by D J Harrison
‘Don’t be so hasty, Jenny, it’s my fault, I’m the one to blame. I asked him to come here, to keep me company.’
‘Then you’re fired as well, Yvonne. I need all the help I can get if this business is going to survive, I need people I can trust. I don’t need either of you two.’
Yvonne is paler now. ‘We have an agreement, Jenny, you have to pay me. I have to be kept on.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll pay you. Our agreement stands, I just don’t want you involved in the business any more. ’
Ever since I arrived at Midgeland this morning and found everything idle, the problems still piling up and no sign of anyone with any interest in making the place work, I’ve been angry. All I wanted at first was to confront Yvonne, to get things moving, maybe read the riot act a little, but seeing them together makes my blood boil. She’s entitled to her bit of pleasure, I’ll not deny her that, but both of them are supposed to be working. It’s not as if everything is running like clockwork while they’re having it off.
So they both have to go. Now I see Stefan’s posturing around in her dressing gown, barely hiding his tumescence, and the overt familiarity with which he is handling her body, I realise why the business is in such a bloody mess. It’s all Stefan’s responsibility and there’s been nobody holding him to account. Yvonne’s more interested in getting his cock inside her than insisting on him doing his job. I’m sad about Yvonne, I hoped she would be a source of help and experience, guide me through the handover of the business. Under the circumstances I’d rather pay her to stay away. She’s not going to let me sack her lover-boy without constantly reminding me how much he’s needed at Midgeland. How every setback is down to his absence. He’s had his chance, made his choice. It’s obvious that this arrangement isn’t some kind of spur of the moment, one-off thing. I’ll bet he arrives most days as soon as Yvonne’s kids have left for school. No wonder the business is in such dire straits.
There’s still a lot of protesting going on, especially from Yvonne. Stefan is muttering threats between gritted teeth, as if that’s ever going to change things for the better. I leave them to it. Maybe they’ll go back upstairs and carry on where they left off, but I have the feeling that their moment may have passed.
48
It’s a burning sensation, a deep pain that courses through my abdomen. Though I’m supported by my bed I feel as if I’m falling, plunging deeper into nothingness and despair. When I don’t think about Alex the pain is still there. When I do bring him to mind it rages unchecked and threatens to consume me. When I close my eyes his face appears, wide honest eyes tell me I’m not good enough, that he has better things to do with his life. The feelings we shared are negated by the knowledge that they’re no longer valid.
I wriggle with doubt and frustration, realising it was only my fantasy all along. That I must have projected my love on to him and watched it reflect back at me. The love I have isn’t enough for us both. There’s nothing and nobody left in my life. Without Alex it has no meaning. There’s no longer any happy illusion to sustain me. Even Monty’s paid presence is no longer available. I have no trust in Hector. Yvonne hates me, the only friend I have left is Doreen. After today I doubt she’ll still be there for me. Today is Tuesday. I sit up in bed, new waves of doubt and despair paralysing my mind. I can’t go through with it, I can’t believe I ever imagined I could.
*
Slater is grinning, perched on the passenger seat of the Range Rover. If he starts rubbing his hands again I don’t think I’ll be able to stop myself driving into the river and putting an end to us both. There’s a great deal of grim satisfaction that comes with that image. It might not be the best answer to my problems but as a solution it ranks at least equal to what I’m about to attempt.
‘Four o’clock,’ I say for the third time, ‘at his fiancée’s home.’
‘Are you sure it’ll be Lafferty himself and not some employee?’ Slater asks again.
‘I’m sure.’
‘It has to be him personally.’
‘You’ve already said that several times. I know it has to be Fergus and that you have to be there. That’s the awkward bit, you being there. I’m sure he’ll take one look at your policeman’s face and run away.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Slater says. ‘I’m used to working under cover, he’ll suspect nothing. It’s only reasonable for you to bring some protection and you will be carrying a large amount of cash about.’
I think of the money I already received from Lafferty, wonder how Slater might react to knowing I had it. Feel tempted to tell him just to wipe that smirk off his face.
