A Servant of the Company

by Alan Cooke

  In three days he was expected to give a verbal report on his progress. He remembered that there had been a green line drawn around one paragraph in his instructions with an annotation saying that all plans to this point should be completed and reported upon. The date was underlined. So far he was on target. ‘Bugs’ and the information he must extract from him would take him to a midway point of phase one.

  The following morning he was up at six, washed, shaved, had a bowl of cereal and was rechecking the location of the Salvation Army hostel on his local city plan. Wilmott Street was just off the Mancunian Way and would take him about three quarters of an hour to get there on foot. He needed the exercise and the chill in the morning air would clear his head and allow rational thought about the future. Dealing with ‘Bugs’ Drinkwater he would have to play by ear, the only information available was that he had acquired in the pub so he would have to put his trust in it. At least until he could determine ‘Bugs’ state of mind and his malleability. His briefing had indicated the gang to be particularly vicious, but there was no mention of any individual’s input or position within the now defunct organisation. ‘Bugs’ could be all that the barmaid said, on the other hand he might be extremely dangerous, particularly in his present isolated state. ‘Bugs’ might construe any approach as the prelude to an attack and become the aggressor. The air was good, his route avoiding some of the busier roads and fumes that lay about them like a cloak. By the time he arrived at Wilmott Street, he had become an Australian looking for his cobber. It didn’t take much acting to change from his South London accent to that of a visitor from Sydney. The first person to emerge from the hostel was considerably older than ‘Bugs’ but Steve approached him.

  ‘Excuse me mate, I’m looking for someone who might possibly be staying here. He’s a friend from way back. Small, ginger, thin bloke. Name’s Drinkwater, would you know him?’ Steve wanted to avoid anyone in authority and with luck this one might help.

  ‘Don’t know the name, but from the description,’ he paused, ‘Has he got teeth that stick out a bit?’

  ‘That’s him. We used to call him Bugs. Like Bugs Bunny because of his teeth. Do you know where I might find him?’ Steve’s casual friendly approach did not arouse any sort of suspicion or doubt in the man’s mind because he responded immediately.

  ‘You’re in luck, at least I think you are. He keeps himself to himself, stays out of the way of people and goes out walking early morning and late at night. That’s all I can tell you, except that he’s always back before breakfast finishes and that’s in twenty minutes. If you hang around you’ll catch him. Have a nice day as you Americans say.’ With a wave he was gone.

  Steve shook his head. ‘American. My accent must be dreadful, better not use that again. Now for the tricky bit.’ He didn’t have to wait long, two minutes later a stooped bedraggled ginger haired figure turned the corner and headed towards him.

  ‘Hi Ginger, got a deal for you. You get money for a small piece of information. No problems I swear, how about it. We can do business right here in front of the world if you like. I’m a friend, believe me.’ Although he was fit and well able to look after himself, Steve did not look like a typical hard man and this reassured Bugs.

  ‘What do you want and what’s in it for me?’ This one wasn’t a threat, but he would want to know how he had found out about his hideaway.

  ‘Well we both know that you are in deep shit with some people and I can help you out. All I need from you is a list of all the runners Grimshaw used. Names, descriptions, addresses in fact all you know. Once this has been checked out you can have a passport to wherever you like. Start a new life in the sun. Spain’s beautiful this time of year. You could do well there. I might even be able to arrange a girl for you. What do you say?’ Steve looked at him, and watched as ‘Bugs’ tried to put his brain into operation and think through all that had been said. A totally bewildered look came over him and he turned to Steve with tears appearing in the corners of his eyes.

  ‘Spain, you say Spain with a girl. What about a passport, I’ve never had a passport and never been to Spain. Would I have to fly?’ The thought of being up in the air terrified ‘Bugs’, he had always been afraid of heights. Probably more afraid than he was of rival gangs who might now be looking for him. ‘And what about this information you want, I don’t know anything about where any money is. The Boss always looked after that.’ He was getting nervous again as thoughts of information being extracted from him by means of force flashed through his mind.

  ‘Now first of all, Spain is all you could ever wish for.’ Steve spoke in a calm reassuring way hoping to calm Bugs down. Things were critical now, if he could bring him down from the high plateau of terror things might be alright and he could obtain his information. ‘I’m not interested in money, only names and addresses as I’ve said. It’s just so easy, you just write down for me a list of all of your boss’s runners. In fact, you tell me and I’ll write them down. I’ll ask you a few questions about each one, and that’s it. Look Bugs, I know you’re worried about people knowing where you are. Believe me, once you give me the names, your secret is safe with me. Don’t you trust me?’ Once again the eye contact did it. There was no way Bugs could be in doubt.

  The stooping had become even more pronounced as he turned his head in Steve’s direction. ‘Have you got a pen?’

  Fifteen minutes later the list was complete and Steve was satisfied. ‘Now this is what I want you to do. Go into the Post Office and ask for a form to get a Passport. Then get your photograph taken at one of those booths, like in the railway station. Take the forms and photos to the Citizens Advice centre and they will help you fill them in. Now, how much do you have in the bank?’

