Jenny Parker Investigates

by D J Harrison

  ‘They are,’ I say, in what I trust is a patient voice, ‘but I pretended to be an Environment Agency officer and told him otherwise. Unless he gets the tipping tickets you have he thinks he has a big problem. I’m hoping that you’re his only way out of this, that way he’ll have to settle up with you.’

  ‘How did you do that?’ O’Shaughnessy the younger appears slightly less bewildered than his father.

  ‘I dressed up, you know, disguised myself then went to his office.’

  Eyebrows are raised in tandem at my tale of bravado. A sudden thought occurs to me and I’m prompted to ask,

  ‘These transfer notes, the ones for the contaminated soil, all properly signed up by the landfill site. You do still have them, don’t you?’

  The two men look at each other. ‘We’d have to look, they’ll be somewhere, we just need to see where.’

  This answer does not fill me with confidence. ‘Look for them, find them, if you can’t find them, somehow make some more. Those tickets are worth a lot of money.’

  From the look on their faces, I get the feeling that they’ll have a really good look for them when they get back.

  ‘Now, when Jackson gets in touch you need to tell him that you have the tickets and you’ll send them to him once he’s paid. Do you understand?’

  ‘Perfectly, he gets the tickets when he pays the bill.’ O’Shaughnessy senior responds.

  ‘Good, now this is very important. If Jackson asks you about the Environment Agency tell him the truth. Tell him that nobody from the Agency has been in touch.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we lie a little though, tell him there’s big trouble, that we’ll all go to jail and such like?’

  I shake my head vehemently and am still shaking it long after they have gone.

  43

  Carrie is telling me a long involved story about a man who was unhappy with his marriage and had his wife put in prison. She arrived this morning wearing a bright blue top and a yellow skirt. This combination, together with her shiny black hair, has me thinking that an ugly old crone with a poisoned apple is heading her way. When I ask her how her seven tiny housemates are she wrinkles her face and laughs in a way that tells me she’s missing the joke entirely.

  I’m only half listening. Nothing has happened that suggests my elaborate scheme to get O’Shaughnessy’s money is working. Jackson hasn’t been in touch with him and I’m beginning to despair. All my effort and risk seems to have been in vain. Worse, I feel Gary will suffer a big loss of face in front of his mates. My customary feelings of anxiety become even more intense at this thought. I need to keep Gary happy.

  ‘Apparently he hid some money at home and told the police it belonged to his wife,’ Carrie is explaining. A sudden thrill of recognition spears through my chest and she has my full attention. ‘The police came to the house and took her off to prison.’

  It sounds like my situation but expressed in terms simple enough for Carrie to repeat.

  ‘When was this, do you know?’

  ‘Oh,’ Carrie replies, ‘I don’t know, years ago maybe.’

  ‘And who was this scheming man, what was his name?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know his name. He was an ordinary guy, nothing special, not a clever lawyer or someone like that. He drove a bulldozer.’

  It’s me she’s talking about, it has to be. ‘So a dozer driver decides to get rid of his wife by planting illegal money at his own home?’

  ‘Yes,’ Carrie’s face twists, ‘that’s what he said.’

  ‘Who said?’ Her features contort further as she thinks hard, I get the impression that she’s been told not to reveal her source and I have put her in some difficulty.

  ‘Who said, who told you the story?’

  Carrie sits red-faced, unable to reply.

  ‘Gary asked you not to tell me, didn’t he?’ It had to be Gary.

  ‘He said to tell you the story but not who told it to me,’ Carrie nods.

  ‘Do you know that I was married to a dozer driver and I was sent to prison when they found money in the house?’

  Carrie looks shocked enough for me to need no answer.

  ‘No!’ she gasps. ‘It was you he was telling me about, I’m sorry.’

  ‘There’s no need to be sorry. It does sound like my situation but that’s not what happened to me.’

  ‘But you said …’ Carrie looks eager for further explanation and I’m happy to get it off my chest.

