Highbridge

by Phil Redmond

  ‘Actually, he’d be OK. Provided you weren’t showing as much as you were on Saturday night. You can do short or low cut. But not both.’

  ‘You mean Dad doesn’t like me dressing the way he’d like to see you dressed?’

  ‘I’d never be able to dress the way your father would like. And that’s the point. He is your father. You’re his daughter. And he knows there’s too many blokes like him out there.’

  ‘Which blokes are like Dad?’ It was a bleary-eyed Ross heading for the cereal cupboard.

  ‘None you know,’ replied Natasha to prevent any potential Monday morning conflict. She picked up her phone and saw the text from Joey. OK. I’LL CALL WHEN FINISHED. LXXJ. But then noticed the time. 7.45. ‘Any signs of your brother, or Lucy, Ross?’

  ‘Someone’s in the bathroom, which I guess won’t be Alex.

  Pass us the milk.’

  ‘I hope you’re not talking to me,’ his mother replied.

  ‘’Course not. Her.’

  ‘And who’s “her”?’

  Ross picked up the motherly tone, let out a huge symbolic sigh and trundled over to the fridge. Natasha headed for the door in search of the feet-draggers, but stopped as she passed Tanya. ‘Tell Becky to be careful, though. Racist or not. I don’t like the way they treat their women.’

  ‘Point’s already been made.’

  As Natasha left, Tanya instantly replaced Sky News with Friends, while Ross unscrewed the top of the milk carton and tipped almost as much on to the table as landed in his cereal bowl.

  ‘Look at the mess you’re making, moron.’ Tanya moved quickly to scoop up a sponge to wipe it up.

  ‘I don’t buy these big cartons, do I?’

  As Tanya tried to work round Ross, and his namesake on screen was about to deliver his punch line, Friends was replaced by the planner and a nanosecond or two of Ross’s favourite programmes until he settled on Embarrassing Operation.

  ‘Don’t move whatever you do,’ Tanya growled.

  He raised his bowl so she could wipe underneath. Then increased the volume on the TV. She reached over and turned it down. He turned it up. She snatched the remote and hit the standby button. He looked at her for a moment. She looked back, waiting for what he’d try next. It came.

  ‘You’re hormonal.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You got a new boyfriend?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s not time of the month, so …?’ He let it hang with a shrug. Then: ‘That what Dad was giving you a hard time about? You putting it out for this new bloke?’

  ‘You’re watching too much MTV.’ With that she turned to go, but stopped. ‘And how do you know when it’s “time of the month”?’

  ‘Apart from you being a right pain. Every four weeks or so, isn’t it? Two of our ten-day timetables. It’s week two. And I’ve seen the wrappings in the bin.’ He gave another shrug and then grabbed the remote and turned the TV back on. ‘I don’t tweet about it or anything, though.’

  ‘Thanks. You’re such a comfort.’

  ‘Is it him that’s like Dad, then? This bloke?’

  ‘Eat your breakfast. Like a good little boy.’ She put the emphasis on little, but as she swept out the room she wondered if she’d been as grown up at his age.

  And while Natasha was on the school run, Matt had left Luke in the hide and was on the scenic route home. Past Fatchops’s chippy. Everything looked as it always did. Shuttered, barred and bolted, like almost every other shop along the High Street. Sign of the times, Matt thought as he ambled along. Almost. But no one else had so much CCTV and closed shackle hardened steel padlocks on their shutters. Supposedly bolt-cutter proof, they also had the highest insurance rating. Seemed a bit excessive to protect a few spuds and mushy peas, Matt thought as he went past, turning up the side alley where they had seen young girls being let out of the yard behind the chippy.

  What were these characters actually up to? Matt pondered again as he felt the pulse in his leg quicken. Another reminder. Stay on mission, he thought as he carried on walking. Aware that someone would be watching the CCTV monitors, he was careful not to be too obvious while taking another long look at the steel door that must have opened into the yard. Double keyholes. One top. One bottom. Typical. No matter where they went they found similar scenarios. The bad guys thinking in fortress mode. Determined to keep everyone out, they concentrated on defending one entrance, forgetting that it also meant there was only one way out. Rats in a trap.

