Lost Hours

by Alex Walters

  ‘That’s in poor taste, Peter. But pretty much what I’d expect from you.’

  ‘I do my best to maintain standards.’ He picked up the glasses and headed into the house.

  He wasn’t entirely joking, she thought. He’d always had a robust sense of humour, and he’d never been averse to some gentle goading. He seemed generally to recognise how far he could push her before the joke wore thin, but he hadn’t tempered his behaviour since Justin’s death. She suspected it was deliberate. He was testing her, wanting to see how strong she really was. He knew that at some point soon the police would be back here, digging around, probing into the business. If it came to it, they’d probably use some underhand tricks – emotional manipulation or deliberate provocation – to get her to talk more openly. Peter’s jibes now were no doubt intended to prepare her for that, to make sure she was able to take it.

  She supposed that was sensible. It was certainly typical of Peter, and that was why he’d been so important to her. He stayed calm, thought one step ahead, always making sure they were as well positioned as possible for whatever was coming.

  She looked back over her shoulder towards the house. He was taking a long time, she thought, a pang of anxiety gripping her stomach. She’d never seen herself as the nervous type, but events had left her understandably shaken. In a rare moment of sensitivity, Peter had even asked her if she wanted to stay over at his place. She’d been grateful for the offer, but knew that acceptance would have given him the wrong message. In any case, leaving here would be a form of surrender. Whatever might have happened to Justin, she wasn’t going to let anyone drive her out of her own house.

  She’d always done her best to minimise her vulnerability here. She supposed that, as a wealthy woman living mostly by herself, she might have chosen a more secure environment. But what sort of a place would that have been? Some penthouse in an upmarket tower block? An anonymous house in a gated estate? She couldn’t envisage it. She’d been brought up in a mining town, just over the border in Nottinghamshire, in a tiny backstreet house that was little more than a slightly extended two-up two-down with a tiny courtyard garden at the rear. She couldn’t exactly say she was brought up in poverty. She and her two siblings had always had enough to eat, and her single mother had had enough to get by. But her mum had struggled to keep things going after their dad had walked out, and it had been a cramped existence, leavened only by the sight of the fields and distant hills between the rows of houses.

  Once in a while, usually on a Sunday afternoon if their mum wasn’t working, they’d take a trip out into the Peak District. If the weather was fine, they’d go for a walk, usually somewhere up around Bakewell. She could still remember her awe at the sense of space, standing on a hillside watching the shadows of the clouds scudding across the meadows, the sheep clustered on the hillsides. On rainy days, they might end up in Matlock Bath, where on a Sunday afternoon the main street would be full of bikers, their huge motorbikes lined up by the sides of the road. She and her sisters would be allowed to play in the town’s amusement arcades, and they’d end the afternoon with takeaway fish and chips that they’d sit and eat by the river, watching the sunlight playing on the water.

  That was how she remembered it, anyway. Her mother had died a few years ago, and she’d more or less lost touch with her sisters, who’d both moved away from the area, apart from the usual exchange of Christmas cards. Those memories were really all she had left of her childhood, and she’d always pledged that, when she had some money behind her – and she’d never doubted that that would happen eventually – she’d reclaim those memories by moving out here. This was where she wanted to be, out here among these hills and dales. She had no intention of letting anyone scare her away, if that really was their intention.

  She really was becoming nervous about Peter. He’d been gone only a few minutes, but he was taking longer than it would take simply to pour the wine. After what had happened to Justin, she had no inclination to take any chances.

  ‘Peter?’ She made her way back into the kitchen. There was no sign of him in there, though two full glasses of wine were sitting on the table ready to be brought out. ‘Peter?’ The anxiety gripping her stomach increased.

  It felt as if she was reliving the experience with Justin, as if the same moments were being replayed. She walked through the kitchen and into the living room.

  Peter was standing in there holding the landline phone. He looked up and blinked at her, as if momentarily unsure who she was. ‘Mickey.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The phone was ringing when I came in. The landline, I mean. I almost didn’t answer it.’