  ‘There’s no way my ex could have done that. He didn’t know about the money and I’m sure he wouldn’t have told the police about it, even if he had. It was my own fault I went to prison, nobody else’s. I admitted to taking the money as a bribe.’

  ‘Yes, but someone shopped you, told the coppers, it had to be him – your husband, didn’t it?’

  Carrie’s words sit uncomfortably on my long-held conviction that Casagrande or his henchmen were responsible for my fate. I can’t believe that Tim did anything, apart from take his chance to dump me when it came. At least that’s what I believed until now. When I recall those horrifying moments I get a feeling that Tim’s composure was remarkable under the stressful circumstances. Could he really have engineered the whole thing?

  None of this is making much sense to me. Only Casagrande knew I had the money, only he could have informed on me. That’s what I think; it’s what I’ve always thought. I took their money and they made sure I didn’t enjoy it, that’s what it’s all about.

  The version being offered by Carrie is a harder, more hurtful one. What if Tim found the cash then used its presence to get rid of his troublesome wife? That would make him a cruel, cold-hearted monster, with no regard for anyone’s feelings but his own. He would be the one responsible for making Toby suffer so badly. That is not the action of a loving parent. Quite honestly, in my heart, I don’t believe that Tim would do such a thing. I can ask Gary, but I know his ways. If he’d wanted me to talk to him about it, he wouldn’t have used Carrie as a conduit. I’m sure he’s trying to be helpful but chasing him about it will only lead to him clamming up entirely and not bothering to pass on any information in the future. There’s no point in even telling him I know he set Carrie up to tell me. I have a simple way of clearing up the whole affair: I can ask Tim.

  44

  The painted sign on the door says “O’Shaughnessy Group Head Office” and is clearly meant to impress. The letters are clean, precise and white as if recently retouched. Inside the door any positive effect of the sign rapidly disappears.

  My first impression of a collection of huts, garages and sheds pushed haphazardly together is confirmed as I crunch my way along the corridors caked with dried mud before O’Shaughnessy senior ushers me into a side office. He offers me the choice of a disparate collection of broken chairs. I am about to lower myself into the most stable-looking when I notice the ominous dark stain across the plush seat. I abandon that one and perch instead on an olive green typist’s chair which lurches crazily beneath me, a reaction to one missing wheel.

  Young O’Shaughnessy joins us and the two of them crowd around me, standing as if they know too much about the pedigree of their chairs to take a chance on sitting down.

  ‘What would you like?’ Old O’Shaughnessy asks.

  My puzzlement provokes the additional words ‘to drink’ after a long pause.

  ‘Tea, please,’ I answer automatically.

  Both men shuffle out of the office as if making tea needs as many hands as they can muster.

  If this is their best office, the one they receive visitors in, I don’t want to see any of the others. A trail of ubiquitous dust has followed me through the door; stacks of beige folders lean halfway up the walls, their contents turned a matching yellow by passage of time. The small table jammed between two pock-marked metal cabinets wouldn’t look out of place supporting a fixed line telephone in some domestic hallway. Dust and grime are everywhere; a faint smell of decomposing refuse is in the air.

  The O’Shaughnessys return, proudly
bearing a mug of tea which is placed on the little table but not before a beer mat is found to act as a coaster to protect the precious wood on the scrap table. There is a disconcerting sheen on the surface of the dark tea, not so much rainbow oily as white and scummy. I regret my automatic request and notice that the O’Shaughnessys seem to view the quality of their own tea in much the same light as the safety of their chairs.

  ‘He’s been in touch, so he has,’ O’Shaughnessy senior begins.

  ‘Yes, you said on the phone.’

  ‘Ah, yes, you’ve done the trick, I think.’

  ‘Has he sent you the money?’

  ‘Ah no … not yet … he’s saying he needs the tickets first.’

  ‘Good, have you got the tickets?’ I can feel the level of frustration building inside.

  ‘Ah, yes. We sent them already.’ O’Shaughnessy smiles proudly.

  My breath flies out in exasperation.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ I don’t need an answer but I ask anyway.

  ‘So he’d send us the money. That’s the arrangement.’ O’Shaughnessy junior chimes in. Both men are smiling proudly.