We crawl slowly and respectfully up Doreen’s long drive, past the chestnut mare with her foal, anxious not to disturb her any more than is necessary. Lafferty stands outside the back door, holding a brown envelope and wearing a grim expression. Despite the steady drizzle he makes no movement, nor does he invite us inside to shelter.
‘Here,’ he holds out the envelope to me. ‘This is the cash you asked for.’
I take it and watch Slater’s eyes as I peel back the flap and reveal the bank notes inside.
‘Who’s this?’ Lafferty asks, as if seeing Slater for the first time.
‘This is Sandy, he’s helping me out at the moment.’
‘What happened to your man then?’
‘Monty? Oh he’s on another job now.’ I hope I’m hiding the pain it gives me to admit it.
‘So you’ll be putting that cash into the business then? I’ll want it back, you understand.’
‘Don’t worry, Fergus, I know it’s a loan. I just need it to tide me over, make a payment you understand.’
‘Well then I’ll not be keeping you.’
Lafferty turns and walks through Doreen’s kitchen door. Slater and I clamber gratefully back into my car, clothes damp and uncomfortable. I drive carefully out of the gate, narrowly avoiding the wailing police cars rushing in the opposite direction. I shudder with cold, and worry about the effect all that din will have on the horses.
49
The skip wagon backs up to the edge of the pile. The driver gets out of his cab and works the levers to raise the load and deposit it. A cloud of white dust flies up and hovers in the air, partly obscuring the vehicle. I risk lung disease by emerging from my half protected office and walk over to see what’s been brought in. A few bricks, concrete blocks, sheets of plasterboard, some earth, several black bin bags, a mattress and the frame of an old bike.
‘Where’s this load from?’ I have to shout to get the driver’s attention. He’s seen me but appears intent on getting away as soon as possible. ‘Greg,’ I call. ‘What is it?’ He peers down at me from high up in his lorry cab.
‘This load,’ I say, ‘which job is it from?’
His face flashes alarm at me. I get a sudden feeling that something’s wrong. He looks about his cab, fishes out his ticket book, leafs through it.
‘Barraclough’s at Marston,’ he reads.
I glance back at the pile. Barraclough’s is a garden centre; I’ve seen their waste before. It’s mainly cardboard and plastic packaging materials.
‘This doesn’t look like Barraclough’s,’ I say. ‘It looks more like a domestic skip, or one left at a house for a builder.’
Greg’s face is red now. He’s clutching his ticket book tightly. ‘No,’ he shakes his head, ‘Barraclough’s.’
He passes his book down to me. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘The last ticket in the book’s made out to Barraclough’s.’
He’s right I suppose. After he’s driven off, gunning the engine aggressively as if he’s trying to show me his displeasure, I walk over to the gatehouse and have a look at the weigh tickets. The last one for Barraclough’s was at 9.27, it’s now nearly 11. Either Greg’s been sitting in his cab waiting to tip for nearly two hours or something’s wrong.
I turn to the weighbridge clerk who is busy staring into space and ignoring me.
‘Colin.’ His eyes engage briefly then sh
y away like scared rabbits. ‘The last load Greg brought in, where’s the weigh ticket?’
‘It’s there, Mrs Parker, they’re all there.’
‘No they are not,’ I say, ‘the last load booked by Greg was Barraclough’s. I’m talking about the one he brought in ten minutes ago.’
‘He’s not been back in.’
‘Yes he has,’ I point. ‘Look, you can see his wagon waiting to turn on to the main road.’
‘Oh.’ Colin looks down as if seeking inspiration from the scuffed lino beneath his feet. ‘He must have popped in to pick up an empty skip.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘He popped in with a full skip and tipped it. Why didn’t you weigh him?’
‘There’s no point weighing him empty.’
‘But he wasn’t empty.’
‘I wasn’t to know.’
‘Listen, Colin, he drove across your weighbridge, it’s obvious whether he’s got a load on or not.’