  He hesitated just past the door, reached for his phone and adopted the BlackBerry Prayer position. He moved his thumbs but never touched the keypad. After a moment the phone screen lit. *j@% Random characters. It could be a pocket dial. But it meant Luke had been watching from the hill. It would mean nothing to anyone else. Especially to those who later might want to construct an incriminating timeline.

  As Matt wandered on his way, Luke eased away from the spotting scope and ran over things again. They now knew what the chippy gang were up to. How they distributed. How they would try and escape. All we need now, Luke told himself, is how they are getting the stuff in and out.

  Then he began to wonder if that mattered. The next link was the delivery guy. Follow him. Find the next real link. But, he thought, better to bring them to us. He put the scope back on to the side door to the chippy. He knew Fatchops would be out later to take the regular delivery. Luke’s money was still on the delivery guy. Especially the way he had seen Fatchops react when the driver had dropped the box.

  Perhaps we’ll get a bit more when Matt does his return trip, Luke was thinking, when his train of thought was broken by something obscuring the scope. He looked up to see a stray Sanderson’s shopping bag snagged on the gorse bush just in front of the hide. Before he could reach out to move it, it billowed and was lifted away on a passing swirl of wind. Luke watched it fly higher and higher, then dip and dive over the town as it was carried on the wind to land serendipitously who knew where, another symbol of the transient, disposable society that had both created and condemned towns like Highbridge to an uncertain future. Economies built on passing fashion rather than heritage. It also reminded Luke of the days he, Joey and their crowd used to come up to the top of the hill and set fire to the paper potato sacks they nicked from Sanderson’s, when it was still a proper greengrocer’s. Long before the Chinese lantern craze, if the wind was in the same direction as today, they would watch the sacks float towards the town, betting on how far they would travel. Until one came down in the cornfield behind T’House. And set the whole field alight.

  Brilliant to watch, but leaving a long-lasting regret when they discovered it was the final nail in the coffin of Holt’s Farm. The lost corn was the difference between between survival and bankruptcy. They had not spoken about it much, either then nor recently, but he and Joey had learned one of their first big lessons about consequences, and they still felt some form of obligation to their old community. Hard to express, but it was there. He put the scope on where that cornfield had been – now, of course, covered in housing – and wondered how much old farmer Holt lost, how much he’d sold up for and how much whoever bought it made from selling it for houses. And would it still be full of crops or cows instead of houses if they hadn’t set that paper sack on fire? Or, his thought continued, if they had used plastic sacks instead.

  He allowed himself a nostalgic sigh as he turned the scope back to the chippy. And then he made the connection. Plastic bags. Ends in t-i-c. Plastic. The chippy used plastic bags to put stuff in. But they would need more than one box. What came in a box? He focused the scope on to the chippy counter and panned along. Then. There it was. Best place to hide anything is in plain sight. Plastic forks. That’s how they did it. It was the forks. Now they had it all. As soon as the weather settled, it would begin.

  ‘But why bother? That’s what I don’t understand.’

  ‘You’re not going to give me a hard time about the free lunch too, are you, Glynnis?’ Sean asked, as he came into t
he demonstration area still fastening his tie while shouting thanks to young Ben, their online wizard with a sensible haircut, now scurrying away with the cart he had used to bring in the chairs.

  ‘It’s your money so you can waste it any way you like, Sean,’ Glynnis responded, more focused on straightening up the back row of chairs. ‘If people want to grow drugs and kill themselves, then why stop ’em? It’d save us all money in the end. All that policing and hospital bills when they OD or whatever they do. And you’d sell a lot more compost.’

  ‘Have you been speaking to Sandra?’

  ‘Why? She saying how daft you are too? Although Byron seems to be enjoying himself at your expense.’

  Sean followed her eye line to see Byron coming in with Gill Hawkess, the Project Co-ordinator of Working Together Today, or WTT as she referred to it. She was, as usual, perfectly coiffured and manicured, the flowing coat giving glimpses of her figure-sculpting but strictly business suit. Byron had a schoolboy’s entranced grin on his face, as he pushed a plant trolley full of Gill’s promotional material. Sean couldn’t quite remember exactly what WTT actually was, beyond the fact that he knew they were some regional organisation that helped facilitate community action. Gill was always talking about the quest to train community organisers, which Sean found a difficult concept to grasp as he felt people were either organisers or not. Still, a lot of people in council and police circles must think that Gill and WTT were wonderful, as they kept giving her money to facilitate things, which, in itself, seemed to prove something, although Sean was still struggling to understand what.