  I take a deep breath and my chair capsizes, almost pitching me onto the floor.

  ‘Let me get this straight. Jackson asked for the tickets, you sent them to him and you don’t have your money. What made you think that was a good idea?’

  ‘Ah, no … that’s where we’ve been a bit crafty, like. Jackson doesn’t have them; we sent them to the Environment Agency, to that Annie Osborne. That’s the arrangement. Jackson says if she’s happy with what we sent we’ll get our money.’

  ‘But Annie Osborne knows nothing about all this. She’s not at all interested in the tickets; she’s nothing to do with any of this.’ My patience is just about spent. I feel like giving up and walking out.

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Jenny.’ Old O’Shaughnessy calling me Jenny in that patronising way isn’t helping matters one bit. ‘Jackson told us she visited him and demanded proof we tipped in the right places. He’s a worried man is Mr Jackson.’

  I am Annie Osborne, it was me that put the fear into Jackson and I must have told this to O’Shaughnessy a dozen times. It seems they are incapable of grasping the situation. I should have devised a plan that kept them out of it. I point to the phone on the chintzy desk.

  ‘Ring Jackson now and tell him you have Annie Osborne from the Environment Agency here. Then give me the phone, I want to talk to him.’

  O’Shaughnessy senior’s eyes widen and furrows appear on his brow. ‘But …’ he says.

  ‘No buts. If you want your money do as I say. Ring Jackson now.’

  He pulls a grubby notebook from his jacket pocket, licks his forefinger and leafs slowly through the pages. I wonder how his contacts list is organised, obviously not alphabetically. Maybe it’s in the order that he met people, a cast list in order of appearance. Finally, he sees what he’s been searching for and dials.

  ‘Mr Jackson, please. O’Shaughnessy here. He knows what it’s about. Thanks … Ah, there you are. It’s O’Shaughnessy. There’s a woman here wants to speak to you. Hold on.’ He thrusts the receiver into my hand and retreats into the doorway.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Jackson, it’s Annie Osborne from the Environment Agency, we met last week.’

  ‘Is everything okay?’ Jackson asks.

  ‘That’s what I wanted to tell you. My investigation has brought me here to Mr O’Shaughnessy’s offices and he has been very helpful. He has provided me with access to all his records and from what I have seen so far it appears that all the waste transfer notes relating to Monton Homes are in order. I haven’t completed my investigation but I can tell you that I’m satisfied with everything I’ve seen so far. Mr O’Shaughnessy wanted me to let you know; he insisted on telephoning you to put your mind at rest.’

  ‘Oh, thanks. So we’re in the clear, so to speak.’

  ‘That’s right. Goodbye, Mr Jackson, thank you for your cooperation.’ I put the phone down and feel the excitement and nervousness in the room.

  ‘There,’ I address O’Shaughnessy senior. ‘That’s the best I can do. Let me know if the payment arrives.’

  I alight unsteadily from the crooked chair and walk out.

  ‘You’ve not drunk your tea,’ I hear O’Shaughnessy calling after me.

  45

  It’s one of those days where a little sunshine would make all the difference. Instead, the greyness matches my mood and does nothing to help my state of mind. When I woke up this morning I realised that I hate the crappy flat. I despise everything about it. I despair of my separation from Toby. I detest the haggard, scared face I see in the mirror.

  Even Gary’s message telling me that O’Shaughnessy has been paid has not prevented me from feeling ineffective and vulnerable. I need to be strong and resourceful when I face Tim. I need to be able to take whatever answers he gives me without collapsing.

  One cheerful glimpse of sunlight, one tiny sparkle on the red bonnet of my car wouldn’t solve anything, but it would help. The clouds ahead to the north as the M61 swings away from Manchester are slightly less grey, a little brighter than those behind. I take what comfort I can from that.

  She has gone out, taken Toby to the park. At least the rain is holding off long enough for her to do that. Tim is very nervous as he admits me into what used to be my house as much as his.

