Jenny Parker Investigates

by D J Harrison

  ‘I strongly advise you to let it lie. The police are doing everything the law allows them to.’

  ‘Then the law is wrong.’

  *

  My dark mood is not helped by the greeting I get at the office. Emma, eyes red with crying, introduces two be-suited men with leather brief cases.

  It’s much later before I can speak to Mick about Trafford Trailers.

  ‘I’m sorry, look, I’ve not had a minute. I’ve had all afternoon with two men from the Health & Safety Executive, would you believe. They wanted everything. All our procedures, our contracts of employment, asked for risk assessments, all sorts of gobbledegook. Apparently unless I can show them we have a safe system of work they’re going to prosecute over Alan’s death.’

  ‘That’s bollocks,’ Mick says. ‘They should be prosecuting the bastards that killed him, how can that be right?’

  ‘It’s not, it stinks. It’s not as if we haven’t better things to do than talk to these clipboard-wielding jobsworths.’

  Mick asks, ‘Can you go to see Alan’s widow? She’s been asking me about death in service benefits and pensions and such like, I’ve no idea about that sort of thing. I said you would deal with it.’

  A sudden panic swells up inside me. What can I tell her? As far as I know there’s nothing. I pay the lads a wage, that’s all. I never thought to take any provision for situations like this. There must be special insurance you can buy, but it’s too late now.

  It’s all become too much, I realise. There aren’t enough hours in the day when things are going well. Now I have a death on my hands, a grieving widow, the Health & Safety Executive and the police to deal with over Trafford Trailers. The whole business is going to the wall over this one incident and it’s my fault. There should have been better protection for Alan when he was alive and money for his widow now he’s dead. The responsibility lies with me, there’s no-one else to blame.

  I promise to see Alan’s widow in the morning, a prospect that does little to improve my fitful sleep. The flat phone rings again, this time at 3 a.m. The voice is hard and menacing.

  ‘Jenny Parker, we’re coming to get you, we’re going to make you wish you had never been born.’

  ‘Join the queue,’ I say, as I yank out the wire.

  15

  The parking meters in Byrom Street are voracious beasts, their huge tariffs mirroring those charged by the lawyers’ offices that front onto it. Despite the exorbitant cost, all bays are full and I have to cruise around waiting for someone to run out of time and money. The alternative is the cramped Spinningfields multi-storey or the waste ground by the river; both are almost as costly and also involve a walk in the rain.

  Stephen greets me with a white insulated jug of instant coffee, made the way only he likes it, thick and bitter. One sip has me doubting I’ll sleep for week.

  ‘I hope you’re giving me a discount, all I hired you for was Toby and now there’s all these other things.’ I slap a thick sheath of documents onto his polished table.

  He sits behind a neat pile of folders. ‘Where do you want to begin, Jenny?

  ‘Let’s start with the one positive, shall we? The Stretford contract, have you had a chance to look at it?’

  ‘Yes I have. I’ve had some notes typed up to help take you through it.’

  ‘I don’t understand, surely it’s the same one that SG had, isn’t it? Can’t I just sign it and get on with the job?’

  ‘You can, but I wouldn’t advise it.’ He flips open his copy and begins to explain it all. After half an hour we are not a quarter of the way through and I am losing the will to live. Some of the things Stretford want from us are ludicrous, I can’t believe SG agreed to all this.

  ‘Is there any point?’ I ask. ‘Isn’t it a question of me agreeing or not being given the contract?’

  ‘Certainly not, it’s fairly standard practice. As preferred bidder you have the chance to negotiate the terms and conditions. Only if you fail to agree will anyone else be considered. If you like I can send the council an amended contract to start the ball rolling.’

  ‘Okay, better do that.’

  ‘When they come back with their position, we can narrow down the points of disagreement.’

  I nod my assent, anything to stop this painstaking process. ‘Okay, now the Health & Safety Executive prosecution, what can you do about that?’

  ‘Not much I’m afraid.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that you will be found guilty.’

