by Iain Cameron
The head office and main warehouse of the company was located in a modern industrial unit on the Woodingdean Business Park, to the east of Brighton and close to the University of Sussex. By the time he got there it was almost two o’clock and, feeling hungry, he headed straight for the cafeteria. He could have purchased a pack of sandwiches from the service station he passed on the M23 and eaten them at his desk, but doing so would make him feel like some lab-raised hamster, fearful of stepping off the treadmill in case he missed an important phone call or an interesting email. He didn’t see many people about as most of the staff in the building stopped for lunch at one, but after collecting his food, he spotted his Human Resources Director, Sarah Corbett, and walked over to join her.
‘This is a bit late for you, Peter.’
‘Are you checking up on me, making sure I’m eating well?’
She smiled. ‘Sorry if it sounded like I was. No, what I meant was you are usually down here by about twelve-thirty.’
‘I know, I’m only teasing. I visited the Croydon shop this morning. It’s the first time I’ve seen it since it’s been stocked.’
‘What did you think?’
‘It’s marvellous, and if the numbers over the next few months back it up as I expect they will, we’ll be opening a few more and refocusing our other shops to compliment them.’
‘How do you mean refocusing, in what way?’
It never ceased to amaze him how skilful HR people were at making conversations flow with continual use of ‘open’ questions, those which could not be answered with a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’. At times, it could be irritating, in particular when he was in a hurry, but at the moment he was happy to indulge. He explained his rationale and told her he would raise the subject in their next management monthly meeting, a week on Tuesday.
‘You seem to pack away a pretty big lunch,’ she said, ‘but you never seem to put on an ounce of weight. What’s your secret?’
He smiled. ‘Don't think I’m about to reveal the details of a new, radical diet just so you can write a book and make millions. Not because I don’t want to lose you, but because I don’t have one. I only eat here to save me cooking at home.’
‘It makes sense. How are you coping on the domestic front?’
‘What, with Emily gone?’
She nodded. ‘But don’t tell me if you think I’m being nosey.’
‘It’s all right, I’m a big boy. I’m doing ok, I suppose. I mean, I’m a bit limited in what I can cook but I can read the instructions on a packet and operate a microwave, so I won’t starve although I have to admit, it’s not much fun cooking for one.’
She sighed. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘Oh. Did something happen between you and Andrew?’
‘We split up…two weeks ago.’
‘I'm sorry to hear it. You kept that quiet.’
‘I did. I didn’t want to broadcast it and have everybody talking about me.’
‘You mean like I did?’
‘No, I didn’t mean it like that. In any case, it’s different for you, you’re the boss and everyone in here knew Emily, so it would have thrown the whole place into gossip-overdrive if you’d turned up at one of our regular restaurant get-togethers on your own or on the arm of someone else.’
‘Ha, fat chance of that happening at the moment, but you’re right. What happened between you and Andrew, if you don't mind me asking?’
She looked down at her empty plate; he was only halfway through his lasagne. ‘He said we were moving in different directions and we weren’t the same people we once were.’ She shrugged. ‘I guess it was a polite way of saying he fancied somebody else.’
‘I didn’t know him too well, but whenever we met I always thought he was a nice guy.’
‘Maybe too nice, if you know what I mean.’
‘Don’t do yourself down, Sarah. You’ll soon find someone else.’
‘I haven’t yet.’
‘You’ll see. You’ll be inundated with offers if you haven’t been already.’
He meant it. She was forty-two with a pretty face and styled shoulder-length blonde hair which was trimmed every three or four weeks. She wore stylish clothes and had what he would call a ‘womanly’ figure, as she wasn’t stick-thin like the bulimic clothes-horses he often saw in the fashion pages of newspapers, or so fat that the material on her blouse was put under continual strain.
‘I thank you kind sir,’ she said reaching out and putting her hand on his arm. ‘I regret to say I can’t sit around here listening to any more of these fine compliments. I’ve got three more interviews to do this afternoon.’
‘What a shame, but I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.’
She stood and waved a dainty hand. ‘Bye, Peter. See you later. We should do this more often.’
He spent a large part of the next few hours on a succession of phone calls and in two long meetings, and only returned to his desk at six-thirty after a tedious session with the marketing team. If he was tired, he would usually check his messages and emails and if nothing required his immediate attention, he would pack a briefcase and head home, but tonight the prospect of microwaved meatballs in front of the television somehow didn’t have its usual appeal. Instead, he went down to the cafeteria for something to eat and came back to the office and continued to work for another couple of hours.
He began by reviewing a report sent to him by a firm of property consultants, the same company who were responsible for finding the Croydon shop. The report listed a number of similar sites in various towns across the UK, and he enjoyed an intriguing half-hour reading the descriptions and trying to locate the places on a map. By the time he’d finished, the scribbles on his notepad suggested three sites met his criteria, and he was about to send the consultants an email to arrange viewing appointments, when Sarah Corbett walked in.
‘Do you have a few minutes, Peter?’
‘Sure, take a seat.’
‘I wanted to give you the heads-up on a guy I’ve just finished interviewing for the web marketing position. I think he may be the right person for the job.’
