by D J Harrison
52
This is the least appealing café I have ever been in: the waitresses, in starched blouses and black pinafores, are cold and aloof; stodgy cake and pretentious teas and coffees seem to be their idea of sophistication. I sit looking at a charcoal-backed teacake with enough butter on it to soften a piece of roofing felt. My tea is weak and insipid, even though I have left it to brew for a good half hour. Despite the hideous décor, despite the frosty atmosphere, this place is heaving with clientele – ladies of a certain age, class and disposition. I had to fight to get a cramped table, hardly the size of a dinner plate, and now I’m struggling to keep it.
Next to mine is a table for four, quite empty despite the crush, a modest “Reserved” sign sufficient deterrent. I am hoping that Miriam Youngs, Martin’s widow, is the beneficiary of the table’s protective sign.
I have to start somewhere. There’s no need for me to continue to act with restraint now that Toby has been denied me. It all started with Martin’s death and being too scared and weak to stand up and tell what I know. I was scared it would inconvenience me and I’m now able to sneer at myself in the knowledge of what being inconvenienced really feels like. Somebody killed Martin, the man I loved; somebody raped me; somebody had me put in prison. Keeping my head down only brings frustration and anguish. Now I need answers. Now somebody is going to pay for what they did to me.
She is barely recognisable from the brief glimpses I had in the church and by the graveside. She sits with her back to me, close enough for me to be enveloped in a cloud of fragrance. Her hair is a light golden colour, cut shoulder-length and to perfection. Each hair looks like it has been interviewed for its part and given detailed instructions on how exactly to behave. The idea of accosting her when she sits in regal splendour with three equally impressive friends seems like a bad one.
The envelope I extract from my bag is slim and white, addressed simply to “Miriam Youngs”. Inside it reads:
Dear Mrs Youngs,
I am sorry to be bothering you but I feel compelled to write this letter. Your husband was a work colleague of mine at Landers Hoffman. At the time of his death I was unable to bring myself to speak out but I am absolutely certain that Martin was murdered. Although I do not have conclusive evidence, I believe that Giuseppe Casagrande was involved, together with a gang of Eastern European thugs controlled by a man nicknamed Popov. I realise this will be a shock to you but I want to bring these criminals to justice and you are the only person I can turn to for help. Please contact me on 0783 492 1472 so that we can speak privately.
Yours sincerely,
Jenny Parker.
Heart pounding, legs shaking, I stand and touch her shoulder deferentially. She half turns and looks at me without any sign of recognition. Quickly I thrust the envelope into her hand.
‘Please read this, it’s important.’ Then I turn and walk quickly out of the café without a backwards glance.
Sitting in my car, it takes me several minutes to compose myself enough to drive away. The Knutsford traffic system has other ideas and ensnares me. I find myself in thick traffic, crawling slowly past the last place on earth I want to be. Miriam Youngs is standing outside the café, mobile phone to her ear. Instinctively, I reach down to my bag and take out mine and put it on the passenger seat. It remains silent.
****
If it was hard to face Mrs Youngs, telling Gary what I’ve done is even more difficult. A terse text, ‘we need to talk’, drags him reluctantly into the office.
‘You’re not going to like this, Gary,’ seems an honest opening.
‘What’s up?’ he replies, ‘are we in trouble?’
‘I’ve been to see Miriam Youngs, Martin’s widow.’
Gary’s face betrays his lack of understanding.
‘I told her what I know about Martin being murdered. I put it in a letter. Let me read out what I put.’
As I read, his eyes flash at the mention of Popov and his face takes on a worried look. He lets me finish before speaking.
‘You shouldn’t have mentioned Popov; if he finds out you’re accusing him he’ll turn nasty.’
‘Listen, Gary, I’m sure Popov is involved in Martin’s death. You have to realise that I can’t just let that lie. Someone killed Martin, someone moved the body and someone had me assaulted. Whoever they are, I’m going to find them and make them sorry.’
