there was nobody to greet her at the door. Sarah was lost in her nostalgic thoughts. The memories faded with each step she took nearer the house.
‘Honey, I’m home!’ Sarah said spilling out the contents of the carrier bags onto the kitchen worktop. She began putting the things away and switched the radio on to what it was last set at. A calm piano melody played in the background as she prepared the food. Beans on toast had never looked so inviting. Sarah had set out the meal on the rickety half round table and had placed a single candle in the centre. Dan stood by the kitchen door while Sarah poured wine into two glasses.
‘Are you trying to be romantic?’ Dan asked. Sarah turned to him.
‘No, actually I thought this light bulb is so dull I can’t see. I thought the candle might help.’ Of course, Sarah had thought it looked romantic too but didn’t want to admit it to Dan. ‘I have your usual table monsieur, please follow me.’ Sarah attempted a French accent. ‘Dinner is served, bon appetite.’ Sarah gestured to the beans and cheese on toast for two.
Clouds of steam rose from their plates and caught the candlelight before wafting into darkness. The simple meal was the perfect opportunity to find out more about the girl sat opposite him, Dan thought. They had been so focused on events that they’d had little normal conversation. He finished a sip of wine and prepared his mind for a good topic to start with.
‘I was thinking––.’ They both started talking at the same time and their words mashed together. ‘No, go ahead,’ Dan said.
‘I was just remembering Nana,’ Sarah said starting to reminisce. ‘She would cut these ginormous slabs of bread and spread them with thick butter, and always had pots of gloopy jam in the larder which she let me spread on even thicker. Mum would never let me do that. Strange memory I know.’ As Sarah finished speaking, Dan looked up to the small window in the front door behind Sarah and saw a face.
‘Someone’s watching us.’ Dan scraped the wooden chair back and stood up. The stranger’s face vanished. By the time Dan had flung the front door open and looked out into the dark there was nobody there. Dan’s eyes struggled to adjust to the night sky. A flowerpot smashed on the ground. Fast, irregular footsteps petered out. ‘Who are you? Show your face coward,’ Dan shouted piercing the air. He ran to the road and checked both ways but, as there were no street lamps, it was near impossible to see any definition. Dan looked back to Sarah, who stood by the door.
‘You could easily stand in the bushes and be hidden,’ Dan said.
‘You think they’ve found us? They can’t have,’ Sarah said from the doorway.
‘Oh no, it’s not those two. It was a woman’s face.’ Dan turned and walked back to Sarah. ‘Confronting your enemy in daylight is hard enough, but at night it’s a different story.’ He shut the front door.
‘A woman’s face? What did she look like?’ Sarah asked.
‘I couldn’t see her face clear enough; she looked in her fifties or sixties.’
‘Are you sure? How the hell did she run so fast?’ Dan shrugged.
‘Someone knows we’re here. I guess we shouldn’t stay long. As soon as I’ve sorted these files we should go. Tomorrow, after we’ve had some rest, and got an idea of what to do next. We have to sleep.’ Sarah agreed with him, besides, she had no better plan. They both sat back at the table to finish the meal. The tomato sauce had started to congeal with the cheese which was cooling and looked less appealing than it had before. Though neither of them said it, they were both feeling unnerved by the mysterious face at the door and finished the meal in silence.
After they had both cleaned up the dishes, Dan lit a fire in the lounge. Sarah sat down in front of the laptop and shivered while looking at Adrian’s files.
‘So, where have you got with this?’ Sarah asked. Dan, who had just gone to the kitchen to wash black soot off his hands, returned with clean hands and two hot chocolates.
‘I’ve found some detailed descriptions of the two thugs. Adrian has been following them from London, their cover names are Hawk and Harrier.’
‘Like the birds?’
‘Yeah, birds of prey. Hawk and Harrier are apparently executive assistants for Atmore.’
‘Oh really, I’m not sure how much of the work I’ve seen could be classed as executive,’ Sarah said.
�
��Exactly, but so far there’s no description of Atmore at all. There’s only information on the business. His office building is in the City and there’s an old warehouse further out too.’
‘So, what is this business he’s doing?’ Sarah questioned.
‘Atmore seems to own several businesses under different names. Oblique links suggest he’s not the official owner on paper, but they’re still under his umbrella.’