He pushed the property details to one side. ‘Ok, let’s take a look.’
She opened a folder and passed him some papers. He didn’t spend much time reading the CV as he often found them cold and featureless, and if newspaper reports were to be believed, full of blatant lies and flagrant embellishment. Instead, he concentrated on Sarah’s assessment, as she was good at homing-in on a subject’s main accomplishments and unearthing hidden deficiencies and failings.
‘He’s an interesting guy,’ he said when he finished reading. ‘With bags of experience. I mean, he designed and maintains a web site for his current employer and is doing the same for his own music news website. I don’t like dance music myself, so I’m not the best judge to determine if it’s any good or not.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve taken a look and I think it’s very good.’
He didn’t think she was the type to attend acid parties in a ripped t-shirt or noisy basement clubs dressed in her best leathers, but he let the thought pass.
‘Good. We both think he could do the job. What do you want to do now?’
‘I’d like to bring him back in, let him see the people and the place where he might be working, and to meet you.’
‘No problem. You go ahead and agree a date with him and I’ll try and be here. My diary is quiet next week, as I left it free to go over the initial data from the Croydon superstore. That might be the best time.’
‘Great,’ she said, writing it down. ‘Thanks.’ She gathered her papers together and stood, but as soon as she did so, her arm caught the back of the chair and the papers she was holding fell out of the folder and scattered across the floor.
‘Blooming heck,’ she exclaimed. ‘How could I have been so stupid and clumsy?’
Her skirt was tight and Peter doubted she could bend far without bursting a seam or hiking it up too much and leaving little to the imagination.
He rose from the chair to help her. ‘Don’t worry about it, Sarah, I’ll get them.’
He bent down and picked up the sheets. He stood and handed them over but as their fingers touched he felt a surge of electricity and when he looked into her eyes, it was obvious she felt it too. He leaned closer and without any reproach or hesitation on her part, her face rose to meet his.
SIX
DI Henderson walked into the Detectives’ Room and headed towards DC Phil Bentley’s desk.
‘Morning, sir. How are you today?’ Bentley said as he approached.
‘Not bad Phil. How are you? How are you getting on with the new baby?’
‘Fine. I had a good night’s sleep as it was my wife’s turn to get up and do the two o’clock feed.’
‘Good to hear. It wouldn’t do to see you sleeping at your desk. How did you get on with the recon of our drugs warehouse?’
‘Grab a pew and I’ll show you.’
Henderson took a seat beside his desk while he searched through a large wad of papers. He found what he was looking for and handed the DI a thin report.
‘As you suggested, sir,’ Bentley said, ‘I contacted EDF and they sent a helicopter armed with a thermal imaging camera over the site two days ago.’
Henderson flicked through the report, which included a series of photographs.
Bentley pointed at the first photograph, a black and white still of various buildings taken from about one hundred feet where one, a large barn, glowed white.
‘They detected a significant heat signature from the barn, consistent with a strong heat source, such as multiple lights and heaters.’
Henderson looked at the other pictures, taken at lower altitude and with more zoom, so he could make out the shape of the barn, and almost all of it glowed white.
‘What about their electricity usage?’
‘There’s one meter for the farm and EDF say the usage is what they would expect from a large, working agricultural outfit.’
‘Good. So what we know is something hot is going on in the barn and they’re by-passing the electricity meter to power it.’
‘I would say so, and if they’re not growing dope, I’ll eat the report.’
Henderson stood. ‘Good work, Phil. Is DS Walters about?’
‘I haven’t seen her this morning.’
‘When you do, tell her to come into my office. Cheers, Phil.’
He walked back to his office in a cheerful mood. The little snippet his nark, Davy Cairns, had given him about a drug growing operation at a farm on the outskirts of Burgess Hill was starting to look like the real deal. All he needed now was some intel on the owner and they would be ready to pay the farm a visit.
When he arrived at his office, DS Walters was standing outside.
‘Morning Carol, you’ve been missed.’
‘Sorry, sir. I couldn’t get out of bed this morning.’
‘Late night?’
They walked into his office and sat down at the small meeting table.
‘I didn’t finish here until gone nine and afterwards went out for a drink with a few mates.’
‘How did you get on with researching Potter Farm?’
‘I thought you might ask,’ she said opening the folder she had been carrying. ‘It’s owned by a man called Tristan Hunt and the farm’s been in his family for four generations. They grow corn, wheat, and rapeseed.’
‘Interesting. Did you check his record?’
‘Yep, he’s clean.’
‘Anything else?’
She lifted out some papers from the small pile. ‘I took a look at the accounts for the last few years. Three years ago the business made a loss, the year after, an even bigger loss, but ever since they’ve made healthy profits.’
‘This suggests to me that the farm has been in decline and Hunt approached the dope growers, or the dope growers came to him with the idea at just the right time. Either way, I think Hunt is complicit in what’s going on and not a poor farmer trying to make a buck by renting out a barn, unaware of what’s going on inside it.’
‘I agree.’
‘Good. Talk to Sergeant Gary Brown over at John Street and see if you can rustle up half a dozen uniforms for a raid on Wednesday.’
‘Would you like them armed?’