The fact that Gary is still listening tells me I have his support. The caravan site business is going very well. A second bag of money arrived yesterday from O’Brian; he is so pleased with the returns he’s getting from his investment. Gary is getting rich from my efforts now and grants me the attention and consideration I deserve.
‘You never said you were assaulted,’ Gary said.
‘It was after the funeral, Martin’s funeral – they spiked my drink, gang-raped me and put the photos on the internet.’
Gary’s face widens with the shock of my words.
‘Bastards!’ A low growling emits from Gary’s throat. ‘Bastards!’
Relief sweeps through my body, the tension of the situation evaporates. It’s me and Gary talking honestly and openly at last. I can feel his supportive energy holding me. I realise how great that tension was as it releases. Without Gary I am lost. If he rejects me I am cast adrift, to starve and die in a sea of monsters.
‘What do you want me to do?’ Gary asks.
I am so happy at this outcome I throw my arms around his thick shoulders and hug him hard.
53
My phone whirrs and tinkles into life, flashing urgently at me as if the sounds it makes are not enough. Judith. The PA I once shared at Landers Hoffman, someone I haven’t spoken to since … well … since I worked there.
‘Hello,’ I answer tentatively, not sure if my phone is mistaken, if her number has been taken over by someone else.
‘Jenny Parker?’ It is Judith’s voice. I recognise it, but the chill in the words freezes my response.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Mrs Youngs will meet you at 8 p.m. on Thursday at the apartment at Spinningfields. She says you know the address.
‘Yes, I—’
She terminates the call, leaving me with a very bad feeling, partly confusion, partly distaste. I am frozen by the indifference in her voice. She knows me. It may be a long time since we spoke, but surely I warrant more consideration than a few terse instructions. Apart from the discourtesy, there is also the unease I feel that Miriam Youngs chooses to deal with my revelation through a third party and at a place that has deep significance for me. I wonder whether she chooses the flat out of convenience – it is hers after all now – or because she is aware of its connection to me. Is there some spiteful intent here? What would I do in her place? I’m certain that I wouldn’t keep the letter to myself, that I would enlist help and advice from people close to me. That’s if I had anyone to turn to.
This thought brings with it a sense of abandonment and loss. She has lost Martin, I have lost him too and he loved me in a way that he never loved her, of that I’m certain. Now I have nobody, not even Toby to comfort me.
Thursday it is then, two days to wait, two days to prepare myself. If I’m to face her, to do what I need to do, to find out what I need to know, I have to be strong. These feelings of guilt, betrayal and unworthiness have to be overcome. My rights and needs have value. I have to be able to look her in the eye. I’m not sure that when it comes to it I can be strong enough.
****
An unfamiliar female voice answers at Landers Hoffman after I press various options on my keypad.
‘Judith Mears,’ I say simply, ‘is she still working at your Manchester office?’
There is a pause, then, ‘Yes she’s here, shall I put you through?’
‘No, that’s okay, don’t do that. Tell me whose PA is she now?’
‘Oh …’ The girl is caught in the act of automatically transferring me. ‘Let me see … ah yes, Mrs Mears is PA to one of the partners, Mr Unsworth.’
I put the phone down before I get a reply. The news of Paul’s elevation leaves me angry at what might have been and was so cruelly denied me. There is something deeply unsatisfactory about this whole Judith issue. Paul’s PA is acting as Miriam’s go-between, but why? The only answer I can think of is that she’s a personal friend helping out, Miriam’s confidante, someone she can turn to. The idea that Martin’s wife has such a close connection with Judith alarms me. The Judith I worked with prided herself on knowing everything about the Landers Hoffman staff, especially their personal lives. As for Paul, I suppose he filled the gap I left, despite his lack of talent or imagination. I could have done so much had I been allowed. The horrible feeling I have has nothing to do with Paul, only Judith. She is the type of PA that you tell everything to. I remember welcoming her support and interest. What did I say about Martin to her? How much of my feelings did I reveal? I told her about my problems with Tim, a daily catalogue of frustration and irritation, but did she guess Martin’s part in my life? The query hangs like a beckoning gibbet.