‘And control no doubt,’ Sarah said putting the mug to her lips.
‘Yes, it would appear so. One of these businesses is the construction company in charge of the high-speed rail line. It even looks like one of his chums in Westminster helped with that too. If Adrian’s research is correct then Atmore would earn a huge personal profit from this deal.’
‘So this is all just about a rail line?’ Sarah said.
‘Just? This is big news. Construction companies compete for these kinds of contracts; it’s worth billions of pounds. It would appear Atmore won the contract without a fight; his company was the only one considered for the job. If the rail contract was set up in Atmore’s favour, and his company was given preferential treatment by someone in Westminster, then the chain of corruption must go to the top.’
‘Okay––. We’re saying Atmore’s company is building the train line? So, he must be getting Maybury to do some legal dealings for him. But something to do with this must involve your grandfather too. Otherwise what’s the connection with you? Someone that is as high profile as Atmore is not going to want details of their corrupt little project in the headlines. Therefore, what better way than to hire a small company like Maybury’s to push things through unseen? But the question is what role is Maybury playing in this? What exactly is he doing for Atmore?’ While they were talking, Sarah clicked open some of the files that hadn’t been sorted. ‘What’s this one? Looks like a photo of the first part of the line being started. Who’s this?’ she said.
‘Ah, he is the supposed manager of Atmore’s rail company, Hub, standing with the chairman from Construction Networks England or C.N.E. for short. I already read about them in an article,’ Dan said looking at the photo. The image showed two middle-aged men with expanding bellies, thinning hair, and saggy jowls. They were standing astride railway tracks wearing hard hats and cutting an oversized ribbon. Surrounding them was a group of people in suits.
‘We know Maybury lied about your grandfather’s name being Charles, not James. But we still don't know why he would do that. There must be more to your grandfather’s will that he’s not telling you.’ Sarah thumped the table. ‘That’s it! What else did your grandfather own?’
‘Well, I only know what Maybury told me. I didn’t even know I had a grandfather before he contacted me. He told me my grandfather had nothing apart from the money that was left to me.’
‘What if he didn’t have just that? Do you remember that news story with the motorway they built around that farmhouse? At first they wanted to build straight through that guy’s house and land.’
‘Yes––.’ Dan said stretching the word out waiting for Sarah to carry on.
‘But the owner wouldn’t budge. They had to bypass it costing millions more. What if your grandfather had been in the same situation and owned a house in the path of the line? The stress of that could kill an old person. It is a big if, but, if he owned land or a house or something in the path of the new line and you are the only heir––.’
‘I would be the only obstacle stopping them.’ Dan stared into space as he thought his words over.
‘The money in the will seems a lot if you’re broke, yes, but when you compare it to the figures these men work in it’s nothing; it’s pence. Remember, Atmore has the command of millions of pounds at his fingertips, but can’t monopolise property or land that doesn’t belong to him.’
‘He’s trying to pay me off!’ Dan was exuberant. ‘And by burying it in some country solicitor he thought he could fool me. It’s so clear now, that’s why Jennifer was so insistent that I signed then and there. They want me to forfeit my inheritance. For me to be sidelined and for Maybury to take control would solve any battle over land. Maybury then hands it all over to Atmore and gives me my so-called inheritance of £45,000 and the rail project continues without interruption.’
‘Adrian must have worked this out too. If he could write an article with your side of the story it will expose it all. We need to speak to him,’ Sarah said.
‘Look for his phone number or email address on any of those documents,’ Dan said to Sarah, who was faced away from the screen. ‘We can send a message now. Meanwhile, if all of this is true, we need to find evidence. We need to go straight to the source. We need to find Atmore’s office.’
‘Atmore? Are you crazy? You think they’re just going to let us two stroll into his luxurious office in the City and search his desk?’ Sarah said.
‘No, but I don’t have any other ideas. All we have at the moment is guesswork; we need something solid that proves Atmore is corrupt and Maybury is his puppet. What we still don’t know is why Maybury is helping him.’
‘Well, money talks, doesn’t it? It always has. I’m sure Maybury will be rewarded for his part and Atmore walks away free with no real trail back to the corruption. We have to find the trail. There must be plans, communication; something we can expose.’
‘So, should we go back to Maybury?’ Dan answered his own question before Sarah could. ‘No, he’s not going to have all those details; he’s just the puppet. We need to get to the puppet master who thinks he’s untouchable.’