  ‘Surprised you know how one of them works, Byron.’ Glynnis nodded towards the trolley, pressing on before Byron could reply. ‘Like a cup of tea?’ That one was aimed at Gill.

  ‘Oh, only if it’s not too much trouble.’ Gill flashed a professional smile that was supposed to convey how approachable she was. It merely bounced off Glynnis.

  ‘Not for me it’s not. And it’s his money we’re throwing away, isn’t it. You can have a biscuit too if you like.’ She turned to Byron. ‘You can get your own.’

  With that she wandered off to the café, leaving Byron to control his obvious irritation. He knew she was deliberately baiting him. As she always did when Sean was around.

  ‘I’ll, er … leave you two to it, then. Nice to have met you, Miss Hawkess,’ he said.

  Gill flashed another smile. One of charmed gratitude. ‘Thanks for the help bringing them in.’ As Byron left, Gill turned to Sean and dropped the smile. ‘She’s a bit of a character.’

  It was a statement that didn’t need a response, issued while she unpacked her portable pull-up banners. One about the CAD partnership: County Against Drugs. One about the local partnership. One about WTT. Of course.

  Sean looked at the local banner. HAD: Highbridge Against Drugs. She caught his eye. ‘Good, isn’t it? HAD – following the CAD line. Each town across the county will have one.’

  Sean looked at it again. ‘Does that mean Barnfield will be BAD? Sandwalk will be SAD and Templeton a bit TAD?’

  There was a moment’s hesitation and uncertainty before another smile. This one of amused tolerance. ‘That’s the point about doing a pilot. Canvass views and opinions.’

  Sean nodded but continued to stare at the poster. Gill’s smile slipped again. She sensed there was something else. ‘And?’

  ‘Oh, er, I was just wondering, Highbridge Against Drugs, well, whether it looks a bit like a poster for a referendum? That there could be an opposition view. Highbridge For Drugs? Vote Yes or No?’

  The smile of tolerance was replaced with one of polite bemusement. It was an adaptable weapon. ‘Not really. We are all against drugs, aren’t we?’

  ‘Er, yes.’

  He didn’t get the chance to develop the argument as he saw that Gill was again reaching into her quiver of smiles. This time it was welcoming, as her attention had turned to something over his shoulder. He turned to see that she was now heading, hand outstretched, teeth flashing, to greet one of her benefactors, Chief Inspector Hilary Jardine.

  As they went into a full networking exchange, Glynnis returned with two teas on a tray. And a plate of biscuits. ‘I figured out what WTT means.’

  ‘Go on,’

  ‘Witches’ Tittle Tattle.’ With a nod at Gill and Hilary, Glynnis went off chuckling at her own joke.

  Sean looked at the two women. One perhaps tittle-tattling, the other, he knew, more used to trials and tribulations. As Gill was busy searching her smartphone for something obviously important to pass on, Sean raised a teacup to Hilary, who glanced at Gill then raised her eyebrows and grinned in return. Obviously not one of the faithful. But all part of the job.

  What was not part of any job, at least as far as Joey was concerned, was people taking advantage. As he was now witnessing outside the container that served as the mess room on site. The Italians were walking out grumbling, while the Chinese were lining up to pay. It was theoretically known as the Workforce Weekly Lottery Ticket, for which everyone was supposed to contribute £10. No one ever saw a ticket, nor doubted that tickets were ever bought. But Gustav, Ivantmoreofich’s East European project manager, or all-round enforcer as the other site managers referred to him, sat at his table every Monday collecting the contributions for the kitty. From everyone. Except Joey and Benno.

  ‘Hey Joseph,’ Gustav called.

  Joey ignored him, going to the tea table to make a brew.

  ‘Joseph? Why do we have this conversation every week? You the only one not paying.’

  ‘Then as I say every week, Gus, I’m the one missing out on the chance, aren’t I.’

  ‘And what about your friend. Doesn’t he deserve the opportunity?’