  Suspicion swept over Bugs again. ‘What do you want to know for?’ He had saved money over the years, not gambling or womanising as other members of the gang had done, and he didn’t want to lose it all to this individual.

  ‘Look, I don’t want your money, I’m trying to help you. Once you get your passport go to a travel agent and ask them to book you a holiday in Spain. I just wanted to know that you could book a holiday because it might take a while for me to get you some money. Do you understand?’ There would never be any money for Bugs but Steve felt better that he had been right about him having money tucked away somewhere.

  ‘Once you get to Spain, check it out. Ask yourself, is this the place for me? I know you will say yes and then settle down to a good life.’ Steve had now had enough of Bugs, he was after all a survivor of an obnoxious group of people and had no doubt been responsible for a lot of misery during his membership. Now he was on his own, Steve having given him sound advice about getting to Spain. Carefully folding the list, he put it into his pocket and slapping Bugs on the shoulder said, ‘Now if you’re not quick you are going to miss your breakfast. Do as I say and you’ll enjoy Spain.’ Walking away, Steve was pleased with the results of his labours. Bugs had disappeared into the hostel, hungry for breakfast but in a state of confusion. He would be disappointed, breakfast had finished ten minutes earlier.

  Now Steve’s work could begin. He had to trace and observe each of the individuals on the list, assess them and then recruit his Supervisors. It would not be easy as the area was shrouded in suspicion after the bombing. Those previously involved in the drugs trade would be keeping their heads down, just in case. If he could dig one out, the others would soon follow but he must keep a continuous look over his shoulder, just in case. So back to Grimshawland where everything had happened, and eventually would again happen.

  From his experience the areas to check were strongly advertised, the walls being covered in graffiti and the ground decorated with broken glass. He thought of his old regiment currently serving in Afghanistan, they must be facing similar scenes of semi devastation. As he scanned the gable end wall for signs of gang allegiances it dawned on him that this was the first time he had thought of the Army for several weeks.

  ‘Back to business Henderson.�
� It was a self delivered instruction and he quickly wiped away thoughts of the Army from his memory. There was nothing which indicated an organised gang system, just the usual scrawled names, youth demanding a place in the street corner society.

  It was only ten thirty, far too early for his targets to be out of bed unless he struck lucky and caught one his way home from the night before. It would be easier and more effective getting into conversation with one person rather than with a group of loud undisciplined youths who might find his presence in their area some sort of violation. Within the streets given as his area of responsibility, Steve set off in his search for a giver of information deciding to walk slowly up and down the streets which lay parallel to each other making sure he didn’t cover the same street twice. He had turned into the third street when he heard a commotion. A tall overweight man dressed in blue and white pyjama bottoms and a short sleeved off white vest was waving his much tattooed arm at a gangling youth. The response was a string of verbal abuse delivered from a safe distance. The man disappeared into the house and the door slammed shut behind him. The youth trudged aimlessly towards Steve.

  ‘My target,’ he said to himself as he slowed his pace even more. ‘You alright mate? That was enough to give you ear ache. What was that all about?’ He grinned at the youth. ‘In bother with the old man, yeah!’ The youth paused to sum up the stranger who was now directly in front of him.

  ‘Yeah! The old bastard’s still half pissed from last night. I’d just drunk his last can of lager when he came down stairs looking for it. I’ll keep out of the way until he goes back to the pub in a couple of hours.’ His upper body swayed in agreement with his statement. ‘The toast will be burned black by now so it’s breakfast in the caff for me.’ He was totally unconcerned about his father’s anger because it would be forgotten once he had topped up his alcohol requirement in the pub. His mother might not fare so well.

  ‘Well you’re in luck for company, because that’s just what I need, a full English breakfast, mind if I join you?’ He stepped aside as the youth started towards the caff, and they set off side by side.

  ‘Haven’t seen you round here before. Visiting are you?’ Before entering the Greasy Spoon he had to know more about this one. The interest which would become a pattern over the next few weeks would bring all sorts of people into the area, some of them looking for trouble, and he always tried to avoid that.

  ‘The name’s Chris.’ Steve assumed the first name that came into his head. ‘How about you?’ He held his hand out towards his new friend.

  He responded, shaking hands. ‘Everyone calls me Sherlock, that’s because my name’s Holmes. My real name’s Fred, after the old man but I prefer Sherlock.’

  ‘Bingo,’ Steve said to himself. ‘Number two on Bugsy’s list.’

  The breakfast was excellent if not very healthy and Steve would make it his one and only meal for the day, apart from some fruit.

  ‘This is on me Sherlock, I’ve enjoyed your company. How about walking it off and then you’ll be ready for the next one.’ Now his target was well fed and relaxed he was ready to make his approach. The lad was likeable and reasonably intelligent with a ready sense of humour and Steve had already learned he was not a drug user. With training, this was the sort of person he was supposed to recruit as a Supervisor. If he could hang on to him for a couple of hours, the bulk of the initial work would be completed.