‘If we can get Adrian to leak this––,’ Sarah trailed off.
‘Yeah, that’s the keyword: if. People like Atmore have barriers of protection around them, cocooning them from people like you and me. Just look at those two thugs. They’re not hesitating to stop us by any means. Who’s to say he doesn’t have a whole team of such people?’ Dan said.
‘Look here. Adrian has got the address of Atmore’s office in the City. 25 Old Broad St, City of London.’ Sarah pointed to the screen.
‘Good, this should be our next move. There’s no point going to the police at the moment, they wouldn’t have a clue what we are talking about and, without proof, they’ll fob us off. Who knows, Atmore may have connections there too.’
‘This just got a lot more complicated; now we’ve got to break into a squeaky-clean billionaire’s office to find his dirty laundry.’
‘You think we can do this?’ Dan posed the question to Sarah.
‘What else can we do? We can’t go back to Maybury’s.’
‘What about Will?’ Dan said. ‘Is there any way he might be able to help us find more leads or evidence? They wouldn’t be looking for him.’
‘Okay, first we should contact Adrian. He must have the outlet for this to break into the media. Then see if Will can watch Maybury for us and find out anything he can. And, by tomorrow, we need to be searching Atmore’s filing cabinet,’ Sarah said. Dan made notes on a square of paper as she spoke. ‘We should move fast, they clearly know that we’re not playing along with their version of the truth.’
‘We’re not even sure if this version of the truth is correct. There must be more detail about my grandfather too. What property did he own? Where was he before he died? Did he have a wife? Is he even dead? There must be someone that knew him that we can talk to,’ Dan said.
Sarah dialled Adrian’s number using her Nana’s olive-coloured phone. With each press of a number the circular dial whizzed back to the start position. That phone, like many other things in the cottage, had remained unchanged since Sarah’s childhood.
‘It’s just ringing and ringing,’ Sarah said. The hopeless sound was replaced with a crackled fumbling. ‘Hello? Adrian? It’s Sarah we met at the gallery.’ She turned to Dan. ‘I can’t hear him the line’s not clear. Hello, can you hear me Adrian? I need to talk to you about Atmore. If you can hear me ring me back on this number.’ The line went quiet and she replaced the handset on the receiver.
‘I don’t think he heard me.’ But, as Sarah finished speaking, the phone rang.
‘Hello? Adrian?’ This time there was no crackling sound but something far more unnerving: a man breathing. Sarah slammed the phone back down and looked at Dan. Her eyes were frozen in fear and her face was pale. ‘It’s them.’
Chapter 13
Hawk stood under the canopy of the service station as rain poured off it. He lifted his mobile to his ear. He waited for it to be answered and took a drag from the cigarette in his hand. Harrier looked on from the driving seat of the hire car they had been forced to use since crashing the 4x4 in Edinburgh. The wipers cleared the rain from the windscreen for a second giving him an unrestricted view. Hawk stood next to an illuminated poster in a glass case advertising fast food that bathed him in red light. Harrier could only guess what Hawk was saying. They had failed so far and updating Atmore with the news would only further bruise them.
The rain covered the screen again; the droplets became a curtain of red jewels that glistened for a brief moment before they were destroyed by the wipers. The brevity of the conversation was usual. Atmore only ever wanted quick and concise updates. The call finished and Hawk threw the cigarette butt to the wet ground; the orange glow fizzled out to damp ash on the concrete. He walked to the car, which resembled something a dad with three kids and a wife would drive on holiday, not two professional criminals. As he shut the door, the smell of nicotine filled the air.
‘Drive!’
* * * *
Dan was woken up by seagulls crying and the sound of crashing waves. He was feeling disorientated, and, after going to bed so late, his eyes were heavy. He cleared the sleep from them and looked around the unfamiliar room. The sun tried to shine through the windows. Dan winced. He shuffled down the bed and peered round the curtain. He looked out of the bedroom window; at last he could see where he was staying. He recognised the small courtyard garden with the broken flowerpot from the night before, and the lane that led to the village. The sun was too bright for his eyes to keep looking so he retreated back behind the curtain. He got out of bed and opened the door; the sound of the seagulls got louder. The noise came from the room opposite.