by David Woods
Garry watched in disbelief, his stomach turning over and his knees beginning to tremble. He shouted to Claude who was standing motionless like a stone-faced statue. “Get heavy lifting equipment straightaway.”
Claude shook himself out of a trance and ran towards the office to arrange for a mobile crane to arrive that afternoon to lift out the digger. It was quickly cleaned off and the still shocked driver sent to dig another hole for the next stanchion, which again revealed running sand but not so much water.
Garry went home late and drank heavily, not uttering a word to Jane, and slept in his study chair in a drunken stupor. He returned to the site in the morning and was greeted by Jim Davenport, who had been tipped off by one of the steelworkers and arrived early to investigate the problem. He met Garry who was striding towards the sandy holes and said sharply, “What are you going to do about this, Mr. Osborne?”
His sharp tone annoyed Garry who snapped back. “This is why you rushed the tenders through. Just to trick us into missing this problem.”
Davenport’s small beady eyes blazed as he replied, “You were recommended to take soil tests, and if you didn’t you must take the blame.”
“We didn’t have time for Christ’s sake.”
“Then you should have asked for more time, like the others.”
“It was sharp practice.”
Davenport moved closer and growled. “Don’t blame me because you were incompetent. Now I’ll tell you what you’re going to do about this problem, which’ll be tackled entirely at your expense. Remember this is a fixed price contract.”
Claude joined them in the site office and took notes as Davenport gave detailed instructions. Garry was almost speechless as he added up the likely cost of the additional work, but all he could do was to stutter his agreement to the proposals. As Davenport rose to leave Garry asked timidly, “Can I request an extension to the contract?”
“No, Mr. Osborne, you can’t. This project’ll be carried out strictly according to the terms of the contract. If the completion is late, you start to pay.”
The extra work took a month to complete which delayed the steel structure being erected, and the cost of borrowing money to pay for the materials was heavy. Claude tried hard to catch up, but bad weather and labour problems added to the delay.
Garry visited the site every other day and always came away feeling sick and depressed, as no matter how hard he tried, progress was still slow. The costs were mounting and progress payments stopped on the grounds that the penalty clause payments would be deducted, leaving nothing to pay Blakesbuild.
Jane knew things were bad but had no idea of the true position, as Garry had managed to conceal all correspondence from the bank, who had extended his loan to cover additional expenses on the factory job. She stayed ignorant of the situation until she heard on the news one morning that interest rates were to rise two per cent, and she rushed into work to talk to the accounts chief, who nervously handed over bank statements. She was horrified to see how much money the company was paying in interest charges, and took all the papers to study them, working out how much extra the new rate would cost and if the huge overdraft could be paid back.
Garry was visiting the factory site, so Jane used his office where she found details of all the land he had purchased and the relevant agreements. By lunchtime she was convinced the company would be bankrupt in a very short time unless all the building sites were sold, which would clear the overdraft, but leave them with no working capital. After eating a light lunch she waited for Garry to return, sitting in his seat trying to work out why he had got them in so much trouble unnecessarily. Suddenly she thought about Grainger Construction and it all fitted in, making her feel very angry.
The bank manager rang requesting an early meeting, and Garry walked wearily into his office as Jane put the receiver down to see she was upset and angry, but managed to keep calm as she rose to speak. “Garry, your obsession with Grainger Construction has just about bankrupted this company. I’ve been studying the bank statement and we’re in deep trouble.”
“Yes, I know. The interest rate increase will cripple us.”
“You’ve crippled the company by your obsession. When will we receive our prowess payments from the factory job?”
“Never! Time penalty clause payments have swallowed them up and we owe them a lot of money.”
“Oh my God, we’re finished. My father’s company is ruined.” She broke down and wept bitterly, but Garry just sighed and collapsed in a chair. Jane suddenly stopped crying and blurted out, “Why did you go for that job without proper tests?” Garry shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. She stood up, walked around the desk and stood in front of him. “Grainger was after that job, wasn’t he? That’s why you were so keen to get it?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, dear.”
“Sorry! Years of work put in by my father ruined by your obsession.”
“Not ruined yet, my dear. I’ll see the bank manager and then put all our sites up for sale.”
“That’s not enough. We’ve still got suppliers to pay.”
“We’ll manage.”
“I can’t see how we can avoid bankruptcy.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The prison door clanged shut and Gordon Simpson walked out into the sunshine. He had gained full remission from a shortened sentence. The judge believed his story about being threatened by Chatfield, who had been sentenced to life imprisonment, with a recommendation that he should serve at least twenty-five years.
Simpson had digs waiting for him near his old flat in South London and a couple of interviews for jobs had been organised by a helpful voluntary prison worker, but he had no intention of getting a job, confident that Garry Osborne would provide his monetary needs for some time to come. He moved into a shabby bedroom above a shop, dumped his small suitcase on the single bed and looked at himself in the dressing table mirror. Prison life had not suited him at all and he looked thin and gaunt. His beer gut had disappeared, leaving his clothes hanging loosely around him, and the belt on his trousers did not have enough holes in it, so he tied it in a knot to prevent them falling down. Even his shirt was too big, leaving a large gap between the collar and his neck. The sight of his wasted body made him feel wretched, angry and hungry all at the same time, and after he had packed away a few belongings he went out to find a telephone.