  ‘O.K. by me, nothing happening round here. It’s gone dead since the bombing.’ Sherlock roared with laughter at his own joke. Steve joined in, and they wandered off like long lost pals.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  Carol stretched out on the sofa and gazed over the Manchester skyline. She was pleased that the Company had agreed to pay the rent for the first six months. Clive Andrews had assured her that she would be earning a lot of money by then and would have to pay the rent herself after that. So far she had set up the company office, opened a company bank account and was ready to start recruitment. Her briefing notes were excellent and there had been no reason to contact Clive in the previous two weeks. Nor had he contacted her until today. Four foreign girls would report to her in two weeks time. One French, two Czechs and a Romanian. All were bilingual and products of their home Universities. Carol’s job would be to give them a thorough training in the Company’s aims and operating systems. The Company had acquired a furnished house where the girls would live. Carol had been instructed to inspect it on a regular basis to ensure that the girls hadn’t, as Clive had put it, ‘branched out on their own.’ The advert for local girls had been in the better newspapers available locally, and sitting on her coffee table was a pile of applications. A quick count had indicated a total of two hundred and thirty-four letters and it was Carol’s aim this evening to sort out those indicating potential. Tomorrow replies would be sent and interviews arranged. She was enjoying the job and the responsibility immensely, her organising skills and personality making each day a pleasurable challenge.

  Some of the applications were from girls currently employed in local saunas, she felt sorry for them but they were immediately relegated to the regret pile as was the one whose education was at a ‘Comprehensible.’ At the end of the evening there were three piles of letters, 6 probables, 23 possibles and a large pile of regrets.

  ‘How many people had put my applications on the regret pile before I got this job?’ Carol asked herself as she read each letter. There were single mothers anxious to return to work but unable to afford day time care for their children. In the evenings their mothers would take over that responsibility. One was very honest, saying that she hoped to find a husband with a good income. The weeding out was relatively easy and she had no doubt that some of her regret pile applicants had applied for every job appearing in the paper, from cleaner to brain surgeon. Putting each pile into its own folder she paused before touching the regrets. ‘Hopefully you will find the job which will give you a good income and satisfaction.’ It was not something she liked doing but it had to be done. This business was going to succeed and she was not going to lower the standards which she had set herself. She may not be in Manchester for long, but while she was, she would do a good job.

  Next she picked up the envelope from the Company which had been delivered with the morning’s post. In it were copies of adverts which were being placed in Airline magazines and other periodicals. Carol was impressed, the copy was very upmarket and she could imagine the client base who would be attracted to it.

  ‘Clive’s absolutely right,’ she told herself. ‘If I was a man I’d be ringing myself up a.s.a.p.’ She laughed at the thought. ‘This is going to be interesting, what would the clients expect?’ Knowing men, there was only one answer, but that was not what this company was about, or so she believed. To begin with she would be the link between the client and the girls, and she would make sure that both parties were fully aware of the rules. She would never see the clients, they would telephone in normal business hours. Once the business was going, she would employ someone to cover the telephone until ten p.m. The planning by the Company had been excellent. All Carol had to do was check the instructions Clive had initially sent her, and answers to all the questions she could raise were there in black and white. Even when she finally left the Company, Carol intended to take a copy with her, it was a masterpiece of business planning and organisation and would be a great help with whatever she did in her next job.

  The office was small and had an air of business efficiency about it. Unlocking the door at eight o’clock she was determined to have all the replies completed and posted by lunchtime.

  ‘Thank the Lord for computers,’ she announced to no-one in particular. The job of answering two hundred and thirty-four letters was a fairly simple exercise now they were sorted. Once each was sealed in its own addressed envelope she smiled to herself. ‘Life is getting easier by the minute. I don’t even have to lick the stamps.’

  Her instructions were to hire a conference room in a four star hotel
to use for the Induction Training she had to give all starters. Thinking ahead to the four already recruited, she would give them three days to settle into their accommodation, and hold the first course on the Thursday evening. In the meantime she would prepare herself to deliver an easily understood guide to the job of self employed public relations hostess.

  The list of requirements was small, a flip chart, a small notebook and pencil for each girl and an overhead projector. If any of the girls had any doubts, the adverts would surely erase them. They were aimed not only at individuals but at corporate level, the image presented to the client was a team of beautiful, educated girls from around the world, on hand to help fulfil company ambitions. To the girls it was an introduction to the highlife of cocktail parties and corporate entertainment. There would from time to time be requests for a partner from individual visitors to the city, but on such occasions the company had strict rules to safeguard the individual hostess. Once Carol had been through her completed training plan, she did a quick check with the Company instructions and was pleased to see that she had remembered everything.

  In the mail there had been a congratulatory letter from her bank manager on the appointment in Manchester and wishing her well for the future. ‘He must have put his job on the line for me,’ thought Carol. When she had met him he had appeared awfully young but had given her support when she needed it even if there had been a time limit. Her financial position then had been desperate with no obvious way out. He had only once asked about the results from her job applications and had quickly judged that it was a sensitive area to pursue. It was not raised again and Carol had been silently thankful. Since the last meeting she had been so busy that she had almost forgotten the money paid into her account. With the allowances she received, most of it remained in the bank and had already made inroads on the debit balance. Paying Tax and National Insurance had been arranged, but even with these subtracted she considered herself well on the way to being solvent again.