  ‘Guilty! Some bastard’s killed my man and I’m the guilty one?’

  ‘Not you, GOD Security. They’ve only prosecuted the company, they could easily have done you personally as well. Listen, Jenny, the law requires employers to have a safe system of work in place. If someone gets killed or injured, as far as the court’s concerned, your system wasn’t safe. It’s always an automatic conviction, that’s the way the legislation is framed.’

  ‘It’s a very stupid law,’ I gasp.

  ‘A lot of them are,’ he replies. ‘Expect a sizeable fine on this one, fifty thousand pounds wouldn’t surprise me.’

  ‘That’ll put us out of business.’

  ‘Then we could plead mitigation on the grounds of hardship.’

  ‘What about Alan’s widow, doesn’t she get some of that money?’

  ‘No, it goes to the Treasury.’

  ‘But surely if I was to give it to her to look after his kids, wouldn’t that be better?’

  ‘Better yes, much better. But that’s not how it works, I’m afraid.’

  This is a nightmare. I’m not cut out for this sort of thing, it makes me feel so angry and bitter. Every time I come up against the law of this land, I am treated with the utmost injustice. It started when I unwisely accepted a bribe and went to prison for money-laundering. Then Dawn, my crazed cellmate, almost killed me and my sentence was extended for defending myself. Toby was denied me and I’m left powerless to even have him visit. I witness child prostitution and am threatened by prosecution myself. Always the same, the law is set against me. Now I face this.

  ‘How do you sleep at night, Stephen?’ I ask. ‘All this nonsense you have to administer, all this injustice, all this bad law, how do you stand it?’

  ‘I don’t make the laws, Jenny, that’s the politicians’ job. All I can do is help as much as I can when they’re applied to my clients.’

  ‘It’s not fair,’ I say on the point of collapse into self-pity. ‘It’s just not fair.’

  16

  George Bottomley leans back in his frayed maroon chair, swivels towards me and slurps his tea unsteadily.

  ‘Mick says you wanted to see me.’ He looks much more composed than at our last meeting by the demolished wall.

  ‘I wanted to make sure you had the cover you need, that you’re happy with the arrangement.’

  ‘Yes, yes it’s okay for now, but I’ll not be wanting to pay for two men on nights for very long. I know it’s sensitive for you but you have to realise the extra cover’s for your benefit, not something I asked for.’

  ‘Bear with me, George, I’ll review it in a couple of weeks’ time. Maybe then we can go back to normal. How’s the police investigation going? What about the CCTV recording, have they been able to identify anyone from that?’

  ‘Well there’s the thing, there isn’t one. It wasn’t working, it seems your man hadn’t activated the system properly. Of all the nights to mess up, that was the worst.’

  ‘I don’t get it, George, the system records automatically. Alan didn’t have to do anything. He couldn’t have messed it up.’

  ‘Well whatever he did or didn’t do, the recordings for the night of the break-in are all blank. Nothing to go on, the police say.’

  ‘Oh.’ I’m pretending to be surprised even though Mick has warned me already about the CCTV footage. ‘You should have told me, George. We’ll have them on our office server. There’s an automatic upload to our system from all the premises we look aft
er. It’s simple to do. We don’t charge you any extra for it.’

  George’s demeanour changes. His look tells me what I might see on those fictional recordings, if they existed. Before he can recover his composure I ask, ‘What was on the trailer, George?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know.’

  ‘You told me you would have to check. You must have told the police something.’

  ‘It was detergent from P & G, a load of detergent.’

  ‘So you’re telling me that someone went to the trouble of breaking down a wall, shunting trailers around, killing my security guard and wiping the CCTV all for a few packets of washing powder?’

  ‘Seems that way.’ He looks at his feet.

  ‘Okay, George, I’ll go through the uploads and have a look if there’s anything useful. If there is, I’ll make sure the police get a copy. Do you want me to send you one as well?’

  I watch him staring into space for a moment then leave without waiting for his reply.