When Garry answered the phone his heart sank when told by the receptionist that it was Simpson. “What d’you want, Simpson?” he snapped.
“As if you didn’t know, Osborne.”
“I see. Blackmail, is it?”
“No. Just payment for a prison term.”
“How much?”
“Whatever you think your freedom is worth.”
“Don’t play around with me. How much?”
“Half a million as a one off payment. Nothing more in the future.”
Garry was staggered. “D-Don’t be bloody silly, I can’t raise that amount.”
“That’s a shame. I don’t think you’ll survive fifteen years inside. Still never mind, I’ll visit you!”
“Listen Simpson, let’s meet and discuss it.”
“No. I’ll meet you just once. When you hand over the cash.”
Garry paused for a few seconds and then said calmly. “I agree, providing you never come back for more.”
“Okay. It’s a deal. Meet me on Black Heath, midnight tomorrow. With the money.”
They agreed the exact location and Garry sat back feeling desperate, knowing he could never raise that much money. His worst fears had materialised much sooner than he had expected, and when he thought about the problem he could only see two alternatives — one was to sell Osbornes, the stockbrokers, and the other was very risky. His thoughts were interrupted by Jane entering the office with a file in her hand.
Her face looked strained and tears filled her eyes as she said, “Garry, listen to me.”
“Yes, dear. I’m listening.”
“We’ve
only got two alternatives — the first is to let Blakesbuild go into liquidation. And the second is to sell the farm or Osbornes.”
“I won’t sell Osbornes. It’s my own business.”
“And Blakesbuild was my father’s own company. So what are you going to do about it?”
Garry looked at the distraught girl and felt guilty. “We’ll sell the farm.”
Jane collapsed in a chair, feeling exhausted and they both remained silent for a minute. She broke the silence. “I’ll miss the farm badly.”
“I know you will, dear. And I’m sorry.”
“Little William loves the animals.”
“You can always stay with Angela.”
“I know, but it won’t be the same.”
“I suppose not. Well, I must get on to the estate agents and go for a quick sale.”
Jane sighed, wiped her eyes and walked out.
After telephoning the agents, Garry’s thoughts returned to the Simpson situation and, after an hour of scheming, he got up and walked quickly down to his car, driving south to Sussex and finding one of Grainger Construction’s sites. He did not stay long, just enough time to study one of their vans which was painted white, with Grainger Construction printed down both sides in blue. Next he visited a hardware store and an army surplus clothing shop. His last visit before going home was to a garage, which hired white vans the same as Graingers. He felt confident his plans were foolproof and would result in his final satisfaction.
Jane saw him looking brighter when he came home and asked, “Are you eating a meal tonight?”
“Yes, I’m hungry.”
“Aren’t you upset about the farm?”
“Not really, I don’t like farming.”
“But it was your father’s pride and joy.”
“Huh. That’s a good reason for selling it.”
“Good heavens. What did he do to deserve that comment?”
“Never mind. I might tell you one day.”
“Tell me what?”
Garry turned and walked out, angry because she had reminded him of his true parentage and the existence of the brother he hated. He went into his study to drink a large brandy before planning the next day, thinking about every move and detail until Jane called him for dinner. He ate well whilst calculating the results of his plans, which made him grin and at one stage even quietly chuckle.
Jane was still very upset at losing the farm and Garry’s private mirth made her angry. As she watched him shovelling large amounts of food into his grinning mouth she asked, “What d’you find so amusing about our situation? We’re on the edge of bankruptcy, that beautiful farm is being sold and all you can do is grin.”
He stopped eating and looked her squarely in the eyes. “I don’t give a damn about my father’s precious farm. The sooner it’s gone, the better.”
Jane was shocked and angry but managed to keep calm, “Garry Osborne, you’re a very strange man.”
“Yes. Perhaps I am.” They finished the meal in silence.
The next day Garry went to work at his usual time, announcing he would not be back until very late that night and so would not need dinner. He visited his bank during the morning and assured them the sale of the farm would be sufficient to provide enough to pay off the overdraft and give the company a much needed injection of capital. The bank manager agreed to continue supporting the company until the sale was completed.
The sale of all but one of the building sites was going ahead, albeit at a substantial loss. Garry was beginning to feel confident about the future, as all the newspapers were predicting interest rates would fall shortly.
Late that afternoon Garry left the office and drove to the van hire garage to find the vehicle he had chosen was ready. He transferred the contents of his car boot and drove away to a quiet lay-by where he changed into a blue boiler suit, boots and a woollen hat. From there he drove to a transport cafe and sauntered up to the man behind the counter, who was clutching a big teapot and said: “Hello, mate. Want a cuppa?”