  Joey was going to ignore him again when he saw Gustav was deliberately looking out the window, up towards the third-floor scaffolding. He went to the door and looked up, and his heart sank. His back stiffened and his hands started to clench and unclench, as he saw Benno obviously cornered by two of Gustav’s known associates.

  Joey turned back to Gustav. ‘Going to have a nasty fall, is he? If I don’t pay up?’

  Gustav just shrugged. Then gestured out across the site. ‘These places can be very dangerous. Yes? But you buy ticket. Good luck comes.’

  Joey looked up at Benno, holding a half-metre length of rebar and ready to try and give as good as he would get, but Joey knew that, whilst he had the heart, the years would let him down.

  ‘So you reckon it’s the forks then?’ Matt asked.

  ‘Got to be,’ Luke answered. ‘He’s been in and done his usual Mr Sheen act. Everywhere spotless.’

  ‘Make even RSM Bronson smile, that would.’ Matt grinned. ‘Squeaky clean and free of any traces. Of anything, yeah?’

  Luke nodded, slipping back to the Barrett as Matt continued, now convinced by Luke’s logic. ‘Which is why he puts a new box of forks in there every night. It’s not just out with the old evidence but in with the new supply.’

  Luke refocused the scope on the box. It was all so obvious. Now. When someone passed over a marked note, Fatchops gave them a wrap. But his wrap contained a plastic fork wrapped in cellophane, inside of which were the drugs. Neat.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ Matt then asked. ‘If Fatty doesn’t take the bait, we go after the delivery driver? Weather’s looking good for it, right?’

  ‘Right,’ Luke agreed as through the scope he picked up Fatchops bringing in a bucket of fish from the back. He put the Barrett right in the middle of his chest as he watched him start to batter the fish. The .50 cal round would blow him apart. Shock and awe. He held his breath and counted. At this range, the bullet would take around one and a half seconds. But it would only take a second for a stray head to bob in and out of the reticle. They needed five. The five seconds it would take someone coming in from the front or the back door to reach the counter. Five seconds when Fatchops would be standing still and no one else was likely to step into the shot.

  Five seconds w
as a long time in a busy chippy so Luke knew they were unlikely to get that clear a shot until the mid-evening lull. Like the changing of the tide. When all the people coming home from work had been fed and just before the pub exodus began. Then, with luck, Fatchops would once more be battering the fish. Luke started breathing again. And let Fatchops continue to do the same.

  ‘Do you think she ever stops to take a breath?’ Hilary Jardine asked Sean, as she nodded towards Gill Hawkess.

  ‘Nose breather. Like the Aborigines. Circular breathing. In the nose, out the digee. Hum-da-hara-hum-da-hara.

  ‘Done a bit with your didgeridoo, have you, Sean?’

  It was the sort of risqué remark that never ceased to amaze Sean, coming, as it did, from the lips of Chief Superintendent Jardine. He was never sure whether she meant it or just had the knack of triggering something in his own brain. He knew there was gossip about her and Joey once, even though everyone said she was out of his league. Middle class. Posh. But then, they said Natasha was out of his league too. Joey and Hilary had always denied it, but everyone knew they had something going. Whatever it was, it was short-lived as she surprised everyone by leaving before her A-levels, refused to go to university and joined the police. She was head girl. She was supposed to become a doctor like her father. But she had moved to Manchester and become a copper.

  No one could ever quite read Hilary. Especially when she had that mischievous glint in her eye. As she had now, while they stood waiting for the Chair of the County Council to arrive to anoint the initiative and probably drone on about the increasing importance of public–private partnerships in an age of austerity.

  Sean took a look around. The usual shirt and tie brigade scoffing his sandwiches and tea. The Chair of the Town Council, Harold Peagram, was present. One-time carpet king on the High Street, now retired and enjoying restoring classic tractors. He had probably only turned out because the Chair of the County Council was coming. At the moment he was swapping stories with the Secretary of the Round Table, Jason Charles and the guy who ran the tyre outfit behind the railway station, whose name Sean could never quite remember. Brenda Hodgson from Pets Parlour was talking to Samir Khan who now ran the Trading Post, the only real local shop for local people left on the High Street he kept telling everyone, deliberately ignoring the fact that he had only arrived five years earlier.