‘I must have missed him, maybe I was busy or distracted.’
‘All you do is weigh vehicles when they arrive, what else would you be doing?’
‘Maybe I went for a pee.’
‘Maybe you did. How many pees a day do you have?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing.’ I leave him there with his shifty look and walk outside into the faintly odorous fresh air and take some deep breaths. There’s a hollow feeling in my stomach which is gradually being filled by a mixture of frustration and anger.
50
Dan Henderson’s desk is ridiculously untidy. There are random piles of old paper scattered across it and barely enough room for the laptop computer that he pecks away at as I approach.
‘Here’s your cash,’ I say, placing the envelope that Fergus gave me on top of the pile nearest his right hand. He reaches out with his left and plucks a single piece of paper from under a magazine, almost without looking.
‘Here’s your invoice and receipt,’ he says.
I stand for a few moments while his attention remains on his typing and he pokes his right index finger at the keyboard with an air of finality.
‘There,’ he says.
A printer hums into life and begins spitting out copies. ‘Sorry, had to finish that, it’s a witness statement for a POCA hearing.’
‘A what?’
‘POCA, Proceeds of Crime Act.’
‘Yes, I’m familiar with that, but what’s it got to do with you? I thought you were a waste management consultant.’
‘I am, and I spend half my time these days as an expert witness. The Environment Agency are using POCA as a source of revenue.’
‘How can they do that?’
‘By getting confiscation orders on people they prosecute. These days they only charge people they know have money. That way the EA make sure they make plenty of profit from every prosecution.’
Dan clips the print out together and slides it into an envelope.
‘My secretary’s having a day off today,’ he grins.
From the look of his office he needs a cleaner before he can attract a secretary.
‘I’ve got some problems at Midgeland,’ I say.
‘Some?’ Dan continues to smile. ‘I’d say you’ve got lots.’
‘Not just the ones we spoke about,’ I say. ‘One of my skip drivers is on the fiddle.’
Dan raises his eyebrows. ‘Then you’re lucky,’ he says.
‘What do you mean?’
‘If it’s only one, that’s unusual. Normally all the drivers are at it, doing foreigners, putting out their own skips, taking the cash. The problem is you’re the one paying for the tipping costs as well as everything else.’
‘So it’s widespread, is it?’
‘If they can get away with it, it is. What you have to do is improve the quality of your management, make sure there’s no room for them to cheat.’
‘I’ve got no management, I’ve sacked Yvonne and Stefan.’ I’m tempted to describe what they were up to as some sort of justification. I realise I must appear very stupid in Dan’s eyes.
‘Sounds like a good start,’ Dan says. ‘That Stefan seems worse than useless. As for Yvonne, she’s nice but it’s never a good idea to keep on the previous owner, they’re used to having their own way. They tend to use the business as a piggy bank in any case.’
I let out a long breath. Dan’s comments are music to my ears. Maybe I’m not so incompetent after all. Maybe now I can start exerting some control.
‘The next man you need to sack is the weighbridge clerk,’ Dan says. ‘He’s the one who’s letting all the dodgy loads in. He’ll be on a backhander all right. Replace him with someone you can trust, then you can keep better tabs on the drivers. That way you don’t have to sack your entire workforce. The drivers are important to you, they know all the jobs.’
‘I don’t know anyone who’s a weighbridge clerk that I can trust,’ I say. My heart feels heavy at the thought that I can’t honestly think of anyone I can trust, weighbridge clerk or not.
‘I can get someone to process the stockpile if you want,’ Dan says.
‘How much will that cost?’
‘I’ll put some numbers together for you. The main question is what we do with the stuff we process.’
‘Can’t it go on my tip?’
‘Yes but you’d have to pay landfill tax, seventy-two pounds a ton. I can do better than that for you by having it all taken away.’
‘Then do that, let me have a price for someone just picking it up and taking it away.’
Dan presses some keys on his computer. His printer makes a reluctant whirr and spits out a single sheet of paper.