Garry could not remember anyone calling him mate and grinned. “Yeah, mate, and a bit of cake.” He left the cafe as it was getting dark with fog beginning to descend and gather around the trees on the heath, and he watched as office workers hurried home.
The long evening dragged on and he felt the chill of the damp night enter the van and penetrate his clothes, making him shiver and put his suit jacket over his shoulders. Then he put it on, got out to stretch his legs and take a walk, returning later to the van. He drove around warming the vehicle up with the heater, before parking a hundred yards away from the agreed meeting place under a big cedar tree with low branches. The night was dark, damp and foggy with only the muffled sounds of the occasional lorry to be heard labouring across the heath nearly half a mile away. Half an hour before midnight Garry walked from the van, making sure no one was around, and waited with a small suitcase on the ground in front of him.
Simpson appeared out of the gloom on time, having to get quite close in order to recognise Garry in his boiler suit. He grinned. “Hello, Osborne. You’d make a good plumber’s mate.”
“Simpson, why the hell did you want to meet here at this time of night?”
“I don’t want to be seen with you.”
“The feeling is entirely mutual.”
“Right. Where’s the money?”
“In the case on the ground.” He pointed downwards.
Simpson bent over and kneeled down to unfasten the case. Garry grabbed an iron bar wedged in the branch of a tree, and brought it down heavily across the back of his head with a loud thud. Simpson gasped and fell forward. Garry repeatedly struck him on his neck and then stood back, panting, and stared at the motionless body. He was unable to move for five minutes, his mind in deep shock at what he had just done. Blood trickled on to the grass from open wounds, making him feel sick, and then a sudden puff of wind brought him back to reality. Simpson was still quite heavy despite losing so much weight, and it was a struggle to lift him into the van, but at last he was laid out on the floor and Garry slammed the rear doors. He jumped into the driver’s seat with his heart thumping like a drum and sweat soaking his clothes. The iron bar rolled about on the steel floor as he lurched off towards the road.
He travelled slowly through the patchy fog and began to feel better about Simpson’s murder, which had been easier than he thought possible.
With the first stage of the plan a success he congratulated himself on a good job done so far.
When he reached the Grainger Construction site in the early hours of the morning, he drove slowly to where the foundations of a new house had been dug. Having worked out where the next foundations would be dug for the garage, he started digging the sandy ground. It was relatively easy, but as his hands and limbs were unused to manual work he soon began to tire. Sweat poured down his neck and his hands blistered, and after an hour he was worn out. Convincing himself the hole was large enough, he dragged Simpson’s body from the van, pushed it down the hole and it landed with a sickening flop. He worked on to cover the body up and make the ground look the same as before and, when he was satisfied he jumped in the van and drove off, arriving outside Grainger Construction headquarters half an hour later.
The side gates were locked so he threw the iron bar over, watching it land in a heap of sand, which partly buried it with just a short length still visible.
He drove away as the first light of dawn appeared on the horizon and headed into the country, where he threw his spade and shovel into a pond and then removed his blood-splashed boiler suit, weighting it with a brick before throwing it in. Next he cleaned the van carefully with a rag, until satisfied that no evidence remained. He returned the van as the garage opened and then drove home to Hampstead, slipping quietly in and up to his bedroom before Jane got up.
He lay on the bed exhausted and unable to sleep, his mind still racing on and re-living the night’s events. He imagined the police arresting Grainger, having found another dead body on o
ne of his sites. He was sure the police would not believe Grainger’s story about his involvement, but would believe that Simpson was killed by Grainger trying to find out who wanted to kill him. So it would be an ex-convict’s story as opposed to his, a person not connected with Simpson in any way. He laughed out loud as he imagined Grainger back in prison again. He changed clothes and walked into the kitchen as Jane was preparing breakfast.
Jane looked suspiciously at him. “Working late again last night?”
“Yes. I think the company will be secure again shortly.”
“It will be if I persuade the prospective buyer I’m meeting this morning to buy the farm.”
“Oh, so you’e showing someone around?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“No idea. The estate agent said a person would arrive at eleven.”
“Good. Let’s hope he buys it.”
Jane drove off with William straight after breakfast, leaving Garry to sleep the morning away. She arrived at the farm and broke the news of the sale to Peter, who was upset at the prospect of a new employer or the sack. She felt sorry for him and had to walk away in case she burst out crying. She walked around her lovely country garden, getting very depressed, knowing she was about to lose it all, and William walked beside her silently sensing his mother’s grief. They went into the farm house kitchen which still smelt new as it had hardly been used since it was built. She sat at the table sipping coffee, deep in melancholy thought and did not notice William slip out of the back door.
Suddenly she heard the child crying outside and leapt to her feet, running out to be confronted by a tall dark-haired well-built man walking towards her and carrying William. She was shocked by the sight of her precious little boy being carried by a strange man and stammered, “W-What’s going on?”
The man smiled as he replied in a deep husky voice, “Don’t worry, the little chap fell over, but he’s being brave now.”
William was gazing into the man’s blue eyes and giggling. Jane smiled as she took him into her own arms. “Thank you for bringing him back.”
