by Lee, Frazer
Seconds later, he heard Lithgoe enter with a creak of the floorboards, put on his corporate smile and turned to greet the old man. To his surprise, the old man passed him by without even looking at him. Lithgoe reached out and opened a hitherto unseen door that was set into the paneled wall of the antechamber. The door mechanism made a hollow clicking sound and Lithgoe stepped through the opening, leaving Tom grinning like a fool by the picture window.
Allowing the smile to fall from his face, Tom gave chase and stepped into a huge room filled wall to ceiling with framed maps. There was more window than wall in the room, giving it the aspect of a conservatory. The natural light levels explained why it was in now use as a map room, assuming it had not been designed for that purpose from the outset.
Lithgoe plodded over to a high-backed chair at the head of a long mahogany table and sat down to face Tom. He looked at him now, the old man, with an open gaze that suggested he had taken hundreds, maybe thousands of such meetings over the years.
“Do you like maps, Mr. McCrae?” he asked.
“Sure I do. This is quite something,” Tom replied.
Lithgoe gestured for Tom to sit down at one of the chairs to the side of the table.
“Then you’ll feel right at home here. Would you like some tea? Or coffee? I’m afraid it will be tea from a bag and coffee from granules. Us old folk do everything instantly you see, we’re running out of time to brew leaves or grind beans.”
“I’m…fine,” Tom said, unsure how to reply.
“To business then. I see you are man on a mission. My assistant filled me in on the gist of the proposals your corporate masters FedExed to us.”
“Hard copies, as you requested.”
“Not me, Mr. McCrae. I do all my business via email, and keep tabs on my grandchildren over Skype. It’s Lottie who won’t abide such devilish technological advances, you see. She’ll read stuff for me, but it has to be printed. And don’t tell her I said this, but she gets quite excited when the courier comes. Makes her feel important; email cannae do that. We make our own entertainments out here in the hills.”
Tom smiled politely, fighting the urge to laugh out loud.
Lithgoe was a quaint old sort, and the revelation that the surly old bird out front was named Lottie was adding to his mirth. He had imagined her name to be something more forceful; less cute.
“So, just to get you up to speed, Mr. Lithgoe, I’m here a week. During that time, I’d like to capitalize on the excellent groundwork my predecessor, Mr. Monroe, laid down with you guys. Access to the local power plant substation, assessment of the lay of the land vis-a-vis any private businesses that could cause delays or other interference with The Consortium’s plans…”
“Of course, that won’t be a problem.”
“Great. I would also like to take a meeting with the Forestry representative who will be handling things on their end. I understand the paperwork is due to be signed off between the charitable trust gatekeepers and the government in Whitehall within the week?”
“Aye, you understand right. Forestry organization can’t delay anymore than they have. They’re as cash-strapped as the rest of us.”
Tom let the comment slide.
The idea that the owner of the ancestral pile he was sitting in could be cash-strapped struck him as preposterous. He felt Lithgoe’s eyes studying him, probing him. It was an uncomfortable feeling, like being a specimen under a microscope.
“How is Mr. Monroe?”
The question threw Tom, coming completely out of the blue.
“He’s…”
Tom blinked away an afterimage of the man’s skull, leaking blood on the polished surface of The Consortium Inc. H.Q. floor.
“He passed away. Unfortunately. An accident at work.”
He winced at his words no sooner than they had escaped from his mouth.
An accident at work? Poor bastard had a desk job like everyone else.
“Unfortunate indeed,” Lithgoe replied, without emotion.
The old man stood up and crossed to the window, clasping his hands behind his back as though tethering himself to the musty air in the room.
“And how do you like Douglass, Mr. McCrae?”
“Sure, I guess, I mean…it’s very different to what I’m used to.”
“Is it now? And what are you used to that’s so very different?”
“Well, hardly any trees for a start. I haven’t seen this many since my last business trip, up in Seattle.”
“Are your masters going to cut them all down?”
Tom did not know quite how to respond. He remained silent.
“The trees. Is your company going to chop them down? Raze them to the ground?”
“No, sir.”
Tom took a breath, hoping his hesitation would not sound like subterfuge.
“Some of the trees will have to be removed, that’s all in the plans we mailed to you, but that’s just so the plant machinery can get in, build the ops base for the biofuels division.”
“And then?”
“Development of the village will happen concurrently. Modernization of the existing houses—owned by residents who don’t want to stay, of course. Construction of new homes and facilities for the workers.”
“And?”
“Well, the teams will start their research. It really is all in the documents…”
“No matter about the documents, Mr. McCrae. You and I both know they barely skim the surface of your employers’ plans. It is what lies between the lines that I am interested in.”
Lithgoe still had his back to McCrae. The effect was disconcerting, but Tom did his best to keep his voice measured, calm, businesslike.
“Okay, Mr. Lithgoe. What do you need to know?”
“The business model is built on research into solid biofuels, correct?”
“Yes. The Consortium has other operations researching advanced alternatives including recycled sources in South America, Scandinavia. But the European model is wood-based biofuels. Pellets, briquettes…we are keen to tap into that, see where it can take us, and the industry.”