  ‘I never do. It’s usually just junk calls. What is it?’

  ‘One of those automated text things. When somebody sends a text to a landline. Like an auto-generated voice.’

  ‘So what? I get all kinds of crap on that line.’

  ‘This wasn’t like that. It was just a stream of abuse. I mean, really vicious abuse. Nasty stuff. Aimed at you. Whoever sent it obviously thought you’d answer the call.’

  ‘So we had an abusive phone call. It’s not the first time I’ve had one, and it probably won’t be the last. Usually some disaffected ex-employee who’s somehow managed to get hold of the number.’

  ‘This didn’t feel like that. It felt real. I mean, like a real warning. It mentioned what had happened to Justin. I mean, went into detail about it. Really unpleasant detail about how he was killed. How many times he was struck. I was glad you weren’t listening to it.’

  ‘But that’s not possible,’ she said. ‘I had a call from that Family Liaison woman. They’ve only just issued the media release about Justin’s killing and there’s no detail included about exactly how he was killed. She read out the proposed text to me to make sure I was comfortable with it.’

  ‘Which just means that whoever sent that message didn’t get the information from the police statement.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So why did they do it? What did they want?’

  ‘There was nothing specific. The whole thing was clearly just designed to be unsettling. It certainly succeeded in that. But it said this was just the start.’

  ‘Do you think we should take it seriously?’

  ‘It wasn’t a joke, Mickey. Whatever else it might have been. Or if it was, it was in bloody bad taste.’ He shook his head, as if still trying to absorb what he’d heard. ‘I suppose this kind of thing brings out all kinds of crazies. But they knew what was done to Justin. They knew exactly what was done to him.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘I think the first thing we do is tell the police.’

  It occurred to her that she’d never seen Peter respond like this. Only minutes before she’d been reflecting on how much she valued his level-headedness, his calm in the face of adversity. Now, he looked shocked, as if he didn’t know how to proceed. ‘Are you sure that’s wise?’

  She could see him forcing himself to think calmly. ‘Normally, I’d hesitate,’ he said after a moment. ‘I’d be worried about giving the police anything that might make them more interested in us and the business. But I’m not sure we have a choice. We don’t know where this is going. We can’t handle this on our own. The police might be able to trace the call, or at least intercept future calls. They might be able to offer you some protection.’

  Without responding, she walked back through into the kitchen and picked up the glasses of wine. Peter Hardy had followed her, and she turned and handed him his wine before taking a large swallow of her own. ‘I don’t know, Peter. We don’t know what they might do or say. Surely we don’t want the police sniffing round any more than we can help.’

  ‘Of course we don’t. But let’s be honest. If whoever’s behind this is in a position to reveal anything damaging to the police, they’ll probably do it anyway. We’ve just got to be careful how we position this. We don’t know who this is or what they want. We don’t know
if it’s connected to the current stuff or just some arsehole with a grudge. The phone call suggests this is about you, rather than being linked to anything Justin might have been involved in, but that’s hardly a surprise.’

  ‘Thanks, Peter. That really does make me feel a whole lot better about what happened to Justin.’

  ‘I’m just being realistic. Justin’s not likely to have got on the wrong side of anyone. But there are plenty of people out there who might have had reason to harm you.’

  ‘You’re not making it any better, you know. Are you saying I deserved this?’

  ‘Of course not. You know full well what I mean, Mickey. Nothing justifies what was done to Justin. But there are some crazies out there, and this might just be one of them.’

  ‘Okay. So what do we do?’

  ‘We tell the police. We want them on our side, looking out for your interests. Like I say, they might have the technology to follow this up in a way we can’t.’ He took another mouthful of his wine. ‘Call that Family Liaison woman. She said to call her at any time. So give her a call now. Make her work for her money. That’s what you’re good at.’