****
Carrie has a ring. She displays the sparkle of the single stone which seems much too large to be anything other than crystal.
‘We’re getting married,’ she oozes. ‘Justin proposed, went on his knees in front of everyone in the pub, and gave me this.’ She waves her finger about some more.
Justin. I’ve seen him and I don’t like what I see. Worse, I’ve seen his handiwork on Carrie’s bruised face and arms. He’s a thug, but she won’t listen to me. My only consoling thought is that she’s under Gary’s protection. She’s not my responsibility but she is young and vulnerable.
‘Very nice, must have been expensive.’ My words sound mean and spiteful, even to my own ears. ‘I hope you’ll be very happy, at least you and Justin must be getting on a lot better now, that’s good.’ I try hard to recover and put kindness into my voice.
‘That’s the thing.’ Carrie speaks wide-eyed. ‘We weren’t getting on at all. He was being horrible, but now he does this, isn’t it great? He’s more than made up for it.’
My own loveless marriage began much more auspiciously and I want to tell her, to warn her, to make her see sense. She should tell the brute to piss off and leave her alone. She is buzzing with excitement, happy beyond reason.
I return to the caravan site accounts. At least these provide positive news. Gary is intent on buying a third site now that the first two have performed so spectacularly well. The money is flowing back to O’Brian more freely than even he could have hoped. He has extended our line of credit so that acquiring even the largest sites is well within our reach. Most importantly, I have the residue after tax of a £50,000 bonus nestling in my personal bank account. But as I evaluate the latest prospects, my nagging disquiet about Carrie’s brutish boyfriend refuses to die.
Gary arrives breathless, hurrying as always, reluctant to spend time indoors.
‘There’s a match tonight, I need to get out there and make sure the lads are sorted.’ He has one foot in my office and one poised to make an escape.
‘This is more important.’
His nose wrinkles at my comment. O’Brian’s money has transformed the business; earnings from football parking are now almost insignificant in value. To Gary who worked hard and long to establish himself, the football parking is still the single most important activity in his life.
‘Won’t it wait? I must get on …’ He continues to insist on his own priorities.
‘I need you to read these agreements and if you’re happy, sign them. There’s also a new loan agreement for you to look at. O’Brian has increased the rate of interest and taken on part of the loan personally. That means we’re now officially linked with him, although this is entirely above board and legitimate. We need to decide if it’s what we want, whether we should take on the added cost and the increased risk.’
As I speak Gary thumbs through the thick legal papers until he finds his own name. As soon as he does, he scrawls quickly underneath and pushes the document aside.
‘There.’ He looks up. ‘Done, signed and sealed, sorted. All it needs is for you to read it and sign if you’re happy, I’m happy if you are.’ He looks at his watch. ‘Got to go.’
‘Wait.’ I need to tell him about tomorrow evening.
‘What is it?’
I can see his distraction is almost complete and give up. ‘Oh leave it. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Make sure you come in here first thing.’ I give him my sternest look then release him to his football parking.
54
Mrs Youngs herself answers my ring and admits me to the all too familiar apartment. The glass coffee table is still framed by two black settees set at right angles; one is occupied by an elderly gentleman dressed in a dark blue, pin-striped suit and sporting a florid pink tie. The creases on his face and the slack jowls on his neck give him a withered look. It’s as if his body was once inhabited by a plumper, more vigorous person and is trying hard to adjust to a new lodger. He is leaning back, almost lying, chin pressed into his chest as he looks at me with apparent distaste.
‘This is my father.’ Mrs Youngs perches on the edge of the seat beside him. He makes no attempt to rise or offer any other sign of greeting. Mrs Youngs is dressed in a black and white checked jacket with matching skirt; the fabric shimmers and glistens as if lit from within and programmed to enhance every small movement of its wearer’s body. Her hair is coiled and severely swept back from her angular face. I feel very uncomfortable, but it’s nothing compared with the tension I detect from these two.