“So there would be some manufacture alongside the research, to make it pay?”
“Just to make it pay, yes.”
“And wood pellets and suchlike come from forestry work, am I right?”
“Sawdust is damn near impossible to dispose of, the beauty of such a solution is that something green comes out of, well—something green.”
“How green is it to cut down trees though, Mr. McCrae? Whatever you’re turning them into, the man on the street will simply see a global corporation taking advantage of a loophole law dreamed up by greedy politicians in the south.”
“You’re opposed to The Consortium’s plans, personally?”
Tom wondered if the meeting might be over already. There was more to discuss and he and Dieter had driven over an hour—it would be a shame not to make better progress than he had done. Above all else, Tom needed to know if the laird was going to be a problem. The Consortium’s legal eagles had done their due diligence. Lithgoe knew that Tom knew he owned over fifty percent of Douglass and everything in it. He needed the old man on side or negotiations would take longer, and the bill would get higher.
Lithgoe fell silent, and sighed. His shoulders rose and fell and his back arched a little. He looked like a hot air balloon shrinking after a long, soaring flight.
“I’m not opposed to anything that makes me money,” Lithgoe said after a pause. “The bell rings and the Maypole spins, Mr. McCrae; that’s how the world turns. Seasons change with or without us, just as we change our environment with or without permission from a higher authority. Walk for long enough from a city and you’ll find some trees, but when you pass through them, you’ll find yourself in another city, soon enough.”
Tom pondered the old man’s words.
Lithgoe unclasped his hands and turned to face him.
“The good people of Douglass will not stand in your way if you want to ‘de
velop’ their little village into something your people can use. But they might take issue with you felling those trees. Many of those firs have been standing far longer than you and I.”
“I’m confident we can offset that with our renewables pledges, incentive schemes for local people wanting a stake in the future,” Tom offered.
“Everyone has a price, you mean?”
Tom nodded.
Finally, they were on the same page.
“Well, the people ’round here like to have beef on their table, bread in the larder and single malt on tap. You’ll have to offer them something real.”
“I’ll take that under advisement, thank you.”
Lithgoe snorted, then chuckled a little.
“You can visit the substation this afternoon. If you get moving, you’ll have enough daylight left for a recce. Follow the road out of Douglass, but instead of taking the main track up to the bridge that leads out of the district, turn left onto the narrower track through the trees. Park up at the gates before the footpath, then it’s on your boots from there.”
“Thank you,” Tom replied.
“Listen. The locals, such as they are, won’t cause your masters any problems. I own a big enough stake in most of them to prevent any delays anyhow. The only folk to watch out for are the Greysons.”
“The Greysons?”
“Aye. They own the farmland and pick-your-own produce plantation up beyond the forest nearest the village. No one could get them to sell out. Not even season afore last, when things were really bloody bollocksed. No one. Not even me, Mr. McCrae, and I’m used to getting what I want.”
Tom did not doubt it. He stared at the furrows in Lithgoe’s brow, sensing some kind of disappointment was circulating the rapier mind housed inside that noble head.
“Then I’d better meet them. If they’re going to cause problems, it could cost my employers thousands in legal fees and even more in wasted time.”
“Everyone has a price. I’m sure you’ll do a good job. Good day, Jack.”
Lithgoe turned back to face the window. Trouble was brewing in the skies overhead.
“Lottie will see you out, there’s a good fellow.”
I’m sure you’ll do a good job.
On his way back to the car, Tom wondered where he had heard those words before. As he climbed back into the passenger seat, he remembered Mathers had said the exact same thing to him before sending him on his assignment. And he and Dieter were halfway back to Douglass before he realized Lithgoe had called him Jack when they departed.
Must be going senile, loony old bird, Tom thought.
Feeling his forearms prickle with goose bumps, Tom turned the heat up a notch in the car. He looked out at the landscape. It was a drab blur, now that rain clouds had extinguished the sun.
Chapter Eighteen
The lengthy journey back to the forest bordering Douglass meant that it was mid-afternoon by the time Tom and Dieter hit the footpath leading to Electricity Substation D-5.
Old Lithgoe’s directions were sound, and it was only a half hour before Tom and Dieter found the building. An electric company representative awaited them there, dressed in his fluorescent tabard. The garment was emblazoned with his company logo—a tree being struck by a jagged lightning bolt. Standing between a wall of trees and the substation’s high railings, Tom felt suddenly uneasy. He realized he could feel the hum of electricity from the power station in the earth all around him. It permeated the ground on which he stood, vibrating through the soles of his shoes and into the soft tissue above his ankles. He reached out and leaned one hand against the trunk of a tall tree. Standing first on one foot then the other, he twisted his feet in their sockets to rid himself of the tingly feeling caused by the power hum.