  ‘I’m not sure what I’m good at,’ Wentworth said. She felt uncharacteristically conflicted, and it wasn’t grief. ‘I’ve spent all my life working my socks off so I could live in a place like this. I was just getting to the point where maybe I could begin to think about winding down a little. I don’t mean retirement. But just to get the work–life balance thing a bit more sorted. I thought your deals would be enough to take us to the next level. Maybe take a bit more of a back seat. And then this crap happens.’

  ‘But that’s business. You know that better than anyone. Some arsehole’s being an arsehole.’ Hardy sounded now as if he was trying to raise her spirits.

  ‘That arsehole, whoever he is, killed my son.’

  ‘So he’s an even bigger arsehole than they usually are. But you’ve dealt with arseholes before and you’ll deal with this one. It’s a blip. A tragic blip in this case, but still just that. You’re the best, Mickey. You know that. No one handles this stuff like you do.’

  ‘I’ve never had to handle anything remotely like this before.’

  ‘I know that. But for years you’ve had to deal with all the crap the business has caused you. You’ve come through it. And you’ll come through this. And when you’ve come through to the other side, you can finally do the stuff you’ve been talking about. Get your life back. There’s plenty of time.’

  ‘I suppose.’ She picked up her wine and walked back outside. The sun had just set behind the hills before her, the clouds above streaked with vivid crimson. It was already beginning to grow darker, and she could feel a stiff breeze rising from over the moors. What had seemed idyllic less than an hour before now suddenly felt bleak and desolate. She found herself shivering, and couldn’t tell how much was due to the evening chill.

  Peter was right, though. She could handle this stuff. Even this. Even Justin’s killing. She could deal with that and come back stronger. She wasn’t about to let any vicious little toerag scare her off.

  She pulled out her phone and began to dial Zoe Everett’s mobile.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘I still can’t believe it,’ Keith Chalmers said. ‘The stupid little dickhead.’

  ‘You sound as if you knew who it was.’ Sheena Pearson took a sip of her beer and looked around the room, conscious someone might be trying to listen in to the conversation. But it was only early evening and the pub was very quiet. Out here there was very little after-work trade and the place tended to fill up later in the evening. That was one reason she’d picked it when Chalmers had suggested meeting. That, and the fact that it was only a ten-minute walk from her home.

  She’d never really felt it appropriate to hold a constituency surgery here, even though Trev, the landlord, had always been keen on the idea. ‘This is where ordinary people come,’ he’d said. ‘Not your libraries and community halls. Hold your surgery here and they’ll come flocking in.’ But that was Trev. Always keen to find a new way to sell a few more drinks.

  Even so, Sheena did sometimes use the place as a bolthole for meetings that she felt would benefit from a less formal setting than her constituency office. Although she had to be careful about confidentiality, she found that people were often more relaxed and willing to talk openly in this kind of environment.

  In Chalmers’ case, it was a no-brainer. They’d known each other for a while, and he was always more comfortable with a pint in his hand. She had no concern about some chancer taking a picture of them together. Even by the tabloids, Chalmers was generally seen as a respectable face of the trade union movement, though she wondered whether that perception might change as a result of these latest developments.

  She still wasn’t entirely sure why Chalmers wanted to speak to her. Maybe he was just seeking moral support. Although he’d done his best still to come across as the voice of moderation, a number of the tabloids had taken what had happened as an opportunity to dust off their well-tried rhetoric, inveighing against the supposed trade union thugs and bully-boys, demanding a clampdown on strikes, picket lines and any other expression of dissent they could come up with. As far as Sheena was concerned, it wasn’t much more than the usual froth, but Chalmers seemed to have been rattled by it all.

  ‘Sadly, no, I don’t know who it was. If I did, I’d be the first one to shop them, trust me.’

  ‘So much for left-wing solidarity, comrade,’ Sheena said, in an exaggerated northern accent.

  ‘Criminal damage hasn’t much to do with my definition of left-wing solidarity,’ Chalmers snorted.