I concentrate on maintaining my own equilibrium, feeling down through my feet to the floor, flexing my toes, helping my awareness to stay with my body and not fly out of my head with needless speculation. The two figures in front of me maintain a stony silence – no greeting, no pleasantries, no softening of the hard ice.
‘Thank you for taking the time to speak to me,’ I begin, faltering as the words spill out, coughing, clearing my throat, trying to plaster over the crack in my voice. They look blankly at me.
‘Listen. I came to this apartment a week after Martin went missing. He wasn’t here. But about ten days’ later his body was found here. Someone must have moved him after he died and that someone must have killed him.’ The urge to justify my cowardly inaction rises in my throat, but the wall of indifference prevents this indulgence.
‘It all has something to do with World Ordnance Systems, I’m certain of it.’
The mention of the company name prompts a slight shift in posture from Miriam’s father. His face takes on an even more malevolent look.
‘Casagrande gave me money to smooth through WOS’s acquisition of Associated Composites, a business in Northamptonshire.’ I persevere with my exposition but with a growing certainty that what I’m saying isn’t welcomed by either of them.
‘That business is a front for money laundering activities. I felt real disquiet when I conducted the due diligence exercise and I realise now that it was justified. The operations carried out by Associated Composites are designed to take in cash from criminal activities and make it look like legitimate earnings from the business. Casagrande is the man responsible. He’s the one that set me up and had me arrested.’
‘How much do you know about this man, Casagrande?’ The father speaks for the first time. His voice is surprisingly deep and resonant coming from such a withered frame.
‘I only met him once,’ I admit. ‘Down in Brackley; that’s where he gave me the cash. And I saw him at Martin’s funeral talking to you.’ I look at Mrs Youngs and watch her face change colour slightly underneath the cosmetic perfection. She looks quickly round to her father then back to me.
‘There were many people at the funeral. I didn’t know all of them.’
‘But you did know Casagrande, I watched you greet him,’ I press home my point and she allows it in silence.
�
��You mentioned another name … Popov.’ He pronounces the name with disdain, as if it were a cartoon character.
‘He’s implicated.’ I state calmly, refusing to give any further justification.
‘How do you know?’ he insists.
‘I just know.’ It’s true, I do know. My information is a look and Gary’s reaction. ‘I just know it was him,’ I insist back.
‘Where can I find this Popov?’ he asks.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Why didn’t you go to the police?’
The old feelings of shame push me off balance for an instant.
‘I came to you first. I wanted to speak to Mrs Youngs before I did anything. I suppose I was hoping for your help.’
‘Help?’ The word suddenly bursts out of Miriam’s mouth. ‘Why would you come to me for help, what help could you possibly expect? You of all people?’
The last words are spat violently at me, leaving me in no doubt that she is aware of my part in Martin’s life.
His voice takes over: carefully modulated, very upper class, commanding.
‘You have made some serious allegations, young lady. Tell me what leads you to them. Is it pure conjecture or is there more to it?’
The numbing effect of Miriam’s outburst is stopping my mind from working properly. Any prospect of assistance disappeared the moment I felt the atmosphere in this apartment. Nevertheless, I launch into the explanation I’ve rehearsed.
‘The money laundering scheme at Associated Composites is a brilliant one. Cash from illegal sources is introduced to the motor racing business using people outside normal tax jurisdictions. That’s the easy part. The clever bit is the way that Composites convert this into legitimate earnings. Their accounts say that they’re paid enormous amounts on the pretext of supplying special components for racing cars. Whether these actually exist or are as good as they claim doesn’t matter at all. Composites get tens of millions of pounds for supplying things that cost them almost nothing. That’s the key to the whole business. Dirty money comes into the industry through tax havens and is converted into legitimate business profits here in the UK. That would be valuable enough for most money laundering schemes, even if UK tax had to be paid on profits. But Composites provide an even better return on the criminal investment by having the ability to re-export money that’s clean and accounted for back to its source in the form of sponsorship. It really is the most efficient way of converting black money I’ve ever heard of.’