  ‘You sounded upset when you called.’ Tim sits me down in the lounge, still littered with Toby’s familiar toys. There are breakfast dishes and cups lying uncollected. The paint on the walls is still that hideous shade of brown I originally thought cool and chic.

  ‘I want to know what happened to me,’ I begin.

  ‘Oh.’ Tim looks surprised. ‘I thought you were coming to talk about Toby.’

  At the mention of Toby I soften and push my own needs away. I should be here to talk about Toby, about his happiness and welfare.

  ‘Later.’ I swallow the feelings of selfishness. ‘Tell me the truth, Tim, did you call the police, was it you who had me arrested?’

  ‘No,’ Tim answers quickly. He relaxes slightly, shoulders lowering, head retreating; it’s as if I asked the right question, one he’s happy to answer truthfully.

  ‘But you know who did, don’t you?’

  This time he stiffens.

  ‘No. How would I?’ he answers quickly and untruthfully. His eyes evade my gaze. He puts his hands on his thighs and looks down at them.

  ‘You tell me, Tim. Tell me who you think it was, then. I won’t blame you, it’s all in the past now, what’s done is done, just tell me what happened. Please.’

  He stands up slowly and walks over to the chest of drawers where we always kept important household documents. A large envelope is fished from the bottom and he places it on the coffee table in front of me.

  ‘One of the lads at work downloaded these off the internet. Everyone could see what you were up to. It’s no wonder you never bothered with me.’ His face twists with genuine hurt. ‘All that time you were denying me you were enjoying yourself, getting your pleasure with someone else.’

  Martin’s face, Martin’s soft voice, Martin’s loving touch flash back into my awareness. I look through the envelope and imagine photographs of Martin, of me and Martin together. I visualise what hidden cameras in the flat might have captured. The scarlet heat I feel in my cheeks must be betrayal enough, even to Tim’s inattentive eyes. Before I can gain enough composure to reach out and prevent it, Tim opens the envelope and spills out the dreadful images. I gasp in horror at the naked flesh, engorged organs, obscene couplings. My stomach churns as I recognise none of the faces except my own.

  Tim is staring at me; his expression is vacant, his body twisted and taut. I feel too sick to speak; words mean nothing in the face of this depravity. Drugged, raped, abused, photographed, exposed, defiled, defamed. I want to tell Tim I’m innocent of all this, that I never betrayed him with these men, that I’m not like that, but I can’t say an
ything. I am guilty. I did betray him and in a much more complete way than these depictions of semen being squirted on me by anonymous miscreants can ever represent. I am worse than it looks, not better. Silently I gather up the photographs and replace them in the envelope.

  ‘So then what did you do, Tim, why didn’t you confront me then?’

  ‘It was after some men visited me at work. They said you’d taken large amounts of money in bribes, it was something to do with your job; you’d taken the money but not done what you’d promised. They said it’d be in the house somewhere. If I found it, I was to leave it where it was and ring them.’

  ‘And you believed them?’

  ‘I found the money in your wardrobe, exactly as they said. Of course I believed them, who wouldn’t? Anyway, by then I didn’t care what happened to you.’ Tim’s defiance is not convincing.

  There’s nothing I need say to this hollow man, whom I once loved enough to gladly have his child. Anything I might say now can only make him feel better about his role in my distress. Comfort is a commodity I need to reserve for myself. I might understand what Tim did and admit the damning circumstances he was faced with, but I have no sympathy, no shred of compassion, no forgiveness, no understanding to offer. As far as I’m concerned he can continue to suffer what little remorse he feels. He’s not getting my permission to feel all right about what he did.

  I take the photographs and stand up ready to leave.

  ‘One thing,’ I ask, ‘these people, the ones who told you about the money, who were they, what were they like? Were they Italian?’

  Tim’s face tightens; perhaps he expected some sort of apology or explanation and is disappointed.

  ‘I didn’t know them. Two guys came to me at work. They weren’t Italian. I’m not sure I’d even recognise them if I saw them again.’

  Clutching the photos I hurry out to my car, holding back the tears long enough to park safely out of sight where I sob my heart out at what has been done to me.