He thought for a moment. ‘No. If it’s Chinese or Vietnamese guys tending the plants inside, the most we’ll see is knives or baseball bats.’
‘Famous last words before we face a small platoon carrying AK47’s.’
‘You’ve been watching too many Vietnam War movies. The reason I don’t like taking guns is not because I fear one of our guys will shoot someone, accidentally or in the heat of the moment, as they’re trained to avoid these situations, but they’ll be overpowered and then the bad guys will be armed.’
‘I understand. I’ll get it organised.’
When Walters left the room Henderson woke up his computer and ran a search on Google. When he found the company he was looking for, he dialled the number listed for the switchboard.
‘Good morning, Grant’s Fitness Emporium.’
‘Good morning. I’d like to speak to Peter Grant, please,’ he said.
‘I’ll see if he’s free. Who should I say is calling?’
‘Detective Inspector Angus Henderson, Surrey and Sussex Police.’
‘Just a moment, sir.’
She came back on the line thirty seconds later. ‘I’m afraid he’s not around, Inspector, he’s out on a shop visit. This morning he’s in Hastings and this afternoon, Brighton. Can I take a message?’
‘No, it’s all right. I’ll call back.’
Henderson continued working on a project for his boss, CI Edwards, for the rest of the morning. At lunchtime, he ate a sandwich at his desk and at two he left the office.
He could see his car without too much trouble, a dark blue Audi Avant. It was sandwiched between two other dark cars, both of which were clean and sparkling, while his car hadn’t seen the inside of a carwash since January.
He drove into town in a reflective mood, his usual temperament when wrestling with a new case or trying to put some facts into a semblance of order, such as why had Barry Crow jumped into a fast-moving torrent. He turned into the car park at Churchill Square, relieved to see it back to normal after the long queues and the fight for spaces he experienced the last time he was here, a week before Christmas.
Inside the shopping centre, he took an escalator to the top level. He easily found the Brighton branch of Grant’s Fitness Emporium, wedged between an American gents’ outfitter and a kitchen shop. He walked in and approached a young man stacking shelves from a trolley that included big tubs of muscle-building powder, so huge it would take someone with large muscles to even attempt to place them on the top shelf.
‘Excuse me. Is Mr Grant around?’
‘He’s in the office at the back.’
‘Can you get him for me?’
The guy grunted something, annoyed to have his work interrupted, and sauntered away towards the back of the shop.
A minute or so later Peter Grant appeared. Instead of the sweater or t-shirt he used to wear when he once manned the till in his shop, he wore a smart two-piece suit and open-neck shirt. Mr Grumpy Shelf Stacker went back to his toils.
‘Angus, good to see you,’ Peter said shaking his hand.
‘You too, Peter. How are you?’
‘Good. You’ve heard about Barry?’
‘Yes, sorry to say.’
‘I’m just trying to come to terms with it, myself.’
Henderson nodded.
‘Are you here in a personal or a professional capacity?’
‘A bit of both to be honest. Is there a place where we can talk?’
‘Sure. Follow me.’
He turned and walked past shelves of food, drink, powder and potions; the products of an apothecary for the fit and healthy who wanted to be become more fit and healthy.
Through a door at the back of the shop, Pete
r led him into a small office. In his experience these places often resembled an overflow stockroom with boxes of product and overloaded hangers with extra uniforms or staff clothing, but this one looked neat and tidy.
Peter took a seat behind a desk which faced the wall, and Henderson sat on a chair at the side.
‘Can I get you anything?’ Peter asked. ‘Tea, coffee or a Tai Chi pick-me-up?’
‘No, I’m fine. Can I ask you Peter, what did think when you first heard how Barry died?’
He leaned back in the chair. With his jacket off, short hair, lean face and muscular frame, he looked like a sportsman masquerading as a businessman, but looks could be deceptive, as the growth of his fitness company had been meteoric and much lauded by local media and business leaders.
‘I felt shock at first, as I’d lost a good mate, but when it finally sank in, I couldn’t understand why he jumped in the water at all.’
‘An article I read said he was a good swimmer.’
‘He was, and went to the pool a couple of times a week, and in the summer he swam in the sea. But the thing is, I still don’t see him jumping in the river after the dog.’
‘Why not?’
‘He loved animals, and the papers down in Arundel were treating him like the Patron Saint of Dogs, but he wasn’t like that.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Would you jump in a river after your dog?’
Henderson had thought about it before. ‘No, I don’t think I would.’
‘Me neither, and in my opinion, Barry was no different. He was a caring, loving dog owner who would feed it, walk it and look after it, but would he risk his life? I don’t think so. He had too much riding on it.’
‘Like what, his business?’
‘Yeah, his business and the charity work he did. What’s your interest?’
‘Curiosity, nosey copper syndrome, call it what you like. I went down to Arundel to take a look and like yourself, I was surprised he jumped in, as the current in the river looked strong and would deter better swimmers than him.’
‘You couldn’t even say Barry was into taking risks, because he wasn’t. In the band, that was Eric’s role, and a couple times we were convinced he had a death wish.’ Peter smiled at the memory. ‘Barry would take one look at Eric and tell him he was an idiot.’