Taking his hand away from the tree trunk, Tom stood erect and looked at the metallic fence separating the substation grounds from the rest of the forest. The railings were painted green and were as sharp as spears at their tips. A row of trees lined the other side of the fence like silent sentries. Looking up at them, Tom saw their evergreen branches had turned a sickly yellow color, as though all the life had been drained from them. The throbbing power of the substation seemed to be making the trees sick on the other side of the fence, where they were separated from their healthier cousins. Tom glanced at the dense wall of healthy trees lining the path behind him. They looked like mourners at their own funeral, forced to spend an eternity watching the slow deaths of their fellows on the other side of that high and mighty fence.
Breathing deep, Tom could almost taste the scent of pine. It seemed odd to him that the energy from the power station could be killing the trees—organisms which were like batteries, their chemical make-up designed to soak up and recycle man’s poisons before turning it into breathable air.
Tom heard a metallic clanking from up ahead and saw their guide unlocking the thick chain that was padlocked around the security gates leading into the compound. Catching up to Dieter and the company man, Tom joined them at a second high gate. It was topped with coils of razor wire and adorned with a huge, vivid yellow triangular sign marked Warning: Danger of Death. A cartoon like illustration accompanied the macabre words, showing a stick figure being electrocuted by vast black lightning bolts. Tom felt discomfited by the image, and thought it strange how it mirrored the power company’s logo.
He watched as their guide lifted a little plastic rain cover on the gatepost. There was an electronic keypad beneath the cover, with a little red LED light to show the gate was armed. Four beeping sounds emanated from the keypad as the company man entered a code and, with a click and a buzz, they were in. Tom followed Dieter and their guide into the substation grounds, feeling that omnipresent hum in his chest as he passed beneath the power coils feeding the cables overhead. Four low, redbrick buildings were huddled together, forming a courtyard into which the three men stepped. The guide, silent until now, gave them a potted history of the facility, and a quick breakdown of its output and service record. He left Tom and Dieter to talk shop, retreating to a patch of dying grass at the fence where he sparked up a Marlboro Red and tinkered with his smart phone.
The location was ideal as a base of operations for The Consortium’s biofuels division. The only thing troubling both Tom and Dieter was access. It had taken a good half hour to walk to the facility via the track, which was so narrow in places they had to travel single file. Dieter assured Tom the forestry sign-off would prevent any problems with clearing the forest from the turn off in the road right up to the gate. Calling the power company man over, Tom asked a few questions about companies in the area which might undertake the tree-felling work and road building necessary to make the site viable. The man, who looked a little perturbed to have his cigarette break interrupted with such questions, answered them in the clipped fashion of someone who was used to working alone for long periods. When Tom’s plan became clear to him, the man made clear his uncertainty that the electric company would allow such an extensive remodeling of the substation and grounds. He told them the necessary planning applications alone would take months to process, and asked if Tom might be better off considering a different site nearer the village. It was then that Tom revealed the nugget of information he had held back from Lithgoe during his meeting that morning. The Consortium had completed an aggressive takeover of the power company itself while Tom was en route to Scotland. As major stakeholders in the company, Tom’s masters owned the very power station and grounds in which they were standing. Work would commence just as soon as the contracts were drawn up. Lithgoe knew as much of course, his comments about tree felling had given that much away. The old bird had probably gotten Lottie on the case just as soon as the visit to the substation had been mentioned in the The Consortium’s mail-out brief. Lithgoe had made it clear to Tom that he had no problem with the plans, just so long as he got his cut.
“Everyone has his price, Mr. McCrae.”
There was just one fly in the ointment left for Tom to consider; the
plantation farmers that Lithgoe had warned him about. Calculating risks was Tom’s raison d’etre, and the Greyson family name reeked of risk to him. Cutting a deal with the family epitomized the “excellent job” that Mathers had sent him to Douglass to perform. Without such a deal, he might as well fly back to California empty handed.
Thanking the company man for his time, Tom strode past the dying trees inside the compound and returned to the path that led back to the Douglass road. On their way back to the car, he instructed Dieter to set up a meeting with the Greysons for the following day. Dieter’s mood seemed more buoyant, now that the day’s work was done. Even the prospect of more culinary punishment in The Firs restaurant hadn’t dampened his spirits. As they broke the tree line and walked down the steep section of track to their car, Dieter opened the driver door and held it open, like a chauffeur.
“What are you doing?” Tom asked, puzzled at the idiot grin bisecting Dieter’s face.
“You drive.”
“Very funny.”
Tom headed for the passenger door, tugged at the handle. It was child locked.
“Seriously, guy of your age needs to drive.”
“Why’s that?”
“Long-term relationship. You’ll have kids someday. Kids need a taxi service. And that is the sole domain of the daddy driver.”
“Like I said, very funny.”
Tom tried the passenger door again.
“Just down the hill, ’til we hit the main drag into the village, then I’ll take over. My free gift to you. She drives like a dream, trust me, you’ll enjoy it.”
“Quit fooling, Dieter, I’m not even insured.”
“Now, now, let’s not get all risk-averse. The working day is done, dude. Unwind a little. C’mon, take her for a spin…”
Dieter rounded the vehicle and gently led Tom to the driver’s side.
“All you gotta do is steer. Brake pedal is the one in the middle. Piece of cake.”