  ‘I know, Keith. I was teasing. But, no, not funny in the circumstances.’

  ‘Thing is, this really means the other side have won. We’ve had two incidents now. First, that bloody bottle – and, yes, that was something and nothing but it could easily have turned out differently. And now this stuff with the car. And of course that guy Pallance has played it for all he’s worth. Appearing on the local news claiming how shocked and disturbed he was. How it’s not the actual damage to the car he’s concerned about – although by the way it’s going to cost umpteen thousand pounds to put it right – but what it says about the people he’s having to deal with. If they’re capable of doing this, who knows what they might be capable of? He can’t feel safe in his bed. And so on and so on.’ He took a mouthful of his beer. ‘Really laid it on with a trowel, though he seems to have quietened down since. Especially after the news of Michelle Wentworth’s son came out. I wonder whether he was told to can it.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Sheena agreed. ‘Michelle Wentworth’s always keen to get her name in the papers but, as I understand it, only on her terms. She’s usually fiercely private about her domestic life. I don’t imagine she’d have been keen to have that kind of speculation being bandied about.’

  ‘No, and from what I hear one or two of the papers are already thinking of dropping hints in that direction. I don’t think even they really believe there’s any kind of link, but it’s all grist to the anti-union mill.’

  So that was why Chalmers had wanted to talk to her, Sheena thought. He probably wanted to pick her brains about how the police investigation was going. If so, he’d be disappointed. Even if Sheena had known more than she did, she wouldn’t have shared it with Chalmers or anyone else. ‘The papers will claim anything,’ she said.

  He immediately confirmed her guess. ‘There’s no chance of you giving me an inside track on the police investigation, is there? Just so I’m forewarned.’

  ‘Spot on, Keith. No chance at all.’

  ‘No, well, if you don’t ask, you don’t get.’

  ‘And, in this case, even if you do ask, you still don’t get. Just so we’re crystal clear. No offence, Keith.’

  ‘None taken. I wasn’t seriously expecting you to tell me anything, and I’ve no desire to put you in a difficult position. I’m just trying to do everything I can to make sure my backsi
de is covered on this one. I still have a suspicion there’s something dodgy about what the company’s up to.’

  ‘You said that before. That you thought you were being set up. Are you serious about that?’

  ‘I’m serious that I think it’s a possibility, yes. Michelle Wentworth’s never been one to pull her punches, and she’s not averse to the odd underhand trick.’

  ‘So what are you saying? That Pallance trashed his own car?’

  Chalmers shook his head. ‘Funnily enough, I’m pretty certain that’s not the case. I gave Pallance a call as soon as the car story broke. I wanted to let him know that we were as shocked as he was by what had happened, and that we’d cooperate fully with the police and all that. I thought he might not take my call, or that he’d just use it as an opportunity to grandstand. But he wasn’t like that. Maybe he’s just a good actor. But it felt like he was genuinely shocked himself. Sure, he was angry and he was clearly intending to milk the story for all it’s worth. But I didn’t get any sense of play-acting. If anything, I got a feeling he was out of his depth. He’s basically just a middle manager, after all, and he’s been treating all this as a bit of a game. Trying to provoke a reaction. He might even have been set up to do that. But now it’s suddenly started to turn real. I could see even the bottle thing had shaken him.’

  ‘So if you’re being set up, he’s not part of it?’

  ‘Like I say, maybe he’s just a good actor. Or I’m more gullible than I think I am. But that might also be how Michelle Wentworth would play it. From my limited dealings with her, she keeps her cards very close to her chest. If this was being set up in some way, she’d want Pallance’s reaction to be genuine.’

  ‘All sounds a bit far-fetched, Keith. Would she really go to these lengths?’

  ‘I don’t know. She might. There are plenty of stories about her. It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve had to deal with underhand tricks in this business. It’s not always people like Wentworth, either. Sometimes it’s the really big companies or even some of the public sector bodies who behave worst.’ He swallowed the last of his beer.