  17

  ‘It’s not too late for you to pull out.’ Jim Almond appears more sanguine in person than over the phone. ‘There’s too much work for you to swallow all at once, save yourself a lot of grief.’ At least he’s stopped ranting on about how I shafted him and broke my promise to cover his price.

  ‘I didn’t agree to meet in order to give up the job. It takes GOD Security to the next level. All that guaranteed work for the next five years, it’s important to us, I’m sure you can understand that.’

  ‘Then why did you bother coming? If you’re expecting me to make the transition a smooth one, then think again. I’ll make sure you only get the men I’m glad to see the back of. The awkwardist, laziest and most militant I get to transfer over to you. I may have lost the contract but I can dump all my rubbish on you.’

  ‘I get the picture. I’m sure we’ll cope. With the Stretford contract, GOD Security is a nice size, able to bid for other big contracts, not as hand to mouth as we were. We’ve got some credibility now, we’re a business with good prospects. I need someone to manage it.’

  His eyebrows arch. He doesn’t look as if he saw this one coming. A smile begins to play around his lips. ‘You’re offering me a job?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You couldn’t afford me.’

  ‘So you are interested?’

  ‘Well.’ He looks straight at me. ‘I’d consider it if the money was right.’

  ‘Assume the money’s right, Jim. Can you see yourself putting GOD Security on the map? Giving the likes of SG a run for their money, growing the business and sharing in the rewards?’

  ‘I have to admit there’s scope for rapid expansion in your business. I also have the feeling that we would work well together.’

  ‘Okay, here’s the deal. I reckon you’re on fifty-five now, plus car, plus pension.’

  ‘Fifty-seven.’

  ‘Okay, fifty-seven. I’m offering sixty-five, sort out your own car and pension. There’s a bonus of ten thousand pounds if the Stretford contract makes a profit in the first year, plus I’ll give you a profit share in the whole business.’

  His eyes dart around his office, as if taking in all the paraphernalia he’s piled up in here, letting it all go, bidding it all farewell.

  ‘I’ll have to give three months’ notice.’

  ‘Give as much notice as you need to, Jim.’ I stand up and shake his hand. ‘I’ll start paying you from today anyway.’

  He smiles his understanding. I feel a mixture of exultation and relief.

  *

  ‘They’ve gone, cleared out, left an awful mess though,’ Mick reports.

  ‘I suppose that’s something. Get some contract cleaners in and tell them to blitz the place. Mrs Mather doesn’t need to see what they did to her home. Have everything cleaned, washed, disinfected; carpets, furniture, everything.’ I shudder as I think about what was going on in that place. ‘Any idea where they went?’

  ‘No idea, but the neighbours were glad to see the back of them. I did find some bits and pieces that might help identify them.’ He shovels a pile of grubby correspondence onto my desk. ‘Most of the letters are addressed to a D Wasiewicz and are about Job Seeker’s Allowance payments and Child Benefit.’

  ‘Cheeky bastards,’ I mutter.

  ‘At least Mrs Mather can have her flat back,’ Mick grins.

  He is starting to annoy me. I don’t feel he shares my deep unease at the situation, maybe it’s because he’s male and he sees what was going on there as a bit of harmless fun. I look at his big amiable smile, it gives me a cold feeling to think that he might easily form part of the clientele. He’s a man after all and that’s what they do all the time, isn’t it? If there were no customers, those little girls wouldn’t be abused. There’d be no business to conduct and all the customers are men like Mick.

  ‘You don’t get it, do you, Mick?’ I hear myself snarling. ‘It’s not the flat that’s the issue now, it’s what was going on there and is certainly still going on somewhere else. Those girls and hundreds of others like them are being sold to men on an hourly basis. That’s the issue. We need to find whoever these people are and put a stop to it.’

  ‘It’s prostitution, the oldest game in the world. It’s going on everywhere, all the time. You’ll never put a stop to it.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean I won’t try. You men treat it as some sort of recreational fun don’t you?’

  ‘No.’ Mick’s eyes flicker. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Yes you do, you’re all the same.’