‘There you go,’ he says, ‘have a look at that and tell me if you can afford it.’
51
My phone vibrates on the kitchen table, moves slowly in a circle, then dings, as if in triumph at its own cleverness. It's a text message from an unknown number, which contains only a partial address and a time. It's the house where I confronted Wasiewicz, and six o'clock I'm assuming refers to this evening.
When I think of returning there, dread crawls through my body. Even with Monty by my side and the vanload of heavies waiting for his call, I don't fancy a return match. Without Monty I'd be deranged to the nth degree if I even consider it, but I have to go. I set Wasiewicz a task; this is obviously his way of fulfilling my orders. He must've found Kat. After all my searching, after all the trouble I've been to I have to take this opportunity, but to go there alone? Not a chance.
I have all day to think about it. Toby will have to go home a little earlier than I intended, but I doubt that he'll mind. Saturdays with Toby are delightful and nourishing, but can seem very long, if I'm honest. I wonder if he feels the same way after a whole day and night with his mum.
He's playing with an orange at the moment, pulling the segments apart, sucking out the juice, leaving the stringy bit strewn across his plate. There's already more mess than if an orange bomb had exploded in the kitchen. I don't know how he manages to make so much. I wipe his mouth with a tea towel. He looks at me as if I'm spoiling carefully applied make-up and allows more orange to dribble down his chin to replace it.
Maybe in fifteen years’ time I'll have Toby to protect me from the likes of Wasiewicz. The thought of him in harm’s way makes me shudder. That wouldn't be right; I'd never want Toby to be involved in the things that I am. By the time he grows up I'm intending to have long forgotten all this crap.
He reaches out for a banana and begins to struggle to unpeel it, holding it too tightly, squashing it to mush. I reach out to help him but he pulls away, intent on solving the puzzle of the yellow container all by himself.
I wonder if I should call Lottie, tell her about the meeting. She'll want to come, obviously she will. At least then I'll have someone with me. But no, instincts tell me that idea is a very bad one. Two women, one of them likely to become very emotional at a reunion with her long-lost twin sister, is not a good prospect. I have to go, but not wit
h Lottie. But I can't face it alone.
The banana’s outer defences have been breached; white mush is being squeezed out like toothpaste. Toby is poking it with his finger, letting it fall in dollops on to the table. He’s showing no signs of eating it; I can't really blame him when I look at it.
When I had GOD Security, there’d be half a dozen handy lads I could use as backup. Mick would've sorted something out for me, certainly insisted on being there himself. Of course, the football lads. Mick still looks after the parking on match days; he'll still be able to help me out if I ask him.
There’s a problem though. Mick is nearly sixty now and although he's big, it's all turned to lard. His knees are so bad he can hardly walk these days. When I remember the men Wasiewicz had with him – young, ex-military muscle – Mick wouldn't stand a chance if there was trouble. Worse still, he'd make them laugh. I’d lose all credibility. The same probably goes for every one of the ragtag assortment that we use at the football. Not even Mick then. For a moment my hopes were up and now reality is suffocating them again. The supermarket café where I met Popov has to be the best option. Somewhere sufficiently public to be safe, or at least I hope it will be. I return the text with my alternative venue and get an okay a few minutes later.
Toby holds his hands up in triumph, glistening with sloppy banana paste. The yellow skin lies deflated and defeated, discarded on the table top. I look into his soft, laughing eyes, wonder what life has in store for my little boy. Will his soft face become tight and hard as he’s buffeted by life's unfairness? Will that loving innocence disappear completely and be replaced by the cold knowing I saw on the faces of Wasiewicz’s men?
I take him into my arms, ignoring the smears of banana, and squeeze him tight to my body. I tell him everything’s going to be all right, that his mum will always be there for him. I listen to what I'm saying and try to extract comfort from it for myself. There's a part of me that knows it's hopeless, that Toby will have to fend for himself, but there's another stronger urge inside me that’s determined to win through, whatever the cost. I have to be here for Toby, it's his right and I'm not going to let anyone deny him that.