  ‘No we’re not. I’m not anyway.’ His expression betrays his hurt feelings and I feel immediate remorse. Mick is a decent man.

  ‘Sorry, Mick,’ I say, ‘I know you’re not. I just got a bit angry, you know what I’m like.’

  I think of Martin, my dead lover, and the last time I felt sensitivity and respect from a man’s intimate touch. It’s been a long time and I can’t believe I’ll ever feel safe in a man’s arms again.

  18

  O’Brian is laughing now, a contrast to how he reacted when I showed him the documents I’d bought from his accountant, Simon Constable. Then, he had lapsed into frozen gloom, punctuated occasionally by the odd swear word and a kick out at one of his own polished chairs. Now he’s laughing, despite the betrayal, despite the loss of six thousand pounds in hard cash. He’s highly amused by my account of how I persuaded Simon to give me the information.

  ‘He really said that?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes, really. I told him I wanted a client list so that I could use it to get more business for GOD Security. I said we’d knock on their doors and offer to look after their homes and property.’

  ‘That’s so funny.’ He begins to chuckle again. ‘Simon may be a smart accountant, but he’s no idea about business.’

  I’m beginning resent O’Brian’s overblown merriment, I was much more comfortable with his initial indignation. Maybe I’m missing something here but I thought it was a plausible story. Simon Constable certainly found it entirely convincing and, to be quite honest, I have half a mind to use my copy of this list to do exactly as I promised.

  ‘They’re rich, have nice homes like yours, Peter, why wouldn’t they need GOD Security? You do after all.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jenny, it’s only that I know these people and you don’t. The idea is just so amusing and the fact that Simon bought it hook, line and sinker, very funny.’

  My irritation levels have risen to annoyance. O’Brian is laughing at me, belittling me as if I’m a small child. He seems less concerned about his dodgy accountant than he does about having a laugh at my expense.

  ‘Maybe I’ll try them anyway,’ I say. ‘Unless you have any objection?’

  ‘Be my guest.’ O’Brian stops laughing. ‘Let me know how you get on though, watch out you don’t get trapped in the rain by a big dog.’ He starts laughing again.

  All I want to do is hit someone, preferably him, and prove the old bugger wrong.

  ‘What are you going to
do about Simon Constable, are you going to be looking for new auditors?’

  His face clouds, every trace of amusement has disappeared in an instant. ‘Leave Simon to me, don’t tell anyone about this, no one at all. And don’t talk to Simon again, as I said, leave him to me.’

  O’Brian is clearly less comfortable with this line of conversation than when he was laughing at my expense.

  ‘So you will confront him, let him know you’re not happy with him?’

  It’s O’Brian’s turn to get irritated, I can see by the reddish suffusion colouring his neck.

  ‘I’ll deal with it,’ he says.

  I still don’t see what he finds so funny.

  19

  Tonight I’m so tired, I can’t think straight. Even with Jim Almond taking the brunt of the hard work, the Stretford job is proving more time- and energy-consuming than even Jim’s direst warnings foretold. I spend most of my days in meetings with people who believe that words speak louder than actions. Most evenings, all I can manage is to flop down on my sofa and watch TV. I know it softens my mind, robs me of conscious thoughts, steals my spirit and leaves me hollow. Sometimes, though, I want to be mindless and empty. Tonight I’ll switch the damned thing on and prostrate myself before it, praying for it to suck away the chaos of the day.

  The door of my flat swings open as I offer it my key. The door surround is ragged and splintery, someone has smashed their way in. I rush inside, heart choking, to a scene of devastation. The TV is lying face down on the rug, surrounded by glittering shards of glass. Every cushion on my settee has been slashed and ripped apart. Drawers lie upturned, contents littering every corner of the room. Each room is similarly destroyed, even my bedroom has been systematically defiled, my clothes lie shredded, furniture bashed to pieces. The stench rolls my stomach. There are thick brown turds coiled on my once white bed sheets. I don’t know what to do or where to start doing it. My mind won’t think. My body wants to sink down and lie in the mess.